Thinking About…

There’s something about grandchildren, where they exact revenge upon the parents, and the grandparents sit back and laugh.  When I was young, I did this or that or the other thing to my mom, which surely drove her crazy.  She survived whatever it was, but then, when Maya came along and did to those same things to me, and drove me nuts, HA!  My mom was so happy.  Grandchildren are the best revenge, right?

What I didn’t know before, was that children can also be some kind of revenge exacted upon your grandparents as well.  (See how I skipped an entire generation there?  Crazy, huh?)  Way back when I was 29 or 30, pregnant with Maya, we were living in Philadelphia.  Ted was attending graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania, and I was working in the Sociology department there on campus.  Walking around, pregnant, 29 or 30, I was in an entirely different head space from the undergraduates.  They seemed so YOUNG, which of course they were.  Walking around with their cell phones, thigh high tights, and dripping with money and youth.  Every once in awhile, I got a glimpse of a girl with her belly button pierced, and I thought that was pretty darned cool and sexy and daring, and yet….kind of hidden.  So that winter, we came home to California for Christmas, and my dad, my step-mom, and my sisters all came down to see us.  We met up at my Grandma’s house in Modesto.  I remember going out to dinner somewhere, and in the car on the way back to Grandma’s house, we passed by a piercing/tattoo parlor, and I flippantly mentioned that, were I younger, and not pregnant, I might perhaps get my belly button pierced, because I liked that look.   Everyone was quiet for a bit, and then conversation went on again.

Of course, when we got back to Grandma’s house, she took me aside (though in full ear shot of the family) and told me she hoped I would raise my child better than that, that I would set a good example and live a moral life for her.  I felt a bit stunned, but let it go.  My sisters and father all talked to me after, telling me they were sorry, that they had all been in these kind of conversations with Grandma, so they had learned to just shut down, let Grandma talk, and move on with their lives.  I had certainly gotten off easily, not knowing my Grandma growing up, I missed a lot of good, but also sometimes I missed some of the lectures and out of left field criticism as well.

Anyway, this weekend, Maya provided me the opportunity to exact a bit of revenge on my Grandma.  She has wanted to get her belly button pierced for awhile now, but Ted and I thought that was something too sexy and rebellious for a young girl, but perhaps when she was 17, that would be old enough.   Well, she turned 17 a couple of weeks ago, and amongst all of these milestones (driving, Prom, SAT, birthday) she decided it was time.  So on Sunday I took her to get her piercing, and I’ll admit, part of me thought, “Take that, Grandma!”

No, not drinking someone under the table. Napping under the table. When I was a kid, I loved to nap. I still love to nap. Now, my favorite napping place is on my sofa with my cozy napping blanket, or maybe on my bed. But when I was a kid, I loved to nap under things. Especially under tables. It felt so cozy, like a little cave, and if there were a party going on, I could hear the adults laughing and talking, and just soak it up until I dozed off. I know, I’m weird. I once fell asleep under a piano on a river boat*, and didn’t wake up when someone started playing it. So when I saw this picture on FB today, I had to share here.

*The link is to a post I did back in early 2008, about my life in Fairbanks. Perhaps one of my most favorite posts to go back and read, actually. And look, there’s a comment from my mom…just a week before she went into the hospital. I like seeing those comments.

I adore pomegranates, but truth be told, I seldom buy them. They’re expensive, $2.50 or more each, and they’re a lot of work. While I’m at the store I might think, “Sure, I’ll de-seed it, and we can snack on the seeds, or I can put them in a salad, or whatever…” But then, the expensive fruit ends up just sitting there, not getting eaten, because none of us obtain the wherewithal to deal with them. Until now.

On Saturday, Ted and I went into San Francisco in search of some specific walnuts to make a walnut pie for Thanksgiving (Franquette, which are rumored to have the best walnut flavor) at the Farmers’ Market there. Unfortunately, the walnut lady had stayed home due to rain, and we ended up getting plain old black walnuts. No worries, I’m sure they’ll be lovely in our pie. While we were looking around at the different offerings of the Market, I came across a booth with HUGE pomegranates, selling for $1 each. Even knowing my proclivity for laziness regarding extricating seeds, I couldn’t pass up that deal. So I bought 2.

Do you listen to ‘Wait Wait, Don’t Tell Me!’ on NPR? If not, you really should. Really, it’s hilarious and silly good fun, and sometimes you find yourself learning something useful as well. Each week they have a guest, and this week it was Martha Stewart, who, amongst other things, told them how to get seeds out of a pomegranate. Good timing, no? When she described it, I couldn’t quite picture how it would work, so I went to my trusty internet, and found a video. Yay, thanks Martha!

I tried it, and it worked SO very well. Now I have a LOT of pomegranate seeds, and I got to smack the heck out of the pomegranates in the process. All of those seeds, from only 2 pomegranates, can you imagine? (I left the bowl of little tangerines in the picture, so you could get a sense of what a BIG bowl of seeds I have.)  Yum.

My mom was a big believer in reading. She was addicted to it. She read more than anyone else I have ever known. She loved to read everything, almost any genre, almost any book. LOVED it. When she was trying to figure things out, she would read to find a solution. Recipes, career advice, whatever. Parenting style. She loved her parents dearly, and she firmly believed that they did their best. But she also thought that they could have done better. So when she found she was going to have kids, she wanted to find out how to do things better than her parents had done. For the most part, I think she did an amazing job. She taught us so many things. To love your family and put them first. That people are not for hitting. That knowledge is more important than grades. That honesty is a value to be respected and honored, even if that means letting go of some much cherished lies. That a good book can be more important to you than a bad friend. That a good friend can be more important to you than a bad family member. That a good family member is worth doing anything for. I don’t know how much of this she got from books, how much she got from her family, and how much was just her. But I have felt really lucky in my own parenting, that I don’t often have to think ‘my mom goofed this up, how can I do it better?”

Of course, no one is perfect, and no parent is perfect. My mom made mistakes. She sometimes said one thing and did the opposite. She trusted her books too much sometimes. Anyway, I heard an author on the radio a while ago talking about a parenting book, about not putting excess stress on your kids by over praising them. Much of what he said resonated with me and I agreed with, but one thing he said reminded me of how we do not grow up in a vacuum, and that how our friends’ parents raise them also affects us. He said that you should not tell your kids, especially your girls, that they are beautiful or pretty, because it puts too much pressure on them to be pretty, and if they don’t FEEL pretty, it puts them in a strange situation of wondering if you’re lying. It gives them the idea that the most important thing that a girl can be is pretty. That if she isn’t pretty, she’s not worthwhile. That a better way is to tell them things you like about them. My mom raised me this way. She would say, “I love the way the sunlight reflects on your hair”. “I like your wrists…they’re so delicate and elegant”. “Your smile lights up your face”. All fine and good, but because my friends all were told they were pretty, in front of me, and I wasn’t told that, I grew up wondering if perhaps my mom thought I wasn’t pretty, and these compliments were just consolation prizes. Like, ‘too bad you’re plain, but at least you have elegant wrists.” See how good intentions sometimes don’t work so well? Sigh. So I grew up not knowing if my mom thought I was pretty or not. A girl should really think that at least her parents think she’s pretty. Yes, the pressure is out there, the pressure to look good. It’s not as important as how you treat people, as your sense of humor, as your brain or your heart or your soul. But it’s all over the place and very much there. I confessed to her how this method made me feel, once, when she was telling me the theory behind it. I think her heart broke a little, and she felt like a failure to a certain degree. But even then, I wondered, had she thought I was a pretty girl, a pretty child, or was she just trying to make me feel good? Maybe there’s no way to really make a girl feel confident in a culture so obsessed with looks, I don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if she had told me I was pretty every day. Perhaps I wouldn’t have believed her.

But back in November, I went through her boxes of books. All 55 of them. Looking for some books that Richard had said he wanted, some books that I could send him for his birthday in early December. Her books are still at Kate’s house, as she’s planning on selling them on ebay, and we don’t have room for them here, and they’re covered with cat hair, which would probably kill Ted. So I went to Kate’s house, and she and I and dug through box after box after box. One thing I found was my baby book, which was pretty awesome to find. I haven’t seen that since I lived with my mom, back when I was 20 or so. Maybe before that even. Another thing I found was a set of binders, where she was trying to work out issues she had with her parents, my Aunt Colleen, that kind of thing. I skimmed them, and decided I didn’t want to try to bring that much frustration and pain into the house, and that she had gotten a lot of that stuff out of her system on her blog, which I can read any time I want to. So I didn’t keep them. But as I was flipping pages, I found one page, written when I was maybe 15 or so…and all it said was…

“Julie is the most beautiful girl in the world.”

I carry those words in my heart now. They fit just right, and they feel good.

Pretty pretty please, don’t you ever ever feel
Like you’re less than, less than perfect
Pretty pretty please, if you ever ever feel
Like you’re nothing, you are perfect to me*

I don’t even like this song. Sorry Pink. Nothing personal. But the other day I was in the car, and it came on, and I found myself wondering if Maya knows that this is how I feel about her. I know, I nag. Pick up your clothes. Do your homework. Make your bed. Finish your girl scout award commitment. But none of that means I think any less of her. It means I know she’s a teen, and sometimes needs a little nudge and reminder to get things done. Really, I wouldn’t change anything about her, because all of the aspects that come together, including the need to be nudged sometimes to get things done, they make her Maya. She’s going to move out someday, and she’ll have to nag herself, with lists, whatever. I still have to nag myself sometimes. And I know, I’m far from perfect.

Except, perhaps, to my mom. There was nothing I could do wrong in this world that she didn’t see my side of it, didn’t empathize, didn’t forgive me completely. Thinking of that, realizing it, was like a slap in the face. It woke me up. It made me cry. Because who else will love you so unconditionally, so forgiving and completely, as a parent does? It made me miss my mom so very much. And it made me thankful to still have my dad. But mostly, because she’s gone, and because every single day I wish she weren’t, it made me miss my mom.

Mother’s Day is hard. I wonder if it always will be? Ted and Maya spoiled me with gifts and meals and cards and love. I love being a mother. I love being a wife, and the mother to Ted’s child. These are the best things I’ve done with my life. But I really liked being my mom’s daughter, too. I miss you, mom. You’re perfect to me.

*I’m not sure if there is a radio version where these are the lyrics or not, but this is how I hear them, without the censored F word. You know me, I don’t have a problem with the F word. But I like this song better without.

I miss you all the time, every day, but somehow Sunday evenings are the hardest for me.  Sunday was our time, when we would talk for hours, sometimes about politics, sometimes about ideas – books, meals, Maya, family memories.  All of it.

I feel like the late teen years, I was so busy figuring out who I was, busy with work and school and friends, and I took you for granted.  But still, we lived in the same house and I saw you every day, even if it was just passing in the hall on our way out the door in the morning.  Then I moved out, went to San Francisco to college, and we didn’t talk very often.  You always said how much you hated talking on the phone, and I was so busy with work and school and friends and falling in love with Ted.  We talked, but it never seemed to happen as often as either of us wanted or needed.

Eventually we both realized that we missed each other, and we set up a schedule where we would talk every other Sunday evening.  Sometimes I wasn’t in the mood for a long conversation, considered skipping our call, but didn’t want to dissapoint you.  And I’m glad, because I always loved our talks.  It felt like we were able to reconnect, even though I sometimes got tired of hearing about the Hooligans or The Big Bang Theory, and you got bored of hearing about Genevieve or whatever.  That’s part of it.  Talking and listening even if you’re somewhat bored by the conversation.  These connections are so important, and I’m so thankful that we had them.

Then, of course, we had Maya, and there’s something about being a mom that helps you to understand your own mom in a whole new way, no matter how close you were before.  You start to understand motivations and decisions, and to have a lot more understanding of decisions made in the shadow of exhaustion.  I know I did.

And then there was the blog.  I felt like I found my own voice through blogging, and I really loved it.  And I loved that you read my blog, commented, kept in touch with my daily life that way.  Then you started your own blog, and I got a glimpse into your inner world, and it opened a new world of understanding for me.  Verbal conversations are such a back & forth, and carry on a life of their own.  A blog is a chance to flesh out thoughts, to fully express yourself, but it opinion or memory or whatever.  So this glimpse gave me so much that our conversations didn’t – just like the conversations gave us a lot that was beyond our blogs.

All of this is a rambling letter to my dead mom, whom I miss desperately, especially on Sunday evenings.

Love,

~J

(artwork by Amanda Dagg, found here)

Keep beckoning to me,
From behind that closed door,
The maiden, the mother, and the crone that’s grown old.
I hear your voice,
coming out of that hole.
I listen to you,
and I want some more.
I listen to you,
and I want some more.

She will always carry on.
Something is lost, something is found.
They will keep on speaking her name,
Some things changed, some stay the same.
~The Pretenders, Hymn to Her

That whole ‘circle of life’ thing is much on my mind these last few days. On Friday, I heard from my dear friend Janet that her father had died. He fought a long and courageous battle with cancer. Cancer won. Janet once told me that it didn’t seem fair that we, who both have young parents, should be going through this so soon. I agree wholeheartedly. When I first met Janet, we were going to school at the Junior College in my hometown, and she was living with her dad in a neighboring town. She seemed so worldly to me, having tested out of high school to model in San Francisco and London, after several years of ballet. She was now ready to settle down and do the school thing. I used to love to go to her house after school, watch dumb TV, and have grilled cheese sandwiches. Sometimes we’d go to our friend Katie’s house, because Katie had a pool. Janet’s dad would come home in the evening, and Janet would cook dinner. If I didn’t have to work that evening, I was always welcome to stay. She went on to Berkeley, I went on to SFState, and we vetted each others boyfriends, etc.  Her father was a kind and fairly quiet man, but always very strong and opinionated, always there for his daughters. I will always remember the look of love in his eyes when he shooed me and the other bridesmaids out of the room so he could have a private word with his daughter before he walked her down the aisle. She and her sister, and her step mom, will miss him terribly. He was a good man. I’ll go and pay my respects to him on Thursday at his funeral, and be there with my friend.

The day after I heard about Janet’s father, we went to Half Moon Bay to attend a wedding for some much younger friends, Ramzi and Katrina. I think they’re 27ish, which is the age Ted and I were when we married, 17 years ago. (I’ll give you a second while you add up and figure out my age. Done? Yes, I’m 44.) It was a lovely ceremony, though I did forget to turn off my phone, which rang right in the middle. Ooops. Ramzi is this tall, kinda goofy, laid back guy. He’s so mellow, just wants to relax and have a good time. He recently graduated with his Master’s Degree, and was hired as a school counselor in a neighboring town. A wonderful job for a man with a big heart. Katrina is a bundle of energy. She could not contain her joy or her energy during the ceremony, and looked like she was about to jump out of her skin. She’s always like that. She had a big happy smile on her face, and was bouncing up and down, sort of like maybe she had to go to the bathroom. It was a wonderful wedding, and a fun reception, though seeing all those young-uns doing their mid-20s dances made me miss my own friends from that time, and how we used to go out dancing and having fun. They’re all far away now, and besides, we’re at a different stage in our lives. The idea of leaving a reception before it ended back then would have been insane. Free booze? Dancing all night? Partying with your friends? What could be better? But we didn’t drink much, enjoyed a dance or two, and then came home to sleep in our own bed.

And the babies, the most joyous part of the circle of life. Cherry had her baby 3 1/2 months ago, and she’s growing so quickly, smiling and laughing and doing all of those terribly cute things that babies do. Oddly enough, it doesn’t make me want to have another baby. Just makes me want to hold Cherry’s baby, and look at old video of when Maya was a baby, and hold her tight now when she’ll let me. Tracy is now a mom, though separated from her babies by a few thousand miles, but only for a few more weeks. She and her husband are adopting two beautiful brothers from Ethiopia, one who will be 2 at the end of September, and one who is just a few weeks old than Cherry’s baby girl. Both Cherry and Tracy have wanted to be mothers for so long now, and it didn’t come easily to either of them. I’m SO thrilled that their dreams are coming true. I love my Maya so much, I cannot imagine the hurt of wanting a baby and not being able to have one. So now that they’re both moms, and Cherry is enjoying her time home with baby before work starts again, and Tracy is getting her house and her life ready for when they bring the boys home, I feel that they are blessed.

Having these three events so close together really brings home the beauty and the pain of life. Tracy’s father died just a week before my mom. Dorothy got married within 6 weeks of that. Then our blog friend Chrissy had her baby a few months later, which was scary because she was so premature, but it all turned out well and her baby is going on 2, and is healthy and strong and independent as can be. I remember when my mom died, we had two gatherings. My cousin brought her new baby to one of them, and holding her was a balm for my broken heart. It’s hard to cry when you’re holding a laughing, healthy, beautiful baby in your arms. My sister brought her new baby to the second gathering, and again, it was somehow comforting to have him to hold. I think it’s something about them not understanding the pain you’re going through at all, they just want to be held and fed and loved, and for some reason, it makes it easier to set your own pain aside for a few minutes.

I think I’ve lost control of this post. I don’t know how to end it, or what it is that I’m really trying to say. Except that my heart goes out to all of these friends, for so many reasons. In pain, in love, and in joy.

A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to one of the women on my Meals-on-Wheels route, Joan, and she told me that her doctor had put her on anti-depressants because she was depressed. She tried them for a day, and didn’t like the way they made her feel, and stopped taking them. I know that one day wasn’t enough time to determine whether they would work or not, and she’s not likely to find out. The thing is, the reason that she’s depressed? Her son died. He fell on the icy steps this winter, and broke his neck. She is understandably devastated. But she gets out of bed every day, she feeds and cares for herself and her dog, Sassy. She goes to get a massage when she can afford it, and takes care of getting her hair done. She doesn’t seem to be down in the depths of depression to me. She seems desperately and appropriately sad about the loss of her son. This is the second time she’s buried a son, and she’s a widow, so she’s had enough of death for awhile. I only get a brief glimpse of her life, a few minutes once a week, so I can’t say if she’s in need of medication or other care for her bereavement, or if time is the best aid for her.

I know for me, when my mom died, I ached. I cried. I hurt. I was confused as hell and couldn’t figure out how to live in a world without my mom. But while I was trying to navigate that, it never occurred to me to kill myself. It never occurred to me to not get out of bed, to not eat, to not try my best. If that had been Maya, or Ted, I might have felt differently. I don’t want to say that I love my mother less. But a parent is different than a spouse or a child. As ugly a fact as it is, your parents are supposed to die before you do. That doesn’t help much, and I felt robbed of the future I wanted with my mom for at least the next 15 years, but it would surely have been worse to lose my husband or child.

I was listening to Morning Edition yesterday, and there was a segment on the pain of bereavement, and how, up until recently, it has been the exception when diagnosing major depression. Loss of appetite, physical pain, inability to get out of bed or care for ones self, these are all signs of major depression, and can result in such a diagnosis, and perhaps in your psychiatrist wanting to medicate you. Unless you have recently lost someone important to you. If you have recently lost a parent, a child, a spouse, or other loved one, these symptoms have been considered normal, perhaps even necessary to the healing process.

The question, then, is whether that extreme pain is necessary. Do we need to fight our way through that horrible time in order to come to terms with our loss?  Personally, I feel like it was.  Losing my mom was the worst thing I have ever endured, the worst thing that has ever happened to me.  I feel that grieving her, and my loss, so deeply was part of loving her so deeply. That first year was an extremely difficult time, a time I hope to never have to repeat. But it was honest and true, and it was how I felt. I loved my mother very much, and she should not have died, and I miss her terribly. To have tried to cover-up or deny those feelings would have felt wrong to me.

But what if I were feeling suicidal? What if I had honest feelings of killing myself, or started harming myself in some way? What if I had somehow become dangerous to Ted, Maya, or Genevieve? Perhaps then, it is time to intervene. The difficulty, I suspect, is in figuring out when someone is truly in need of help, and what kind of help is appropriate.  There are support groups for the newly bereaved. I considered going, but I spent enough time crying, and didn’t think I could handle sitting in a room with others in the same boat. There is one-on-one therapy, which actually I was going to to help me cope with her illness and my inability to help her, but I stopped after she died, because again, I couldn’t bear the idea of sitting in a room and paying someone to watch me sob. My therapist asked me all of the important questions, and told me that my feelings were normal and that everyone grieves differently, so don’t worry if I felt more (or less) than others described to me. Or, just different. And there are drugs. Watching my mom struggle with the antidepressants they had her on has soured me on them, perhaps forever. I know quite a few people who take them, with varying degrees of success. Some do very well. Some search for the right medication, the right dosage. Some do well in how they behave, but do not like the way they feel on them.  Like Joan.  Me? I’d be very hard pressed to try anything that might make me as confused and frightened as my mother was.

I suspect that removing the bereavement exemption for major depression is probably a good idea.  The way that insurance companies work, it might well help a doctor to get a patient the support that they need once they have a diagnosis. But for the majority of us, those of us who are able to cope with our pain and somehow come through the other side of that dark tunnel of grief, I think maybe it’s better to try it without the medication at least.  Best not to try drugs too quickly, if they’re not needed.

The segment was interesting. You can listen to it here.  The comments on the print version were interesting as well.  Some said we medicate too damn fast in this country and it’s getting dangerous.  Others said that we should not judge those who need medication for treatment.  You would not, for example, have surgery without anesthesia.  Sometimes, the pain is too much, be it physical or mental.

It’s two years today since my mom died.  There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss her.  Not an hour that I don’t think of her.  I wish things had gone differently.  I wish she had recovered.  Sigh.

I was thinking about her today, about what she might like to do if she were here.  One thing she loved about living in California was the produce, the variety of ethnic restaurants, and the beautiful springtime flowers.  OK, that’s three things.  So I decided to go to our neighboring town, which has a Tuesday Farmers’ Market, and check out the produce.  I was spurred not only by her, but also because a friend brought some gorgeous strawberries to our house on Sunday, and I was like, wow, what a difference between these and what I get at the grocery store.  And of course, she got them at the Farmers’ Market.  So I got some strawberries, some apricots, and some nectarines and peaches.  Seems kinda early for nectarines and peaches, but maybe that’s just because the spring has been a cold one, and it doesn’t seem like mid-June yet.  If my mom were here, we’d talk about that.  She’d remember when she was growing up in the Central Valley, and the fruits weren’t bred to come earlier or later or whatever, and she’d tell me about her grandfather’s orchard, and how he grew the best fruits and vegetables, how she loved going around the farms with him.  He was hired by the irrigation district to control the water, and would go from farm to farm turning the water on and off for the farmers.  So even though he didn’t have a big farm, just a small orchard, he knew a lot of farmers, and they were friends, and they would give him some of whatever they were growing.  My grandma says that they didn’t really know much about the Depression going on around them, because they grew so much of their own food, and his job didn’t dry up.   Yes, they read about things, and they heard things, but farmers are pretty poor to begin with, so it wasn’t as though they had been living the high life of investors and millionaires and then crashed down.

I was talking to my dad the other night, and he was telling me about some books that he liked.  Mysteries.  He was telling me about his favorite characters, and how when the author carries one character from book to book, you start to feel like you know them.  And then the author gets old and dies, and you feel like the characters have died, too.  And it reminded me of how my mom and I used to talk on the phone, and she would tell me about her favorite books, and bore the crap out of me, because I’m not really interested in Mysteries (unless they’re Dick Francis, because they have horses), and too much detail can just kill you.  My dad didn’t go into that much detail, didn’t bore the crap out of me.  I miss being bored the crap out of sometimes.  Sigh.   But I am very thankful to have my dad.  Thankful that my mom got us together all those years ago, so I’m not an orphan now.  I wonder if Richard feels like an orphan sometimes, since he hasn’t met his father.  I’ll tell you, there’s something to be said for getting married and having kids and being a bit more traditional.  Of course, that’s no real protection against being an orphan.  But at least knowing both parents is a plus.

I thought about calling my Grandma.  I can’t do it.  I didn’t call her on my mom’s birthday, either.  And she didn’t call me.  I suspect we both can’t do it.  It’s too hard.  I didn’t call Richard, though I did email him.  Maybe I would have emailed Grandma, but she “doesn’t understand computers”, as she says.  Sigh again.  I’m tired of missing my mom, even though half the time she drove me nuts, especially those last months, when she was feeling like crap, and her consideration for others kinda went to pot.  Even though there was that, I still miss her.  And from what I hear from others who have lost a loved one, I always will.  Sigh.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there.  Yesterday, I went to visit my Grandma and her sister, my Great Aunt Flo, partly for Mother’s Day, and partly because I miss them and haven’t seen them for awhile.  We went to Marie Calendar’s, and they had strawberry pie ala’ mode for lunch, and we had a great time.

When we were back at the house visiting, the talk wound around to my mom, which it usually does, and how adventuresome she was.  And Grandma asked me how much, if anything, I remembered about the homestead we lived on, outside of Fairbanks, Alaska, in 1970.

I remember the dogs…there was a sled team, which we didn’t use as a sled team, but who we cared for while their owners were away.  It was their house, their car, their dogs.  They were Samoyeds, and they were a lot of fun and made us feel safe.

I remember that we had electricity, though no running water, and no phone.  So mom had to get water from a creek to wash the dishes.  In the winter, she used a 30.06 shotgun to blow a hole in the frozen creek.  We had a bear in our yard once, and another time a moose and her two calves.  Neither is particularly safe, actually, if you’re a young mother out in the wilderness with your two young children, even if you do have a gun.

I told my Grandma about the time that we could have all died, if it hadn’t been for my brother.  I thought she had heard this story before.  She hadn’t.  She kinda freaked out.  My mom wrote the story to Maya once, when Maya was 4 or 5, and she posted it on her blog, but she never told my Grandma.  I guess she knew it would freak my Grandma out.  Don’t worry, Grandma’s OK now.

The story is about how my mom had a bad reaction once to some thyroid medication, and couldn’t get out of bed for several days.  Not just didn’t feel like it, but COULDN’T get out of bed.  I think she almost died.  Because we were out on the homestead, and there was no phone to call for help, and it was the dead of winter, in Fairbanks, Alaska.  The closest phone was 2 miles away.  So there was no going for help.  Did I mention that there was no forced air, that the only heat we had was a coal burning stove in the kitchen?  That my 6 year old brother had to keep that coal burning stove going for several days until the medication worked its way through my mother’s system, and she could get out of bed and get in the car and to a doctor?  Yeah.  He says all he remembers is going back and forth across the threshold to the house with the bucket, with the little coal that a 6 year old can reasonably carry in it, and keep a fire going.  I can’t imagine letting a 6 year old tend a fire by himself, can you?  Let alone the worry and the cold and the responsibility he must have felt.  But if your choice is that or freeze to death, yeah, I guess you let him tend the fire.  Not that I think she was even conscious enough to know he was doing it.  In addition, he kept us fed (us being him and me…I was 4), and kept me clean enough and occupied enough.  Freaky, huh?  I believe that after that we got rid of the coal burning stove and got a gas stove, which didn’t require so much hands on effort, but which ended up sucking quite often in its own right, and soon after that, we moved into town where there was water and phones and help if you needed it.  Good thinking.

I think that experience affected Richard his whole life.  In a good way.  He knew (and we knew), that no matter what happened, he could take care of us.  He also knows that sometimes, life is dangerous, and you have to step up and take care of those you love.  Pretty amazing lesson to learn at 6.

So, Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there, even those of us who aren’t quite as adventurous as my mom was when she was 28, living in the wild with her two young children.  I miss her every day.

My mom and Maya, just a few minutes after she was born.

My dear friend Cherry is having her baby today…as we speak, she’s going in to O.R. for her c-section, and I’m expecting a call and can hardly contain myself!  Breath, J, breath.

OK, but of course Cherry having her baby reminded me of when I had my baby, lo these many years ago.  I wanted what any new mom wants right then…my mom.  So we planned for my mom to fly from Juneau, Alaska (where she was living), to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (where we were living).  At this sad point, I hadn’t seen my mom in about 3 years.  A few weeks after Ted and I were married in ’93, my mom moved to Alaska.  The following summer, Ted and I moved to Pennsylvania.  Money was tight, flights that far are expensive, blah blah blah.  Anyway, the cheapest flight she could find was a red-eye, and when you fly from Juneau, you make several stops anyway…minimum of Seattle, often Anchorage and a smaller airport or two, plus the whole crossing the country thing.  So when we went to pick her up at the airport, I expected her to be TIRED. (Remember when you could go to the gate to meet family and friends off of flights?  We were waiting for her to appear from that little door, the portal between flight and solid ground.)  What I didn’t expect was for her to look as tired as she did.  Or for her to be so tired that she didn’t recognize me.  As I rushed over to give her a big hug, I was horrified to realize that I was approaching the WRONG 50-something, 275 lb, redhead, who used a cane.  I mean, really.  How many 50-something, 275 lb, redheads, who use a cane do you expect to find on one flight?  I only expected one.  There were two.  What a relief to realize that even though almost 3 years had passed since I had last seen her, she hadn’t changed THAT much.

Then, of course, her bright cheery face appeared from that little door, and she lit up at the sight of us, and gave us BIG hugs, and was thrilled to see me so pregnant and know that she was going to be there when her grand-daughter was born.  And yes, she was tired.  Maya didn’t arrive for almost a week after that, though, so she was well rested.

Dear Mom,

First of all, Happy Birthday. You would have been 68 today, and probably would have gone to Stockton to celebrate with Grandma and Aunt Flo (whose birthday it is today as well, she’s 86). Maybe you’d have fried chicken and angel food cake, or maybe you’d go out somewhere. I would have come to see you at Kate’s house this weekend, and we would have celebrated somehow. Maybe with a pedicure for the changing weather.

I think about you all of the time, though I don’t cry as much as I used to. Which is good, because Maya had a hard time with that, and would feel guilty for starting me off. She didn’t understand, completely, that crying helps, and that it didn’t upset me to cry all the time, if that can make any sense at all. But now we can talk about you sometimes without me starting up, and that’s easier. But I still miss you horribly, and I’ll admit that I’m crying a lot today as I write this.

Because I still need you, and you’re not here. This has been a hard year in many ways, and I could have used your love and support and advice. And this has been a good year in many ways, and I would have loved to share that part with you, to laugh and hug over the triumphs and joys. I’ve tried talking to you, and sometimes it helps, but mostly, it just makes me cry all over again. I’m tired of crying, no matter what I said up there about it helping.

And I hate what you’re missing. I see wisteria vines in bloom everywhere, and I know Kate has them on her back porch, and I know how much you loved them, and that they always reminded you of your time in Modesto with Aunt Julia. And you’re not here to see them. I read books that I know you would have loved, and it makes me sad, because you never will. I see books that don’t really interest me, but I just KNOW you would have eaten them up with a spoon, and I would have enjoyed buying them as a gift for you, but now, I have no one to buy them for. I laugh like crazy at Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, and I would have liked to do that with you. And I can’t.

Maya's Spring Photo, 8th Grade

And Maya…gosh, Mom, she’s 14 now. Look at that smile. She’s growing up right in front of us, and you’re not here. She’s going to High School in the fall, and she’s going to be on the Cheer Leading Team. She’s SO happy about that. She’s doing well in school, and has a lot of friends. Ted’s taking her to see her favorite band, Paramore, this fall. She’s doing volleyball and has started babysitting. She wears eyeliner and lip gloss and wants to get her ear pierced a second time. Remember how unhappy you were with me when I did that? And how it turned out OK, and no one thought I was disreputable or unhireable because of it? Oh mom, I wish you were here to see this. I hate that you’re missing this. I’d love to share it all with you.

I’m glad you’re not suffering. I’m glad you’re not in pain. But I miss you every damn day.

I love you,

~ J

I was brought to tears this morning by Jon Carroll’s tribute to his mother-in-law, who died last week at the age of 98.  I started crying, thinking of how sad his wife, Tracy, must be at losing her mother. (Really?  Was I really crying for Tracy, whom I do not know?  In an abstract way perhaps.  But mostly, no.  Mostly I was crying for me.)  And then I started crying harder, because I still miss my mom so very much.  I had to wonder, how is it different to lose your mother when she’s 98 than it is when she’s 66?  When she’s 98, people are pretty much expecting it, right?  Does that make it any easier?  She’s still just as gone, and there’s still just as big a hole in your heart.

(pic found here)

I remember 13.  I remember how emotional I was.  Stupid hormones going crazy.  I remember crying bitter tears because my mother thought I was ugly.  My proof?  SHE LOOKED AT ME.  Clearly she hated me.

And now, I’m the mom.  It’s a confusing position to be in, because there are days that are perfectly fine, with laughter and happiness…and then there are days when hormones run hot, and I feel like I can’t say anything right.  And when I ask her what’s wrong, she has been thinking I was mad at her the whole time.  Which I was not.  Not in the least.  I remember that, from the teen’s point of view.

I went to get a massage the other day to sooth my aching back, and the masseuse and I were chatting…he summed up the emotions of being 13 to me thusly.  “My mom would ask me a question, like what I wanted for dinner, and I would want to say, ‘WHY ARE YOU RUINING MY LIFE????’”.

Yeah.  That’s how it feels some days.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BR2o54X61No[/youtube]
Funny how things change in life, right? This song isn’t even my favorite Suzanne Vega song, and before I lost my mom last year, it never would have made me think of her.

But now. Now, any time I hear it, it makes me think of that horrible adjustment period after she died. Of how confusing the world suddenly was around me. Of how, though I still had (have) so many things and people in my life that were (are) so very important to me, things would never be the same again, would never be right again.

I know how it is
When something is gone
A piece of your eyesight
Or maybe your vision

A corner of sense
Goes blank on the screen
A piece of the scan
Gets filled in by hand

You know that it was
And now it is not
So you just make due with
Whatever you’ve got

Men in a war
If they’ve lost a limb
Still feel that limb
As they did before

It’s been over a year now since my mom died. I don’t hurt as much any more. I don’t cry as often any more. I am very thankful for all of the wonderful gifts that I have in this world. My family. My friends. My health. A job. A house. So many things to be thankful for, so many people who have lost far more than I have. And in my heart of hearts, I must admit that while losing my mother was horrible, the worst thing I have ever gone through…losing Ted or Maya would have been even worse. I’m not sure how people recover from that. My grandma has, two husband and three children now, but I don’t know how she does it. So yes, I am thankful for my gifts.

But still, there’s that sense in my day to day life that something is gone. Something I will never stop missing.