One Week of Belly Laughs (Continued)

I was reviewing some old e-mails again from when my mom was in the hospital and I was struck by how much laughter and silliness coexisted with the anxiety and pain.  These correspondences made me smile and reminded me again how love prevails....always.

Day 1

Today I almost orchestrated a fender bender with my mom's car to which my sister responds " ehh, ...ehhhh,....ehhhh" (imagine her voice similar to that of an elderly woman with severe dimentia pointing to an object she can't quite place and moaning in agitation). Weirdest pre-accident alert I have ever experienced.

Day 2
Then there was the waitress who literally bounced to our table and in her best "way-to-peppy-rah-rah- elfin-voice" asked us if we wanted to be "beveraged"? Is that a real thing?

Day 3
I have now integrated the words "Hollah!" and "Booyahhhh...." into my pop slang repertoire. Don't ask me why or how, but the shows "Cougar Town" and "Raising Hope" have had some influence. If you hear my almost-forty-upper-middle-class-white-self say either of these YOU most probably will have a good belly laugh.

Day 4
There was a hospital cafeteria episode. End result...the phrase "taco salad" now cascades a waterfall of giggles.

Day 5
I turn the wrong way EVERYTIME I go to the hospital, I left my purse at the store, I forgot my phone at the hospital and clearly my memory in Singapore.  Either that or my memory has taken a vacation. I am envisioning Memory laying in the sun, soaking up the rays with a tasty umbrella drink.
Hopefully she'll return to me refreshed and energized.

Day  6
My sister and I have resurrected the childhood game of finding the ugliest man in the the crowd and calling it first, "That's your boyfriend!" I'm winning.

Day 7
Other uplifting snap shots........They rolled mom over to wash her....of course her entire backside was smiling at all of us to which a family member says, "God she is big." To which I say "No, she is a Botticelli painting." And she is.

Addendum:  I always win the boyfriend game.  Always.

Map-less in Singapore

I can't sleep.

I am wondering where she is........not her body of course; that's easy enough to answer, but her essence, her energy, her soul....you choose your spiritual lingo.

Recently, my seven year old niece comforted her teary eyed mama with the words, "Don't be sad about Grammy.  She's in heaven.  She's happy there.  She's having fun!"

This reminded me that I used to know as a kid.  She was in heaven; a beautiful, serene alter universe somewhere high above the sky, above space even.  She'd be surrounded by friends and family who had already stamped their passports and immigrated to the new land.  I often envisioned them gathered around a long, obtrusive dining table.  It's dark, solid wood fighting to dominate the room; trying tirelessly to turn it's patrons into miniatures of themselves.  It doesn't work.  These people are larger than their former selves, not physically, but something big and luminous is definitely radiating from within.   It's as if everyone in this new place had been indoctrinated with lightness and contentment.  The room is stuffed with happiness; the laughter is raucous and heartfelt.  The food looks exquisite and of course there is wine (we are Italian after all....even in seven-year-old heaven).  It reminds me of an indulgent, medieval feast and, as a child, this brought me much comfort.  Heaven.  A revolving door of giant re-unions.  So many infact, that they quickly become just "unions" deeming the "re" obsolete.

So then I grew up.......a little.

I don't think I am jaded or subscribing to the "Negative Nellie" way of life when I say that my seven-year-old version is a little to bubblegumesque for the adult me to swallow.
I chuckle as I now envision a long line of new recruits approaching the gates of Heaven, nervously and suspiciously shuffling towards the guard. Their left sleeve is rolled up and their bare arms outstretched.  As the passports are stamped and the entry visas distributed, a syringe is nonchalantly jabbed into the unsuspecting newcomer and the happy serum is successfully injected.

 Hmmmmm.

This heaven is closely resembling that of a prison camp.

And what about all that "happiness"?  The seven-year-old girl doesn't realize how oppressive all that lollipop imagery can be. The happy happy was palpable in heaven's dining room.  So much so that you needed gumboots to wade through it all.  It was competing with the oxygen in the room and the adult me is simply suffocating.  Bring on some brooding for desert so I can breathe.

Who am I kidding?....I AM jaded. Maybe my subconscious is filled with too many images of horrific atrocities that have gone on in THIS life.  Or perhaps it is because I just read the highly entertaining, but seriously dark "Hunger Games" trilogy. Maybe it's just my mood or that it is 5:00 am and I need more coffee.

Whatever it is, I suspect my ID and EGO are having realationship trouble and my SUPEREGO ???....isn't he the gatekeeper or something?  ......Must be taking the morning off.

At times, I am envious of those who have absolute faith in one religion.  I actually am more comfortable using the word "way" and so I will do so here.  I can't even commit to the WORD religion so you can see how deeply my predicament is rooted.  Lets begin again.

At times, I am envious of those who have absolute faith in one way.  They are on their journey equipped with a map.  They have unwavering commitment and fortitude and a guide pointing them in a direction.  Right now I am a map-less.  My compass is in a frenzied state of relentless circling. 

All I have is my travel journel with a few words scribbled down.  It's all I am confortable with at this time.
The words are:
Way
Energy
Source

It's all I have but it's a start.

Settle Me Down

29 days until we do it.  

The thing is I still don't feel like she is dead.  I want to feel her death.  I want it to be brutally honest, forthright, in my face.  I want to be wounded.  Really wounded.  I want to watch the blood flow warm and slow. 


So where are you Pain?  When are you going to show up?  I'm ready.  I'm waiting.  I'm actually getting annoyed with your ambivalence.  Come on! 

I welcome Apathy.  I embrace Bitterness.  The invites have been posted and a wonderful soiree has been prepared for us all........ And yet the tea grows cold as the clock ticks on.  You have stood me up and all I am left with is this quiet room. 

You didn't call.  You didn't message.  There was no warning that I was to be abandoned.  Did you all conspire together?  I should be Angry but I'm not; even he has fled the scene.

And so the bath is drawn, the marketing is done, books are read, meals prepared, nails are painted, toddlers are put to sleep, husbands are loved.....it all goes on and on....and I want to scream, "Turn it off! Make it stop!"  Shouldn't the world at large be in some state of mourning?  Shouldn't the planet be spinning slower on its axis?  And what about MY world, shouldn't it be stopping altogether?

I just can't seem to FEEL the reality of it all.  Grief hasn't shown up like I thought, suitcase in hand, ready to move into the guest room.  She comes in odd waves and pangs like she is sneaking up on me from behind.  I'll be changing a diaper or buttering the toast and there she is without warning.  She seizes me in a way that hasn't occurred before.  My chest tightens, breath knocked away, and I am left paralyzed and suffocating in her clutches.  It all lasts a few moments and the attack usually goes unnoticed.  She's cunning and she's quick and I actually welcome these assaults.  For a few seconds when I can't find a breath and my heart seems to have stopped..... I get it.  She is dead and I can FEEL the deadness.  It might not feel good but it feels real and that for me is a comfort.  Then as quick as it came on it dissipates into the air before me.  It reminds me of waking from a dream when the last image is fading before me into fuzzy, disjointed pixels. I try everything to hang on to the picture and place those hazy dots back together, but to no avail. They have scattered into the universe and are not to be returned.

Perhaps this surrealism is a symptom of me living so far away from my mom, 9362 miles to be exact.  But upon further investigation....I don't think so.  My sister is prey to the same phenomenon and she only lives 32 miles away.  Then there is my dad who is also a member of the "none of this feels real" club and he slurped his coffee across from her every morning. 

So I was prepared to fight and it was a forfeit.  I was prepared to clink glasses with misery and her gang but they were a no show.  I should be happy about this and yet it's oddly unsettling.

I am ready to be settled.

A Baby Grand and a Claw Foot Bathtub

I am in my parent's house.

I lived in this house since I was a little girl.  It's walls have witnessed the ups and downs of my family since I was 5 years old.  33 Christmas mornings.  33 Easter egg hunts. 2 cases of the chicken pox.  96 birthdays combined.  2 weddings.  9 annual champaign baking days.  2 dogs.  Countless arguments.  Countless make-ups.  It seems the math of it all could go on infinitely.

I walk down the stairs, freshly carpeted.  My feet sink in not unlike the feeling of bare feet happily being submerged in dewy, benign blades of grass. I enter the kitchen and I am immediately confused.  All the furniture has been removed except a sexy, black, baby grand piano.  It has been hurriedly pushed up against the wall which used to house a white, pottery-barnish serving table.  We don't own a baby grand.  Where did it come from? 

Mom is behind the counter busily working.  I scan the family room to find the large, glass doors to the patio have been eliminated.  A pristine, white wall is left in its place.  Flushed with the ceiling is a row of giant, empty shadow boxes. I am not sure if they have been installed improperly or perhaps the job was left unfinished because they are uneven and hanging precariously.  I am sure this is driving my mom crazy but she seems unaffected as she attends to her kitchen business.

I walk over to her.  I am eager to discuss the topic of my new haircut.  It's short.  REALLY short.  She hands me a mirror and the shortness of it all is reflected back to me.  I kind of like it.  It's only about an inch long, sticking out all around my head.  It's fresh.  Punkish even.  Then SHE walks in.  A nameless beauty with long, flowing dark locks.  Her hair falls down to the middle of her back, exactly where mine did until about 30 seconds ago.  I am immediately drowning in regret, I can't breathe.  Mom tries to calm me but I am already running out the front door, crumbling into a sobbing pile on the front stoop.

My tears of regret quickly turn into tears of grief.  My mom is gone.  Gone.

The neighbors are walking up their drive and the father spots me in my crumpled heap.  He herds his clan my way and helps the two younger ones up onto the porch.  He offers me his condolences and is uncomfortably jovial as he does so.  Then he takes out a home video.  He thinks it will cheer me up.  I reluctantly agree to watch, more so because I don't have the energy it would take to protest. 

The viewing begins and I am surprised to see it is of my parents. At first I am struck by the weirdness of this man having this video in his possession.  I am not even sure I know his name.  Next, I am shocked at the intimacy of this video.  My parents are playing in a claw foot bathtub.  It's very discreet but I mean they ARE in a bathtub together.

My mom is radiant.  Her body is absolutely gorgeous.  Not a hollywoodized version of herself but the real deal.  She must be in her early twenties.  Her image reminds me of a black and white photo I have of her and me from when I was a baby (see above photo).  In fact, it's as if she was transported from that photo, disrobed and submerged in this bath of bubbles.  Her hair is cut short and it is dark, thick and shiny.  Lustrous really.  It bounces healthy and effortlessly as she rises and falls from beneath the water.  Her teeth are perfect.  They always were.  Here they are strong, white and shiny.  Bubbles are sliding along her velvety blanket of skin.  She is alive with laughter even though there is no audio.  It is one of those old, grainy, black and white home videos.  The ones that sing of nostalgia and contentment.  That is what she is. Content.  You can see it in the way she playfully wrestles with my dad, the way they banter with their bodies, the way they are smiling, the way......

 
And then I wake up.

Galliano with a Twist of Lime

My dad and I had a ritual.  After little August was painfully put to bed and the the day was nearing it's end, I would creep out of his room and head down into my dad's cave, known to most others as the basement.  There behind the bar she waited.  

In truth, she would be seducing me long before I reached that basement.  As I read the bedtime stories and sang the lullabyes she would call to me.  I would like to say I was completely invested in my son's bedtime routine, but it would be a lie.  I couldn't wait until the milk bottle was emptied and the storybooks had been retired.  Her long, slender neck flirted with my lack of inhibitions as did her sensual perfume, a unique mixture of anise, cinnamon and vanilla.  I was tired, sad and weak and she took advantage.

Sometimes my dad would already be behind the bar when I arrived.  He would have two smart looking glasses laid out before her.  They too sat there eagerly waiting.  The ice-cubes would drop in one by one as the glasses clinked with approval.  And then he would open the bottle.  Her intoxicating scent would hit me first, a stunning combination of anise and vanilla.  Then he would pour. The beautiful, golden liquor would cascade over the ice, crackling the cubes as it filled the glass.  Next, the lime was cut and squeezed generously before stirring.  When the lime was exhausted, its carcass was tossed in for extra flavor.  Bits of its flesh would float off the rind, giving her more texture and body. She looked divine in the bottle, but even more so dressed in the glass.

And so the first sip commenced.  It was smooth, sweet and complex.  She had so many layers of spices and herbs, all balanced with the comforting flavor of vanilla.  And if your sip happened to include some bits of the lime, the burst of citrus would elevate all the flavors to another level.  I was in love.

 We sat together with new love and lost love and we commiserated in both.  This was the time of day when my mom and dad would curl up in front of the big screen and unwind  together.  Now I was there.....I was both a comforter and an intruder.  It was nice to have those glasses when we felt lonely together or confused or angry or frustrated or........

I liked the sound of the ice jingling against the glass as we sloshed her around for the next swig.  It was a good sound. Comforting.  Then I would sip again and as I swallowed warmth would radiate out from my middle to all my extremities.  At the same time, I could feel her enemy retreating.  Tension would release with every jingle and every sip.

And so we jingled and sipped and fed our brains t.v. candy and as we did we would talk about Her. Mom.  Dad would interject here and there with a memory, a feeling, a fear.  I would respond or elaborate or just listen.  Sometimes he would call me mom or Mich or hon and then apologize for the mistake.  He didn't need to.  It made me feel more like the comforter than the intruder.

So don't let anyone tell you that Galliano is an old man's drink.  It isn't.  It is a drink for fathers and daughters to heal and for couples who have weathered 40 years of marriage to celebrate.  When I looked up more about how the liquor is made, Wikipedia had this to say, "Galliano is marketed as an "ideal marrying ingredient", which adds no intrusive flavor, but serves to deepen and give character to other ingredients, both ordinary and exotic."

Perhaps this was the secret to my parent's successful union.  Maybe this was the "ideal marrying ingredient".  I don't know, but I am raising a glass of Galliano with a twist of lime to my parents tonight.

Cheers.

Birthday for Two

This entry is a recap of an e-mail a good friend sent to me after mom had died.  She interviewed me, in a way, about my experience and I have captured our correspondence as follows. 
 
INTERVIEWER:  Ashes. Where are they going?  
ME: We have them!  Mom is sitting in three different places.  The mantle, where she can adequately preside over the doings of the family, my sister's dining room shelf and my bedroom dresser.  My sister and I will spread her ashes out into the ocean at St. George's Island this August and my dad is probably going to bury his in AZ....he is purchasing a memorial bench for her in the White Tank Mts.

INTERVIEWER:  What was your memorial/wake experience? 
ME:  A complete blur.  A celebration.  Emotional, exhausting, moving.  Around 400 people came.......old teachers of mine......friends I haven't seen in almost 10 years.  It was beautiful.
 
INTERVIEWER:  Good on you for taking this time. You will never ever ever regret it. 
ME:  I agree.  It is where I need to be.  I feel blessed to be able to share this experience in such an intimate way with my family.  My sister and I have become closer and I feel a deeper connection with my dad as well.  It is also fantastic to watch Auggie bond with his extended family.
 
Going through mom's things is hard but cathartic as well.  I find myself breaking down over old shopping lists, crusty lip gloss applicators,  and  cheesy holiday towels.  Things.  Things that before March 18th seemed so inconsequential but are now so important to me.  Things that bear intimate details like the poofy "P" in peppers or the DNA still clinging to that lip gloss brush.  Throwing literal scraps of her life into giant garbage bags seems cruel, incompassionate, and just down right disrespectful.  But then what do you do with half used mascara from the seventies?  YOU THROW IT THE BLEEP AWAY!  
(........and then I toss it into my purse).
 
INTERVIEWER:  How is August doing?  
ME:  He is eating nothing again.  Unless nibbles of this and throwing that constitutes eating.  He drinks milk at the all night bar called Mama's Kitchen.  Yep.  He has set a record for the youngest person to have an eating disorder or a milk addiction or a sleeping disorder or all three ....three cheers...hip hip hooray.  We are so proud.


INTERVIEWER: The hospital/ the goodbye....what was it like? 
ME:  Hospital seems like a dream.  A hazy, exhausting,  love-filled dream.  Everyone there was amazing and came to know us well.  They were all so friendly either because they liked us or because we are kooks.  Probably both.  We spent everyday by her side.  Laughing, crying, playing cards, doing crosswords, eating, not eating, sleeping, not sleeping, stroking her forehead, holding her hand, kissing her, talking to her, crying some more......   My family was fantastic.   My aunt hosted everyone in her home, my cousins flew out to help my gma, another cousin flew to AZ and cooked for us.  Everyone pulled together to fulfill a much needed role.  We had hard, meaningful talks about mom, our family, death, and life without her. 

She opened her eyes, miraculously as the nurse pointed out, to see us one last time.  She knew we were there and she told us so with her eyes. I believe they were saying, "I love you."  We thought she would go on her own inspite of the machines so we stayed with her throughout the night of the 17th but on the 18th it was clear the machines were not prolonging life but prolonging death.  We turned them off around 8:30 am and it only took a few minutes for her energy to be released.

I thought that specific moment would be climactic but, in truth, I didn't even know it happened until the nurse informed us she had "passed".  I draped my body over her like a human quilt and told her I loved her.  I told her she was "brave, courageous and that I was so proud of her".  I brag about being adventurous, but she embarked on the most mysterious and important of all journeys.  I feel SO SO blessed to have been there to see her off and to bid her safe travels.  I feel even more blessed that on the same day she birthed me into this world I got to help birth her into the next one.  What a miraculous gift.  It really was a beautiful death for a beautiful woman and a very, very memorable birthday.  Now, in a way, it is her birthday too.

A Book of Belly Laughs

Prologue:
This entry requires a bit of an explanation.  The other night I found myself unable to sleep.  I crept to the kitchen, made a cup of tea and scrolled through old e-mails and correspondences from when my mom was sick.  I discovered that amidst the anxiety, fear and despair, we experienced some downright funny moments.  This entry is a collection of various anecdotes recorded in e-mails during my mom's hospital stay.  One of my good friends prayed that a rain shower of belly laughs would pour down on us and we would be soaked in the sounds of our own laughter.  Her prayer was answered.

Chapter 1 - Subterranean Regions
As we continue our new routines of hospital shifts, cafeteria meals and making new friends (most of whom go by the title R.N.) our hospital banter has taken on a new low. We now discuss pooper scoopers and other topics of subterranean regions (see blog entry entitled "The Enema".........  I told you so).  Furthermore, every time someone takes a pee we have a mini celebration. We are hoping my mom's kidneys will get jealous and want to join the party.

Chapter 2 - I.Q. stands for "I Quit!"
I now refer to the crosswords from the hospital gift shop as "The Dumb-ass Crosswords". The New York Times and L.A. Times Crosswords have been deemed "The Mensa Crosswords". I can only do the dumb-ass ones.

Chapter 3 - Politically Incorrect Moments
A family member, who will remain unidentified, was talking to the nurse and was trying to say that over the years my mom has morphed into a germaphobe. Unfortunately what came out was homophobe...... nice.

Chapter 4 - Get Out of the Gutter
The nurse asked us if we were, "having trouble with our little box"? She meant the i-touch my dad was playing with but I couldn't help feeling a little dirty.

Chapter 5 - And Then There Was This........ 
A family member was going to pay 99 cents to take "The Moron Test". Don't you think paying for it means you passed????

Chapter 6 -  Reuniting with Wood
My aunt has a little boy made of wood and painted like a Christmas caroler. I realize that sentence right there could possibly be included on the moron test. His hair is curly and chestnut brown. His lips are forever forming a perfect O as if he is continuously oohing "Silent Night". I would like to formally introduce Chris (A.K.A. Mr. Marbles.....don't ask). He is festively dressed for the changing seasons and holidays of the year. I only mention this because......well........SHE HAS A WOODEN PERSON WHOM SHE DRESSES!!!!

Chapter 7 - Cafeteria Madness
We have all been having bouts of mania and depression. Luckily our highs and lows never seem to completely coincide so someone can always lift someone up or reel someone in.  An unnamed relative had a manic episode yesterday in the hospital cafe. He/she had headphones on and was unwinding with some tunes. As he/she shuffled from counter to counter surveying the prepared food choices, he/she was a little too excited over some of the menu selections. At one point, his/her eyes grew as big as saucers, his/her mouth took on a Mr. Marbles shape and he/she made a B line for the salad counter yelling "JELLLLLOOOO!!!!!". Headphones were then banned from the cafeteria.  And by the way, who likes Jello that much??  Is it even food?

Epilogue
I was surprised at how many funnies there can be in an otherwise un-funny situation.  As always, my mom brought people together and boy could she laugh.  She would laugh so hard her legs would be twisted like a pretzel trying to contain the escaping pee.  If you're a yoga follower, she looked like she was attempting an "eagle"  asana except for the being completely relaxed and zen part.  She always peed when she laughed.  Honest.  She has a t-shirt that says so.

Appendix A
Mr. Marbles wears a size 4T.

Appendix B
We were all asked to squeeze his tush at dinner.