Our Michele

The following post is based on an interview I had with my grandmother (my mother’s mother) several week ago. I called her after coffee and breakfast had commenced in Singapore and after dinner dishes were carefully put away in Chicago. I imagined her sitting in her floral duster with a cup of tea steeping on the table and some biscotti crumbs littering her saucer. She spoke easily and comfortably as I posed the questions and I could tell she was eager to talk about my mom. I decided to write the entry from my grandmother’s perspective as it seemed to flow better in first person. The post is based on her interview answers and I have interpreted feelings and events where I saw fit. She has read the post and has given it her blessing so I feel it is authentic and possesses integrity.

Our Michele

I will never forget the day she was born. It was a Sunday and her birth was easy. She wasn’t even 5lbs and it felt like a miracle. “Don’t sound so crazy,” declared my sister “everyone has a baby!” But of course I wasn’t everyone.

I never thought I would have a baby, but after two years of marriage we were pregnant. This was 1949 and everything was different in the birthing ward. We found ourselves at Loretto hospital in Chicago where husbands were prohibited from entering the delivery room and where nuns called the shots. “Sister, I think she can have some pain meds”, suggested the doctor on duty. “No! She can wait!” commanded the nun. Shots were definitely being called.

I remember the woman next to me screaming and writhing about with pain. “If you would stop this and relax you would feel better,” retorted sister-in-charge. This brought on a monologue of swearing that would rival the likes of a gangster rapper. I was embarrassed.

Despite nuns tramping in their bossy boots and patients targeting them with expletives we soon had our baby.

Mother’s intuition told me that we were having a son and we had prepared to name him Michael after my husband’s father. It was evident that intuition cannot always be trusted as I swaddled my little girl. Michele, the female version of Michael, seemed the most natural alternative. In later years, when I saw the headstone at my father-in-law’s grave site I was surprised to see that his name was actually spelled Michele, the Italian spelling for Michael. She was named after her grandfather and she was Our Michele.

If the delivery was easy the homecoming was a bit more of a challenge. She was small and treated us to 6 months of colic. It was a revolving door of formulas but we made it through and our reward was in sight. Michele was a good child. She left the bottle early and practically toilet trained herself . We only used cloth diapers and she hated to be wet. She would want to be changed incessantly and soon grew tired of the constant diaper drama. She practically trained herself. Yes. I am repeating it again because in 85 years of living I am sure this sounds like a case of faulty memory or time-lapse embellishment. It’s not.

Michele developed into a bright and beautiful little girl. She walked early and by 3 she was adventuring around the corner to buy milk from the neighborhood grocer. It was a different time. A time when your community was extended family and watching your little girl from your kitchen window was enough. She soon took a liking to shopping and mothering her younger sister. She gave in often, especially when baby sis was sick. She did this not out of desperation or frustration but a need to help and to protect.

Soon her adventures bloomed into more than just trips around the block as fashion, friends, dating and travel began to take center stage. She jetted off to Europe after High School and returned with gorgeous English frocks. Furthermore, her hair-capades have become somewhat of family legend. She was known to leave the house in various wigs or regularly return home sporting a surprise cut. Once she arrived from the salon with such a short crop that her father questioned if she had actually paid for the cut. When it was revealed that she explicitly asked for this specific style her father just shrugged and walked away. A similar short “do” shocked her future husband who was picking her up for a blind date. “Her hair was so short I thought she might have been sick and had to undergo surgery!” he exclaimed. “I was a little worried my buddy set me up on a sympathy date!” he added. On yet another occasion she was sent home from Immaculate Heart of Mary, her High School at the time. The infraction? Hair-ratting. Enough said and yes….even though the nuns donned their habits everyday, they really wore the pants there as well.

At 14 Michele went to work in a pastry shop. She was an artist at decorating the pastries and wrapping the desserts, a skill she would perfect over the years. Her family has been known to poke fun at her over this. If you ever baked with Michele you knew that the frosting, drizzles, sparkles, and sprinkles were most important and had to be applied with painstaking delicacy. We resorted to calling her meticulous but in truth this was often a euphemism for annoying. Clearly, her exquisite bakery skills could not be abandoned even when it came to family cookie day. It has also been said that she kept the Raimondi’s Bakery shop counter the cleanest it had ever been. Another skill she would transfer to her own home and use to drive her loved ones insane. Gift wrapping brought on the same love for detail. Everyone knew which present was from Michele because it looked as though it had been sent directly from the department store.

At 16 she was punching her card at JC Penny’s with her girls. She was a hard worker and the friends she made were connected to her for the rest of her life. In fact, some of her closest friends before she died are those she romped around with on the elementary school playground. That kind of friendship is rare.

Boys came and went as easily as the hairstyles and she had no interest in committing until she was ready. “Don’t call me to meet him till that boy comes around more than once,” warned her father. Clearly, she dated like she wore her wigs. Lets try it on, have some fun, but I’m not committing to anything serious at the moment.

More than anything it was evident that Michele was dedicated to her family. We lived next door to one grandmother and shared our home with her other set of grandparents. She’d graciously endure her grandpa slurping down his raw egg every morning and she’d politely listen to his lengthy stories. I am not talking about light- hearted fairytales or star-crossed folklore either. I am talking some heavy stuff like Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”. Michele thought he was making up the epic poem until she came across it on her own in Humanities class. Even throughout high school she shared a bedroom with her grandmother, an act of kindness I can’t see today’s teenagers signing up for, at least not without a lot of drama and a long list of negotiations.

And so as I celebrate highlights of Michele’s birth and childhood I remember that it is October again, Michele’s birthday month. I am reminded of her very first birthday and how she stuffed that big cake into her little mouth, Dressel’s whipped cream cake, our family’s favorite. I miss her everyday. I shop at Caputo’s alone now when I used to stroll the aisles and wrestle the deli counter with Michele. I don’t stop at Panera for a post-Caputo’s-shopping lunch because I used to with Michele. I think of her every single day and I look forward to the day we are reunited. Happy happy birthday to Our Michele.

57 Days

There is a jar at the end of my bed. It is bursting from within. It is so stuffed it must waddle through the house commiserating on its discomfort, much like my own self after sliding my chair from the Thanksgiving Day spread. So I tell the jar, "Suck it up! Have some peppermint tea, rub some yu -yi oil on your belly, walk it off, unbutton your pants for god's sake but stop complaining! You did this to yourself!" But it's a lie. I did it.

It has been 57 days since my last post. Seeing the numbers there, the 5 with its bloated belly and the 7 with its deliberate stance (much like a military salute in my opinion), brings on a wave of nausea. How did I let the jar get this full? It is so full of excuses it simply can not hold another and I have no choice but to either get a brand new, empty jar or begin to write again.

I haven't wanted to write. Simple. Stated. Done. I could have summed it up with one simple phrase rather than continuing on with the countless others......"I'm too tired", "I don't feel well, "My son needs me", "Blah blah blah." The truth is I just haven't wanted to go there. The thought of clicking keys made my head spin and my fingers felt as if giant weights had been suspended from my knuckles. Every letter was a labor. Every word a feat of great strength. Too hard. So I would close the laptop and open my novel instead.

So what has changed? I have no idea. Really. Tonight I picked up the computer and I wanted to write. So I did. Simple. Stated. Done.

Many events have transpired in the past 57 days. While I have been feeding my excuse jar my Dad sold the house. On Sept. 18th, exactly 6th months after mom's death, he packed up his Subaru and drove out of the Chicago burbs and straight into the Arizona desert. Therapists often talk about 6 months being a pivotal turning point in the grieving process. Typically, one is more able to move forward around this time. I am imagining his car driving confidently into a desert sunset as the blue two-storey sheds a small tear in the rear-view mirror. He has a beautiful new home and he is ready for beginnings after so much time and energy has been devoted to endings. Chapter One: An Arizona Autumn. I can't wait to read the rest. I am so proud of him.

Unfortunately, the last 57 days has also brought great heartache. One of mom's best friends was diagnosed with brain cancer and a very close friend of the family lost her husband in a boating accident. I am saddened and disheartened by these events. I don't know what to say. Perhaps it is enough to just share.

The last 57 days ushered in another milestone. My mother's 62nd birthday. On October 9th we celebrated her birthday with friends here in Singapore. My friend's 5 year old daughter curiously inquired as to where the birthday girl was. "Is your mom dead?" she innocently asked.
"Yes." I replied, "but we will still celebrate with her spirit."
"Will there be cake?" she asked.
"Of course."
"Will we sing?"
"Absolutely." I stated. And that seemed to settle the matter. It can be anyone's birthday with a heartfelt rendition of Happy Birthday To You and espresso-fudge- banana cake ( AND carrot-walnut AND chocolate-hazlenut).

So how DO you celebrate your Mom's 62nd birthday when she has gone off and adventured into the afterlife.
Step 1. Run a 10K race in her honor (Congrats to my husband who completed his first 10K).
Step 2. Have a Cosmo party with close friends (Mom's favorite drink....ehhemmm...ONE of them).
Step 3. Eat a delicious meal (Chinese steamboat for us!)
Step 4: Sing, blow out candles WHILE making wish, and eat cake.

Repeat all or some of steps as needed.

It was a wonderful day and and a lovely party. I think Mom enjoyed herself. I know we all did.


My last present to you is that I am writing. I hope 57 days does not elapse again between posts but who can see the future? The best I can do is to say I have written now.

Simple. Stated. Done.

Happy Belated Birthday Mom

Ashes Ashes We Won't Fall Down

The alarm buzzed twice and I hurriedly grabbed the phone.  6:00 am had come too quickly and the blackened sky confirmed that not even the sun was ready for the day.  The house was still except for the percolating of the coffee maker and the soft, rhythmic breathing of my nephew upstairs.

The comforting aroma of a fresh brew began to waft through the living room enticing me to get moving.  As objects before me came into focus I could hear my sister shuffling through the kitchen. This was THE morning. The one we had been waiting for, the one we came here for and, honestly, the one I was somewhat dreading.

Sis and I exchanged our good mornings in hushed voices so as not to wake the others.  Then we poured our java and tip-toed to the front door.  We headed out onto the large, wooden porch over looking the ocean.  The moon was hidden and the sun was still asleep making it hard to tell where the ocean ended and sky began. As far as I could tell the sea and sky were one.

The air was refreshingly cool and the birds and insects had commenced their morning symphony.  We sat slurping our coffee and listening to the hypnotic lull of the tide. It was a beautiful morning. It was perfect really.

We had all decided to caravan down to St. George island, a used-to-be-annual summer destination for my parents and one we had frequented as a family.  Over the years they had rented several houses on the island and the one my dad chose for this summer event was one they had stayed in before.  It's blue wooden siding had faded from years of sun exposure and the nails in the deck were rusty from relentless ocean spray and the taunting of tropical storms and hurricanes.  "It's exactly the same," Dad stated matter-of-factly and with a trace of relief as he turned the key and led us into the main living room.

The mauve and perriwinkle floral couches would make their 1980's decorator proud.  As would the oversized bamboo dining table with glass tabletop. It would be perfect for gregarious family meals, late night card games and a few Gallianos with my dad.  I loved that everything was the same as when my mom had stayed here, except for a few updates of course.  Now a DVD player graced the entertainment system and the house was equipped with wi-fi, ubiquitous and necessary for a successful rental today.

My dad showed us exactly where my niece had learned how to crawl.  His finger pointed to a spot on the carpet just a few feet away from the sofa.  It was hard to believe she was now 7 and an accomplished gymnist.  In a way, this place was the start of her motor mania and so we all breathed in the air of nostalgia, memories and the reality that even though some things were exactly the same many things were so very different.   

My mom loved the beach.  She relished the languor that filled her days of sun-soaking, bathing in salty pools, consuming her latest novel and gazing at her family.  She enjoyed moving slowly and I often thought that the turtle could be her sister soul, a fitting choice since the sea turtle is famous for laying eggs on this very stretch of beach.  Furthermore, after a bit of research by my sis, we discovered that sea turtles are symbols of mother earth.  Their shells represent heaven and their under shell the earth.  These beings are nurturers, protectors, patient and steady.  All of these descriptors scream Michele.  She loved to be in her shell, comfortable, safe and familiar.  That is also the world she created and perfected for her family.

So perhaps it is because this beach is the home to a symbol of the primal mother, fertility, wisdom and
strength.  Perhaps it is because my mother loved spending time here. And perhaps, most importantly, it is because she specifically stated this was to be the place where we spread her ashes.  This indeed seemed like a most fitting and perfect place to bring her one last time and forever.

So we swigged the last of the morning cuppas and I headed in to wake my dad.  My dad was not spreading his ashes but he wanted to be with us when we set ours free. We gathered her cremains along with our courage and we shuffled out onto the boardwalk, down the rickety steps and out onto the beach.

I had a few things I wanted to say to mom in private and so I wandered down the beach a bit to have my chat. I won't recount what I said except for a quote I read to her.  It is part of a letter written by a 19th century poet, Rainier Marie Rilke.  A friend turned me on to his writing in college and these words have always rang with poignancy in my ears.
It is as follows:

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart
and try to love the questions themselves...
Do not now seek the answers,
which cannot be given to you because you will not be able to live them.
And the point is, to live everything.
Live the questions now.
Perhaps you will then gradually,
without noticing it,
live along some distant day into the answer.


I vowed to live my questions as best as I could and I hoped that she was finally getting some of her answers.


I walked back over to my sister and dad and we slowly opened our urns.  The sun was higher now and the sky was flooded with a gorgeous palette of pastel chalks.  It was windy and the surf was frothy beneath our feet.  The ashes were in a small bag which opened easily.  We sprinkled them over the ebb and flow of the tide and the wind took them briskly in her arms and carried them further than we could imagine.  

I was surprised by how thin the ashes appeared and how little of them there seemed to be.  Another reminder of how the largeness of a life is not captured in the physical but in the spiritual.


We hugged, we cried, we stood strong and proud and then we began our day.   


I love that part of her is in the ocean flowing into other waters and onto other lands.  It's not symbolism or figurative language. She literally is Mother.  My mother and now mother earth.

An August Labor of Love

From one mother to another, from a daughter to a mother, from grandson to grandmother.  I have been wanting to capture this experience in my own way for some time now and my mother's recent birth was the impetus to do so.  Thanks mom for the inspiration.

July 31st, 2009

And so our tale begins......

My good friend arrived back from her summer holiday and she looked stunning.  Fresh little haircut, fun (little) dress, sexy not-so-little heels and a suitcase full of little stories.  She looked radiant and light and....little.  I realize my obsession with the littleness of things, but at the time it was understandable.  Everything in my life at the moment was big, REALLY big and nothing felt like an exception, especially my belly.

We talked and dined over some homemade "Pasta Putanesca".  I have to chuckle over our perfectly fitting menu choice.  "Whore's style spaghetti!" It foreshadowed the BIGNESS that was ensuing by reminding us of the actions that started the whole BIGNESS in the first place.

We were off to a symphony concert and the whole time my belly sang.  Only it wasn't good singing.  It stammered, croaked, groaned, and groveled.  It added an entire embarrassing, uncomfortable libretto where none was intended.  All I could think about was how I knew that damned "Whore's Pasta" would come back and haunt me.  Consider me haunted.

August 1, 2009

The next day I still felt funny.  It was only now that I considered the pasta wasn't to blame and that perhaps......perhaps?......

I put a call into my marathon trainer (known in other circles as my doula). She suggested going about my day and just observing.  It could be race day or it could indeed be "Whore's Pasta" revenge.
And so we went about our day....
Breakfast?  Check.
Phone calls?  Check.
30 minute swim? Half a check.  I couldn't finish and I was mad.  A wave of anger washed over me and the self-talk commenced. "Come on! Ten more minutes!  What will you do in the race?  Finish line. Finish line."  But no cheer leading was going to help push this body across the chlorinated depths of the Anchorvale Community pool.  I was done.  Of course, if I had future vision I would have known that conserving all the energy possible was the most appropriate race strategy at this time.  But no one has future vision.  No one.

So onward we marched through the day's parade.
Foot reflexology? Check.
Starbucks coffee? Check.  Decaf.  Calm down already.

By late afternoon the pressure in my belly was more intense but still not to any alarming proportions.
We decided to take in a movie at the cinema and after a few types of the keys our tickets were purchased and we were on our way.

On our way.  Yes we were.  As we pulled out into traffic the sensations in my belly intensified further, but what to do?  If it was the real deal it would continue with popcorn and Hollywood hotties just as easily.  But once we arrived at the cinema it was clear that Hollywood would have to wait.  No, I didn't have a baby in the Ang Mo Kio Hub cinemas.

We had purchased our tickets for the wrong date.

Call it fate, a subconscious intervention or a life ring thrown from the waters of the universe.  Whatever it was it was a good thing. We had a real feeling now that this could be the day.  Race day.  The birth day.

We foraged through the grocery store for provisions anticipating what could be a long night ahead.  My husband plucked fruits, grabbed snacks and filled the cart while I braced myself against confectionery displays and freezers of processed foods.  These were full on surges..............right?  I was pumped and confused and surprised that labor hadn't begun with the clarity and circumstance of a siren.  More like a party horn that keeps getting stuck between toots. 

My husband put another call into our trainer. "Go into the shower and see if things slow down a bit.  It could still be a false alarm" she advised.  But then she heard me through the phone starting the primal, guttural birthing sounds that begged confirmation.  Yes. The toot has become a siren. 

So I was running my first marathon and I had probably crossed the start line hours ago.
I stayed in the shower for a bit letting the warm water soothe my taught and tired belly.  I remember with each wave of pressure I would feel a surge through out my body.  I would breathe in with the wave and as it crested these powerful, energized moans would direct the energy out and forward.  We had practiced all of this in training.  The breathing, meditations, affirmations, birthing sounds to keep loose, but this was training up about ten notches.  It was fantastic.

I birthed in our bedroom.  The room basked in soft light and was filled with soothing Feng Shui music.  My husband lit a combination of mint oil (for nausea), lavender oil (for relaxation), and one other whose name eludes me at the moment, but it's purpose is to hasten labor (we needed alot more of that one).

Integrating the surges was easier than I thought and I know it was because we all committed to a rigorous training schedule.  I kneeled on the floor hugging the birthing ball, I kneeled over the bed, I hung on my husband, I was in the shower, in the tub, squatting, sitting on the birthing stool.  We had strategies, for every mile we ran, for every hour that passed. Strategies.

I am most amazed at the animal woman I became.  I felt possessed and overcome with primal instinct.  As labor progressed, my surges naturally intensified.  With each rush of energy my hair would swing wildly, my eyes rolled back into my head and all sorts of tigress groans and growls were released.  I had become someone else during those surges and I liked her. 

Then it was over and I was back, asking for water, smiling, laughing....like the tigress was never there....only to be brought back again a few minutes later.

My body was amazing me.

My husband and our doula ran a marathon too.  They never stopped rubbing my back, putting pressure where I needed it, giving me support, offering me strategies when I was too focused to remember.  They listened patiently and indulged my diva demands when coffee was prohibited due to it's nauseating aroma and lyrics were verboten due to their distracting nature.

We all had been running for hours.  For sure we had passed the halfway mark and the doctor had come to confirm our progress.

3 cm..........what the????

Not to worry.  I started this race knowing that I didn't care about my time.  Crossing the finish line is all that mattered.  So our feet hit the pavement....again.

August 2, 2009

The doctor had some racing strategies of his own.  He broke the waters which were still intact, hoping to hasten our pace.  The warm liquid came out less forcefullly then I had imagined.  Not a gush but a gentle release.

It was noon the next day.  I know this now but I didn't at the time. I had no sense of time.  The world had stopped except for the little room on Seletar Terrace.  I was progressing but still at a slow jog. Yep.  I am a distance runner......never been a sprinter.

The doctor suggested that my bladder was full and blocking passage for the baby.  I didn't feel like I had to urinate...........until he said that.  Now it was all I could think about....how bad I had to pee. The doctor inserted a catheter and he manually stretched my cervix some more.  He said to try pushing but I couldn't.  We hadn't trained to push.  We practiced "breathing the baby down."  I felt surprised and unprepared.  The verbage had me mentally stuck at mile 20.

Team White swooped in with the support.  My husband held me, rubbed me, let me hang from his neck and as I squatted through the surges he lovingly offered his hands for me to squeeze into rubble.

Finally the tsunami of the surges began.   I didn't know what to do with the energy.  It would rise up from my pelvis with such strength and intensity I felt I was relinquishing all control. I think that was the point. There was no containment.  I was just there for the ride. The waves would explode out of me from all directions.  Squatting seemed to slow down the waves and lessen their intensity so I kneeled over the birthing ball or hung my arms around my husband's neck to keep the surges strong.

The baby's head was still not crowning.  I couldn't believe it.  The force of those surges would have sent a baby clear across the room for sure.  The doula thought the baby was turned inefficiently so we labored in different positions, assisting him in turning.  The doctor aided by pushing hard on my belly, manually moving the baby down.  Only 2 more cm to go.  Mile 24 was under foot.

The surges were stronger yet so I began standing.  The baby's head would poke out and then get sucked back into the birth canal like he couldn't decide if he wanted to come out or not.  Or maybe it was my body that couldn't let him go.  Whichever it was, the indecision was beginning to frustrate me.  We were so close.  Finally a huge surge began from the depths of me, it felt like something heavy being pushed up through my bottom, my core.  There was so much energy I thought my body was splitting into pieces, many glorious pieces.  I looked down ready to see his head and shoulders hanging between me, but no.....it was only the head.  There he was.  Just a head hanging between my legs.  It sounds so comical now.

At the same time the surge was bursting forth I heard an eruption of another kind.  A deep, rumbling was rolling in from outside and I knew at once it was our friend's Harley.  He had come to deliver dinner and I was wondering which beast would win the roaring war. Me or that hog.

I was nervous about the next surge as I heard that the shoulders were the most difficult to pass through.
As the energy began to well up there was nothing to do but ride the wave.  This was it.  The final mile. 
I was splitting in two.  Yes.  I was sure that two halves of me would cross that finish line.  But I didn't break.  I became whole.

He was here and we named him August.

It was amazing to me how seconds after the most powerful waves surged through the room, now there was nothing but serene waters.  I felt fantastic.....like I could run a marathon.

In 21 hours the three of us had crossed the finish line.  Only this finish line was the start of a much longer journey.

August (n) is the eighth month of the Gregorian calendar and it means (adj) inspiring reverence or admiration; of supreme dignity or grandeur; majestic. (Syn) Magnificent, resplendent, impressive, honorable, monumental, venerable and brilliant.

That is what this birth was to me.

It was anything but proverbial.  It was august and it was ours.  

Happy Birthday August Kristopher White

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.