for my friend, Billie Jean James
I see you standing akimbo
astride the desert warp
in red gladiola
stemmed with black boots
your head turns
to the sound of pain
borrow pit
neap tide
leafing tree
I see you
on the first quarter of the moon
riding a flow of words
drifting
gone
and still here
do not wrap that old robe about yourself
and leave us
once we dreamed on paper
swept up in a word dance
you carried us with you
under your red beach umbrella
do not leave us
I see you
gone
and still here
Billie Jean was a poet, teacher, environmentalist, feminist, activist and one of the most energetic people I have ever known.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
bad juju
The day we arrived in Hawaii, Rudy’s son, Jeff took us to the beach by his house. We watched the surfers, met Charley Woofer, the famous Great Dane and I took loads of pictures. As we wandered along the beach, Jeff said, “One thing to remember in Hawaii. Don’t pick up anything from the beach… no rocks, no shells, nothing. It’s bad juju.” Rudy and I looked at each other and I could see it in his eyes! His rebellious streak was showing. He restrained himself and didn’t pick anything up. Well, at least, not then.
On Wednesday, Jeff and Sarah took us to the lava fields to watch the sun set on the beach. I noticed Rudy bending over and I watched him as he picked up a small, black piece of rock. I flashed him my best “no no no look” and he flashed me his best devilish smile.
The next morning Rudy and I drove to the hotel on the other side of the island where we spent the last three days. It was glorious. We wandered around Lahaina, exploring shops, beaches and restaurants. We saw hula dancers, birds, geckos, fish and adorable children everywhere. We talked to Hawaiian natives and tourists from all over the world. We went to a luau of course. On the way home from the luau we were waiting at the elevator talking to a young couple with a one month old baby who was clearly finished with Hawaii and registering his complaint. Rudy and I stood back and let the frazzled parents get on first. I followed. Slam! The door closed on me, bruising my right arm and wrist and knocking my skull from one side to the other. I saw stars, literally. I staggered for a while and my poor husband kept asking, “Are you sure you’re okay?” I wasn’t sure but I soldiered on.
Next morning we were eating breakfast and the room began to move. I looked at Rudy; he looked at me. “Earthquake?” I whispered. He nodded. I was glad. I thought it was damage to my brain from the elevator. It was only a 3.8 earthquake but it was an earthquake! That was also the day Rudy dead bolted our hotel room door from the inside and we had to wait while three housekeepers and a security man unlocked it.
On Sunday we flew from Maui to Honolulu happy and tired and talking about the “next time in Hawaii.” It was raining in Honolulu and as we were getting off the plane I noticed our luggage sitting on the tarmac. I said, “Look Rudy! Our luggage.”
In Honolulu we had a 3 hour layover. We ate, chatted, I drank Starbucks eggnog latte and the time crept up on four hours. The airline official said there were a few small technical problems with the plane’s lights and we would be late departing. Lights? They expected us to believe it was something wrong with the lights? Finally we boarded. The lights looked perfectly fine to me.
About an hour into the flight the attendant made an announcement. “If you are feeling ill please let us know right away. Is there a doctor or EMT on board?” A doctor or EMT? There was a doctor and he joined the attendants in the galley where they were caring for a man who was not feeling well. Not feeling well with WHAT? Several people around us quickly donned masks. We had no masks! Who thinks to take masks to Hawaii? Apparently several people around us. The doctor stayed with the man for the rest of the flight.
We arrived home about 11 pm. It was pouring rain and cold. Rudy grabbed two of our suitcases off the carousel right away. They were easy to recognize from the bright yellow bandannas I had tied on the handles. Then we waited while all manner of luggage rolled past but no more yellow bandannas. At midnight the carousel was empty and we were a suitcase short.
The nice lady from baggage claim said, “Come with me.” She was pulling two suitcases someone had obviously not claimed. I wondered why. Didn’t they recognize their own luggage? We followed her to her office where she asked for our baggage claims.
“Mr. Stolz,” she said, “you are in luck! This is your luggage.” She handed Rudy one of the bags she had been dragging. The bandanna had come off. “Now will you need a taxi?”
“No, we are parked in self parking.”
“Oh my! I think all the buses stop at 1 am. It was quarter to 1.
The one bus driver at the curb said he was not going to self parking. Tired, bedraggled, soaking wet and frazzled, we stood and looked at him. “Okay! Okay!” ” he said. “Get on!” I had the distinct feeling we weren’t really welcome on his bus. There was one other lady on the bus, bundled against the cold. As the bus lurched away from the curb two of our heavy suitcases slid off the rack and smacked into her left leg. I could see big problems in our future. “Naw, I’m all right,” she said, as we dragged the bags off her. We dropped her at the employee’s parking lot and circled the airport, happily on our way to self parking.
“So where’d you park?” asked the driver.
I looked at Rudy and he looked at me. “Rudy, it’s been 8 days! I was hit in the head by an elevator, remember?”
“You don’t know where you parked? Where’s your ticket?” barked the driver.
“In the car,” said Rudy. I had to laugh. I just had to.
I remembered we had parked by a pick up point and row by row the bus driver searched the parking lot. “Here?”
“Not here.”
“Here?”
“Not here.”
Suddenly it was right in front of us. “There!” I said.
The bus driver grabbed our luggage and threw it in the trunk. I honestly think he was happy to get rid of us.
At home we unloaded the luggage and took it all in the house. We were extremely surprised when we discovered the luggage and all the contents were soaked! Soaked! And then I remembered they had been sitting on the tarmac in Honolulu in the rain. As I began to unpack I found a small black rock in Rudy’s overnight bag. I waved it at him! “Bad juju!”
“You don’t really believe that do you?”
“Of course I don’t. I am a reasonable woman. I am not superstitious.” But still… I put his small black rock on his book shelf.
The rest of the story is simple. I went to the hospital December 23 and was released about 7 pm Christmas Eve. Christmas went well except I took lots of pictures and then pushed the wrong button and zip… I lost them all! All! And of course we lost our major gift for granddaughter, JoJo and my daughter lost a gift she had bought for Rudy but that wasn’t such a big deal. Strange, but not a big deal.
But tonight Rudy is at work and I stuck a small load of laundry in the washer. I was on the sofa, reading when I heard it! Kerflunk, kerflunk, kerflunk. It sounded as if the clothes were kind of off loaded in the washer. Wrong! I listened as the washer moaned, whimpered and… died!
I am currently tearing through closets looking for a box the size of a small black rock! It should be back in Hawaii in a couple days and Rudy will never miss it. .
On Wednesday, Jeff and Sarah took us to the lava fields to watch the sun set on the beach. I noticed Rudy bending over and I watched him as he picked up a small, black piece of rock. I flashed him my best “no no no look” and he flashed me his best devilish smile.
The next morning Rudy and I drove to the hotel on the other side of the island where we spent the last three days. It was glorious. We wandered around Lahaina, exploring shops, beaches and restaurants. We saw hula dancers, birds, geckos, fish and adorable children everywhere. We talked to Hawaiian natives and tourists from all over the world. We went to a luau of course. On the way home from the luau we were waiting at the elevator talking to a young couple with a one month old baby who was clearly finished with Hawaii and registering his complaint. Rudy and I stood back and let the frazzled parents get on first. I followed. Slam! The door closed on me, bruising my right arm and wrist and knocking my skull from one side to the other. I saw stars, literally. I staggered for a while and my poor husband kept asking, “Are you sure you’re okay?” I wasn’t sure but I soldiered on.
Next morning we were eating breakfast and the room began to move. I looked at Rudy; he looked at me. “Earthquake?” I whispered. He nodded. I was glad. I thought it was damage to my brain from the elevator. It was only a 3.8 earthquake but it was an earthquake! That was also the day Rudy dead bolted our hotel room door from the inside and we had to wait while three housekeepers and a security man unlocked it.
On Sunday we flew from Maui to Honolulu happy and tired and talking about the “next time in Hawaii.” It was raining in Honolulu and as we were getting off the plane I noticed our luggage sitting on the tarmac. I said, “Look Rudy! Our luggage.”
In Honolulu we had a 3 hour layover. We ate, chatted, I drank Starbucks eggnog latte and the time crept up on four hours. The airline official said there were a few small technical problems with the plane’s lights and we would be late departing. Lights? They expected us to believe it was something wrong with the lights? Finally we boarded. The lights looked perfectly fine to me.
About an hour into the flight the attendant made an announcement. “If you are feeling ill please let us know right away. Is there a doctor or EMT on board?” A doctor or EMT? There was a doctor and he joined the attendants in the galley where they were caring for a man who was not feeling well. Not feeling well with WHAT? Several people around us quickly donned masks. We had no masks! Who thinks to take masks to Hawaii? Apparently several people around us. The doctor stayed with the man for the rest of the flight.
We arrived home about 11 pm. It was pouring rain and cold. Rudy grabbed two of our suitcases off the carousel right away. They were easy to recognize from the bright yellow bandannas I had tied on the handles. Then we waited while all manner of luggage rolled past but no more yellow bandannas. At midnight the carousel was empty and we were a suitcase short.
The nice lady from baggage claim said, “Come with me.” She was pulling two suitcases someone had obviously not claimed. I wondered why. Didn’t they recognize their own luggage? We followed her to her office where she asked for our baggage claims.
“Mr. Stolz,” she said, “you are in luck! This is your luggage.” She handed Rudy one of the bags she had been dragging. The bandanna had come off. “Now will you need a taxi?”
“No, we are parked in self parking.”
“Oh my! I think all the buses stop at 1 am. It was quarter to 1.
The one bus driver at the curb said he was not going to self parking. Tired, bedraggled, soaking wet and frazzled, we stood and looked at him. “Okay! Okay!” ” he said. “Get on!” I had the distinct feeling we weren’t really welcome on his bus. There was one other lady on the bus, bundled against the cold. As the bus lurched away from the curb two of our heavy suitcases slid off the rack and smacked into her left leg. I could see big problems in our future. “Naw, I’m all right,” she said, as we dragged the bags off her. We dropped her at the employee’s parking lot and circled the airport, happily on our way to self parking.
“So where’d you park?” asked the driver.
I looked at Rudy and he looked at me. “Rudy, it’s been 8 days! I was hit in the head by an elevator, remember?”
“You don’t know where you parked? Where’s your ticket?” barked the driver.
“In the car,” said Rudy. I had to laugh. I just had to.
I remembered we had parked by a pick up point and row by row the bus driver searched the parking lot. “Here?”
“Not here.”
“Here?”
“Not here.”
Suddenly it was right in front of us. “There!” I said.
The bus driver grabbed our luggage and threw it in the trunk. I honestly think he was happy to get rid of us.
At home we unloaded the luggage and took it all in the house. We were extremely surprised when we discovered the luggage and all the contents were soaked! Soaked! And then I remembered they had been sitting on the tarmac in Honolulu in the rain. As I began to unpack I found a small black rock in Rudy’s overnight bag. I waved it at him! “Bad juju!”
“You don’t really believe that do you?”
“Of course I don’t. I am a reasonable woman. I am not superstitious.” But still… I put his small black rock on his book shelf.
The rest of the story is simple. I went to the hospital December 23 and was released about 7 pm Christmas Eve. Christmas went well except I took lots of pictures and then pushed the wrong button and zip… I lost them all! All! And of course we lost our major gift for granddaughter, JoJo and my daughter lost a gift she had bought for Rudy but that wasn’t such a big deal. Strange, but not a big deal.
But tonight Rudy is at work and I stuck a small load of laundry in the washer. I was on the sofa, reading when I heard it! Kerflunk, kerflunk, kerflunk. It sounded as if the clothes were kind of off loaded in the washer. Wrong! I listened as the washer moaned, whimpered and… died!
I am currently tearing through closets looking for a box the size of a small black rock! It should be back in Hawaii in a couple days and Rudy will never miss it. .
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
at the post office
There was an older, very sweet couple in the post office today mailing a small but very heavy box to the Netherlands. The post man said, “You have to fill out a disclosure slip and get this duct tape off the edges and address it correctly. Next!”
They filled out the disclosure slip, removed the duct tape and replaced it with the clear tape the postman had given them. They took their box back to the counter. People behind me were getting restless and thought the couple should go to the back of the line.
“Fill out the rest of the disclosure slip and bring it back!” snapped the postman.
I am familiar with disclosure slips from mailing stuff to my grandson in the Navy so I helped them fill it out.
“Where’s it going?”
“The Netherlands,” said the lady. Her accent was very heavy.
“Are you from the Netherlands?”
“Oh yes, many years ago now.”
“It’s such a heavy box,” I said.
“It’s clay for pottery.”
“Let’s put art supplies,” I suggested.
When we were finished the man winked and said, “I hope we don’t get sent back again.”
“Good luck.”
I could hear the people behind me muttering as they approached the counter again. I hoped they didn’t get sent back too.
The postman weighed the box, stamped this paper, tore that one and rang up the little box. “Seventy six dollars and 16 cents,” he said. “It would have been cheaper to just send money.”
The couple paid the money, turned and headed for the door. As they passed me, they smiled. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas!” I said.
I am sure it would have been cheaper to send money but the clay in that box was a precious offering and very important to the couple. I understood. I was also mailing a very precious and important package; a birthday box for my Little Mary.
“Next!” called the postman.
They filled out the disclosure slip, removed the duct tape and replaced it with the clear tape the postman had given them. They took their box back to the counter. People behind me were getting restless and thought the couple should go to the back of the line.
“Fill out the rest of the disclosure slip and bring it back!” snapped the postman.
I am familiar with disclosure slips from mailing stuff to my grandson in the Navy so I helped them fill it out.
“Where’s it going?”
“The Netherlands,” said the lady. Her accent was very heavy.
“Are you from the Netherlands?”
“Oh yes, many years ago now.”
“It’s such a heavy box,” I said.
“It’s clay for pottery.”
“Let’s put art supplies,” I suggested.
When we were finished the man winked and said, “I hope we don’t get sent back again.”
“Good luck.”
I could hear the people behind me muttering as they approached the counter again. I hoped they didn’t get sent back too.
The postman weighed the box, stamped this paper, tore that one and rang up the little box. “Seventy six dollars and 16 cents,” he said. “It would have been cheaper to just send money.”
The couple paid the money, turned and headed for the door. As they passed me, they smiled. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas!” I said.
I am sure it would have been cheaper to send money but the clay in that box was a precious offering and very important to the couple. I understood. I was also mailing a very precious and important package; a birthday box for my Little Mary.
“Next!” called the postman.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
my mother's house
on the odd occasion
I drift into my mother’s house
ruby
emerald
sapphire
earrings lined neatly
on the dresser
today she wears diamonds
tiny jar of honey
lifted from the drugstore
where she eats breakfast
placed exactly on kitchen counter
tea bags in custard cup
await her pleasure
I find her there
an abbreviation
cross legged on her bed
paper napkin in her lap
tuna sandwich on white bread
her hands are swooping birds
pecking at the food
flitting eyes asking questions
a northern creature
transplanted to the south
her voice still holds the sea
damsel fly skimming the top
her life is a hand knit afghan
that turned out smaller than she expected
anger is her portion
and she roars
the echo
of a full lifetime of
never enough
I drift into my mother’s house
ruby
emerald
sapphire
earrings lined neatly
on the dresser
today she wears diamonds
tiny jar of honey
lifted from the drugstore
where she eats breakfast
placed exactly on kitchen counter
tea bags in custard cup
await her pleasure
I find her there
an abbreviation
cross legged on her bed
paper napkin in her lap
tuna sandwich on white bread
her hands are swooping birds
pecking at the food
flitting eyes asking questions
a northern creature
transplanted to the south
her voice still holds the sea
damsel fly skimming the top
her life is a hand knit afghan
that turned out smaller than she expected
anger is her portion
and she roars
the echo
of a full lifetime of
never enough
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
This afternoon I visited an old friend who has had several serious surgeries and is homebound. She lives alone. She spends her day in a wheelchair and depends on others to help her with her daily care and make sure she has what she needs.
We chatted for a while, remembering happier times and thinking about what her future will be like and then, I asked if there was anything I could do for her.
“Oh Kate,” she said, “the only thing I need right now is a remote control for my TV. I can’t get out of this wheelchair to change it and this lousy thing quit on me.” She handed me an old remote control. “I changed the batteries but it still doesn’t work. I recoded it and everything but it’s broken!”
“No problem,” I said. “I will be happy to get you a new one.”
She handed me a $20.00 bill and said, “There’s a Wal-Mart only at Tropicana and Fort Apache.”
Suddenly I had a problem. I don’t shop at Wal-Mart… never have and never will.
“Maybe there’s a Target or a K Mart nearby,” I said.
“Nope! Not way out here! Only Wal-Mart and besides, I can’t afford Target or K Mart.” She is not working since her surgeries and is on a tiny fixed income. I sat there for a minute, looking at her and thinking. All she has is the internet, books and a TV to keep her busy. Her days are long and boring and she doesn’t sleep well at night because of pain. Her TV keeps her company. How could I say no to her?
It was hard to walk into that store. I kept reminding myself I was not shopping at Wal-Mart for myself or spending my own money, still, it was hard.
The aisles are wide and bright, the floors shine and the displays are interesting. I have to admit I was caught up a few times by the merchandise and low prices. I kept myself focused on what I was doing. I had no idea where the remote controls were and I did not want to wander the whole store looking. It’s a BIG store. I stopped the first employee I saw. “Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me where the TV remote controls are?”
“Oh sure! Follow me honey!” We walked at a rapid pace to the other side of the store where she smiled and waved her arm at a large display of laundry detergent. I was confused.
“I am looking for a remote control.”
“Oh! I’m sorry! I misunderstood you. I don’t know where they are.”
I walked away. I could not figure out what part of “remote control” sounded like detergent but then I am not familiar with all the detergents on the market. I use only one; Seventh Generation and it doesn’t sound at all like remote control.
Several aisles over I found a young man who looked like he was familiar with remote controls. “Can you tell me where to find a remote control for a TV?”
“That way, “he said, jerking his head to the left. He started to walk away!
“Which way?”
“That way!” Again with the head.
“How many aisles over?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “A few.” This time he did walk away.
Oh my gosh! Surely I had made a mistake and he was not an employee. I watched as another customer approached him and asked a question. He jerked his head at her too.
I wandered away and by chance I saw remote controls hanging on a wall. I picked the one I wanted and started to leave. A young man in a blue shirt asked, “Are you finding everything all right?”
WHAT? Am I finding everything all right?
“Actually I would like to find a manager!”
“I’m a manager. What can I help you with?”
“I just had an encounter with an employee who could not be bothered with helping me but jerked his head and walked away.”
“Where is he ma’am?”
“He walked away.”
“Can you tell me what he looks like?”
I could and I did.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I know who you mean. I am sorry he wasn’t helpful. I will speak to him.”
“Thank you. This is my first time to shop Wal-Mart and I have not been impressed.”
“I’m sorry ma’am. We hope you will come back again.”
I waited on a long line to pay for the remote control and when I reached the check out woman I did not know exactly where to put it so I handed it to her.
“Put it down there,” she snapped. Ouch! I paid for it and left. On my way to the car I realized millions of people have similar shopping experiences daily. I also realized the “manager” was not going to speak to the young man at all. I was just another Wal-Mart customer and no one cared if I came back or not.
Still, I count myself lucky. I have finally had a “Wal-Mart experience” and I was able to help my friend. I hope her remote control is working tonight.
We chatted for a while, remembering happier times and thinking about what her future will be like and then, I asked if there was anything I could do for her.
“Oh Kate,” she said, “the only thing I need right now is a remote control for my TV. I can’t get out of this wheelchair to change it and this lousy thing quit on me.” She handed me an old remote control. “I changed the batteries but it still doesn’t work. I recoded it and everything but it’s broken!”
“No problem,” I said. “I will be happy to get you a new one.”
She handed me a $20.00 bill and said, “There’s a Wal-Mart only at Tropicana and Fort Apache.”
Suddenly I had a problem. I don’t shop at Wal-Mart… never have and never will.
“Maybe there’s a Target or a K Mart nearby,” I said.
“Nope! Not way out here! Only Wal-Mart and besides, I can’t afford Target or K Mart.” She is not working since her surgeries and is on a tiny fixed income. I sat there for a minute, looking at her and thinking. All she has is the internet, books and a TV to keep her busy. Her days are long and boring and she doesn’t sleep well at night because of pain. Her TV keeps her company. How could I say no to her?
It was hard to walk into that store. I kept reminding myself I was not shopping at Wal-Mart for myself or spending my own money, still, it was hard.
The aisles are wide and bright, the floors shine and the displays are interesting. I have to admit I was caught up a few times by the merchandise and low prices. I kept myself focused on what I was doing. I had no idea where the remote controls were and I did not want to wander the whole store looking. It’s a BIG store. I stopped the first employee I saw. “Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me where the TV remote controls are?”
“Oh sure! Follow me honey!” We walked at a rapid pace to the other side of the store where she smiled and waved her arm at a large display of laundry detergent. I was confused.
“I am looking for a remote control.”
“Oh! I’m sorry! I misunderstood you. I don’t know where they are.”
I walked away. I could not figure out what part of “remote control” sounded like detergent but then I am not familiar with all the detergents on the market. I use only one; Seventh Generation and it doesn’t sound at all like remote control.
Several aisles over I found a young man who looked like he was familiar with remote controls. “Can you tell me where to find a remote control for a TV?”
“That way, “he said, jerking his head to the left. He started to walk away!
“Which way?”
“That way!” Again with the head.
“How many aisles over?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “A few.” This time he did walk away.
Oh my gosh! Surely I had made a mistake and he was not an employee. I watched as another customer approached him and asked a question. He jerked his head at her too.
I wandered away and by chance I saw remote controls hanging on a wall. I picked the one I wanted and started to leave. A young man in a blue shirt asked, “Are you finding everything all right?”
WHAT? Am I finding everything all right?
“Actually I would like to find a manager!”
“I’m a manager. What can I help you with?”
“I just had an encounter with an employee who could not be bothered with helping me but jerked his head and walked away.”
“Where is he ma’am?”
“He walked away.”
“Can you tell me what he looks like?”
I could and I did.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I know who you mean. I am sorry he wasn’t helpful. I will speak to him.”
“Thank you. This is my first time to shop Wal-Mart and I have not been impressed.”
“I’m sorry ma’am. We hope you will come back again.”
I waited on a long line to pay for the remote control and when I reached the check out woman I did not know exactly where to put it so I handed it to her.
“Put it down there,” she snapped. Ouch! I paid for it and left. On my way to the car I realized millions of people have similar shopping experiences daily. I also realized the “manager” was not going to speak to the young man at all. I was just another Wal-Mart customer and no one cared if I came back or not.
Still, I count myself lucky. I have finally had a “Wal-Mart experience” and I was able to help my friend. I hope her remote control is working tonight.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
the garden
I have not planted a garden for 7 long years. I did not have room. But this year, along with a husband, a house, a new cat and a red haired grandson I got room to plant a garden! I was ecstatic and relentless. I made wonderful loamy compost. I bought dirt (yes, in the desert we buy dirt) plants and seeds and went to work.
I planted squash and watermelon seeds and beautiful tomato plants, both determinate and indeterminate, with tiny marble sized tomatoes trembling on the stems. I planted flower seeds galore and already established succulents; baby sun rose and moss rose with tiny blooms. I moved Rudy’s little cactus into the garden where it could keep company with other growing things. I tended the seedlings and plants with great care. I mulched them deep and low (thank you Arlo) and watered them twice a day. All was well in my garden. Life was sweet.
Rudy and I noticed two Common Sagebrush Lizards living behind a young Mediterranean Palm at the edge of the garden. We named them Lizzie and Leo Lizard Lips. In short order Leo and Lizzie presented us with several tiny hatchlings about ¼ inch long. The little ones skittered across the deck and up the block wall when we walked outside. Their parents were much braver and stood watching us as they did “push ups” to make themselves appear ferocious.
The squash put forth huge yellow blossoms that bloomed in the morning and withered by afternoon. But we had no pollinators. For a week or so every sunrise found me padding about, bleary eyed, paint brush in hand, transferring pollen from male to female blossoms. The tiny yellow blossoms on the tomato plants wilted and died. I harvested eight tomatoes; those that were on the one plant when I bought it. The watermelon vines grew silvery green and sprawled their way past succulents and useless squash and tomato plants. They bloomed and the blooms died.
I planted squash and watermelon seeds and beautiful tomato plants, both determinate and indeterminate, with tiny marble sized tomatoes trembling on the stems. I planted flower seeds galore and already established succulents; baby sun rose and moss rose with tiny blooms. I moved Rudy’s little cactus into the garden where it could keep company with other growing things. I tended the seedlings and plants with great care. I mulched them deep and low (thank you Arlo) and watered them twice a day. All was well in my garden. Life was sweet.
Rudy and I noticed two Common Sagebrush Lizards living behind a young Mediterranean Palm at the edge of the garden. We named them Lizzie and Leo Lizard Lips. In short order Leo and Lizzie presented us with several tiny hatchlings about ¼ inch long. The little ones skittered across the deck and up the block wall when we walked outside. Their parents were much braver and stood watching us as they did “push ups” to make themselves appear ferocious.
The squash put forth huge yellow blossoms that bloomed in the morning and withered by afternoon. But we had no pollinators. For a week or so every sunrise found me padding about, bleary eyed, paint brush in hand, transferring pollen from male to female blossoms. The tiny yellow blossoms on the tomato plants wilted and died. I harvested eight tomatoes; those that were on the one plant when I bought it. The watermelon vines grew silvery green and sprawled their way past succulents and useless squash and tomato plants. They bloomed and the blooms died.
We watched as two soft, gray mourning doves billed and cooed on the garden wall and since they were nesting, I bought seed for them. They pecked gently among the seed and soon about a million pigeons joined them, jostling and pushing them aside. I provided them all with water. It’s hot in the desert. I bought a hummingbird feeder hoping to bring pollinators to the garden. The hummers loved the nectar but couldn’t be bothered with yellow flowers, thank you very much. Tiny finches found the hummingbird feeder so I bought a tube feeder and Rudy and I watched the hummers and finches eat while we had breakfast and dinner. They chirped loudly, jockeyed for position, fought and fluttered. One of the little finches learned to cling to the window screen and peer in at us. One early morning a hummingbird hovered not five inches from my nose. We were eye to beak and I was so enchanted I think my heart stopped beating.
My veggies bore no fruit, my flower seeds did poorly, though I did have a nice showing of California poppies, and while my morning glories climbed the wall in true morning glory fashion they did not flower.
Then one morning the unthinkable happened. I looked out the window at my poor struggling garden and the pigeons were industriously eating away at the succulents and even the few petunias that were left! I did nto know pigeons ate plants! I stopped feeding the pigeons; the mourning doves had already left for where I don’t know; probably a nearby garden without pigeons. I still feed the finches and the hummers but the garden is just about finished. There is one bedraggled, yellow cempasuchi marigold, the yellow marigold associated with the Day of the Dead ceremony. How fitting. I wonder who pollinated it. I hand pollinated two watermelon blooms last week and now there are two tiny pea-sized watermelons. I am protecting them from the pigeons with mesh. I wonder what will become of them. And though I no longer feed them, the pigeons stay on, feeding on seeds and suet the finches drop. I have tried chasing them away but they're not afraid of me. The succulents have all been moved to the front porch where they have not been found by the pigeons and are beginning to bloom again.
All is not lost in my garden. There were lessons to be learned. I have learned that in spite of it all I still love to garden. I have learned the difference in male and female squash and watermelon blossoms, and that you don’t always get what you expect. I have learned to care for hummingbirds and finches and that pigeons will eat anything %*@#!
My veggies bore no fruit, my flower seeds did poorly, though I did have a nice showing of California poppies, and while my morning glories climbed the wall in true morning glory fashion they did not flower.
Then one morning the unthinkable happened. I looked out the window at my poor struggling garden and the pigeons were industriously eating away at the succulents and even the few petunias that were left! I did nto know pigeons ate plants! I stopped feeding the pigeons; the mourning doves had already left for where I don’t know; probably a nearby garden without pigeons. I still feed the finches and the hummers but the garden is just about finished. There is one bedraggled, yellow cempasuchi marigold, the yellow marigold associated with the Day of the Dead ceremony. How fitting. I wonder who pollinated it. I hand pollinated two watermelon blooms last week and now there are two tiny pea-sized watermelons. I am protecting them from the pigeons with mesh. I wonder what will become of them. And though I no longer feed them, the pigeons stay on, feeding on seeds and suet the finches drop. I have tried chasing them away but they're not afraid of me. The succulents have all been moved to the front porch where they have not been found by the pigeons and are beginning to bloom again.
All is not lost in my garden. There were lessons to be learned. I have learned that in spite of it all I still love to garden. I have learned the difference in male and female squash and watermelon blossoms, and that you don’t always get what you expect. I have learned to care for hummingbirds and finches and that pigeons will eat anything %*@#!
I am already planning next year's garden. I'm going to have carrots, turnips, potatoes; anything that grows underground.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Lost in the hallway.
It was our second night in Colorado. We enjoyed a delicious dinner and returned to our hotel.
“I’m going to hang out in the lobby a few minutes and check my Face Book,” I said.
“You go ahead. I’m going up to the room,” Rudy said.
The lobby was pleasant and I checked my Face Book and wandered around a bit before heading up to the room.
I got off the elevator on the 2nd floor and hesitated before I knocked on the door of room 233. It seemed to me our room was on the other side of the hall. I did not want to knock on the door and come face to face with a stranger. How would I explain myself? “I’m sorry but I can’t remember what room I am in?” No way! I wandered up and down the hall and looked at the doors. None of them looked right. I whipped out my trusty cell phone and sent my husband a text message: “Open the door please. I am lost in the hallway.” But the message was not sent. I tried again. “Rudy, please open the door and look out in the hallway. I am lost.” Again the message was not sent. What the heck was wrong? Once more I tried and the message was not sent. Arghhh… Was I doomed to go to the front desk and tell the very young receptionist I had forgotten what room I was in? I tried to call my husband. The call did not go through. “Wait,” I thought. “We are in the mountains and the reception is probably no good!”
I gave it one more try before I faced the front desk and this time I heard Rudy’s sweet voice say, “Hello?” But that was all. I lost the connection.
“Buzzards!” I pushed the down button on the elevator and just at that moment I heard a door open. I looked around the corner and there stood my husband. I was saved!
“Have you been trying to call me?”
“Well. Yes. I forgot what room we were in and 233 didn’t seem right.”
Rudy laughed. “That’s because we’re here… in 218.”
“Oh. Thank goodness. I didn’t want to have to go to the front desk and admit I had forgotten where I was sleeping tonight. I tried messaging and calling you but my cell wasn’t working.
Rudy laughed again. “That’s because the reception is lousy up here,” he said as he turned to open the door to our room.
A strange look came over his face and immediately I knew what it meant. The door was locked. Yes. He had walked out and let it lock behind him.
Hand in hand Rudy and I went downstairs to tell the very young receptionist we had locked ourselves out.
“I’m going to hang out in the lobby a few minutes and check my Face Book,” I said.
“You go ahead. I’m going up to the room,” Rudy said.
The lobby was pleasant and I checked my Face Book and wandered around a bit before heading up to the room.
I got off the elevator on the 2nd floor and hesitated before I knocked on the door of room 233. It seemed to me our room was on the other side of the hall. I did not want to knock on the door and come face to face with a stranger. How would I explain myself? “I’m sorry but I can’t remember what room I am in?” No way! I wandered up and down the hall and looked at the doors. None of them looked right. I whipped out my trusty cell phone and sent my husband a text message: “Open the door please. I am lost in the hallway.” But the message was not sent. I tried again. “Rudy, please open the door and look out in the hallway. I am lost.” Again the message was not sent. What the heck was wrong? Once more I tried and the message was not sent. Arghhh… Was I doomed to go to the front desk and tell the very young receptionist I had forgotten what room I was in? I tried to call my husband. The call did not go through. “Wait,” I thought. “We are in the mountains and the reception is probably no good!”
I gave it one more try before I faced the front desk and this time I heard Rudy’s sweet voice say, “Hello?” But that was all. I lost the connection.
“Buzzards!” I pushed the down button on the elevator and just at that moment I heard a door open. I looked around the corner and there stood my husband. I was saved!
“Have you been trying to call me?”
“Well. Yes. I forgot what room we were in and 233 didn’t seem right.”
Rudy laughed. “That’s because we’re here… in 218.”
“Oh. Thank goodness. I didn’t want to have to go to the front desk and admit I had forgotten where I was sleeping tonight. I tried messaging and calling you but my cell wasn’t working.
Rudy laughed again. “That’s because the reception is lousy up here,” he said as he turned to open the door to our room.
A strange look came over his face and immediately I knew what it meant. The door was locked. Yes. He had walked out and let it lock behind him.
Hand in hand Rudy and I went downstairs to tell the very young receptionist we had locked ourselves out.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
the Steve and Doctor McDreamy question
The Mountain View emergency room was busy. At the end of the hall a young woman sat on a gurney and a nursing assistant sat with her. She was on suicide watch and had been there 6 days waiting for a bed at Las Vegas Mental Health. All the rooms were full and there were people in the hallway… people with broken legs, feverish babies and seniors with chest pain. I was there with my daughter Lori, who was suffering headache and stiff neck. We were not in the hallway but in a bay, surrounded by a red and gray striped curtain. Lori was sleeping after an injection of morphine. I sat wedged between a metal tray and a crash cart, reading and waiting for the doctor to come back and say something. Anything. The metal tray next to me began to rattle and I felt the side of it hit my leg. I looked up. The lead wires from the next bed were coming over the curtain and tipping the tray. Suddenly drops of blood spattered the floor near my feet. I heard people running. The curtain covering the next bad was shoved back. I could clearly see what was happening.
“Get back in that bed Steve!” yelled the young doctor. “Look what you’ve done! You ripped your IV out and there’s blood everywhere! You’re pulling the curtains down and you’re going to hurt this woman. I don’t blame her if she sues you.” I did not want to be hurt but I had no plans to sue Steve.
“I just spent a week… seven days, in Summerlin Hospital drying out!” Steve yelled.
“And you left there and on your way home you got drunk and ended up on the floor in CVS. The ambulance brought you in. You are detoxing all over again, your cardiac enzymes are not good and I expect you to seize any moment. Now get back in that bed.”
“I am sick of being in the hospital. I just spent a week in Summerlin. I want to get out of here.”
“Look Boss, keep it up and you’re going to see a nice doc become a mean doc. Get back in that bed!”
By now, two security guards and a nurse had joined the doctor and they were all issuing orders.
“Get back in that bed now!” said one security guard.
“Here, give me your arm,” said the nurse. “You’ve got blood everywhere and your arm is swelling. Give it to me!”
And Steve kept repeating, “I just spent a week in Summerlin. I am tired of hospitals. I want to get out of here.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” yelled the doctor. “I am serious. Get back in that bed.”
“I know my rights! I want out of here! I just spent a week in Summerlin! You can’t keep me if I want to go! Give me the @*$# paper and let me sign it and get the @*$# out of here!”
The doctor looked like Mountain View’s version of “McDreamy”; young with curly, dark hair, blue eyes, navy blue scrubs and matching sneakers. Steve was older, gray and thin with cavernous eyes, dressed in a hospital gown with blood dripping from his right arm. It was clear to me who was going to win this argument.
“Don’t make me restrain you Boss!” said the doctor.
“Just give me the paper and let me out of this @*$# place! You can’t keep me if I want to leave.”
About that time a nurse hit Steve with an injection in his arm.
“What the…? What was that? Why did you do that?”
“The doctor ordered it to help you calm down.”
“I don’t want to calm down. I want to get the hell out of here. I just spent a week in Summerlin. I need to go home. You can’t keep me here. I know my rights.”
Steve was right, of course. They couldn’t keep him there legally and they were keeping him against his will. Still it was 11 pm and 104 outside. He was drunk and the doctor felt he needed to be somewhere safe.
“Hey! What was that you gave me?”
“Ativan. Relax.” The nurse helped Steve back onto the gurney and pulled the curtain back around him.
“I guess I don’t have any @*$# choice.”
I watched the housekeeper clean the blood from the floor, listened as Steve’s voice became softer and was finally quiet and I thought about his rights and how they had been violated. Steve was not incompetent but he was drunk. And it was a hot night. And it was dangerous for him to be wandering around out there but still… he really wanted to leave the hospital.
“Get back in that bed Steve!” yelled the young doctor. “Look what you’ve done! You ripped your IV out and there’s blood everywhere! You’re pulling the curtains down and you’re going to hurt this woman. I don’t blame her if she sues you.” I did not want to be hurt but I had no plans to sue Steve.
“I just spent a week… seven days, in Summerlin Hospital drying out!” Steve yelled.
“And you left there and on your way home you got drunk and ended up on the floor in CVS. The ambulance brought you in. You are detoxing all over again, your cardiac enzymes are not good and I expect you to seize any moment. Now get back in that bed.”
“I am sick of being in the hospital. I just spent a week in Summerlin. I want to get out of here.”
“Look Boss, keep it up and you’re going to see a nice doc become a mean doc. Get back in that bed!”
By now, two security guards and a nurse had joined the doctor and they were all issuing orders.
“Get back in that bed now!” said one security guard.
“Here, give me your arm,” said the nurse. “You’ve got blood everywhere and your arm is swelling. Give it to me!”
And Steve kept repeating, “I just spent a week in Summerlin. I am tired of hospitals. I want to get out of here.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” yelled the doctor. “I am serious. Get back in that bed.”
“I know my rights! I want out of here! I just spent a week in Summerlin! You can’t keep me if I want to go! Give me the @*$# paper and let me sign it and get the @*$# out of here!”
The doctor looked like Mountain View’s version of “McDreamy”; young with curly, dark hair, blue eyes, navy blue scrubs and matching sneakers. Steve was older, gray and thin with cavernous eyes, dressed in a hospital gown with blood dripping from his right arm. It was clear to me who was going to win this argument.
“Don’t make me restrain you Boss!” said the doctor.
“Just give me the paper and let me out of this @*$# place! You can’t keep me if I want to leave.”
About that time a nurse hit Steve with an injection in his arm.
“What the…? What was that? Why did you do that?”
“The doctor ordered it to help you calm down.”
“I don’t want to calm down. I want to get the hell out of here. I just spent a week in Summerlin. I need to go home. You can’t keep me here. I know my rights.”
Steve was right, of course. They couldn’t keep him there legally and they were keeping him against his will. Still it was 11 pm and 104 outside. He was drunk and the doctor felt he needed to be somewhere safe.
“Hey! What was that you gave me?”
“Ativan. Relax.” The nurse helped Steve back onto the gurney and pulled the curtain back around him.
“I guess I don’t have any @*$# choice.”
I watched the housekeeper clean the blood from the floor, listened as Steve’s voice became softer and was finally quiet and I thought about his rights and how they had been violated. Steve was not incompetent but he was drunk. And it was a hot night. And it was dangerous for him to be wandering around out there but still… he really wanted to leave the hospital.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
snapshots
Family
My daughter and I don’t always see things the same way but we often enjoy long discussions. She is kind enough to allow me to give her motherly advice (though I don’t know if she takes it) and sweet enough to let me nurture her at times. We have worked together professionally and I admire her nursing skills and she my social working skills. We travel well together and at home we enjoy spa days, lunch, shopping, family and spending time with her grandchildren… my great grandchildren. Sometimes, when we are laughing (or even when we’re crying) I can’t help wondering what it would have been like to have a mother-daughter relationship with my mother.
________________________
I went to Iowa a while back. I was invited to a family reunion by people I did not know and who were not family. I met them online. When we arrived at my hostess Laurie’s house her two sisters, Barb and Connie and their kids were there. We sat downstairs in the den with cool drinks and began to get to know each other. As we talked Barb waved a bottle of nail polish. “Connie,” she said, “polish my toenails for me, okay?” Connie sat on the stool in front of her sister, picked up the bottle and polished Barb’s nails.
I was in a strange state with people I didn’t yet know but I certainly recognized honest sisterly love when I saw it.
___________________________
Strangers
A week or so ago I pulled into an AM – PM minimart to get gas. I know they sell BP gas but I see a need to support them because they have a contract with BP and must buy gas from them. To boycott AM – PM minimart would not hurt BP, but it is obviously already hurting AM – PM minimart. They have dropped the price of their gas.
There was a large two tank gas truck next to my car getting ready to leave. The young driver got out of his truck and asked, “May I help you?” He pumped my gas for me, got in his truck, waved and left. He wore a BP insignia on his uniform. We’re all in this together.
___________________________
A couple of evenings ago I was sitting on the porch of Panera Bread enjoying a glass of iced tea. A young man with several old plastic bags sat down at the table across the porch from me. It was the end of a very hot day and he looked hot, dry and homeless. “Can I buy you something cold?” I asked. He got up and left. Sometimes good intentions can hurt others.
___________________________
I was in the store where I buy plants and seeds. There was a plant on the back shelf that was almost dead. I picked it up and looked at it. There was a tiny bit of fresh green at the bottom. “What will you do with this plant?” I asked the clerk.
“Throw it out.”
“May I have it?”
“Give it to you? No. You have to buy it.”
“But it’s almost dead.”
“Yep.”
I bought it, brought it home, put it in the kitchen window and watered it. It died. I’m still glad I bought it.
My daughter and I don’t always see things the same way but we often enjoy long discussions. She is kind enough to allow me to give her motherly advice (though I don’t know if she takes it) and sweet enough to let me nurture her at times. We have worked together professionally and I admire her nursing skills and she my social working skills. We travel well together and at home we enjoy spa days, lunch, shopping, family and spending time with her grandchildren… my great grandchildren. Sometimes, when we are laughing (or even when we’re crying) I can’t help wondering what it would have been like to have a mother-daughter relationship with my mother.
________________________
I went to Iowa a while back. I was invited to a family reunion by people I did not know and who were not family. I met them online. When we arrived at my hostess Laurie’s house her two sisters, Barb and Connie and their kids were there. We sat downstairs in the den with cool drinks and began to get to know each other. As we talked Barb waved a bottle of nail polish. “Connie,” she said, “polish my toenails for me, okay?” Connie sat on the stool in front of her sister, picked up the bottle and polished Barb’s nails.
I was in a strange state with people I didn’t yet know but I certainly recognized honest sisterly love when I saw it.
___________________________
Strangers
A week or so ago I pulled into an AM – PM minimart to get gas. I know they sell BP gas but I see a need to support them because they have a contract with BP and must buy gas from them. To boycott AM – PM minimart would not hurt BP, but it is obviously already hurting AM – PM minimart. They have dropped the price of their gas.
There was a large two tank gas truck next to my car getting ready to leave. The young driver got out of his truck and asked, “May I help you?” He pumped my gas for me, got in his truck, waved and left. He wore a BP insignia on his uniform. We’re all in this together.
___________________________
A couple of evenings ago I was sitting on the porch of Panera Bread enjoying a glass of iced tea. A young man with several old plastic bags sat down at the table across the porch from me. It was the end of a very hot day and he looked hot, dry and homeless. “Can I buy you something cold?” I asked. He got up and left. Sometimes good intentions can hurt others.
___________________________
I was in the store where I buy plants and seeds. There was a plant on the back shelf that was almost dead. I picked it up and looked at it. There was a tiny bit of fresh green at the bottom. “What will you do with this plant?” I asked the clerk.
“Throw it out.”
“May I have it?”
“Give it to you? No. You have to buy it.”
“But it’s almost dead.”
“Yep.”
I bought it, brought it home, put it in the kitchen window and watered it. It died. I’m still glad I bought it.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Guppy and the dancing girl…
When I went to Florida to visit my son’s family this year I brought something new with me. A husband.
My three older granddaughters, Evan, Kasia and Little Mary clearly understood who Rudy was but Ursula had just turned two and I wondered if she actually knew who I was much less that Rudy was new to the picture. I think she understood how he fit in the line up, after all, her other grandmother comes with a grandfather.
Kasia and Little Mary were talkative on the drive from Tampa to Dunedin. Ursula sat smiling quietly in her car seat next to me and once in a while she peered around at Rudy who was sitting shotgun.
At home the girls showed us their rooms and toys and chattered nonstop. Ursula followed us and put in the occasional shy word. Finally we settled down in the dining room to relax and chat a bit. I don’t think any of us noticed Ursula had not joined us.
Suddenly, a tiny vision in a diaphanous mint green dress and black-gold beaded headpiece slid quietly into the room. She handed her sister, Kasia, a cd and waited for the music to begin.
Head down and hands in front of her, Ursula began to dance. Her tiny bare feet patted the floor as she moved sideways across the room. She raised her arms over her blond head and twirled. She swayed; she lifted first one leg then the other. She glanced upward, she glanced to the left then the right; she moved to the music. That baby worked that room like Salome dancing for the head of John the Baptist. She turned and pirouetted with the ancient awkwardness reserved for baby femme fatales. The beads on her headdress clicked as she spun. She held the tip of her tiny pink tongue between her teeth and concentrated on her next move. She whirled, she circled the room and suddenly I realized… she was dancing for only one person! Rudy! My new husband! She clutched her little hands firmly then threw them wide as she approached the object of her desire. Finally, she turned, glanced over her shoulder and gave him her most dazzling smile! He smiled back. She placed a miniature elbow on his knee and he gently adjusted her headdress. Not a word passed between them. He picked her up and put her on his knee. Breathless, she whispered, “Hi Guppy,” sighed and leaned back on his chest.
In that moment I knew I had lost my husband to my youngest granddaughter.
My three older granddaughters, Evan, Kasia and Little Mary clearly understood who Rudy was but Ursula had just turned two and I wondered if she actually knew who I was much less that Rudy was new to the picture. I think she understood how he fit in the line up, after all, her other grandmother comes with a grandfather.
Kasia and Little Mary were talkative on the drive from Tampa to Dunedin. Ursula sat smiling quietly in her car seat next to me and once in a while she peered around at Rudy who was sitting shotgun.
At home the girls showed us their rooms and toys and chattered nonstop. Ursula followed us and put in the occasional shy word. Finally we settled down in the dining room to relax and chat a bit. I don’t think any of us noticed Ursula had not joined us.
Suddenly, a tiny vision in a diaphanous mint green dress and black-gold beaded headpiece slid quietly into the room. She handed her sister, Kasia, a cd and waited for the music to begin.
Head down and hands in front of her, Ursula began to dance. Her tiny bare feet patted the floor as she moved sideways across the room. She raised her arms over her blond head and twirled. She swayed; she lifted first one leg then the other. She glanced upward, she glanced to the left then the right; she moved to the music. That baby worked that room like Salome dancing for the head of John the Baptist. She turned and pirouetted with the ancient awkwardness reserved for baby femme fatales. The beads on her headdress clicked as she spun. She held the tip of her tiny pink tongue between her teeth and concentrated on her next move. She whirled, she circled the room and suddenly I realized… she was dancing for only one person! Rudy! My new husband! She clutched her little hands firmly then threw them wide as she approached the object of her desire. Finally, she turned, glanced over her shoulder and gave him her most dazzling smile! He smiled back. She placed a miniature elbow on his knee and he gently adjusted her headdress. Not a word passed between them. He picked her up and put her on his knee. Breathless, she whispered, “Hi Guppy,” sighed and leaned back on his chest.
In that moment I knew I had lost my husband to my youngest granddaughter.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
the GPS
While Rudy and I were in Florida visiting Chris and his family we decided to visit Daytona Beach, about 150 miles away, across the state.
Chris offered his car and we set out early on a crisp morning, MapQuest in hand.
“Just use the GPS,” Chris said.
“That’s okay son. We can find our way without it.”
“Well if you need it, use it.”
Rudy and I were feeling pretty secure about finding Daytona Beach, no problem. After all, we are of the generation that didn’t have a GPS to depend on. We used maps and always got where we were going. Besides, how difficult could it be? It looked like a straight shot on I-4, past the dog track and International Speedway. Piece of cake.
The first mistake we made was just 2 blocks away from their house. We went left instead of right and nothing made sense after that. We ended up by the beach and knew we were going the wrong way. We were laughing when we stopped at the first minimart to ask directions. After all, we are of the generation that asks directions if we lose our way.
We bought a couple of snacks and took off again… left instead of right. The next minimart was only a couple of miles away, thank goodness. The lady who gave us directions was very thorough. “Go right on County Road 99 which is also Pinehurst and go south toward Main Street, then turn left on Main Street which is also FL-580.”
This time we turned right. “Why is every street also called something else?” I asked Rudy. “There honey,” I said pointing. “Take County Road 99 and turn left on Pinehurst.” Seems we should have turned right on Pinehurst.
We got gas at the next minimart where we learned we had been driving for 45 minutes and were still in Tampa. I looked at the GPS. “We don’t need to use this thing, do we?”
“No, no,” Rudy said, “we got off to a false start but we’re okay. We just have to find I-4.”
“I-4? I thought that last guy said ‘I-75.”
“Yes. I-75 to I-95 North and then straight on to Daytona Beach.”
“Then in that case according to MapQuest, we turn left here.”
You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find I-4. I eyed the GPS and wondered but by now we had become determined and very stubborn. A couple more minimarts, a few more gallons of gas and we found I-4. It was a straight shot from there and we were very proud of ourselves. We rolled into Daytona Beach 5 1/2 hours later without using the GPS. It’s a 3 hour drive.
The way back seemed easy enough. All we had to do was reverse the order in which we came. How hard could that be? We were doing fine on I-4 when Rudy spotted a Cracker Barrel off the freeway, to the right. He knew I wanted to eat there so he whisked us off I-4 quicker than you could blink an eye. The problem is things seen from the freeway are not necessarily where they appear to be and we now appeared to be in Universal Studios. Restaurants to the right of us, restaurants to the left of us but no Cracker Barrel. We went back around to the freeway and yep! There it was! Back through Universal Studios we went but there was no Cracker Barrel to be seen. We stopped at a gas station (yes, I looked at the GPS but I didn’t say anything.) “Go down to the twin towers and it’s right behind them,” said our friendly clerk. To tell the absolute truth we were getting ready to give up 30 minutes later when we found it quite by accident.
We ate dinner, relaxed, shopped a little then hit the road, full of mac and cheese and proud of ourselves. We didn’t need that GPS. “We’ll be home in an hour or so,” Rudy said.
Once again we turned left when we should have turned right, or maybe it was right when we should have turned left and found ourselves on a toll road we had never seen before. It was late, we were tired and Rudy was hoarse. He was coming down with a cold. I cast a jaundiced eye at the GPS. I had no faith in it but we had been gone all day and we needed to get home. I considered it for just a moment but quickly changed my mind.
The lady in the minimart was very patient as I wrote down her directions. “Turn left at McDonald’s, go three red lights, turn left on Hillsborough Avenue and straight into Pinellas County.” I relayed the information to Rudy but not in quite the way it was told to me. At least that’s what we think happened.
About 11:30 I called Chris’ wife, Jill.
“We are at the corner of “This and That,’” I said. “Where do we go now?”
“Oh Mamazita, I don’t know where that intersection is. Here, talk to your son”
“Mother?” He was hoarse and sounded as if he didn’t feel very well; kind of like he was coming down with a cold. .
“Yes Boy?”
“Turn ON the GPS and punch in HOME!”
At that point I gave up being stubborn and turned on the GPS. I hit home and two minutes later we pulled into the driveway, tired and no longer so determined and proud. Yes, we are proud members of the generation that got around without a GPS and we are now of the generation that uses a GPS. Ours goes with us everywhere we go. .
Chris offered his car and we set out early on a crisp morning, MapQuest in hand.
“Just use the GPS,” Chris said.
“That’s okay son. We can find our way without it.”
“Well if you need it, use it.”
Rudy and I were feeling pretty secure about finding Daytona Beach, no problem. After all, we are of the generation that didn’t have a GPS to depend on. We used maps and always got where we were going. Besides, how difficult could it be? It looked like a straight shot on I-4, past the dog track and International Speedway. Piece of cake.
The first mistake we made was just 2 blocks away from their house. We went left instead of right and nothing made sense after that. We ended up by the beach and knew we were going the wrong way. We were laughing when we stopped at the first minimart to ask directions. After all, we are of the generation that asks directions if we lose our way.
We bought a couple of snacks and took off again… left instead of right. The next minimart was only a couple of miles away, thank goodness. The lady who gave us directions was very thorough. “Go right on County Road 99 which is also Pinehurst and go south toward Main Street, then turn left on Main Street which is also FL-580.”
This time we turned right. “Why is every street also called something else?” I asked Rudy. “There honey,” I said pointing. “Take County Road 99 and turn left on Pinehurst.” Seems we should have turned right on Pinehurst.
We got gas at the next minimart where we learned we had been driving for 45 minutes and were still in Tampa. I looked at the GPS. “We don’t need to use this thing, do we?”
“No, no,” Rudy said, “we got off to a false start but we’re okay. We just have to find I-4.”
“I-4? I thought that last guy said ‘I-75.”
“Yes. I-75 to I-95 North and then straight on to Daytona Beach.”
“Then in that case according to MapQuest, we turn left here.”
You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find I-4. I eyed the GPS and wondered but by now we had become determined and very stubborn. A couple more minimarts, a few more gallons of gas and we found I-4. It was a straight shot from there and we were very proud of ourselves. We rolled into Daytona Beach 5 1/2 hours later without using the GPS. It’s a 3 hour drive.
The way back seemed easy enough. All we had to do was reverse the order in which we came. How hard could that be? We were doing fine on I-4 when Rudy spotted a Cracker Barrel off the freeway, to the right. He knew I wanted to eat there so he whisked us off I-4 quicker than you could blink an eye. The problem is things seen from the freeway are not necessarily where they appear to be and we now appeared to be in Universal Studios. Restaurants to the right of us, restaurants to the left of us but no Cracker Barrel. We went back around to the freeway and yep! There it was! Back through Universal Studios we went but there was no Cracker Barrel to be seen. We stopped at a gas station (yes, I looked at the GPS but I didn’t say anything.) “Go down to the twin towers and it’s right behind them,” said our friendly clerk. To tell the absolute truth we were getting ready to give up 30 minutes later when we found it quite by accident.
We ate dinner, relaxed, shopped a little then hit the road, full of mac and cheese and proud of ourselves. We didn’t need that GPS. “We’ll be home in an hour or so,” Rudy said.
Once again we turned left when we should have turned right, or maybe it was right when we should have turned left and found ourselves on a toll road we had never seen before. It was late, we were tired and Rudy was hoarse. He was coming down with a cold. I cast a jaundiced eye at the GPS. I had no faith in it but we had been gone all day and we needed to get home. I considered it for just a moment but quickly changed my mind.
The lady in the minimart was very patient as I wrote down her directions. “Turn left at McDonald’s, go three red lights, turn left on Hillsborough Avenue and straight into Pinellas County.” I relayed the information to Rudy but not in quite the way it was told to me. At least that’s what we think happened.
About 11:30 I called Chris’ wife, Jill.
“We are at the corner of “This and That,’” I said. “Where do we go now?”
“Oh Mamazita, I don’t know where that intersection is. Here, talk to your son”
“Mother?” He was hoarse and sounded as if he didn’t feel very well; kind of like he was coming down with a cold. .
“Yes Boy?”
“Turn ON the GPS and punch in HOME!”
At that point I gave up being stubborn and turned on the GPS. I hit home and two minutes later we pulled into the driveway, tired and no longer so determined and proud. Yes, we are proud members of the generation that got around without a GPS and we are now of the generation that uses a GPS. Ours goes with us everywhere we go. .
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Rudy
March 9, 2010
Everything in the universe has a measurement. Stars are closer to, farther from earth, people are taller than, shorter than, rain is harder than, softer than, houses are larger than, smaller than. The cancer cells that have invaded Rudy’s body have a scale all their own. His score is six and that’s “mildly aggressive;” better than moderately or highly aggressive but cancer, nonetheless.
“You’ve got the good kind of cancer “Dr. Reisinger said.
I had no idea there is a good kind of cancer and besides, this is my husband we’re talking about. Let her use the term “good cancer” on her husband. Suddenly I experience a curious dreamlike silence and a white hot stone lodges itself in the center of my chest. I do not look at Rudy but stare at Dr. Reisinger as if listening intently. My mind is traveling randomly at warp speed. “What do we do now?” “How could this happen?” “We have only been married 4 months!” “This is too soon!” “We have not had enough time together to have to deal with this!” “Can we work as a team?” “Is he scared?” “Does he know I’m scared?”
“…think since we see the same results with surgery and radiation, radiation is probably your best choice but the decision is yours.” I realize I have tuned back in to Dr. Resinger.
“What do you think?” Rudy asks.
Me? I surprise myself by speaking. “I think we should go with the radiation.” What? Where did that come from? Who am I to have an opinion?
“I agree,” he says. That’s what we’ll do. Set it up doctor. I’m ready.”
I leave Dr Reisinger’s office feeling as if I have just watched a movie entitled, “Rudy and Kate Discuss Cancer with Dr. Reisinger.” I do not feel as if what had just happened is real but I feel more profoundly Rudy’s wife than I have in the four months we have been married.
March 30, 2010
The people in the waiting room of the oncologist’s office are a group. They speak words not yet in my vocabulary. They talk about losing their hair, fatigue, nausea. The man in the black watch cap seems restless; he walks from one end of the room to the other and changes his seat only to get up and do it again. The woman with the short black hair says she cannot have radiation today because she still has staples in her head. The man next to her says he feels cold but at least he’s not nauseous today. To my left there is a wig catalogue. I move closer to Rudy, put my arm through his. I don’t want us to be part of this group. I don’t want us to be in this room. I want us to be outside in the sunshine. The door opens and a nurse calls his name. He walks through the door alone. I am not allowed near the equipment. The cancer cells have separated us for the first time and I miss my husband.
March 31, 2010
Albert, from the oncologist’s office calls. He says Dr. Reisinger is not pleased with yesterday’s CT scan and Rudy must have another. I call Rudy at work and ask when he is available. “Not in the morning,” he says. “I have to be at work in the morning.” He sounds irritable, short. I have never heard my husband like this. I call Albert and tell him to schedule Rudy for tomorrow afternoon.
Rudy is home for lunch at one. “I want to ask you something,” he says.
“Sure.”
“Is it normal for me to be angry about having cancer?”
Oh, my gentle husband. I feel angry too.
Everything in the universe has a measurement. Stars are closer to, farther from earth, people are taller than, shorter than, rain is harder than, softer than, houses are larger than, smaller than. The cancer cells that have invaded Rudy’s body have a scale all their own. His score is six and that’s “mildly aggressive;” better than moderately or highly aggressive but cancer, nonetheless.
“You’ve got the good kind of cancer “Dr. Reisinger said.
I had no idea there is a good kind of cancer and besides, this is my husband we’re talking about. Let her use the term “good cancer” on her husband. Suddenly I experience a curious dreamlike silence and a white hot stone lodges itself in the center of my chest. I do not look at Rudy but stare at Dr. Reisinger as if listening intently. My mind is traveling randomly at warp speed. “What do we do now?” “How could this happen?” “We have only been married 4 months!” “This is too soon!” “We have not had enough time together to have to deal with this!” “Can we work as a team?” “Is he scared?” “Does he know I’m scared?”
“…think since we see the same results with surgery and radiation, radiation is probably your best choice but the decision is yours.” I realize I have tuned back in to Dr. Resinger.
“What do you think?” Rudy asks.
Me? I surprise myself by speaking. “I think we should go with the radiation.” What? Where did that come from? Who am I to have an opinion?
“I agree,” he says. That’s what we’ll do. Set it up doctor. I’m ready.”
I leave Dr Reisinger’s office feeling as if I have just watched a movie entitled, “Rudy and Kate Discuss Cancer with Dr. Reisinger.” I do not feel as if what had just happened is real but I feel more profoundly Rudy’s wife than I have in the four months we have been married.
March 30, 2010
The people in the waiting room of the oncologist’s office are a group. They speak words not yet in my vocabulary. They talk about losing their hair, fatigue, nausea. The man in the black watch cap seems restless; he walks from one end of the room to the other and changes his seat only to get up and do it again. The woman with the short black hair says she cannot have radiation today because she still has staples in her head. The man next to her says he feels cold but at least he’s not nauseous today. To my left there is a wig catalogue. I move closer to Rudy, put my arm through his. I don’t want us to be part of this group. I don’t want us to be in this room. I want us to be outside in the sunshine. The door opens and a nurse calls his name. He walks through the door alone. I am not allowed near the equipment. The cancer cells have separated us for the first time and I miss my husband.
March 31, 2010
Albert, from the oncologist’s office calls. He says Dr. Reisinger is not pleased with yesterday’s CT scan and Rudy must have another. I call Rudy at work and ask when he is available. “Not in the morning,” he says. “I have to be at work in the morning.” He sounds irritable, short. I have never heard my husband like this. I call Albert and tell him to schedule Rudy for tomorrow afternoon.
Rudy is home for lunch at one. “I want to ask you something,” he says.
“Sure.”
“Is it normal for me to be angry about having cancer?”
Oh, my gentle husband. I feel angry too.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, August 06, 2007
Today a man brought his wife into my Center. "I'm Angelo," he said and this is my wife, Helen. I am 80 and she is 90. Helen is demented."
Helen was raw boned and tall, with obviously dyed red hair and blue eyes that could see only Angelo. She did not look her age nor did Angelo look his. He was muscular, with a waist length silver pony tail tied in a piece of blue cloth. His face was unlined copper, his hairline withdrawn a little and his eyes were deep brown. I extended my hand and he took it in both of his. Warm.
For some reason, at that time unknown to me, I did not say, "Hello Angelo. Hello Helen. It's nice to meet you." Instead, I asked, "Are you Yaqui?"
He answered, "I am Yaqui and I recognize you too."
We sat for over an hour and he told me of their life.
"I met Helen on the street in Santa Monica," he said. "She passed me and I suddenly thought, 'Maybe she's the one.' I stopped her and asked, 'Are you the one?' She said she thought so and we have been together since."
"She changed my life. I lied to her once but she didn't say a word. Months later I asked her if she knew I had lied. She said yes and told me she had not said anything because she loved me. I never lied again. I learned unconditional love from Helen."
"You see this?" he said, extending his right forearm. There was a blue mark that looked like a chicken track on his arm. "When I was only 13 I thought to tattoo myself with a needle and India ink. I was going to put my girlfriend Esther's name on my arm. But even as I began something stopped me. I saw a girl with red hair walking in blue flowers to her knees. It was not Esther."
Helen said nothing but did not take her eyes from Angelo. She was smiling. Unconditionally.
"Was Helen's hair naturally red?" I asked.
He smiled.
"I was very ill three years ago," he said. "I died twice and both times my spirit guide 'Grandfather Turtle' sent me back. He said it was time to care for Helen. I have been happy caring for her. This is not my first time with Helen. You know that, don't you?"
I nodded. I did know that. It was obvious in the way she smiled at him, the way they breathed in unison.
"Do you know why you asked me if I am Yaqui?" he asked.
I nodded. I did know.
"This is not our first time either," he said. "I know who you are. I will trust my Helen to you. Sometimes things happen like this."
I nodded.
Angelo took his Helen and was gone. They will be back tomorrow and I am anxious to see them. Theirs is the real ending to a love story.
Helen was raw boned and tall, with obviously dyed red hair and blue eyes that could see only Angelo. She did not look her age nor did Angelo look his. He was muscular, with a waist length silver pony tail tied in a piece of blue cloth. His face was unlined copper, his hairline withdrawn a little and his eyes were deep brown. I extended my hand and he took it in both of his. Warm.
For some reason, at that time unknown to me, I did not say, "Hello Angelo. Hello Helen. It's nice to meet you." Instead, I asked, "Are you Yaqui?"
He answered, "I am Yaqui and I recognize you too."
We sat for over an hour and he told me of their life.
"I met Helen on the street in Santa Monica," he said. "She passed me and I suddenly thought, 'Maybe she's the one.' I stopped her and asked, 'Are you the one?' She said she thought so and we have been together since."
"She changed my life. I lied to her once but she didn't say a word. Months later I asked her if she knew I had lied. She said yes and told me she had not said anything because she loved me. I never lied again. I learned unconditional love from Helen."
"You see this?" he said, extending his right forearm. There was a blue mark that looked like a chicken track on his arm. "When I was only 13 I thought to tattoo myself with a needle and India ink. I was going to put my girlfriend Esther's name on my arm. But even as I began something stopped me. I saw a girl with red hair walking in blue flowers to her knees. It was not Esther."
Helen said nothing but did not take her eyes from Angelo. She was smiling. Unconditionally.
"Was Helen's hair naturally red?" I asked.
He smiled.
"I was very ill three years ago," he said. "I died twice and both times my spirit guide 'Grandfather Turtle' sent me back. He said it was time to care for Helen. I have been happy caring for her. This is not my first time with Helen. You know that, don't you?"
I nodded. I did know that. It was obvious in the way she smiled at him, the way they breathed in unison.
"Do you know why you asked me if I am Yaqui?" he asked.
I nodded. I did know.
"This is not our first time either," he said. "I know who you are. I will trust my Helen to you. Sometimes things happen like this."
I nodded.
Angelo took his Helen and was gone. They will be back tomorrow and I am anxious to see them. Theirs is the real ending to a love story.
in other words...
at the green market a sun washed bench speaks of thoughts and memories
this is a gathering time
yellow haired girl with a guitar sings fly me to the moon
sound of her fingers on the frets keeps time with my heart
the moon was once a dream of mine
now I am earth bound
kept by a heart string
something caught in the grass sees me
flashes first blue
then green
I move my head the other way
red shines
I reach for the twinkle
gone
an illusion
it was always an illusion
I could never really fly to the moon
yellow haired girl sings
in other words hold my hand
in other words kiss me
this is a gathering time
yellow haired girl with a guitar sings fly me to the moon
sound of her fingers on the frets keeps time with my heart
the moon was once a dream of mine
now I am earth bound
kept by a heart string
something caught in the grass sees me
flashes first blue
then green
I move my head the other way
red shines
I reach for the twinkle
gone
an illusion
it was always an illusion
I could never really fly to the moon
yellow haired girl sings
in other words hold my hand
in other words kiss me
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
mother
October 1991
My mother is a flower closing, her belly button is the center, the point around which the collapse occurs, limbs drawing in. Her shoulders are compressed forward. There is a hump on her upper back. The matching curl of knees when she sits in her wheelchair or lies on her side in bed. The pale feet which she cannot move. At the center of her body, death is pulling on a cord, gathering her in and down.
No one knows what she is dying from. The doctors have tried many tests but she stops breathing every time and they always stop the tests. Ultimately, what does it matter? She is dying and it cannot be stopped.
Linda, Ann, Dianne and I visit her in the nursing home. She eats only enough to keep
herself alive and she is losing weight at an alarming rate. For the past month it has been a strain to visit my mother every few days, and I’ve finally decided not to see her so frequently. She was always so strong, healthy and in control; seeing her helpless, dependent and afraid breaks my heart and scares me. Yesterday, I thought about my own children, imagined them in the position I’m in now, and asked myself if I would want them to visit me if it upset them this much. I answered, honestly, No. And I was free of guilt for one day.
Sometimes I am resentful and angry about my responsibility for my mother. Other times, I simply acknowledge it as the natural duty of a daughter. My sisters visit her often and Linda has a lot of anger for her. Ann never speaks of her feelings. We all want to be with her when she dies. Dying, the final scene, will be dramatic, or at least interesting, but the process leading up to it is long and tedious. We all want to skip the last act and just show up for the finale.
I realize that I am letting people care for my mother who love her less than I do and I must forgive myself for this again and again. I fantasize about bringing her home with a private nurse and assist her in dying quickly and with grace. But I can’t imagine my mother dying in my house.
“I’d shoot myself in two days if I had to care for her,” I tell a friend. But the guilt I am trying to dislodge is ancient and deep; I am not caring for the mother who gave birth to me, whom I ought to accompany through her dying.
“It doesn’t matter whether you visit or not” the counselor says, “so long as you are at peace with your choice. Your mother won’t remember.”
“But I will,” I say.
Inside me, a war rages, on one side is my small self, the coward who wants to hide, a delicate soul who cannot bear the smell of the nursing home, the sight of the deformed and shriveled bodies, the irrational and mournful sounds. This self cries often. She will always be too sensitive for this world. Her mother told her this constantly.
Opposing her is the conqueror, the self who strides out, takes on all comers, and wins. She says, Drop by. Visit. It’s no big deal. She bullies me. She’s impulsive, pushy. What kind of daughter are you? she chides.
"A scared one," I say, taking the side of the small self. I tell her that my mother wasn’t always kind to me. I dream up excuses. I turn mystical, saying that I’ll pray for my mother, light candles for her, visualize her finding peace in another realm.
The argument runs on and on, like a Russian novel with too many characters and lots of philosophical asides, political manifestoes, and religious debates. It is endless, this subject, to visit or not to visit. It is metaphysical, psychological, diabolical. It is the arena in which my angels and devils fight it out.
When I was a child death entered my bedroom each night. I was there in my body, but really I was at the bottom of a deep, dark pit with slick, oily sides. I fell into this pit every night, my pink nightgown blown up around my head, my body cold and wet with fear; no sound. A space at once too vast and too confined for a scream. Nothing but me, falling, falling.
I never called out for my mother. I knew better. It was a Chicken Little scenario. The sky wasn’t really falling. It was only my imagination. And so I kept falling alone into nothingness, into the idea of not being. I could not fathom this, could not imagine that the world could exist without me, without the sting of me – my teeth, my breath, my eyes.
As my mother continues to die, something inside me is dying, as well. Out of a storm of feelings, a wave appears and knocks me over. When I am no longer her daughter, whom is there for me to please? To answer to? To be happy for? To live for? Oh, I know the prescribed answers – I’ve been reading a few of those self-help books, but none of them does any good. Rage gathers in my belly. I boil as my mother cools, swells as she shrivels. ’ve tried so hard all my life and this is what I get? Worse, if I no longer have to be the person she wants me to be – the person I’ve tried to become and live inside for fifty odd years – then who am I?
I stare at a postcard in my “studio.” A stone sculpture of a primitive, animal-like creature, verging on human, stares back at me, eyes wide, teeth bared, nostrils flared. She’s sitting the way many poor women in India do: back on her heels, knees up, her breasts touching the tops of her thighs. From between her legs emerges a small replica of herself, also wide-eyed and grimacing.
My mother is in the hospital and the doctors cannot find out what is wrong with her. Every time they try to do what they feel are necessary tests she stops breathing and must be revived. What would we like them to do, they ask.
Take her back to the nursing home and let her go naturally we say. Do not torture her anymore.
My mother drifts in and out and at times I believe she knows what is happening to her but she is calm and seems to be accepting; strange behavior for my controlling mother, acceptance. I am grateful for it. I beg peace for her.
She asks Dianne for a doughnut and a cup of coffee. Dianne rushes madly about the nursing home looking for what is not to be found and returns, sad, not be able to grant my mother’s wish. My mother has already forgotten and drifted off to sleep again.
My son, Chris, has a daughter. I tell my mother and she says she is pleased and she has been waiting to see if this child was a boy or girl. I don’t believe she understands what I am talking about.
I must see this child right away and I talk to Linda and Ann and they agree it will not matter where I am when my mother dies yet I struggle with my conscious as I drive to Santa Cruz. It is a long drive and I vacillate between the feelings of excitement at meeting my new granddaughter and the guilt at leaving my mother.
Baby Evan is an enchantress and I am in love but I am only there a short time when the phone rings. Immediately I know what it means. Ann says my mother is dead. I fall into an immediate dichotomy – a life gone and a new life in front of me. I look for some meaning and finally decide it is exactly what it is – a life gone and a new life in front of me. Is that not the way life works? And it takes me along with it.
My mother is a flower closing, her belly button is the center, the point around which the collapse occurs, limbs drawing in. Her shoulders are compressed forward. There is a hump on her upper back. The matching curl of knees when she sits in her wheelchair or lies on her side in bed. The pale feet which she cannot move. At the center of her body, death is pulling on a cord, gathering her in and down.
No one knows what she is dying from. The doctors have tried many tests but she stops breathing every time and they always stop the tests. Ultimately, what does it matter? She is dying and it cannot be stopped.
Linda, Ann, Dianne and I visit her in the nursing home. She eats only enough to keep
herself alive and she is losing weight at an alarming rate. For the past month it has been a strain to visit my mother every few days, and I’ve finally decided not to see her so frequently. She was always so strong, healthy and in control; seeing her helpless, dependent and afraid breaks my heart and scares me. Yesterday, I thought about my own children, imagined them in the position I’m in now, and asked myself if I would want them to visit me if it upset them this much. I answered, honestly, No. And I was free of guilt for one day.
Sometimes I am resentful and angry about my responsibility for my mother. Other times, I simply acknowledge it as the natural duty of a daughter. My sisters visit her often and Linda has a lot of anger for her. Ann never speaks of her feelings. We all want to be with her when she dies. Dying, the final scene, will be dramatic, or at least interesting, but the process leading up to it is long and tedious. We all want to skip the last act and just show up for the finale.
I realize that I am letting people care for my mother who love her less than I do and I must forgive myself for this again and again. I fantasize about bringing her home with a private nurse and assist her in dying quickly and with grace. But I can’t imagine my mother dying in my house.
“I’d shoot myself in two days if I had to care for her,” I tell a friend. But the guilt I am trying to dislodge is ancient and deep; I am not caring for the mother who gave birth to me, whom I ought to accompany through her dying.
“It doesn’t matter whether you visit or not” the counselor says, “so long as you are at peace with your choice. Your mother won’t remember.”
“But I will,” I say.
Inside me, a war rages, on one side is my small self, the coward who wants to hide, a delicate soul who cannot bear the smell of the nursing home, the sight of the deformed and shriveled bodies, the irrational and mournful sounds. This self cries often. She will always be too sensitive for this world. Her mother told her this constantly.
Opposing her is the conqueror, the self who strides out, takes on all comers, and wins. She says, Drop by. Visit. It’s no big deal. She bullies me. She’s impulsive, pushy. What kind of daughter are you? she chides.
"A scared one," I say, taking the side of the small self. I tell her that my mother wasn’t always kind to me. I dream up excuses. I turn mystical, saying that I’ll pray for my mother, light candles for her, visualize her finding peace in another realm.
The argument runs on and on, like a Russian novel with too many characters and lots of philosophical asides, political manifestoes, and religious debates. It is endless, this subject, to visit or not to visit. It is metaphysical, psychological, diabolical. It is the arena in which my angels and devils fight it out.
When I was a child death entered my bedroom each night. I was there in my body, but really I was at the bottom of a deep, dark pit with slick, oily sides. I fell into this pit every night, my pink nightgown blown up around my head, my body cold and wet with fear; no sound. A space at once too vast and too confined for a scream. Nothing but me, falling, falling.
I never called out for my mother. I knew better. It was a Chicken Little scenario. The sky wasn’t really falling. It was only my imagination. And so I kept falling alone into nothingness, into the idea of not being. I could not fathom this, could not imagine that the world could exist without me, without the sting of me – my teeth, my breath, my eyes.
As my mother continues to die, something inside me is dying, as well. Out of a storm of feelings, a wave appears and knocks me over. When I am no longer her daughter, whom is there for me to please? To answer to? To be happy for? To live for? Oh, I know the prescribed answers – I’ve been reading a few of those self-help books, but none of them does any good. Rage gathers in my belly. I boil as my mother cools, swells as she shrivels. ’ve tried so hard all my life and this is what I get? Worse, if I no longer have to be the person she wants me to be – the person I’ve tried to become and live inside for fifty odd years – then who am I?
I stare at a postcard in my “studio.” A stone sculpture of a primitive, animal-like creature, verging on human, stares back at me, eyes wide, teeth bared, nostrils flared. She’s sitting the way many poor women in India do: back on her heels, knees up, her breasts touching the tops of her thighs. From between her legs emerges a small replica of herself, also wide-eyed and grimacing.
My mother is in the hospital and the doctors cannot find out what is wrong with her. Every time they try to do what they feel are necessary tests she stops breathing and must be revived. What would we like them to do, they ask.
Take her back to the nursing home and let her go naturally we say. Do not torture her anymore.
My mother drifts in and out and at times I believe she knows what is happening to her but she is calm and seems to be accepting; strange behavior for my controlling mother, acceptance. I am grateful for it. I beg peace for her.
She asks Dianne for a doughnut and a cup of coffee. Dianne rushes madly about the nursing home looking for what is not to be found and returns, sad, not be able to grant my mother’s wish. My mother has already forgotten and drifted off to sleep again.
My son, Chris, has a daughter. I tell my mother and she says she is pleased and she has been waiting to see if this child was a boy or girl. I don’t believe she understands what I am talking about.
I must see this child right away and I talk to Linda and Ann and they agree it will not matter where I am when my mother dies yet I struggle with my conscious as I drive to Santa Cruz. It is a long drive and I vacillate between the feelings of excitement at meeting my new granddaughter and the guilt at leaving my mother.
Baby Evan is an enchantress and I am in love but I am only there a short time when the phone rings. Immediately I know what it means. Ann says my mother is dead. I fall into an immediate dichotomy – a life gone and a new life in front of me. I look for some meaning and finally decide it is exactly what it is – a life gone and a new life in front of me. Is that not the way life works? And it takes me along with it.
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