14 posts tagged “family”

What did you do in 2008 that you have never done before?

(Note:  I spoke at my local Unitarian Universalist chuch today as part of the "Personal Reflections" series where volunteers from the congregation are asked to speak for a few minutes on the question in this post's title. The following are the remarks I made.)

I’ve knelt in Catholic pews, lit candles in European cathedrals, danced barefoot in the moonlight with Starhawk—but none of these experiences ever led me to imagine standing in front of a congregation as I do here and now.

I originally let that lack of imagination, as well as my newcomer status, dissuade me from volunteering to speak. That didn’t stop me from thinking about what this church means to me, of course, as I’m sure many of you have found yourself reflecting after the answers previously shared by Kathy, Dan, Richard, Rose, and others. Eventually, my gratitude, along with some nudging from Reverend Garmon, has led me to hope that I can gain something from putting myself up here and that my relatively fresh perspective will be beneficial to us collectively.

The discussion at last month’s stewardship lunch reminded me that, during our first visit, a few members of the church apologized to Kristi and I for the fact that the majority of the congregation is older than us. I want to acknowledge that the combined age, wisdom, and experience of this church’s members is actually one of your gifts to me and not to be apologized for. Once a week, I get to sit down for coffee and discover the person next to me marched for civil rights, the woman across from me provided protection and comfort to women entering a planned parenthood clinic—I discover the stories of men and women who stood up when they or others were disenfranchised or discriminated against. This first-hand perspective is otherwise absent from my formal education and my life; I’ve encountered such stories only through the interviews of Studs Terkel or the songs of Utah Phillips. It is my great privilege to be part of and learn from this community. You provide me with wisdom, mentorship, and challenge me to live a life I can someday be proud to share with a younger generation. Thank you.

In 2006, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. She was, quite simply, the most important person in my life and, after many struggles, was finally creating the life of her dreams when this diagnosis rocked us both to the core. I was so incredibly angry—I saw the cancer and its timing as a huge injustice—and, in my anger, I shut the door to my experience of the Divine. I didn’t know how to celebrate anything in light of her illness and her death at 49 years of age. I was 28 and my brother, who I now raise with my husband, was only 11. I showed up here nearly eight months ago trying, in part, to make sense of her death.

Today, I accept that her death is something I do and will continually struggle with. I don’t know what helps with that or what I thought I might find here to undo that pain.

What I have found is a community of compassion that tells us it matters that you were born, it matters what you do. (I love to hear Kathy Stevens say that; she does it in a way that just makes my heart feel huge with love and purpose.) That blessing—which is both little and all encompassing—along with your stories, the reflective space offered in these walls, the inspiring words and music that fill our worship, and the amazing mentors I have met as part of this community—instead of resolving the grief I experienced with my mother’s death, I am learning what to do with my life. Again, I say thank you.

Husband is in geek ecstasy using a seal-o-meal to prep all the food for our camping trip. Keeps bringing me little packages & bouncing. 10:15 PM March 26, 2008 from twhirl

My birthday present this year was a VERY nice hiking pack and three days in the Green Swamp. My husband handled almost all the arrangements, including our menu (Who the hell eats filet and French onion soup whilst camping? We do!) and part of this process involved him sealing up various foods with my mum's seal-o-meal thing. Each package--of coffee, cocoa, marshmallows, cheese, crackers, croutons, so many packages!--made him giddier. It was very cute.

@gapingvoid Were you an outdoorsy kid when you went? Previous interest or experience camping, hiking, kayaking? Just curious WRT my brother 11:58 PM March 26, 2008 from twhirl in reply to gapingvoid

Replies to others (marked with the @ sign, for those non-twitter folk reading along) probably make the most boring reading because you're only hearing part of a conversation. I'm including this, however, because it's part of a pattern kind of emerging--Hugh had mentioned his experiences at a Canadian wilderness camp, my boss has recently done the same, both suggesting how very significant those camp experiences were. My brother showed no interest in our recent trip, but I have been wondering how he would fare at such a camp. It's not something I did growing up, though I had other away-from-home experiences and understand their importance. It's not something possible this summer--both financially and I expect he may still be too immature for the experience--but it's percolating in both my and my husband's minds.

Have returned from my adventure in the swamp. Was beautiful and grounding, inspiring and awesome. Oh, yeah, and filled with bloodsuckers. 05:53 PM March 31, 2008 from twhirl

True story:  Park guy, upon learning we were going to hike out overnight asked, in the following order:

1. Have you been here before?
2. Do you have mosquito repellent?
3. Water?

Camping in Florida, DEET is more necessary than water.

Shrimp are in the marinade; going make skewers on the grill tonight. For a moment, living in Florida = bliss 04:23 PM April 02, 2008 from twhirl

My husband and I ended up in Florida because it's where my mother and brother were, and they needed our help. Mostly, we miss being up North (closer to his family, more connection to the cities and life there), but it's pretty damn hard to complain when it's the first days of April, you're cooking out on the grill in bare feet, a skirt, and a sleeveless shirt.

I expect my brother is only child in country who got a mentos geyser in his Easter basket. 09:50 PM March 23, 2008

This Easter basket brought to you by Mythbusters, for sure. Followed by much bouncing up and down, shouting, "It was higher than the house? Did you see that? Higher than the house!!"

Okay, so that was me. But the kid was impressed, too.

four more days to my birthday, squeeeeee!!! 10:18 AM March 24, 2008

I turn thirty on Thursday. Last year, my birthday was a pretty depressing affair, in fact I don't have many strong memories of it, just the overwhelming sadness. My mother had died less than three months earlier and I just didn't know how to process anything in the absence of my mother. I don't know how much I've learned in the subsequent year except I know I'm still here. I know I've been happy and can still be happy. I know I make her proud by continuing to make my way, by raising my brother into an good man.

I've experienced a few things in the first thirty years of my life I wouldn't wish upon anyone else, but those experiences continue to form me into a woman I'm proud to be. In the next years, I hope to come to grips with myself as an "adult." I hope to be successful in my career and to support my husband in his. I hope to continue growing an inspirational, creative life. I hope to inspire and encourage my brother. I hope to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

soaking maple planks for tonight's mahi mahi 04:49 PM March 24, 2008
Dinner: planked mahi mani with roasted red pepper sauce, mushroom risotto and grilled asparagus 06:10 PM March 24, 2008

Okay, so this tweet and reposting it here is just utter gloating. Ever cook a meal and feel its execution and presentation were just dreamy? That was Monday's dinner.

my blog is fueled by steel-cut oatmeal and coffee at this point, me thinks about 22 hours ago

Random thought about my morning routines. In yesterday's case, I was reading new content at nonprofit.alltop.com and was inspired to write last morning's post (please read if you missed it :). Today, bowl of oatmeal in front of me, I decided to wrangle my tweets into this post. If you wish to be similarly fueled, consider Alton Brown's overnight oatmeal recipe. We've been making it in a triple batch with craisins and dried blueberries, then just reheating up a bowl each subsequent morning. Soooo delicious.

Feel like my head was disconnected at some point last night, rolled about by cats, then hastily shoved back on before the alarm sounded 7 minutes ago

Artgeek circa 1990. I hold this photograph in my mind:  Me and two other little girls standing in a row. I am the tallest and oldest, my blonde hair in a spiral perm that's gone frizzy. One of the other girls holds a teddy bear or some other stuffed creature by one arm; she's about seven. The youngest is in between two and three years old and dressed in all white. We stand awkwardly in front of a fireplace, and no one touches. It's Christmas or Easter or some other winter-to-spring photograph occasion.

Fast forward a decade or so. For most of my life, I've described myself as an only child. Even considering my brother who arrived on the scene in 1996, this still feels true. I am seventeen years his senior, and, until recently, never shared a home with him. While I obviously love him and have a familial bond with him, it's not thee same as a brother and sister who grow up together:  sharing toys, one outgrowing the other to be with the "big kids," ratting each other out to the 'rents.

I would never have said anything against being an only child, in fact I preferred it—but in retrospect I can see I wanted some sort of bond, particularly a sisterly one. I've always been a bit despondent that my closest female friends already have their own sisters and, more often than not, brothers. This was never something I was good at verbalizing, perhaps because it was a problem without a solution.

April 10, 2007.

i have not seen my sister in 15 years and think you may be her...

I read and reread these words, forcing myself to slow down and mouth the sounds... The next few minutes are a flurry of clichés:  cat's got my tongue, my jaw drops, my heart stops, I am stunned into silence. I don't know what my first thought was, but the first coherent thing to raise to the surface sooner or later must have been, "Holy crap, is it A?"

A is my half-sister, the youngest child in the 1990 photo, and the daughter of my biological father and his second wife. I have not had significant contact with anyone in that photo or anyone on my dad's side of the family since 1993, when my mother and I moved more than a thousand miles south. I was fifteen at the time; she was five.

It takes me two weeks to process her contacting me. I talk to my husband about it. I talk to my grief counselor about it. I talk to my friends about it. Why is she contacting me? Why now? Is my dad okay? My grief counselor worries this might be an awkward time for me to handle such a sensitive issue. Some of my friends worry she might be angry with me. I don't know what to think or expect; I am merely bewildered.

We begin sending e-mails back and forth and have been doing so for the past two days, sharing our likes and dislikes, bits and pieces of our histories. She hasn't asked how I ended up removed from her life, only expressed gratitude and pleasure at the opportunity to get to know me. We trade photos, and I see my nose on someone else's face. My husband says we have the same ears.

Since my mother's death and for the first time in my life, I have had a hard time experiencing joy and happiness. Previously, I would have described myself as a sunny (but hopefully not annoyingly so!) person, a free spirit able to see life as an often blissful and sensual adventure. Reading A's first e-mail, I am giddy. It is a feeling I can experience for what it is, not through the filter of my loss.

This is the first gift my sister has given me.

I have a sister.

From one of my best friends in a recent e-mail:

It would be nice to know mundane minutiae like this about my best friend--if she could maybe convince herself to send an email in response...

My response:

Hey, sweetie. I certainly did fall off the radar there for a bit, didn't I? I guess I've been coming to  terms, trying to understand what "normal" is in my new life. Thus far, it looks like this: 

Morning
Z goes to work around 7:30 every morning, and I get up around then (or press the snooze for 15 minutes...). I wake up my brother and feed kibble to every creature in the house (Iams for the cats, Beneful for the terrier, Honey Nut Cheerios for the kid), then get myself washed and ready for the day. I get M to PLACE anywhere from 8-9 and usually do some running around after he's dropped off (oil change, grocery shopping, wandering the craft store).

Afternoon
I get home by 11, have some sort of brunch-type snack, then sit down at my craft desk. For the last two weeks, I've been making cigar box purses, artist trading cards, and decorating store-bought journals. I usually do that until 3:45, when I walk out the door with Yoda and walk 4-5 blocks to meet M on his way home from school. That's usually the highlight of my day...walking with Yoda and chatting with M. When we walk in the door, M sits down right away to do his homework and, if it takes him less than 30 minutes, we whittle away some time on his upcoming invention convention project (he's making an update to the Trapper Keeper for today's techno kids). After schoolwork is done, we either play a game together or he buggers off to go skateboarding or play online games. If so, I hit the craft desk for some more time.

Evening
Around six o'clock, I start making dinner, and Z walks in the door any time from 6:15-6:40. This can make meals just a tad chaotic, but I've become a pro at getting M to set the table early and, if Z's late, just sticking stuff in the oven on "warm." We eat dinner together and share stuff about our days. M is becoming a much improved conversationalist, though we have to work more on him listening to others. At least twice a week, he says something that just cracks us up. This week, we were trying to explain to him what a non sequitur was, and he was having a hard time pronouncing the word. We explained that it was a pretty strange word, not originally English, and hard to spell. Much to our surprise, he got the spelling right on his second try! What a smart kid. After dinner, Z and M clean up, then we either play together or go our separate ways until 9pm, when M goes to bed. It's funny, I've gone to two parenting workshops in the last month, and many parents complain about problems relating to bedtime and getting homework done. But M is such a regimented child that we almost never have issues in this area. Sometimes he gets mad at the homework problems, but I never have to nag him to sit down and do it. Anyway, some nights Z and I watch TV together or play video games; if he's really tired, he just goes to bed, and I stay up late crafting.

Obviously, the amount of time I spend at the craft desk makes this pretty ideal (I've made three purses, two journals and countless ATCs), but there are a million setbacks every minute it feels like. I still have to meet with my mum's attorney, still have to open the box from the cremation society, still have to sit down with Z and write our wills out and determine who takes care of M if anything happens to us. Those are the big things, but there are little things too...Yoda staring at Mum's bed and whining, grabbing four napkins instead of three for dinner. One day last week, I just came home and cried on the couch for a couple of hours, eventually exhausting myself into sleep.

It's odd, last weekend was really nice. Z came home early on Friday. We cried together, made love, then went out for a drink and an appetizer before getting back home to pick up M. It was true quality time together, and I really felt his love and support. Friday night, Z stayed home with M while I went to a craft class and then out for drinks with R. R and I also needed some quality time, as he has been taking really good care of me during the week (stopping by for coffee in the morning, going to the grocery store with me, or even just dropping off blueberry muffins when I need to be alone), and I'm not always as grateful as I should be. Saturday, we hung out with M and did some shopping; M spent the night at a friend's house, and we went into Largo to celebrate L's birthday (strangely, by riding a mechanical bull). Sunday was a day of productivity, Z cleaned the kitchen and bathrooms, while I did laundry. That afternoon, cuddled up on the couch, I said I'd had a good weekend--that I often felt silly or happy or friendly first, and sad second or third. It made me realize that's not true for most days...I am sad first and foremost, then all my other emotions come in a muddle afterwards. While it felt warm and good and honest to say then, now I just feel bad for feeling so bad most of the time!

This weekend, Mum's friend MC will be in town. We'll go out to dinner with her tonight, and then join her and her husband for brunch Sunday. I'm really looking forward to that. Saturday, Z and I have doctor's appointments in the morning, and I may take M up to a local festival that afternoon. Z and I also have to spend some time cleaning out the garage, as he's been buying cabinets from work to remodel our kitchen, and we need to better organize the space to store them. I'm not looking forward to that, as it will involve moving some of Mum's stuff around, and I'm not ready to make choices about those things (even things I know I won't be keeping, like her hats and wigs, I'm not ready to do anything with). Speaking of which, when I do feel ready to do something like that, it may be a great time to have you or E down. That would definitely require some handholding.

Next week, I'm going to apply for a great job I heard of through E's mother and make an appointment to get Ripley fixed. She's in heat right now and a great source of amusement for the household. I also meet with a grief counselor from Hospice and am struggling somewhat with what I want to get out of that session.

How's that for a nutshell of life? I'm sorry I've been distant. I don't know why I'm putting up this facade of enormous strength, but I guess it's what gets me through the days. It's been a month and four days, but I see her everywhere around me and yet somehow manage to be in denial, unable to understand that she's not here to share thing swith me: to laugh at the animals' antics, to feel pride in M, to talk about the next season of Project Runway, to enjoy the things I'm making, to see her new kitchen cabinets, to share a cup of coffee with outside by the pool. It tears me up. MC said this morning she once heard someone describe grieving as similar to learning to breathe underwater, and that rings so true for me right now. It's like doing this impossible thing, and all your instincts struggle against it. You need to do it, but every cell screams NO NO NO NO I CAN'T.

With love and appreciation for your polite "nudge,"
artgeek

I've talked to Mum's doctors, and they cannot fix her cancer and it is spreading. The doctors and the hospital have done everything they can to help her, but it just hasn't worked. Today she's going to leave the hospital, and we will move her to a place closer to home where there are nurses all day and all night. Any of us can visit her whenever we want to.

This is all very hard to hear, but I need you to know two things:

1. Z and I are here for you and will take care of you. That's the most important thing for you to know right now.
2. Your mom loves you very very very much and never wanted this to happen.

Saturday night, my husband and I agreed we needed to talk to my brother, who is 11, about my mother's condition. Sunday morning, we got up and had breakfast, then initiated the talk. Despite the simplicity of the words and how much my husband and I labored over them, I know I will never have to communicate something so hurtful again in my life. My brother took it all in, asked some questions, including, "Is she going to die?" I said yes, and he looked thoughtful for all of a second.

"I'm okay with that. You're here and are going to take good care of me."

His words were comforting and scary, a reminder that Mum's sickness isn't something we'll get through--it's going to impact our days, in very mundane and unarguable ways, for the rest of his life. The idea of not only raising him, but doing some justice to her legacy, so he will remember her with love and admiration, it's a heavy, heavy thing. I am only happy that I am not carrying this alone.

Moms’ cancer. Chemotherapy, radiation. Hair loss and humor. Airports. Tears. Ripley. 938 miles. Walking my brother home from school. Love stronger than I imagined.

I woke around Friday. After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I set to the task of rousing the rest of the household while trying to give my husband (home with a cold) some peace and quiet. Yes, these things are paradoxical, but them’s the breaks. My brother would be going to the school’s holiday break program, and I was taking Mum for radiation treatment, so I knew there would be less than an hour of chaos until he had the house to himself.

My brother had complained the previous night about my method of waking him:  swiftly yanking away his covers whilst singing a cringingly off-key song about the day ahead. This morning I tried going about things differently, shaking his leg and speaking to him, but his stubborn sleepyheadedness won out. Giving the covers a good yank, my brother sat bolt upright and pointed to his long-sleeved shirt and long flannel pajama pants, hollering (I kid you not) “BOO-YAH!” He usually sleeps in naught but boxer shorts, so he was impressed with his smarts. I was impressed I didn’t fall off his loft ladder and crack my head when he sat up and shouted.

I leave his room amused, promising a bowl of Cheerios shortly.

I go to wake my mother and find her up already, too. She’s kind of slouched upright, her knees pulled close to her chest, and her face tense with pain. She instructs me to take my brother to school and then to return home to take her to the hospital. She’s been up since at least , and the pain medication we’ve been relying on for the last few months isn’t working any more.

My world spins briefly, then I move into action. I get dressed. I confirm that my brother’s dressed himself, and I feed him. I take him to school, come home, and help my mother into the truck and head to the ER.

If you’ve ever been to an emergency room, you know the long pause that follows, filled with paperwork, uncomfortable waiting, and hospital workers treating you like processed cheese instead of scared, pained, anxious human beings.

My mother moves through the triage process pretty quickly (for an ER trip), and she’s given a room and asked to wait for the doctor. For an hour, she alternately sits, lays, moans and curls up into a ball. We open the door to the room, hoping to get eye contact with a doctor, nurse, or anyone with a hospital badge.

Another hour passes before I return to the triage nurse’s station to ask if I can give her another dose of the pain medicine I have on hand (it was easier to bring the pill bottles than to try to recite off her current medications by memory). I am instructed to ask the room nurse. There is no nurse in the room with us. Then I should just press the call button.

Returning to the room, I hear my mother’s voice. Then a man’s voice.

I march into the room to the tune of a doctor telling my mother she has wasted her time. He is only an ER doctor and cannot do anything for her pain.

- What did you expect us to do here today?

- I need something to keep this pain at bay or an idea why it’s gotten worse.

- Well, if your regular doctor who knows your case better than I can’t do that, we can’t help you here. I’m only an ER doctor. We can only stop people from dying…immediately.

He offers to x-ray her abdomen and sends her home with 15 Vicodin. One tablet every 4-6 hours as needed. This dosage only takes her to Sunday, and she isn’t scheduled to see her regular oncologist until Thursday; at the earliest, she couldn’t see him until Tuesday morning. That’s 36 hours unaccounted for by pain meds. I gnash my teeth and call her regular doctor’s practice. One of the other docs writes a prescription for 60 pills, and while I drive to pick that up and fill the prescription, I wonder why we were instructed to go to the ER if/when the pain was too severe in the first place. Mentally, I key the ER doctor’s car again and again.

My mother sleeps part of the day, but she’s not eating. At lunch time, she moves around macaroni noodles. At dinner time, she returns a bowl of chicken noodle soup untouched. I try to remember the last time I saw her eat anything substantial, and think of Christmas day. That was twelve meals ago.

By , it’s clear the Vicodin isn’t making a difference. My mother is whimpering in pain, and I don’t know what to do. When the pain got this bad, we were told to go to the ER, but I can’t take her back there and repeat this morning’s experience. I feel myself failing at being her caregiver, but refuse to fail as her daughter. I sit by her bed, rub her shoulders and stroke her hair.

My husband and I have a pow-wow on couch and try to sort through our options. I decide to call her oncologist’s practice and speak to whichever doctor is on-call tonight. I explain to him this morning’s ER trip and describe my mother’s pain. I explain that all of our pain medicine in the house is also laced with Tylenol, so I cannot provide her with more than the prescribed dosage and cannot combine the new Vicodin prescription with the previous Darvocet prescription. I explain I am at my wit’s end and scared for my mother. I do this all in short and direct sentences, and I do not cry.

The doctor tells me to take my mother to a different hospital and that he will call ahead and ask them to admit her. I thank him and cry.

The next seven hours are something of a blur. My mother explaining to my brother why she’s going to the hospital. Getting lost on the way to the hospital and stopped at a DUI check point. Another ER, another set of triage nurses. The hours until my mother is given pain medicine and, then, a blissful smile and sleep. It can only be a miracle of modern medicine that my mother was finally able to sleep in a curtained-off area of an ER past on the Friday before New Year’s Eve. We shared the ER with a screaming infant, a child teenager, a hollering teenager, and a delusional woman, but my mother slept.

Around , a giant of a man comes with a wheelchair; my mother has been given a private room in the oncology wing. When we arrive there, it’s as if the nurses have been on “pause” all night and just now given cause to spring into action. They are animated, caring, even funny. They make my mother feel welcome and me feel as if I’m leaving her in a safe place where people know her name. An hour later, they have all the medical history/information they need, and I’ve made her as comfortable as possible.

I kiss my mother and drive home, scared, but hoping I’ve done the right thing.