My Mother's Eyes

I look in the mirror

and see my mother's eyes

and remember

a year of pain and suffering

and dashed hopes

for her and for all of us

~ January 8, 1995 ~

Mom has been gone 16 years now.  I got through another Christmas without her.

Today, I was putting on my makeup for New Year's Eve, and I saw her eyes again.

We were so much alike.

It is strange to think in a mere 8 years I will be the same age she was when she died.  I do not know where the last 16 years even went.  Sometimes it is all simply a blur.

I was a Kohl's with my sister before Christmas, and it happened again.  I saw a woman who would have been about the same age as my mother today if she had lived.  I did three "double takes" on her.  Kept looking back and staring secretly.  Wondering if Mom would have looked this way.  She had similar wavy hair as Mom.  And a cute little "Muffin Man" expression on her face like Josh used to call her each time they read the child's book together, and he would point at the sweet, smiling Muffin Man, and say "Ma!"

I wanted that lady to be my mother.  To still be here to celebrate Christmas with us.  I wondered whose mother she was and if they were going to see her on Christmas.  Or maybe she was simply like me ~ someone who actually did turn into a lonely old spinster like I used to joke about in my teen years.

Mama was my best friend, and I find it so hard to make friends without her.  It seems like all the friends I do make always move away, and then my circle of friends has dwindled to just me.

But Mom and Dad taught me to be my own best friend.  From the time we moved to Aptos in 1982, and I had to start my senior year at a new school.  Mama told me to think of that year as like I was already away at college and not worry about making too many friends. And so the three of us became "The Three Muskateers" that year and explored our new town together.

They taught me to go out and eat by myself.  And to go to a movie by myself.  And to not be embarrassed to be alone in public.  Maybe they taught me too well.

The loneliness of the holiday season always hits me on Christmas morning when I have no family to wake up early and open up gifts.  I never had my own children.  My plans are always for later in the day.  Oh, where did the days of waking Randy up first or him waking me up first and running downstairs with those those antique candle holders with unlit candles ~ just like the father carried in "The Night Before Christmas" ~ to check out the Christmas tree at 2 a.m.?

Where did the magic of Christmas go?

I could feel nothing like magic this year.  It's gone.  Did age take it away, or did cancer take it away forever?  Will I ever feel that kind of magic again?

And so, I headed for the Santa Cruz Diner where they know my name, and hugs of Christmas Cheer greeted me at the door.  Maybe I do have some type of community like my sister and my brother do even if I have to pay for a cheap breakfast in order to get it.

But it's a start.  And I will try harder in the new year to start my own traditions.  So Christmas morning is not so lonely.  And maybe, just maybe, Christmas will start to feel like Christmas again.

~ Our Christmas Angel ~

The Anniversary of My Mother's Death

December 25th will always be the anniversary of my mother's death.

Christmas is no longer Christmas anymore in the same way it was for the first 29 years of my life.

Every year, I hope it will feel different, but every year Christmas looms at me in the distance like a big fireball coming toward me ~ as I try to jump out of the way ~ in my attempt to not get depressed and just get through the holiday season.  I usually breath a sigh of relief on December 26th knowing I got through another year and can then enjoy a bit of the rest of the Christmas break before I head back to work.

Just when I think to others this all may seem ridiculous, I find out another relative does not feel like celebrating this year.  And then I start to worry about him and wanting to get him to participate in at least one of the activities planned this year.

Little things like buying a gift or assembling a Christmas Card are often overwhelming for me.  When Nan was alive, I always managed to get one sent to her and also to the whole Sandoval family.  This year, I experienced the victory of sending out my first card in nearly a decade to my longtime pen pals in Australia.  That whole experience wore me out that I have not even sent out any others this year.  But my dear friends in Australia will finally get a card on the actual holiday instead of some belated letter usually sent in October telling them I have moved again.  Seems so bizarre for the girl who once sent out dozens of cards and baked dozens of cookies ~ and the young woman who somehow managed to finish Mom's Christmas list the year she was dying and made sure everyone got the gifts she had bought so many months before she even became sick.

So I think I just really need to accept the fact that Christmas will never be the same as long as it continues to fall on the anniversary of my mother's death.  And that it does not really matter what people think of me.  I have tried to make it work, and it just does not work anymore.  I really cannot pretend to fully enjoy a holiday that still brings up the saddest of memories for me.

My days of trying to make Christmas special for the boys in the way Mom would have are over.  The boys are grown.  And the second generation of grandchildren never even knew Mom.  Little Rashonda has her own Christmas memories and traditions made special by her own mother who truly seems to enjoy the holiday season.  Thank God she had children to keep Christmas alive. 

I still have hope that one day it will finally get better.  But I need to be gentle on myself knowing that day may never come.  Christmas will still come every year on the anniversary of my mother's death.

~Our Last Family Photo Before Mom Died in 1994~

The Edge of The Bed

During Mom's Cancer Year, our most meaningful moments ~ our most meaningful conversations ~ were spent at the edge of the bed.

Mom only talked about dying once with me during that whole year ~ within 48 hours of diagnosis. 

We were sitting on the edge of the bed in her bedroom, and she started sobbing.

"I never should have had children," she cried to me, "You all are carrying the cancer gene now."

"Oh, Mom," I reassured her, "We are going to be okay.  It's not your fault!"

I instinctively knew the cigarettes were what was about to kill her ~ even though, ironically, the type of cancer she was diagnosed with was the type that non-smokers get.  But how could the 33 years of chain smoking not have had an impact?  There was no point in dwelling on this now as the cancer had likely been growing for up to fifteen years without any symptoms which is why when the symptoms did show up, it was all too late ~ Stage 4 Lung Cancer had arrived.

Later as she grew weaker but was still at home, we would sit on the edge of the bed, and Dad or I would help lace up or take off her shoes.  Sometimes, she like to nap with her shoes on to make the whole routine simpler, but I did not mind helping her ~ she was my mother ~ she gave birth to me ~ of course, she should have had children.  Her destiny was to be our mother.

Once she was admitted to the hospital, I would sit on the edge of the bed and give her little towelettes to refresh herself ~ clean her hands and face ~ after she had to use the bed pan.  Of course, she still wanted to be able to wash her hands even if the nurses were the ones to take care of her bathroom needs.   I remember telling her little details about our daily life in the hospital ~ giving her an update on this or that ~ and she would always respond in an almost lyrical fashion with a faint little "Okay!" ~ as if everything was to her own agreement ~ always being cheerful and sweet ~ even though her daily life was nearly hell and full of so much pain during those last two months.

During the final days of her life ~ the 3 1/2 days of her coma in which she could still hear our every word ~ I would sit on the edge of the bed and long to crawl in beside her as if I were a little girl waking up from a bad dream.  The bed was tiny, and she had tubes for oxygen and morphine ~ and I kept thinking it would not be allowed for a daughter to crawl into bed with a dying mother.

I was only 29 and not nearly as strong as I am today.  Today, I would have not even asked ~ I would have crawled right in and held her tight ~ I would have found my way around all those tubes and trappings of death ~ 

I know she could feel my presence at the edge of the bed as I held her hand and lay my head on the mattress ~ crawling into her bed in the only way I knew how then ~ and remembering what it was like to be her daughter ~ and all the love and protection she gave me on all those nights when I said,

"Mama, I had a bad dream."



 

~ Her Destiny was to be Our Mother ~

 

The Year Without Pictures

1994 was the year without pictures.

I have been obsessed with taking pictures of all of my adult life, and I never took a single picture during Mama's Cancer Year.

January started with me getting terribly sick on my 29th Birthday.  I remember being sprawled out on the couch with the longest bout of stomach flu on my birthday.  We did not celebrate that year, but Mama stopped by the couch and asked if I wanted to still have my picture taken.  

I told her, "No," but 17 years later I really wish I would have said "Yes."

Less than two months later, she was officially diagnosed with Stage 4 Lung Cancer.

Her treatments began three weeks later, and her beautiful, thick, wavy hair began falling out after the second round.

For a woman so brave enough to have her eldest daughter shave her head ~ shortly after the horrifying tears that came with clumps of her hair falling out after her shower ~ then pulling off her turban excitedly to show her grandsons that everything would be okay to be around a bald grandma ~ making them giggle ~ to a woman so privately modest that I instinctively knew never to take her picture with her turban, scarf, or bald head showing.

Mom never left home without full make-up ~ gorgeous blue eyes with long Maybelline coated eyelashes ~ frosted Softshell Pink lipstick ~ in case she ever bumped into Robert Redford, she would say.

And so, we did not take any pictures that Easter, Mother's Day, Father's Day, birthdays, and ball games in between.

Later, I looked at an old video she managed to take of the boys' little league games in May and saw Mama's reflection behind the camera in a car window perhaps, and I could see a peek of the pre-made scarves we bought in San Jose during the special trip we made to look for a wig.  The wigs were stiff and fake, and Mama could not imagine herself ever wearing one ~ but we spent a tearful afternoon trying them on ~ with Rhonda and Dad by our sides ~ and instead found all these sweet and pure little country-type scarves ~ all pre-tied in the back ~ in bright Easter Egg colors that we would wash every week for her.

There were times when I wanted to take her picture, but I memorized every one of our "Lasts" instead.  For a family that chronicled every event of our lives on film ~ with photo albums stuffed in our bookshelves ~ The Year Without Pictures is one to remember ~ even without a photo album dated 1994.

Later, I remembered that my brave brother had indeed taken one picture ~ the very last picture of Mom with her spunky 83-year-old Mother, Our Beloved Nanny.  And so Randy captured the essence of who she was before cancer stripped us of our memory of what she looked like ~

She, Dad, and Her Precious Youngest Child ~ Her Only Son ~ went to visit Nanny three days after diagnosis ~ March 12, 1994.  He had the courage to get behind the lens and take that last photo in Mama's hometown of Rio Linda in Nan's country home ~ just one block down the road from the Old Chicken Ranch:  

Mom is brave and happy ~ despite the unknown that lay ahead ~

But I see the tears in Nanny's smile as she clung to the daughter who would soon say goodbye.

Mama and Nanny

The Last Picture Taken

March 12, 1994

Do They Even Know?

I had one of those "Do They Even Know?" moments yesterday at the holiday party.

After Mom died on Christmas in 1994, I almost feel like I'm walking around with some type of Scarlet Letter on my forehead or something ~ wondering if anyone can even sense the pain I feel at times throughout this holiday season.

An A Cappella Choir came to sing at our holiday breakfast, and I found myself more than tearing up at one of their songs ~ that familiar wince I know so well ~ almost like stifling a gasp ~ at the sheer raw emotion I can still feel remembering back to 1994 and how we lost her forever.

I have told some of my colleagues about my loss and never mentioned it to others ~ and wonder if the others even remember what I told them a few years ago.

I sit in a cafe and enjoy the Christmas decorations and wonder if people can tell that my expression is weary and lost in thought as I ruffle my newspaper and poke at my eggs, still enjoying the moment despite the sorrow I feel throughout the season.

I remember growing up Mama always telling me how her great grandmother, Grandma Helm, died on Christmas.  She told me how the whole family was celebrating Christmas at Grandma Runyan's home, and then all of a sudden, Grandma Runyan took the phone call and found out that her beloved mother had died on Christmas back home in North Dakota.    The Christmas party came abruptly to an end, and Mama said all of the families with young children left shortly after Grandma Runyan received the news.  Grandma Runyan never again celebrated Christmas on Christmas Day after that heartbreaking news and instead switched to celebrating on Christmas Eve.

As a little girl growing up long after my great grandmother died ~ each time I heard this story from my own mother ~ I would try to imagine how Grandma Runyan felt when she received that shocking call of sudden loss ~ and I tried to picture how she managed to cope each Christmas on the anniversary of her own dear mother's death. 

One wonders how one family can actually have two relatives die on Christmas.  How could that happen twice in lifetime?

I remember Grandma Runyan who died when I was only five.  And my precious Nanny, her eldest daughter, who died this past August at the age of 99.  My Beloved Nanny who lived through her own grandmother dying on Christmas and then her own daughter dying on Christmas four decades later.

I think how my own pain is smaller in comparison to a woman endured two of these Christmas losses in her lifetime.  But again, I still have the second half of my life to live, and I, too, will face other losses.

I ask God for a reprieve for now.  We have had too many back-to-back losses for now.  Give me a break before I lose another parent or aunt or uncle or the one remaining great aunt I have on my mother's side of the family.  Let me find a way to enjoy the holidays again before the losses start up again.

Nanny, Grandma Runyan, Sharon,

Mom, and Grandma Helm

Aftermath

Mama chose who would be with her when she took her last breath.

Ten years earlier, we had taken a "Death and Dying" class together at Cabrillo.  And I remembered two things from that class when she entered her coma.

I immediately went into middle child mode ~ trying to control the shock and confusion that her coma had created ~ especially the labored breaths in the beginning that were quite scary.  I shared with my family what we had learned in class so long ago:

1) Let the dying person know it's okay to let go and die.

2) But even if you tell her to let go, she will choose the exact time to take her last breath.  The dying person is either waiting for a loved one to arrive or simply waiting for a loved one to leave.

In our case, it was both.

Randy and I tried to stay awake in the wee hours of Christmas  ~ our tired heads slumped on the edge of Mama's bed ~ listening to the four Christmas tapes we had brought play over and over and over again.

One of the saddest things about this last night together was that Mama was still in such pain when they had to move her to change the sheets. I remember wanting to wait awhile to move her again, and I told Randy at this point the wet sheet was better than her feeling the pain of getting a dry one immediately.  The nurses finally came up with a regimen of adding extra Ativan just before they moved her which helped during the last 10 hours of Mom's life.

Three nights of the grave yard shift ~ plus running around town during the day finishing up all of Mom's year long Christmas preparations for the family ~ had finally taken its toll on me, and I could no longer stay.  I was emotionally and physically spent to the point of near collapse.  Randy and I had taken separate cars, and so I left just before dawn.  Randy joined me back home a few hours later.

In my old room above the garage, I tried to sleep ~ but the sleep was almost drugged-like ~ waiting for the phone to ring ~ knowing I had just left my mother ~ who was most likely going to die on Christmas and knowing that I had made the decision not to be there when she died.  I remember looking at my bedroom window during the few hours I tried to sleep ~ staring at the M & M candy character lights glowing all night long in the shape of a tree ~ the lights gave me comfort as Mom and I had got a kick out of collecting these cute little M & M faces often found as decorations atop a cane full of candy.  I left the radio on playing Christmas music as I did every Christmas and simply waited.

Rhonda had to drop off her young sons at our cousin's house ~ poor kids being whisked away from their beds instead of opening up presents at dawn ~ and then joined Dad back at the hospital.

The morning turned into afternoon.  And just as I was writing about my mother ~ physically half-way through writing the word "mother" ~ the phone rang.  Mama died just after 2 p.m. on Christmas Day.

I do not even remember if I even cried upon hearing the final news.  But my father was crying on the other end.  And then my sister came on the phone and told me not to come back to the hospital, "It's really scary," she warned, referring to the sight of Mom's dead body still in the room.

But whatever fear or exhaustion that had sent me back home to recuperate had given way to being back on automatic pilot again.  And so I had to knock on Randy's door to deliver the news, and together we headed back to the hospital.

What I remember most about seeing my mother laying there so peacefully in the room was how much she looked like herself again ~ all twelve months of pain had been drained from her delicate face ~ she was absolutely beautiful ~ with brilliant cheekbones and even a light glossing of hair that had started to regrow.  I looked at her as if she were alive and said, "We are packing up the Christmas decorations, Mom."

The packing took over an hour and soon it was time to leave.  My most vivid memory was the sun ~ shining so bright ~ that I truly believe the brilliant sun was Mom's spirit soaring and shining down on us.  

Dad suggested, "Let's open the curtains and leave the sun shining on her."

And then he gave us the chance to be a family together for one last time.  He told us, "Let's all pick a part of her face and kiss her goodbye all at the same time."  We spontaneously chose a part of her face ~ almost like the sign of the cross ~ and kissed her loving face all together.  I picked her forehead just like she used to kiss me on the forehead to see if I had a temperature when I was a little girl.

Our family went in different directions in the hospital parking lot.  Randy opted to go over to Barbi and Gregg's house to see the boys and have Christmas dinner.  But I did not want to leave my dear father alone, and so I accompanied him back home.

As we pulled up in the driveway, we saw our neighbors, Fran and Nancy, greeting their relatives.  Everyone seemed so happy.  Their lives seem so normal.  I certainly could not shout out that Mom had just died.  And then I remembered that they had lost their dear Louie, beloved husband and father, to cancer the year before.  And I wondered if we could ever be that happy again.

Looking back, I now know that Mama spared her youngest children from the fear and pain of seeing her die before their eyes.  She had so many opportunities to let go during all the grave yard shifts we shared with her.  Mama knew best.  She knew her precious husband and her beloved first born ~ the little family she created in their early years together ~ long before her little ones came along ~ needed to be there during her last moments here on Earth ~ She came full circle ~ back to the beginning of the life she created for all of us ~ the beautiful life we were so blessed to have shared with her ~

The Last Best Christmas

Returned to a room that frightened me ~

Lights dimmed like candles ~

Labored breaths softened like whispers ~ 

I crouched beside her bed, longing desperately to crawl inside and snuggle up beside her just like I used to do after I had a bad dream.

But this time the dream was real.  There would be no moment to escape ~ to shake myself awake.  I had to wait for the ending.  To wait for my mother to die.

"Merry Christmas, Mama," I whispered through my tears, "It's Christmas."

She wanted to come home for Christmas.  But Christmas came to Room 314B.  Nothing ~ not even cancer spread thick between her lungs and bones ~ could stop her from celebrating with us ~ spending one last Christmas with us ~ The Last Best Christmas ~

Mama loved Christmas.  She planned for it all year.  From the day after Christmas sales to the mail order catalog packages arriving each month to our doorstep, she toiled merrily like an elf, stacking each brown box in the corner of her room and scribbling down the hidden contents onto her Christmas list with her red and green Christmas pens.

A couple of weeks before Christmas, I suggested, "We could wrap your presents together ~ right here on your beside table."

"Oh, no," she insisted, "I'll be home for Christmas."

But Christmas snuck past the hospital security guard and swept through the hospital corridors.  Christmas wallpapered the walls with wall-to-wall greeting cards.  Christmas glistened from the branches of the little tree my sister spray painted white because she could not afford to have it flocked.

Christmas flowed through bittersweet tears trickling down Mama's cheeks as her youngest child ~ her precious son ~ sang his favorite song for her ~

Christmas spoke to us with each blink of Mama's sea-colored eyes ~ once for "Yes", twice for "No" ~ as we each shared our favorite Christmas memories with her ~

Christmas embraced us as we each chose a part of her face to kiss goodbye all at the same time ~

Christmas warmed us as we opened the curtains and left the sun shining on her ~

Christmas comforted us when she left us that Sunny Christmas Day ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Originally Published in the Santa Cruz Sentinel ~ December 24, 2000 ~

I Remember Mama

December Friends

~ Dedicated to the man who loved acting,

the woman who loved writing, and the man who loved music ~

Every Thanksgiving and every Christmas, I give thanks for three people who helped me during the last month of Mom's life.

We moved Mom to the restorative care hospital on December 1, 1994, but I stayed in touch with one caring nurse from Mom's first month at the primary hospital.

I was so grateful for his tender care of my mother that I felt compelled to send an early Christmas gift which was a special plaque I had found that said:

~ A Nurse is God's Angel of Mercy ~

The weeks went on in that month of December, and each day Mom's condition grew progressively worse to the point that she could no longer walk.  I knew the end was near as she was barely eating, and I remember getting so frustrated when she could never finish her Cream of Mushroom soup or the tiny nutrient drinks that the hospital provided.  She could barely swallow at this point, so her food consisted of finally chopped but mostly pure liquid foods.

God knew I needed to help to get through the last week of her life, and this kind nurse and his family took me under their wing during the rapidly approaching holiday season.

I remember being invited over to his house in Aptos near my old high school for tea and pumpkin pie in the afternoon of December 20th.  For a couple of hours, I could forget my sad little world back at the hospital and could feel like a regular person enjoying the holidays.  But most of all, I could come back to Mom's room and tell her all about my visit.  Mom could barely talk at this point, but she would smile and nod and manage to get out a few words to show how happy she was to see me happy.

The next day our world changed completely.  Rhonda brought her young sons over to the hospital, and I took them down to the T.V. room while Rhonda visited with Mom privately.  Mom chose her messenger ~ her beloved first born ~ to let us know what was about to happen.

Rhonda pulled me aside while the grandkids took their turn with "Ma" ~ and she whispered that Mom had said, "You need to prepare yourself. And tell the others."

For the next day, a Thursday, Mom entered into what was to be a 3 1/2 day coma ~ fading in and out of consciousness yet fully present as we held a vigil by her bedside ~ again spread out in shifts at times.

I remember calling my nurse friend during this time and spoke to his sister who expressed heartfelt concern for all of us.  To my surprise, I also received an invitation to stop by their house for dessert on Christmas Eve.  I told her I definitely wanted to come by and would keep them updated on Mom's condition.

Friday turned into Saturday, Christmas Eve.  During all this controlled chaos, I was even running up to Felton to pick up a delivery from out-of-state relatives that had been returned to the florist because we were not at home in Aptos.  I also drove out to Watsonville to pick up a sweet Gingerbread Cookie Jar flower bouquet from Mom's cousin Gary in Washington.  I then delivered the last of Mom's Christmas packages to the post office to be sent to her mom and sister's family up north.  I took care of it all ~ the wrapping, the packing ~ I was Mom's little elf who kept her promise of making Christmas special for Mom's family regardless of her impending death.

I questioned whether or not I should leave her bedside as night had fallen, and Christmas Eve was in full swing.

Randy and I had the evening shift, and I talked to Dad and Rhonda about my invitation as they were getting ready to leave.  Everyone agreed that Mom would want me to go out and experience a taste of the holidays and do something nice for myself as Mama loved Christmas.

So I drove 11 miles south back to Aptos to see my new friends.

Just as I was leaving for this much needed break, another nurse from the primary hospital spotted me and asked how my mother was doing.  I blurted out, "We are waiting for my mother to die."  And then I went on to say how excited I was to go over to my nurse friend's house for Christmas Eve.
  

My words shocked this other nurse who had not been working at the restorative care hospital that month and was unprepared to hear such news.  She also may have wondered how I could have answered her so matter-of-factly as if I were describing something less tangible than a mother actually dying.

Back in my hometown of Aptos ~ in a house full of Christmas Cheer ~ I could temporarily forget the horror of my real world and remember what it was like to be a normal person enjoying the holidays.  During the few hours I spent laughing and enjoying good food, waves of my real world crashed through my veins, and I hid the fact that I was wincing away this emotional pain from this trio of kind folks.

We laughed and laughed to the point my nurse friend said, "You're so funny. You should be a comedian!"

The clock was ticking as Christmas Eve was quickly coming to a close.

I dreaded going back as I instinctively knew that the end was near ~ that my little world would soon crumble ~ and that I would be motherless in less than 24 hours.

But my new friends had given me a gift that would help me stay strong.  They had filled up my soul with compassion and comfort ~ almost like being filled with nutrients and vitamins to boost my energy and give me strength to get through the rest of this "Silent Night" ~ soon to be spent holding vigil at my mother's bedside again ~ My dread soon turned to courage as I turned on the engine and waved goodbye ~

And as I drove back before midnight, the clock turned twelve.  And when I re-entered Mama's room, it was Christmas.  The Last Best Christmas had arrived.

The Face of God

Sometimes I feel that this man will continue to hurt me even after he is gone.

Just when I feel I have made so much progress ~ that the writing I am doing is giving closure to the post-traumatic stress ~ I am reminded that a mere phone call or email will bring back all the pain right back up to the surface, and the tears flow as if I were transported back to 2001-2005.

He is in jail for what I thought was two years, and for the first time in my life, I felt more than a bit safe.  Then I hear that he may be released early, and then I wonder will I go back to completely watching my back again.

I always wonder if he could be somewhere on campus watching me leave work ~ following me back to my second of two apartments in two years ~ that he never managed to find out the addresses.

And then I get an update on our cat from his former neighbor who now cares for him.  Lil' Dickens, my precious boy.  He would not let him come back to Scotts Valley to live with me after we broke up five years ago.  Said he did not want him to be an indoor cat.  And even though I managed to see my precious kitty for a few times during 2006, the ache of not seeing this special cat for nearly 4 1/2 years can bring me to my knees in tears.  This was one of those days.

He would not let me have the cat just like he would not let me have the little puppy that we fostered before Lil' Dickens arrived.  He always like to watch me get close to an animal and then take away all contact just to hurt me.  He knew I would never have my own children ~ that these beloved furchildren were like humans to me ~ and he made sure that he used these animals to manipulate and control me.

Lil' Dickens was meant to replace the puppy that I had named Beanie that we nursed through two weeks of kennel cough.  I had never seen a wiener dog puppy, and this little underweight baby captured my heart.  At first, I was allowed to take full care of the little guy, but by the second week, restrictions were put on my contact, and finally he found a buyer for his friend who ran a puppy broker business.  I remember asking the buyer who was an acquaintance of his if I could visit the puppy ~ a sort of play date with Jack ~ the dog we had brought into our home the previous summer, merely one week after I called 911 on him.  But the buyer refused, and I never got to visit Beanie ever again.

One evening after work, Lil' Dickens was waiting for me in my rocking chair, sitting upright next to his new buddy Jack.  And I did not want to love him.  But love him I did from the first time he slept curled up next to my head ~ a little three-inch ball of buff fur ~ while The Bad Man was out of town on a motorcycle trip. 

Lil' Dickens was soon whisked away up north when he bought the second house.  And the next 9 months was spent counting the days in between visits before I could see my precious boy again.  I remember when 21 days between visits was sheer agony as my abuser would come back to Felton where I ran his original home but not allow me to visit him or the animals at his second home many times.

Looking back on all the sad, scary years of my life with him, it was the animals that somehow got me through the daily agony of being abused.  The animals were pure and sweet and full of love for a woman who felt no love from the man who claimed to be her boyfriend. 

My contact with Lil' Dickens and Jack ~ and eventually another wiener dog named Jill and Sunkist, the cat that came with the house up north ~ was truly the only beauty in my dark world.   I do not know how I could have survived those four years ~ filled with mind games and verbal abuse that escalated each year into physical abuse ~ without the unconditional love of my animal friends ~ my furchildren ~ the true loves of my life ~ who stood by my side and protected me in their own selfless way ~ just by being precious souls with only one goal of giving me love.

When you see the sweet faces of animals ~ when you look into their soulful eyes ~ you see the face of God.

"Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened."

 ~ Anatole France

 Lil' Dickens and Me

My Rock

~This is for you, Daddy ~

Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Mmm Mmm... I don't know... Mmm Mmm... Mmm Mmm...

Well, I've been afraid of changing
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I'm getting older too

~ Stevie Nicks from "Landslide"

In my grief journey to heal from the pain of losing my mother at such a young age, there have been times when I have stopped to think what it would be like to lose my Dad one day.  In the back of my head, I have always remembered that he did indeed smoke just as many years as Mom, but part of me always hoped that he may have smoked a little less during the work day instead of being a complete chain smoker like Mom. 

Through it all, Dad has truly been my rock.  We struggled on and off from the time Mom was admitted to the hospital to the night before his own mother's scattering of her ashes to always see eye-to-eye.  I rack my brain and try to even remember what set us off the day she was admitted, but I remember fighting in front of her as we tried to get her settled into her room.  I remember Mom was all drugged out and practically cross-eyed from the increase of pain medication and was not even able to comment.  So we abruptly ended our dispute, and we both went home to begin what was going to be a sorrowful, two month journey by her bedside.  Looking back today after over 16 years, surely it was our own horror of knowing this truly was the beginning of the end ~ we both knew she was never coming home ~ and we both knew our lives had changed forever from that day forward.  That the ten months leading up to that day was merely practice for the hell we were about to face.  So it really is no wonder we bickered and cannot remember what we even bickered about today.

For the first time since those difficult days, I was truly faced with the realization that I will indeed lose him one day, and I cannot predict what day that will even be.  I got a call at work on Friday that he had been brought to the Emergency Room after feeling chest pains while driving down to Aptos to see us.  Three minutes before closing the office, I am thinking that I could lose my dear father to a heart attack.  That he could possibly die right then and there.  I was not able to hold back the tears at work as I turned my back to 40 tour guides in our lobby to take the late afternoon call from my sister.

I do not know how I could have ever gotten through the last 16 years without the help of my dear father.  He has been the family glue and took on the role our mother once had in the family.  I do not know how it will be for my niece and nephews when the time does come when their Grandpa dies.  I thought about all of this as Rhonda and I drove up to Fairfield yesterday.  I told her I really do not want to deal with this type of loss ~ we have had so many in the past two years.

Before we left for our unexpected road trip, I kissed my mother's picture and told her to tell God that it's simply not time yet.

And when we arrived to the hospital room, I held back the tears as I saw a man who seemed a bit older than he did even earlier in the month ~ although I am sure it was just the optical illusion that laying in a hospital bed creates for the visitor ~ as once we began chatting, he was full of vim and vigor, telling about his latest winnings at Harvey's in Lake Tahoe.  The light was still in his eyes.  The same Dad who always tries to remain positive was still there inside the body that was slumped down in the bed.  The slumping down in the bed was really the first image that had startled me as it took me back to always having to get the nurses to pull my mother back up in bed.  But Dad said it was only because of the air bed and that he liked to have his feet touch the bed frame for support.

So "I feel in my heart" as My Aunt Josie likes to say ~ that my Dad's time is not going to be just yet.  That as Randy says, "He has to stick around for the Seniors World Series of Poker tournament in June" ~ in which we all pooled our money to get him a buy-in.

Thanks, Mom, for talking to God.  You always did have a way with words.

And thanks Dad for being my rock and for sticking around a whole lot longer.

Father's Day at Original Joe's

 

Raindrops and Tears

Mom was in such terrible pain after she fell in the hospital that we practically had to beg her oncologist to run more tests.  We thought she may have injured herself beyond having all the complications of Stage 4 Lung Cancer.

These type of communication challenges always seem to occur on the days I had the day shift.  The doctors always seemed to come by when Dad was taking a rare break golfing, and I was there to figure out how to proceed with handling the care of my dying mother. 

I remember losing control in my fourth attempt to convince her doctor that something was definitely wrong ~ that something had completely changed since she took her fall.

"You think her falling was like a walk in the park?!?" I shouted at him in Room 2511 one morning.

He immediately ordered an MRI.

Oh, how I wished I had not shouted that day.

The whole MRI experience turned out to more of a nightmare than her falling.

Poor Mom was in such pain that just being on the gurney to get there was almost too much.  I remember they had to delay her pain medication due to this test, and so her pain was already starting to get out of whack.  The morphine drip had to be disconnected for the procedure.  We waited and waited in the lobby for the MRI to begin, and the sight of my mother so uncomfortable on the gurney was almost too much too bear.

Alone in my thoughts, I waited restlessly for the test to be completed and was shocked by the heartbreaking sight of what nearly looked like a different woman being wheeled out of the room.  Her pain was even more excruciating.  Lying completely flat during the test had taken its toll on her.  She was wincing and wanting desperately to get back to her room to receive the overdue dosage of morphine.

The MRI Center was about 50 yards from the main hospital, and patients had to be transported outdoors on a gurney to get to and from the appointment.  Rain had arrived during Mom's procedure.  

The assistants handling the gurney were trying to rush my mother out of the rain instead of just covering her up face, wheeling her gurney way too fast across the dividers of each square of the cement sidewalk.  Mom's gurney dipped into each beveled divider, and with each dip, Mom cried out in pain.

During all of this, I kept thinking about the childhood superstition: 

"Step on a crack, break your mother's back."

I was mortified about her escalating pain and tried to speak up about the situation after the gurney dipped too hard between a few squares of the sidewalk.  The assistants said they just wanted to hurry and get her back to the room where she would be more comfortable.

We finally got back to the room and got her back to bed.  Hooked up the morphine drip.  And then I lost it all over again.  I buried my head and started sobbing.

And Mom softly said in a voice that was growing weaker by the day, "You have to be strong for me."

I looked up to the woman who had been so strong for me her whole life, and gently asked, "Does that mean I cannot cry?"

She assured me that my tears were okay just as she did when I was a child or a heartbroken teenager.

I did not know then how strong I really was ~ how much my strength helped her get through the last 9 months of her life ~ I had always been strong for her my whole life ~ sometimes even being an adult as a child ~ 

My tears were for her pain and the pain of losing her ~ a loss that was felt every day of Her Cancer Year ~ a grief that began even before her death on Christmas Day ~

Raindrops and tears ~ I could not tell the difference that day ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.  They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues.  They are messengers of overwhelming grief

...and unspeakable love.”

~ Washington Irving ~

Glorious

Mom and I always use to think about our future life stories in titles.  We would come up with all sorts of titles we would use for our future writings.

Mom had long been gone when I wrote my first title to describe my relationship with him.  Josh and Jahnava had given me a purple journal for Christmas 2001.  And I wrote one word at the top:  Glorious. 

How ironic.  But that was how it all first started.  And that was how it suddenly changed only 9 days into the relationship on the day I cut my hair "without his permission."  I have grown it long ever since.

The purple journal sits on a little desk in my rented furnished studio.  I have kept it all these 9 years, and still the only word ever written in it is "Glorious."

I never could write any more.

I would always write scenes in my head during the bouts of verbal abuse I usually endured when he drove recklessly around the hairpin curves of Highway 9.  I remember leaning my head against the passenger window in one of his fancy cars, looking up at the lights and the redwood trees flashing by as he sped and sped around the Santa Cruz Mountains ~ thinking this would be one of many scenes in the movie I will make ~ this is the exact angle that the shot should be filmed ~ right from the corner of my eye leaning against the window ~ as the world flashed by me during his volatile rage ~

I remember taking out a 500,000 dollar accidental death and dismemberment insurance policy through my university benefits ~ the highest you could choose ~ just in case something bad happened to me in his car or on the back of his motorcycle.

I would envision my screenplay and eventual movie of what was happening to me.

And during our last year together, I started picking out which actors and actresses would play us.  I had fun with that one, and eventually settled on Billy Bob Thornton who was married to Angelina Jolie at the time.  Even the age difference matched, but I did not want Angelina Jolie to play me, so I chose Joan Cusack instead.  And so the stories in my head helped me cope with the unbearable reality I was faced with every minute of every day for four years.

Later, I thought about changing the title to "Vicious."  I had never heard of a movie that already had used the title "Vicious" ~ so I thought this would better describe who he was and what was actually happening to me.

The title then became "Glorious/Vicious" in my head for a few years after we broke up.

But Delia and I talked about these titles on one of our last visits, and we agreed that "Glorious" should stay.  Because that is how these relationships really do start with these type of men.  How else could I have not walked away from Day One?

Within 9 days, it was too late, and he had already gained complete control over me.  I was like the young kidnap victim Elizabeth Smart with the ability to physically run away from her captor but without the mindset to even try.  Stockholm Syndrome was already starting to take effect, and to this day, I remember my life with him as if I had been some type of prisoner.

Freedom is Glorious.

Hunger and Pain

I remember always being hungry during the four years I was with him.

He worked his way up the ladder of verbal abuse from the b word to the c word with the word fat added before each vulgar word.

He never would let me eat a whole lot when I was with him.  I remember he would always skimp on a order at Taco Bell ~ which we seemed to visit a lot in Scotts Valley ~ and I always was wanting at least three tacos instead of two.  I would scrounge around his pantry when he was out on the driveway fixing the bikes searching for something to eat.  I remember eating a lot of sliced apples and cheese but even that was not enough.  I would crave sweets and return to my childhood adventure of eating a spoonful of brown sugar just to ease the craving.  I remember looking out the window a lot making sure he would not catch me eating extra food.

He never ate breakfast or lunch ~ only coffee ~ and expected me to do the same whenever I was with him.

I made up for lost calories at work, thank goodness, or I really would have lost a considerable amount of weight during that time.  My money had not yet run out then, and I would buy a box of donuts for my work colleagues just to be able to enjoy a treat without his watchful eye.

In the early years, we would go out to restaurants a lot ~ and he never complained that I never liked to cook.  But the last year was hell as that was one of the main topics of his yelling ~ and one of the main defenses of his telling me it was perfectly fine for him to be with other women because they cooked.

Our last year was spent living together part-time as he had already bought another house up north and expected me to run the Felton house with a revolving door of housemates.  During that time, he would charge me $20 for each dinner he cooked for me when I visited him at his new country home.  Bizarre as it may seem, I actually paid him the money just so I could eat.  I was no longer the strong person I had been in my teens and twenties ~ the effects of the abuse in my late thirties had stripped me of my identity and my ability to even reason at times ~ to even begin to wonder what all this might look like to the outside world if they even knew.  But they did not know.  It was all my deep dark secret at that time.

I remember his green house.  I remember those kitchen windows.  And a hunger pain that transcended body and soul.