Tuesday, November 30, 2010

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 ~




Saturday, November 27, 2010

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 ~




Friday, November 26, 2010

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.






Tuesday, November 23, 2010

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


Sunday, November 21, 2010

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

 

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

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 ~



Sunday, November 14, 2010

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.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

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. 

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

The Grave Yard Shift


I eventually gave up my video store job during Mom's Cancer Year much to parents' dismay.

But God had a plan.  And His Plan was for me to be free to be my mother's side during the last two month's of her life spent at two hospitals.
 
Mom wanted to die in a hospital.  She did not want to die at home.  She wanted her home to be remembered as a place of life ~ not death.
 
And so she was admitted on October 27, 1994.  She never came back home.

When she started choking on her food on the second day, Dad and I decided that we would take turns being at the hospital during all of her mealtimes ~ which basically meant that one of has a day shift and one of us had a swing shift that ended before her bedtime.  We would switch the shifts up occasionally, but mostly Dad had a day shift. 

I have always been more than a bit psychic.  One night after my shift, I fell asleep early only to be awakened by a nightmare that Mom had fallen.  In my dream, we were at the old Sashmill Cinema where we used to love to watch classic films.  The Sashmill had tiny little Winchester Mystery house type of stairs that led up from the lobby and snack bar into the theater.  Mom fell backwards on these stairs and hurt her back.  She winced loudly, and I crouched by her side trying to help her back up on her feet.
 
The next day, the hospital informed us that Mom had fallen.  The drugs she had taken for the pain were too strong at the time, and the side effects were that Mom thought she could get out of bed on her own to use the bathroom.  She had fallen on her back as she stepped out of her bed.  I asked what time she had fallen, and it was the exact time I had awakened from my nightmare ~ around 8:30 p.m. on Sunday night.

We were told that Mom would have to be strapped into her bed that night to prevent her from falling until the medication could be better regulated.  I was horrified.  I told the nurses that I would stay there all night ~ awake ~ and watch her to make sure she did not get out of bed.  They agreed.

And so I went home for awhile, rested, and packed a peanut butter sandwich in a little baggie just like Mom used to do for me as a kid.  I stayed with Mom that night and sat up in a chair that looked more comfortable than it really was and fought off the sleep that lured me by the hour.  It was really hard to stay awake and very emotional to watch my terminally ill mother sleep in a darkened hospital instead of her own bed at home.  Even the sight of my dinner before dawn ~ now a squished little peanut butter sandwich ~ made me sad and made me long for a time when life was not so difficult.

As each hour of the night passed, I was transported back to a time when she offered the same help to me.
 
On February 9, 1972, I was riding down the hill on my lavendar Flower Power banana seat bike with high rise handlebars.  Speeding down the Oakland Hills, I turned to my friend, and shouted, "Hey, Heather, isn't this fun?"  And that was the last thing I remember.

They say I hit a parked car and flew over the handle bars.  Broke my jaw in three places.  Mom was called to the gory scene of what she described as seeing a "second mouth" on me.  All I remember was being in some stranger's kitchen with a white towel being held up to my chin and blood running out of my ears.  

Mom rushed me to Emergency Room at Kaiser in the old white station wagon.  Upon arrival, she was given the unfortunate assignment of being asked to help the three interns hold me down on the examination table ~ as my little 7-year-old arms were flailing about while these interns forcibly stuck their fingers in my throat trying to "relocate" what that then thought was a dislocated jaw.  

And that night, she stayed with me while Dad went back home to take care of Rhonda and Randy.  Help had also arrived in the form of my Dear Aunt Sharon who drove all the way down from Sonora on her 37th birthday to be by my family's side during this time of crisis.  

They thought I would have surgery the next day to wire my broken jaw shut for three weeks.  So I was allowed no food or water of any kind.  I was so thirsty to the point of tears.  My Dear Mother wet a brown paper towel for me and fed it to me all night long.  She stayed awake the whole night just to keep me comfortable.  I can still taste that wet brown paper to this day. 

Her little girl remembered this heartfelt gesture, when 22 years later, she was told her mother would have to be tied down in her sleep in order not to fall out of bed.

The Grave Yard Shift spanned three decades ~ we protected each other right up until the end ~


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


I still feel you in my dreams, Mama, and I thank God you graced my life Here on Earth for nearly 30 years ~






Death Row


You ask me why I never left.  I recently told my domestic violence advocate that it was safer to remain on death row.  Despite the abuse, I could at least see my family.  I could still take care of my diabetic cat.  I chose to remain on death row until he finally broke up with me.  He needs to feel in control, and every time I spoke of leaving or began to make plans to rent a new place, he got angrier and angrier.  His anger scared me.  His death threats scared me.  Death row prolonged the abuse, but it also prolonged the possibility of death.  At any moment, my number could be called.  My time could be up.  His anger could escalate, and the final blow to my head would be fatal.  There were days when I would think, “I wonder if this will be the day I will die.” 
                                                                                                                                              
~ July 18, 2005  


Sunday, November 7, 2010

Lazy Woods

There was a time in my four years of suppression where I had a part-time reprieve from all of the madness.

I finally called 911 on him for smashing my head into a wall, and although he was released from jail in the less than four hours, he still decided to "honor" the restraining order the police put on him by moving me down the street until he could manipulate me into getting the case dropped.

And so Lil' Red and I packed up and moved to Lazy Woods.

To think only an alley separated Lil' Red and I from that house of horrors.  But for 3 1/2 months, we were technically safe although I still saw my abuser ~ who I coined "The Bad Man" ~ every day.

Lazy Woods was home to a beautiful rustic house right along the river complete with a fluffy dog and cat, two middle-aged single men, and an assortment of college students going to the same university where I worked.  How kind of the homeowner to take us in as he was a former drug addict who actually knew my abuser "back in the day."  But this gentleman had changed for the better and had inherited his grandmother's historic house and made it accessible to those in need.

What I remember most about Lazy Woods was the beautiful view of the garden right outside my window for Lil' Red to look out each day.  I even took him outside on a small dog harness and leash, and he would explore the lush green landscaping each day with me.

Summer turned into Fall, and something magical happened.  The Good Man, the homeowner, started putting up Christmas decorations in the beginning of November.  He had no tree but instead hung each decoration from the ceiling of the living room.  Each day the collection grew in number by the dozens.  Every night after work, I would return to Lil' Red and the magical glow of the most amazing amount of Christmas decorations I had ever seen. 

And somehow, Christmas was not as difficult that year.  The decorations seemed to Hang from the Heavens for me, and I felt my mother's presence protecting me ~ along with this assortment of good neighbors ~ now housemates ~ from The Bad Man down the alley.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

The Last Dance

1994 was a year of "Lasts."

Mom was diagnosed with cancer in March 1994 although she was first misdiagnosed in January and treated for pleurisy for two months.

One of the hardest things about "Her Cancer Year" was having to work through most of it.  I had returned to my old college job at the video store and worked most nights alone.  By day, I accompanied her and Dad to chemo and radiation appointments when I could.  By night, I would stand at the register crying into my turquoise windbreaker between customers.  The same windbreaker she bought me for my trip the New York only seven months before our lives changed forever.  It was awful.  I could barely function.

One night ~ a couple of weeks before her treatments started ~ I noticed a strange car in the parking lot for hours at work.  A few rows back but facing the store.  The same car was there the next night.  I called the cops, but they basically did nothing ~ said the guy was waiting for someone or something like that.  But my gut told me something was still wrong.  And so my parents played cop for one night and came to the store one hour before closing to guide me home.  

Mom and Dad always let us play their old records from the 50s and 60s.  All three of us kids developed a love for music of yesteryear.  I fell in love with Bobby Darin from the time I was only 7 or 8 years old, and at 29 years old now, I would play all of the cassette tapes I could find that duplicated my parents' old albums right there in the little video store.  

And to my amazement, Mom and Dad suddenly started dancing the jitterbug right there in the store.  Only the three of us were there, and they had the stage all to themselves.  And for a moment, we forgot she was dying.  Her treatments had not yet even begun.  The chemo had not made her even sicker than she was right then.  Her hair was still wavy and beautiful.  And there she was dancing with Dad as if it were the first day of the rest of her life.  Because basically it still was.  And that was how she was.  She knew how to live in the moment.

Stage 4 Lung Cancer was not going to stop her from being Marcia for any minute of "Her Cancer Year" ~ She would be there for us right up until the end.

And maybe the guy out in the car was some Angel in Disguise ~ not the bandit we thought he was ~ because there he was ~ watching the store as if it were all meant to be. 

Bobby Darin sang in the background while my parents danced their last dance together.

And for those three glorious minutes, the world was still magical and not so scary.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Three Miles Out



The day my mother died the sun was shining
Dad opened the curtains and left the sun shining on her ~

Now it rains ~
And I look out the window and say,

"The world is mourning my mother."


~ January 8, 1995 ~





I remembered this poem yesterday as I stood on the cliffs of West Cliff Drive.  The waves were spectacular, and many people were milling about after a long work day ~ gazing down at the brave surfers riding multiple waves into the shore.

As I was leaving, I was reminded to blow a kiss.  How could I ever forget to blow a kiss?  Surely, I must have automatically blown one from the car as we turned the corner from downtown to the wharf.  A reflex now to blow a kiss every time I see a peek of the ocean ~

I blew my kiss.  And then I remembered that I have three people to blow a kiss out there to each time I see a peek of the ocean.  Both her and our Nanny Greene.  And now Cameron's Little JaRon.

We scattered Mom's ashes on Valentine's Day 1995.  El Nino hit shortly after her death on Christmas Day with the New Year 1995.  It was not Dad's original plan to wait seven weeks to scatter her ashes as many thought.  But the rain kept coming and coming.  He finally booked the Chardonnay II for Valentine's Day with the hope that the rains would finally stop.  And stop they did.  Valentine's Day 1995 was the first sunny day we had in nearly six weeks.  A warm sunny day to celebrate Mom's life.  We sailed three miles out from her Beloved Boardwalk.  

The boys were so little then.  Rhonda's two sons ~ only 8 and 11.  Oh, how they loved their "Ma" ~ who Josh used to call "The Muffin Man" as he recognized her Sweet Smile from the colorful character in the childhood book she read him as a toddler.

I remember Dad crouching at the edge of the boat and saying a prayer that I could not completely hear as he released her ashes into the sea.  Throughout this journey, we played the soundtrack from "Somewhere in Time" ~ Mom's favorite film ~ music that has always moved me ~ but felt especially spiritual on this day ~

And just as we inched toward shore, the soundtrack came to a complete close as our journey three miles out had ended.  I thought about her favorite movie "Somewhere in Time" and wondered if I would ever travel through time to meet up with My Dear Mother again in my dreams ~





Mama (center) with Dad and Nanny Greene
at Carlsbad State Beach circa 1980 

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Dreams

I do not remember exactly when I gave up traditional childhood dreams ~ like getting married, having a family, buying a house, etc.

In my twenties, I knew I did not want to have my own biological children.  I felt a pull not to overpopulate the earth while wanting to rescue a needy child.  I envisioned an older child ~ at least over five ~ and envisioned a child of color ~ as inspired by my lovely nephews who were just toddlers at the time.

It was not until my thirties that I gave up the dream of ever getting married.  I waited so long to even have a grown-up relationship ~ having never met anyone in college like my friends did ~ only dating wimps as my mother and father used to say.  But those dreams of getting married were shelved when I entered into what unfortunately turned out to be the most abusive relationship of my life ~ the horror of which I hid from most of my family ~ except my older sister and my friend ~ took four years to free myself ~ and to this day I still "watch my back" ~ even though I learned he is finally in jail.  I want to write about this experience in more detail or at least sharing my writings of my past, but I do fear that the harsh truth of what I went through would shock my family and friends to the core.  Only those few who really knew what happened would not be shocked  ~ only saddened ~ that my late thirties were taken up with such violence and fear ~ that only a person who has experienced something so similar could ever fully understand.

And so now, at age 45, I think back to those earlier dreams and wonder how they ever died ~ and what dream survived amidst all the chaos of the last decade.

And two words always come to mind:  New York ~

So yes, I still have dreams, and no amount of abuse could ever take that one away.

Oh, how I never should have told him that dream.  He always used to shove it right back up in my face.

"Oh, why don't you just go to New York and become a writer?" he would say in a mocking way that made me regret having shared such a personal childhood fantasy that I have carried with me since I was 10 years old and read the whole series of "All of a Kind Family" books about a big Jewish Family living in the Lower East Side of New York City.  

Then came "Little Women" with June Allyson playing my beloved character "Jo" ~ the writer who moved to New York to live in a boarding house to practice her art.  I became Jo for all of fifth grade and sixth grade ~ signing all of my letters as "Jo" to Nanny or to Mom and Dad when I stayed with Nanny in the summer.

It was My Mother and Father who made my dream first come true by sending me to New York City for the Summer of 1993.  I found the Martha Washington Hotel for Women Only and lived there for one month, running to the 24 Hour Post Office across the street from Penn Station to send my daily letter or postcard back home to Mom and Dad.  I spent $80 in note cards and stamps to create this travel journal of a lifetime.  Mom saved every one of them, and I have my own bundle of joy to relive the memory of the miraculous summer in New York City.

All of my life I have been fascinated with everything New York City, and all of my life ~ through all of the rough times in between ~ the dream of living in New York City never died.  Mom and Dad gave me the gift of being able to relive this life experience and relive this dream during any time of strain or stress.  I would walk the streets of New York City during these dark times.

And so now, for the first time in my life, the dream is completely within reach.  The resources are there.  The work experience has now grown to ten years at one university.  And there are jobs at many universities in New York City.

My dreams are back on fire ~ as they were never stamped out ~ 

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Holiday

I am wondering how I will be affected by the holiday season that is now prevalent nearly everywhere ~ gets earlier every year ~ had a bumpy week last week ~ experiencing random feelings of sadness ~ and then realized it was starting ~ the annual roller coaster of emotions leading up to the anniversary of my mother's death on Christmas Day.  

The 16th anniversary of "The Last Best Christmas" approaches too fast ~ and every year, I say will be happier ~ more festive ~ and every year I muddle through without a whole lot of enthusiasm but still a whole lot of good food.  I am sorry Mom, but it is still sometimes too hard to fake it.

This year may be harder as it will be the second Christmas without my Great Aunt Pearlie and the first Christmas without her beloved older sister, my Nanny.

I got a little practice at K-Mart, using the internet next to the Christmas trees that they put up in late September.  But usually I wince at Christmas displays inside stores.  Somehow, I still enjoy Christmas lights and beautifully decorated window displays and yards.

Been missing my fur family much more terribly than ever before and wishing for a life that left me the past two years.  Still life is good, and I know it will continue to get better.  

Somehow I will honor My Mom, My Nanny, and My Great Aunt Pearlie by "Living for the Living" and enjoy the holiday season in the best way I can.  I miss all three of you, and I feel your presence wherever I go ~ whatever I do ~ I know you are somehow still here watching over me ~