58

Perhaps what is most pertinent is that I am measuring my mortality in years. Perhaps this is traced to the loss of my Mom when she was so young. At the time, everyone commented about how young she was. Gone too soon. 58. Horrible, awful thing Cancer is. Damn C word. 58.

I was drowning. Going through a nasty divorce (is there really any other type of divorce?), trying to keep my business afloat, as well as hers, caring for a 4-year old daughter who had to undergo two major surgeries That Year We Lost My Mom.

A Doctor at Sloan-Kettering mumbled something to me about, "being careful of warning signs" and such. I was in my mid-30's and filed his comment under To Think About Later.

It is Later. I am on my way to 55. Now, my mother's early death talks to me. It sits with me at night as the television hums its song of loneliness. It cuddles on my lap and waits to be petted and cared for, much like my attention-seeking dachshund. This thing To Think About Later buckles itself next to me in the passenger seat on long car rides and whispers in my ear as I run on the tread mill. 

Every time I am feeling under the weather, I hear that Doctor's mumbled words ring in my head. I look for signs. I imagine them. I dread them. I fear them. 

There is not a day that I do not review all my Mother missed. My brother's wedding and the births of his children. My daughter's Senior Prom and honors awards and graduation. My Dad's open heart surgery and difficult recovery. Her dance students becoming dance teachers and studio owners. The success of my studio. Life. She has missed the life that was hers to enjoy. 

People expected me to be a Bigger Mess than I was when she died. I thought I was, categorically, a huge mess. I have always thought, however, that I was incredibly lucky to have had thirty plus years with my Mom. She was my best friend and confidant, she was strong and loving, a provider and a caretaker. I had huge arguments with her and learned how to forgive and be forgiven because of her. She taught me to dance and taught me to teach dance. My mom was a beauty and oh so smart. She taught me it was okay to be both of those things. In the 1970's and early 80's, this was not always the case. 

My mother made me a Lady Who Lunches with friends and a woman who puts family first. Holidays were extravagant affairs with miles of tables laden with too much food, and card games to accompany dessert and coffee. I tell myself that most people never know their mothers as I did. They are not lucky enough to hold these memories close. Loss? Incredible. Lost? Always. Lucky? Strangely. 

I look at my almost-twenty-one-year-old daughter and wonder if I have lived enough to give her enough. Enough memories and love to get her through life if I was to leave it. Enough strength and wisdom to plow on when darkness and sadness overwhelm her. Enough knowledge of life that she can accept death. My death. Her mother's death. I wish I never wondered this, but I do. 

I wonder this because I have lived it. I live it. I will live it. Mortality looms for all. Life is more than wondering if and when death will greet us. I know this. I live and I love life. Still. 58. It is so young. 

Perspective

I am, perhaps, 3 or 4. I recall watching my Mom teach tap in our living room. The view is slightly askew, as I am peering through the octagon openings of my playpen. I remember the sound of tapping on upside down paneling and my Mom in black pants and a colored top.

I am 7. I sit, suntanned legs dangling over the rock ledge. I watch ants meander over moss as I read book after book. I scan the Croghan horizon and wonder at the lonely vehicle or two that happens by. Leaves curl on the ground below me and I pull my hand-knit-sweater-with-the-white-bunnies-on-it a bit tighter around my tiny shoulders. I hear my Mom calling to me from our patio, but keep reading. I know that she knows where I am, and we both know I won't be coming in the kitchen door until this book is finished.

I am 10. We are moving. Only one town over, but it feels so far away. I will go to the same school, and I will keep the same friends (perhaps). I stay up all night, looking out my bedroom window, and memorizing every moonstruck shrub and tree branch. Even now, I can summon that scene and feel the heat of my breath as I strain to commit every detail to memory. In the morning, I stumble among boxes and pretend I am not sleepy. I occupy my brother as my Mom reads from lists and tells Dad and family and friends what Not To Drop Or Else.

I am just 18. I will go to college tomorrow. I tip toe into my brother's room and watch his silhouette rise and fall with his breathing. There are 9 and a half years between us, yet we are very close. I have been a huge part of his first 8 years. I am saddest about leaving him. I creep silently up my attic-room stairs, knowing which step to avoid to make sure the CREEEEAAAKing sound won't wake anyone. I cuddle on the window seat and look out the window. Again, I commit to memory small details. The arch of the Beaver River bridge in the distance- steel meeting sky in a silver arc against the pale gray of morning. I peer down into our side-yard above-ground pool and stare at the neighbor's kitchen entrance. I love our neighbor, Mrs. Cowles. She was the elementary librarian at my school and had introduced me to so many wonderful authors. I close my eyes and watch the sparks of my overtired brain grow and subside. In the morning, we drive to Hartwick. My Mom sits, silent and sad.

I am a college graduate. Jeanine and I stand on the back (unsafe, I am sure) balcony of our Gault Street Ghetto Apartment and toast to our future. We have been up all night, savoring our academic victory, and clinging to our last gasp of life-before-we-have-to-grow-up. I see my favorite friend. She is slim and pretty. Short brown hair frames her brown eyes. I know she hears my words, I know she understands me. I am suddenly afraid. Afraid of making adult friends who will never know me like she does. I find myself doing it again- looking at every detail around us... the cement, the pavement below, the one dangling safety light that my Dad insisted on installing. I can still hear mumbled conversation from the SUCO guys living below and see the bubbles dissipating in my tiny, plastic champagne flute. The phone rings. Jeanine goes inside to answer it. She calls out to me- "It's for you. It's your Mom".

I am a Mom.  I am a MOM. The nurse comes in (again) and tells me to get some sleep. She is, obviously, delusional. Can she not see this baby? This tiny extension of me? This person who I made? Sleep is not welcome. I have a job to do. I must memorize her hair (dark brown ringlets), her eyes (gray blue orbs), her hands (pink-five-fingered-wonders). I pet her and coo at her and we stare at each other. Look at that! She is memorizing me, too! It is now 20 years that I have been a Mom. I have done this for every moment of her life- memorized her. It is what Moms do, I suppose.

I have driven her to Hartwick. I have been sadly silent. I have unloaded the boxes and bins and watched her eyes light up at the "possibilities". I have seen this and I have embraced it, and I have thought of my Mom.

More than any two people, I have memorized them- My Mom and My Daughter. One gone and one going on. One who I struggle every day to "see". One who I sometimes long to see. One whose voice I can hear in my head- and one who I hope- hears mine.

I cannot tell you what has formed your perspective on this journey called Life. You cannot tell me what has formed mine. What we see now is formed by a string of visions we have already seen. These Polaroids are mapped in our brains and we call upon them when we need them.

I sit and stare out my window. Tree branches hang bare and naked over thawing snow. A squirrel quips something taunting my way, and the neighbor's dog barks at a non-descriptive object in their yard. This is where today's perspective begins. It is solely mine. This is my perspective.

The Pause

I tell myself this is a lull. A pause. A gap? This is 54. When I am content with what I have, but worry that my content is somehow false.

For the first time in my life, I find myself alone. No parents, no siblings, no sorority sisters, no husband, no lover, no daughter in residence with me. It is me and Shotzie and Gatsby (my two doxie pups) and a small house on a quiet street.

This is great, I remind myself. This is okay, I hum in the back of my head. This is my reality, my heart pumps.

I am a busy gal. Days filled with work and friends and students. I don't arrive home most nights until nine p.m.- a glass of red wine, a netflix show, a slumber- and off I go again.

Now, I find myself in a strange limbo. College on recess and empty days. House is clean and laundry is done. I sleep in- an unaccustomed luxury. I sit and think and... there it is. The question. Is this my long-term reality? Am I okay with that?

Okay. I am okay. Hummmmmmmmmmm. I was a child who filled her head with fairy tales and designed a Princess life for myself. My Prince never showed. Many false Princes. I was easily convinced that each was The One- the forever guy- the stand-by-me and sweep me away like Calgon- guy. I never got a happy ending. Fault? I would have to tell you that I share it. It is tough to live up to a fairy tale life. I know this.

Curve balls came my way. This writer's scripted life did not include these bowling balls that struck down my dreams. I would, to my benefit, say that I was quite resilient. Divorce? Bouncy ball here. Child with medical needs? Keep on bouncing. Mother diagnosed with cancer and taken too soon? Just keep rebounding. I found myself bouncing and rebounding and weaving my way through life's obstacles. And, I decided, that was okay.

I cannot pinpoint when I decided that my life was not truly about me. It just happened. My dreams were not what my life was about. My hopes and dreams were wrapped in the happiness of others. Giving more to make someone else happy made me tick. For years, my clock ticked and time passed and I just...kept...giving... Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock.

Now, I sit and time continues to tick-tock and I am not moving. For the first time EVER I feel as if I am stuck. Waiting? Wanting? For what? For who? For me? This is a strange turn of events. I find myself doing bizarre, NORMAL things- saving money, searching for my forever home, planning ten years in advance. I am a live in the moment kind of gal, so this is somewhat alarming.

It is early morning. I type in the shadow of a sliver of sunlight bending its way through my living room blind. No television light. No radio sound. Pups are in their designated beds in post-breakfast nap mode and all I hear is the low hum of my laptop and the click of keys as they answer my fingertips. I rock gently in my chair in between sentences as words flow to my caffeinated brain and make sentences, then paragraphs, then a finished blogpost. This is my lull. I match my breathing to this slowed pace of life and tell myself it is okay. This is great. This is reality. This is 54. I am content.

The Limits of Friendship

This photo... this time. I remember it so well. We spent most of Madi's 12-24 month age period in Children's Hospitals and Ronald McDonald Houses. We spent a very great deal of that time in Philadelphia.
Moms of ill children form a unique bond. We automatically and instinctively watch each others' children. We run loads of laundry for another family. We tuck special snacks away for the tired Mama who wanders in from visiting her child long after dinner time.
Many of my memories of this time center on the living room of the Ronald McDonald House. We would fill the floor with soft, clean, fuzzy blankets, lie our babies on the blankets, and chat and cry and commiserate for many hours.
I became very close with one mother in particular. We both had our first baby in our 30's. Her son and my daughter were weeks apart in age. We spent a great deal of time holding each other's babies and sharing stories of what we were like "before child" and what we feared and hoped for our future and our baby's future.
Then, poof, one day--- my friend stepped back. She didn't want to push strollers around the halls or pull babies in wagons. She wasn't available for a cup of late night coffee or to fold laundry side-by-side. I was a bit hurt and very curious. Had I done something wrong? Had I offended her?
Finally, after a long week, she came to me and sat nearby. For awhile, she said nothing. I was quiet, offering an occasional smile. I waited.
"I can't be your friend", she finally said. I paused. Tears sprang to my eyes. What had I done? As if she had read my mind, I heard her answer, "Your baby will live. Mine will not. Right now, I can't handle that. I cannot see you holding Madi and realize she will be here in a few years and my son won't. It is too hard."
I had no words then. What could I say? I knew she was speaking the truth. I could not imagine being her. In my heart, I felt her pain. I hugged her, smiled, and said, "I understand"... because... I did.
That was the day that I learned my Mommy Mantra: I have nothing to complain about because I get to take my child home. This mantra got me through years of surgeries and traveling to distant hospitals for procedures. It helped me when my child cried in pain and I could not fix it. It kept me sane during a difficult divorce and the unexpected death of my beloved mother.
I GOT TO TAKE MY BABY HOME.
I think of that friend I made almost 20 years ago often. I know she was right. Her son did die. My daughter did live. She taught me a great and heart breaking lesson.
As we near another Mother's Day and you celebrate, remember those missing their children. Remember the Mother's who ARE Mothers... even if their child has passed away.
Don't pretend to understand their pain. That is an injustice to the cross they bear. Just understand this- there are limits to friendship. Those limits should always be set by the one who has to endure the most. Look hard at their journey and respect them. Look harder at your journey, and be thankful.

Gramma and Walt

As I am doing some "Spring cleaning", I stumble upon some of the fondest memories....
"Gramma and Walt" Christmas 1983 was discovered in a golden frame... my gift to them that holiday:

No two people are alike;
Each differs- like a Snowflake
intricate i detail and
beautiful in an individual way.

When two people take time
to see what love is made of
They notice the beauty of a Snowflake
before it melts away.

What you two have given
to each other
and to others is Special.
In a storm, you are warmth-
and your love will never
melt away.

Love, Rhonda

The words may be flowery, but the sentiment holds true in 2017.

Down The Rabbit Hole with Alice

I would gladly follow my Grandmother, Alice, anywhere. She was "my person" when I was growing up. My memories of her are so bountiful and joyous that I have had a huge issue trying to put them on paper. How does one capture the soul of a person? How do I tell you about this woman who painted her house pink, who went to college in her 50's, who married more than once (oh, the scandal). How do I share the flour dusted memories of pie crust making and the loud crooning of her voice beside me in a church pew?
When I hear Amazing Grace or Rock of Ages, I burst into tears. The memory of her standing in her kitchen, in our church, or riding in her car as she boomed these hymns is palpable. I miss her so.
Alice was envelopes filled with cash on branches of the Christmas tree. She was a beauty salon on the side of her trailer and several bad hair cuts which I proclaimed to love. Gramma Alice was a poofy square dance skirt and bunions on toes. She was country fair concerts and too much ice cream.
Summers were spent with her. Endless days of sun and chats. Nights when thunderstorms rolled in, she rolled me out of bed and into the car, where we would be "safe". Regardless of the hour, we drove around until that storm ended. I found out, years later, that Alice had lost her home to a bolt of lightening when she was a small child, and thus the summer eve outings. Often, she found someplace (miraculously) where they made us 2 butterscotch sundaes with a cherry on top. I still love butterscotch.
Gramma Alice Did Things. She joined groups and took classes. She had parties and made new friends. Alice was a force to be dealt with. To this day, my father will shake his head and tell me that I am "just like Alice". I thank him- that is a tremendous compliment. One of the things I recall that Gram Alice did was take off to Alaska. She just decided she should go because she "always wanted to"- and so, she did. She came home after a month with photos we could spin and watch on a screen and stories of black bears and salmon "as big as your imagination". She talked about the weather and the scenery so vividly, I believed I had been there, too. Alice could weave a story from truth to make life as lovely as you wished.
My Gram had read the bible cover to cover twice and still listened to Bible On Tape as a leisure activity. She was a Real Christian. The kind of woman who lived on a dime and shared what was left with someone else. She had been widowed when I was a baby, and my mother never recovered. Mom was a Daddy's Girl. I was a Gram's Girl. Alice remarried. Twice. First to a pipe smoking man who smelled like timber and alcohol. He was nice to us, but not so nice to Gram when drinking. He wasn't around for long.
Next came Walt. Shiny Walt-the-car-salesman in suits and with a Manhattan in hand. He taught my little brother just how much vermouth was needed in his drinks and he adored my Gram. My cousins and I spent summer weeks in a camper in their yard and they took us to the amusement park every night to play skeet ball and ride the Ferris wheel. We planted flowers, ate bar-b-que and had many scoops of ice cream.
In college, Gram visited to tell me she was having heart surgery. She was always honest and told me that she feared she wouldn't see me again. We didn't cry. We just sat. She survived that surgery. And many more. I still laugh about the time she ate an entire bag of forbidden coconut and admitted herself to the hospital, saying she was having "an attack". The family rushed to our local hospital to say our good-byes. She was taken into surgery and we all held hands and waited. Soon, her surgeon stood before us, shaking his head and smiling. They had removed a huge ball of coconut from her stomach. She would be fine. My mother was fuming. How could she have not told us? Gram was sheepish, "I didn't want you all to be upset with me". I can still recall her looking so small in that huge bed. I couldn't wait to take her home.
I have photos of Gram holding my daughter the day she was born. More on her first birthday. She is always the same in these pictures- unaware of the camera and smitten with my sweet baby. Madi faced physical struggles, and we were not sure she would walk. She did. And when she was just two, we took her to visit my Gram, who was in the hospital and "just not herself". Madi toddled into the room yelling "Grammy" and Alice cried tears of joy. We talked as long as the self-propelled Madi allowed, and then I went home.
I awoke the next day to repeated ringing of my phone. It was my mom, and she was angry. Angry that I hadn't picked up sooner. Angry that her mother had died. Angry that she had died alone. The nurses told us that she was whispering her favorite bible verses as she passed, and I have no doubt that she was. I'm sure she is up there, square dancing, giving free hair cuts, and belting Rock of Ages. Thanks to Alice, I dream of pink houses and Alaska's sunrise. I can make pie crust and know a great deal about country music. I recall bible verses I didn't even know I knew and I am able to roll with life's punches. Alice, I will follow you- anywhere.

Aging with Grace

I blame it all on Grace. That fiery little baby born in the back of a wagon traversing from Canada to the United States a century ago. The one born so small, it was assumed she wouldn't live the night. The one wrapped in cotton batting and placed in a tissue box to be buried in the morning. The one who lived to be 83. Grace, my Greatest of Great Aunts. The woman who categorically kept every family event for posterity with her camera. The tiny, round woman with the big smile and loud voice. The one who never had her own children; just a man-child of a veteran husband who barked orders at her and she ignored with a smile, a laugh and a twinkle in her eye. The woman who brought all of her nieces and nephews and the grand versions, too-- into her home bedecked with trinkets so untouchable that you had to touch them. Bells and Salt and Pepper shaker sets much more breakable then the 1970's plastic version on my mother's kitchen cupboard-- They were everywhere in her home-- china closet, end tables, kitchen cupboards lined with them. My cousins broke a few. I, however, never did. I was very, very careful.
I was always very, very careful. I smiled and sat on her lap and listened to her stories. I carefully let her love on me. I carefully loved her back. My mother loved her Aunt with a monstrous capacity. I felt this before I realized it. I knew it the way only a child can know. I saw it in their every day encounters, in their tidy lunches and sweet sharing of record albums... Lawrence Welk, show tunes and Elvis among them.
Grace's conversations, in her last years, bored me. Always about the "lovely roll she had for breakfast. Well, half... the other half would be wonderful with a cup of tea for lunch" or "do you hear the phrasing in this music? The lilting of the voice?".  I was in college, then. Her gaudy trinkets alarmed me. Her touch was not welcome. I visited less. My mother visited daily.
She became ill. Silently, savagely, painfully, ill. Never diagnosed, but we assumed a form of cancer. And, quite quickly, she was gone.
This woman who had fought from the beginning, who had loved others' children as her own, who had survived a marriage others would have fled from... gone.
My cousins and I gathered at the back of the small town funeral home and, suddenly, massively, we were crying. My tall-stilt of an Uncle appeared in the frame of the doorway. He wrapped us in his long and lanky arms and looked us each in the eye. "I know", he said, "this is the beginning of many endings for you all.  Soon, there will be more funerals. This is the start of death for this group of our family and it is so hard. I know."
That was it, really. My Uncle, the man who climbed telephone poles and strung wire and smiled when others failed to, had stated the obvious. We dried our eyes and took our seats in the small viewing room. I sat, for the first and not last time, in the white, straight backed chair of that room and averted my eyes from her casket. I imagined her happy somewhere, anywhere else but here. I tucked my near-tears inside my pounding brain and constructed stories that became memories that I can find inside my head to this very day. It was a trick I designed at Grace's funeral. A trick that has gotten me through too many similar good-byes in my life.
I returned to college and received daily phone calls from my mom, who struggled with Great Aunt Grace's passing. She and my Grandmother and the other family women separated her belongings, and my mother came home with the lot of salt and pepper shakers and her album collection. The shakers were carefully placed in her china cabinet in matching sets of memories,and the albums were lined on the shelves of her den.
I blame you, Grace. You started it all. The tears and the aching- insides. The longing and the not knowing how to say a good-bye. The albums of photos are in my possession now. I see us collected on those pages at family reunions and baptisms and birthday parties. None of those photos show us collected at funerals, because you were never there to take the photo. You, Grace- you started it all.