You Weren't Part of the Story

Just a reminder for the reader. You weren't part of the story. Not then. Not now. You didn't see the effort it took to write each sentence, to choose the correct punctuation, even the struggle for the right font. (Is this best in Courier, size 12?... Should I allow this run-on sentence... Is this a question or a statement...).

That was the struggle of our story, in essence. Two families trying every day to be one. Loving each other in an unqualified manner that was, somehow, always qualified by others. Forging ahead to write a new page which was always tinged at the corners with a slow burn, a curling edge of the paper, where a bright flame was licking at the heart of our story.

We shared days of overflowing happiness wrapped in bows that were later found, crumpled along with the wrapping paper in a dusty corner. A carefully constructed box that once held treasures was tipped on its side, contents shattered, pieces strewn about the hardwood floor.

Words, words like sharp knives or words like cozy hugs. As attentive as a loving pet. As hurtful as a scratch from that frightened animal.

When life lies in balance, secrets spill out on pillowcases in darkness. They lie on the cotton thread case like refrigerator alphabet letters, plastic, hard and cold. Words are muffled screams emitted as whispers. These words are wisps of light in the gray of early morning. They are hot coffee on a cold morning, too hot and somehow comforting at the same time. Words are strangling-hold-on-too-tight-we-are-falling-apart moments uttered in lovely desperation.

You weren't there with us then. You aren't allowed to write yourself into the story. Don't add a post-script or even your "perhaps it was all for the best".

When we first met, I wrote: "On this starry night you stand on the dock by the river and the moon strikes its bold path to light your face. At this moment, I know you are true. I know we are true." No one can erase those words and the sentiment they hold. Time cannot erase those words or the emotion we felt. That was the start of a story that was only ours- Ours and those who will always remain ours, holding the memories in a secret space only five of us share. We cannot second guess the font we chose or the way we punctuated each sentence. The story has been written. I know one thing to be true, we shared a long chapter in a too short story.

The Ability to Be...

It is November. You know, the time we are expected to give thanks, to show how grateful we are, to embrace the warm and fuzzy. Social media is a buzz kill on this topic. My timeline is laden with memories of daily grateful posts from years gone by. I mean, I've said it. I've written it. I've added the obligatory "look how wonderful my life is" pic. It is all there for the world to see.

So. I am not doing it this November. Not repeating. Not restating. Just, resharing. Thanks, Facebook for the "that was easy" button option on this topic.

To clarify, I AM grateful. I do love my life. I have a great kid, fabulous friends, and my businesses make me happy on the daily. I have many, many reasons to be grateful this year. I sold a house, moved my Dad closer to me so I can spend more time with him, moved into my dream house, and got a new car (used car... new used car). My dance company is thriving, I love being an adjunct English prof and tutor at the community college, and life is G-O-O-D.

I guess what I am asking is why do I need to share it? Why do I need to post photos, restate the obvious, join the influx of the masses of the grateful this November? Well, the obvious answer is, I don't. I don't need to try to explain how all of this wonderfulness in my existence is tinged with a sadness that only the melodramatic artist in me can embrace.

I can't explain how leaving the Croghan house yesterday brought me to tears. How I wandered room to room, looking for the ghost of my Mother as she stood at Madi's bedroom window on Christmas eve in 1999 and half-whispered into the snowy night, "Remember this night and its magic, Rhonda. It will be gone too soon". I struggle to share how I peered into the overgrown backyard and tilted my head to one side, listening for the tinkle of giggling toddlers as they ran in the grass, tried to drive the Barbie jeep, or splashed in the plastic wading pool. My heart was heavy as I retraced the narrow steps, imagining a heavy headed and sleepy Madi in my arms as I carefully counted each step, knowing my most precious cargo could not be dropped or wakened from her slumber.

I wanted to walk into that living room and see my Dad and Madi strumming on guitars and singing loudly as the television buzzed in the background. I wanted to shake my head, turn off the television, pop a squat on the couch, and smile ear to ear at their antics.

Instead, I checked closets for strangely important long-lost objects and carefully closed doors behind me one last time. I ran my hand along the faded wall paper I recall my Gram Alice putting up with such painstaking pride and care. I'm sure it will be gone, destroyed, unappreciated.

Change is good, I know. Embracing the new, feeling blessed and grateful and lucky is how we move forward. Still, there is a smudge in the fresh ink of newness. A thumbprint squarely embedded on the fresh page of  Moving On. It won't be erased or crossed out. I see it, clearly. I feel it, deeply. Grateful? I am. For the memories.

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.