Rain and Pain Revisited

I have a confession to make.

Sometimes? I stalk myself.

Which means...sometimes I dig deep into my blog archives to remind myself that once upon a time, I wrote stuff worth reading. Because sometimes, and this also falls under the confession umbrella, I worry that maybe I've already written the greatest stuff my brain can muster up and there just isn't any more left. I do it to assure myself that if I did it then, I can do it now.

So today I ran across this. WOW. I wrote this piece five years ago; waaaaaaaaay back before we discovered that Diminutive One had Asperger's. See...I knew, even then, that there was something more than "Spirited". I just didn't know what or how much or if it could be fixed. But it's strange how that knowledge does not change the sentiments I expressed in this piece. It's only defined them a little bit and perhaps made them more legitimate in the eyes of the world. I'm not crazy and neither is my kid.

It's kind of weird to read old stuff. It's almost like traveling back in time.We all put a lot of  baggage behind us in order to get out of bed everyday and experience new stuff that then has to be put behind us as well. Some of that is probably best left in the past, but some of it, I think, can lend perspective to the present and future. But it is a little eerie to delve back into your own psyche.

So...travel back with me and enjoy.

No Rain and a Mother's Pain

Last Mother's Day, I received an iPod from my wonderful husband children, and I quickly set about trying to make up for all the years I was held prisoner by my children's musical tastes. Thankfully we escaped the Wiggles craze by the skin of our teeth, but I had my own cross to bear in the form of a leering purple dinosaur.

If you have an iPod, you know that iTunes will make recommendations based on music you've already downloaded. Since I'm still kind of a neophyte when it comes to popular music in the new millenium, the suggestions are welcome. I often find that they are very accurate in matching music to my taste.

Recently I downloaded "No Rain" by Blind Melon on the sage advice of iTunes. I immediately liked it, and I've played at least seven times in a row every day for the last week. Then I watched the video on YouTube, and found the lead singer very charasmatic and compelling in a quirky and eccentric kind of way.

I was sold on Blind Melon and decided that I needed to find more music by this band.

Imagine my surprise to find that the lead singer died of a cocaine overdose 12 years ago.

12 years ago I had a brand new baby (my first) and my focus was on sleep, keeping my breasts from exploding in public, and keeping my infant alive, which, at the time, seemed like a ridiculously tall order for someone as obviously as inept as I. The point is, popular music was about as low down on my list of priorities as intercourse.

So, though the Bee girl did spark a curious deja vu, and though I'm sure his sad and sordid demise was reported on the news, the name Shannon Hoon meant nothing to me. Thus, the information passed through the internal filter that rejected anything not immediately pertaining to sleep, boob expolosions, and the care and feeding one very small and very helpless infant.

For for some reason, I was inordinately and inexplicably bummed out by the death of some musician I wasn't even aware of a week ago, and who has not been on this earth for twelve years.

Indulging my natural tendency towards nosiness, I Googled (funny how that word has become part of our cultural lexicon) his name and began reading.

I was immediately struck by how descriptions of him were eerily similar to how I would describe my youngest, spirited child...my Diminutive One.

Now, I'm a writer, and as such, I have natural predilection for artistic exaggeration. But I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that the hair on my arms stood up as I read, and a chill slithered down my spine.

He is described as being larger than life, as having an expansive personality and an insatiable appetite for things he loved. He lived a life of excess, not just in terms of addiction, but in every respect. He was, by all accounts, a born performer, a natural and undisputed frontman. He was his own man with his own ideas.

These traits, though they contributed to a kind genius that is still talked about by other artists, are the very same that made him difficult to be around at times. He could be inflexible. Moody. Uncommunicative. And yet...it was impossible to be angry with him. Because, as one of his former bandmates said "Not a day went by that he didn't do something amazing." He was "A tyrant and an angel."

Jesus, what a waste.

I have always felt, with that peculiar brand of maternal presentiment, that Diminutive One was bound for greatness. Because I can't believe a spark that burns that hot and bright was meant to languish in a life of mediocrity. But I have also feared that such a spark can only burn so long before it consumes itself in a catacylsm of brilliance, madness, and voracity.

My Diminutive One is sometimes exhausting to be around, even when he isn't being particularly contrary or defiant. There is such energy and spirit and character to him, that it cannot be sustained unless it feeds on those around him. He can crack your bones and suck out the marrow with his presence, leaving you feeling empty, defeated and diminished.

But there are times that the dazzling beauty of him will lift you higher than you ever thought possible. Those are the times that I fear for him the most, because I fear the loss of it with a cold, icy dread.

I think Shannon's mother must have been ripped apart by his ignoble death. Surely someone who lived so enormously should have died in the manner set forth by the heroes of our childhood. Surely someone such as he should have exited in a blaze of perfect, dignified, sublime glory. But I think that perhaps she expected it, like she probably also suspected that he would be not leave this world without having changed it.

It's a kind of pain I hesitate to imagine, and one that I can't help contemplating.

I guess that's what it is to be the mother of a child like that. We hope for the best, expect the worst and try like hell not to wish away the moments that may be all too few.

If you have a Spirited Child, I want to tell you...don't waste time wishing for what can never be. Your child and mine will never be the quiet one, the well-mannered one, the "good" one. Celebrate them for what they are, in all their bigness, because living small is not in the cards for them.

And we, as their mothers, can only watch and hope, and sometimes guide. It's a deep ache to be sure, always wondering what will become of them, but it's also a sweet pain knowing that whatever comes, it will not be ordinary.

Our children will make their mark on this world

(Also worth noting...one of the comments, left by "Anonymous" said, "So...you're one of THOSE Mommies."  Not sure exactly what that was supposed to imply, but, regardless, I'm sure the answer is yes. Asswipe.)

A Different Kind of No More

From the moment we arrived, I had been dreading our departure.

I dreaded all the departures. For twenty-five years I had been coming and going from my childhood home. You would think it would get easier over time. But it never did. If anything, it only got harder, especially after my Mom got sick. I had researched her illness of course. Dr. Google told me that her life expectancy after diagnosis was fifteen years. And they flew by with a swiftness that was unrelenting. My efforts to savor, catalogue and chronicle every moment in an effort to slow the passage of time was rather like trying to stop a locomotive by grabbing hold and digging in my heels. Futile. Absolutely futile. Especially from 900 miles away.

It had always been there you see. Even when I was grown up and had a home of my own...it was always there waiting. I could always go back. I always had a place. It gave me the peace and the security that I needed to stay centered here in the land of I don't belong. Some of that evaporated when my Mom died. She had always been a problem solver. She never waited around for things to sort themselves out. She had weathered some incredibly difficult life experiences and emerged battered and weary, but never beaten. So I knew that regardless of what life threw at me, that house would shelter me, and she would help me muddle through. 

Even though I still have a father and a wonderfully supportive husband, I felt utterly lost when she died. Something about losing your Mom makes you feel terribly unbalanced and alone. But as long as the house was there, my Mom wasn't as profoundly gone as she would have been otherwise. Gone, yes, but still very much in evidence.

But, as we all know, the only constant in life is change. And change things did. My Dad met a woman and got married. Understandably, she was not inclined to live in my Mom's house. So the house is up for sale and this past week I travelled home for the final time to divide up the household belongings and the personal items of my mother's that remain there.

Her wedding dress is in a box with her dried and crumbling bouquet, the just married sign, the cake topper and all the collapsible tissue paper decorations from the reception. In others boxes were the baby clothes we wore and the baby clothes she wore. Doll clothes sewn by her mother. Letters from Korea written by her brother. Silk pajamas from a Japanese pen pal. A carton of family documents dating back to the 1800's. Plaster plaques she painted when we were born, each one inscribed with names, birth dates and birth weights. A multitude of incredibly detailed cross stitches. And so much more.

All those things hold inestimable sentimental value to all three of us for obvious reasons. But even the mundane utilitarian items are significant. My Dad couldn't understand why we agonized over butter dishes, gravy boats and nondescript kitchen bowls. He stood by looking bemused as we struggled to let go of things that seemed perfectly ordinary to him. But a gravy boat is 40 Thanksgiving dinners. A butter dish is 40 mornings of toast crumbs and chaos. The bowls are 40 years of cookie dough, cake batter and meatloaf. And 40 years of admonishments for eating it raw.

Those ordinary items were ever present on the landscape of our lives with her. And now, they are all we have left.

Deciding what to do with the things was exhausting and emotionally draining. But we got through it together. And now I can breathe a little easier knowing they are safe.

Friday night my sisters and I and our respective families gathered together around the enormous oak table in the dining room for the last time. I had intended for us to have a grand meal like the one my mother would have orchestrated on such an occasion. But we were simply too weary. So we ordered pizza, a rare treat for us these days, but one that went largely unappreciated by the adults. We were all too aware of the finality.

I didn't sleep that night, knowing what was coming. I stared at the ceiling of my old room, remembering and watching the hours on the clock tick by.  At 3 am I gave up and got out of bed. I wandered through rooms now stripped of everything that made them a home. Each and every one advertised her absence with it's blankness. I realized, with relief, that I felt strangely detached. That was good. That was easier. But the worst was yet to come.

My mother's customary spot in the kitchen was in front of the sink where she could gaze out at her garden.   For forty years she stood there; warden, sentinel, hostess. In the silent but not silent dark of old houses, I took her place. The yard too was dark, but a glimmer of white caught my eye. Her beloved peonies, which have normally come and gone by this time of year, had steadfastly refused to bloom due to the unseasonably cold weather. I had hoped they would flower while I was there, as I rarely got to see them in full bloom, but they remained stubbornly closed. The glimmer was an open bud, two, three, four.

I left the kitchen and ventured out into the damp grass. Their fragrance was still faint, but it was there. Only the white ones were blooming and only a few buds on each bush tested the promise of spring. But one bloom was fully open; full, lush and creamy white. I stroked the silky petals and thought briefly of snipping it to take with me.

But I couldn't clip that brave bud. So I simply whispered to it. "Good bye Mom."

A few hours later, my family had been rousted from bed and the first fingers of dawn were beginning to streak across the sky.

It was time to leave.

I thought if I did it fast, like a band-aid, it would hurt less. After only a moment of hesitation, I pulled the door shut. It clicked, locking me out of childhood. No more you can come home any time. No more Mom will make it better. No more escape into Sean Cassidy daydreams.

Drive, I said to my husband. Drive away. And he did.

Secondhand People

The smell registers first. It's not offensive, exactly. It's that of disuse and slow decay. It's the smell of thrift shops, used bookstores and museums. It smells of lack; sunlight fresh air and habitation.

But there are people here. They spill into hallways, litter common areas and huddle in sunny spots. Some drift, some amble, some meander, some roll. There is not much purpose in their progress. They simply seek to fill the days with something other than sleeping and remembering. They are broken, they are used up, they are worn out.

Still...they think and breathe and feel. They are not yet disposable. Just dispensable.

But there is no market for second hand people. Once they were respected and admired. Once they loved and were loved. Once they were the the backbone of their communities and this country. Once they fought for all the things we take for granted today. But they no longer have any value in a society that prizes youth, beauty, vigor .and productivity. They cannot be repurposed or refurbished or recycled.

They have no place...so they come here. And they are the lucky ones.

Unease dribbles down my backbone, as it always does when confronted with frailty, vulnerability, or mortality. Its pools at the base of my spine becomes a ball of chilly dread. It's hard for me to breathe in a place like this. But the tanks and canulas and coughs remind me I must. So I do. Deeply.

My guide is cheerful, like the murals that mask the gray of cinderblock walls. They are everywhere. She chatters and twitters and greets the residents by name. She feeds us bits and pieces of their life stories. She catalogues their missing limbs and maladies. She is not a resident. She can leave any time she pleases and this, I think, fuels her desperate delight. As it would mine.

We take turns wheeling her husband of 65 years around the facility. His hair is white and his voice tremulous with age. He is still big and he still looks deceptively strong. But this man strapping man who once carried me on his shoulders with ease...cannot rise from his chair unassisted. It seems impossible that the tickle monster, piggyback giver, popcorn popper, boogey monster chaser and deerslayer still exist somewhere inside.

It hurts to see him so....diminished. I don't like to think of him that way because I don't like to think of myself that way. It scares me far more than any other kind of disaster. For what can be more disastrous than the loss of autonomy, dignity, independence and sanity? Nothing, I think. Nothing. And everyone in this place is living what I fear the most.

I would avoid it if I could. But I know there isn't much time left. 

During our visit, I see flashes of the man I once knew; silly and cheeky and wry. It reminds me that he's not really gone. Yet. And the same is true of all those seemingly vacant people milling around the halls. They look so empty, but really they are brimming over. It makes me feel both better and worse. Better to realize there is something left inside those worn out and broken bodies. Worse to realize that so many of their stories may never be told. 

We are German people. We are stoic. We are not comfortable with flowery sentiment or displays of affection. But when we leave, I hug them both long and hard. Despite my heritage, it is hard to let go.

I take a last glance back before stepping outside.

My secondhand people are smiling. They are not vacant. They are not diminished. They are not less. She kisses his bald head and he beams up at her. They are happy.

I turn to see a woman at the window looking out over the calm, clear water, listening to big band music on an iPad. Her head sways gently from side to side. A group of men play cards to her left. Their movements are slow, but their laughter is quick. I look back at my secondhand people, who are now on their way into the dining hall. She greets other secondhand people and calls them by name. One man waves a bandaged stump in reply. They all laugh.

I begin to see that my own fears have clouded my vision. Maybe this isn't just a warehouse. Perhaps it is a haven and a respite. Perhaps it's a tranquil stop on the last leg of a harried and hectic journey. Perhaps it's comfort and security and rest.

My heart though still heavy, lightens just a bit. I leave knowing my secondhand people are safe and comfortable and I can forget for a while that this might be the last time. And I can stop worrying about my own secondhand fate.

There are worse things. 

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This is the place we visited. It was really quite impressive despite my initial unfavorable impression of the place. It was clean and very well run, with lots of amenities. I'm glad places like this exist.

 Wisconsin Veterans Home at King

Excuses Schmexcuses

I've been trying to post more often lately. It's made me realize how much I miss having that creative outlet to deal with...everything. I don't have much of an audience these days, which is nobody's fault but my own for absconding from the blogosphere to "find myself". But I think there might be an audience out there for me somewhere.

My friend Amy Sue Nathan just had her first book, "The Glass Wives" published, which thrills me to pieces. Go read it. It's good.

I've made lots of excuses for many years about why I couldn't write a book. Amy has the same number of kids and one less husband so, regrettably, my excuses are nullified by her damnable success. Curse you Amy Nathan!

In short...I've decided it's time to get serious. Quit screwing around, quit making excuses and just write a damn book already.

It may be slow going. I have a job and a family and although I do have a room of my own, (nod to Virginia Woolf) it doesn't afford me as much privacy or freedom as say...a life of my own.

But so what? So what if I only write a few pages each day. So what if it takes me ten years to get published? Olive Anne Burns didn't become a published author until her sixties. Probably because she had kids. (I joke...mostly). And she didn't even start writing "Cold Sassy Tree" until she was diagnosed with lymphoma.

It's never too late, is what I take from that.

I've done quite a few things in the last five years that I never, ever, ever thought I could or would do. Now I know I just have to make up my mind to do it.

And so I have.

See you on the New York Times Bestseller list?

Genuine Disingenuousness

In celebration of graduation, parents were tasked with writing a letter to their seniors. Normally I find this kind of forced sentiment very disingenuous. And as I sat down to write my letter, I was a bit disgruntled at being strong armed into such an endeavor, though I can usually pen such a thing with very little effort. Which was exactly why it bothered me. It wouldn't REALLY express all the ways in which parenting has shaped me as a person, or adequately convey my feelings about my child. I thought it a sham; cheap and meaningless. But I sat down to write it nonetheless, as I could not let my child be the only one without a letter. To my surprise...the words did not flow so easily. 

I struggled. I cried. I revised and edited. I cried some more.

When I finally had something down on paper, it didn't seem empty to me at all. I hope my son feels the same way.

Dear (no longer) Pre-Pubescent One, 

I’ve probably started this silly thing seven times. I don’t really know how parents sum up in a couple hundred words, what the journey of parenthood has been like. For that reason, I’m kind of annoyed by this, though I know it is well intentioned. It almost cheapens what an amazing, horrible, awesome, terrifying, confusing, joyful experience parenting really is. But I’m going to try, because I don’t want you to be the only kid without a letter. And I’m sure some kids will have envelopes stuffed with letters from family, family, friends, church leaders, coaches. But all you have is us. It’s always been that way for you and your brother and I’ve always felt sad that you didn’t have lots of cousins to grow up with, grandparents just around the corner, and close ties to the other adult role models in your life.

But I want you to know that if Grandma was still here, she would be all over this letter writing thing. She’d have had her letter written, stamped and in the mail three weeks before the deadline. She’d probably include photos, school projects and a lock of baby hair too. She might have even included a batch of spicy pretzels just for you.

So, since you only get one letter, I’m going to try to make it a good one. Words are my thing, and I’ve written a lot of them over the years about you and your brother. But somehow, when it comes to writing them directly to you…I’m at a loss. Because again, trying to explain to a kid how much they mean to their parents, is kind of like trying to explain to a piano player what it’s like to throw a perfect pitch; there’s just no perspective. Someday, when you have children of your own, everything will be clear to you. It’s one of the greatest tragedies of both childhood and parenthood; you have absolutely no idea how fiercely, deeply, and enduringly you are loved and how numerous the sacrifices made on your behalf until the time to say “thank you” and “I’m sorry” has passed. 

You were my first baby. You made me a mother. I had three years to spend being only that. Until I die, I will always remember those days as some of the happiest of my life. I had no  responsibilities, no obligations, and no commitments, other than being your whole world. That’s an amazing gift for a Mom and one I feel incredibly privileged to have been given. We read, we zoomed cars, we built block towers and we knocked them down, we sang songs. Housework didn’t matter. We had no schedule to keep. We spent long lazy days doing nothing more important than playing “this little piggy”. It was perfect. We had such fun and you always thought I was pretty cool. I thought you were pretty cool too. Sometimes I miss that little boy a lot. But then I realize…he’s standing right in front of me. How can that be? Sometimes, it really doesn’t seem possible that the handsome young man I live with now, is the same little boy that I once rocked to sleep. But I’m trying to look at it as a new chapter beginning rather than an old one ending. I think life has a lot in store for you and we’re truly excited to see it all happen. 

Dad and I are so proud of you. I know we don’t say it enough…I’m not sure any parent ever does. You are a kind, thoughtful, intelligent and responsible young man. I hope we have taught you what you need to know about how to get the best for yourself.  Know and believe that you deserve nothing less. It’s every parent’s worst fear, that they’ve failed their kids in that respect. Just remember, sometimes, good people do foolish things, stupid things, even criminal things. It's how we learn and grow. You can't learn to pick yourself up if you never fall down. I did, Dad did, and you will too. It’s OKAY. But never let the thoughtless mistakes of your youth define who you are or change your opinion of yourself, because it will never change our opinion of you. We will always believe in you. And even though we know it’s time for you to stand on your own two feet, we will always be here to pick you up, dust you off, and kiss your boo-boos, just like when you were little. 

Love Always, 

Mom and Dad. 

A Dearth of Awesomeness

There's no pretty way to say this, so I'll state it plainly: Mother's Day without a Mother sucks.

I have been angry for six weeks. That's the period of time in which we are typically bombarded with Hallmark card, jewelry, chocolate and flower delivery commercials.

I don't want a card. Talk is cheap but cards are not. I find it ridiculous to pay five dollars for some schlocky sentiment and a hastily scribbled signature. I can do that myself. See? Dear you, You are terriffic. I like you. I may get angry and say things I don't mean like the other day when I called you a hopeless calorie whore for eating four of those dutch caramel wafers, but that doesn't change how I feel about you. Well, maybe sometimes. But most of the time I really like you and think you're terriffic. Love yourself. Love, Yourself.

Geez, I should be getting paid for my Hallmakr skillz.

I don't want jewelry, particularly not jewelry that looks like boobs and a butt. "Open Heart Collection" sounds far more sophisticated than "Boobs and Butt Collection" but it is what it is. If calling myself by another name would confer upon me the desirable attributes that I wish to posess, I would call myself  Princess Beautimous Eternally Youthful of the Fabulously Rich clan. But I would still be  middle aged, middle class, with a muffin top, crows feet, and chin hair that proliferates far too quickly. And also, curiously, seems to be invisible until it is at least four inches long.

I don't want Chocolate. I work for Weight Watchers for fuck's sake. I get two pounds leeway. I can gain two pounds just thinking about chocolate, three by looking at it, four by smelling it, five if I consider eating it, and if I actually eat it? I have to start doing that thing where you loop a rubber band through the button hole on your jeans to make them sitting down pants again.

I don't want flowers. They die. It's insane to spend $100 dollars on stuff that dies. Or poops. But that's another post for another day.

You know what I liked? Those little flower pots with the fingerprint lady bugs on them. Hunks of lumpy plaster with misshapen hand imprints. Bookmarks adorned with foam flowers sporting toothless photo centers. Wonderful, horrible poems written in carefully constructed capital letters on dash lined paper. Clusters of  weeds in a dixie cup.

And having a Mom. I really liked having a Mom.

And now I don't and it sucks.

So pardon me if I don't respond to all your "My Mom is Awesome" posts. It's nothing personal. I'm sure your Moms are awesome. But acknowledging your Moms' awesomeness hurts me in a way I find difficult to put into words. Most of the time, I can ignore the lack of motherly awesomeness in my life. But all the relentless awesomemongering forces me to think about how awesome my Mom was and how she's not able to be awesome anymore and how much I took her awesomeness for granted while she was here and how I'll now never be able to express to her how much her awesomeness shaped my life.

Sometimes it's just easier to be angry.

So I am.

I should be over it by Father's Day.
 

They Called Him Pork Chop

After the response from my post about self  harm, which both surprised and delighted my son, he begins to comprehend the power and the scope of social media in a way he never has before. Which is kind of ironic, considering my readership is pretty nil these days. He asked me to post this video on my blog.  Because in his mind, it's all related. Which breaks my heart in ways you can't even begin to imagine. It makes me cry. I'm crying now and I've already seen it twenty times. I'm not crying because the video is so evocative and poignant....it is. Ohhhh, it is. But I'm crying because it is so deeply meaningful to him. I wish it wasn't. 

Watch, share, act. Please.

 

His favorite line from this video..."If you can't see anything beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror."

He thought that was genius. I do too.