Today I walked my daughter into daycare. Her favorite teacher (Miss S) was sitting with her head wrapped in a kerchief. It was a new look for her and I thought it might be religiously based.
No, she has cancer.
She started at the daycare a few weeks after Lotus did. At 18 Months, Lotus would see her and roll over to her as fast as she could. (She didn't crawl well until after she learned to walk--whatever.) Lately Lotus has wondered if Miss S. had been mad at her. I told her no she probably had other stuff on her mind.
Did she ever.
Cancer took my mom from me. Not the lung cancer that I feared as a child since my mom smoked two packs a day until I was around 10. Not the breast cancer that I thought would claim her when they found a malignant lump due to her due diligence with self-exams. Cervical/Uterine cancer. I put the slash in since by the time they discovered it it was stage 4 and no one was sure where it started.
I told Miss S. about an organization that was so helpful to me and to my mom. They are called Imerman's Angels You contact them and they will provide you with a mentor. They will provide your caregiver with a mentor so you can talk to people who have been where you are. My mom's mentor was Carrie and she had been through what mom had and mom talked to her for hours. When mom passed, Carrie sent us a card that was so lovely.
For those in your life who might be dealing with this hellish disease, point them here. And if you need a place to donate money--same goes.
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Monday, June 12, 2017
Monday, April 3, 2017
Microblog Mondays - Dear Mom Year 3
Dear Mom,
Tomorrow will be three years
since I picked up the phone
to Dad's voice
saying only
"Honey, she's gone."
I had seen you
two days earlier.
I can still feel
your hand in mine.
You were beyond speech but
when you squeezed my hand
I knew that you knew
I was there.
I promised to take care of dad.
And I have, as much as he will let me.
I told you it was okay for you to go.
It was.
You were in so much pain.
You weren't you anymore.
Dad said, "If there was anything to pull we would have pulled it."
Not for him,
For you,
Because you hated being that way.
I told you you had been a great mom.
I forgave all the teenage crap.
I forgave the adult crap.
I forgave.
I said that I would be okay.
I lied.
I need you.
I never planned on motherhood
without my mother to guide me.
I miss you.
The good and the bad.
I never knew I'd watch Gilmore Girls
To remember how much of a pain you could be.
I know I am not the only one suffering.
Dad still reaches for you in the morning.
Aunt V, your older sister, often time travels in her head
to when you were alive.
My sister and brother live with their regrets.
I have few with regard to you.
I am proud of how I was able to care for you
like you cared for me.
I only wish I could have done so longer.
Tomorrow will be three years
since I picked up the phone
to Dad's voice
saying only
"Honey, she's gone."
I had seen you
two days earlier.
I can still feel
your hand in mine.
You were beyond speech but
when you squeezed my hand
I knew that you knew
I was there.
I promised to take care of dad.
And I have, as much as he will let me.
I told you it was okay for you to go.
It was.
You were in so much pain.
You weren't you anymore.
Dad said, "If there was anything to pull we would have pulled it."
Not for him,
For you,
Because you hated being that way.
I told you you had been a great mom.
I forgave all the teenage crap.
I forgave the adult crap.
I forgave.
I said that I would be okay.
I lied.
I need you.
I never planned on motherhood
without my mother to guide me.
I miss you.
The good and the bad.
I never knew I'd watch Gilmore Girls
To remember how much of a pain you could be.
I know I am not the only one suffering.
Dad still reaches for you in the morning.
Aunt V, your older sister, often time travels in her head
to when you were alive.
My sister and brother live with their regrets.
I have few with regard to you.
I am proud of how I was able to care for you
like you cared for me.
I only wish I could have done so longer.
Monday, March 13, 2017
Microblog Monday - Loving My Neighbor
Growing up, our next door neighbors were our dearest friends. I called them Aunt K and Uncle B. If my mother wasn't home when I got off the bus from school I went next door and played in their basement. Uncle B. taught me how to hammer a nail--including how to swear if I missed and hit my thumb. I was told that the words "Shit! Goddamnit! Shit!" in that order was the only way to respond when I missed the nail and hit my fingers. That being said--those words were only for that occasion. I believed that until I got to middle school.
Our neighbors were Catholic and we were Jewish. Every Christmas morning for years we went over there for breakfast where Santa had dropped a bunch of gifts under their tree. Because my parents were on vacation out of the country, Aunt K and Uncle B knew that I became engaged to D before my parents did. I grieved when Uncle B passed away and I still stay in touch with Aunt K.
Because we had such wonderful neighbors I learned how to be a good neighbor. Our across the street neighbors (our house was at the end of a street) were not as wonderful. They loved leaving their car right behind ours even though multiple cars could and did fit into their driveway. They were snobs and told my mother to "watch out for the silver" when I invited my multi-racial group of friends over. But they were our neighbors. Many was the time I would come home and mom had made chicken soup. On the kitchen table was one or two extra containers filled with my mom's chicken soup. She'd tell me to take them next door or across the street because they were sick. If there was death it was a macaroni casserole with our name in masking tape at the bottom of the Corningware pan. This was reciprocated. When I was sixteen, I vented to Aunt K about my crush and how he didn't know I existed and on and on and on. After giving me a wonderful and nonjudgmental ear, I came home on a very cold day to see a pint of Haagen Daaz chocolate chocolate chip ice cream on our front stoop. "In case of heartbreak," the note read. "open pint. Take spoon. Ingest."
I am lucky that the streak has continued. We have wonderful neighbors. Our next door neighbors teach Lotus about flowers and plan to teach her about gardening. Across the street comes over with their snowblower--often--to dig us out. We say thanks with chocolate chip cookies and brownies.
Love your neighbor is at the center of just about every religion. Help your neighbor.Take care of each other. This is why the Republican Health Don'tCare plan astounds me.
Republicans are supposed to be moral. Where is the morality of telling people that if you aren't white you don't deserve health care? Where is the morality of taking health care from people who need it most. Republicans are churchgoers far more then Democrats. Were they absent when they taught that page from the Bible?
Health insurance is moral to me. If I am healthy I want the money I pay into insurance to go to help someone who is sick or who, God forbid, has a sick child. If you want health insurance to only cover you, and not your neighbor you have no right to call yourself a good person--regardless of religious denomination. One man asked why men need to be paying for pre-natal care. Was he immaculately conceived? Isn't it a good thing as a nation to have a healthy populace?
I will be calling my congressman and senators and explaining that I want my neighbors healthy. I want my family healthy and I will work like hell to unseat anyone who votes for this bill. I hope all the Americans reading this.
That being said--what are other neighborly things that you like to do?
Our neighbors were Catholic and we were Jewish. Every Christmas morning for years we went over there for breakfast where Santa had dropped a bunch of gifts under their tree. Because my parents were on vacation out of the country, Aunt K and Uncle B knew that I became engaged to D before my parents did. I grieved when Uncle B passed away and I still stay in touch with Aunt K.
Because we had such wonderful neighbors I learned how to be a good neighbor. Our across the street neighbors (our house was at the end of a street) were not as wonderful. They loved leaving their car right behind ours even though multiple cars could and did fit into their driveway. They were snobs and told my mother to "watch out for the silver" when I invited my multi-racial group of friends over. But they were our neighbors. Many was the time I would come home and mom had made chicken soup. On the kitchen table was one or two extra containers filled with my mom's chicken soup. She'd tell me to take them next door or across the street because they were sick. If there was death it was a macaroni casserole with our name in masking tape at the bottom of the Corningware pan. This was reciprocated. When I was sixteen, I vented to Aunt K about my crush and how he didn't know I existed and on and on and on. After giving me a wonderful and nonjudgmental ear, I came home on a very cold day to see a pint of Haagen Daaz chocolate chocolate chip ice cream on our front stoop. "In case of heartbreak," the note read. "open pint. Take spoon. Ingest."
I am lucky that the streak has continued. We have wonderful neighbors. Our next door neighbors teach Lotus about flowers and plan to teach her about gardening. Across the street comes over with their snowblower--often--to dig us out. We say thanks with chocolate chip cookies and brownies.
Love your neighbor is at the center of just about every religion. Help your neighbor.Take care of each other. This is why the Republican Health Don'tCare plan astounds me.
Republicans are supposed to be moral. Where is the morality of telling people that if you aren't white you don't deserve health care? Where is the morality of taking health care from people who need it most. Republicans are churchgoers far more then Democrats. Were they absent when they taught that page from the Bible?
Health insurance is moral to me. If I am healthy I want the money I pay into insurance to go to help someone who is sick or who, God forbid, has a sick child. If you want health insurance to only cover you, and not your neighbor you have no right to call yourself a good person--regardless of religious denomination. One man asked why men need to be paying for pre-natal care. Was he immaculately conceived? Isn't it a good thing as a nation to have a healthy populace?
I will be calling my congressman and senators and explaining that I want my neighbors healthy. I want my family healthy and I will work like hell to unseat anyone who votes for this bill. I hope all the Americans reading this.
That being said--what are other neighborly things that you like to do?
Monday, January 16, 2017
Microblog Monday - My Real Grandmother
Lotus is named after my grandmother. My father's mother.
I adored her. I looked up to her--even though by the time I was 14 I was taller than her. When I spoke of my grandmother, I meant her.
But I met both of my grandmothers. I met my mother's mother. She taught me how to bless the candles on Friday nights. She put dots of honey on my fingers and after I said some of the words right I would lick my fingers. She would read Torah stories to me. I remember her scent.
Grandma G. passed when I was around 7. I remember the funeral vividly. I remember my mother ripping a black ribbon as it was pinned to her suit. I remember that so well that when I was at my own mother's funeral, I flashed back to that day and broke down. It became real then.
But this isn't about my mom--or not really.
I came across a cache of pictures of my mother's parents. I never met my maternal grandfather, he died before I was born. My then 42 year old mother thought that her missed periods and nausea was extended mourning. She went to the doctor and was declared 4 months pregnant.
There are several pictures of me with my grandmother. But the picture that stopped me cold was a picture of both of my maternal grandparents--taken not long before my grandfather's death. In it my grandfather is smiling adoringly at my grandmother and she has--an almost shy smile on. It's the smile of a woman who loves the man she is with. It is a beautiful picture of two people very much in love.
I realized that while I had met my maternal grandmother--I didn't know her. Not because I was a child, but because so much of her died with my grandfather. This woman, with the shy, loving smile, this was my grandmother. The one my mother wept for. The one my mother knew.
Lotus met my mother but knew her less than a year. Afterwards my father had a lady friend who slipped effortlessly into the role and Lotus loves her. She knows and loves my father. He is Papa. He can't count. Every time he asks Lotus to give him three kisses he counts "one, one, one, one" He makes her giggle.
Today, I was looking through more pictures and I saw a picture of my father smiling so broadly with my mother in his arms smiling back. This is a lovely picture. I sucked in my breath as I realized I was staring at my real father. The complete one, the one with my mom at his side. No matter how long my father lives, Lotus will never know this man. My father, when he was complete.
I adored her. I looked up to her--even though by the time I was 14 I was taller than her. When I spoke of my grandmother, I meant her.
But I met both of my grandmothers. I met my mother's mother. She taught me how to bless the candles on Friday nights. She put dots of honey on my fingers and after I said some of the words right I would lick my fingers. She would read Torah stories to me. I remember her scent.
Grandma G. passed when I was around 7. I remember the funeral vividly. I remember my mother ripping a black ribbon as it was pinned to her suit. I remember that so well that when I was at my own mother's funeral, I flashed back to that day and broke down. It became real then.
But this isn't about my mom--or not really.
I came across a cache of pictures of my mother's parents. I never met my maternal grandfather, he died before I was born. My then 42 year old mother thought that her missed periods and nausea was extended mourning. She went to the doctor and was declared 4 months pregnant.
There are several pictures of me with my grandmother. But the picture that stopped me cold was a picture of both of my maternal grandparents--taken not long before my grandfather's death. In it my grandfather is smiling adoringly at my grandmother and she has--an almost shy smile on. It's the smile of a woman who loves the man she is with. It is a beautiful picture of two people very much in love.
I realized that while I had met my maternal grandmother--I didn't know her. Not because I was a child, but because so much of her died with my grandfather. This woman, with the shy, loving smile, this was my grandmother. The one my mother wept for. The one my mother knew.
Lotus met my mother but knew her less than a year. Afterwards my father had a lady friend who slipped effortlessly into the role and Lotus loves her. She knows and loves my father. He is Papa. He can't count. Every time he asks Lotus to give him three kisses he counts "one, one, one, one" He makes her giggle.
Today, I was looking through more pictures and I saw a picture of my father smiling so broadly with my mother in his arms smiling back. This is a lovely picture. I sucked in my breath as I realized I was staring at my real father. The complete one, the one with my mom at his side. No matter how long my father lives, Lotus will never know this man. My father, when he was complete.
Monday, October 10, 2016
Microblog Monday - The sins of the mother
When I think of being Jewish, of the High Holidays, I always think about the Al-Chet. I allude to it, I think about it.
For the sins which we have committed.
Most of the time I go to synagogue alone. D isn't Jewish and Lotus isn't old enough to get much out of it. It is easier to let her stay home with D.
So I'm standing on Yom Kippur thinking about my own sins.
I think about Lotus. She is wonderful. She fills my arms with hugs and lets me show her the world. She listens when I talk, and I try to explain the world to it as I see it.
I wish for the current year that I can be the mother that my little girl deserves.
There are sometimes I don't want to watch Elena of Avelor for the ntheenth time. I want to watch something adult.
There are times I don't want to cuddle, or play. I want to sleep.
There are times that as much as I love her little voice I just want quiet.
There are times I think I am totally fucking up this motherhood deal and maybe that's why I don't have a biological child.
There are times I think, What right do I have to be annoyed or discontented when I prayed and wished and waited every single day for nearly a dozen years for this? How dare I not be smiling and happy every single day.
I want so badly to talk to my mother to see if she felt this too. While I could, and I'd be fairly sure she'd hear me, I won't get an answer. i miss her when I think I'm fucking up this motherhood thing.
For all these sins, God of atonement, forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement.
For the sins which we have committed.
Most of the time I go to synagogue alone. D isn't Jewish and Lotus isn't old enough to get much out of it. It is easier to let her stay home with D.
So I'm standing on Yom Kippur thinking about my own sins.
I think about Lotus. She is wonderful. She fills my arms with hugs and lets me show her the world. She listens when I talk, and I try to explain the world to it as I see it.
I wish for the current year that I can be the mother that my little girl deserves.
There are sometimes I don't want to watch Elena of Avelor for the ntheenth time. I want to watch something adult.
There are times I don't want to cuddle, or play. I want to sleep.
There are times that as much as I love her little voice I just want quiet.
There are times I think I am totally fucking up this motherhood deal and maybe that's why I don't have a biological child.
There are times I think, What right do I have to be annoyed or discontented when I prayed and wished and waited every single day for nearly a dozen years for this? How dare I not be smiling and happy every single day.
I want so badly to talk to my mother to see if she felt this too. While I could, and I'd be fairly sure she'd hear me, I won't get an answer. i miss her when I think I'm fucking up this motherhood thing.
For all these sins, God of atonement, forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement.
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Emily Gilmore and My Mom
So I've been binge-watching Gilmore Girls. I'd never seen it, a bunch of people said it was good and I've been enjoying it. I'm only in the first season so no spoilers please.
I thought I'd like Rory and Lorelei and I do.
But I love Emily. It's like having some time back with my mother.
My mother and Emily Gilmore had a lot in common. A rigid look at the world, a fierce love of their daughters, and a way to make sure her disappointment was known without saying a word. No way did we grow up that rich, but we were comfortable and the similarities are there.
There are sometimes when Emily Gilmore is on screen that I have my mom back for a little while--even the parts of her that I didn't like. Maybe especially the parts of her that I didn't like. I haven't been remembering the parts that drove me crazy--I miss them too. But there were times I could have killed her and saved the cancer the trouble. She had her bad points too, and watching Emily Gilmore helps me to remember the whole person.
Somehow this seems healthier than remembering only the good things. The bad things were there too. They had parts of our relationship and there are things I do now that I know she wouldn't have liked. She was not ever perfect. And neither is Emily Gilmore.
But she was mine, and I miss her, and for a little while when I am watching Gilmore Girls I have some time back with my mom.
I thought I'd like Rory and Lorelei and I do.
But I love Emily. It's like having some time back with my mother.
My mother and Emily Gilmore had a lot in common. A rigid look at the world, a fierce love of their daughters, and a way to make sure her disappointment was known without saying a word. No way did we grow up that rich, but we were comfortable and the similarities are there.
There are sometimes when Emily Gilmore is on screen that I have my mom back for a little while--even the parts of her that I didn't like. Maybe especially the parts of her that I didn't like. I haven't been remembering the parts that drove me crazy--I miss them too. But there were times I could have killed her and saved the cancer the trouble. She had her bad points too, and watching Emily Gilmore helps me to remember the whole person.
Somehow this seems healthier than remembering only the good things. The bad things were there too. They had parts of our relationship and there are things I do now that I know she wouldn't have liked. She was not ever perfect. And neither is Emily Gilmore.
But she was mine, and I miss her, and for a little while when I am watching Gilmore Girls I have some time back with my mom.
Monday, August 22, 2016
Microblog Mondays - For My Consideration-A Tattoo
Tattoo
Not the dwarf on Fantasy Island yelling "The plane, The plane" and I realize I just showed my age.
But a tattoo.
I've considered it on and off for a long while.
Reasons for not getting one were twofold.
1) I don't like pain. At all.
2) I never found something I wanted decorating my body for the rest of my life.
Well, I'm thinking the second one might not be an issue.
I might get my mother's signature as a tattoo. I like the idea. I like the idea that my mother would have completely despised the idea.
But the pain--kinda scary to me.
So, for all those who have made that leap--are you glad you did? Was the pain awful?
Considering minds want to know.
Not the dwarf on Fantasy Island yelling "The plane, The plane" and I realize I just showed my age.
But a tattoo.
I've considered it on and off for a long while.
Reasons for not getting one were twofold.
1) I don't like pain. At all.
2) I never found something I wanted decorating my body for the rest of my life.
Well, I'm thinking the second one might not be an issue.
I might get my mother's signature as a tattoo. I like the idea. I like the idea that my mother would have completely despised the idea.
But the pain--kinda scary to me.
So, for all those who have made that leap--are you glad you did? Was the pain awful?
Considering minds want to know.
Monday, August 1, 2016
Microblog Mondays - Mammogram
Today I had a mammogram.
I had been having pain in my left breast, and the doctor, after ruling out heart stuff sent me to get a mammogram.
I hate getting mammograms. I really do. My mom had breast cancer, beat it, and died of uterine cancer but I remember that horrible year very much.
I also have large breasts that don't like being squished.
But I have a girl who would be devastated if something happened to me so I went. I am fortunate, they have a radiologist there who will tell me what they see.
Nothing. Scan came back clear.
Exhale.
Okay.
I had been having pain in my left breast, and the doctor, after ruling out heart stuff sent me to get a mammogram.
I hate getting mammograms. I really do. My mom had breast cancer, beat it, and died of uterine cancer but I remember that horrible year very much.
I also have large breasts that don't like being squished.
But I have a girl who would be devastated if something happened to me so I went. I am fortunate, they have a radiologist there who will tell me what they see.
Nothing. Scan came back clear.
Exhale.
Okay.
Monday, July 25, 2016
Microblog Mondays - Smart women
My father has been somewhat of a Lothario as he is is working through his grief.
For reasons I don't comprehend, women live longer than men. That means as a straight widower he has his pick of women to keep company with.
He suggested that his popularity was due to the same things that fueled his popularity in college chiefly that he still has a lot of his hair and he still drives.
As for the women he has dated, some I like better than others, but none of them are bad. The other thing that I notice is they all have one thing in common. Intelligence.
I'm not saying common sense intelligence but I guess an intellectual curiosity that reminds me (rather unsurprisingly) of my mother. I find it funny that my father has a type--and the type is intelligent women.
Like my mom.
Like me.
For reasons I don't comprehend, women live longer than men. That means as a straight widower he has his pick of women to keep company with.
He suggested that his popularity was due to the same things that fueled his popularity in college chiefly that he still has a lot of his hair and he still drives.
As for the women he has dated, some I like better than others, but none of them are bad. The other thing that I notice is they all have one thing in common. Intelligence.
I'm not saying common sense intelligence but I guess an intellectual curiosity that reminds me (rather unsurprisingly) of my mother. I find it funny that my father has a type--and the type is intelligent women.
Like my mom.
Like me.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Microblog Monday--Happy Anniversary Mom
Dear Mom,
I have my first byline. My first paid byline, mom! It's in the online magazine Kveller. I think it is right--the name. That's what you would have been doing--you'd be kvelling.
Dad had his birthday and then, six days later was your anniversary.
It's a hard day.
For sixty-four years June nineteenth was a celebration of love. The kind of love that you had. The yell at each other, make up, hold hands for a while kind of love. The sleep in a chair by your love's hospital bed kind of love. That's what we celebrated every June Nineteenth. That's what my sister celebrated when she chose it as her wedding day.
Now, now it's a day where we try to act like we don't remember how you would do stuff. We made no mention of the fact that it was your anniversary when we celebrated father's day, and my sister's anniversary. No mention at all.
I didn't handle that part so well. Even though dad was with his new girlfriend, I had to talk about you. I had to remember you. We talked about you and baseball. How a client took you to the famous Don Larson Perfect Game. You came home sad and down because "No one hit anything. No one got a run. " We laughed. We missed you. I needed to remember.
I need to remember that your blood is still in my veins. Your heart still beats with my heart. I am here. I am here and since I am, you are still here.
When I am gone. When I am where you are, my blood does not flow through Lotus' veins. But my heart will still beat. I have given her my heart and yours too.
I miss you mom. Happy what would have been your 67th anniversary.
I have my first byline. My first paid byline, mom! It's in the online magazine Kveller. I think it is right--the name. That's what you would have been doing--you'd be kvelling.
Dad had his birthday and then, six days later was your anniversary.
It's a hard day.
For sixty-four years June nineteenth was a celebration of love. The kind of love that you had. The yell at each other, make up, hold hands for a while kind of love. The sleep in a chair by your love's hospital bed kind of love. That's what we celebrated every June Nineteenth. That's what my sister celebrated when she chose it as her wedding day.
Now, now it's a day where we try to act like we don't remember how you would do stuff. We made no mention of the fact that it was your anniversary when we celebrated father's day, and my sister's anniversary. No mention at all.
I didn't handle that part so well. Even though dad was with his new girlfriend, I had to talk about you. I had to remember you. We talked about you and baseball. How a client took you to the famous Don Larson Perfect Game. You came home sad and down because "No one hit anything. No one got a run. " We laughed. We missed you. I needed to remember.
I need to remember that your blood is still in my veins. Your heart still beats with my heart. I am here. I am here and since I am, you are still here.
When I am gone. When I am where you are, my blood does not flow through Lotus' veins. But my heart will still beat. I have given her my heart and yours too.
I miss you mom. Happy what would have been your 67th anniversary.
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
I'm with her
I was very moved by Hillary's speech.
I thought of my mom.
My mother voted for Hillary in 2008.
My mother was born in 1927. She was the second woman to graduate her university with a major of world trade. Now it would be called international finance.
Nothing offended my mother more than willful ignorance. I think it is understandable that she didn't like Sarah Palin. But she wanted to see a woman president very much.
She would have liked yesterday.
I thought of my mom.
My mother voted for Hillary in 2008.
My mother was born in 1927. She was the second woman to graduate her university with a major of world trade. Now it would be called international finance.
Nothing offended my mother more than willful ignorance. I think it is understandable that she didn't like Sarah Palin. But she wanted to see a woman president very much.
She would have liked yesterday.
Monday, June 6, 2016
Breaking the Fast
Work-wise and getting things done - wise, last week pretty much sucked.
However, as I plod along trying to take steps forward in my grief I believe I have turned a corner.
Last week, I read.
I don't mean read news sites and blog posts I mean books.
I don't mean I listened to books--though I am in the middle of a long audiobook and I listened to it.
I mean I read.
Five books in seven days.
Five new books that I have never read before.
Five books that are not written by Nora Roberts.
When my cousin, who lost both of her parents, told me that I would have problems reading, I didn't believe her. Reading and books are what got me through bad times. To a point it still did. I was reading and rereading the work of Nora Roberts. When I tried to read new books--I put them down.
Something happened. The dam of my TBR (to be read) pile crashed down and I picked up a new book and finished it. I grabbed another new book and did the same. If I wasn't with my husband or daughter I was reading, getting lost in words and worlds. I was staying up late reading to find out what happens next. I plan to be reviewing some of the books in later posts, but I can say that the biggest surprise of the books was Trade Me by Courtney Milan. Mainly because I don't like "New Adult" fiction usually--but this was a massive exception.
Anyone read any really good books lately? Because it seems that now I'm ready to.
However, as I plod along trying to take steps forward in my grief I believe I have turned a corner.
Last week, I read.
I don't mean read news sites and blog posts I mean books.
I don't mean I listened to books--though I am in the middle of a long audiobook and I listened to it.
I mean I read.
Five books in seven days.
Five new books that I have never read before.
Five books that are not written by Nora Roberts.
When my cousin, who lost both of her parents, told me that I would have problems reading, I didn't believe her. Reading and books are what got me through bad times. To a point it still did. I was reading and rereading the work of Nora Roberts. When I tried to read new books--I put them down.
Something happened. The dam of my TBR (to be read) pile crashed down and I picked up a new book and finished it. I grabbed another new book and did the same. If I wasn't with my husband or daughter I was reading, getting lost in words and worlds. I was staying up late reading to find out what happens next. I plan to be reviewing some of the books in later posts, but I can say that the biggest surprise of the books was Trade Me by Courtney Milan. Mainly because I don't like "New Adult" fiction usually--but this was a massive exception.
Anyone read any really good books lately? Because it seems that now I'm ready to.
Monday, April 4, 2016
Dear Mom - 2 years out.
Dear Mom,
It's been two years since Dad called--his voice nearly unrecognizable--and said, "Honey, she's gone." It wasn't a surprise. You said, often, you wanted to go "fast and first" and you did. First being that you didn't have to wake a single day in a world where Dad wasn't. Fast--well that is a relative term. You meant to have a heart attack. But the cancer that was discovered in October, left you bedridden in late February and took you in April was plenty damn quick.
I remember clearly how at 5:30 in the morning I woke up. I glanced at the clock, I got up and waited for the phone to ring. I was so sure you were gone. I called dad at 8:00, but he told me no, you were still alive, only to call back three hours later with the news. I told this to my sister and brother and father and all of us woke up at 5:30 or within 10 minutes of the time. No idea what that was.
It was monumentally unfair that after years of trying to have a child, waiting for the adoption that I never had a mother's day when I was both mother and child. You got to meet our Lotus and hold her, but she won't remember you--and I hate that.
You would have loved that I've been working the past year with audiobooks.
Listing the things I don't miss about you would take a shorter time.
It's been two years since Dad called--his voice nearly unrecognizable--and said, "Honey, she's gone." It wasn't a surprise. You said, often, you wanted to go "fast and first" and you did. First being that you didn't have to wake a single day in a world where Dad wasn't. Fast--well that is a relative term. You meant to have a heart attack. But the cancer that was discovered in October, left you bedridden in late February and took you in April was plenty damn quick.
I remember clearly how at 5:30 in the morning I woke up. I glanced at the clock, I got up and waited for the phone to ring. I was so sure you were gone. I called dad at 8:00, but he told me no, you were still alive, only to call back three hours later with the news. I told this to my sister and brother and father and all of us woke up at 5:30 or within 10 minutes of the time. No idea what that was.
It was monumentally unfair that after years of trying to have a child, waiting for the adoption that I never had a mother's day when I was both mother and child. You got to meet our Lotus and hold her, but she won't remember you--and I hate that.
You would have loved that I've been working the past year with audiobooks.
I remember your likes and dislikes sharper than when you
were alive. I remember your scent and the strong way your hands moved. I
remember how you would cut an onion, potato, or apple in the palm of your hand
and never use a cutting board. I kept buying you cutting boards for Mother's
day, your birthday, Chanukah. Two of
them I found after--unused.
Listing the things I don't miss about you would take a shorter time.
I miss your voice and your assertion that "everything
happens for the best." I don't believe it now, anymore than I did then.
But I miss you saying it.
I think what I miss most about missing you is Dad. He's not
with you--not yet, and I have some idea on how much work he has had to do not
to just will himself to your side. But my strong Papa is gone. He's far more
indecisive than I have ever seen him. He's more fearful too-- fearful of
driving, fearful of stuff. By your side
he could do anything. The two of you could do anything. I miss that.
I'm getting along--like you told me to, but you never taught
me how to get along without you so I'm winging it most of the time.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
The last show
I like the new Facebook feature. The one where you can click on something and then you can see all of your posts on this day for the past year.
I've been enjoying it.
For the most part.
Today though, three years ago today, D and I saw Fiorello with my parents.
Bad memory? No. Not at all. We had a wonderful time at the show. Went to dinner at La Bonne Soupe, discussed politics and had a wonderful time.
I just didn't know it would be the last one. I didn't know that wonderful time wouldn't happen again. The next day is one of the best of our lives--we got our referral. Then we got Lotus. And then we lost mom. Dad hasn't been back to Broadway since--though we are hoping to change that.
I just thought there would be more shows. My sister did too. She was invited and she didn't want to go--she missed the last one. Her thoughts of this--I don't know. I know she has so many regrets. A difference between she and I is that I have no regrets when it comes to mom--sometimes that helps.
Sometimes no.
But I wish we had had more.
I've been enjoying it.
For the most part.
Today though, three years ago today, D and I saw Fiorello with my parents.
Bad memory? No. Not at all. We had a wonderful time at the show. Went to dinner at La Bonne Soupe, discussed politics and had a wonderful time.
I just didn't know it would be the last one. I didn't know that wonderful time wouldn't happen again. The next day is one of the best of our lives--we got our referral. Then we got Lotus. And then we lost mom. Dad hasn't been back to Broadway since--though we are hoping to change that.
I just thought there would be more shows. My sister did too. She was invited and she didn't want to go--she missed the last one. Her thoughts of this--I don't know. I know she has so many regrets. A difference between she and I is that I have no regrets when it comes to mom--sometimes that helps.
Sometimes no.
But I wish we had had more.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Microblog Monday--What is missing from my table
Someone just asked me for my mom's noodle kugel recipe.
I have to ask one of my nieces about it. Why? I loved most of the stuff mom made, but this was an exception. It wasn't a favorite. (Noodles should be savory, not sweet in my opinion.)
Well the person who asked was horrified. How on earth did I have Thanksgiving or Rosh Hashanah without mom's noodle kugel. It took quite a lot for me not to say, "We're having a lot more trouble dealing without having mom there, much less the kugel." I didn't.
I am wondering though, what is missing from our Thanksgiving--food wise, I mean.
Here is my menu.
Turkey
Gravy
Corn casserole
Dressing (made from Challah in the crockpot)
Green Bean Casserole
Roasted Veggies
Salad
Mashed potatoes
Sweet Potato casserole (for the four people who want it. but one of those is me so...)
What do others serve?
I have to ask one of my nieces about it. Why? I loved most of the stuff mom made, but this was an exception. It wasn't a favorite. (Noodles should be savory, not sweet in my opinion.)
Well the person who asked was horrified. How on earth did I have Thanksgiving or Rosh Hashanah without mom's noodle kugel. It took quite a lot for me not to say, "We're having a lot more trouble dealing without having mom there, much less the kugel." I didn't.
I am wondering though, what is missing from our Thanksgiving--food wise, I mean.
Here is my menu.
Turkey
Gravy
Corn casserole
Dressing (made from Challah in the crockpot)
Green Bean Casserole
Roasted Veggies
Salad
Mashed potatoes
Sweet Potato casserole (for the four people who want it. but one of those is me so...)
What do others serve?
Monday, September 28, 2015
Microblog Mondays--Valuables
The Governor: (dismissively) Paper.
Cervantes: Manuscript
The Governor: Valuable?
Cervantes: Only to me.
-- Man of La Mancha
I went to my dad's house this weekend. He's looking at apartments and I went with him.
I wanted to take my mom's recipe file home with me. Then I couldn't find it.
Dad had hired a clean-out company to help him get a lot of stuff out. We had estate sales. But we couldn't find some stuff afterwards--we know it is in the house somewhere but we don't know where. I freaked out about this the last time, but I had calmed down.
My mom's recipe file? That practically broke me.
These are the foods that she made her corrections to. The recipes she'd charmed from restaurants when she traveled--in her own handwriting. I called my sister to see if maybe she had taken it. She said no, got upset and then said that no one would have stolen it. They couldn't read mom's handwriting. It made me feel slightly better--but not much.
We found it, well my husband did. I hugged that file to me the way I couldn't hug my mother. To others it was worthless, for me--it was priceless.
Do you have any objects that are "worthless?"
Cervantes: Manuscript
The Governor: Valuable?
Cervantes: Only to me.
-- Man of La Mancha
I went to my dad's house this weekend. He's looking at apartments and I went with him.
I wanted to take my mom's recipe file home with me. Then I couldn't find it.
Dad had hired a clean-out company to help him get a lot of stuff out. We had estate sales. But we couldn't find some stuff afterwards--we know it is in the house somewhere but we don't know where. I freaked out about this the last time, but I had calmed down.
My mom's recipe file? That practically broke me.
These are the foods that she made her corrections to. The recipes she'd charmed from restaurants when she traveled--in her own handwriting. I called my sister to see if maybe she had taken it. She said no, got upset and then said that no one would have stolen it. They couldn't read mom's handwriting. It made me feel slightly better--but not much.
We found it, well my husband did. I hugged that file to me the way I couldn't hug my mother. To others it was worthless, for me--it was priceless.
Do you have any objects that are "worthless?"
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Things I wish someone had told me about being a mom
Two nights ago I was dreaming that someone had put one of those Victorian pan warmers in my bed. I woke up and Lotus was in bed with us running a fever.
Lotus Fever hits my mom-panic button like nothing else. It also really didn't help that I'm listening to Stephen King's The Stand on audio. So I violated a cardinal rule of mommying. I woke the baby to give her medicine.
Or at least that's what my dad said when I told him.
No one told me that waking the baby to give medicine will result in said baby (okay toddler--as she is 3) deciding that Mommy wanted to play and stayed up for another hour. I wish someone had told me that you never wake the baby--even with a fever.
Made me think about other things that I've learned in the past two and a half years that I wish someone had told me when I became a mom--or since.
1) The Mom Panic Button
I didn't know one existed. I was the third child. I can count on one finger the times I was sick that I even saw my mother worried. There are a few things that hit mine. A fever, as I mentioned. A certain cry that make me run--means she's really hurt.
2) I'm not a slow reader, I'm a doer
I always thought my mom was just a super slow reader. Not so. I have a library book out that is overdue and I am reading it slowly. I don't mean to read it slowly but I barely have time to do anything and well, it is going slow.
3) They understand more than you think.
I got mad at my sister. I got annoyed at her and I vented to my husband. I did not realize that there was a little listener observing. The next time we saw my sister, Lotus was very cool to her. Afterwards I asked why. My little defender looked at me and said "She was mean to you!" Well, she had been--but she's my sister and sometimes she is. Sometimes I'm mean to her. But I realized that Miss Lotus had heard everything and was coming to my defense. I was touched and then had to explain how I am not mad at Aunt A.
4) You think you know tired--you don't know tired!
Which is why I'm cutting this short and going to sleep.
Parents, what did you wish someone had told you?
Lotus Fever hits my mom-panic button like nothing else. It also really didn't help that I'm listening to Stephen King's The Stand on audio. So I violated a cardinal rule of mommying. I woke the baby to give her medicine.
Or at least that's what my dad said when I told him.
No one told me that waking the baby to give medicine will result in said baby (okay toddler--as she is 3) deciding that Mommy wanted to play and stayed up for another hour. I wish someone had told me that you never wake the baby--even with a fever.
Made me think about other things that I've learned in the past two and a half years that I wish someone had told me when I became a mom--or since.
1) The Mom Panic Button
I didn't know one existed. I was the third child. I can count on one finger the times I was sick that I even saw my mother worried. There are a few things that hit mine. A fever, as I mentioned. A certain cry that make me run--means she's really hurt.
2) I'm not a slow reader, I'm a doer
I always thought my mom was just a super slow reader. Not so. I have a library book out that is overdue and I am reading it slowly. I don't mean to read it slowly but I barely have time to do anything and well, it is going slow.
3) They understand more than you think.
I got mad at my sister. I got annoyed at her and I vented to my husband. I did not realize that there was a little listener observing. The next time we saw my sister, Lotus was very cool to her. Afterwards I asked why. My little defender looked at me and said "She was mean to you!" Well, she had been--but she's my sister and sometimes she is. Sometimes I'm mean to her. But I realized that Miss Lotus had heard everything and was coming to my defense. I was touched and then had to explain how I am not mad at Aunt A.
4) You think you know tired--you don't know tired!
Which is why I'm cutting this short and going to sleep.
Parents, what did you wish someone had told you?
Sunday, July 19, 2015
And then the [deleted] had to go and die on me.
One of my personal powerful moment of BlogHer came as an aside.
We were listening to Gwyneth Paltrow discuss her family. This was THE Keynote address so the ballroom was packed. If you were at BlogHer at all, you were at this lecture. It was a great lecture. Gwyneth was lovely and real. She seemed like someone I could hang out with--and that was the tone of the discussion. We were all "hanging out" with Gwyneth Paltrow.
She had just finished a heartwarming story about her father taking her to Paris. She finished it to applause and then the aside came.
"Yeah, and then the fucker had to go and die on me."
You could tell by the reaction in the room that no one had the slightest idea how to react to that. There were gasps! (She just said the F-word!)
A feeling of disbelief (She didn't mean to call her father that--did she?)
Slight giggles (She said the F-word)
I'm not sure of the other reactions. I'm sure of mine.
I grinned. Full out.
I applauded--even though few others did.
Why?
Because I get it.
This is how I feel about my mother. I could go on and on and on about how wonderful she was and that would be true. I could go on and on and on about how much I miss her and that would also be true.
I don't get to talk about how furious/angry/annoyed I feel on a regular basis. Not that other people have their mothers and I don't, though that certainly comes into it.
What I can't say is how angry I seem to get--at my mother. This is not cool-but it is real. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross had it in the five stages of grief, but most people think it is anger at the world. No it is focused. Damn fucking focused.
I am angry that she ever smoked. I give her credit for giving up a two pack a day habit cold turkey. But seriously I get angry that she smoked because maybe, maybe if she hadn't she'd still be here.
I am angry that she didn't fight harder to stay. This makes no sense since I know she fought and fought damn hard. But she's not here and my grief is.
I am angry that she didn't tell me _________. I had been a mother for less than a year when I lost her. I lost her advice before that as she succumbed to the pain and pain pills. I know nothing about being a mom. Maybe she felt she knew nothing too--but she was my mom and she knew me.
I am angry that the fucker had to go and die on me.
That sums it up.
Yes, I have wonderful memories. Yes, she was not young. She was in her 80s and I know I was lucky to have her.
But now I don't.
Because she had to go and die on me.
We were listening to Gwyneth Paltrow discuss her family. This was THE Keynote address so the ballroom was packed. If you were at BlogHer at all, you were at this lecture. It was a great lecture. Gwyneth was lovely and real. She seemed like someone I could hang out with--and that was the tone of the discussion. We were all "hanging out" with Gwyneth Paltrow.
She had just finished a heartwarming story about her father taking her to Paris. She finished it to applause and then the aside came.
"Yeah, and then the fucker had to go and die on me."
You could tell by the reaction in the room that no one had the slightest idea how to react to that. There were gasps! (She just said the F-word!)
A feeling of disbelief (She didn't mean to call her father that--did she?)
Slight giggles (She said the F-word)
I'm not sure of the other reactions. I'm sure of mine.
I grinned. Full out.
I applauded--even though few others did.
Why?
Because I get it.
This is how I feel about my mother. I could go on and on and on about how wonderful she was and that would be true. I could go on and on and on about how much I miss her and that would also be true.
I don't get to talk about how furious/angry/annoyed I feel on a regular basis. Not that other people have their mothers and I don't, though that certainly comes into it.
What I can't say is how angry I seem to get--at my mother. This is not cool-but it is real. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross had it in the five stages of grief, but most people think it is anger at the world. No it is focused. Damn fucking focused.
I am angry that she ever smoked. I give her credit for giving up a two pack a day habit cold turkey. But seriously I get angry that she smoked because maybe, maybe if she hadn't she'd still be here.
I am angry that she didn't fight harder to stay. This makes no sense since I know she fought and fought damn hard. But she's not here and my grief is.
I am angry that she didn't tell me _________. I had been a mother for less than a year when I lost her. I lost her advice before that as she succumbed to the pain and pain pills. I know nothing about being a mom. Maybe she felt she knew nothing too--but she was my mom and she knew me.
I am angry that the fucker had to go and die on me.
That sums it up.
Yes, I have wonderful memories. Yes, she was not young. She was in her 80s and I know I was lucky to have her.
But now I don't.
Because she had to go and die on me.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Mother's day
For the seven years we waited for Lotus Mother's day was hell.
For the five years we tried to become pregnant and failed Mother's day was hell.
Then was the year that we had our referral. The day after Mother's day we left to go to China. After much haggling Mom and Dad came and we went out for dinner. Thank Gd they did. That was the last mother's day I would have her.
I never got to be a mother and a child together on Mother's day. It hurts.
Last mother's day, the one that came a little more than a month after mom passed we spent with dad. We spent it doing things my mom would have hated. Went to a restaurant that she would't have liked. I expected it to be a terrible day, but it was fun.
Which brings us to this year.
Sunday.
Dad doesn't want to meet this year. On Saturday my sister and I will be going out to his house and going through the kitchen. We haven't wanted to as that was mom's domain and I expect it to be a hell day. Then the next day is mother's day and we don't have plans.
That means the day is on my poor husband. And it isn't fair.
What I want for mother's day is simple and impossible. I want to hold my mother's hand and feel her fingers running through my hair. I want to spend a day in the kitchen with her. I want to hear her say my name and tell me everything will be all right. I want my child to have real memories about her--not my memories.
I want to be my mother's child again.
But that can't happen.
Instead I will have what I wished for for so long. Little arms around my neck wishing me happy mother's day. I will take joy in that and hope that my mom's voice inside me will be enough.
I end this with my mother's day wish.
For the five years we tried to become pregnant and failed Mother's day was hell.
Then was the year that we had our referral. The day after Mother's day we left to go to China. After much haggling Mom and Dad came and we went out for dinner. Thank Gd they did. That was the last mother's day I would have her.
I never got to be a mother and a child together on Mother's day. It hurts.
Last mother's day, the one that came a little more than a month after mom passed we spent with dad. We spent it doing things my mom would have hated. Went to a restaurant that she would't have liked. I expected it to be a terrible day, but it was fun.
Which brings us to this year.
Sunday.
Dad doesn't want to meet this year. On Saturday my sister and I will be going out to his house and going through the kitchen. We haven't wanted to as that was mom's domain and I expect it to be a hell day. Then the next day is mother's day and we don't have plans.
That means the day is on my poor husband. And it isn't fair.
What I want for mother's day is simple and impossible. I want to hold my mother's hand and feel her fingers running through my hair. I want to spend a day in the kitchen with her. I want to hear her say my name and tell me everything will be all right. I want my child to have real memories about her--not my memories.
I want to be my mother's child again.
But that can't happen.
Instead I will have what I wished for for so long. Little arms around my neck wishing me happy mother's day. I will take joy in that and hope that my mom's voice inside me will be enough.
I end this with my mother's day wish.
For the mothers, I wish you a happy mothers day.
For those who have lost their mothers--I wish you comfort.
For those who are hoping to become mothers--I wish you luck and speed on your journey.
For those who are childless (not by choice)-- I wish you comfort and the knowledge you are not alone.
For those who are childfree by choice--You Go Girls! You made a decision to swim against the stream--go you!
For those who have lost their mothers--I wish you comfort.
For those who are hoping to become mothers--I wish you luck and speed on your journey.
For those who are childless (not by choice)-- I wish you comfort and the knowledge you are not alone.
For those who are childfree by choice--You Go Girls! You made a decision to swim against the stream--go you!
I end this with a hope.
That next mother's day will have all the women who want to be mothers--as mothers.
That all mothers will hold their children tightly.
That all adult children will reconcile with their mothers if it is possible and comfortable to do so.
That all child-free women are made to feel empowered instead of ashamed.
And that the great mother of us all will grant us all peace.
"There are no great things, only small things with great love"--Mother Teresa (another woman who was never a mom!)
That next mother's day will have all the women who want to be mothers--as mothers.
That all mothers will hold their children tightly.
That all adult children will reconcile with their mothers if it is possible and comfortable to do so.
That all child-free women are made to feel empowered instead of ashamed.
And that the great mother of us all will grant us all peace.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
An open letter to Nora Roberts
Dear Ms. Roberts,
This thank-you letter is a year overdue. It's been a rough year, but I thought better late than never.
I'm sure you get thanked for your writing often. I want to add my voice to the chorus. Your stories take us away from the scary and lousy stuff going on in our own lives. It feels so comforting to go into the lives of the characters you have created when my life is a little too real.
This was never more true than last year.
Last year my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 uterine cancer. She immediately started a course of radiation and chemotherapy. The radiation and chemo left my vibrant mountain-goat of a mother barely able to lift her head.
But she could lift her hands. And she could lift a mass-market paperback book. The books she lifted were yours.
Mom and I always loved your books. From Honest Illusions, the very first one we read, to The Witness, the very last one she read and we shared. We would sit and talk about the decisions the characters made. We would say what we thought would happen next. I remember Mom crowing when Chesapeake Blue came out because some of her predictions were right. My mother put my very first books in my hands. When we got to an age where we read the same things, some of our warmest times together were when we were discussing books.
Towards the end of chemo, Mom's thin frame dropped weight rapidly. She felt so bad. She wanted to build memories with my newly adopted daughter, but it took all her strength to just sit up in bed. I sat next to her and we discussed The Witness. What she thought was going to happen, what she thought about the characters. After she finished it, we talked about what kind of life the characters would have after the end. Then we revisited some of her favorite books--most of them written by you. We talked about how many kids the sisters of Montana Sky had by now. We wondered if Nathaniel Nouvelle Callahan wound up becoming a cop, or a magician, or perhaps both.
Talking about the characters you created helped my mom forget how much pain she was in. Revisiting your stories helped keep her mind keen, even as mom's body betrayed her.
Mom lost her battle to cancer last April. In the months that followed her death, I couldn't read. I couldn't focus on the words on the paper. When I finally could read, I found myself rereading all your books and then, finally, starting your new books. You have helped me get through the hardest year of my life with the people and worlds you have created.
I wish I could say it better--but all I can say is, Thank You.
This thank-you letter is a year overdue. It's been a rough year, but I thought better late than never.
I'm sure you get thanked for your writing often. I want to add my voice to the chorus. Your stories take us away from the scary and lousy stuff going on in our own lives. It feels so comforting to go into the lives of the characters you have created when my life is a little too real.
This was never more true than last year.
Last year my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 uterine cancer. She immediately started a course of radiation and chemotherapy. The radiation and chemo left my vibrant mountain-goat of a mother barely able to lift her head.
But she could lift her hands. And she could lift a mass-market paperback book. The books she lifted were yours.
Mom and I always loved your books. From Honest Illusions, the very first one we read, to The Witness, the very last one she read and we shared. We would sit and talk about the decisions the characters made. We would say what we thought would happen next. I remember Mom crowing when Chesapeake Blue came out because some of her predictions were right. My mother put my very first books in my hands. When we got to an age where we read the same things, some of our warmest times together were when we were discussing books.
Towards the end of chemo, Mom's thin frame dropped weight rapidly. She felt so bad. She wanted to build memories with my newly adopted daughter, but it took all her strength to just sit up in bed. I sat next to her and we discussed The Witness. What she thought was going to happen, what she thought about the characters. After she finished it, we talked about what kind of life the characters would have after the end. Then we revisited some of her favorite books--most of them written by you. We talked about how many kids the sisters of Montana Sky had by now. We wondered if Nathaniel Nouvelle Callahan wound up becoming a cop, or a magician, or perhaps both.
Talking about the characters you created helped my mom forget how much pain she was in. Revisiting your stories helped keep her mind keen, even as mom's body betrayed her.
Mom lost her battle to cancer last April. In the months that followed her death, I couldn't read. I couldn't focus on the words on the paper. When I finally could read, I found myself rereading all your books and then, finally, starting your new books. You have helped me get through the hardest year of my life with the people and worlds you have created.
I wish I could say it better--but all I can say is, Thank You.
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