Saving Up

March 30, 2007 BlogPants

For this.? Becca is so talented…and I could use a necklace called Clear Mind, couldn’t I?? Ha ha.

Reminds Me Of a Halaka Ukulele Kinda Time

BlogPants

I’m in love.

With Jack Johnson’s Song, Banana Pancakes…

…and my husband.

Once upon a time, nearly 9 years ago, this song would have described our mornings off together. We used to wake up slow…stretchy…yawny…

This morning, this Friday morning, we did just that.

I’m so in love.

All You Need Is Love - and Vodka, Apparently

March 29, 2007 Friends, Me, Unplugged, family

So the last week has been a bit of a roller coaster.? Mostly highs, which is good for the laundry fairy.? She doesn’t have to do as much when I’m doing all the work.?

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Some of you might have noticed I blogged a short update the other day and then deleted it.? Partly because I wasn’t feelin’ the writing, and partly because I felt it sounded like I was clamouring for attention regarding the eating disorder place that I still haven’t called.? More about that in a minute.? I suck, I know.? Plus Daren and I had fought and it’s all better now (though it took me 24 hours to explain why I was hurt), we fixed it.?

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So Thursday of last week was weird.? I had stayed up all night the night before, so I was pretty DUH! all day, and by the time Daren got home, all my senses were shutting down - especially the ones that involved listening to one more rendition of Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!? You all know what I mean, that isn’t part of the crazy, unless having children is crazy, which um, I’m thinking it might be.

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Anyway, a nice courier person set off the dog and blew my ears to bits with the barking and the kids screaming and running around like jungle animals.? But the nice courier person brought chocolates and lovin’ all the way from Ninjapoodle City, and when I opened this, I started to cry:

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Seriously, if Belinda and her lovely family had sent me nothing but that card, I would have taken all their love and wrapped myself in it.? I could feel it, people.? You have no idea.? The the boys were climbing all over me to try one and Daren put his arms around me and we kind of all just stood there, feelin’ the Arkansas love.? Thanks so much Belinda, Alex and Bella!? Though maybe you ought to have sent a kick in the ass…lol!? xoxo

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Saturday was?a whirlwind of nuts for me as I got the house ready and cooked like mad, only to kick all three of my boys out for the whole night, and open the door to half a dozen girlfriends and my cousin.? Every 3-4 months, us girls kick the husband and kids out of one of our homes and have a sleepover.? We eat, we drink and laugh.? I had planned this months ago and went to cancel it about 10 times, each time realizing I NEEDED THEM TO BE HERE.? They all know what is going on, and they all were amazing fun as I completely forgot about the crazy and had FUN.? So much fun, I also forgot hardwood floors are um, HARD WOOD.? Let’s just say I let loose in a mighty mighty way and hit the floor before midnight, like a Brick House.? See what happens when you drink a pot and a half of coffee and then switch to liquor (which you hardly ever drink,) sans food?? Stupid girl.

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See the dark brown plate?? I made bacon-wrapped water chestnuts in oyster sauce.? Oh and crab dip.? The girls brought all kind of goodies too.? So much that I served strawberries, spanakopita and nachos and dip for breakfast.? Don’t knock it till you try it.

My drink of choice was cranberry and vodka, and the view for me was blurry like this for most of the night:

Rochelle and I discussing deep subjects…all of which I do not recall.

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Cindy lecturing us on bedroom ettique?? Yeah, maybe she was talking about washable crayons, I don’t know.

I’d love to show you more pictures, but the truth is the rest were blurry(er) than these, and?I barely knew how to use my feet after a short while.? It was good and the next day was fine for hangover status.?? A little iffy in parts, but okay overall.

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I had an ECG the other day and my heart is fine.? Bloodwork too but I don’t know results yet.? I see the doc this afternoon?with Daren, for a follow up and hopefully a shrink referral.? You know, if she doesn’t suggest?a frontal lobotomy or bloodletting or something, on top of the Lithium.? I’m not looking forward to this because I know I’ll be asked if I’ve called the eating disorder place.? No I haven’t.? Wanna know why?? Because I’m a shallow bitch, that’s why.? I think I can do this on my own.? My stupid head thinks that if I go to that place, I’ll be the fattest one there, save for the over eaters I guess.? The website shows a lot of group therapy.? I don’t want to sit around with a bunch of other people and talk about this.? I think a regular therapist will do just fine.? So we’ll see what Dr. Lithium says this afternoon.? I’m preparing myself for a lecture and a hard knock to the head.

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In the last week, I’ve only stayed up all nght twice.? I was staying up every other night, so I’m trying.? For me.? For Daren.? For the kids.? I’m also trying to eat.? Yesterday wasn’t a good day and today, so far, coffee.? My lips and mouth hurt from too much coffee, not enough water, so I have to watch the dehydration.?

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Oh! Oh! I’ve been asked why I’m blogging all this.?

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*deep sigh*

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Because of the 30 or so emails I got telling me that some of you have/have had?the same issues.? Because it helps me to record this.? Because it helps me to let it out.? Because I love writing.? Because you read it.

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If those aren’t good reasons, I really don’t know what are.

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You guys have been amazingly supportive.? You know who you are, who has written, who has shared with me deep dark secrets that you don’t talk about.? Please know that I love you and think about you and I’m trying to answer your email.? Work is keeping me sane(r) and keeping my mind busy on tasks.? This is good.

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Also the kids?? They are amazing.? I find I’m really calm with them.? They fill my heart with joy and love and when I am feeling the downs, we crawl into bed or snuggle up on the couch and read, or go outside and play now that it’s warm.? Now if doctors could bottle up all that warmth and give it to their patients, that would be something, wouldn’t it?

Huggies Overnights

March 22, 2007 BlogPants

Read my review of this product here.

I Need $74 Dollars…times two.

BlogPants

Kristen Chase, yes the FAMOUS Kristen Chase who writes my new favorite column, sent me links to these abso-fucking-lutely awesome shirts.? I want them all.? Especially this one.? And this one.

A Touch of The Crazy

Me, Unplugged

EDIT BELOW.

So I had The Doctor’s Appointment yesterday. I was honest with her, and being the pill-pusher that she is (hello? pharmaceutical companies? stop bribing my doctor. thanks.) she tried to put me on drugs, to which I flatly refused.

Let me back up a second here. We addressed the anorexia with my promise of calling a local counseling service that deals with eating disorders. She sent me home with a requisition for bloodwork which I will have done tomorrow. She is also setting up a referral to a therapist that she says has helped a lot of her patients.

Then we did this worksheet. Written by a pharmaceutical company. Of the 13 questions in part one, I answered yes to 10 of them. Part 2 thereby resulted in a yes, and I answered “moderate” for Part 3. So based on a piece of paper written by a drug company, I MUST have bi-polar disorder, and PLEASE, sell me those drugs.

Fuck that.

You cannot diagnose this in 15 minutes. I told her that. I started to cry and said to her, “This is it, I am going to be crazy like my mother. My biggest fear has come true.” How very stupid and dramatic of me. I held it together until that worksheet. Then I stopped floating above my body, watching the situation long enough to feel that fear, which very quickly turned to anger. I was upset with the doctor for suggesting drugs when she’d spent all of 15 minutes with me. If we had time to dive into the issues, I’m sure she would see that it’s stuff I have to wade through and she’d hand me a pair of galoshes, not a script for GOD-KNOWS-WHAT-THAT-OFFERS-A-KICKBACK-TO-HER. Am I disgusted? Yes.

Part of me wanted to get up and walk out. Get the fuck up and get the fuck out, and pretend nothing was wrong. Yell, “I’M FINE!” Go back to how I used to be.

I was going to blog this yesterday, when I was feeling all of that, but I decided (wisely) to sleep on it. I talked to a friend and to Daren about it.

The end result is this: I don’t want to treat my brain with drugs until I know what is wrong with it. And the only way I can do that, is to speak to a therapist, you know, for longer than 15 minutes.

The doctor’s concern was that I may not get in to see the therapist for 3-4 more weeks and she was worried about the not eating.

So here I am, again floating above my body, watching this woman I don’t know, and trying so hard not to feel any of it. I force myself through the daily tasks, I furrow my brow to concentrate on work, I spend a lot of time reading board books to Thomas and playing Pente with Dylan, and making love with my husband every chance I get, all the while pretending I don’t exist to the outside world. I’m avoiding phone calls from family, visits from friends. I am ashamed and scared and forcing myself to just get through each day.

I realized something yesterday. I’m 32. When my mother was 32, I was 12. And going through the beginning of this eating disorder. Could something have triggered sub-conscientiously that started this plummet? Maybe.

I opened my email this morning to this (I hope this person doesn’t mind me sharing this):

hey i’m really sorry but i was believe it or not I was googling Troll

Babies……(design project in case you are wondering) and your blog

was first up….

i read it.

you are quite an incredible person to be able to write these things

down.

i lost my wife.

she couldn’t talk to me.

nobody knew.

you will be ok.

sorry if i intruded in on you but i felt i had to tell you.

God. Thank you so much for writing. I’m so very sorry about your wife. I don’t want to die. I just don’t want anyone to see me like this. And so I write.

Part of me is stomping, pushing down on the issues, trying to keep them in the box until I can let them go. I have kids, a family, I really don’t have time to have a touch of the crazy. And no one will understand it if I suddenly lose it. There’s no time for this breakdown. There’s no time for me to cry. If I start crying, I may never stop. And so my heart aches for the touch of sanity that used to be me.

Karen? Come back. Crazy moved in and we need to evict her. There’s just no time for her. No time at all.

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The edit is that I did not specify what drug she wanted to “try.”? In talking to J, I realized I hadn’t told you guys.? This isn’t paxil, or some kind of anti-depressant - the doctor wanted to “try” Lithium.? Yeah.? I can wait to talk to a therapist before I “try” Lithium thanks.? That’s all.?

The Lady of Shalott

March 21, 2007 Parentless

A Gift From My Mother

The last couple of days have been bad pain days for me  and that means extra pain meds which often trigger memories. My dreams become much more vivid too. Drawers inside my head open and I never know what s going to pop out. Lately  all those dreams have centered around my mother  I couldn t tell you why; maybe because I d like her to be proud of me. Something marvelous happens and I cast about, wishing I had family to call. Oh  there are friends, of course  the sisters and brothers of my heart; but it s not quite the same. So here we come  round again  the child I was, still searching for something. I m not sure I will ever come to terms with it  but that doesn t mean I won t always try.

I don t have very many gifts from my mother  tangible or intangible. When you peruse the eclectic collection of oddities and knick-knacks that decorate my sideboard  you will not find anything ever touched by her hand. Its not that I disposed of such things  they simply never existed. What hereditary jewelry I have consists of a single scrimshaw broach that once belonged to her mother  and my dead sister s watch  taken from her wrist prior to burial. I remember receiving that watch. It was unceremoniously dumped on my bed along with a tarnished brass compact. I had only recently confronted my mother regarding my sister, you see. She had been dead years  only no one had bothered to tell me about it.  Here my mother said   These were Pats . The glass in the compact was cracked  and there were only vestiges of any powder left. I imagined my sisters face looking out at me. I wondered if she lived inside the mirror. There had been an episode of  Lost in Space where Penny was able to communicate with a boy in her mirror. I hoped it was true  but then I d often wish that fantasies I saw on television were true. There was a  Twilight Zone once about children who found an adult-free paradise accessed through the deep end of their pool. I cannot tell you how many times I nearly drowned in a cornucopia of pools desperate to find that entrance. I still call it to mind every time I swim. So  the watch I wore, and the compact I kept hidden in the very back of a closet drawer. I d stare into the slivered glass, whispering to it.  Pat  Pat - are you there? Please come get me. I m still waiting.

I have no photographs either. My surviving sister took them all upon my parent s deaths. So really, there is nothing linking me to anyone. I m like Venus on the half-shell  rising up out of the foam  deposited whole upon the world  no before, only after. I do have some important documents though - including my sister s burial certificate. I found it hidden away in the bottom of our piano bench along with some old music bearing her name. I removed it - secreting it away where no one could get at it. It was the only evidence I had showing Pat had ever really lived. Did you have a treasure trove as a child? One that you kept secret from anyone? I did. In an old cigar box. It s where I kept my evidence of love  letters from a pen pal, a small Haitian doll my father s brother gave me, marbles I had dug up in the back yard and imagined playing with, rocks from a nearby neighbor s that I thought looked like jade. Pats compact was there too  along with the certificate. I would take it out very late at night just to touch it. I remember petting it like a cat  smelling what I imagined was faint perfume  lilac. I seem to remember Pat smelled of lilac. That smell gave me hope  more evidence that Pat was real. So - when other children would taunt me for my parents being old and not having any siblings (at least none that ever came around)  I would tell them that I d once had a beautiful red-headed sister who d loved me to distraction. That secret piece of paper was my proof. I remember one particularly nasty child actually going up to my mother and asking outright if I d ever had a sister who died. My mother looked us both straight in the eye and denied it  denied her own daughter  said that Patricia never existed  that I was making it all up. I almost believed her, you know; gave up my dream of love  but I had a compact, a watch and a creased sheet of paper that said otherwise. Patricia had lived  and if she had lived  then she had loved me  I knew it.

Funny, isn t it  how lines of thought can splinter off and assume lives of their own? I began this intending to write about the only gift I ever received from my mother  and here I am obsessing over my sister Pat. The two subjects are inextricably linked, though  Pat and my mother  gifts and love; both my dead sister s last, unwitting gift to me  and a perfume bottle my mother bought many years ago. Along with that yellowed scrimshaw broach  there is nothing else in my possession that speaks to family or lines of connection. The watch I no longer wear. It needs attention from someone qualified to properly fix it. The perfume bottle sits on my bathroom counter. It is egg shaped and very, very heavy  thick, clear glass swirled round and round with stripes of deep blue and magenta. Not something I would select for myself  not my particular style, if you will. I can t say whether or not it was my mother s style, because she never really had one that remained consistent. The bottle she chose has a permanence about it, though. It s where I store YSL s Opium  my favorite scent. There s honey colored residue clinging to the bottom from being filled and allowed to empty many, many times. My mother purchased that decorative parfumerie for me right after the Loma Prieta quake. It is one of the very few things she ever gave me  and thus I treasure it. I know, I know  how could I ever want anything to remind me of that woman. But there was a very short period of time when my mother s doctor tricked her into taking medication to treat her mental illness. For those few, all too brief months I had a glimpse of what might have been. The medication curbed my mother s extreme, violent mood shifts, evened out her temperament. I saw her smile for the very first time out of pleasure rather than a harbinger of viciousness. Of course  eventually she caught on and stopped taking the pills  but there was a definite honeymoon period. It was then she bought me the art glass perfume bottle. When I look at it I think of Capitola and its fabulous boutiques and my mother smiling up into the sun.

I don t remember why I had flown out that particular time. I know it was after the quake because I purchased one of those  I Survived tee-shirts. Mother had been downright affable on the phone; unheard of up until that point. She mentioned that her doctor had her on some new  wonder medicine. I asked her what it was  but she couldn t recall. I immediately suspected one of the then new and much touted mood modifiers. I called her doctor to confirm. His and my relationship had gotten off to a very rocky start. You see - my mother would tell all and sundry terrible tales of how her horrible ungrateful children constantly and consistently abused her. Like most sociopaths  my mother was capable of extreme charm for short periods of time. Unsustainable  but beguiling nonetheless. I learned my acting from her. I had school-mates who d tell me how wonderful they thought she was. My cousin once referred to her as a  delight . Mother s history with physicians was a checkered one. As soon as the doctor caught on that she was lying  she d dump him (always a  him  my mother hated other women  and that included women doctors). This current doctor had been her physician for a number of years. This longevity was due to a certain amount of duplicity on his part. Once he realized that my mother was telling wee porkie pies  he began keeping my older sister and I apprised of her medical condition. Of course  that took a couple of years. Initially I had to endure his either hanging up on me or outright accusing me of elder abuse. How I was supposed to manage that from 3000 miles away  I don t know. Eventually he figured out that any bruises my mother sported were at the hands of my alcoholic, dangerously violent brother  not my sister or myself  mothers claims to the contrary.

His epiphany continued as regards her physical health. My mother was, outside of the mental issues, as healthy as a horse. To listen to her, however - you d think she was about to keel over from any number of serious ailments  the most of which were sheer (though rather creative) fantasy. If, however, she wasn t given a pill for that ailment  the doctor in question went the way of the Dodo. Victorian ladies had nothing on mom - she lived on her couch in a perpetual state of swoon. I can still see her there  1960 s snap-up housecoat askew, eyes permanently at half moon (sunken and smudged with purple), mouth open as she dozed - knocked out from any of the three valium prescriptions regularly carried in her purse. Valium never improved her mood  just exacerbated the irritableness. Coming home to  unconscious mom was just as bad as  manic mom . Unconscious mom meant no food. She was too stoned to cook  and my father usually ignored me preferring to drink his dinner. As I wasn t allowed to consume any  unauthorized food  that meant on my mothers  unconscious days I could expect to go hungry. Manic mom on the other hand always found fault; so though dinner would be on the table  eating it was a supreme test of endurance. Imagine someone criticizing every forkful of food going into your mouth  how fat it was going to make you, how ugly you looked chewing it. By the end of the meal I usually was in tears with terrible indigestion.

Anyway  I don t remember exactly what her doctor had put her on  but the change was radical. Instead of conversations filled with suicide threats, vitriolic attacks and tearful recriminations  mother spoke of how beautiful the ocean looked, or how she had treated herself out to a  nice lunch. I was flabbergasted. It was like talking to a whole other person. She even had good things to say about my father  a first, considering how much she hated him. I flew out curious  for the first time in memory not expecting the worst. I wasn t disappointed. She actually hugged me hello (??!!)  and said she was glad to see me. No   what an ugly sweater or  Christ, you ve gotten really fat . I found myself staring. Even her face seemed lighter  no deeply etched heavy frown lines. Instead of constantly looking at the ground and muttering when she walked  mother looked around, pausing to cup one of the roses growing near her front door. With a shock I realized that my mother had been and still was exceptionally beautiful. Of course I d seen pictures  blue-black hair, cobalt eyes. But she d never been smiling. Her face always seemed scrunched  as if she was sucking on a lemon. Now  the corners of her mouth turned up  not down. There was a liveliness, humor  a bounce in her step. Who was this woman?

It was, understatedly, a delightful visit. I had never, ever seen my mother happy. It was spring, right around the time of my birthday. Northern California shines in the spring  especially near the sea. Warm days and cool nights do more than produce good wine  they are the perfect recipe for happiness as well. And I was happy  happy enough to begin making plans; especially if this whole  new mom thing continued. Maybe she and I could actually form some kind of bond (and maybe pigs could fly). Up until then I had looked upon my familial relationships as punishment. Existentialist hell. An eternity of listening to my mother recite John Donne s  Death be Not Proud or  The Lady of Shallot whilst weeping copiously. I used to think the word  maudlin had been coined especially with her in mind. Happy, bappy mom was a whole new breed of cat. I decided to make the most of it. We had a day of shopping. Not at all like shopping used to be, which consisted of dragging me all over hell and gone while my mother obsessively either bought everything in a frenzy or complained bitterly about her lack of choice. If she bought  the next day she hated it, guaranteed  and the returns always fell to me. Certain shop clerks literally hid whenever we entered their stores. Either way - weekends sucked once I got my drivers license. I was informed that I was to serve as in-house chauffeur. I hated it. That  and she would make me try on clothes with her  clothes in her size. My mother was 5 foot 2 or 3 inches tall and weighed at any given time between 78 and 93 pounds. They barely made sizes for her back then. I am five foot ten and as a teenager I weighed anywhere between 125 and 140. To my mother  that was unconscionably fat  something she pointed out loudly and in public every chance she got. When we d shop  she would shove clothes at me (teeny, tiny pants and too small blouses) insisting I try them on for her approval. Refusal on my part usually led to some kind of embarrassing scene. How is it narcissistic people know that about the rest of us? That we will do almost anything to avoid a public spectacle? So  the thought of shopping with my mother and it not being a traumatic experience was, to say the least, novel.

But there we were  happily exploring all the little boutique shoplettes Capitola had to offer. It was a new age wonderland of crystals, tarot cards, dragons and kitschy decorative arts. Clothing was late 80 s chic meets hot hippie chick with a rainbow tie-die fetish. Stevie Nicks starter kits were available on every other corner - yards of fringe and leather overlaid with black lace. Nothing says beach to me more than the aroma of incense released by hot summer sun. The light is its own character  bright, comforting  my skin felt alive. I freckle in the sun  you can actually watch them form. Between one block and the next I looked more and more Irish. My hair darkens in winter; not sable black like my mothers  but dark. Sunlight brings out the mahogany tones. That particular spring I was looking my best  and it was noticed. Men smiled as I walked by  some turning, a couple asking for my number. I felt pretty, powerful and very, very alive. And my mother was with me  how strange was that? No denigrations, no calling me a whore for smiling back at all those men. I could hardly believe it. Eventually we made our way into this corner shop filled with one-of-a-kind perfume bottles. Now  I love perfume  always have. The first perfume I ever bought myself was called STYX  and I adored it. The idea of a special bottle dedicated to the goddess of scent just tickled me pink. They weren t inexpensive unfortunately  so regretfully I put down the one I wanted and mom and I walked out of the store. Lunch was had at a tiny upstairs bistro (French dip  I still remember). I had some wine  Mirassou Vineyards White Burgundy  my favorite. By the time we were finished I was enveloped in a warm, rosy glow. Throughout, my mother and I chatted like I imagine all mothers and daughters do, but I d never experienced before. It felt odd and thrilling all at once. My imagination began to take flight. I pictured more intimate lunches  perhaps even shared confidences. Maybe I could get her to tell me what it was like to be young and living in New York City during the 1920 s.

Before calling it a day, my mother asked me to wait while she took care of something. That was OK. It gave me a chance to walk out on the pier. It was crowded  such a beautiful, clear day. From the edge of the pier you could see across the bay to Monterey. I used to fish off that pier often as a child. My father considered himself a fisherman and I would often go with. Flounder, mostly. That day it was packed  gaily dressed tourists heading out for a day of shopping and fun at the beach. I eventually spied my mother standing by the car and headed over. She had a small package.  Here. She put it in my hands with a smile -  for your birthday. I recognized the shop label as I opened it. It was a perfume bottle. Not the one I d admired  not one I d have chosen for myself at all  but beautiful still. I was surprised beyond measure. My mother had given me a gift. Spontaneously even. Tears sprang to my eyes. I could hardly believe it. I hugged her  and she didn t stiffen and pull away. The moment seemed surreal. There we were, surrounded by other people, hugging on the street like a normal family. Bizarre. And now this. I didn t know what to say.

The next day I took my leave and flew home. I just couldn t believe how friendly and accessible my mother had become. I began to dream  what if it had always been like this? If she had always treated me with love and respect? How different would my life have been? So many things  not just the personal either. I might have felt comfortable taking that TV show when I was a kid  and who know where that would have led. Life choices are fueled by emotion. If you feel safe  you can literally fly. I never felt safe as a child. Any wings I might have had were of my own construction  and they never held up under the withering assault I endured day after day. But that was then. I was willing for there to be a  now .

The following week I called her  expecting to hear  new mom s bright, sunny voice on the other end. That wasn t to be, unfortunately. The woman who answered was the same sour bitch I d grown up with my entire life.  What happened? I asked   Are you still taking your medication? Evidently not. Finally the connection had been made between my mother s elevated mood and those little pills she was taking. She had thought they were for her blood pressure. The very instant she found out the truth (from her doctor s nurse)  she flushed them all down the toilet  and no amount of persuasion from me, my sister or her doctor could persuade her otherwise. I tried everything  reminding her of how good she had felt, how happy she had been. Emphasizing how much better for her health happiness was. I even spoke to her doctor before she traded him in on a newer model. Didn t matter. I was castigated for taking cruel advantage of her. I d  tricked her into buying that perfume bottle with money better spent on my wastrel brother. She hated me all the more for having witnessed her transformation. That day may have stood out to me as wonderful; but to my mother it became anathema. Proof positive that I was the hateful, scheming daughter she always claimed she should have aborted. That effectively ended any hopes of a relationship so far as I was concerned. She chose chaos over health  and believe me - it was a definite choice. No one forced her to stop taking that medication. Her doctor explained it to me. She had spent so many years wrapped up in bitterness and hate  she just didn t want to let go of it. Hate and fear was how she controlled her family. That, and emotional blackmail. I cannot tell you how many times she told me my birth ruined her life  the births of all her children, really. She d say similar things to my father  how marrying him was the single worst choice she ever could have made. My mother hated everyone and every thing; and she was damned if it wasn t going to remain that way forever.

So  that was that. I look at that perfume bottle now and remember that day in the sun. We had stopped once to watch a man fly a kite on the beach. My mother s personality was very like that of the kite  many hued and barely controllable. In the end  it just got away from her. Pity. I wonder if my mother ever read Kipling. Of all sad words of tongue or pen the saddest are these: It might have been. She went to her grave as unhappy as the day she was born. My sister told me her last coherent words were filled with despite of me. Thank the lord I wasn t there to hear them. Ah well 

But Lancelot mused a little space

The Lady of Shalott.”

Written by The Fat Lady Sings

Dianne

March 20, 2007 Parentless

I m preparing for April.

The beginning of spring is always a lead in to a month I fear and hate. The melting, the temperature fluctuations-they always remind me of a year when my mother went from remission to death in a matter of months, they remind me of a winter when we held our collective breath, and waited, walked on thin glass with the knowledge that she was not long for this world.

There s a look about the dying. A grey, sparse listening, eyes focused on something just outside of vision, an ash to the skin, a weary knowledge and safety about the eyes. Some call it peace. It looked more like bravery to me, and satisfaction. My mother was about to meet her maker, and had comes to terms with her leaving. Her body was falling from her as she heaved up what little was in her stomach. The world was falling from her.

I don t see spring. I don t see my wedding anniversary, or birthdays. I don t see newness in the April air. I see death. I see the ending of a childhood, the shattered pieces of a family, the useless and volatile sympathies of neighbours and not friends. I see one day where she was, and another where she wasn t. Bloated legs twitching on a hospital bed, our front room ruined, her last week spent lying, leaving. The chaos of that last day, the ache of my father s footsteps, running towards my Aunt s crying scream as my mother finally left us.

The stairs held me that day, where I shouldn t have been. Her body seized, and jumped on her bed. Her gown flew up, and I saw my mother as I had never seen my mother, she who never wore shorts, let alone walked around naked. And I knew. If my mother was alive, her hands would be gripping the edges of that gown for dear life, covering her  privates . My mother in life was never immodest.

April shows me panic, and fear and sadness and anger. Surrounded by relatives I didn t know, shellshocked by life  SHE S GONE! I wandered, and accepted their poor words, their moist hands and casseroles. I sat in our house, waiting for her to come home.

My father threw out her clothes.

April is transition, a day, a month, a year, a life I cannot escape. I became that day, I became within April a creature I wasn t, a thing that should not be. I was born of that death, of pasty deadwhite skin, of eyes that stopped seeing, of the beeping of a machine moving her lungs but not her heart or brain. I was born of that small girl screaming her love over the flatline, sobbing in the arms of an Aunt I barely knew, wishing my mother knew, wishing my mother could hear me.

Wishing my mother back.

I can t fix it. I can t change it. I hardly mourn it now, 18 years later.

18 years. Perhaps my mother was born into another, and is now a fledgling woman, starting out in the world.

Let me know if you see her.

Also posted at my home site:

Spin Me I Pulsate

Impressed

family

Yesterday, in the midst of the after school rush of snacks and homework, it got unusually quiet. Eerie. Then I heard Dylan gasp.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” Dylan bellowed from upstairs.

I ran up the stairs to a billow of smoke in the bedroom hallway, turned the corner into Thomas’ room and everything was white.

Baby powder covered every surface of the tiny room. Thomas looked at me, saw the shock on my face, and began to cry and say “I’m sowwy, I’m sowwy.”

Dylan stood there scowling at his brother, and I started to laugh. My brother and I had done the exact same thing in the bathroom when we were little. No one was hurt, the vaccuum would take care of it, and it smelled nice.

My kids stood there staring at me, until I finally said, “It’s okay. I’m not impressed, but it’s okay.”

I shooed them out and cleaned up the mess within 10 minutes and carried on.

At dinner, Thomas ate very little and began his silliness routine of running around, pounding on the hardwood, generally being a loud kid.

I called him over to where I was sitting and asked him, “Are you finished eating your dinner?”

He looked me in the eye and said, “Yes. ARE YOU IMPRESSED?”

Falling in Love Again For The First Time

March 18, 2007 Me, Unplugged

Friday night, Daren and I made dinner together and then went to see Premonition. It was a great movie, but bring Kleenex. I won’t give away anything but it shook me. When we got in the car, I broke down. Hard. I finally admitted to him that I was not okay, which really, he knew.

After getting home and paying the sitter, we snuggled up together on the couch and I spilled my guts. All these things I have been feeling, all these things that have consumed the old me and held me underwater these last few weeks, everything came out. I had what Oprah calls, the “ugly cry” for about an hour.? I told him he needs to protect me from myself, from the starvation and insomnia, and steer the ship for a while. It was the most amazing talk I’ve had with anyone over this. All these things I’ve suppressed for so long are coming out, even though I thought I’d dealt with them years ago. But just like the kids’ toybox, there’s only so much you can push down before the whole thing explodes Legos and Little People in your face.? The most beautiful thing after that though?? Daren feeding me strawberries in bed.? I’m so in love with that boy.? (Don’t tell him I told you.)

So Wednesday at the doctor’s will be requests for psych referral, bloodwork and thyroid check. There is no way I’m going to spend 15 minutes with my doctor and expect her to know if I need drugs. I don’t want drugs if I can help it anyway.

In the meantime, our new computer arrived and I’ve been busying myself transferring the business and setting up everything. I’m still drinking way too much coffee, but I’ve slept 3 nights in a row, and yesterday I ate breakfast, lunch and dinner without being sick. That’s something.

Anyway, that’s where I’m at. Thought you might like to know. And since I haven’t read blogs in like 3 weeks, how are YOU?

p.s. If you’ve emailed me and I haven’t answered, it’s only because I suck ass. But I think you’re awesome and I love you to pieces.