Thursday, April 28, 2011

Where The Boundaries Are Blurred

I did a not very smart thing tonight.

I had a few glasses of wine and dug out my journal from Owen's ICU stay.

I can't copy that emotional clusterfuck here.  But I'm glad I wrote it all down.

One thing I had forgotten about though, fell out of the journal.

A letter I'd written to the husband of a resident of mine.

Ethel and Randall owned and operated a nursing home for most of their marriage.  She the nurse and he the business man.

He brought her to us, to me,  in the late stages of Alzheimer's, after having a stroke and more recently, breaking a hip.

He visited every single day, usually dressed in his Sunday best.  And for months, he sobbed every day when he left her.  He'd cling to me crying, telling me how much he loved her.

Randall taught me that on an Alzheimer's unit, my patient's families were as much under my care as their loved one. 

We knew that he lived alone. And was well into his eighties. So if he missed a day visiting Ethel, we'd call their daughter Myrna.

He shuffled in one day with a poorly bandaged hand.  He tried to hide it from us.  He'd mangled a few fingers on his lawn mower. Nothing that needed stitches; we cleaned it up, rebandaged it, and sent him home insisting that he check in with his doctor and never touch his lawn mower again.

He promised to do both. And we promised to not tell his daughter about the incident.

We were on the phone to Myrna before he was out the door.

Myrna always visited, but came more often after Randall lost his driver's license. He'd hit the wrong pedal and drove into a new car lot.  New truck actually.  He'd totalled a few.

They were tickled to find out I was pregnant.  Myrna was sure I was having a girl and knit me a beautiful heavy pink blanket, suitable for a Vermont winter.  Bea has that blanket on her right this very moment. 

Toward the end of my pregnancy, Ethel let us know that her time was approaching.  Randall and Myrna were deeply saddened but also accepting.  We were in constant contact those last few weeks.

I remember a day, toward her end.  I'd had the day off, but having nothing to do, decided the best use of my time would be spent sitting with Ethel.

I sat for a few hours.  I ate Cheerios. The things one recalls.

I felt Owen kick.

One hand holding Ethel's, the other on my belly.

I've said it before, and if you can ever do it, I highly recommend it;

Feeling a new life kicking into existence as you grasp the hand of a life fading out of existence is well - life.

I'm ever grateful to have had that experience, more than once. And to have the presence of mind to bathe in its enormity.

So. The letter to Randall.

I wrote it when Owen was four weeks old.  His survival was very much a question mark.  I sat and stared at him, helpless.  He was in a place where I could not comfort him.

But I thought maybe Ethel could. 

He was straddling the realms, just like I had when he was inside me and I was holding onto her.

I told Randall that I imagined Ethel comforting Owen.  Making sure he was never alone while he decided where he was going to go. 

She wasn't alone either.  Many others were with her.  Ones who I had a hand in easing the journey had come to return the favor to me.

The little ICU cubicle crowded with ghosts keeping watch over Owen.

They were waiting too.  Either to say goodbye when he came to me, or to welcome him home if he went with them.

I never sent the letter.

And this Christmas, a friend sent me Randall's obituary. 

I was surprised that he'd lasted so long without Ethel.  And glad he'd found her again.

I wonder if she told him the story about the time she kept the sick baby company.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Don't Tell Me This Town Ain't Got No Heart

*******

"Where the fuck am I?"

"Albany sister."

"Fuck you man."

That I was in Albany was about all I knew of my current location.

An hour before, I'd been under an overpass buying my tickets and a white non perforated ten strip which Skip, Nat, and myself promptly divvied up and ate.

We'd been an inseparable trio for weeks,  travelled hundreds of miles, and attended a dozen or so shows.

We'd gotten through the first gate, into the arena, and shown down to the floor section where an usher inspected our tickets. He pointed Nat one way, Skip another, and proceeded to escort me out the back of the building, explaining that my ticket was a fake.

I was deposited into an alley, where I'd slumped down the wall beside the helpful Head;

"Sorry dude, I'm fucked up. I gotta find my van."

I followed the sounds of Shakedown Street; the heart of the travelling village that beat in every city we'd passed through.

Invisible drum circles, rhythms distinct but not competing, a pulsing tattoo to guide me home. The sound centered me as my other senses began to morph and meld under the influence.

I stepped on pavement that yielded like beach sand under my feet.

People danced by in slow motion, limbs elongated, movements exagerrated.  Every voice I heard whispered secrets in my ears.

I needed Gromley. A familiar life form to keep safe on this evening's unexpected journey.

The Border Collie's face was grinning through Stella's window. She jumped into my arms with yips and kisses. I let her leash lead me, having no particular destination other than back to the heart of town.

A familiar bus. Years since it transported children to school, it now boasted a colorful mural on the outside, and a cozy home on the inside.

Daze was all the way in the back. Gromley and I climbed over bodies, lounging, sleeping, none of them bothered by being crawled upon.

We'd met him in San Fransisco and had seen him in just about every city since. A perfect blend of races was Daze, broad African nose, high cheekbones, coffee skin, bright blue eyes and a mane of curly blond hair. A gorgeous man, wearing always a smile and a flowered skirt.

He greeted me with a hug, laughed at my tale of woe, and handed me a bowl. I was calmed by its familiar smell, mingling with the others that told me I was home; sweat, feet, farts, patchouli, and unwashed human, vehicle exhaust,  incense and sage burning, propane stoves, burritos, falafel and vegetables cooking.

Hunger. Apparently I am a rare breed who is capable of eating while aboard this particular ride. I was starving.

I followed the scents and voices shouting out their wares; most of them unappealing. I avoided anything containing weed, which narrowed my choices greatly.

Spaghetti, no tricks, just noodles and sauce. And a place to sit as my quest for sustenance was long and my bones had assumed the consistency of peanut butter.

As I sated myself, I chatted with the cooks; girls from my home state. By the time my plate was empty, we'd gone from strangers to friends. We parted with an embrace and promises to catch each other at the next show.

Newly energized, Gromley and I set off on a wander through the village. The wander turned into a run as we bobbed and weaved through the river of gypsies as fast as my jello legs could carry me. At least once, we fell to the ground laughing to piss ourselves.

Familiar faces sitting by their van, hands busy on bongo drums. I pulled up a patch of pavement, snuggled the pup on my lap and let the beat lull me into a liquid state.

Time sped up and slowed down and at some point I felt the crowd around me grow bigger. The show was over.

I made my way back to the van. Nat and Skip appeared soon after excitedly recounting the experience they'd just had inside. They had no idea I'd been tossed out;

"No! Fuck! That fucking sucks! You missed the best show!"

Nah.

I reckon I enjoyed the show just fine.

*******


I'm back linking up with The Red Dress Club once again.


Here's this week's memoir prompt;

This week we want you to recall something in your life that seemed terrible at the time, but looking back, brought you something wonderful.
A positive from a negative experience.

Yeah, I know. This will just get lost amongst all the other posts about tripping balls outside a Dead show, but fuck it.

And?   I was 22.   That is really young.  And not an age known for its stellar choice making ok?

OK?

Is all good.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Inspiring Obsession



Last week, Annabelle gave me this:



She said nice things about me and I told her I would consider accepting the award.

Thank you Annabelle!

So there. I've accepted it.

Now for the rules.

Thank the the blogger who gave it to you and link them.  Done.


Post up some of your work that you think is inspirational AND link 10 other bloggers you believe to be of inspiration. Yeah. That's not going to happen.

Forward the award or notification of to those bloggers. See Above.

I don't have time for that shit.

I've been busy.

But maybe a little inspired.

*******

Since Al was not inspired to get me a gift or even a fucking card for my birthday, I was forced to take matters into my own hands.



Or feet rather.

How fucking cute are they?

I'm obsessed with these sandals.

*******

Though it was cold and drizzly, I took my adorably shod feet to the playground with a deaf kid group. Not only his Deaf peeps who all sign, but with the mainstreamed Hearing Impaired kids from town.

Owen refused to play baseball. He did a crafty thing.

And Simon Says? With kids who can't hear shit? That's just wrong.

After the party, everyone went to a Mexican place where a portion of the sales would go to the group. There was a huge turnout. More of his Deaf friends showed up.

Inspiring?

Watching the Hearing Impaired kids sitting with their families, enjoying a nice meal in a quiet well behaved manner. Very normal.

Watching Owen and his peeps tackle hug each other in greeting and run around the place raising all sorts of Hell.

Fuck yeah.

*******

I recently saw Get Him To The Greek.

There is clearly something wrong with me as I spent some quality time I'm not telling how long but it was a really long time trolling images of Russell Brand.


He's so wrong, and funny, and wrong, and smart, and wrong, and sleazy, and wrong, and perverted, and wrong, he's just, well wrong.

And I must be too as he's inspired some not right thoughts in my head.

*******

Owen's Spiderman camcorder he got for his birthday shit the bed before he could even use it. So we returned it. Owen being the very smart boy that he is, realized that he'd just break its replacement and opted for choosing a new toy instead.

Up and down the aisles we went, Owen growing anxious as he couldn't make up his mind.

Until he spotted it. And he hugely smiled. And jumped up and down and asked; "Please please please can I get it?"

How could I refuse?



The Woody toy has been a source of endless amusement for Owen and any adult with a sense of humor.

"Owen. Either watch TV or play with your Woody.  You can't do both."

"Mom?  Where should I put my Woody?"

"MOM!!  Owen hit me with his Woody!!"

"I'm gonna show ALL my friends my Woody."

And many many more. 

I hope his obsession with this thing lasts a good long time.

*******

While not staring at my feet, drooling over dirty Brits, and giggling like an 8 year old at Woody jokes, I've been feeding my latest musical obsession.




And beards.  Mmmmmm.  Beards

*******

Monday, April 18, 2011

If 38 Is All I'm Given

I'd have been;

1. A daughter

2. A sister

3. A friend

4. A mother

5. A nurse

6. A nomad

I'd have lived;

7. In a big house

8. A one room cabin in the woods

9. A farm

10.  A van

11. Canada

I'd have travelled;

12. Hither

13. Thither

14. Across this country

15. And back again

16. Twice

I'd have dipped my toes;

17. In the Atlantic

18. Pacific

19. The Baltic Sea

I'd have stood;

20. Alone

21. In a crowd

22. On the Eiffel Tower

I'd have jumped;

23. Out of a plane

24. At sunset

I'd have landed;

25. In a pasture

I'd have spoken;

26 In anger

27. In love

28. With my hands

I'd have witnessed;

29. Birth gone wrong

30. Death gone right

31. Miracles

I'd have lost;

32. Everything

I'd have gained

33. More than I'd lost

I'd have learned;

34. To keep learning

35. To be more

36. By doing less

37. To be quiet

38. To listen

Thursday, April 14, 2011

To The Earth As One.

*******

Though she technically didn't die of a broken heart, she'd only lasted one hundred days.

Alzheimer's had taken him from her years before, his bodily death on January 4th, a mere formality.

Easter dinner was her favorite. Leg of lamb and whatever trimmings go with it. Mint jelly? On meat?

I wasn't with her for that meal. I hadn't seen her since January, when I'd bent over her withered frame, and yelled into her ear that I loved her. Incredibly sad was how she looked, and suddenly much smaller. The only time I spoke to her after that, incredibly sad was how she sounded;

"All I do is sit around and eat cookies."

She'd taken care of him for over half a century.  She never let him eat too many cookies.

I wonder if she was able to enjoy that holiday meal; her first holiday without him would be her last.  She collapsed after dinner and passed away two days later.

A hundred days after Him.

Grampa's ashes had been waiting until the ground softened up enough to accept them.  Now Her's sat beside His, each in their own box.  We put them on his recliner together.  I remember her sitting on his lap in a recliner.

Is it weird to look?  I looked.  The heavy cardboard boxes were covered in black plastic, maybe vinyl.   Inside each box, a clear plastic bag.  Inside the plastic bags? If you know then you know; if you don't, well, you don't.  It didn't bother me though.  It wasn't Them.

Filling the empty space in each box, Styrofoam packing peanuts.  That bothered me.

Their three daughters, all of their grandchildren, several great grandchildren, brought them to the mountain.  Or what passes for a mountain in New Jersey.

A prettier place to put them I couldn't have imagined.  Rolling green hills, tree lined paths, flowers everywhere.  I love cemeteries.

A minister of some sort said some words.  I forget who placed the boxes, side by side, in the small hole.

I took my turn tossing a flower down in and offering up my final goodbye; silently congratulating them on their long life together, and for their reunion.

We lingered after the minister left. Something wasn't right. I felt it.  Others felt it too.

The boxes.  The plastic bags.  The peanuts.

These things an insult to the Them, to the Earth.  They weren't together, not fully.

A decision was made.  My sister and uncle did the honors. 

Out came the boxes.  Out came the bags.  Discarded were the peanuts.

We huddled around the small hole, feeling sneaky and naughty.

The contents of the bags were poured into the Earth, the particles of One mixing with the particles of the Other.

Some of Them took to the wind.  I watched Them fly away.  I breathed Them in.

I thanked the Universe for allowing Them to go to the Earth as One.

*******

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

For Lack Of Trying.

I was in second or third grade and my sisters were taking Irish Step Dancing classes.  They wore pretty plaid dresses and cool shoes with laces up to their knees.  I wanted to do it too.

I took one class. I didn't start jumping and flicking my feet around expertly within minutes, so I cried the whole time.  Learning was going to be a long process, and not easy.

So I quit.  After one class.

In the fifth grade, I was allowed to pick an instrument to learn.  We had a beautiful old clarinet, so I chose that.  I learned the basics easily enough, and was competent enough to be asked to join the Tri Town Orchestra.

But after learning the basics, things got more complicated.  No longer easy.   And?   I never got to play the melody, and it bugged me.  I blew out what seemed like random low tones that to me had nothing to do with the songs I knew so well;  "Eye of The Tiger", "Theme from Superman", crap like that.

So I quit.  I never played in the Tri Town Orchestra.

I've never tried very hard to do anything. 

A couple years ago, I asked  Owen if he wanted to try a Karate class.  I showed him videos of kids in a class.  He couldn't wait to learn some superhero moves.

The first class, he sat on my lap vibrating with anxiety.  He was introduced to the class.  He taught them some signs.  He wouldn't have been the only kid with special needs there. He refused to join them in their punching and kicking exercises. The teacher gave him a Gi to take home and try on.

He ran around the house in his Gi all evening flailing spastically practicing his "Karate". 

The next week, he'd promised to get up and join the other kids.  He knew if he didn't, he'd have to return the Gi.

He sat on my lap.  More vibrating.  This time with crying; "I'm scared".  At the end of the class, he moped his way to the teacher, head hung in defeat, and returned the Gi. 

He quit.  And I let him.

Bea asked to take dance class.  I brought her to the studio and signed her up. I bought her a pink leotard, tights, skirt, shoes.  She twirled and pranced for weeks in anticipation of her first class. 

She was so damn cute in that get up I wanted to bite her butt.

The day arrived and all the Mommies shuffled their little jumping balls of pink into the studio. The Mommies sat down as the line of pink stretched the length of the room.

Except for Bea.  Who sat on my lap crying.  For the entire hour.  Ok.  Not the whole hour. I gave up after thirty minutes and dragged her out.

She refused to ever go back.  And I let her.

Bea's friend Mya signed up for soccer.  Bea asked if she could too.  So I did.  For weeks she's been talking about it.

The first class was this past Saturday.  She peppered me all morning;

"Time for soccer yet?  Can we go now?  Now?  NOW!??"

The field was bustling with dozens of kids and parents and coaches.  Ten groups of ten.  Bea's was the first group we found.  Her coach was Perry, an adorkable 22 year old Brit with a goofy smile and Harry Potter's voice.
All the kids took to him instantly.  Acting like whatever animal he told them too. Chasing him around.  Kicking balls at him.

Except for Bea.  Who clung to me crying; "I'm scared."

Yeah.  Harry Potter with the turned up nose, freckles, and heavy lisp was truly terrifying.

Hiding behind me, she wouldn't even watch the other kids. 

So I dragged her out of there, still crying.  And I threw her in the car.  And told her I wasn't going to get her a soccer ball of her own.

I made it as far as the entrance to the park, Bea still wailing.

"No.  You said you wanted to do it. I paid for you to play.  We're going back. You're going to at least try."

And we did.  We stood and watched.  And she cried. 

I joined the kids.  Jumped like a kangaroo, walked like a penguin, kicked the ball at Bea.

Perry and I tried all manner of bribery and trickery to no avail.

She stood her ground, feet planted firmly, arms crossed in stubborn defiance;

"NO."

Which is what she might do next week, and the week after that, and the week after that.

Because I'm not letting her give up without even trying.

*******

*Twitter Pigeon for Annabelle!*

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Giddy Things.

Last Thursday, Owen's birthday:

Bea is already downstairs when Owen wakes up. Al and I greet him with excited "Happy Birthday! You're EIGHT!!" and all that proud parent crap. We get him dressed in a nice new outfit and tell him how handsome and grown up he looks. He's bursting with special birthday goodness as he descends the stairs.

He's met at the bottom by Bea, who looks him up and down and tells him;

"You don't look very good."

Thank goodness Owen barely hears any words coming out of Bea's mouth, not to mention the unspoken;

"Happy fucking birthday miracle boy. I don't see what is so fucking great about you. You talk funny, you turn the TV up too loud and you have a big stupid bald spot on the back of your head."

I can't wait til they're teenagers.

*******

Yesterday morning Bea bumbles downstairs after Owen has already left for school.

"Where's Owen?"

"He's gone to school."

"But I have to ask him something!!  Why he stole my dream last night!  He came in with scissors and scissored my dream!  He scissored it all up!!"

I'm so fucked when they're teenagers.

*******

Bea telling me about her newest imaginary friend, who is a wolf, a Deaf one of course;  holding a little plastic shoe, trying to tie a piece of string to it.

"I have Wolfie's shoe here. It is a very special shoe. I need to put a strap on it. Wolf's need shoes with straps on their shoes. They're called Strap-ons."

Can't wait to tell her that one when she's a teenager.

*******

A few of you have expressed your distaste of the dead bird picture for my Twitter. Over there ------>

Yeah. I suck at Twitter. I've tried, and I just don't get it.

Once in a while I stumble on a good blog through it, and some cool people have found me through it. So I'm going to keep it.

And am also keeping the dead bird.

Sherri told me she takes a strong disliking to blue jays, so that one is for her.

If there is a particular bird that you would like to see dead on my sidebar, let me know. I'll see what I can do.

With Easter coming up, I am thinking that a cute little dead chicken may be in order.

*******

When Owen was little, I had quite the CD collection for our hours spent in the car; therapy, doctor and hospital appointments, driving him to and from school for three years:

Raffi, Wiggles, Jerry Garcia. The usual kiddie fare.

Then I met my boyfriend and we started going steady. Owen actually liked it. Would request certain songs even, played insanely loud even. Yay me.

Jason and I are on a break at the moment, and the kids are getting to know Mommy's latest crush;


Bea, sitting at the kitchen table painting and talking quietly to whatever invisible friend had joined her that day.  She starts humming and then?

"Man is a giddy thing.  Oh man is a giddy thing."

She's gonna have kick ass taste in music.

*******

And while we're on the subject of my newest boyfriend, I'd like to ask Sherri to take a gander at that schnozz.  Cause if you're a fan o' the schnozz like we are, this one is a treat.

We'll be ignoring the fact that he's only 24 ok? 


That is a gorgeous schnozz no?

*******

Fucking Jillsmo.

Tagged me for yet another meme, just to piss me off.  Again.

I'm to ask my child to draw a picture of me and...I don't fucking know. I stopped paying attention.

Owen is always drawing pictures.  Of all of us.  And he's getting pretty good.  Well.  I'm the Mommy, so I'm bound by natural law to think everything he does is fucking genius. 

I'll let you be the judge:



I know right?  Kid's got mad skills!

Then I asked him to draw Daddy's girlfriend Jessica;




Again.  Spot on.

I guess he is a fucking genius.

*******

Monday, April 4, 2011

Transient Magic

Just so ya know, I do not have my Mommy of Especially Needy Child shit together all the time.

Owen's cousin's birthday party was yesterday.  At a kiddie gymnastics place.  The party goers were shuffled into the gym to play as the parents watched through big windows.

The warm up exercises went fine.  Owen was able to copy the instructor's movements.  He was laughing and having fun.

Next was a relay activity; instructions were given, the kids were divided into groups, and given specific jobs to do.

Owen stared blankly at the instructor, and when his turn was up he burst into tears because he didn't know what he was supposed to do.

Because he couldn't hear her.

I should have foreseen this. I should have been in there interpreting for him.  I should have protected him from feeling left out.

I did go in and interpret for the rest of the party. And he ran and jumped and did all the things the rest of the kids were doing.

But I still felt like an asshole.

And I could have done without the pitiful looks from the other parents there.

Because even though there are times when it fucking sucks to be us, I don't wish we were anyone else.

Yesterday was not magical.

But big picture?  We've had more than our share of the stuff.

And today, Cheryl at MommyPants has me guest posting about that magic.

Go read, please and thank you.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Deaf Kid Birthday Party Recap.

We always have a huge turn out for Owen's birthday parties.  He insists on inviting EVERY kid at school.  From the preschoolers on up.  They are so much a little family, it is too freaking sweet.

The festivities were held at an indoor Bouncy House place.  A dozen or so Bouncies make a LOT of noise, which meant the Deaf kids couldn't hear shit.  Which didn't bother them one bit.


"I know.  Black ear molds are out.  That Emo crap is so 2010"

"Imagine if Justin Bieber could sign?  Wouldn't you just die??"

"Oh yeah. I've noticed.  That scar on Owen's neck is soooo cute.  I wonder if he has any more!"


Messing with birthday kid via trick candles.  Win.


Iron Man mask?  Also Win.

Not to worry.  We did our parental duty and found a way to ruin Owen's birthday.


We got him a new bike.   He's so pissed.  He won't even look at the fucking thing.

Best Deaf Kid Shirt Ever.


Duh.


Done.