Before the Fall

Once again the fall nip is supposed to be in the air. Here in
San Diego, we are getting ready for another run at Indian Summer. After the last few weeks I just hope it isn’t Indian Summer as hot as Punjab curry. I have had enough heat, enough fire, and enough excitement to last me well past the first of the year.

It is that time of year when all good goblins put their best feet forward. They will see how beggardly their parents will let them be. The parents will jockey to see who can buy the best chocolate. Then moms and dads will grab the kids’ bags to make sure the kids don’t eat it. This is a perverse holiday.

In our little corner of the world, my granddaughters will trek to see gramma and papa. Their nana and maybe other grandpa will come and, this year, we will have the last great-gramma and the step-gramma in attendance too. We will all ooooh and ahhhh over the little girls and sit down for a twilight supper before begging at three or four of my neighbors’ houses.

Adults will outnumber kids three to one. That seems like an appropriate ratio to me. I have herded those cats by myself and wished I was at least 6 people!

The fun begins for us with Morrigan’s birthday in September. Morrigan’s mom has a birthday the week after. Then Audrey celebrates in October and her dad’s birthday is two days before hers. The fall birthdays scoot right up next to Thanksgiving and then the race is on.

When I was raising my two urchins, I never thought about how fast time was going. I thought that if I survived from wake up to bedtime I had completed a productive day. Some weeks I didn’t even remember what happened between Sunday and Friday. It is still a blur. Now, I have trouble remembering what happened between 1990 and 2003.

I know I had a life before the grandgirls arrived. I just don’t remember it being much fun.Did I mention I have the cutest, smartest, sweetest grandgirls ever? Did I mention the two oldest ones have taken the kindergardens at there various schools captive and will not let them go? Did I mention Hillary Clinton better get elected now because in another twenty-some years she won’t stand a chance?

I am looking forward to seeing my little ones all dressed up. I think we are looking toward one three-year-old Dorothy Gail, one five-year-old Princess Audrey Leia, and one very precocious bride. Did you know opera gloves come in a size 3?

It is Halloween again. It was just Halloween yesterday. The little girls were shorter and a little rounder. There was more baby in each face and I had less white hair. The years are going way too fast. I am jealous of the slow summer days of my childhood. On those slow, sweet days I wished only to be 18, then 22, and, later, for my kids to be grown.

Now, they are grown and parents themselves and I am 58 and looking at more than half my life in a rear-view mirror. I wonder when the memories will start to really fade. I wonder if my mother’s Alzheimers disease will hit me or miss me. I wonder how I can bridge a gap with my sister that is entirely of her making. I wonder when I will forgive myself for not being perfect and, sometimes, not even being very good. I wonder when I will figure out what I can and cannot control.

It’s Halloween again. I think I’ll bake biscuits for dinner.

Communication 1-A

Mom died in February. All 5 of us–me, my sibs, and mom’s husband’s daughter–agree on the dispensation of the property. We even agree to have one, well really two, one of us and the one of her, deal with the legalities of the transaction.

So, why in Hell have I heard not a word from my sister about whether the house is on the market, whether judge signed the executor papers and had them annointed by the court, or the result of two months of notices to creditors? Did I mention my sister prides herself on being a communicator? 

I am a coward sometimes. The last private conversation I had with my sister ended with her accusing me of prying into her business because I looked at a website that estimated the value of her house. Somehow that is invasive, inappropriate, and probably un-American. I missed pointing out the part about public record and that I read the Sunday Home section so I know, not only approximately what her house is worth, but also that the website undervalues it. What’s more, I don’t give a shit about either. I just wanted to see the satelite photos of places I had lived.

That same conversation had her telling me I didn’t have to be defensive–I hadn’t felt defensive until she said that–that and a couple of hundred words that I won’t retell although they are burned into my memory.

The result of the conversation is that we are not talking. Not talking is different from not speaking. Not speaking is an active avoidance. It implies an attitude, a hostility. Not speaking is an active protest. We just aren’t talking. I don’t talk to people who don’t respect or trust me. Did I mention I am consumately respectable and trustworthy? I just don’t have anything to say.

The reason I have nothing to say is that she offered up that our failure to communicate is a familial failing–she is a wonderful communicator. She communicates for a living. It is only me–me and my brother (she avoids talking to our other sister)–who have problems with her superior tone and condescending air. We just don’t know how to talk to each other and that is our parents’ failing.  Having spent a good portion of my adult life in therapy of one sort or another, I expressed a willingness–no, I expressed it as a committment– to work on that with her any time, any place–AND SHE DECLINED.

New Eyes

When last I talked to Colleen, I left feeling more than a little perplexed. Strong? Maybe. Competent? Probably. Admired? dunno about that. So being ever so slightly analytical–as well as certifiable–I checked it out with R.

Am I intimidating? Yup but it’s not your fault that you look like you know your butt from two dollars a week. ’s not so much that you are intimidating as some folk are intimidated by you. hmmm. There is a difference there?

I go through life thinking that people don’t much like me. Checked it out with M. NAh, it’s not that people don’t like you. They just don’t understand you. They are used to agendas and ulterior motives and you just let it out straight up. It’s a mistake to read between the lines with you because there is NO between the lines between the lines. hmmm.

You know, people always ask about you and I have never heard a critical word…hmmmm.

I see myself through different eyes. I see the insecurity not the strength. I see the places I could have, should have done better, differently, more, less, something. I see someone who wants terribly to be loved and sometimes doesn’t know how to be lovable. I Don’t see the lion; I see the puppy. Scratch my ears and I’ll follow you anywhere.

So just for giggles I have taken R’s advice. I have suspended my disbelief. You know, people stop by my desk to chat, ask advice, grouse about the rest of the world. Folk don’t do that with people they would prefer to avoid. Even the dour ones play word games with me. There are more smiles than averted eyes. I just have been looking for the rejection rather than the acceptance. Perhaps the acceptance I need to really work on comes from that mythology that the demon in my head promotes. Maybe reality is not nearly as daunting as the demon has had me believe.

This week I am willing to be loved. This is a good week.

Analogies and Metaphors

On the long trip from Phoenix to San Diego, we stopped for a bio break somewhere just ourside of Yuma. The restrooms were 100 yards or so from the parking area. Mom had to pee. To pee, she had to get from the car to the restroom. Fifty yards from the car she said, “I can’t. I can’t. I cannot go any farther.” and she stopped and stood. “Come on, Mom.” didn’t work. “You can, Mom.” didn’t work. What got her to keep going toward the john was, “Okay, look where the car is. Look where the bathroom is. You have to go just as far to get back to the car as you have to go to get to the pot. If you go back to the car you will still have to pee. Whaddya want to do? I am going to pee.” Then she followed me to the bathroom and back to the car.

So, this morning at Weight Watchers I was looking at how far I have to go–40 pounds. It’s daunting and discouraging. ( I have back peddled some this past year. I can’t imagine why.) Right now, I am looking over my shoulder at how far I have come–still more than 100 pounds down. It is closer to the goal than it is half-way back.

The analogy doesn’t hold all the way through. I really am not headed back ‘to the car’ with any positive intention. I am afraid of weighing ### again. Finishing the weight loss doesn’t really finish anything. The part that makes sense to me is that I can either go forward or backward. Having gone forward, I will be more comfortable as I continue the journey. If I go backward, I’ll still continue the journey but I’ll be sitting–at best–in a pissy seat.

I’ll toddle along. I can. I will. It isn’t that far to the goal. It is much closer than the distance I’ve already covered…and I have to pee.

Making Your Own Mythology

This is an odd place to get real–whatever real may be.

Mom died in February. She left my life ten years ago–her choice not mine. Having her back in town even if she left her mind somewhere else was surreal. In the years since she ran away from home, I have built a mythology for myself that wrapped me pretty tightly around my brother and youngest sister. Middle sister went in a different direction from the day she backed into the world. The odd thing I am realizing about the mythology I built is that I believed it.

I believed that we siblings could have relationships after growing up in a family that did nothing to foster fraternity. I have made excuses for patently bad behavior and accepted off hand treatment because I believed that under the bad behavior there was love and trust and respect.

Now that it is clear to me that there is niether trust nor respect, I cannot see anything that approaches love. At least nothing that approaches a brand of love I understand. So, I feel duped. I feel embarassed and naive. I am not happy with my lack of perception. It is very hard to be wrong sometimes. I am less angry with my sister than I am disappointed: first, that my mythology was just that and nothing more; and second, that I have made myself more vulnerable in my false belief.

If I can be so wrong about something I want so much, what else do I miss by a mile and a half? Where is the person I think I am?

Then Came Spring

February was a blur. There were obits to write, decisions to be made, and the only guilt I could feel was guilt for not feeling guilty. I was busy reassuring my friends I was fine. They didn’t think so. But I was fine with mother dying. I wasn’t fine with what her dying did to my relationship with my siblings.

We have actively worked at having different families than the one we grew up in–although each is us has such different memories it is often hard to believe we ever lived together or shared parents. So, our respective children behave very differently from our collective behavior at similar ages. We siblings have revelled in the independence and character of all those next generation kids. They span 20 years from the oldest to the youngest. Their generation is more like two. The youngest of them just finished high school; the oldest is 36 and has two daughters and a lovely wife. It’s not like they hang out a whole lot.

They love and respect each other. They read each others’ blogs and comment. They plead guilty to cybersnooping and they know that their cousins are there for them–good news or not.  I don’t even know where my cousins are and would not recognize them on the street.

The divide and prevail tactic mother used all through our childhoods had brought us closer–once we recognized the game. After her death, resolve seemed to fail. She was dividing us more in death than she ever had in life.

Now, if I were reading this, uninvolved and unbiased, my first thought would be, “Money does that, even in families.” But we have no issues with the settling of her estate. Four of us, one step-sister–sell it off; divide by five. All agree. No issue.

Since February, it feels like some of us think others of us don’t care–or we don’t care correctly. I hear the critical voice of my father coming out of my sister’s mouth. The words have the same degree of inanity they had when I was 14 and of a fairly logical mind. If I tell you I prefer you speak to me differently, when you are being controlling, officious and overbearing, wouldn’t you think perhaps there was room for improvement?

Colleen says, “Tell the truth with love.” For my translation, I have never believed that there was any chance of getting what you want unless you ask for it. So I asked. I didn’t use the controlling, overbearing, officious, carve-her-into-little-pieces-and-feed-her-to-the-sharks tone or rhetoric. I used an “I message.” One of many exchanges went: ”When you tell me how to make a bed, I feel demeaned and criticized. Would you please try to be aware of your tone of voice?” Of course the subtext in my mind was, “What the f—! I have been making beds for 48 years–maybe more. And why the Hell do you care, anyway?” Repeatedly, sister spoke to me as though I had fallen off the turnip truck and struck my head severely. Perception is reality and I did not like what I was perceiving. I have never needed close supervision in my work or in my life. I’ve negotiated 58 years of life my way and I am content to let her negotiate her route her way, All I ask is that she extend me the same courtesy.

What I hoped and expected to be a gentle intervention BEFORE I became thoroughly pissed off was not well received. Brother, meanwhile, was being subjected to the same condescending tone and content–albeit he never helped her make a bed. He was already thoroughly pissed.

Moving North

Mom was evicted. Someone took her wedding rings—a handful of diamonds—not a fortune, but nice. We took her to the Northern part of the county to a wonderful house high on a hill. The view of the ocean eased into a view of the city then gradually faded into a view of hills and chaparral. Three hundred and sixty degrees of wonderful and a twelve bed house/mansion were all carefully outfitted for people who could not live alone.

Mother immediately decided it was her house. She also decided it was very Christian of her to share it with all those unfortunate people. By the end of the first hour she was holding hands with one of the geriatric Lotharios and gazing longingly at another. This was going to be a better place for mom than the bridge-playing crowd in the valley. And so it was until she got sick.

Very soon after moving in she caught a virus and her breathing became labored and gasping. She went to the emergency room. The news was not good and it got worse. Her lungs were functioning at something less than 50%. Her heart rate was entirely too fast and her blood pressure was a stroke looking for a place to happen. She laid in bed and her body was running a marathon. The watch began.

While in the hospital we expected her to fade into the night three nights in a row. She did not. The fourth day she gave us a wonderful gift. She sat up and talked to us. She TALKED to each of us. She was sweet and charming. She tried to get an extra hug and kiss from the Crazy (and cute) Norwegian.

When the doctor asked her how she was doing, her thought and her answer went beyond her health. She said, “I am apprehensive but I am not concerned.” She was getting ready for a final trip, I am sure.  She rallied. We took her home to hospice care at the mansion on the hill. The four of us visited daily—sometimes even one at a time. The others at the facility fussed over us. There were not so many visitors as one would hope.

The day after Valentine’s Day I walked in and looked around, not finding her in the chair she usually commandeered. The nurse’s aide was young and rabbit-like. Her eyes were darting as if looking to escape but there was no way through it but through it. “She is gone,” she whispered. “Gone?” said
I. “I am so sorry,” said she. The dawn broke in my benighted mind. “May I be with her?” “Yes, of course.” “When?” “An hour or so. We have not been able to get your sister on the phone.”

Then I sat with my mother and made a few calls. I sat with my mother. 

On Aging

Unattributed, blatently stolen quotation: “Getting old ain’t for wimps.” I don’t remember where first I heard this sentiment so aptly expressed. Getting old is hard work. First, you have to negotiate the whole prenatal crap shoot. Then you must survive infancy–a doubly interesting negotiation if you are firstborn. Someone, somewhere decided you should learn to walk and that offers even more opportunities to remove yourself from the gene pool. Eventually you are sent to school, where if the germs don’t get you, your peers take their best shot. By middle school, your peers have better aim and the challenge is dodging bullets to your psyche or something more literal depending on your neighborhood. Highschool separates the figurative men from the boys. Living through highschool is living through life in a war zone. The blessed few float through on a cloud of adulation and coolness seemimgly aloof from the strafing around them. Some muddle along with a cadre of coolish lesser beings–mostly they keep their heads down to avoid fire. Some survive by the skin of their teeth, running full tilt with explosions on every side. These are the ones who succeed wonderfully in college just to prove that highschool really was not the end-all-be-all of life–just as mother said. If you make it to 26–male or female–actuaries tell us you stand to live to a ripe old age (with variance for genetics and sudden gusts of stupidity).

The hard truth of the human condition is that no one gets out of it alive. A corollary to that truth is that the the longer you live the more aware you become that no one gets out of it alive. I postulate that many of us forget to live once we make it through the major minefields of life. I have taken life completely for granted, lived in the colon of my own angst, and basically taken everything entirely too seriously for years at a time. Stop and smell the roses. There were roses?

So tomorrow is my birthday. I will celebrate the completion of 58 years’ survival and I am going to try to keep my mind on the next 58 years or 58 minutes whichever seems most reasonable at the time. Even when life is less than good it is better than the obvious alternative. As for the not-so-obvious possible alternatives, I have never been a good gambler. I am sticking with the horse I know –I am not interested in pulling out of the race prematurely.

The Exodus

Sister 2 and I brought mother home from the stinking desert and for a few days she seemed to be rejoining the family if not the human race. Every time she asked about her parents—long dead—or our father—also long dead—she would break out in the most heart wrenching sobs. It seemed as though she got to relive their deaths a dozen or more times a day. It also seemed heartless to keep telling her how dead they really were so we started just redirecting the conversation. Not an easy task. Question: “where is dad?” Answer: “How about those Padres.” Question: “Is mother living?” Answer: “Do you want mashed or fries?” Potatoes did not seem to upset her.

After falling several times and alienating several adult companions it became clear that mother needed to be in assisted living whether she wanted to go or not. So off we went in quest for her perfect environment. Actually, off sister2 went. She would do it herself, by damn. And so she did.

The story lags and stagnates. It was drama after drama. Mom’s emotions fed all of our insecurities. Mom’s needs took precedence over our own. Our inadequacies glared in the light from the end of the tunnel. The short-lived pleasantries gave way to outright hostility. Visits became minefields to traverse out of duty and shadows of love. Some people become lovable old folks. Others just become miserable. Mom was miserable and she was not going to be miserable alone.

Every cloud has a silver lining. Having long been the recipient of the sharp side of mother’s tongue, I took a morbid satisfaction in having others experience the pleasure. I am sure there were several who believed that my historical angst and hysteria was the result of MY overly well developed sensitivity. When they felt the lash, however, the sting became all too real.

We developed a safety-in-numbers approach to visitation. Mom seemed less apt to attack when we visited her enmasse. Crazy as she was, she was not stupid. She saw the ploy for what it was and decided she could take us all one at a time or all together. And so she did. She also took to leaving the assisted living facility. Leaving is too strong a word. She got as far as the driveway and the management broke out in a cold sweat. Escape was highly unlikely but they evicted her anyway. Aside from deciding to roam, she was not fitting in. She didn’t adjust. She was unpleasant and cried constantly. None of us know where her wedding rings went but they were gone too–her eviction coming very close on the heels of their disaperation.

One Step at a Time

MLK, jr. said that we don’t have to see the top of the staircase all we have to do is take the first step and then the one after that. I have a fear that I will step up and find not a stair tread but air. You know that unearthly sense of believing there is one more step and landing face first because you didn’t realize you had reached the top?

In the vortex surrounding my mother’s demise, and, a month later, her husband retiring from life as well, I have gotten to examine a lot of emotions. In many ways, I have been mourning my mother’s death for ten years. Perhaps I have been mourning what I perceived as my death in my mother’s eyes. That said, the actual checking out was anti-climactic. There have been things to do and things I wish had been done differently and I have gotten to practice some skills I swear I didn’t know I had.

The call to arms came pretty unceremoniously. As I recall, I returned from an outing on my birthday to find a message on my machine announcing (from Phoenix) that mom’s husband was in the hospital and what was I going to do about my mother? Happy fucking birthday to you, too. This is close to my mind right now because it seems so improbable that this happened a year ago come Monday.

I had not talked with my mother in four years. Not talking to someone is different from not speaking. Not speaking is a defiant act. I was not defiant; I was practicing self preservation as best I knew how. I wrote; I did not talk.

Within a month my mother and her husband were in an assisted living facility in Phoenix–in separate rooms–and he was declining to see her or speak to her. She thought she had been hauled to the looney bin or, more likely, to jail. She knew she had done something awful, she just couldn’t remember what it was. She was quite certain her husband had either left her or died and she wasn’t quite sure who her husband was–my long dead father or that other guy.

When Sister #2 and I arrived to bring her back to California, the woman was well over the edge. I cannot be angry with a crazy woman. Mother was certifiable. We packed everything any of us might have a use for, donated a ton of crap to charity, and made the great escape from Arizona. Mother whispered to us that we had to be careful or they would catch us. She was certain we were breaking her out of jail.