Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Thursday, April 5, 2012
My sister asked me to repost this today on a day when I blow kisses to the sky and say a little prayer of love for my dad. For you, Jean. And for Dad.
April 5th, 2002 began as a gorgeous spring day. I will always remember the sky of that day. A sky so blissfuly blue, the color of jewels, it made the day feel like it was bursting in endless promise.
The phone call came while I was at the mall. My girls were on Spring Break and I was enjoying a leisurely day in their little girl company. I didn’t notice my phone was on silent mode until I glanced at it and saw I’d missed 18 calls.
It should have been my first clue.
My hubs was one of the many numbers I saw, so I called him while in the dressing room. It was to be my last few seconds of innocent oblivion.
His words froze my heart. He thought he was talking to my sister. He answered the phone in a strange, twisted sort of calm saying, “Has he regained consciousness?”
When he realized it was me, he had the heinous duty of telling me that my father was on his way to the hospital in an ambulance. That my 66-year-old vibrant father; a man who prescribed to a healthy, rigid diet; a runner in excellent shape; a man who'd never smoked a day in his life; a man who spent every moment of his life on this earth treasuring the time he had with his family, had been found on the roof of my parents’ home, unconscious by my mother, three days short of their 45th wedding anniversary.
He was up there, doing what he did best, what he had done all the years of his life, patching a hole in the roof, taking care of his family.
He never woke up.
I will not go back to the rest of the details of that day. I will tell you though, that I learned a few things on that day. I learned when you receive news of that sort of devastation, your knees really do buckle refusing to support your weight. Your body collapses as if it too, must surrender to forces mightier than your own. I learned the absolute depth of sorrow, a grief so acrid and decimating, I didn’t know if I would ever be able to find my way back. And, I learned how fierce and abiding my love was for my Dad, my darling wonderful Dad.
But the one thing I did not learn, that I still find unfathomable, is how the world has gone on with heartbreak of this kind of unendurable loss, without people dissolving into bits of nothing, swallowed whole by their grief. To this day, I have never known such untenable loss.
Enough now of the sadness.
My dad would have never have had that. He lived life, each day as if it was a birthday present waiting for him to unwrap. He found infinite joy in the everyday of things, most importantly in his wife and family. He was a great listener, a wonderful conversationalist, a magnificent father and grandfather, a true friend.
The pictures here speak volumes of who he was. In fact, they are so much him that on the day he left us I had to turn them face down, unable to face the life that was captured in those photos, unable to cope with the grief. It took me over a year to be able to look at them again with a smile.
In the first, he is at my Tori’s pre-school. The preschoolers each got a special day devoted to them. On their day, they were allowed to bring in their favorite thing in the “whole, wide world.” The children brought in stuffed animals, robots, dolls, their dog, the things that make up a 4-year-old’s adoration.
My girl brought her grandfather.
I remember reading her the note of instructions when it came home from school. When I got to the part about the show and tell favorite item in the whole, wide world, without a moment of hesitation my 4 year old piped up, “I want my Grandpa.”
It's how we all felt.
He was a singer of songs. From the time I can remember, he sang to us all the songs in his extensive collection. In his clear, beautiful voice he would croon for us, “Rockin, Rollin, Ridin,” “Skinny Marink a Dink a Dink”, “A Bushel and A Peck,” and of course, the classic,“She’s got Freckles on her Butt.” My childhood was filled with the sound of my father’s voice. He did the same for my girls.
My Tori girl wanted her favorite thing in the whole, wide world to come in and sing for the class.
He is singing in this picture, Tori’s favorite Grandpa song, “A you’re Adorable,” as she and my curly girl, Julia, look on in rock star awe.
Julia and her grandpa had a special relationship. He retired temporarily. But he was a man who needed to be constantly active and he found retirement just didn’t sit well with him. His temporary retirement happened conveniently right around the time Julia was born. Since Dad was home, he was forced into the title of babysitter. Their bond was immediate and irrefutable. It became a well-known joke that Julia was Grandpa’s favorite.
This picture defines the inseparable twosome they were. He, as usual, in rapt attention, she spilling out the details of her curly girl life. It is one of the greatest sorrows I carry with me, that the two of them only had three years together. But they were three years of grand moments, filled with the pleasure of each other’s company. Each other’s biggest fans.
I want to share two little memories of my dad to try and erase the sadness that will forever haunt this day for me.
The first one: My Hubs and I were going out for the evening. We only had Olivia then and being overprotective first-time parents, we hadn’t left her with anyone but her grandparents. We told them not to wait up. We would let ourselves in, grab our Olivia baby and slip out so as not to disturb their sleep. We came with baby monitors, the Pack and Play and all the other hundreds of essentials required for babysitting a first-born.
We got back late and tiptoed into the spare bedroom where we had set up the Pack n Play. There was our baby, slumbering away and right next to her on a little twin bed, lay my father, softly snoring away.
The next day he told us he didn’t trust that new fangled baby monitor and he’d been worried he wouldn’t be able to hear her if she cried. So he kept watch alongside her playpen, the guardian of the night. And what a guardian he was! We gathered up Olivia and she began to wail, none too happy about being roused from a sound sleep. My Hubs packed up the playpen, not a quiet feat in itself, accidentally dropping it with a crash on the way out of the room, causing the baby to wail even harder.
The watchmen of his precious grandchild kept on snoring throughout the whole ordeal.
Then there was the time, the husband and I had been out to dinner with friends. It was late, well past the witching hour. Well, well past the time my parents would still be awake. My Hubs said, “Hey, let’s go wake your parents up. Come on, you know your dad will love it.”
My Husband, another brokenhearted casualty of my dad’s passing.
They were the best of buds, a tribute to both of these stellar men of mine. One who was impulsive, always ready for the next great adventure. The other, steady and calm, a steadfast anchor in my life.
An unlikely pair.
But oh, how they adored each other. Comprades, when it came to knocking back good red wine, completing home improvement projects together, both respectful of each other’s craftsman talents, and laughing the day away.
Against my protests, we stopped and knocked on my parents’ door. My Dad opened up the door, still bleary from sleep, with a concerned look on his face.
Hubs said, “Hey, we thought we’d stop by and see what’s up.”
My dad’s concern melted into his easy laughter, his grin so infectious. It didn’t matter the hour. It didn’t matter that he'd been sound asleep, probably for hours. In fact, it made the story better. We were there. It was all. He opened the door with a wide swath of welcome and ushered us in.
Wine was poured, his beloved music was turned on and we laughed and talked until the sun was almost up. He had on his massive Best of the Eagles CD collection and with each new song, we’d race to see who could guess the lead singer. Every song, no matter what, he’d blurt out, “Glenn Frey.” And we laughed so hard, for the joy of it, for the fact that we were together in the middle of the night playing the Eagles and drinking wine, impulsive and fun, making a memory.
I believe that certain people know deep inside they are destined to leave this earth far too soon. You can see it in the way they embrace life. And after they go, people marvel, “Now, that was a well-lived life.”
I think my Dad knew. And in his own way, he tried to prepare us. He was always saying to me, “When
I’m gone . . . ”
But I didn’t want to hear it. No one did.
He tried to show us that he wasn’t destined here for long by the giving of his heart, by the way he listened, really listened with his whole being, by the way he pushed aside his duties so he could play with his treasured grandchildren, by the smile and kiss he always had for you, even if you’d only seen him five minutes before. He treasured all the riches of his time on earth and he showed us the way to a contented and meaningful life.
I wrote and delivered my father’s eulogy. At the end of it, I read a guide to Jack Cleveland’s lessons of life. I’d like to share them today, to remember, a great man walked this earth. I was blessed enough to be his daughter.
JACK’S LESSONS (Use them well.)
Eat chocolate every day. Live with no regrets. Pray while on your knees. Don’t play with fireworks. Even on dark days, find the bright spot and laugh. Fix the broken things. Believe in noble causes. Wear a hat. Raise
the flag. Take pictures. Don’t wait for some day, now is all we know. Always send Valentines. (Until the year
he died, my father sent me a valentine.) Buckle up your seat belt. Write love letters. Have a dog. Vote. Say
the phrase, “Don’t you just love it?” and really mean it. Play cards honorably. Make to-do lists. Carry a handkerchief. Sing and dance for all your life. Have a cold beer or a glass of wine whenever you feel like it.
Say I love you again and again and again. Don’t get too hung up on schedules, go with the flow. Watch the children’s necks when they’re doing headstands. Keep the romance alive in your marriage. Hold your family close.
And lastly tonight, do one of his favorite things. Gather your loved ones, your kids, your parents, your spouse, your partner, whomever matters to you, and take them outside to gaze at the infinite stars spread out above you. Forget about the TV or the dishes or your busy life and just fill yourself up with the wondrous perfection of the night sky, remembering that our lives are filled with simple goodnesses that mean everything. It’s all
around you. You just have to take the time to treasure it. And if you remember when you're looking at that night sky, say hello to my dad and his giant heart. He’ll be watching from the heavens with a smile.
I love you Dad, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.
Today’s Definite Download: The magnificent Louis Armstrong’s, “What a Wonderful World.” My dad’s anthem for life. Thank you Dad. For everything.
The phone call came while I was at the mall. My girls were on Spring Break and I was enjoying a leisurely day in their little girl company. I didn’t notice my phone was on silent mode until I glanced at it and saw I’d missed 18 calls.
It should have been my first clue.
My hubs was one of the many numbers I saw, so I called him while in the dressing room. It was to be my last few seconds of innocent oblivion.
His words froze my heart. He thought he was talking to my sister. He answered the phone in a strange, twisted sort of calm saying, “Has he regained consciousness?”
When he realized it was me, he had the heinous duty of telling me that my father was on his way to the hospital in an ambulance. That my 66-year-old vibrant father; a man who prescribed to a healthy, rigid diet; a runner in excellent shape; a man who'd never smoked a day in his life; a man who spent every moment of his life on this earth treasuring the time he had with his family, had been found on the roof of my parents’ home, unconscious by my mother, three days short of their 45th wedding anniversary.
He never woke up.
I will not go back to the rest of the details of that day. I will tell you though, that I learned a few things on that day. I learned when you receive news of that sort of devastation, your knees really do buckle refusing to support your weight. Your body collapses as if it too, must surrender to forces mightier than your own. I learned the absolute depth of sorrow, a grief so acrid and decimating, I didn’t know if I would ever be able to find my way back. And, I learned how fierce and abiding my love was for my Dad, my darling wonderful Dad.
But the one thing I did not learn, that I still find unfathomable, is how the world has gone on with heartbreak of this kind of unendurable loss, without people dissolving into bits of nothing, swallowed whole by their grief. To this day, I have never known such untenable loss.
Enough now of the sadness.
My dad would have never have had that. He lived life, each day as if it was a birthday present waiting for him to unwrap. He found infinite joy in the everyday of things, most importantly in his wife and family. He was a great listener, a wonderful conversationalist, a magnificent father and grandfather, a true friend.
He thought of himself as an ordinary man. He was humble in that way. But what he didn’t seem to realize was how extraordinary he was to everyone who knew him.
He lived an exemplary life, raising a brood of seven, wild Irish-Catholic kids, a tough task in itself. He loved us with a passion. And as we grew older, we realized how lucky we were to have a father of his caliber. And we passed that love on to the next generation. His grandchildren adored him.
The pictures here speak volumes of who he was. In fact, they are so much him that on the day he left us I had to turn them face down, unable to face the life that was captured in those photos, unable to cope with the grief. It took me over a year to be able to look at them again with a smile.
In the first, he is at my Tori’s pre-school. The preschoolers each got a special day devoted to them. On their day, they were allowed to bring in their favorite thing in the “whole, wide world.” The children brought in stuffed animals, robots, dolls, their dog, the things that make up a 4-year-old’s adoration.
My girl brought her grandfather.
I remember reading her the note of instructions when it came home from school. When I got to the part about the show and tell favorite item in the whole, wide world, without a moment of hesitation my 4 year old piped up, “I want my Grandpa.”
It's how we all felt.
He was a singer of songs. From the time I can remember, he sang to us all the songs in his extensive collection. In his clear, beautiful voice he would croon for us, “Rockin, Rollin, Ridin,” “Skinny Marink a Dink a Dink”, “A Bushel and A Peck,” and of course, the classic,“She’s got Freckles on her Butt.” My childhood was filled with the sound of my father’s voice. He did the same for my girls.
My Tori girl wanted her favorite thing in the whole, wide world to come in and sing for the class.
Julia and her grandpa had a special relationship. He retired temporarily. But he was a man who needed to be constantly active and he found retirement just didn’t sit well with him. His temporary retirement happened conveniently right around the time Julia was born. Since Dad was home, he was forced into the title of babysitter. Their bond was immediate and irrefutable. It became a well-known joke that Julia was Grandpa’s favorite.
I want to share two little memories of my dad to try and erase the sadness that will forever haunt this day for me.
The first one: My Hubs and I were going out for the evening. We only had Olivia then and being overprotective first-time parents, we hadn’t left her with anyone but her grandparents. We told them not to wait up. We would let ourselves in, grab our Olivia baby and slip out so as not to disturb their sleep. We came with baby monitors, the Pack and Play and all the other hundreds of essentials required for babysitting a first-born.
We got back late and tiptoed into the spare bedroom where we had set up the Pack n Play. There was our baby, slumbering away and right next to her on a little twin bed, lay my father, softly snoring away.
The next day he told us he didn’t trust that new fangled baby monitor and he’d been worried he wouldn’t be able to hear her if she cried. So he kept watch alongside her playpen, the guardian of the night. And what a guardian he was! We gathered up Olivia and she began to wail, none too happy about being roused from a sound sleep. My Hubs packed up the playpen, not a quiet feat in itself, accidentally dropping it with a crash on the way out of the room, causing the baby to wail even harder.
The watchmen of his precious grandchild kept on snoring throughout the whole ordeal.
Then there was the time, the husband and I had been out to dinner with friends. It was late, well past the witching hour. Well, well past the time my parents would still be awake. My Hubs said, “Hey, let’s go wake your parents up. Come on, you know your dad will love it.”
My Husband, another brokenhearted casualty of my dad’s passing.
They were the best of buds, a tribute to both of these stellar men of mine. One who was impulsive, always ready for the next great adventure. The other, steady and calm, a steadfast anchor in my life.
An unlikely pair.
But oh, how they adored each other. Comprades, when it came to knocking back good red wine, completing home improvement projects together, both respectful of each other’s craftsman talents, and laughing the day away.
Against my protests, we stopped and knocked on my parents’ door. My Dad opened up the door, still bleary from sleep, with a concerned look on his face.
Hubs said, “Hey, we thought we’d stop by and see what’s up.”
My dad’s concern melted into his easy laughter, his grin so infectious. It didn’t matter the hour. It didn’t matter that he'd been sound asleep, probably for hours. In fact, it made the story better. We were there. It was all. He opened the door with a wide swath of welcome and ushered us in.
Wine was poured, his beloved music was turned on and we laughed and talked until the sun was almost up. He had on his massive Best of the Eagles CD collection and with each new song, we’d race to see who could guess the lead singer. Every song, no matter what, he’d blurt out, “Glenn Frey.” And we laughed so hard, for the joy of it, for the fact that we were together in the middle of the night playing the Eagles and drinking wine, impulsive and fun, making a memory.
I believe that certain people know deep inside they are destined to leave this earth far too soon. You can see it in the way they embrace life. And after they go, people marvel, “Now, that was a well-lived life.”
I think my Dad knew. And in his own way, he tried to prepare us. He was always saying to me, “When
I’m gone . . . ”
But I didn’t want to hear it. No one did.
He tried to show us that he wasn’t destined here for long by the giving of his heart, by the way he listened, really listened with his whole being, by the way he pushed aside his duties so he could play with his treasured grandchildren, by the smile and kiss he always had for you, even if you’d only seen him five minutes before. He treasured all the riches of his time on earth and he showed us the way to a contented and meaningful life.
I wrote and delivered my father’s eulogy. At the end of it, I read a guide to Jack Cleveland’s lessons of life. I’d like to share them today, to remember, a great man walked this earth. I was blessed enough to be his daughter.
JACK’S LESSONS (Use them well.)
And lastly tonight, do one of his favorite things. Gather your loved ones, your kids, your parents, your spouse, your partner, whomever matters to you, and take them outside to gaze at the infinite stars spread out above you. Forget about the TV or the dishes or your busy life and just fill yourself up with the wondrous perfection of the night sky, remembering that our lives are filled with simple goodnesses that mean everything. It’s all
around you. You just have to take the time to treasure it. And if you remember when you're looking at that night sky, say hello to my dad and his giant heart. He’ll be watching from the heavens with a smile.
I love you Dad, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.
Today’s Definite Download: The magnificent Louis Armstrong’s, “What a Wonderful World.” My dad’s anthem for life. Thank you Dad. For everything.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Hey Internet! Long time, no see!
Hey Internet! Long time, no see!
I needed that little break to repair my soul and also to do my laundry. But now, thankfully, things are back to normal or at least my definition of normal which is most certainly much different than yours. I mean, I bet you didn't interrupt a phone conversation yesterday to yell at your daughter as she was using the bathroom with the door open, since no one in this house of estrogen believes in modesty and say,"Hey, take off my thong!"
You don't want my normal.
And speaking of my normal, I wanted to tell you about one week in December, one week that has etched its passage into my heart. And when I tell you this story, know the irreverence and black humor I use to retell it is exactly what got us through that week. So when I joke, it is the part I like to remember, the part that knit us all closer together as we stumbled through the valley of the shadow of death.
But before I tell my story, I need to back it up to October. October in Napa. Three words that are simply the essence of paradise.
We were in Napa and since we tend to pack lightly, my hubs was out of clean jeans. And since it was a Saturday, our hotel's cleaning service wouldn't be able to get his jeans back to him until Monday. And since he is what I like to call a Fancy Nancy, he couldn't handle the thought of re-wearing his jeans. Oh, the humanity! And since we know Napa like the back of our hands, we took our dirty things to the little laundromat in Calistoga we'd passed by 100 times before.
We were in Napa and since we tend to pack lightly, my hubs was out of clean jeans. And since it was a Saturday, our hotel's cleaning service wouldn't be able to get his jeans back to him until Monday. And since he is what I like to call a Fancy Nancy, he couldn't handle the thought of re-wearing his jeans. Oh, the humanity! And since we know Napa like the back of our hands, we took our dirty things to the little laundromat in Calistoga we'd passed by 100 times before.
I left my hubs to do the laundry, because I'm nice like that, while I sat outside breathing in the beauty of Napa. Even in a laundromat, that land of milk and honey and wine is absolutely succulent.
My hubs was taking great delight in holding up all my delicates, (that would be my lacy thongs), to the giant windows for all of the laundromat to see and yelling, "This is yours, right?"
I was doing my best to ignore him as I watched the little sparrows flitting in and out of the Clematis-covered arbor that hung over the laundromat entrance. And as I watched them, I noticed a sweet little Hispanic boy across from me, whose parents were busy with laundry, stealing shy glances my way. I smiled and gave him a little wave and pointed to the sparrows and said, "Aren't they beautiful?"
He didn't answer, but we flirted back and forth, exchanging fleeting smiles under lidded eyes.
At one point, I was distracted by my hubs who was holding up another pair of my delicates for all the world to see. It is why I didn't notice my little friend suddenly standing right in front of me.
He was saying, "Awwww, Awwww" over and over again like a song and it took me a second to realize he was holding his closed hands out to me, an offering of some sort. I looked in between his chubby hands and spotted tiny feathers, black pebble eyes and heard the panicked warbling of a captured sparrow.
I said to my little friend in wonder, "Did you catch this?" He nodded and nudged his closed hands closer to me, a gift. I stroked the dainty bird's chest and felt the tiny pit-pat of her heartbeat, reverberating through her like thunder, in her fright.
I said to my little friend in wonder, "Did you catch this?" He nodded and nudged his closed hands closer to me, a gift. I stroked the dainty bird's chest and felt the tiny pit-pat of her heartbeat, reverberating through her like thunder, in her fright.
I said to my new boyfriend, "She's beautiful. Thank you for letting me pet her. But I think we should let her go. Why don't you open up your hands, so we can watch her fly away."
And he did just that, opened his fingers, one by one and gave that tiny feathered girl back her freedom. We watched her flutter away. And as she sang her song, so full of joy for the simple gift of air on her wings, I was struck with this mix of beauty and sadness that comes in some of life's most extraordinary moments and how it seems that when life is raw and at its best, there cannot be one without the other. Beauty and sadness nestled into the corners of my soul on that ordinary afternoon.
This is my friend. Guillermo. I won't forget him or his gift of a sparrow, if only for that infinitesimal second.
Fast Forward to an another day in early December.
We got the call on a Monday afternoon. "It's time. You need to come quickly."
My mother-in-law had been admirably battling kidney cancer. Only one year ago, the doctors had discovered a recurrence after living cancer free for over ten years. They'd caught it quickly and were quite optimistic from that first biopsy up until just one month ago, when she'd been taken to the emergency room. She'd been "a mite dizzy" for the last few weeks and suddenly that little bit of dizziness had turned into incapacitating vertigo.
Two days later, after opening her up, the doctors' optimism vanished when they found the cancer had morphed into an insipid army, terrorizing almost every part of her body.
A few weeks later, we were here, my hubs and I driving that weary 7 hour drive up to the Panhandle, for a last goodbye.
My husband, who'd been spending most of his time with her, tried to brace me—about her feeding tube, her inability to swallow or speak above a whisper and her emaciated condition.
But I was fine. I didn't need bracing. I was going to be the strong one for him. I might be a dramatic girl. I might cry at commercials. I might feel that I walk around the world with my skin inside out, my heart laid open, so vulnerable to the weight of everything. But I am strong when it comes to the big stuff. A woman's fortitude is something to be reckoned with. And I have fortitude in bunches.
I was fine. Until we walked through her door.
Until I stepped into her home where I have celebrated holidays and introduced babies and chased after toddlers and lectured teenagers to mind their manners, where I have spent most of my waking hours in the kitchen with my mother-in-law, as she made us feast after feast after feast.
As soon as I walked in and saw the two recliners, his and hers empty—as soon as I stepped through the doorway of that familiar place, I broke down. My hubs family encircled me and brought me to the couch, telling me that it was okay to cry, but to get it all out before I went in to see her.
I sat there on her pristine white couch, that couch that made me cringe every time we came to visit with toddlers and essentially, got my shit together. Saturday Night Fever was on the television, which struck me. A movie involving disco dancing and John Travolta in tight polyester pants, would have NEVER made air time in their house as they sat there in their matching recliners. The TV was always on and always blasting at my father-in-law's high volume, a strict regimen of war movies, cooking shows, The PTL club and Fox news.
I sat there and focused on John strutting and whirling and revolutionizing the way white people danced while the Bee Gee's nasally harmonized that I should be dancing, yeah.
After watching John's gyrations, I felt empowered enough to go join my hubs who had strode right in to see her because as it turns out, he is the strong one.
And as much as he'd tried to prepare me, I was shocked at this fragile creature before me. Just a few weeks before, I'd i-chatted with her and she'd been fine. Perfectly, perfectly fine. Not this frail woman in a hospital bed, who looked as if she would shatter into pieces if I touched her, her bones jutting out through her skin.
She never opened her eyes as we told her we were there, but she whispered something in my ear, the last words she would ever say to me.
Unfortunately, I have no idea what those words were. When someone can't speak above a whisper, it's rude to ask them to repeat themselves.
And besides,
I wasn't sure I wanted to hear what she had to say.
You see, there's this big hardy-har-har joke in the Mannix family.
My husband's Nana lived over 100 years.
She was a spritely, no-nonsense Italian woman who had no problem saying whatever came to her mind.
When we called to tell her that our third and final child was another girl, this Italian lady who'd been so focused on getting a grandson, said to us, "Oh, that's a shame. Well, what're you gonna do? Love her anyway."
Nana was always quite fond of me, even though I brought only girls to her Italian table. We had a great rapport. One time, I filmed her for hours, as she regaled me with tales of her family history. I was always the one most eager to hear her stories and she appreciated it.
Others were not as lucky to claim Nana's admiration. The unluckiest was her son's girlfriend, his girlfriend of 40 years to be exact.
I won't go into specifics, but Nana did not care for her son's girlfriend at all. And she made no secret of her contempt.
By the time Nana hit 100, she could no longer see very well due to macular degeneration. Her hearing was also kaput. She spent the last of her days in an assisted living facility.
On her 100th birthday, we had a party for her. As I bent down to give her a hug, she growled, "Get her the hell away from me. Get this she-devil the hell away from me!"
I was astonished. Of course, the family thought it was the most hilarious thing they'd ever witnessed.
My mother-in-law was the one who figured it out. The girlfriend had platinum hair, too. Granted, hers was a snappy bouffant, sprayed down with enough Aqua Net to smother the planet, but still . . .
It turned into this running joke in the family that Nana saw into my soul in her final days and what she saw was a she-devil.
So when my mother-in-law whispered whatever it is she whispered, I would like to believe it was words of love and not some new proclamation of the devil that may or may not be festering inside my soul, unbeknownst to me.
After we spent some time with my mother-in-law, we decided to all go out for a bite to eat. Which, at 9:00, in a tiny little town in the Panhandle, in the dead of winter is easier said than done. We were on the hunt for oysters because during certain months in the Panhandle, you can't get them any fresher unless you dig them out of the water yourself. But restaurant after restaurant had already closed for the night.
We finally ended up in a bar filled with men in camo ball caps who all had names like Tater and Cletus. And ladies who clearly considered scrunchies and stonewashed jeans as the height of fashion. There were no oysters, so we ordered pizza and vodka in plastic cups and tried to talk over the screaming guitars and badly-shouting lead singer of the 80s cover band.
And then, blessedly, there was a break and for a few minutes we caught up with each other and spoke about the unknown of the days to come. We'd barely started our conversations when there was an announcement, proclaiming a special treat—a group of ladies were going to entertain us all with their Zumba workout.
Now . . .
I have experienced a variety of wacky and wonderful things in my lifetime.
But a Zumba workout? In a bar? In Tater's bar?
These Panhandle people sure know how to party.
My sister-in-law and I rushed to the dance floor to watch this wondrous demonstration.
And the ladies did not disappoint.
After we finished up our pizza and Zumba, we headed over to the condo we had rented on the beach.
My sister-in-law, the bad ass, was planning on staying with us, since we had plenty of bedrooms and my mother-in-law's house was full with the rest of the family.
And as luck, or at least our luck when it comes to renting accommodations blindly, would have it, the place that looked so promising on the internet ended up being a dump. A dirty dump.
From the paint peeling front door
To the cracks and mold
To the mirrored bedroom of 1974, which sadly I did not take a picture of.
But trust me, it was Bow Chicka Wow Wow
To the vile bacteria that must have been everywhere, causing my sister-in-law to have this allergic reaction within two minutes of being there:
My hubs took one look and said, "We're out." And there at midnight, he called the owners, told them we were leaving and then said to me, "We're going to Jimmy's."
Whenever I think about that week, the brightest spot will always be Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville Hotel.
I have always loved that hotel.
But now? After spending heart crushing days, watching my mother-in-law fade away, that hotel was the sweetest refuge in the world every night.
That downy bed and plump pillows as soft as a blanket of clouds.
Those wonderful peaceful colors, the colors of the Gulf, so serene.
The touches of Jimmy and his love for the Gulf everywhere
Our wraparound balcony overlooking the Gulf, so still and tranquil and beautifully desolate, almost wild-like as the icy winter winds blew over the barren beaches.
Every morning, as we prepped ourselves for another heart-breaking day, my hubs would turn on the Jimmy Buffet channel. It was video after video of Jimmy and all of his friends, making such joyful noise. There was even one video that played often featuring a sexy, long-haired, 80s Bono singing, "Please Come Home For Christmas." I'd break out in smiles and sigh my lustful Bono sigh every time it played.
I think Jimmy and Jesus just might have been watching out for me.
My favorite time throughout that week was always the end of the day, when we would return worn out and depleted. My hubs would open a bottle of wine and I would step out on the balcony as the duskiness of nightfall settled in and the light had turned that melancholy blue of winter. It was hauntingly beautiful.
My hubs asked me the other day, "Tell me the best part of that week."
And for both of us, it was the sanctuary of that hotel.
I have loved Jimmy Buffett since the days when I would spend countless hours in a certain boy's car and on his boat, with Jimmy, his favorite, as our background make-out music.
But now? I feel like Jimmy was this scruffy, tequila drenched angel who got us through that week and I will never skip over a Buffett song on my iPod ever again.
We inhabited my mother-in-law's house during the day, cooking and talking and drinking wine and laughing. A family reunited under the direst of circumstances.
There was the night we bought steaks and seafood from the big fish market and this family of cooks all gathered together to make a splendid feast as my mother-in-law drifted in and out in her bedroom right off the kitchen, somewhere between this world and the next.
We drank wine out of her favorite glasses and cooked together in her kitchen and laughed and cried and then laughed some more.
Afterwards, we went in to see her and asked her nurse, (a family friend), if perhaps we were being too loud. Her nurse said from the way she'd reacted, she knew she liked it, the sound of her family in her kitchen. What noise could be sweeter to woman who spent her lifetime creating delicacies for her loved ones?
And as we stood there telling Mom about our evening, her daughter slid into bed with her and began to sing in her beautiful, smoky jazzy voice. Her other daughter took her hand and joined in, two girls singing to their momma, giving her the same comfort she had once given them. It was a sacred moment and I stayed for a little bit, but then tiptoed out. It was too sacred, too beautiful and I felt it was not mine to view.
The rest of the week was spent at her bedside, watching and waiting for the inevitable. I would often sit with her and as I watched her labored breathing, I wondered what was it like, this place where we will all eventually come to. Where was she? How did it feel to be in between worlds?
And as the days unfolded into one another, my mother-in-law held on. We weren't sure what was keeping her tied to the earth. Even the hospice nurses were surprised at her tenacity. My husband's godmother said to him in a conversation over the phone, "She's old school. Toughness is keeping her here." I thought there was nothing more apt.
Hospice had given us a book, a powder blue, cheery looking book. But the words behind that benign cover were not happily ever after kind of words. They were filled with information about the physical and emotional signs of pending death.
My sister-in-law, the bad-ass, constantly referred to it and constantly misplaced it. She spent the week saying, "Have you seen the Death Book?"
She'd read in the Death Book that it was important for each loved one to give the dying person permission to go.
And so we did. It was more difficult for some more than others, but as the days wore on and she fought for each breath, we all wanted her to take flight, to leave her broken body behind.
My sister-in-law told us that Mom had said she wanted to be with Jesus for Christmas. And as she continued to hold on, we joked about putting on Santa hats and proclaiming Merry Christmas to her.
Yes, we are a sordid lot.
It was the longest time of my life, of all of our lives.
And then finally after far too long, in a body ravaged by this horrid disease, she chose to go.
We got the phone call one morning, just as the sun was peeking out of that beautiful horizon.
We hurried over. Hospice was there, telling us there was no reason to take vitals any longer, that her meds except for pain could be stopped, that death was coming before nightfall.
We waited. We drifted in and out of her room watching her breaths grow further and further apart.
We were in the family room, talking and laughing at mindless things when my husband who'd gone into check on her, rushed out to say, "Right now. Come say goodbye."
We were all there, grouped around her as she sailed away, away from pain and sickness and into the arms of her husband and all the loved ones who'd been waiting for her.
One of the few movies I never grow tired of watching is "Terms of Endearment."
I love everything about that movie.
I watched it the other day while I was working out.
It always gets to me when Debra Winger dies, but this time when Shirley Maclaine said, "Oh God. I'm so stupid. So stupid . . . Somehow I thought when she finally went, that it would be a relief. Oh my sweet little darling! Oh dear. There's nothing harder. Nothing."
I stopped the treadmill, breathless at the reality in that truth.
When her last breath came and we realized that she had left us for good, it crushed us. There is nothing that can describe that moment. No words to describe how lamentable that exact moment of departure is. Even though we were ready, even though we'd read the Death Book cover to cover, even though we'd watched her fade away, even though the hospice nurses had told us that this was, indeed, the end—her leaving still took us by surprise with its stealthy punch.
There is nothing harder. Nothing.
After we said our goodbyes, we all scattered to do our duties. To make phone calls. To notify the funeral directors. To get our instructions from the wonderful hospice nurse who was there with us.
My husband ordered pizza for our empty stomachs and even though it was barely afternoon, I poured wine with shaking hands and we all drank, grateful for the fortification.
That night, my hubs and I and my sister-in-law, who also had a room back at Jimmy's, stopped to have a gourmet dinner on the way back to the hotel. My hubs ordered a bottle of champagne and we toasted my mother-in-law, the tiny bubbles tickling my nose. And we remembered her in the brightest moments. As it should be.
At her funeral, a dear friend of hers stood up and told us that when she sang, (she had a beautiful voice), you could see the Holy Spirit filling her up. And then he led us all in a hand clapping, boot stomping rendition of one of my mother-in-law's favorite songs,"I'll Fly Away."
It was the only time during her funeral that I wept.
I told you, I am strong when it counts. And I held it together, except as we raised our voices in that righteous, rollicking, Go-To-Jesus tune.
I thought of that little sparrow, so joyful to be free. I thought of my mother-in-law who most certainly felt the same way. I thought of beauty and sadness and how life is an unending circle of these and a thousand other sensibilities. I thought of blue evenings and a family who had now buried both parents in less than a year's time. I thought of my girls and how we would go on and on and on. All of us, side by side. Beauty and Sadness, side by side.
Rest in Sweet Peace, Marie. I'll see you on the other side. Hopefully. If I'm not a she-devil in disguise.
P.S: A promise. No more sadness after this post. I'll bring the funny with me next time I see you. And it might just be about arrests over my hair. That's all I'm sayin'.
Today's Definite Download: Of course-"I'll Fly Away" by the incomparable Johnny Cash, his wife June, The Statler Brothers, Carl Perkins and the Carter Family.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
I sat there and focused on John strutting and whirling and revolutionizing the way white people danced while the Bee Gee's nasally harmonized that I should be dancing, yeah.
After watching John's gyrations, I felt empowered enough to go join my hubs who had strode right in to see her because as it turns out, he is the strong one.
And as much as he'd tried to prepare me, I was shocked at this fragile creature before me. Just a few weeks before, I'd i-chatted with her and she'd been fine. Perfectly, perfectly fine. Not this frail woman in a hospital bed, who looked as if she would shatter into pieces if I touched her, her bones jutting out through her skin.
She never opened her eyes as we told her we were there, but she whispered something in my ear, the last words she would ever say to me.
Unfortunately, I have no idea what those words were. When someone can't speak above a whisper, it's rude to ask them to repeat themselves.
And besides,
I wasn't sure I wanted to hear what she had to say.
You see, there's this big hardy-har-har joke in the Mannix family.
My husband's Nana lived over 100 years.
She was a spritely, no-nonsense Italian woman who had no problem saying whatever came to her mind.
When we called to tell her that our third and final child was another girl, this Italian lady who'd been so focused on getting a grandson, said to us, "Oh, that's a shame. Well, what're you gonna do? Love her anyway."
Nana was always quite fond of me, even though I brought only girls to her Italian table. We had a great rapport. One time, I filmed her for hours, as she regaled me with tales of her family history. I was always the one most eager to hear her stories and she appreciated it.
Others were not as lucky to claim Nana's admiration. The unluckiest was her son's girlfriend, his girlfriend of 40 years to be exact.
I won't go into specifics, but Nana did not care for her son's girlfriend at all. And she made no secret of her contempt.
By the time Nana hit 100, she could no longer see very well due to macular degeneration. Her hearing was also kaput. She spent the last of her days in an assisted living facility.
On her 100th birthday, we had a party for her. As I bent down to give her a hug, she growled, "Get her the hell away from me. Get this she-devil the hell away from me!"
I was astonished. Of course, the family thought it was the most hilarious thing they'd ever witnessed.
My mother-in-law was the one who figured it out. The girlfriend had platinum hair, too. Granted, hers was a snappy bouffant, sprayed down with enough Aqua Net to smother the planet, but still . . .
It turned into this running joke in the family that Nana saw into my soul in her final days and what she saw was a she-devil.
So when my mother-in-law whispered whatever it is she whispered, I would like to believe it was words of love and not some new proclamation of the devil that may or may not be festering inside my soul, unbeknownst to me.
After we spent some time with my mother-in-law, we decided to all go out for a bite to eat. Which, at 9:00, in a tiny little town in the Panhandle, in the dead of winter is easier said than done. We were on the hunt for oysters because during certain months in the Panhandle, you can't get them any fresher unless you dig them out of the water yourself. But restaurant after restaurant had already closed for the night.
We finally ended up in a bar filled with men in camo ball caps who all had names like Tater and Cletus. And ladies who clearly considered scrunchies and stonewashed jeans as the height of fashion. There were no oysters, so we ordered pizza and vodka in plastic cups and tried to talk over the screaming guitars and badly-shouting lead singer of the 80s cover band.
And then, blessedly, there was a break and for a few minutes we caught up with each other and spoke about the unknown of the days to come. We'd barely started our conversations when there was an announcement, proclaiming a special treat—a group of ladies were going to entertain us all with their Zumba workout.
Now . . .
I have experienced a variety of wacky and wonderful things in my lifetime.
But a Zumba workout? In a bar? In Tater's bar?
These Panhandle people sure know how to party.
My sister-in-law and I rushed to the dance floor to watch this wondrous demonstration.
And the ladies did not disappoint.
After we finished up our pizza and Zumba, we headed over to the condo we had rented on the beach.
My sister-in-law, the bad ass, was planning on staying with us, since we had plenty of bedrooms and my mother-in-law's house was full with the rest of the family.
And as luck, or at least our luck when it comes to renting accommodations blindly, would have it, the place that looked so promising on the internet ended up being a dump. A dirty dump.
From the paint peeling front door
To the cracks and mold
To the mirrored bedroom of 1974, which sadly I did not take a picture of.
But trust me, it was Bow Chicka Wow Wow
To the vile bacteria that must have been everywhere, causing my sister-in-law to have this allergic reaction within two minutes of being there:
My hubs took one look and said, "We're out." And there at midnight, he called the owners, told them we were leaving and then said to me, "We're going to Jimmy's."
Whenever I think about that week, the brightest spot will always be Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville Hotel.
I have always loved that hotel.
But now? After spending heart crushing days, watching my mother-in-law fade away, that hotel was the sweetest refuge in the world every night.
That downy bed and plump pillows as soft as a blanket of clouds.
Those wonderful peaceful colors, the colors of the Gulf, so serene.
The touches of Jimmy and his love for the Gulf everywhere
Our wraparound balcony overlooking the Gulf, so still and tranquil and beautifully desolate, almost wild-like as the icy winter winds blew over the barren beaches.
Every morning, as we prepped ourselves for another heart-breaking day, my hubs would turn on the Jimmy Buffet channel. It was video after video of Jimmy and all of his friends, making such joyful noise. There was even one video that played often featuring a sexy, long-haired, 80s Bono singing, "Please Come Home For Christmas." I'd break out in smiles and sigh my lustful Bono sigh every time it played.
I think Jimmy and Jesus just might have been watching out for me.
My favorite time throughout that week was always the end of the day, when we would return worn out and depleted. My hubs would open a bottle of wine and I would step out on the balcony as the duskiness of nightfall settled in and the light had turned that melancholy blue of winter. It was hauntingly beautiful.
My hubs asked me the other day, "Tell me the best part of that week."
And for both of us, it was the sanctuary of that hotel.
I have loved Jimmy Buffett since the days when I would spend countless hours in a certain boy's car and on his boat, with Jimmy, his favorite, as our background make-out music.
But now? I feel like Jimmy was this scruffy, tequila drenched angel who got us through that week and I will never skip over a Buffett song on my iPod ever again.
We inhabited my mother-in-law's house during the day, cooking and talking and drinking wine and laughing. A family reunited under the direst of circumstances.
There was the night we bought steaks and seafood from the big fish market and this family of cooks all gathered together to make a splendid feast as my mother-in-law drifted in and out in her bedroom right off the kitchen, somewhere between this world and the next.
We drank wine out of her favorite glasses and cooked together in her kitchen and laughed and cried and then laughed some more.
Afterwards, we went in to see her and asked her nurse, (a family friend), if perhaps we were being too loud. Her nurse said from the way she'd reacted, she knew she liked it, the sound of her family in her kitchen. What noise could be sweeter to woman who spent her lifetime creating delicacies for her loved ones?
And as we stood there telling Mom about our evening, her daughter slid into bed with her and began to sing in her beautiful, smoky jazzy voice. Her other daughter took her hand and joined in, two girls singing to their momma, giving her the same comfort she had once given them. It was a sacred moment and I stayed for a little bit, but then tiptoed out. It was too sacred, too beautiful and I felt it was not mine to view.
The rest of the week was spent at her bedside, watching and waiting for the inevitable. I would often sit with her and as I watched her labored breathing, I wondered what was it like, this place where we will all eventually come to. Where was she? How did it feel to be in between worlds?
And as the days unfolded into one another, my mother-in-law held on. We weren't sure what was keeping her tied to the earth. Even the hospice nurses were surprised at her tenacity. My husband's godmother said to him in a conversation over the phone, "She's old school. Toughness is keeping her here." I thought there was nothing more apt.
Hospice had given us a book, a powder blue, cheery looking book. But the words behind that benign cover were not happily ever after kind of words. They were filled with information about the physical and emotional signs of pending death.
My sister-in-law, the bad-ass, constantly referred to it and constantly misplaced it. She spent the week saying, "Have you seen the Death Book?"
She'd read in the Death Book that it was important for each loved one to give the dying person permission to go.
And so we did. It was more difficult for some more than others, but as the days wore on and she fought for each breath, we all wanted her to take flight, to leave her broken body behind.
My sister-in-law told us that Mom had said she wanted to be with Jesus for Christmas. And as she continued to hold on, we joked about putting on Santa hats and proclaiming Merry Christmas to her.
Yes, we are a sordid lot.
It was the longest time of my life, of all of our lives.
And then finally after far too long, in a body ravaged by this horrid disease, she chose to go.
We got the phone call one morning, just as the sun was peeking out of that beautiful horizon.
We hurried over. Hospice was there, telling us there was no reason to take vitals any longer, that her meds except for pain could be stopped, that death was coming before nightfall.
We waited. We drifted in and out of her room watching her breaths grow further and further apart.
We were in the family room, talking and laughing at mindless things when my husband who'd gone into check on her, rushed out to say, "Right now. Come say goodbye."
We were all there, grouped around her as she sailed away, away from pain and sickness and into the arms of her husband and all the loved ones who'd been waiting for her.
One of the few movies I never grow tired of watching is "Terms of Endearment."
I love everything about that movie.
I watched it the other day while I was working out.
It always gets to me when Debra Winger dies, but this time when Shirley Maclaine said, "Oh God. I'm so stupid. So stupid . . . Somehow I thought when she finally went, that it would be a relief. Oh my sweet little darling! Oh dear. There's nothing harder. Nothing."
I stopped the treadmill, breathless at the reality in that truth.
When her last breath came and we realized that she had left us for good, it crushed us. There is nothing that can describe that moment. No words to describe how lamentable that exact moment of departure is. Even though we were ready, even though we'd read the Death Book cover to cover, even though we'd watched her fade away, even though the hospice nurses had told us that this was, indeed, the end—her leaving still took us by surprise with its stealthy punch.
There is nothing harder. Nothing.
After we said our goodbyes, we all scattered to do our duties. To make phone calls. To notify the funeral directors. To get our instructions from the wonderful hospice nurse who was there with us.
My husband ordered pizza for our empty stomachs and even though it was barely afternoon, I poured wine with shaking hands and we all drank, grateful for the fortification.
That night, my hubs and I and my sister-in-law, who also had a room back at Jimmy's, stopped to have a gourmet dinner on the way back to the hotel. My hubs ordered a bottle of champagne and we toasted my mother-in-law, the tiny bubbles tickling my nose. And we remembered her in the brightest moments. As it should be.
At her funeral, a dear friend of hers stood up and told us that when she sang, (she had a beautiful voice), you could see the Holy Spirit filling her up. And then he led us all in a hand clapping, boot stomping rendition of one of my mother-in-law's favorite songs,"I'll Fly Away."
It was the only time during her funeral that I wept.
I told you, I am strong when it counts. And I held it together, except as we raised our voices in that righteous, rollicking, Go-To-Jesus tune.
I thought of that little sparrow, so joyful to be free. I thought of my mother-in-law who most certainly felt the same way. I thought of beauty and sadness and how life is an unending circle of these and a thousand other sensibilities. I thought of blue evenings and a family who had now buried both parents in less than a year's time. I thought of my girls and how we would go on and on and on. All of us, side by side. Beauty and Sadness, side by side.
Rest in Sweet Peace, Marie. I'll see you on the other side. Hopefully. If I'm not a she-devil in disguise.
P.S: A promise. No more sadness after this post. I'll bring the funny with me next time I see you. And it might just be about arrests over my hair. That's all I'm sayin'.
Today's Definite Download: Of course-"I'll Fly Away" by the incomparable Johnny Cash, his wife June, The Statler Brothers, Carl Perkins and the Carter Family.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Update: To all of you emailing me—yes, I closed comments. It's Christmas Eve. You don't need to spend your time leaving me a comment. Go drink some eggnog and find some mistletoe and turn up Bruce's "Santa Claus is Comin' To Town" instead.
Merry Christmas and a Happy Hanukkah to all my Jewish friends which includes my sister, the Jewish/Catholic girl.
Update: To all of you emailing me—yes, I closed comments. It's Christmas Eve. You don't need to spend your time leaving me a comment. Go drink some eggnog and find some mistletoe and turn up Bruce's "Santa Claus is Comin' To Town" instead.
Merry Christmas and a Happy Hanukkah to all my Jewish friends which includes my sister, the Jewish/Catholic girl.
She's got the best of both worlds.
She gets invited to some very kick ass wedding receptions. (If you haven't been to a Jewish wedding reception, trust me, you need to crash one ASAP. The Jewish people throw a fabulous party. I'm pretty sure it's one of their Torah commandments: All Jews must have extravagant parties, including wedding receptions at 5-star hotels that involve major hoopla and fun circle dancing)
She gets invited to some very kick ass wedding receptions. (If you haven't been to a Jewish wedding reception, trust me, you need to crash one ASAP. The Jewish people throw a fabulous party. I'm pretty sure it's one of their Torah commandments: All Jews must have extravagant parties, including wedding receptions at 5-star hotels that involve major hoopla and fun circle dancing)
My sister, the hybrid, is six degrees away from the famous Jew, William Shatner and Bono, the half-Catholic.
And she gets to eat bacon.
And I won't even mention how great a sparkling menorah looks in a window.
But anyway. . .
I know I haven't been around this month and as many of you already know, it is because my mother-in-law passed away.
Grief hits hard. And it's something, at least for me, that comes in waves, a permeating dull sadness that nestles into my soul, rising up unbidden at the most unexpected times.
Like the other day, when I was at the mall and I passed the Aerie store where just last year at this same time, my mother-in-law and I were there buying underwear for my girls. My mother-in-law was shocked at the sight of all the lacy thongs, set out in dainty, soft pastel rows like blooming spring flowers. I remember she said something about the downfall of society being there in that underwear. I didn't have the heart to tell her I was one of the degenerates involved in bringing about that very downfall, as I casually hitched up my jeans to hide the telltale pink lace peeking out of the back.
We then found a little cafe table in the middle of the mall and had coffee because she was "just a little tired," an unknown concept in that Energizer Bunny of a woman's life.
And now, a year later, I had just watched her take her last breath a few days before and I was standing in front of Aerie, feeling like none of this had really happened and I burst into tears right there as the Christmas shoppers hustled by me giving me curious glances.
What I'm trying to say is, I have been trying to swim upstream through this tidal wave of grief and sometimes thong underwear undoes me and I haven't found the words yet . . . but they will come. They always do and when they do, I'll share them with you.
And since we didn't get back home from my mother-in-law's until the week before Christmas and since I had done zero Christmas shopping, I've been a mite busy. Shopping, crying, baking, crying, decorating, crying, shopping some more, crying, doing laundry, profusely weeping, holiday fun and just a little more crying.
My feet and eyes stay in a perpetual state of swollen.
And here it is, Christmas Eve. I am still trying to catch up on laundry. There are unwrapped presents stacked in the corner of my bedroom, waiting for their festive foil paper. And I have to start my prep work for the crowd that will gather for my Christmas feast tomorrow.
Oh, and then there's the fact that someone is bringing a priest to my house tomorrow.
This degenerate is for sure going to hell after my hubs breaks open the big wine bottles and I can finally relax.
Priest or not.
But I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you, to all of you.
For all of the kind words, the prayers, the gifts, the sweet notes, the love.
You people are extraordinary and in all the blessings I thank the Lord for, you all are up there on the top of the list.
From my house to yours, you lovely, lovely folks,
May you have the most blessed of holidays and a new year full of only good things.
With all my love.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
A few years ago, I lost my dad. He left the earth in an instant. One second he was here—healthy, laughing, singing his songs, drinking wine, loving his grandchildren—the next he was found with no heartbeat, sprawled out on his roof in the middle of a chore.
It was the cruelest death. He was too young, too good, too vibrant, too vital in my life, in so many lives. And it took a very long time for my heart to mend. Actually, it never did completely. A loss of that magnitude leaves a crack that can never be properly repaired.
I know this is how life goes. But it is always the worst part of the story. And it pains me, truly hurts every particle of my heart, to see my mother-in-law suffering and to see my husband go through this, again.
He's always been the strongest-shouldered man I know.
My sister-in-law, who was raised by my old-fashioned mother-in-law, is an ultra modern woman, with a job title I cannot disclose, but loosely translated, it means Official Bad Ass. Seriously, she has a bad ass super-secret job with the government that involves the possession of weapons at all times and terrorism and cartels, and that is just about as bad ass as you can get. She's pretty much Salt, except in my sister-in-law's case, the rest of the government isn't undercover double agent Russian spies with Liev Schreiber as the hot chief Bad Ass/double agent Russian spy.
At least, I hope not.
My sister-in-law, Salt, and I decided we'd had enough of my mother-in-law sitting around with my father-in-law doing nothing. We took it upon ourselves to emancipate my mother-in-law. We were going to make her into a modern woman, a woman with her own interests, a woman with her own voice, a woman who had no problem standing up to her man and saying, "I'm an independent woman and I'm going shopping."
A few years ago, I lost my dad. He left the earth in an instant. One second he was here—healthy, laughing, singing his songs, drinking wine, loving his grandchildren—the next he was found with no heartbeat, sprawled out on his roof in the middle of a chore.
It was the cruelest death. He was too young, too good, too vibrant, too vital in my life, in so many lives. And it took a very long time for my heart to mend. Actually, it never did completely. A loss of that magnitude leaves a crack that can never be properly repaired.
A few people said to me after his death, that I was lucky to have lost him in such a way. That his swift passing was somehow a blessing. I couldn't wrap my head around that concept. I found their words unconscionable. And I never had an answer. Honestly, I couldn't speak when that was said to me because the words that were bubbling up from my psyche were not pretty ones. My gut reaction was always the same, hard words that summed up exactly what I thought of their theory. Words that might have just had an F and a U somewhere in them.
But because I had not experienced death any other way, I couldn't conceive of the passing of a loved one as a blessing.
Unfortunately, now that is all about to change.
My husband's mother is ill, critically ill.
Without going into too many details, she had a bout with cancer many years ago. She fought the big C and won.
For ten years. Ten years, she was cancer free.
Ten years is enough time to exhale, to stop lying awake at night thinking all those awful thoughts, to start living again.
For ten years. Ten years, she was cancer free.
Ten years is enough time to exhale, to stop lying awake at night thinking all those awful thoughts, to start living again.
Barely a year ago, the cancer came back. And when it did, it was ferocious. Invading every part of her.
My husband has spent the last few weeks commuting to the Panhandle, being the strong shoulder, taking care of all that needs to be tended to, as he watches his mother slip away. And the worst part of it is, he just lost his father not too long ago. Her descent into the grips of this insidious disease is just such a sad and awful thing for my mother-in-law, for my husband, for his siblings, for all of us.
I know this is how life goes. But it is always the worst part of the story. And it pains me, truly hurts every particle of my heart, to see my mother-in-law suffering and to see my husband go through this, again.
He's always been the strongest-shouldered man I know.
I won't even begin to tell you all the noble things he did for me and for my family, when my father died—my father who just happened to be his best friend. Because if I start listing all the particulars, this post would be a lengthier tome than it usually is and I would burst into tears at the thought of his kindnesses during that time when we needed exactly what he gave us.
And I have done enough crying in the past few weeks.
Instead, I would like to tell you about this woman I have known for over 25 years.
I met her when I was a fresh-faced, 20-something-year old, stuffed full of vacuous nonsense, in the days when my biggest concerns in life were how big I could make my hair and which clubs had the best drink specials.
I was nervous the first time my hubs took me to his parents' home. I quizzed him throughout the entire seven hour trek and by the time we got there, I had convinced myself his mother would not like me.
And to be honest, I don't think she did.
We had nothing in common. I was a feisty, Irish Catholic. I knew nothing of cooking. I was young, wild, impetuous and I loved her son and I knew none of these things would jibe too well with her.
She is a feisty, Italian woman, a born-again Christian, an old fashioned woman with old fashioned sensibilities, a gourmet cook whose food can bring a grown man to his knees.
I had a feeling it wasn't going to be pretty.
We got to their house a little before dinner time and I very reluctantly asked this sprite of a woman if I could help her in the kitchen. I say reluctantly, because I was terrified she would give me a task beyond my cooking expertise.
My cooking expertise in those days consisted of putting a frozen pizza in the oven, so it would have been easy to usurp my culinary skills.
And like she did for the next 25 years, she didn't require anything of me.
At least in the cooking department.
She never wanted other hands in her homemade pastas, her succulent rib roasts, her hand rolled sushis, her baklava. She only wanted your company, someone to chat with as she expertly bustled from one pan to the next.
The night I met her she was having a cookout. She'd invited friends, neighbors and members of her church over to meet this girl with the blonde Bon Jovi perm who'd been dating her son now for almost a year.
As I stood in the kitchen, awkwardly, trying to figure out where to stand, what to say, she gasped, "Oh dear me! I forgot the hamburger buns!"
Thinking this was a great way to get the hell out of Dodge, I offered to go to the store for her.
And that's when she said, "No, it's alright. I'll just make them."
Make them? For real? I didn't know it was possible to whip up hamburger buns at a moment's notice.
I thought only Pepperidge Farm was capable of that sort of feat.
I thought only Pepperidge Farm was capable of that sort of feat.
But within seconds, the flour was out, dough was pounded and we had fresh hamburger buns.
And that's how life was with her, filled with homemade delicacies.
There is this big, aching hole in my heart at the thought of not being able to hear her ask, first thing every morning on our visits to her house, "Good morning! So, what would you like for dinner?"
I cannot stand the idea that my girls will no longer be able to group around her as she deep fries her fabulous Zeppoles and then lets my girls coat them in powdered sugar.
I cannot even begin to fathom a life without her bustling about the kitchen.
I cannot stand the idea that my girls will no longer be able to group around her as she deep fries her fabulous Zeppoles and then lets my girls coat them in powdered sugar.
I cannot even begin to fathom a life without her bustling about the kitchen.
I said to my hubs early on in our life together, "Have you ever noticed when we're with your parents, we're either talking about food, cooking food, shopping for food or eating food?"
It wasn't a bad way to live.
At that first dinner, as we gathered to chow down, my in-laws announced we would first say a prayer.
Each of us. Out loud.
Each of us. Out loud.
I panicked.
I was Catholic. We didn't make up prayers and share them with each other. That would be too . . . non-boring. We like our prayers recited in a monotone, antiquated drone.
When it was my turn, I muttered a few, measly words of thanks, my face the color of beets.
Back in the day, cooking and praying were not my strong suits.
But I have learned a thing or two over the years in my mother-in-law's kitchen.
She taught me the proper way to smash garlic with the side of a knife, for a milder, nuttier flavor. She taught me to never refrigerate my tomatoes and to always buy the very best in spices, same goes for kitchen tools.
She taught me how to make her baklava, even though I still say phyllo dough is a giant asshole. But just like hers, my baklava brings all the boys to the yard.
She also taught me the wisdom in holding my tongue, when I didn't agree.
Something that happened often when it came to our philosophies.
And after a few years of nodding and smiling at crucial times, a pretty cool thing happened. We became more than in-laws. We became friends over the pots of bubbling spaghetti sauce and the pans filled with her glorious sautés.
I don't know what we're going to do without her.
I don't know what we're going to do without her.
I'd like to share just one more story if I may:
My mother and father-in-law were like a picture-book, 1950's married couple. She actually used to have the martinis waiting for him when he came home every night. I'm sure, while dressed in her swishy dress and matching pumps.
He was a Marine, stoic and tough. She was a homemaker to her core.
And she fussed over him.
Earnestly.
I always said she knew what my father-in-law needed before he ever did.
As the years went by, my father-in-law grew more and more content to sit in his chair and watch TV.
He lost his desire for the adventurous life they'd always lived. But my mother-in-law still had her boundless energy and she still had much to do, places to go, people to see.
She hated the fact that his world had shrunk to the size of their home, but she stayed right there at home with him because she refused to live a life without him at her side.
My sister-in-law, who was raised by my old-fashioned mother-in-law, is an ultra modern woman, with a job title I cannot disclose, but loosely translated, it means Official Bad Ass. Seriously, she has a bad ass super-secret job with the government that involves the possession of weapons at all times and terrorism and cartels, and that is just about as bad ass as you can get. She's pretty much Salt, except in my sister-in-law's case, the rest of the government isn't undercover double agent Russian spies with Liev Schreiber as the hot chief Bad Ass/double agent Russian spy.
At least, I hope not.
My sister-in-law, Salt, and I decided we'd had enough of my mother-in-law sitting around with my father-in-law doing nothing. We took it upon ourselves to emancipate my mother-in-law. We were going to make her into a modern woman, a woman with her own interests, a woman with her own voice, a woman who had no problem standing up to her man and saying, "I'm an independent woman and I'm going shopping."
Which is exactly what we did. Because the first step in emancipation always begins with shopping.
We told her we were taking her shopping all day, an entire day away from her husband.
It took some convincing. We told her she needed to have her own life, that she could use some time away from her husband, that women today didn't need to spend 24/7 with their husband, catering to their every need. And finally, after a few days of our incessant nagging, she agreed or should I say, she buckled.
She lasted for about an hour as an independent woman.
And then she began to worry about him, what he was doing, who was making his lunch, how he was feeling.
We realized that our emancipation was a failure, when she had no interest in trying on shoes at a fabulous shoe sale we'd come across. I mean, really, who on earth passes on a shoe sale? So, we gave up and took her home.
Where she could fuss over him.
Earnestly.
Earnestly.
Eight months ago, he quietly and with no fanfare stepped over to the other side in his sleep.
This time, even though he really hadn't been ill, it was no surprise to any of us. He had been getting ready to leave us for the last few years.
The day before his funeral, my mother-in-law asked me to help her pick out something to wear.
We stood in her closet and contemplated all the dark dresses and pantsuits she had pulled out.
Each of them looked too dowdy for such a vibrant, fit woman, a woman who walked every morning and every evening, religiously every day that I have known her.
Cancer is such an unjust bastard.
I spotted a lovely coral shift, reminiscent of Jackie O, hanging in her closet, but I didn't dare suggest it.
Until she pulled it out and said, "How about this?"
I told her it was exactly what I was thinking.
She told me then, that she wanted to look beautiful for her husband.
She told me then, that she wanted to look beautiful for her husband.
She rocked that dress at her husband's funeral.
And now, just a few heartbreaking months later, I had to round up my daughters to tell them their grandmother was leaving us.
As I explained the rapid onset of her illness and the short amount of time she had left, my youngest daughter's reaction was, "Oh, that's so great!"
And I was all, "Um, what?"
And that baby girl of mine said, "Grandma and Grandpa hated to be away from each other. Now they'll be together again and they'll be happy."
And in that moment, I realized I had no right to try and emancipate my mother-in-law. She didn't need emancipating. Her life was with this man. They had spent over 50 years together, taking care of each other. And it worked for them. It fulfilled her much more than any day of shopping or a life outside of him, ever could.
On Thanksgiving, as my tribe gathered around the kitchen, my husband led us all in prayer, out loud, on the cuff, as we have learned to do over the years. After he gave thanks for all of our many, many blessings, I added my own prayer. I asked the Lord to send my mother-in-law tender mercies, to make her transition to the other side, a swift and easy passage.
It seems I have also learned a little about praying along the way.
Or maybe not.
As the Amen's were being said, I looked across the kitchen at my hubs and our dear friend Tim, two goofballs doubled over in laughter. As my hubs gasped for air, he said through his wheezes, "You couldn't have asked God for a miracle? Thanks for fast tracking my mom to the grave. I appreciate that."
At least we always find a way to laugh. We're kind of ridiculous like that.
If I can ask for the kindness of prayer, of intentions, of wishes for my mother-in-law, for my husband, for our family at this time, I would so appreciate it.
I'll see you soon and I promise, the next time, we will laugh because laughter always helps a heart to heal.
Today's Definite Download: U2's "Kite."
My mother-in-law had no use for rock and roll. She called it Satan's music. I'll never forget the time she discovered one of my hub's albums by the Talking Heads. In the days of vinyl, record albums were often works of art. My hubs had spent a chunk of change on a collector's edition album of the Talking Heads, that was indeed, a masterpiece. My mother-in-law picked it up, curious at the sight of such artwork, read the title of the album—Speaking In Tongues—and flipped the freak out. She held the album up, proclaimed it was blasphemy and flung it across the room like a vinyl frisbee.
Needless to say, my hubs considered her frisbee toss, blasphemous. I just chuckled behind my hand.
But somewhere along the way, I convinced her to take a listen to my beloved boys. I think it might have been when I mentioned that most of them had a deep and abiding Christian faith. I'm not sure if she ever liked them, but she tolerated their music for my sake and I appreciated that.
"Kite" and all of its sibling songs off the All That You Can't Leave Behind album have special significance to me. Something I'll share on another day. Today, I'll just say that album was a gift to me at a seismic-shifting time in my life.
This video was shot in Boston on the Elevation tour, a tour that brought Bono to the opposite peripheries of life. His fourth child was born and his father passed away, both, during that tour.
I have always loved this song, for all its layers and meanings. It is a song of goodbye, of letting go—always, in every capacity, one of the most heartbreaking moments of humanity. "Kite" for Marie.
Something is about to give
I can feel it coming
I think I know what it is
I'm not afraid to die
I'm not afraid to live
And when I'm flat on my back
I hope to feel like I did...
Who's to say where the wind will take you
Who's to say what it is will break you
I don't know which way the wind will blow
Who's to know when the time has come around
Don't wanna see you cry
I know that this is not goodbye...
Did I waste it?
Not so much I couldn't taste it
Life should be fragrant
Rooftop to the basement...
It seems I have also learned a little about praying along the way.
Or maybe not.
As the Amen's were being said, I looked across the kitchen at my hubs and our dear friend Tim, two goofballs doubled over in laughter. As my hubs gasped for air, he said through his wheezes, "You couldn't have asked God for a miracle? Thanks for fast tracking my mom to the grave. I appreciate that."
At least we always find a way to laugh. We're kind of ridiculous like that.
If I can ask for the kindness of prayer, of intentions, of wishes for my mother-in-law, for my husband, for our family at this time, I would so appreciate it.
I'll see you soon and I promise, the next time, we will laugh because laughter always helps a heart to heal.
Today's Definite Download: U2's "Kite."
My mother-in-law had no use for rock and roll. She called it Satan's music. I'll never forget the time she discovered one of my hub's albums by the Talking Heads. In the days of vinyl, record albums were often works of art. My hubs had spent a chunk of change on a collector's edition album of the Talking Heads, that was indeed, a masterpiece. My mother-in-law picked it up, curious at the sight of such artwork, read the title of the album—Speaking In Tongues—and flipped the freak out. She held the album up, proclaimed it was blasphemy and flung it across the room like a vinyl frisbee.
Needless to say, my hubs considered her frisbee toss, blasphemous. I just chuckled behind my hand.
But somewhere along the way, I convinced her to take a listen to my beloved boys. I think it might have been when I mentioned that most of them had a deep and abiding Christian faith. I'm not sure if she ever liked them, but she tolerated their music for my sake and I appreciated that.
"Kite" and all of its sibling songs off the All That You Can't Leave Behind album have special significance to me. Something I'll share on another day. Today, I'll just say that album was a gift to me at a seismic-shifting time in my life.
This video was shot in Boston on the Elevation tour, a tour that brought Bono to the opposite peripheries of life. His fourth child was born and his father passed away, both, during that tour.
I have always loved this song, for all its layers and meanings. It is a song of goodbye, of letting go—always, in every capacity, one of the most heartbreaking moments of humanity. "Kite" for Marie.
Something is about to give
I can feel it coming
I think I know what it is
I'm not afraid to die
I'm not afraid to live
And when I'm flat on my back
I hope to feel like I did...
Who's to say where the wind will take you
Who's to say what it is will break you
I don't know which way the wind will blow
Who's to know when the time has come around
Don't wanna see you cry
I know that this is not goodbye...
Did I waste it?
Not so much I couldn't taste it
Life should be fragrant
Rooftop to the basement...
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
I have this Aunt Lorrie. And since I don't reveal a lady's years past the tender age of ten, I will just say she could qualify for a red hat and a purple shirt. She is of that certain age where most folks are slowing down. She is of the age of Early Bird Specials and major discussions of weather and griping about the global problem of keeping all the damn kids off the lawn.
But not my Aunt Lorrie. She's busy in her red hat/purple shirt years, building houses for Habitat for Humanity. She's conquering the Grand Canyon.She's traversing the globe. She's on Facebook. She's got enough on her plate just keeping up with always being the life of the party.
Once, she was at my house for an evening involving wine on the patio. We were having a lovely time when all of a sudden we spotted a pontoon boat on the lake. It was dark, so I couldn't really make out the passengers, but the revelry coming from that boat could not be mistaken. These were people having a whoppin' good time. My hubs proclaimed, "Hey, that's Rob! Wave him over to our dock and tell him we want a ride. I'll run inside and get a couple bottles of wine."
My hub's business partner and our next door neighbor on the lake is Rob.
And so I thought to myself, when the hell did Rob get a pontoon boat? And why have I not noticed a giant pontoon boat in my backyard? But never one to question, especially after a few glasses of wine, I dutifully jumped up and flagged down the pontoon boat of partiers.
When the captain of the boat saw me all a-waving and a-jumping, he headed over to our dock. When he got close enough, I realized to my horror I did not know the driver of this pontoon boat nor did I know any of the flock of partiers who were all staring at me with curious expectant looks upon their faces.
I managed to muttter, "Uh, you're not Rob."
To which he answered, "Yeah, I am. I'm Rob."
And I was all, "But you're not my Rob. I wouldn't have flagged you down if I'd known you were just Rob. I thought you were my Rob."
Because if there's one thing I can count on in awkward situations, it's my eloquence, man.
Just Rob must have thought I was a babbling idiot.
Which I am. Every day of my life.
But usually I'm a babbling idiot who doesn't flag down pontoon party boats.
And I mumbled something about my husband telling me to flag down the pontoon boat.
And Just Rob said, "Yeah, I know your husband."
It was at that moment that my Hubs reappeared and I was all, "This is not our Rob!'
And my super communicative hubs said, "I know. This is Rob from across the lake. I met him last week. I told you that. Didn't I tell you that?'
But since I was mellowed by the wine and since Rob From Across The Lake was sitting there with his pontoon boat revving and his crowd of party pontoon people waiting to continue their pontoon party, I let the caveman communication lecture go.
And Rob said, "Come on board!"
And wouldn't you know, without a moment of hesitation, my Aunt Lorrie nimbly jumped up on that boat and disappeared into the wash of partiers.
I had no choice but to join her.
And so we set off for a cruise around the lake with complete strangers. I did not see my Aunt Lorrie throughout our jaunt. I was in front of the boat with my hubs and Rob From Across The Lake, but the whooping and hollering coming from the back of the boat was never ending. It was like Studio 54 back there without the cocaine and the John Travolta dancing and Cher and the sex parties. But besides that, it was just like the famous disco.
At the end of our boat ride, Rob From Across The Lake pulled up to our dock. As we went to step off, Aunt Lorrie emerged from the back of the boat and as she did, these people who had been strangers an hour before all began to chant, 'LORRIE! LORRIE! LORRIE!"
She is something with her magic potion of charm she holds in that young heart of hers.
I've always told her I want to be her when I grow up, if I ever do grow up.
And I said it again as we departed the boat and her enamored fan club called out to her, but this time I added, "Tell me how you do it. Tell me your secret."
And I'll never forget what she told me.
She said the secret is to keep your heart open in every situation, in every moment, always keep your heart open so you can experience everything that comes your way.
It isn't always easy to do.
But I've tried to live her advice and sometimes when I want to be cautious with my little shy self, when I don't want to answer yes to whatever life is handing me in that second, I think of my Aunt Lorrie and those words.
And since I don't want to kill you with an epic tale of Biblical proportion, I'll stop right here.
Part Two coming up in a few days. A moment of opening my heart and a magical tale of lives intertwining at just the right karmic second.
Stay tuned.
And just one more thing.
As those who use Blogger well know, Blogger is going through some changes, hopefully for the better.
And if you've been with me through any amount of time, you know I have a hate/hate relationship with the Blogger geeks who live inside my computer, jacking me up on a regular basis in between bong hits.
I seriously don't know why I've never been Blogger of Note.
Anywhoo, today I was commenting on my friend Cheeseboy's blog and I wrote a comment filled with some awesomely witty repartee. I was ultra satisfied with my fabulous comment and I hit publish and that's when I got the dreaded Blogger Error.
Blogger Error used to be this automatic message saying the Blogger geeks had detected an error and they were humbly sorry for the inconvenience. It was never a biggie, because you just hit backspace and there your comment was and usually if you hit publish again, boom, you were in.
Well....now Blogger has a new error message.
And maybe it's just me.
But when I saw this message, I thought it was the ultimate big, fat middle finger.
Their, "That's an error" might as well have, "Duh, dumbass" attached to it. And the, "That's all we know" is pretty much Blogger's theme song. That's all they ever know. They've got nothin'.
And to make it hurt even worse, my witty comment? It wasn't saved. And since with every child I lost 1/3 of my brain cells and since I have 3 children, (you do the math), I didn't remember a single word of that comment, not even where to put the the's.
So, thanks Blogger. Glad your new look and style is all about being an even Bigger Asshole.
And my apologies to Aunt Lorrie for writing asshole and bong hits in the same post as her story.
Stay tuned for an Open Heart kind of adventure.
Today's Definite Download: Another one of my favorite moments in the Nashville U2 concert.
Bono always introduces "Where The Streets Have No Name" on this tour, by singing "Amazing Grace."
"Amazing Grace" in my humble opinion, is one of the most beautiful songs ever written. And I have a story about that song that I'll tell you one day. Remind me. It's about my wedding and my soloist and the choir director at my church and the fistfight that happened between my soloist's fiancee and the choir director over my request to play that song at my wedding. It didn't actually happen at the wedding, but still it's a nightmare of a tale.
As usual, at the concert, folks sang along with Bono. But this time it was different. I have seen this show four times now. Twice in Chicago, once in Tampa and then of course, Nashville. And never has the song been lifted into the night air by so many voices, singing out, knowing every word of that glorious song.
And maybe it's because it's a folk song even though it was composed by an Englishman. But it is the South's song. It belongs in the mountains and in the clapboard churches and in the honeysuckle vines. It is their music. And I loved, loved hearing it there, the thousands of voices, all in unison, "Amazing Grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see."
And then as Edge's guitar sailed into the melody of that tune, that beautiful tune I call my church song— Oh, it was a moment of goose pimples galore.
Here's one fan's amazing video.
I want to run
I want to hide
I want to tear down the walls that hold me inside
I want to reach out and touch the flame
Where the streets have no name.
I have this Aunt Lorrie. And since I don't reveal a lady's years past the tender age of ten, I will just say she could qualify for a red hat and a purple shirt. She is of that certain age where most folks are slowing down. She is of the age of Early Bird Specials and major discussions of weather and griping about the global problem of keeping all the damn kids off the lawn.
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