Sometime last week, in the course of a conversation with the hubby, I realized that my very strong aversion to tattoos had ebbed a bit. Anyone who knows me at all knows that I view tattoos as a symbol of white trash. Dirty and green and without rhyme or reason. My bio-parents have some pretty ridiculous tattoos, which is of course the origin of my aversion. But suddenly one evening last week, I felt a shift, a loosening of my judgment, as if there was shift in the health of one or both of my bio-units. I have joked that once they are both dead I might be more open to colorful body mutilation.
Thursday night my brother left a voice mail. Mind you I haven't seen my brother in 20 years and haven't spoken on the phone to him in almost 15. He wanted to let me know (in an upbeat and conversational tone) that mom is dying. The doctors have given her a couple of months and she wanted me to know.
Ah. Now I understand why tattoos don't seem quite so bad.
As if a message like that isn't bad enough, it was also left on the eve of my birthday. I can count on one hand the number of birthdays my mother has remembered or acknowledged. Off the top of my head I can't actually remember one, but I'm sure there are a couple One year she actually got married on my birthday. I think that was husband #6. Two husbands ago.
She knew my brother called me. I know this in part because the call came from her number (thank goodness for call id) and because her voice can clearly be heard in the background feeding information to my bro. He left me his number and a basic schedule of when he is home in case I want to talk to him. And pointed out that he would be at mom's house on Friday. No mention of the fact that Friday is my birthday. Happy fucking birthday.
I think I'll wait until she's buried. Then I think I'll get a tiny dragonfly tattooed on my wrist.
All things happen for a reason, I suppose.
Lake Mendocino
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Really, I was sober!
About 7:00 pm yesterday evening, a feeling washed over me that felt so strong it was almost as if some outside energy was compelling me, pushing me to do something I wouldn't normally consider.
I was overcome by an urge to call my bio-father.
I couldn't blame the feeling on too much alcohol, or on any substance altered state. I was sober and driving up I-5 from LA to my home. What I could do was reach out to my sponsors. In other words, to people in my life who have witnessed my sometimes obsessive, and always irrational, need to make contact with one or the other of my biological parents who abandoned me.
I called the husband first (thank goodness for cell phones). I'm sure he said something completely rational and convincing to counter my emotions. When that didn't work I called one of my oldest friends, the one who took the walk up the steps with me to my bio-father's door when I was 17. The one who watched me try and try and try again to build and sustain a regular relationship with both of my bio-parents. When I wondered out loud if I was feeling the urge to call the bio-dad because he really wanted to talk to me and had sent out a message through our psychic connection, she pointed out that if he really wanted to talk to me he would make the effort. I didn't bother pointing out that he doesn't have my phone number, and I'm unlisted so he couldn't easily get it.
Ultimately I pulled into a rest stop, poured some quarters into a pay phone and dialed the number I last called in 1992. Wrong number.
The feeling has mostly passed. I realize that I am likely wishing for some parental involvement from the non-parents in my life now that I have lost the only surrogate parent I had left. My grandparents first stepped into the roles of first line parents when my own bio-folks walked away from me. Then my oldest friend's aunt stepped in when my grandmother died. She died a few weeks ago. I feel like I should be okay with being orphaned. Peopled deal with it every day. But I'm not. I suspect that I never will.
I was overcome by an urge to call my bio-father.
I couldn't blame the feeling on too much alcohol, or on any substance altered state. I was sober and driving up I-5 from LA to my home. What I could do was reach out to my sponsors. In other words, to people in my life who have witnessed my sometimes obsessive, and always irrational, need to make contact with one or the other of my biological parents who abandoned me.
I called the husband first (thank goodness for cell phones). I'm sure he said something completely rational and convincing to counter my emotions. When that didn't work I called one of my oldest friends, the one who took the walk up the steps with me to my bio-father's door when I was 17. The one who watched me try and try and try again to build and sustain a regular relationship with both of my bio-parents. When I wondered out loud if I was feeling the urge to call the bio-dad because he really wanted to talk to me and had sent out a message through our psychic connection, she pointed out that if he really wanted to talk to me he would make the effort. I didn't bother pointing out that he doesn't have my phone number, and I'm unlisted so he couldn't easily get it.
Ultimately I pulled into a rest stop, poured some quarters into a pay phone and dialed the number I last called in 1992. Wrong number.
The feeling has mostly passed. I realize that I am likely wishing for some parental involvement from the non-parents in my life now that I have lost the only surrogate parent I had left. My grandparents first stepped into the roles of first line parents when my own bio-folks walked away from me. Then my oldest friend's aunt stepped in when my grandmother died. She died a few weeks ago. I feel like I should be okay with being orphaned. Peopled deal with it every day. But I'm not. I suspect that I never will.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
A Reluctant Goodbye
My mentor/friend/aunt/surrogate mother died on Saturday June 9 at 11:30 a.m. I had the great privilege and honor of spending her final days caring for her beside some truly incredible people.
She was diagnosed eight short months ago with advanced lung cancer. Those eight months were filled with doctor visits, chemotherapy, blood transfusions and blood tests. She also spent eight months lunching with friends, vacationing in Hawaii, cramming an early retirement into a finite space of time. And more importantly she spent the time learning just how loved she was.
Six weeks before she died, she and I began a list of gifts that had come from the cancer. Among them was her ability to let go of money worries, and to understand that the things that needed to get done, would. No less than two dozen people were in her home the morning she died, five of us were at her bedside, her oldest son holding her in his arms as she took her last breath. Beginning Thursday and stretching into late Sunday, the house was full of people who loved her. People who came together to celebrate her life and mourn her passing. How many people can inspire a four day house party? Miriam could.
As sad and painful as death is, if you pay close attention, it can also be an incredible experience. I was in the room when Miriam's soul left her body, leaving only a thread to hold her to the earth as her shell finished out its last hours. From the outside, the leaving resembled giving birth. It began as a struggle to cough, to breath in enough to expel the cancer from her lungs. But instead of expelling the cancer, her body mustered the last of its strength to bear down as she did during childbirth. She fought to release her soul and end her own suffering, to begin a new journey, a new life, a new form.
A few short hours later, I felt her pulse move farther in and away from my fingers, while her breathing slowly diminished. Afterwards as the body lay with Henry her bear cuddled up beside it, each person in the house visited one last time. Her dear friend, a Southern Baptist Minister who had agreed to act as her rabbi, performed a blessing and then two Buddhist Monks chanted over her. Hours later Hospice bathed and dressed her and her body was taken away.
We won't officially say goodbye until her birthday in late July. She wanted a service outside where we could all gather and share our stories of her. She also wanted to be there (ashes and all). Truth be told, she is still here with me even as I say a reluctant goodbye to her physical presence.
She was diagnosed eight short months ago with advanced lung cancer. Those eight months were filled with doctor visits, chemotherapy, blood transfusions and blood tests. She also spent eight months lunching with friends, vacationing in Hawaii, cramming an early retirement into a finite space of time. And more importantly she spent the time learning just how loved she was.
Six weeks before she died, she and I began a list of gifts that had come from the cancer. Among them was her ability to let go of money worries, and to understand that the things that needed to get done, would. No less than two dozen people were in her home the morning she died, five of us were at her bedside, her oldest son holding her in his arms as she took her last breath. Beginning Thursday and stretching into late Sunday, the house was full of people who loved her. People who came together to celebrate her life and mourn her passing. How many people can inspire a four day house party? Miriam could.
As sad and painful as death is, if you pay close attention, it can also be an incredible experience. I was in the room when Miriam's soul left her body, leaving only a thread to hold her to the earth as her shell finished out its last hours. From the outside, the leaving resembled giving birth. It began as a struggle to cough, to breath in enough to expel the cancer from her lungs. But instead of expelling the cancer, her body mustered the last of its strength to bear down as she did during childbirth. She fought to release her soul and end her own suffering, to begin a new journey, a new life, a new form.
A few short hours later, I felt her pulse move farther in and away from my fingers, while her breathing slowly diminished. Afterwards as the body lay with Henry her bear cuddled up beside it, each person in the house visited one last time. Her dear friend, a Southern Baptist Minister who had agreed to act as her rabbi, performed a blessing and then two Buddhist Monks chanted over her. Hours later Hospice bathed and dressed her and her body was taken away.
We won't officially say goodbye until her birthday in late July. She wanted a service outside where we could all gather and share our stories of her. She also wanted to be there (ashes and all). Truth be told, she is still here with me even as I say a reluctant goodbye to her physical presence.
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