In just under 2 months, a span of 51 days to be exact, the last parents in my life died. The woman I called my aunt who was more of a mother to me went first. Thirty-one days later my bio-mother died. Twenty days after her death, and 41 years after they divorced, my bio-dad died.
All three deaths were caused by cigarettes. None was older than 65.
Miriam had stopped smoking nearly 20 years before she was diagnosed with lung cancer. The fact that she stopped when she did likely lengthened her life considerably. Less than a year after the diagnosis she was gone.
Mary, the bio-mom, was diagnosed with lung cancer in 2004. She had surgery to remove the cancerous lung and was told that it had not spread. Apparently it hid from the surgeons because a few months ago they found that it had spread throughout her body. She died July 10.
Jack, the bio-dad, had been in failing health for a few years. The circulation in his legs was poor, he had endured a mild heart attack several years ago, and 3 strokes that the doctors were aware of (but they suspected there had been several more) . According to my step-sister, he had stopped smoking several years ago. On July 26th he suffered 2nd and 3rd degree burns over 75% of his body after falling asleep next to a burning cigarette. (His wife and step-sister claim that his electric chair shorted out, the authorities claim it was a burning cigarette.) On July 30 he succumbed to his wounds and died alone in a hospital bed.
With the exception of a maybe 4 excursions to the dark side in my twenties during my experimental phase, I have never been a smoker. I always thought that they were disgusting. As a child when it was time to wash dishes I always saved the ashtrays for last, dipping them into the soapy water and then the rinse water before setting them onto the dish drainer still dirty. Gram didn't give me too hard a time, I think out of guilt that she smoked at all and didn't have the will power to stop.
When I was a kid and my friends would come over the visit, when they returned to their non-smoking homes they had to shower to wash the stench of cigarette smoke off of their bodies and out of their hair. Once in high school a friend commented that he was surprised I had taken up smoking. I hadn't, I had just come from home.
The smoke from a cigarette as it burns between puffs, rising up into the air like ribbons pulled by an invisible hand used to fascinate me as a child. The fascination never got beyond pretending with candy cigarettes. I am grateful that I don't have to spend my days living in a hazy house or that public places (in California at least) are smoke free. I'm grateful that my husband is a former smoker and is not likely to return to a life threatening habit.
I don't need to learn anything more about the ills of cigarettes. I don't feel the need to preach to strangers.
In reality, death is death. I am at an age when we start losing parents, that is a cold fact, but a very real one. I am lucky that I had as many parents as I did for as long as I did. But they are all gone now.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not okay. I suspect, I won't be for awhile.
Lake Mendocino
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
Saturday, June 30, 2007
All Things have a Reason, I suppose
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Leap of Faith
How many times in our lives do we stand at a precipice looking out at the life we could have, wondering if really do have the strength, the intelligence, the fortitude, to take a step forward and leap into the life we have chosen?
I sit and stare at the rejection letters, and the news of dear friends who are finding work in their chosen fields, writing or teaching or whatever combination they can make fit into their lives. I'm wondering if I'm going to be able to make it out there with them. I'm wondering if I have what it takes to succeed, to believe in myself enough to fight the necessary battles within myself and within the field I'm venturing into.
In addition, I have to take a long hard look at the outside commitments I have made, the ones that involve tons of work and no pay, and wonder if I have the fortitude and the patience to work toward the changes I believe need to happen.
Some part of me wants to retreat. Retreat back into my own dark little box, the tiny space I allow my mind to occupy when my own personal demons take over. I want to hide within my misery and prove to myself exactly what kind of failure I am by remaining inactive save for the dark thoughts. Some part of me wants to give in to the voices of doubt that creep in, hand them a microphone and tell them to have at it, knock me down with their words of failure and unworthiness, shred me with truths I don't want to hear, cloak me with the invisibility of my own misery.
But alas, as tempting as giving in seems, it really isn't an option. I don't have the patience to be utterly miserable. In truth I like myself a little too much do any real harm, or allow the voices free reign.
I originally began mulling this subject over with thoughts of career in mind, but am beginning to see recognize my surroundings. I have been here before.
I suppose that when I was about to become a parent, I must have stood here. I must have surveyed the world ahead of me, one that was so new I had great difficulty fathoming what was ahead. One that didn't seem to match the words of the other parents who can gone there before me, the ones that tried to share their wisdom and experiences. I looked up one day and realized that that new world had become my entire reality, there had been no choice but to move forward.
I knew I stood here when I made the decision to go back to school and complete my long neglected college education. I must have sat here looking beyond the critical math homework that so often reduced me to tears, knowing that if I gave up on math that I was giving up on my dreams of a degree, of the education I so desperately wanted. That wasn't an option. I knew that if I gave up, that I wouldn't be able to live with myself. It's strange to receive praise from anyone, inside or outside my personal circle, that point out the awesomeness of my educational accomplishments. To me they were necessary. Kind of like parenting. There was no possibility of giving up.
I don't suppose I'll give up now, either. I'll reevaluate. That much I can do. I have made conscious choices that led me here, both in my career and in my volunteer work. I have to move forward. I have no choice but to jump, to take a leap. To have faith in myself.
I sit and stare at the rejection letters, and the news of dear friends who are finding work in their chosen fields, writing or teaching or whatever combination they can make fit into their lives. I'm wondering if I'm going to be able to make it out there with them. I'm wondering if I have what it takes to succeed, to believe in myself enough to fight the necessary battles within myself and within the field I'm venturing into.
In addition, I have to take a long hard look at the outside commitments I have made, the ones that involve tons of work and no pay, and wonder if I have the fortitude and the patience to work toward the changes I believe need to happen.
Some part of me wants to retreat. Retreat back into my own dark little box, the tiny space I allow my mind to occupy when my own personal demons take over. I want to hide within my misery and prove to myself exactly what kind of failure I am by remaining inactive save for the dark thoughts. Some part of me wants to give in to the voices of doubt that creep in, hand them a microphone and tell them to have at it, knock me down with their words of failure and unworthiness, shred me with truths I don't want to hear, cloak me with the invisibility of my own misery.
But alas, as tempting as giving in seems, it really isn't an option. I don't have the patience to be utterly miserable. In truth I like myself a little too much do any real harm, or allow the voices free reign.
I originally began mulling this subject over with thoughts of career in mind, but am beginning to see recognize my surroundings. I have been here before.
I suppose that when I was about to become a parent, I must have stood here. I must have surveyed the world ahead of me, one that was so new I had great difficulty fathoming what was ahead. One that didn't seem to match the words of the other parents who can gone there before me, the ones that tried to share their wisdom and experiences. I looked up one day and realized that that new world had become my entire reality, there had been no choice but to move forward.
I knew I stood here when I made the decision to go back to school and complete my long neglected college education. I must have sat here looking beyond the critical math homework that so often reduced me to tears, knowing that if I gave up on math that I was giving up on my dreams of a degree, of the education I so desperately wanted. That wasn't an option. I knew that if I gave up, that I wouldn't be able to live with myself. It's strange to receive praise from anyone, inside or outside my personal circle, that point out the awesomeness of my educational accomplishments. To me they were necessary. Kind of like parenting. There was no possibility of giving up.
I don't suppose I'll give up now, either. I'll reevaluate. That much I can do. I have made conscious choices that led me here, both in my career and in my volunteer work. I have to move forward. I have no choice but to jump, to take a leap. To have faith in myself.
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