In the last couple of weeks, as the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge has continued to spread, some questions have arisen about the ALS Association. A lot of people have stated, on social media and elsewhere, that they feel ethically or morally unable to contribute to the ALS Association because of a study funded by the ALSA that includes research into embryonic stem cell research. This concern has gone more or less viral in certain communities, some of which I happen to affiliate myself with. In some cases, people have outright dismissed the challenge and the idea of participating altogether. I've responded as best I can via Facebook to individuals, but this has spread so far now that I felt compelled to write up my thoughts here to share with you.
If you are reading this, you probably know that both my grandmother Jean and my mom Lillian died from ALS, in 1979 and 2011 respectively. The Ice Bucket Challenge timing really affected me, because Mom died three years ago this week. With that in mind, it's hard not to take the cynical, the dismissive, even the well-meaning critics of the ALS Association and the challenge poorly. Put bluntly, a lot of the comments have hurt. A lot.
Before I go further, let me state that I am pro-life. My mother was a very active pro-life advocate; she counseled young women when she was in the Navy, and she remained active in the Catholic Church, the Ladies' Auxiliary of the Knights of Columbus and other groups in promoting the pro-life message. And she was very motivated to actually help those in need as opposed to simply talking about it. That's the environment I grew up in.
I am not affiliated with The ALS Association, and I don't speak for them. My family did receive help from our local chapter when Mom was sick. I will say that I think that the ALSA takes a very broad-based approach to ALS research, and I don't fault them for that at all, even if I have ethical concerns about embryonic stem cell research. We're talking about a disease that medical science has almost no answers for. They don't know precisely what causes it (if it's all genetic, which environmental factors may contribute), how to prevent it, how to slow it down, how to cure it. It strikes seemingly at random, but then it occasionally runs in families, it strikes veterans at a high rate (especially Vietnam and Gulf War vets). People have been diagnosed as young as 21 (Stephen Hawking) and as old as 70. The scientists studying ALS have to look everywhere. I can't - I will not - blame them for choosing to look everywhere.
But.
I understand, very well, the arguments against embryonic stem cell research, which I will not rehash here. And with that in mind, I understand as well that there are people who want to help but who cannot in good conscience give to the ALSA because of those arguments.
So where do we go from there?
A few general thoughts.
1 - Find another organization to give money to. The John Paul II Medical Research Institute is a good start. If you would rather a non-denominational or non-religious organization, I recommend my mother's favorite charitable cause, the Paralyzed Veterans of America. The PVA was extremely helpful to my family during my mother's illness, and because ALS is a paralyzing disease, veterans with ALS may find help there. Finally, the ALS Foundation for Life is focused more on helping patients and less on research (an ALS patient may spend more than $100,000 on assistive equipment and medical supplies during illness).
2 - Be mindful of what you say, and how you say it, on social media. Remember that you don't know who in your circles may be suffering (I have discovered that three friends have family members awaiting diagnosis of ALS, and I've lost count of how many people I know personally had someone in their lives die from ALS). The Ice Bucket Challenge is goofy in nature, but it had a very serious beginning and it has a very serious purpose. Be mindful of what you say.
3 - ALS may not be the cause you should take up. We all have someone and something we care about, and it is truly impossible to help everyone everywhere with everything. I have a cousin whose passion is organ donation, because her husband suffered from a lung disease for which the only cure was a double-lung transplant. My mother-in-law is a breast cancer survivor. My brother has spina bifida. And so on. We have to pick and choose which causes to support - this is the nature of our reality. So maybe you should help with Alzheimer's research and care, or cancer, or MS, or cerebral palsy, or autism, or any number of other causes. I think the real challenge is to stop and help whenever and however you can.
I will leave you with this. My mother was diagnosed not because there is a test for ALS, but through a process of elimination. When she showed up at her doctor's office with slurred speech, having trouble swallowing, the first tests were for thyroid and brain cancer. It took weeks to get a real answer and again, there was no test for it. It was just that everything else was eliminated. She had a speech machine not unlike this one. When she lost the use of her leg muscles, she was wheelchair-bound, in a motorized chair. The house had to be retrofitted to accommodate the chair and her new special needs. She needed a feeding tube, and special nutritional drinks that could be fed to her through the tube. Eventually she needed a hospital bed. A home health nurse. Special dental work to protect her mouth once she could no longer close it. She was prone to bed sores and pneumonia because of her immobility, and so needed treatment for that. I will spare you a full accounting of what kind of care she needed daily, but I am sure you can imagine.
What we need, even as desperately as we need research and development, is practical help for patients and caregivers. Find a way to help. Don't dismiss the cause because of one issue with one organization.
Remember my mother.
Showing posts with label lillian jane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lillian jane. Show all posts
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge
My #IceBucketChallenge Response: http://youtu.be/axJDigsWNPE
On this, the third anniversary of Mom's passing, I want to share my thoughts on the Ice Bucket Challenge.
Monday, April 29, 2013
unpublished
I submitted this essay to a blog recently, and it didn't make the cut. I spent a good amount of time trying to make the words come together - that is to say, writing - and I'd rather put this out in the world than have it languish on my hard drive. If you've read any part of this blog, none of this is new or surprising. This was my path to motherhood.
-
In August of 2011, I found myself doing the one thing I had spent a long time trying to avoid.
I went to my mother’s funeral in a maternity dress, because I was five months pregnant.
I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant. My mother was diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease, in the fall of 2008. I was anxious to avoid the emotional upheaval of pregnancy on top of the horror of my mother’s disease. It was a horror story from my childhood, in a way. Mom had been two months pregnant with me when her own mother died, and she never got to tell her. She told me the story over the years with tears in her eyes, bitterness in her voice. On some level, I promised, it wouldn’t happen to me.
Pregnancy and motherhood are really things that all the talks and reading in the world can’t prepare you for. But age-old motherly wisdom is supposed to be helpful. I wouldn’t really know. We never talked about it, and then when it happened, my mother couldn’t talk at all.
In the spring of 2011, working long hours and not paying close attention to birth control, I got pregnant. By this time, my mother was bedridden and could no longer smile or laugh. The second I knew for sure, I called to tell her, my dad holding the phone up to her ear. He told me she looked at him and he could tell she heard me, her eyes said everything.
My mother-in-law took me shopping for maternity clothes. We looked around at the nicer dresses, ones that I could later wear while breastfeeding. She told me to pick out something pretty, for going out to dinner. I picked something black, thinking I might need it for a funeral.
It is easy to spend a lot of time worrying about what can go wrong when you’re pregnant, especially when you carry the burden of genetic disorders. We have a history in our family of spina bifida, and I wanted, needed to talk to my mother about her experience when my brother was born with it – I wanted reassurance, I wanted to hear her refute the statistics and tell me my baby would be fine. When I asked, she blinked, the last thing she could do, and her gaze shifted away.
So I asked for every test I could get, not wanting to be caught off-guard. And everything was fine – I was tired, and that was all. My doctor grinned and told me, get more sleep. You’ll need it, he said.
It was difficult to accept all of this. It was strange, to know nothing was going wrong, when it seemed everyone I knew had a horror story – up to and including my own mother. And I was cursing the timing of it all. I was sad and angry, and had a hard time with joy in those first few months. It made me a terrible friend, and a hard person to get along with.
The call from my dad came late on a Friday afternoon. It was unbearably hot outside, the way Texas summers always are. The first time I felt nauseous while I was pregnant was in the wake of that phone call.
During her wake, I spent a lot of time answering questions about my tiny baby bump. There at the front of the room at the funeral home was Mom, and I stood in the back near the door to say hello to people. I’m so sorry to hear about Lillian, they’d say. When are you due, in the next breath. My eyes filled and I nodded and answered the questions and screamed inside that this fate should befall first Mom, then me.
My darling girl kicked and squirmed as if to joyously respond to the proceedings, saying life goes on, telling me she would be there soon to cheer me up. In January, she arrived on time and healthy, and brought with her laughter and joy that was hard to fathom mere months earlier.
Mom and I were not very close, in those last few years, and every day I wish I could talk to her about this strange new world that she traversed before me. Motherhood took me mere months after she was released from it, and that transition has been poignant.
Unwittingly, Mom did leave me with one final lesson in those hard, bright August days. Motherhood is full of the unexpected; that is practically the textbook definition. And for every hard thing we must do, there is a smiling, kicking, giggling prize to balance it out.
-
I went to my mother’s funeral in a maternity dress, because I was five months pregnant.
I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant. My mother was diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease, in the fall of 2008. I was anxious to avoid the emotional upheaval of pregnancy on top of the horror of my mother’s disease. It was a horror story from my childhood, in a way. Mom had been two months pregnant with me when her own mother died, and she never got to tell her. She told me the story over the years with tears in her eyes, bitterness in her voice. On some level, I promised, it wouldn’t happen to me.
Pregnancy and motherhood are really things that all the talks and reading in the world can’t prepare you for. But age-old motherly wisdom is supposed to be helpful. I wouldn’t really know. We never talked about it, and then when it happened, my mother couldn’t talk at all.
In the spring of 2011, working long hours and not paying close attention to birth control, I got pregnant. By this time, my mother was bedridden and could no longer smile or laugh. The second I knew for sure, I called to tell her, my dad holding the phone up to her ear. He told me she looked at him and he could tell she heard me, her eyes said everything.
My mother-in-law took me shopping for maternity clothes. We looked around at the nicer dresses, ones that I could later wear while breastfeeding. She told me to pick out something pretty, for going out to dinner. I picked something black, thinking I might need it for a funeral.
It is easy to spend a lot of time worrying about what can go wrong when you’re pregnant, especially when you carry the burden of genetic disorders. We have a history in our family of spina bifida, and I wanted, needed to talk to my mother about her experience when my brother was born with it – I wanted reassurance, I wanted to hear her refute the statistics and tell me my baby would be fine. When I asked, she blinked, the last thing she could do, and her gaze shifted away.
So I asked for every test I could get, not wanting to be caught off-guard. And everything was fine – I was tired, and that was all. My doctor grinned and told me, get more sleep. You’ll need it, he said.
It was difficult to accept all of this. It was strange, to know nothing was going wrong, when it seemed everyone I knew had a horror story – up to and including my own mother. And I was cursing the timing of it all. I was sad and angry, and had a hard time with joy in those first few months. It made me a terrible friend, and a hard person to get along with.
The call from my dad came late on a Friday afternoon. It was unbearably hot outside, the way Texas summers always are. The first time I felt nauseous while I was pregnant was in the wake of that phone call.
During her wake, I spent a lot of time answering questions about my tiny baby bump. There at the front of the room at the funeral home was Mom, and I stood in the back near the door to say hello to people. I’m so sorry to hear about Lillian, they’d say. When are you due, in the next breath. My eyes filled and I nodded and answered the questions and screamed inside that this fate should befall first Mom, then me.
My darling girl kicked and squirmed as if to joyously respond to the proceedings, saying life goes on, telling me she would be there soon to cheer me up. In January, she arrived on time and healthy, and brought with her laughter and joy that was hard to fathom mere months earlier.
Mom and I were not very close, in those last few years, and every day I wish I could talk to her about this strange new world that she traversed before me. Motherhood took me mere months after she was released from it, and that transition has been poignant.
Unwittingly, Mom did leave me with one final lesson in those hard, bright August days. Motherhood is full of the unexpected; that is practically the textbook definition. And for every hard thing we must do, there is a smiling, kicking, giggling prize to balance it out.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
one year
In thinking about what to post, I found myself dwelling on this odd fact of today. It's August 19, and it has been one year exactly since my mother passed away.
I thought today might be an emotional wreck of a day; I thought maybe I'd find a way to commemorate it beyond writing, in what I cooked for dinner or what I watched on television or what I read or something.
But it was a very typical Sunday. We got up for church, took the longer route home, played with Annalise, took naps and watched sports. Coincidentally, the Yankees are playing the Red Sox tonight and they're winning - because Mom would not have it any other way, of course.
I haven't been melancholy or really even sad, and I wondered why.
Not that it took much to figure that out. August 19 has the fact of Mom's death - but other days have the distinction of being the really terrible days.
September 9, 2008 was the day she sent me an email confirming that she had ALS. Mother's Day 2008 was the day I knew that she did. I think those two dates stand out as the absolute worst for me; those were the days I knew I was losing her, because there is no coming back from ALS. Not yet, and maybe not ever.
Thanksgiving 2008. The last time Mom and I went shopping together - we went to the mall to find Christmas stockings for my house
Christmas 2008. The only time Mom ever got to see my house and spend Christmas with us in Austin.
January 12, 2009 was the last time she sent me an email - it was to ask if I could find her a Texas flag for her garden and to ask what I wanted for my birthday.
In November 2009, Mom went to the hospital for pneumonia for the third time in two months, and didn't make it out until January 2010. She coded upon arrival at the hospital and Dad had a huge fight with the doctors over whether to take Mom off a ventilator. She had to get a tracheotomy as a compromise. This was the start of the final decline - she had at least one stroke during that time, and she also had problems with dementia. When she came home in January, she never left her bed again.
March 3, 2010. The last time anyone told me that Mom laughed.
July 27, 2010, the doctors told Dad they thought Mom had lung cancer. Then in August they decided maybe she didn't. Then, when she passed, they confirmed that she did.
All of this to say, it's been more than a year. It's been nearly four years, in reality. There are too many anniversaries and too many stumbling points, things that make me miss her and hurt that she's not here. August 19 is the day that she was set free - she no longer had to go through this, and she was released of all pain and suffering and doubt. She opened her eyes in a better world.
One year. This isn't everything I want to say, but it's enough for the moment.
I thought today might be an emotional wreck of a day; I thought maybe I'd find a way to commemorate it beyond writing, in what I cooked for dinner or what I watched on television or what I read or something.
But it was a very typical Sunday. We got up for church, took the longer route home, played with Annalise, took naps and watched sports. Coincidentally, the Yankees are playing the Red Sox tonight and they're winning - because Mom would not have it any other way, of course.
I haven't been melancholy or really even sad, and I wondered why.
Not that it took much to figure that out. August 19 has the fact of Mom's death - but other days have the distinction of being the really terrible days.
September 9, 2008 was the day she sent me an email confirming that she had ALS. Mother's Day 2008 was the day I knew that she did. I think those two dates stand out as the absolute worst for me; those were the days I knew I was losing her, because there is no coming back from ALS. Not yet, and maybe not ever.
Thanksgiving 2008. The last time Mom and I went shopping together - we went to the mall to find Christmas stockings for my house
Christmas 2008. The only time Mom ever got to see my house and spend Christmas with us in Austin.
January 12, 2009 was the last time she sent me an email - it was to ask if I could find her a Texas flag for her garden and to ask what I wanted for my birthday.
In November 2009, Mom went to the hospital for pneumonia for the third time in two months, and didn't make it out until January 2010. She coded upon arrival at the hospital and Dad had a huge fight with the doctors over whether to take Mom off a ventilator. She had to get a tracheotomy as a compromise. This was the start of the final decline - she had at least one stroke during that time, and she also had problems with dementia. When she came home in January, she never left her bed again.
March 3, 2010. The last time anyone told me that Mom laughed.
July 27, 2010, the doctors told Dad they thought Mom had lung cancer. Then in August they decided maybe she didn't. Then, when she passed, they confirmed that she did.
All of this to say, it's been more than a year. It's been nearly four years, in reality. There are too many anniversaries and too many stumbling points, things that make me miss her and hurt that she's not here. August 19 is the day that she was set free - she no longer had to go through this, and she was released of all pain and suffering and doubt. She opened her eyes in a better world.
One year. This isn't everything I want to say, but it's enough for the moment.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
mother's day
Four years ago today, I had the most memorable phone conversation I ever experienced with my mother. I had called her to wish her a happy Mother's Day. Our conversation was short, maybe ten minutes long. I did most of the talking. When she spoke, I couldn't understand her. I turned up the volume, I asked her to repeat herself, I wondered for a minute if my hearing was bad. When we hung up, I looked over at my husband and said, "I think something is wrong with Mom."
That was the day that the months, probably years, of subtle signs of her illness became glaring. Mom's speech was slurred and thick. I remember telling Randy that I thought she sounded drunk, and that was absurd, because she didn't really drink, and it was midday besides. As the day wore on, the dread sunk in, became fear. Before the week was out, I had emailed my dad to tell him I thought she might have ALS. She had a doctor's appointment coming up and I wanted to make sure someone told the doctor this. Because you know, there is no test for it. There's just elimination. They test you for cancer, for thyroid disease, heart disease, for obscure nerve illnesses. Mom's official diagnosis happened in September 2008. But the day that sticks in my heart is Mother's Day.
I can't help feeling that this day is always going to be haunted. But when Randy brought Annalise into our room this morning to wake me up, her dimples and giggle put things right. I won't pretend today wasn't bittersweet, because it was. My little girl, though, gave me a day to remember that balances that terrible moment.
All I can tell you today is to hug your mom. Call her. Listen to her voice. I promise it won't be a wasted moment. I used to think such pleas and reminders were terribly cliche - and maybe they are, but there are so many of us who can't call our mothers today.
Also, fittingly, May is ALS Awareness Month. Take a moment to find out what this disease is and what it has done to too many families.
Finally - Mom and me, in 1981.
That was the day that the months, probably years, of subtle signs of her illness became glaring. Mom's speech was slurred and thick. I remember telling Randy that I thought she sounded drunk, and that was absurd, because she didn't really drink, and it was midday besides. As the day wore on, the dread sunk in, became fear. Before the week was out, I had emailed my dad to tell him I thought she might have ALS. She had a doctor's appointment coming up and I wanted to make sure someone told the doctor this. Because you know, there is no test for it. There's just elimination. They test you for cancer, for thyroid disease, heart disease, for obscure nerve illnesses. Mom's official diagnosis happened in September 2008. But the day that sticks in my heart is Mother's Day.
I can't help feeling that this day is always going to be haunted. But when Randy brought Annalise into our room this morning to wake me up, her dimples and giggle put things right. I won't pretend today wasn't bittersweet, because it was. My little girl, though, gave me a day to remember that balances that terrible moment.
All I can tell you today is to hug your mom. Call her. Listen to her voice. I promise it won't be a wasted moment. I used to think such pleas and reminders were terribly cliche - and maybe they are, but there are so many of us who can't call our mothers today.
Also, fittingly, May is ALS Awareness Month. Take a moment to find out what this disease is and what it has done to too many families.
Finally - Mom and me, in 1981.
Monday, April 23, 2012
sugar substitute
In the last few weeks, I've been getting text messages from my brother, who is finding out what it's like to have to cook for himself (or, for him and our sister Katie) on a regular basis. To call this monumental would not be an overstatement, believe me.
Tonight's revelation was that they intend to make "Mom's cookies" sometime in the near future. Cookies are a treat, though they were certainly a staple when I was growing up - Mom's Cookie Monster cookie jar was usually full. My mother's cookies were world-famous - meaning that our extended family always requested them at holidays, and friends raided the cookie jar whenever they could. Everyone wanted her recipe, and she would smirk a little when revealing that it was just the Toll House recipe, made with the sugar substitute fructose. She also used butter-flavored Crisco, a habit I think developed from that WWII rationing mentality that her mother undoubtedly had in spades (take a look sometime at the housewife cookbooks of the era - shortening is in everything!).
I started making Mom's cookies when I was still in college; I considered it one of those passages to adulthood to be able to make my own chocolate chip cookies. I have altered Mom's method a bit, too. I stopped using fructose in cookies when I couldn't find it in the stores any longer, and opted for various sugar substitutes over time. One thing I can caution is never to use Splenda for baking, it just tastes so much different; I like baking with Truvia. I also always use real butter. I'm more likely to make "cookie cake" (the pan cookie variation on the back of your Toll House chocolate chip bag) and for that I use real sugar like Mom did. For chemical reasons unknown, sugar substitutes don't work as well in the pan cookies.
When Joe sent tonight's text about the cookies, I was tempted to launch into this explanation for him. I did tell him I use a different sugar substitute than Mom did, and he laughed at me and said that was blasphemy. I smiled. He'll figure it out, or he won't. Mom's traditions and habits worked for her at the time she was doing them - not all of them work for us, or should. And we can invoke the same flavor with just a little tweak, maybe even improve on it. Change can be a good thing, I want to tell him. But I do understand. How many bowls of cookie dough did we lick clean, how many times did we sit in the kitchen while she stirred, how many chocolate chips did we poach from the open bags? Making Mom's cookies is like inviting her back into the room.
In the end, there really isn't a substitute for that.
Tonight's revelation was that they intend to make "Mom's cookies" sometime in the near future. Cookies are a treat, though they were certainly a staple when I was growing up - Mom's Cookie Monster cookie jar was usually full. My mother's cookies were world-famous - meaning that our extended family always requested them at holidays, and friends raided the cookie jar whenever they could. Everyone wanted her recipe, and she would smirk a little when revealing that it was just the Toll House recipe, made with the sugar substitute fructose. She also used butter-flavored Crisco, a habit I think developed from that WWII rationing mentality that her mother undoubtedly had in spades (take a look sometime at the housewife cookbooks of the era - shortening is in everything!).
I started making Mom's cookies when I was still in college; I considered it one of those passages to adulthood to be able to make my own chocolate chip cookies. I have altered Mom's method a bit, too. I stopped using fructose in cookies when I couldn't find it in the stores any longer, and opted for various sugar substitutes over time. One thing I can caution is never to use Splenda for baking, it just tastes so much different; I like baking with Truvia. I also always use real butter. I'm more likely to make "cookie cake" (the pan cookie variation on the back of your Toll House chocolate chip bag) and for that I use real sugar like Mom did. For chemical reasons unknown, sugar substitutes don't work as well in the pan cookies.
When Joe sent tonight's text about the cookies, I was tempted to launch into this explanation for him. I did tell him I use a different sugar substitute than Mom did, and he laughed at me and said that was blasphemy. I smiled. He'll figure it out, or he won't. Mom's traditions and habits worked for her at the time she was doing them - not all of them work for us, or should. And we can invoke the same flavor with just a little tweak, maybe even improve on it. Change can be a good thing, I want to tell him. But I do understand. How many bowls of cookie dough did we lick clean, how many times did we sit in the kitchen while she stirred, how many chocolate chips did we poach from the open bags? Making Mom's cookies is like inviting her back into the room.
In the end, there really isn't a substitute for that.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Baseball
A pretty simple subject line, a pretty complicated relationship.
There is no doubt at all that a part of me really wants the Yankees to take it all the way this year, and do so in a spectacular, mind-blowing fashion, in a way that only my mother could really, thoroughly enjoy. Then, of course, there's the homer in me, thrilled for the Rangers' best-ever season and wanting them to prove once and for all that a scrappy team from Texas can and should win the World Series. There's the realist in me, too, that knows the Phillies have a nearly unbeatable pitching staff (their number 5 starter went 11-3 on the season! NUMBER FIVE) and the best record in baseball and that they will be frightening to behold in the post-season. And despite my energetic joy in the schadenfreude that is the Red Sox, a niggling part of me knows the danger in a team like the Tampa Bay Rays getting "hot" right at the end.
The good part of this is that the month of October will not be dull, and even when football inevitably disappoints, baseball will be waiting to enrapture, and there will be incredible moments of distraction from now until the last light dims on this crazy season.
Last weekend, Randy and I went to see Moneyball, and I do believe it was the best baseball movie in a really, really long time. Which is saying something, because I love baseball movies. There are maybe a handful that I wouldn't bother rewatching, if that. And for all that so much of Moneyball was fiction (the way Art Howe was portrayed, for instance), I felt like it was the truest version of the way the game is today. How it is about stats and percentages and money and all of those things, but how it is still, despite everything, a romantic's game. It is a game of superstition, of knocking on wood and wishing on stars. They've tried, those money people, to make irrelevant the small market teams and the goofy-looking kids with big dreams and small hopes. They've failed. And it isn't as if being "big market" or having a huge payroll makes you somehow invincible to romance - if anything, we've seen the reverse of that, since that's where some of the biggest dramas play out, and a little kid's affection for a team has less to do with who makes what and more to do with the vagaries of a long season. No one is invincible, everyone could be a heartbreaker or have a broken heart.
There was so much up in the air in the last week. Even as teams clinched division titles, the questions of home-field advantage, wild card teams, who would face whom were left almost totally undecided until the white-knuckle final innings in the 162nd game of the year. This is why we watch baseball. This is why we're fans. This is why October, as the chill creeps in and summer's end becomes a reality, is one of the best months of the year,
Some good reads:
Bill Simmons diary of Game 162, in which you get the full impact of the Boston Red Sox' fall from grace.
Rich Lowry on Schadenfreude Gone Wild.
A wonderful interview with Mariano Riviera in the NY Post.
Mike Dodd: Baseball's best night ever?
Ross Douthat: The Baseball Gods Have Spoken
WSJ: Five Minutes of Perfect Baseball
Eric Karabell podcast: Baseball is awesome
John Romano (St. Petersburg Times in Florida): This was baseball history; savor it
There is no doubt at all that a part of me really wants the Yankees to take it all the way this year, and do so in a spectacular, mind-blowing fashion, in a way that only my mother could really, thoroughly enjoy. Then, of course, there's the homer in me, thrilled for the Rangers' best-ever season and wanting them to prove once and for all that a scrappy team from Texas can and should win the World Series. There's the realist in me, too, that knows the Phillies have a nearly unbeatable pitching staff (their number 5 starter went 11-3 on the season! NUMBER FIVE) and the best record in baseball and that they will be frightening to behold in the post-season. And despite my energetic joy in the schadenfreude that is the Red Sox, a niggling part of me knows the danger in a team like the Tampa Bay Rays getting "hot" right at the end.
The good part of this is that the month of October will not be dull, and even when football inevitably disappoints, baseball will be waiting to enrapture, and there will be incredible moments of distraction from now until the last light dims on this crazy season.
Last weekend, Randy and I went to see Moneyball, and I do believe it was the best baseball movie in a really, really long time. Which is saying something, because I love baseball movies. There are maybe a handful that I wouldn't bother rewatching, if that. And for all that so much of Moneyball was fiction (the way Art Howe was portrayed, for instance), I felt like it was the truest version of the way the game is today. How it is about stats and percentages and money and all of those things, but how it is still, despite everything, a romantic's game. It is a game of superstition, of knocking on wood and wishing on stars. They've tried, those money people, to make irrelevant the small market teams and the goofy-looking kids with big dreams and small hopes. They've failed. And it isn't as if being "big market" or having a huge payroll makes you somehow invincible to romance - if anything, we've seen the reverse of that, since that's where some of the biggest dramas play out, and a little kid's affection for a team has less to do with who makes what and more to do with the vagaries of a long season. No one is invincible, everyone could be a heartbreaker or have a broken heart.
There was so much up in the air in the last week. Even as teams clinched division titles, the questions of home-field advantage, wild card teams, who would face whom were left almost totally undecided until the white-knuckle final innings in the 162nd game of the year. This is why we watch baseball. This is why we're fans. This is why October, as the chill creeps in and summer's end becomes a reality, is one of the best months of the year,
Some good reads:
Bill Simmons diary of Game 162, in which you get the full impact of the Boston Red Sox' fall from grace.
Rich Lowry on Schadenfreude Gone Wild.
A wonderful interview with Mariano Riviera in the NY Post.
Mike Dodd: Baseball's best night ever?
Ross Douthat: The Baseball Gods Have Spoken
WSJ: Five Minutes of Perfect Baseball
Eric Karabell podcast: Baseball is awesome
John Romano (St. Petersburg Times in Florida): This was baseball history; savor it
Thursday, September 15, 2011
baking
Today, after lunch, I decided to make brownies.
So this doesn't seem very notable, I know. I've made brownies countless times, from a box and from scratch. I love how simple brownies are, no matter how you make them. Cookies take a lot of time, and while there is a wonderful payoff, sometimes you need simple and quick.
I love the smell in the house when I make them, that chocolate-y smell that seeps into other rooms right before the brownies are done. This is a home smell, a being-a-little-girl smell. It is, really, a Mom Smell.
For the last three years, as we learned to adapt to what Mom's diagnosis and decline meant, every time I bake something I think of her. Saturday afternoons were usually when she would bake, though there was no hard and fast rule. And there was always something in the house that she had made, some sweet, whether it be cookies (always chocolate chip), brownies, streusel cake, or sometimes banana or zucchini bread. She experimented around the holidays - I remember the year she tried making candy for one of our classes as a treat, and that being the only time her experiment didn't work out as she intended. Mom had a battered, splattered copy of a Betty Crocker cookbook in the house, and her little recipe box with all the tried-and-trues in it. That was it.
Making brownies today really had nothing to do with Mom. I like having chocolate in the house, and Randy loves brownies as much as I do, so it was really about satisfying a craving. But once the smell hit, I was thinking of Mom, and how everyone always fought over the goodies she made us - even Dad got in on it, having quite the sweet tooth and soft spot for Mom's baking.
I feel like motherhood is less daunting when I do the things my mom always made special for me. Today the Mom Smell of baking brownies brought my mother to mind, but it has already taken on a new meaning. I can't wait to make brownies for my little boy or girl. And cookies, and cookie cake, and cakes, and oh so many things! Maybe my little one will one day recognize the "Mom Smell" his or her own childhood, and it will make them smile.
So this doesn't seem very notable, I know. I've made brownies countless times, from a box and from scratch. I love how simple brownies are, no matter how you make them. Cookies take a lot of time, and while there is a wonderful payoff, sometimes you need simple and quick.
I love the smell in the house when I make them, that chocolate-y smell that seeps into other rooms right before the brownies are done. This is a home smell, a being-a-little-girl smell. It is, really, a Mom Smell.
For the last three years, as we learned to adapt to what Mom's diagnosis and decline meant, every time I bake something I think of her. Saturday afternoons were usually when she would bake, though there was no hard and fast rule. And there was always something in the house that she had made, some sweet, whether it be cookies (always chocolate chip), brownies, streusel cake, or sometimes banana or zucchini bread. She experimented around the holidays - I remember the year she tried making candy for one of our classes as a treat, and that being the only time her experiment didn't work out as she intended. Mom had a battered, splattered copy of a Betty Crocker cookbook in the house, and her little recipe box with all the tried-and-trues in it. That was it.
Making brownies today really had nothing to do with Mom. I like having chocolate in the house, and Randy loves brownies as much as I do, so it was really about satisfying a craving. But once the smell hit, I was thinking of Mom, and how everyone always fought over the goodies she made us - even Dad got in on it, having quite the sweet tooth and soft spot for Mom's baking.
I feel like motherhood is less daunting when I do the things my mom always made special for me. Today the Mom Smell of baking brownies brought my mother to mind, but it has already taken on a new meaning. I can't wait to make brownies for my little boy or girl. And cookies, and cookie cake, and cakes, and oh so many things! Maybe my little one will one day recognize the "Mom Smell" his or her own childhood, and it will make them smile.
Friday, September 2, 2011
horizons
Mom and I had one thing that we
routinely did together. We went to the library. Every three weeks,
on Saturday morning, we would gather our books to return and spend an
hour or so browsing. We did have distinctly different tastes, but
from the time I was little and had my very first library card (a rite of passage more memorable to me than even learning to drive), Mom
was always telling me to “broaden my horizons” and stop picking
from the same section every time. This is undoubtedly how I ended up reading Stephen King as a 13-year-old. Of course, I turned that around on
her when I was older and she stuck to just a few fiction shelves. I
don't know if Danielle Steel and Mary Higgins Clark had a more dedicated reader!
Mom was right, though. If there is a
lesson to learn from her, it is that. Broaden your horizons. Mom
was nineteen when she joined the Navy, to “see the world” as she
used to say. And she did. She got to go to Florida and Texas and
she worked in the Pentagon – how many little girls from Long
Island, New York in the sixties dreamt they might be able to do THAT
one day? Because she was brave, and believed she should broaden her
own horizons, she got to go to Rota, Spain and meet my dad. The
Irish Protestant from New York and the Irish Catholic from Kansas
City, who might never have crossed paths otherwise. Broaden your
horizons, indeed!
Even Mom's illness was one that
imparted that lesson, really. It is a cliché – try new things, do
what you love, be the person you never thought you could be. My mom
believed that and she taught it to us all with her actions. She
didn't believe in “can't.” I think the best proof of that is my brother Joe
– when the doctors said he wouldn't walk, or ride a bike, and the
teachers said he had to go to special classes, Mom said the exact
opposite, and today he drives a car and is a published writer working on his masters in Early American History. It worked on all four of us –
there is no better explanation for how we turned out, and I can only
hope that my own child will have half of Mom's gumption and spirit.
Mom is in that place now where “can't”
doesn't exist. The horizon there is so wide and so deep that there
are endless opportunities to discover what it means. Given that it
was who she was in life, I can only be grateful for the joy of
knowing she is with the One who made that possible.
Friday, August 26, 2011
twelve-gun salute
Mom's wake was on Wednesday evening, and the funeral was today, Thursday, August 25.
Family started arriving in town on Tuesday, starting with my mom's brother Donald and my cousin Matt. Both came in from the east coast - Donald from New York and Matt from Norfolk (he's in the Navy). A few of us went bowling on Tuesday night, I think to take our minds off the reason for the visit and just to let off some tension. The whole week leading up to this morning had the distinct feeling of "first day of school" - but the dreadful feeling, not the nervous anticipation feeling. Tension-letting was a huge thing.
Wednesday was full of last-minute errands, and family trickling in throughout the day. My dad, brother, husband and I went down to the funeral home early to get "set up," though of course there wasn't much to do besides make sure everything was in order. A Catholic wake is a bit different from the common "viewings" (I hate that word) we're otherwise used to down here, and we had a rosary and a Knights of Columbus guard for Mom. There was an open casket; Mom was down to 70 pounds or so when she passed, and she was so altered as to be almost unrecognizable, but it was important to get an idea of exactly what this disease had done. The funeral home had put together a DVD slideshow of pictures of Mom set to music; my dad, brother and I picked the songs ("New York, New York" by Frank Sinatra, because Mom was a Yankees fan and that's the Yankees' song; "Dream a Little Dream of Me" by Cass Elliott, because Mom loved that song and version; and "Hello Again" by Neil Diamond, because she was a huge Neil Diamond fan). The pictures ranged from her infancy all the way through the last months from two years ago when she was still walking and communicating. On display was her boot camp picture, at nineteen, a picture I had never seen before.
The wake was more joyful than I have gotten accustomed to, mostly because of seeing family and friends we hadn't seen in quite some time. There was plenty of mixed emotion, because people hadn't seen me pregnant yet and I'm showing just enough to excite interest. The biggest surprise of the evening was seeing my favorite teacher from high school (my senior AP English teacher); I hadn't seen him in thirteen years, and had completely forgotten that he knows my dad pretty well from the Knights. I had also forgotten just how small the town where we lived for so long really could be - amazing how many people from Mom's years with the Boy Scouts are also people Dad knew from the Knights and whose kids were in JROTC with the four of us over the years.
The rosary was said by the Knights, who took turns leading prayers. There was just a short time for more socializing, and then my aunt Helen suggested dinner, and a great big group of us went up to a Cracker Barrel for a late dinner. Just the thing Mom would have expected of us, no doubt. I think there was a total of 27 people that descended on that restaurant (all family!).
Of course, none of us slept well back at Dad's house. A few of my cousins came over, and we sat up talking for a bit, unable to sleep. Dad worked on Mom's eulogy for awhile. I think I got five hours of sleep all told, but I did better than some. As I said, anxiety and dread had set in.
Up-and-at-'em this morning. I swear I heard Mom waking me up (she used to say, "Rise and shine, shine and rise! Stretch your bones and touch your toes!"). Given how little rain we've seen here, it was surprising to find it was storming not far from here, and traffic was duly unforgiving. Dad, Joe and I headed out in one car to the funeral home, my sisters in another, and of course there was a big, lane-reducing accident on the easiest route. Luckily we left early.
Saying goodbye to Mom at the funeral home was hard, but we did think and talk a lot about the ways that Mom would be "laughing through tears" and that made it a lot easier. A limo picked us up to take us to the church for Mass. All the storms had cleared out before 8:30am so there was no trouble with the roads by this time. Mass started at 10am - thankfully, Father Ahn knew Mom and so it was more personal. My brother did the readings and responsorial prayers.
Dad gave an amazing eulogy, telling about how he and Mom met and giving a lot of humorous anecdotes (Mom would have loved it). He also made a point of talking about how the last three years demonstrated how faithful Mom was, and how it all strengthened his faith tremendously. I am so thankful to have such parents - their marriage withstood the worst, in the end, and my dad is flat-out inspiring. They both are, really.
We piled into the limo again and the procession headed down to the cemetery, clear on the other side of Dallas (south). By this time, it was just before noon and 94F outside, and wretchedly humid from the rain in the morning.
Mom was laid to rest in the DFW National Cemetery. The military portion of the day was really the hardest part. The flag-folding was done by a Navy petty officer and young Air Force airman. She had a twelve-gun salute done by disabled, wheelchair-bound veterans, and a bugler played Taps - that was the part where I broke down, that first shot fired. But Mom was sent off in style, I think, truly befitting someone who loved her country and served it in so many important ways.
The reception (awkward term) was low-key, mostly family, at a KofC hall. Then it was home and we caught the Yanks as they were just leading the A's - and got to watch a record-breaking third grand slam as the Yankees put the lid on the series against the Athletics. I know that was no coincidence - Mom was egging them on. I knew it when Granderson connected with that ball, but then again when Jorge Posada trotted out to play second base (!!!) and his play ended the game.
We went bowling again with cousins tonight, perhaps a strange way to top things off, yet kind of fitting in that Mom and Dad used to play in leagues when I was little - it was their date night thing. Plus, the last of the adrenaline was coursing through me for certain; I needed physical catharsis, and that was the perfect way to get it.
Tonight, I miss my mom terribly. I am very comforted, though, by the events of the last two days. She touched so many lives, and who knows how many more will be touched as a result of what she went through. I also know, unequivocally, that she is with the Lord in Heaven. She belongs there, and this wasn't goodbye. It was 'see ya soon' and it was about remembering who she was. We were not unprepared and we were not without support at any time, and the Lord went before us in all things. This was not the beginning of grief, but part of a process that has been happening since her diagnosis and the roughest patch of her illness in 2009 (the strokes, cancer, and prolonged hospital stay that ultimately left her bedridden before the ALS did what it was inevitably going to do).
I am okay - I feel like I've said that to the point of breaking, but it really is true. I know it will continue to hurt and catch me unawares. There is comfort, though, as I said. And my family and friends showed me something I was afraid I had forgotten. I am not alone, and laughter through tears really is the best emotion.
Family started arriving in town on Tuesday, starting with my mom's brother Donald and my cousin Matt. Both came in from the east coast - Donald from New York and Matt from Norfolk (he's in the Navy). A few of us went bowling on Tuesday night, I think to take our minds off the reason for the visit and just to let off some tension. The whole week leading up to this morning had the distinct feeling of "first day of school" - but the dreadful feeling, not the nervous anticipation feeling. Tension-letting was a huge thing.
Wednesday was full of last-minute errands, and family trickling in throughout the day. My dad, brother, husband and I went down to the funeral home early to get "set up," though of course there wasn't much to do besides make sure everything was in order. A Catholic wake is a bit different from the common "viewings" (I hate that word) we're otherwise used to down here, and we had a rosary and a Knights of Columbus guard for Mom. There was an open casket; Mom was down to 70 pounds or so when she passed, and she was so altered as to be almost unrecognizable, but it was important to get an idea of exactly what this disease had done. The funeral home had put together a DVD slideshow of pictures of Mom set to music; my dad, brother and I picked the songs ("New York, New York" by Frank Sinatra, because Mom was a Yankees fan and that's the Yankees' song; "Dream a Little Dream of Me" by Cass Elliott, because Mom loved that song and version; and "Hello Again" by Neil Diamond, because she was a huge Neil Diamond fan). The pictures ranged from her infancy all the way through the last months from two years ago when she was still walking and communicating. On display was her boot camp picture, at nineteen, a picture I had never seen before.
The wake was more joyful than I have gotten accustomed to, mostly because of seeing family and friends we hadn't seen in quite some time. There was plenty of mixed emotion, because people hadn't seen me pregnant yet and I'm showing just enough to excite interest. The biggest surprise of the evening was seeing my favorite teacher from high school (my senior AP English teacher); I hadn't seen him in thirteen years, and had completely forgotten that he knows my dad pretty well from the Knights. I had also forgotten just how small the town where we lived for so long really could be - amazing how many people from Mom's years with the Boy Scouts are also people Dad knew from the Knights and whose kids were in JROTC with the four of us over the years.
The rosary was said by the Knights, who took turns leading prayers. There was just a short time for more socializing, and then my aunt Helen suggested dinner, and a great big group of us went up to a Cracker Barrel for a late dinner. Just the thing Mom would have expected of us, no doubt. I think there was a total of 27 people that descended on that restaurant (all family!).
Of course, none of us slept well back at Dad's house. A few of my cousins came over, and we sat up talking for a bit, unable to sleep. Dad worked on Mom's eulogy for awhile. I think I got five hours of sleep all told, but I did better than some. As I said, anxiety and dread had set in.
Up-and-at-'em this morning. I swear I heard Mom waking me up (she used to say, "Rise and shine, shine and rise! Stretch your bones and touch your toes!"). Given how little rain we've seen here, it was surprising to find it was storming not far from here, and traffic was duly unforgiving. Dad, Joe and I headed out in one car to the funeral home, my sisters in another, and of course there was a big, lane-reducing accident on the easiest route. Luckily we left early.
Saying goodbye to Mom at the funeral home was hard, but we did think and talk a lot about the ways that Mom would be "laughing through tears" and that made it a lot easier. A limo picked us up to take us to the church for Mass. All the storms had cleared out before 8:30am so there was no trouble with the roads by this time. Mass started at 10am - thankfully, Father Ahn knew Mom and so it was more personal. My brother did the readings and responsorial prayers.
Dad gave an amazing eulogy, telling about how he and Mom met and giving a lot of humorous anecdotes (Mom would have loved it). He also made a point of talking about how the last three years demonstrated how faithful Mom was, and how it all strengthened his faith tremendously. I am so thankful to have such parents - their marriage withstood the worst, in the end, and my dad is flat-out inspiring. They both are, really.
We piled into the limo again and the procession headed down to the cemetery, clear on the other side of Dallas (south). By this time, it was just before noon and 94F outside, and wretchedly humid from the rain in the morning.
Mom was laid to rest in the DFW National Cemetery. The military portion of the day was really the hardest part. The flag-folding was done by a Navy petty officer and young Air Force airman. She had a twelve-gun salute done by disabled, wheelchair-bound veterans, and a bugler played Taps - that was the part where I broke down, that first shot fired. But Mom was sent off in style, I think, truly befitting someone who loved her country and served it in so many important ways.
The reception (awkward term) was low-key, mostly family, at a KofC hall. Then it was home and we caught the Yanks as they were just leading the A's - and got to watch a record-breaking third grand slam as the Yankees put the lid on the series against the Athletics. I know that was no coincidence - Mom was egging them on. I knew it when Granderson connected with that ball, but then again when Jorge Posada trotted out to play second base (!!!) and his play ended the game.
We went bowling again with cousins tonight, perhaps a strange way to top things off, yet kind of fitting in that Mom and Dad used to play in leagues when I was little - it was their date night thing. Plus, the last of the adrenaline was coursing through me for certain; I needed physical catharsis, and that was the perfect way to get it.
Tonight, I miss my mom terribly. I am very comforted, though, by the events of the last two days. She touched so many lives, and who knows how many more will be touched as a result of what she went through. I also know, unequivocally, that she is with the Lord in Heaven. She belongs there, and this wasn't goodbye. It was 'see ya soon' and it was about remembering who she was. We were not unprepared and we were not without support at any time, and the Lord went before us in all things. This was not the beginning of grief, but part of a process that has been happening since her diagnosis and the roughest patch of her illness in 2009 (the strokes, cancer, and prolonged hospital stay that ultimately left her bedridden before the ALS did what it was inevitably going to do).
I am okay - I feel like I've said that to the point of breaking, but it really is true. I know it will continue to hurt and catch me unawares. There is comfort, though, as I said. And my family and friends showed me something I was afraid I had forgotten. I am not alone, and laughter through tears really is the best emotion.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
obituary
Lillian Jane Childs Connole of Argyle, TX passed away August 19, 2011. She was 56.
Lillian was born April 27, 1955, in Westbury, NY to Brice and Jean Childs. She was one of seven children. Lillian graduated from Westbury High School in 1973. She joined the United States Navy in 1974, and trained as a cryptologist (CTO), eventually obtaining the rank of Petty Officer 2nd Class. She was a Vietnam-era veteran receiving medals for National Defense, Good Conduct, meritorious service commendation and foreign duty overseas commendation. She completed training in Orlando, FL; Navy A-schools in Pensacola, FL and specialized training at Goodfellow AFB in Texas; she had subsequent tours of duty at the Pentagon and Naval Station, Rota, Spain where she was Honorably Discharged in 1979.
Lillian met her husband, Michael, originally of Kansas City, MO, while both were stationed with the Navy in Rota, Spain. They married in November of 1977 in Westbury, NY and returned from Spain in 1979, settling in Kansas City, MO. They lived for a time in Missouri, Oklahoma, and Arizona before settling in Texas in 1994.
Lillian was an active member of the St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church in Grapevine. She was a member of the Knights of Columbus Ladies' Auxiliary, Council 7099. She was a leader for various Girl Scout troops over the years and was active with the Boy Scouts of America in Lewisville. Lillian most recently worked with Lewisville ISD as a substitute teacher.
Lillian is survived by her husband of nearly 34 years, Michael; their daughters Michele Samuelson of Austin, TX; Kathleen of Argyle, TX; Jaclyn of Round Rock, TX; and their son Joseph of Argyle; her sister Edith and family in Rockwall, TX; her brother William and his family in Poughkeepsie, NY; her brother John in Amityville, NY; her brother Donald and his family in Amityville, NY.
She was preceded in death by her parents, Jean and Brice and brothers James and Brice. Funeral mass will be held 10:00 a.m. Thursday, August 25, 2011, at St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church in Grapevine, Texas. Interment with full military honors will be held 12:30 p.m. at Dallas-Fort Worth National Cemetery. The family will receive friends from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. Wednesday at Mulkey-Mason Funeral Home in Lewisville with Rosary being recited at 7:00 p.m. In lieu of flowers, the family wishes for donations be made to either the Paralyzed Veterans of America or the ALS Association in Lillian's name.
Lillian was born April 27, 1955, in Westbury, NY to Brice and Jean Childs. She was one of seven children. Lillian graduated from Westbury High School in 1973. She joined the United States Navy in 1974, and trained as a cryptologist (CTO), eventually obtaining the rank of Petty Officer 2nd Class. She was a Vietnam-era veteran receiving medals for National Defense, Good Conduct, meritorious service commendation and foreign duty overseas commendation. She completed training in Orlando, FL; Navy A-schools in Pensacola, FL and specialized training at Goodfellow AFB in Texas; she had subsequent tours of duty at the Pentagon and Naval Station, Rota, Spain where she was Honorably Discharged in 1979.
Lillian met her husband, Michael, originally of Kansas City, MO, while both were stationed with the Navy in Rota, Spain. They married in November of 1977 in Westbury, NY and returned from Spain in 1979, settling in Kansas City, MO. They lived for a time in Missouri, Oklahoma, and Arizona before settling in Texas in 1994.
Lillian was an active member of the St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church in Grapevine. She was a member of the Knights of Columbus Ladies' Auxiliary, Council 7099. She was a leader for various Girl Scout troops over the years and was active with the Boy Scouts of America in Lewisville. Lillian most recently worked with Lewisville ISD as a substitute teacher.
Lillian is survived by her husband of nearly 34 years, Michael; their daughters Michele Samuelson of Austin, TX; Kathleen of Argyle, TX; Jaclyn of Round Rock, TX; and their son Joseph of Argyle; her sister Edith and family in Rockwall, TX; her brother William and his family in Poughkeepsie, NY; her brother John in Amityville, NY; her brother Donald and his family in Amityville, NY.
She was preceded in death by her parents, Jean and Brice and brothers James and Brice. Funeral mass will be held 10:00 a.m. Thursday, August 25, 2011, at St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church in Grapevine, Texas. Interment with full military honors will be held 12:30 p.m. at Dallas-Fort Worth National Cemetery. The family will receive friends from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. Wednesday at Mulkey-Mason Funeral Home in Lewisville with Rosary being recited at 7:00 p.m. In lieu of flowers, the family wishes for donations be made to either the Paralyzed Veterans of America or the ALS Association in Lillian's name.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
home
We walked into my parents' house this afternoon. They have been in this house for just over a year. In that time, my mother was in the master bedroom on a hospital bed with a ventilator, various machines, and a home hospice nurse, all the time.
No one was here when we showed up. Dad and my brother Joe had gone to the funeral home to work out some things, and to pick up altered suits. My sisters were out getting haircuts and shopping for clothes for the week.
There was no nurse, of course. No sounds from medical machinery in the master bedroom. No television was on anywhere. It was so quiet, and this house feels positively cavernous even when there are people here.
I went into the bedroom. The empty frame of the hospital bed, the cart of half-used medical supplies were there, are there. I had not really looked around this room in a year; there is a tall metal rack with stacked supplies, like wipes and towels, hospital gowns, unused cans of the food Mom could take through a feeding tube. The room was dark - no light on, as there usually would be, and the television which always had Mom's favorite movies and baseball games playing, was finally off.
Oddly, the thing that made me cry - Mom's golf hat, the one she always wore when out at the ballpark or at outdoor family events. It's a white, wide-brimmed hat with a colorful band. It was on a shelf in the closet, the only piece of clothing that really stood out (her weight changed so much over the last few years, most of her clothes seem foreign, unreal).
The silence kind of got to me, too. This house is never quiet. Dad and Joe got back from their expedition only a few minutes after this - the quiet, thankfully, was shattered. We made a black wreath for the front door and picked out songs for Mom's "montage" DVD and watched baseball and talked logistics, and we had supper and we talked about what Mom would say or do or how she's reacting to all of us now. Laughing, is my bet. We have been laughing and telling jokes that Mom would laugh at, and it has been the kind of day where your emotions just don't stay in one place.
Despite the good, soul-cleansing nature of a regular family row (oh, that's just inevitable) and the settling into our "routine" as if we never spent a day apart, it all comes crashing back down as the wee hours approach. The reality of the next few days, the mechanics of a wake and a funeral and the onslaught of mourners, well-wishers, is overwhelming. What do I need? Everyone asks. To stop being asked, really. To do this our way, as prickly and practical and seemingly crazy as we always are, and to leave it at that.
No one was here when we showed up. Dad and my brother Joe had gone to the funeral home to work out some things, and to pick up altered suits. My sisters were out getting haircuts and shopping for clothes for the week.
There was no nurse, of course. No sounds from medical machinery in the master bedroom. No television was on anywhere. It was so quiet, and this house feels positively cavernous even when there are people here.
I went into the bedroom. The empty frame of the hospital bed, the cart of half-used medical supplies were there, are there. I had not really looked around this room in a year; there is a tall metal rack with stacked supplies, like wipes and towels, hospital gowns, unused cans of the food Mom could take through a feeding tube. The room was dark - no light on, as there usually would be, and the television which always had Mom's favorite movies and baseball games playing, was finally off.
Oddly, the thing that made me cry - Mom's golf hat, the one she always wore when out at the ballpark or at outdoor family events. It's a white, wide-brimmed hat with a colorful band. It was on a shelf in the closet, the only piece of clothing that really stood out (her weight changed so much over the last few years, most of her clothes seem foreign, unreal).
The silence kind of got to me, too. This house is never quiet. Dad and Joe got back from their expedition only a few minutes after this - the quiet, thankfully, was shattered. We made a black wreath for the front door and picked out songs for Mom's "montage" DVD and watched baseball and talked logistics, and we had supper and we talked about what Mom would say or do or how she's reacting to all of us now. Laughing, is my bet. We have been laughing and telling jokes that Mom would laugh at, and it has been the kind of day where your emotions just don't stay in one place.
Despite the good, soul-cleansing nature of a regular family row (oh, that's just inevitable) and the settling into our "routine" as if we never spent a day apart, it all comes crashing back down as the wee hours approach. The reality of the next few days, the mechanics of a wake and a funeral and the onslaught of mourners, well-wishers, is overwhelming. What do I need? Everyone asks. To stop being asked, really. To do this our way, as prickly and practical and seemingly crazy as we always are, and to leave it at that.
Friday, August 19, 2011
passing
Today, Lillian Jane Childs Connole passed away at the age of 56.
She was my mom.
I said earlier, I feel a great sense of deja vu, writing this out. In fact, all evening, since getting the phone call. We had so many "scares" over the last few years. And the diagnosis itself (which was not so much a diagnosis as a death sentence - there is no other way to describe ALS, especially to those who knew it as we did). I cannot recall how many times I had to tell an employer that I was "on 24-hour alert" and may be called away at a moment's notice. How many times I had to tell my friends we couldn't make this event or that because we would be away.
I am up late because we met up with some friends to drop off our dog Waylon, since there is not a place for him at my parents' house. Waylon is very attuned to what is happening around him. When I was sitting on the couch, taking the phone call from my dad, Waylon came over and put his head in my lap.
There is a definite calm that seems to have settled, for the moment, before the whirlwind truly begins. Mom was comfortable, as much as she could be, in the end. She was at peace.
It isn't that this is not hard, because it is. It is just that has been hard for so long. Explaining what it was that my mother had, weekend visits that became increasingly emotional over time. Accepting each "stage" of ALS, being helpless in the face of it as it took her away. Mourning for Mom, over and over, as different things would trigger emotions. I remember how angry I was in the beginning, how unfair I believed all of this to be. I remember Mom's own rage at what was taking place, her refusal to accept it and showing her defiance by putting off a "treatment" (the fight she put up over a feeding tube, over no longer being able to drive, over not being able to stand in the kitchen and make dinner). Dad's rage, which he showed in funny ways. The way my sisters and I shoved our grief and anger off on each other at times.
It has been a rough, long road, and I know it is not quite over. Mom is gone. We are left to figure out how to be us without her.
But it isn't figuring out how to be us without the Lillian we all knew. She was a fundamentally different person as a result of her disease. She withdrew when she figured out she was unable to communicate well, and she had strokes early on that stole what ability she had. For the last year and a half, she's been totally bedridden. We had Thanksgiving dinner without her. I had to tell her I was pregnant over the phone, and her only reaction (according to Dad, who had to hold the phone up to her ear) was a flickering blink of her eyes.
So what we do now is learn how to live without a nurse in the house all the time. How to sleep without worrying that the phone will ring or her ventilator alarm will go off. How to live in a house without a hospital bed and medical supplies. Oh, so many little things.
Things I'm thankful for tonight: Mom died at home, with Dad next to her, and not in a cold hospital. Thankful for all of my wonderful friends. Thankful for laughter, because it would be impossible to think of Mom and remember her without being able to laugh. Thankful for her faith, and for mine. Thankful for having her as long as we did. Thankful for my puppy dog. Thankful for my incredible husband, Randy, who knew how to handle this and me. Thankful for my family, my sisters and my brother and my Dad, Mike - Dad is the strongest man I know, and as Mom's caretaker for the last three years has shown me what marriage is really about.
She was my mom.
I said earlier, I feel a great sense of deja vu, writing this out. In fact, all evening, since getting the phone call. We had so many "scares" over the last few years. And the diagnosis itself (which was not so much a diagnosis as a death sentence - there is no other way to describe ALS, especially to those who knew it as we did). I cannot recall how many times I had to tell an employer that I was "on 24-hour alert" and may be called away at a moment's notice. How many times I had to tell my friends we couldn't make this event or that because we would be away.
I am up late because we met up with some friends to drop off our dog Waylon, since there is not a place for him at my parents' house. Waylon is very attuned to what is happening around him. When I was sitting on the couch, taking the phone call from my dad, Waylon came over and put his head in my lap.
There is a definite calm that seems to have settled, for the moment, before the whirlwind truly begins. Mom was comfortable, as much as she could be, in the end. She was at peace.
It isn't that this is not hard, because it is. It is just that has been hard for so long. Explaining what it was that my mother had, weekend visits that became increasingly emotional over time. Accepting each "stage" of ALS, being helpless in the face of it as it took her away. Mourning for Mom, over and over, as different things would trigger emotions. I remember how angry I was in the beginning, how unfair I believed all of this to be. I remember Mom's own rage at what was taking place, her refusal to accept it and showing her defiance by putting off a "treatment" (the fight she put up over a feeding tube, over no longer being able to drive, over not being able to stand in the kitchen and make dinner). Dad's rage, which he showed in funny ways. The way my sisters and I shoved our grief and anger off on each other at times.
It has been a rough, long road, and I know it is not quite over. Mom is gone. We are left to figure out how to be us without her.
But it isn't figuring out how to be us without the Lillian we all knew. She was a fundamentally different person as a result of her disease. She withdrew when she figured out she was unable to communicate well, and she had strokes early on that stole what ability she had. For the last year and a half, she's been totally bedridden. We had Thanksgiving dinner without her. I had to tell her I was pregnant over the phone, and her only reaction (according to Dad, who had to hold the phone up to her ear) was a flickering blink of her eyes.
So what we do now is learn how to live without a nurse in the house all the time. How to sleep without worrying that the phone will ring or her ventilator alarm will go off. How to live in a house without a hospital bed and medical supplies. Oh, so many little things.
Things I'm thankful for tonight: Mom died at home, with Dad next to her, and not in a cold hospital. Thankful for all of my wonderful friends. Thankful for laughter, because it would be impossible to think of Mom and remember her without being able to laugh. Thankful for her faith, and for mine. Thankful for having her as long as we did. Thankful for my puppy dog. Thankful for my incredible husband, Randy, who knew how to handle this and me. Thankful for my family, my sisters and my brother and my Dad, Mike - Dad is the strongest man I know, and as Mom's caretaker for the last three years has shown me what marriage is really about.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
girlhood
My mother was born in 1955 on Long Island, New York. Her mother was a homemaker and her father was a cabbie. He was in the war, but he didn't talk about it. Her mother was an awesome cook who made a lot of things her mother and grandmother made; this was a household of traditions.
My mother was a Girl Scout. At least a Brownie - I have a framed picture of her in uniform, standing with her brother the Boy Scout and her sister, who is a Cadette in the picture I think. She was the fourth child of seven; she had just the one sister.
She had very blonde hair, all the way until adulthood, when it would suddenly grow dark unless she kept using Sun-In (or, when I was younger, lemon juice and water in a pump hairspray bottle).
When she was six, my mother had rheumatic fever, and it was bad enough that they feared for her life. She didn't remember much about it, except the needles, and the fact that she missed Easter and her birthday that year.
Easter was a big deal, hats and new dresses. When my mother was a girl, they still had to wear their hats in church, and gloves every Sunday.
On St. Patrick's Day, my grandfather would wear orange, a sign of protest to annoy the little old Irish Catholic ladies he drove to church every week. My mother grew up in a world wear the Polish kids lived on one street, the Irish on another, the Italians on yet another.
There were never a lot of stories of growing up, not real stories, about playing with the neighborhood kids or getting into scrapes or any mad adventures that only kids have. Mom talked about the food her mother cooked, about always being "Billy's little sister" to teachers, and sometimes what they watched on television. She remembered the moon landing pretty vividly, and always told us how it rained in New York that day.
In my mother's house, the New York Yankees were the team to watch, and they didn't really watch football. Her father was a baseball man. And a Republican, in a neighborhood that wasn't. She told me that with a wry look on her face, and about how her father used that when he picked on the little old Irish ladies, too.
Mom lettered in field hockey in high school. She never showed me pictures of this, so in my head she looks like Jodie Foster in Freaky Friday. It kind of works. Jodie had blonde hair, too.
I look sometimes at the small stack of pictures I have from my mom's childhood - there are more, in her photo albums back home - and I try to see what she wasn't telling me. They didn't smile a lot in the pictures, but then they were always facing the sun, and so many of the pictures are posed. You can hear my grandmother: "Stand closer together, go on, pretend you like each other." I try to imagine the little girl in the dress running as soon as the shutter clicked, to grab her bike or her book or to find her best friend.
I know what she did once she left home. I know almost all of those stories. Going to court reporting school, changing her mind. Joining the Navy to see the world. Meeting my dad, in a foreign country where she never did know the language. Marrying him, even though he was a Catholic, and how they had a big steak dinner at their reception. Living in an apartment in Rota just below avowed Communists, who owned a big Doberman who always ran down the stairs barking when Mom had her arms full of groceries. Coming back to the States, pregnant with me, and going to her own mother's funeral. And all the stories after.
I just wonder, though. Did she giggle a lot? Did she like to bury her nose in a book the way she did as an adult? Did she play just with the kids on her street, or did she branch out?
The only way I can ever think to connect with my mom as a girl is to make her cucumber salad, the recipe has been handed down through the German side of the family on her mother's side. When the apple cider vinegar smell hits the air, I think maybe our girlhoods collide there. Maybe there, we understand each other.
My mother was a Girl Scout. At least a Brownie - I have a framed picture of her in uniform, standing with her brother the Boy Scout and her sister, who is a Cadette in the picture I think. She was the fourth child of seven; she had just the one sister.
She had very blonde hair, all the way until adulthood, when it would suddenly grow dark unless she kept using Sun-In (or, when I was younger, lemon juice and water in a pump hairspray bottle).
When she was six, my mother had rheumatic fever, and it was bad enough that they feared for her life. She didn't remember much about it, except the needles, and the fact that she missed Easter and her birthday that year.
Easter was a big deal, hats and new dresses. When my mother was a girl, they still had to wear their hats in church, and gloves every Sunday.
On St. Patrick's Day, my grandfather would wear orange, a sign of protest to annoy the little old Irish Catholic ladies he drove to church every week. My mother grew up in a world wear the Polish kids lived on one street, the Irish on another, the Italians on yet another.
There were never a lot of stories of growing up, not real stories, about playing with the neighborhood kids or getting into scrapes or any mad adventures that only kids have. Mom talked about the food her mother cooked, about always being "Billy's little sister" to teachers, and sometimes what they watched on television. She remembered the moon landing pretty vividly, and always told us how it rained in New York that day.
In my mother's house, the New York Yankees were the team to watch, and they didn't really watch football. Her father was a baseball man. And a Republican, in a neighborhood that wasn't. She told me that with a wry look on her face, and about how her father used that when he picked on the little old Irish ladies, too.
Mom lettered in field hockey in high school. She never showed me pictures of this, so in my head she looks like Jodie Foster in Freaky Friday. It kind of works. Jodie had blonde hair, too.
I look sometimes at the small stack of pictures I have from my mom's childhood - there are more, in her photo albums back home - and I try to see what she wasn't telling me. They didn't smile a lot in the pictures, but then they were always facing the sun, and so many of the pictures are posed. You can hear my grandmother: "Stand closer together, go on, pretend you like each other." I try to imagine the little girl in the dress running as soon as the shutter clicked, to grab her bike or her book or to find her best friend.
I know what she did once she left home. I know almost all of those stories. Going to court reporting school, changing her mind. Joining the Navy to see the world. Meeting my dad, in a foreign country where she never did know the language. Marrying him, even though he was a Catholic, and how they had a big steak dinner at their reception. Living in an apartment in Rota just below avowed Communists, who owned a big Doberman who always ran down the stairs barking when Mom had her arms full of groceries. Coming back to the States, pregnant with me, and going to her own mother's funeral. And all the stories after.
I just wonder, though. Did she giggle a lot? Did she like to bury her nose in a book the way she did as an adult? Did she play just with the kids on her street, or did she branch out?
The only way I can ever think to connect with my mom as a girl is to make her cucumber salad, the recipe has been handed down through the German side of the family on her mother's side. When the apple cider vinegar smell hits the air, I think maybe our girlhoods collide there. Maybe there, we understand each other.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
waiting
For the most part, because we're on "high alert" waiting for that final phone call, I haven't been around a lot of people in the last week. I haven't felt much like being social, which is just weird for me, but also I've had so much to do making sure I'm ahead on writing projects and whatnot in case I'm off the grid for more than a couple of days. By the time the evening rolls around, and I'm able to write for myself or work on getting my office back in order, that's all I really want to do.
That, and Randy and our dog Waylon don't ask me how I am or how Mom is. They don't give me sad looks that make me feel worse. I don't feel guilty for not being sadder at a given moment. I can be frustrated about obituary placement prices (scandalous) or be upset about a specific problem, and Randy doesn't overdo the sympathy. He listens, and hugs, and we move on.
My mom's illness is a "long goodbye" at least as terrible, as all-consuming, as Alzheimer's. Grief and mourning have been close friends of mine for so long now, I don't know if I recognize a change. People tell me, this must be so hard, and well, it is - but there is a lot more to it than just the surface, easy stuff. Grief for a loved one who has suffered so much is very complicated. There's relief, there's gratitude, there's sadness, there's an element of joy even. I'm a Christian, my mother is a Christian - I know she'll wake up walking in heaven. Not everyone believes that, I understand that, but it is what we believe. With that in mind, it is very hard to want her to stay, to keep her body alive when she can no longer be the woman we knew.
I wasn't very social all this week, partially because of all of this. And then this weekend we had a veritable whirlwind, particularly today, seeing our closest friends at church and then seeing many of Randy's extended family at a birthday party. I'm just beginning to really show (I'll be 20 weeks pregnant later this week) and everyone had to say something, and we don't see some of these people often, so there were lots of questions and a lot of baby discussion. And of course, there were the sad looks, the "how is she?" questions. It was a trying day for me. I don't know what to say anymore. I never really did - there was even a point where I didn't tell some friends about her illness right away, because I had to explain what it was and go through that pitying, sad look from a lot of people I didn't know very well. For a long time, if Mom wasn't in the hospital, we were just thankful for "status quo". Even when that meant she was falling in the kitchen and refusing a wheelchair, or when she could no longer type coherent words or sentences on her speaking machine, or when the only movement she had left was blinking and occasionally raising a stiff and shaky "thumbs-up" to Dad.
These days, the status quo is heart and lungs giving out. Blood pressure you can hardly detect. Pale, wan, pinched look that has totally deprived my mother of her real appearance (how she would hate to see her gray hair and ruined complexion!). A full coma, her eyes not open for over two weeks, her eyes totally unseeing for longer. The only change will be her passing. Everything else is another sign, another slip.
Anti-social? Not really. Just too busy listening for the phone to ring, to spring into action. My bag is already packed.
That, and Randy and our dog Waylon don't ask me how I am or how Mom is. They don't give me sad looks that make me feel worse. I don't feel guilty for not being sadder at a given moment. I can be frustrated about obituary placement prices (scandalous) or be upset about a specific problem, and Randy doesn't overdo the sympathy. He listens, and hugs, and we move on.
My mom's illness is a "long goodbye" at least as terrible, as all-consuming, as Alzheimer's. Grief and mourning have been close friends of mine for so long now, I don't know if I recognize a change. People tell me, this must be so hard, and well, it is - but there is a lot more to it than just the surface, easy stuff. Grief for a loved one who has suffered so much is very complicated. There's relief, there's gratitude, there's sadness, there's an element of joy even. I'm a Christian, my mother is a Christian - I know she'll wake up walking in heaven. Not everyone believes that, I understand that, but it is what we believe. With that in mind, it is very hard to want her to stay, to keep her body alive when she can no longer be the woman we knew.
I wasn't very social all this week, partially because of all of this. And then this weekend we had a veritable whirlwind, particularly today, seeing our closest friends at church and then seeing many of Randy's extended family at a birthday party. I'm just beginning to really show (I'll be 20 weeks pregnant later this week) and everyone had to say something, and we don't see some of these people often, so there were lots of questions and a lot of baby discussion. And of course, there were the sad looks, the "how is she?" questions. It was a trying day for me. I don't know what to say anymore. I never really did - there was even a point where I didn't tell some friends about her illness right away, because I had to explain what it was and go through that pitying, sad look from a lot of people I didn't know very well. For a long time, if Mom wasn't in the hospital, we were just thankful for "status quo". Even when that meant she was falling in the kitchen and refusing a wheelchair, or when she could no longer type coherent words or sentences on her speaking machine, or when the only movement she had left was blinking and occasionally raising a stiff and shaky "thumbs-up" to Dad.
These days, the status quo is heart and lungs giving out. Blood pressure you can hardly detect. Pale, wan, pinched look that has totally deprived my mother of her real appearance (how she would hate to see her gray hair and ruined complexion!). A full coma, her eyes not open for over two weeks, her eyes totally unseeing for longer. The only change will be her passing. Everything else is another sign, another slip.
Anti-social? Not really. Just too busy listening for the phone to ring, to spring into action. My bag is already packed.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
searching
We're on day ??? of an ongoing vigil for Mom. She's been in a coma, probably since last Saturday. Her blood pressure is so low they can't detect it with the arm band. Dad was alone with her during the day, because the usual nurse couldn't be there, so that's the latest update I have. I spent a good portion of my afternoon hunting down information for submitting obituaries - because we've lived practically everywhere, I'm looking at papers in Texas, Missouri, and New York. For the most part, every paper has a different policy, and some of the policies aren't just spelled out online. You have to call to get rates, or the rates aren't available until you're ready to submit.
You know, I'm a capitalist and usually fairly unapologetic about it, but the profit-making schemes built around weddings, births, and funerals really make me sick.
Last night, I finished a book called The Wilder Life, by Wendy McClure. This is a really recent publication, and I scored it in hardcover early on because I've just completed my second re-read of the Little House (Laura Ingalls Wilder) books in two years. We found my long-lost set in a box uncovered when my parents moved last summer, and I have been retracing my childhood through them ever since. McClure's book is about a similar experience. While I have not gone to the lengths she did (though I had a bit of adventure by accident in 2008), I still recognize myself in her pages. Laura Ingalls was a childhood friend; more than that, I feel like I lived an entirely separate existence through her descriptions of nomadic prairie life. McClure describes her attempts to "find" her Laura World and, perhaps, herself through the books, the places where Laura lived, and the activities and accoutrements of 19th century living.
What I found particularly interesting was the fact that Wendy McClure did all of this, and rediscovered the books herself, just as her mother was fading and ultimately succumbing to cancer. I put the book down rather hastily when I read that late last night, and almost didn't finish the book. You see, while there is not a lot about my Laura experiences that tie back to my mother, the very fact that I read the books at all is a direct byproduct of being my mother's daughter. Read, read, read. Books were the thing, the really big thing, that Mom and I had in common. And the Little House books, and Laura Ingalls Wilder, were my go-to books as a kid, my well-worn and dog-eared books. What Wendy McClure wrote couldn't have been more timely for me to read. I felt like I had read something I might have written. That is an extremely eerie feeling.
In writing my mother's obituary, and contemplating her eulogy, over and over again I realize that I don't have a great idea of what to say. Who was my mother, really? She was never one to talk much about such things. In the last few years before her diagnosis, our conversations revolved around recipes and meal-planning for visits. There wasn't much we seemed to want (need?) to say. I find myself now filled with questions. The woman I am remembering and writing about was a mother, yes. What else was she? This lingers.
I understand the searching. I need to know more about myself, too, and what my life is going to be when she is truly gone. When we can't gather around a hospital bed for Christmas morning any more than we can gather round a Christmas tree Mom herself decorated.
The Wilder Life touched something in me, prodded a bruise that I didn't know I had.
What next. I keep thinking.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
progress
The second floor of the house remains a war zone, though with the desk somewhat cleared off, I'm at least back in my home office. This room feels a lot smaller than the other one and I'm increasingly glad we chose to convert the other room to a nursery, even if the war zone look is probably not recommended by pediatricians and other such experts.
Going through everything we've managed to collect between us over the years, it kind of amazes/disgusts me to realize how much of a packrat I really am. I didn't think, for instance, that I had actually kept any graded schoolwork - and yet the pile ready for the trash can taunts me. Why I considered it important to keep I'll never know, because all I can think now is that there isn't room for it and I hadn't seen it in twenty years anyway.
Destined for the trash with those sixth-grade essays are my college notebooks, full of the notes I took in political theory and Texas history. Those are the only two that appear to have survived, and while flipping through them reminded me that I was once a pretty diligent note-taker and obviously bored doodler, I can't see a reason to save either at this point.
My mom saved my preschool student profile and "grades," and handed them off to me some years ago. I found them again tonight, and my mind immediately went to the Biscuit (the baby's nickname while in utero, long story). Preschool is about four years off from this point, but I wonder very much if his/her experience will be like mine in any way. I have a hazy recollection of playing house, being scolded for taking the kitchen toys out of the kitchen area, naps, playing tag with another little girl named Michelle and two boys named Michael and Blaine. I remember their names because Michelle was the only other girl I knew with that name for a good fifteen years (despite its seeming popularity now), and I was teased for years about the boys. Thanks, family.
I have no idea if Mom had more of this stuff hidden away for her own purposes, though it is likely because I had to have inherited this pack-rat thing from someone (Dad is a candidate, too, believe me!). I wonder sometimes what we'll find when it comes time to pack away her things, and I try not to think too hard about whether I'll find the goofy crafts we all made as gifts for Mother's Day or the Christmas cards or birthday cards sent from the seemingly far-away places we all left home for. What if I find more of my kindergarten-era "homework" and "report cards," revealing Mom's sentimental side?
What did she want to always remember about me, and find a place for in her small closets or dresser drawers?
Going through everything we've managed to collect between us over the years, it kind of amazes/disgusts me to realize how much of a packrat I really am. I didn't think, for instance, that I had actually kept any graded schoolwork - and yet the pile ready for the trash can taunts me. Why I considered it important to keep I'll never know, because all I can think now is that there isn't room for it and I hadn't seen it in twenty years anyway.
Destined for the trash with those sixth-grade essays are my college notebooks, full of the notes I took in political theory and Texas history. Those are the only two that appear to have survived, and while flipping through them reminded me that I was once a pretty diligent note-taker and obviously bored doodler, I can't see a reason to save either at this point.
My mom saved my preschool student profile and "grades," and handed them off to me some years ago. I found them again tonight, and my mind immediately went to the Biscuit (the baby's nickname while in utero, long story). Preschool is about four years off from this point, but I wonder very much if his/her experience will be like mine in any way. I have a hazy recollection of playing house, being scolded for taking the kitchen toys out of the kitchen area, naps, playing tag with another little girl named Michelle and two boys named Michael and Blaine. I remember their names because Michelle was the only other girl I knew with that name for a good fifteen years (despite its seeming popularity now), and I was teased for years about the boys. Thanks, family.
I have no idea if Mom had more of this stuff hidden away for her own purposes, though it is likely because I had to have inherited this pack-rat thing from someone (Dad is a candidate, too, believe me!). I wonder sometimes what we'll find when it comes time to pack away her things, and I try not to think too hard about whether I'll find the goofy crafts we all made as gifts for Mother's Day or the Christmas cards or birthday cards sent from the seemingly far-away places we all left home for. What if I find more of my kindergarten-era "homework" and "report cards," revealing Mom's sentimental side?
What did she want to always remember about me, and find a place for in her small closets or dresser drawers?
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