Excuses, Excuses, Excuses or Why I Missed a Week

I’ve been writing this blog for almost ten months. Amidst numerous competing responsibilities and pressing “must-do’s” I have managed to crank something out on a more-or-less weekly basis. But last weekend was different. I got bogged down. Overwhelmed. I couldn’t focus. 

It wasn’t a particularly unusual weekend. 

I was on the road at 2:30 a.m. last Saturday driving across the state to my brother. This is my thinking time, my life-planning, blog-composing, blissfully alone time. I do not mind doing this. I have my routines. I stop in Binghamton, mid-way, at 5:30 a.m. at a Dunkin Donuts for a cup of coffee and yes, a donut. Boston crème. Then I stop at a 24-hour Wegman’s to wander about the aisles for a few minutes. I look at their flower section, the expansive magazine display, the children’s books, the gluten-free items. I don’t buy anything, I just look.

I pull into the driveway of my brother’s group home at precisely 8:50 a.m., chat with staff, then head to breakfast at Miss Batavia Diner. Fifty years ago, my dad often took my sister and me to dinner there when our mother was pregnant with our brother and suffering 24 hour morning sickness. After my mom died and most of my weekends were spent cleaning out her house, the diner became my kitchen away from home, its owner and the staff welcoming and friendly. We get to ignore the “please wait to be seated” sign and head for “our” booth at the front where Lisa, the owner, appears with the coffee pot, a hug, and the hazelnut creamer she knows I like.

In the car I have given my brother an article about Randy “Macho Man” Savage dying in a car crash. I had promised I would print it the evening before after he’d told me this terrible news over the phone. He studies the article seriously, picking out words he knows. Macho Man, car, crash, Florida, Miss Elizabeth, WWE.

Over breakfast, he asks me to read it and I do, scanning ahead for the gist, then summarizing convoluted sentences with briefer, more understandable ones. He listens intently. I read the part about his wife being injured. “She die too?” he asks. “No, she’s just hurt, not badly,” I add. “Whew, close one,” he says.

After we eat, we drop a time-sensitive package off at UPS. I’ve been trying to do that all week in New York without success. We pick up my brother’s suit jacket from the cleaners that I left there two weeks prior. Am I the only one who notices sleeves that are spotted with gravy?  Next stop is the Salvation Army store to drop off old books I have carted all the way from NYC. Then to the bank to cash a check. My aunt calls in the midst of this wondering if I would stop at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for her.

A half hour later, we are heading to our favorite nursery/greenhouse outside of Rochester. My elderly aunt and uncle are along for the ride. This field trip, which could be accomplished in 30 minutes were it just me, stretches to 90 as they ponder their selections, move slowly, occasionally lose each other. My aunt hints, “Gosh, those hot dogs smell good.” This is a full-service nursery. It is 12:10 p.m. “How about a hot dog?” I say to my brother, knowing full well how he’s going to respond. He looks at his watch and frowns, “Not 12:30,” he says like I’m an idiot. “No, but it will be in 20 minutes,” I say. “I’m getting you one.” I direct the three of them to an unoccupied picnic table and stand in line for the hot dogs, sweating in the humid Rochester air. I hate hot dogs. After delivering them, with mustard, I head off in search of the vending machine for drinks. When I return, my brother hasn’t touched his food. He frowns again.  “Miss Batavia,” he says. “No,” I say, “We aren’t going back to the diner for lunch this time. Look, it’s 12:25, you’ll be hungry in five minutes,” I cajole.   “Oh all right,” he says, resigned. “Me eat.”  Thank you god(dess).

Back at home base, we unload my aunt and uncle and the trunk full of flowers. My brother and I head to the other end of town to Home Depot for dirt.  En route, he produces a booklet of coupons for McDonalds and points to a picture of a fruit smoothie. “Mmmm good,” he says and smacks his lips with gusto. I sigh at this second hint of the day. The coupons expire in a week. He’s not likely to get there unless I take him. “OK,” I agree, pulling into McDonald’s for his free smoothie.

Back at his house, we need to relocate his winter clothes to the basement and bring his summer things upstairs. But his room is an utter disaster. I remember hearing the strain in my mother’s voice telling me she was in a bad mood because she’d cleaned his room. Now, I totally get it. All over the place are little pieces of paper with the same sentences written obsessively on them. Videos and DVDs not in their cases lay strewn about in random places. He has several plastic bags hanging from drawer and door knobs, each with little collections of similarly themed DVDs in them. This one has an Elvis theme; that one has a Godzilla theme, still another with John Wayne movies. Bottle caps on the desk top, on the floor, behind furniture. Empty water bottles. Half-filled (and moldy) juice bottles. I open a desk drawer to find a pair of underwear sitting on top of papers. There are 3 layers of coats, sweaters, and shirts over the back of the desk chair. There are straw papers on the floor, old paper plates under his bed. A Christmas card with $20 in it, missing since January is unearthed under the desk. Behind the headboard of his bed, there is a pajama top on the floor, 3 or 4 mismatched socks, and a belt. There are gobs and gobs of dust everywhere. I unearth three toothbrushes from various hiding spots, and five or six old cleaning rags (unused). I am livid. The AC isn’t on yet in the house so I am also sweating profusely and I can feel my hair frizzing. After two hours of cleaning and tossing and telling him this is intolerable, we are ready to make the clothing swap. I carefully examine everything we are folding to take down to storage in the basement. “Is this clean?” I ask more than a dozen times. “When was the last time you washed this?” I explain for probably the hundredth time that just because he didn’t spill something visible on that white shirt doesn’t mean it doesn’t need to be washed before it is put away for the summer. He just doesn’t get the concept of body oil. Save your breath, girl.   

By 5 p.m., I’ve had quite enough of him and I’m sure he’s eager to get me out of his room, so we hug goodbye until morning. I leave with 15 summer polo shirts, horribly wrinkled after their long winter’s nap, to iron back at my aunt’s. I know they will never get ironed unless I do it.  

The day is far from over though. First, there are the 15 polos to iron. In addition, my aunt/uncle will soon be celebrating 70 years of marriage. I can not imagine being married to anyone for 70 years. This is a big deal, and I have made reservations to take them for dinner at one of their favorite places.

We are home by 8 and it’s still light enough for me to drag my potting soil out of the trunk and plant three kettles full of geraniums for the cemetery.  Then we sit out by the garage, watching the rest of the daylight fade, the hummingbirds draw the last drop of red sugar water from their feeder, the row of solar lamps in the garden burst to life one by one. This is the one peaceful moment of the day. I’m trying to be in it, not thinking about the final papers I should be reading for one class, the grades I should be calculating for the other, the laundry that won’t get washed, the food shopping for myself that won’t get done. I consider a week of eating oatmeal, hummus and carrots, and popcorn for dinner. It is nearly 10 p.m. and since I have been up since 2 a.m., my eyes are slowly crossing and my brain is closing up shop. Go to bed, girl.

Sunday morning, we go back to the diner for breakfast, then off to another town to deliver one crock of geraniums to my grandmother’s grave. We stop at the grocery store for snacks for my brother. Then Walmart for film for his camera. I remember that we need to shop for his gift for our brother-in-law, whose birthday will come before I will be back in town. Finally, with all missions accomplished, we head through town back to his home. I glance at him in the seat next to me. He has his glasses off and is rubbing his right eye. “What’s wrong with your eye?” I say. “Do you have something in it?”

“No,” he says. “I sad.”  

“What are you sad about?”

“Macho Man Randy Savage,” he says.

“Oh, yes,” I say, trying to summon up patience and empathy. “It’s too bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he whimpers.

“But,” I say, “think of it this way. “He’s probably up in heaven already hugging Miss Elizabeth.” I learned from the article that she had been his first wife, and she had died of an overdose many years ago. 

“Oh,” he says, looking brighter. He ponders that for a minute. “That’s good,” he agrees, finally. He puts his glasses back on and looks out the window up at the sky. “You be fine,” he says presumably to Macho Man. Deluge averted.

We drop off his snacks at his house, but everything has to be first marked with his name. We stop at another cemetery to deliver mom and dad’s geraniums. Then back to my aunt’s house. I start to pack up my car for the drive home. I give my brother the card we bought for our brother-in-law. “Here,” I say. “Sign this.”  He laboriously – and very neatly –  pens his name, then waits patiently for me to spell the address for him as I pass back and forth carrying my stuff to the car. 

Finally, after hugs all around, I pull out of the driveway. Next to me on the seat is a wicker basket containing a raspberry turnover my aunt has baked that morning, 2 sticky buns loaded with walnuts, and 2 pieces of cake that she has saved for me in the freezer. This is not good.

I drive. I stop for coffee. I eat the turnover. I stop for gas. I stop at Staples for some supplies I need. I stop at Kohl’s to look for slim chinos for my skinny brother. I eat a sticky bun. And drink more coffee. I stop again at Wegman’s, buy some cards, buy some gluten-free items for my daughter. I stop at a Best Buy to look at computers because mine is driving me nuts. While there I decide I could be convinced that I need a new camera, a flat-screen television, and a wireless router. This is not good. Get out of Best Buy, girl.

Back on the road, I approach the Tioga exit for the casino. I am thinking about stopping. I need soothing and I have the idea that sitting alone at a slot machine might help. The loss of $70 on my last trip to a casino, however, is still painfully fresh in my mind. I step firmly on the gas and drive resolutely by the exit. Stopping is not a good idea.

It is 9 p.m. by the time I pull into my driveway. In 11-1/2 hours I will be back at work, racing against time. The laundry is unwashed, the refrigerator barren, 25 papers remain unread, 26 grades are uncalculated, the blog is unwritten. I.just.can’t.

A Private Holiday Between Mother and Child

I expected to miss my mom the most during the winter holidays. After all, holidays were a BIG DEAL, not only when I was growing up but after I became an adult. In all my 53 years before she died, I never missed a single Thanksgiving or Christmas holiday with my mom. My daughter and I and my sister and her family always, always made the trek west and north to our hometown where delicious smells, fireplace warmth, and mother-spoiling awaited us.

What I didn’t expect was the emotional wallop I felt when my birthday came after she passed away. Certainly as a child, my birthday was treated as a special event. In western New York, where spring takes its sweet time arriving, my mid-May birthday often coincided with our first real taste of spring-like weather. The lilacs were opening, sweetly scenting the air, the big trees that dotted our yard were bright green with new leaves, and my favorite lilies of the valley were bursting in the space between the concrete steps leading to our front door. Each morning as I left the house to catch the school bus, I checked the progress of the lilies’ growth, crossing my fingers that by the time May 16 dawned, they would blossom.

Beyond the flowers, what I liked most about my childhood birthdays was the food because I got to pick exactly what I wanted to eat. For as long as I can remember, birthday breakfast was always Canadian bacon and Pillsbury frosted cinnamon rolls. As I’d watch mom pop them out of their cylinder and arrange the raw dough swirls on a cookie sheet, I would practically wriggle in delight at the prospect of their melt-in-my-mouth goodness a mere 18 minutes away. Twenty perhaps if you counted the time it would take to frost them.  My cake request at night was always angel food with mom’s homemade chocolate frosting. I don’t remember the main course – ever – but the day started and ended with sweet joy.

But once I moved away from home to the other side of the state, my birthday became just another work day. I celebrated with my daughter, usually still inviting the Pillsbury Dough Boy to breakfast. We’d go out for dinner, just we two, riding the bus and then the subway from our Queens’ apartment to the West Village and a little Italian basement restaurant called Carmella’s. We almost always chose the simmering and delectable manicotti while dessert was a fruit tart pastry, artfully topped with my favorite raspberries, blueberries, and strawberries. I could hardly wait for it to be placed in front of me. And if I had a weekend birthday, we’d plan to do something fun like shopping, riding roller coasters at Great Adventure Amusement Park, seeing a movie, or in later years, attending a Broadway show.

Sure, mom was always the first to call me in the morning to wish me a happy birthday, her voice full of love 350 miles away. She always sent a box of presents in the mail that arrived at least two days ahead of time, usually at work because she knew I’d be there to collect them. One year in the late 1990’s, she picked a bouquet of lilies of the valley from between her front steps, carefully placed them in water-filled plastic tubes florists use to keep roses fresh, and then carefully placed the plastic tubes upright in a wide-mouthed jar. Somehow she rigged her packaging so the lilies were protected on all sides from being crushed; everything was tripled padded so no apparent water leakage would occur and she expressed mailed them to me at work. I will never forget my complete surprise – no, shock – and gratitude as the heavenly smell of lilies of the valley wafted out of her highly creative packaging. I picked up the phone immediately – “You are amazing,” I laughed, delighted as I imagined her executing her plan.

There was one more birthday I would be in her company.  The spring mom had surgery for ovarian cancer, I spent my birthday with her in a chemotherapy suite. It was her second ever chemo session and it was an all-day affair. We packed our lunch at home in the morning and ate sandwiches together as she sat tethered to an IV, poison pulsing through her bloodstream. I joked with her urging that she visualize the poison munching on the errant cancer cells that remained in her body.  She kept saying that it was a terrible way for me to spend my birthday. I considered it an honor and said so.

I had three more birthdays before she passed away. Because I would have seen her for Mother’s Day the week before, travelled to her again at Memorial Day, and joined her for her June birthday, I stayed home for my own, resuming my usual celebratory activity with my daughter.  

So I was unprepared for the wave of melancholia that crashed over me my first birthday without mom. Except for the chemo year, I’d had probably thirty birthdays without her. Why did I feel like pulling the shades, crawling in my bed, and sobbing?  I had plans with my daughter for dinner and a show. It was a Tuesday. This was the norm. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way until Thanksgiving. But I was bereft. 

It was the same the following year and the next and the next. I’d wake up morose and it would linger all day. The days were pleasant enough – often lunch out with a beloved colleague, dinner out with my sweet daughter, a couple of great shopping blitzes, and Broadway plays every single year. The calendars I save as a record of my life document all that. Still forlorn lingered.

I was cleaning out a cupboard of books this year, part of my effort to de-stuff myself, when I came across my baby book. My mother documented my birth, noting that her labor began at 4:45 p.m. on May 16. She went to the hospital at 5:45 p.m., and I was delivered at 11:47 p.m. that same night. I laughed to myself thinking of her short labor – even then it seems I didn’t want to be too much of a bother. She wrote that she had a pudendal block as an anesthetic and that my birth was by axis-traction. Basically that means the doctor used forceps to drag me out into the world. We went home from the hospital six days later or so the baby book reports.

I pondered this in the days approaching my birthday. I listened to the tape I made of my mom talking to me the fall before she died. On the tape, she reiterated, as she had many times throughout my life, how much she wanted to have me. I was her fourth pregnancy over a ten-year period after marrying my father. She’d miscarried three times before a miracle drug of the times helped her to carry to term. I thought about how emotionally and physically intimate giving birth is. A birth is an event that is ultimately experienced only between a mother and her child. Others are there, maybe even in the room, cheering, supporting, and celebrating the big moment. But in the end, a birth day is a private holiday. I have one of those “a-ha” moments when the intellectual and visceral collide in understanding. I understand why I have felt so unfinished on the day of my birth. My sole (and soul) partner in our profound holiday dance is gone.    

Mother's Day Reflections from an Orphan

I wanted to write about my mom this Mother’s Day. I loved her dearly. She gave so much to me and I miss her incredibly. But as I have repeatedly stalled out over the words the past few days, I finally accepted that perhaps I was just not ready to do so. 

I have never put much emphasis on Mother’s Day, at least not as far as me being the mother is concerned. I’ve always considered it to be one of those Hallmark holidays that obligate people to spend money or feel guilty if they don’t. It’s filled with imperatives. I do not want to be feted out of duty. I’d rather be treated to lunch in the middle of March “just because” than to be paraded into a restaurant on Mother’s Day with the rest of the throngs because the calendar and big business dictates it. This position, however, has never stopped me from trying to meet other people’s needs on Mother’s Day.

Then

My first memory of trying to make my mother happy on Mother’s Day was when I was about 8. I decided that my sister and I should pool our allowances (saved faithfully week after week in our homemade Tupperware banks) and convince our father to take mom to Lake Placid for a weekend. Lake Placid, I knew, had been their honeymoon destination, so I figured it had to be a nice place. The reason for this particular gift was to give her a break from my sister and me because we fought constantly. Mom just hated that. “I can stand noise,” she always said, “but I can’t stand fighting.”  Dad was only too happy to agree to the plan especially since it involved a road trip, although I’m sure it cost him a bundle more than what we had to offer up as payment.  However, since affordability was never a barrier to his good time, he willingly complied and whisked her away.

My last memory of trying to bring my mother happiness on Mother’s Day was the spring before she passed away. It had become my practice to fly her and my brother to New York City for Mother’s Day, but that year she was much too weak to tolerate airports and hassles. So, my daughter and I trekked across the state to spend the day with her, my brother, and our aunt and uncle. Photos taken of her that day provide evidence that she was already beginning to fade away from us.

The following year, she was gone. My brother, having lost his mother and his home as a result, had been moved into a group home; my aunt, mom’s older sister, wept much of the time, in disbelief and grief.  So my attention turned to their needs. I felt driven to show up, to “be there” for them, and to try to make the day as easy as possible. Mother’s Day now included a visit to the cemetery, bouquets of roses, mom’s favorite, lovingly placed at her grave, and dinner out with the survivors. Mom had already abandoned them – I couldn’t do the same.  My daughter understood and urged me to do what I needed to do.  She understands internal conflict.

And now

This year was to be my sixth Mother’s Day as an orphan. I decided to stay home. Well, not so much stay home as come home because I was actually across the state with my brother as the weekend began. My sweet daughter had announced weeks before as we compared schedules her intention to block Mother’s Day off to spend with me. Although we connect most days by text or email, we don’t get to see each other as often as we’d like. It’s rare that we end up with the same day free. So this was an offer not to be refused and with her, obligation is not even a consideration. I drove home Saturday night to be with her.

Sunday unfolds into sunshine. I pick her up at her apartment in the city early – 7:30 a.m. which means I am up at 6.  She could have taken the train but fetching her means more time together so I am totally up for the trip no matter what the hour or how little sleep I’ve had. The conversation begins the minute she climbs in the car, and it doesn’t stop. At home, we make breakfast together, fresh blueberry pancakes, gluten-free, and we laugh over the chai lattes we bought on the way here. The day morphs into stunningly gorgeous. We leave the house and walk on a nearby winding parkway that closes to motorized traffic for eight glorious Sundays in the spring. I have always wanted to do this, but weather and my constant cross-state trips have conspired against it until today. We share the pavement with bikes, joggers, strollers, and other walkers.  The trees are in full bloom and often shade the road; the river for which the parkway is named, is swollen and rushes over the rocks creating music in the background. We talk non-stop about our jobs, what we want for the future, vacation plans, current events, men in her life, how our shopping ban is going, and our observations about how people we encounter with children are interacting with them. Five-and-a-half miles later, in only slight pain, we leave the parkway, stop at a yuppie deli in my village, order sandwiches and eat outside on sidewalk tables. We top it off with gelato and refuse to feel guilty.  We are comfortable in our jeans (me) and yoga pants (her) and we are together. No reservations necessary.

As we sit on the sidewalk, she suddenly asks, “So how are you doing today?”  This is not a random or rhetorical question. She means, “Are you ok since this is Mother’s Day and grammie is dead?” She’s probably been wondering when and how to fit this in during our conversation which has now spanned several hours. A part of her truly wants an open and authentic relationship with me and by definition, this must include both the good and the not-so-good. The other part of her hopes I’m still the mom who can handle everything, including my emotions with aplomb.    

Knowing my daughter, I should have expected it, but I admit the question catches me off-guard. I hesitate, not quite knowing what to say. I go for the truth. “Well,” I say carefully. “I know it is Mother’s Day, and I am aware that my own mom is not here. But did I wake up this morning and have my first thought be about what I don’t have? No, I did not.  I confess it wasn’t even my second thought. What I did think was I’m so happy I’m going to see my kid today. My mind was on what I do have.”  I hasten to add that I do miss Grammie, almost every day. But this year I am at peace. I am home with my own precious child.  And it is a perfect day.

Humankind. Be Both.

I saw this phrase almost a year ago on a sticker firmly adhered to the tall gray metal file cabinet in my dentist’s small office space. I don’t know who said it. Google doesn’t seem to know, either.

It stayed with me, one of those maxims that resonated. I want to be kind. I try to be kind. I probably don’t always succeed. Impatience, anger, and frustration sometimes get in my way.

My daughter told me a story of an event she witnessed one winter day when she was working at her first post-college job. It was frigid, snowing, and windy. On a street in midtown Manhattan, she watched a man, dressed smartly in a business suit covered by a warm winter coat, take off that coat and deposit it around the shoulders of an older homeless woman without one. After doing so, he just walked off down the street in the cold. No doubt he could well afford another coat but that isn’t the point.  

Humankind.

My father liked to gamble, primarily on horse races. During his lifetime, my dad did some dumb things with money but he seemed to have his head on straighter than usual when it came to gambling. He appeared not to spend more than he had in hand, and he knew enough to stop when/if he was ahead. One time, he gave his winning ticket, worth over $900, to a young couple with two small kids in a smoky OTB storefront. He perceived from their conversation and actions that they were desperate for money. He watched them for awhile, wishing that they didn’t have their children with them. When his winning race ended, he walked over to the couple and handed the ticket to the young woman. “Cash this in,” he said, “and please take your children home.” 

  

He told me this story long after it happened and just before he passed away. It was in the context of a discussion about gambling and moderation.  He commented that he hadn’t wanted to judge them. He didn’t know if they made OTB a habit, whether they had problems with gambling, or what the whole story was. He just perceived that for whatever reason they needed the money more than he did, and he had it to give. So he did. I admit to being surprised that my dad with his narcissistic tendencies had it in him.

Humankind.

I recently had the worst experience with a student in the almost eleven years I’ve been in my position. I didn’t know the student, as I don’t know most of them. I sent that student, a male, aged 60, instructions to contact a particular agency for an interview for his internship. A couple day’s later, I received a copy of an email he sent to the agency director requesting the interview. Five boundary-busting, gut-spilling paragraphs later, to say I was upset is a gigantic understatement. I immediately contacted the director who was grateful. “Inappropriate. Not suitable. No thank-you.” 

This is a student who should know better. With two other Master’s degrees in the helping professions, boundaries should not be news to him. I wrote to him and suggested that it would have been better, if he had personal issues that might interfere with his ability to function in the setting, for him to tell me about them. Given his circumstances, I would have moved immediately to find another placement. However, giving so much personal information in a first contact to an agency director was inappropriate.

The next morning, I came in to find a scathing message from him. This man told me that I should consider him a peer, not just another student, that I was dictatorial, unprofessional, lacking in humanism, and that while perhaps I couldn’t appreciate an honest and open approach, maybe the agency director was able to do so. [Wait, there’s more.] Further, he claimed, there are more self-actualized ways to administer a department than I do AND he does not intend to change his “professional” approach. He will continue to set the parameters for any interview he has.  

If my jaw could have dropped any farther, it would have disconnected from my cheeks. Did I respond? I did not. Yes, I was livid. But this man was out for blood and the response that I was sorely tempted to hurl in his direction would have resulted in more venom. After days of consultation with colleagues, we decided he would be called in and (hopefully) guided to see the error of his ways.

After the meeting, convened by two colleagues, I was eager to hear what had transpired. Although it took some time, they reported that he’d “come around” at least a little bit. I rather doubt that there’s been any major character transformation; I just don’t want him to mess up another prospective internship and I don’t want any more personal attacks. I admit I’m still angry.

During the meeting, my colleagues learned some things about this man. That he’s broke. That he can’t find a job. That he’s lost all his friends because of his financial situation. [Well, I’d argue the reasoning on that one given the length and sharpness of his claws.] That some days he has to choose between eating and buying a metro card for transportation to school. That he could just curl up and cry.

There went my heart.  

There have been times in my life when I’ve put cash in an envelope and sent it off to someone I knew who needed the money. No return address. Just cash wrapped for camouflage and placed in a security envelope, mailed from a post office that is not my own.  

Old (I’d better be careful about calling 60 “old”, since I’m not far from there myself) and hungry. It’s a combination I find intolerable.

My heart is telling me to do things. Send a metro card, it says. Send some cash for food. Nobody should have to choose between food and other necessities. My heart is remembering – humankind – be both.

My brain is wondering – neurotic reaction formation? Rescue fantasies? At best, a metro card and some cash for food are stop-gap measures. I’m not planning an adoption.

Still,

Old. Hungry.

Humankind.