Oh, and she’s cuter.

She’s fallen in love with Tim Burton films. Now this makes me as happy as a clam. I’m sure we will have her into Akira Kurosawa films before long. And she loves horror movies. I got a keeper, campers.

Her friends think it’s odd, her love of pop culture, because I’ve gone through this too.

As a kid, about twice a month we’d head to Jackson and I’d get a couple of books usually about ufos and Bigfoot or the latest horror novel. I was obsessed. Thank goodness for a tolerant pseudo-hippie/70s disco mom.

As I got older, I like Star Trek, Buffy, anything Whedonverse, jazz music and the list goes on.

Asa is like me in a lot of ways. First it was The Nanny (I know, she was 5 and God knows, we wanted to kill ourselves every time we heard Fran Dresher’s voice), then it was Wicked. For two years we did Wicked a thousand times and now it’s Tim Burton.

She’s getting better in picking the cool.

She also reads politics and asked me recently why Jesse Helms didn’t like people. I did not prompt her with this remark. She also asks if her generation is going to have to pay for the last 8 years. I, once again, did not prompt her.

Good girl.

Glad I could be of help.

Oh, and Homer, sorry.

Dammit if I don’t adore them

Yeah, mine. Or Homer’s rather.

I just borrow them.

Love is great.

The older one won’t let me take pictures, but there is this:

I like to call her Shecky.

Homer and Squeegee Monkey make some amazing children. I’m honored to be their Aunt Tick.

Having a family moment here. Bear with.

It comes out of nowhere and is always a surprise. One of us, either her or myself, will recognize that we are pissed off collectively because there is no mother here.

And on another note, something you may not know, is Homer was born on Mother’s Day. This year, her birthday is Monday but youngest niece Bear’s is tomorrow.

I may be wrong but I think Mother’s Day is especially hard for Homer. More so because they had that bond of Homer being the Mother’s Day Blessing for my mother. Thinking about it makes me choke up a little bit. It was what my mother always said about my little sis and it was more than true.

We find ourselves on edge, reacting far more emotionally than we usually do. For those of you who haven’t lost your mom, it’s hard to describe how things creep up on you. Recently, I ate my Mom’s recommendation for comfort food.

I was tired, drowning under an increased workpile, feeling like I’m never going to get it all together, not enough time, trying to decide if I’m going to move forward in a blogging project I’m working on, alternating between fear and an in depth mania to sustain a schedule that I know will be difficult to keep at such a breakneck speed, and I needed to unwind and not feel anything for awhile.

I made my comfort food that she always made me when I was a kid and I was hit with a wave of grief that I cannot explain. I felt if I was drowning in my own soul missing her more than I could ever explain. There is no medication you can take for loss, no quick fix, if you will.

Ten years ago February, my mother died after a hard fight with cancer. Ten years ago Monday, Homer turned 30. Ten years ago, we could barely remember to breath. Ten years ago, we lost our best friend.

I am not alone but I find that only other people who have lost their mothers understand the black hole that we stare in during Mother’s Day. We have to find within ourselves that place where we can focus on the beauty of our relationships with our moms that molded us.

But some of us hit the angries. And when we get there, it’s always startling. It’s most surprising because we think we are over it.

You never get over it.

Never.

This may sound weird but it was very NPR-like. I don’t know how to explain it any other way.

I know, I’m a softie. As it is tournament time for high schools here in America, Squirrel Queen walked in as the festivities were ending but we got Bear flowers which her older sis gave to her.

There isn’t anything nicer than seeing a kid beam with pride of a job well done.

I sometimes watch their lives from the sidelines. It’s funny that all the kids at the school call me “Tick” but I’ve noticed they have dropped the Aunt part. (For those of you who don’t know, my oldest niece started calling me Tick when she was a baby because I tickled her. Thus, Aunt Tick was born.) The amazing thing to me is that the other kids picked that up as well. I am secretly pleased about this and love it when my peers will hear this endearment and look at me bewildered. Oh, it’s fun to have an in-joke with kids.)

They are getting older. So am I. As they spiral towards their tweens, I sometimes feel like an accessory with them. But I think that’s just part of it being an Aunt. I’m not a mom or a grandmom, and I’m still somewhat of a playtoy for them, and that’s more than all right. Right now I see Homer running herself ragged to keep them involved in school, sports and their community. She is not only teaching them to be part of the world around them, but she’s also creating opportunities for them to learn discipline, tolerance and responsibility.

I salute Moms. You guys have a hard job.

I’m going through a period of time where I’m very tired but oddly content with the world around me. To quote one of my favorite bloggers which I have done before, it is what it is. I’m learning at my advanced age that things have to grow organically and that rushing my life is self-destructive. Bills still have to be paid, dogs have to be fed, laundry has to be done, I still have to go to work but with all of that said, I’m thinking a bit more optimistically. As you know, it’s easy to fall into the cracks and let the bad stuff eat at your soul.

Early morning ponderings from Hooterville.

]]> http://newscoma.com/2008/05/07/annoying-autobiographical-pause-034/feed/ 0 http://newscoma.com/2008/02/28/today-we-will-talk-about-hope-and-the-caringbridge/ http://newscoma.com/2008/02/28/today-we-will-talk-about-hope-and-the-caringbridge/#comments Thu, 28 Feb 2008 14:12:00 +0000 newscoma http://newscoma.wordpress.com/?p=3788 I’m not going to write about my mom today. I’ve done that before. Today is the tenth anniversary of the death of my mother. For me to go into any detail of this day, which is significant in the life of my family, I would just say it means a lot to us and I’m trying to figure out what to do on a personal level that would have some significance for myself about today. It’s a private thing that runs as deep as the Mississippi River. It’s hard to put those feelings into words.

To say I feel sort of lost and insignificant is an understatement.

No, this morning, I want to talk about life and survival and one woman who I have so much respect and admiration for that it’s hard to put into words.

Katrina has been in my life on either the periphery or as a friend for about 15 years. She is a savvy businesswoman and is head of programming at our local PBS affiliate. If you knew Katrina, you’d know she is an amazing person. She is also one of the kindest people you will ever meet. Her eyes sparkle with such amusement and intelligence that you could fall into them. To give you a feel for him, she’s married to a wonderful man, has a daughter who looks at her in a way that I imagine I used to look at my mother.

We have worked on some things throughout the years and I’ve always been somewhat in awe of her.

When we were working on the Stewman Benefit together which was a magical, infuriatingly busy time, she would casually mention that she was seeing some doctors. She was the glue and fiber that held that benefit together, believe me.

The day after the benefit was kind of emotional to me over some stuff that happened that I’m not going into here. I went to her office and she gave me a few minutes to just vent. She listened and validated me that day. I owe her so much for the friendship that was moving into a new arena. Man, I can’t tell you how much I like Katrina, but I digress.The next day, I talked to her on the phone.

She told me she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. During the last five weeks, she has had tests, endured a mastectomy and will begin her chemotherapy and radiation after that.

Last week, she started a journal at a critical illness survivor online organization that I wanted to point out today because it’s a wonderful thing. I’ve read not only her journal, but have looked around this community and I have thought to myself that I wish my mother would have had something like this while she was in her battle with this rotten disease.

I didn’t want to link to her journal without her permission so I asked her if it would be all right. I didn’t want to violate her privacy. We talked about it earlier this week and she gave me the okay to let you take a look into her world because she thought it might also help other people.

Here is the link to CaringBridge where she talks in detail about her family, her disease and how she is coping.

She writes:

My first memories are of my mother and I taking my father’s parents to doctor’s appointments — my grandfather died of throat cancer when I was three.My mother’s mother fought lymph cancer for years — she died when I was nine.

My daughter has survived two brain tumors.

When I saw the mammogram films I knew it was my turn.

I wrote recently over at Music City Bloggers about the different online communities that are available to people. CaringBridge is free for people battling critical illness. You can leave messages for people on a guestbook, you can donate to organizations in honor of your ill friend and people who post there have an outlet that is save and comforting.

In the ten years since my mother passed away, there are becoming new and wonderful things available to assist people. And the Internet is also opening small yet thoughtful communities to help us send messages, write posts and communicate with people who may not physically near, but whose thoughts and love are close at hand.

The thing I think I like the most about CaringBridge is the guestbook. Dozens of people have left such kind sentiments to Katrina wishing her well during this long and difficult journey.

In a world that sometimes smacks us upside the face, it’s nice to see this.

Katrina is truly inspirational. And, if you know of anyone who might want to use CaringBridge, I can tell you, it apparently does make a difference. Reading that guestbook, seeing that she is so loved (which we knew anyway) will give you a sense of gratitude for what you have and see that joy and friendship can be found in the chaos of critical illness.

You see, this month is the anniversary of my mother’s death. It’s significant. We love and we lose.

We do.

And we remember. And if we don’t, shame on us.

She was named after a box of shoes that my grandmother saw on a box in Michigan during WWII. She didn’t have a middle name because my gram thought her name was long enough.

You know, I do this every year, and each year, it gets harder.

Dammit.

It will be a decade. February 28th.

I’m going to get this out of the way. On that day, I will have to drive into the country to stare at the fields and meadows she loved, then go to her grave and lay down flowers. She liked flowers, but maybe, this year, I will play Beethoven or John Coltrane there.

Will that comfort her?

No. It will only comfort me.

So, anyway, I want to tell you the story, one I might not have told, about her. She was a musician and she studied music. She studied theory and how music evolved. She loved Miles Davis better than anyone and thought he was the epitome of progressive transition in music where there wasn’t a blueprint. She loved that. She thought Gil Evans was a genius. She made Homer and I listen to the blues and then Mozart because we may have lived in Hooterville but we were going to know THESE things. We needed to appreciate all music or we would have gotten a hard stare. We needed to be open-minded. And, this wasn’t a request from her.

It was mandatory.

And I thank her.

She loved her kids, she loved her husband and she loved music. As a child, there was always a violin, a bass, a cello lying about the house in Hootervegas although she was a singer and a pianist but the instruments were there because she was always in school.

I have no musical ability. I wonder sometimes if that was disappointing to her. I did other things. She encouraged me. This, of course, is of the good.

She was really beautiful. She was a petite woman that was the unaffected beauty queen of the local town who was more interested in politics than chiffon in 1960 but she was living in a small town and women didn’t do politics as much back then. She hid in the shadows. Not because that those options weren’t there, they were, but it meant a fight with a bunch of societal crap. And it did. Don’t deny it. She opted out but taught us (Homer and I picked it up, Mom, so you did your job well.)

I think she always canceled my dad’s vote out. And she made me watch Watergate and anything she thought might form me. At ten, it drove me crazy. Today, I smile when I write ‘not so much.’

She talked about feminism when it wasn’t even conceived in small rural towns. Did she make mistakes? Yeah. Did she teach me how to be an equal. Don’t even doubt it because I know I am. You know she did.

And she taught Homer and I to think for ourselves.

She was so shy. Painfully shy to the point it took her breath away until she sang on stage or she was at home with her family. Man, this woman could smile and it washed over all of us but she hated being in a group of people which is weird for me because I can hang in a church basement or at a nudist colony. This ability of mine didn’t come from her, I assure you.

Her shyness was her enemy and her largest demon. In the day, it was being shy, now I’m sure there are 20 different clinical names for it.

With that said, she created her life in spite of it all. She sang, won a contest and performed with the Everly Brothers because of it (Mid-South Fair Talent Contest, LWC), met my dad over a hamburger, fell in love and started her journey. She was a bit vain, who isn’t, but remained beautiful and curious and incredibly in tune to the world around her. She kept her hair blonde, because Big Daddy liked it that way. And her eyes were so blue they were deeper than the color of the ocean. I see these eyes in my youngest niece, Chuck, who doesn’t even know. She never met Jacque, how would she know? So I have to tell her and show her pictures. That’s my job.

Jeez, this is always hard.

She was completely confounded by me. I wasn’t traditionally beautiful like she and Homer were. I was different. I was eccentric. And she honed that in me.

You know, she loved me anyway and taught me swagger.

She smelled like sunshine. Dammit if she didn’t.

Homer was the good kid who would whip your ass in five minutes although I think most people think I’m the tough one.

I’m not. It’s Homer.

I was the kid that walked the line but wanted to dive into the deep waves of rebellion and free-spiritedness which didn’t interest Homer but, dammit, it did me. (And it did for my mom because she told me this before she died. It’s an odd thing between us. I never knew that I was her free-spirited one in her eyes.) I wanted to know those depths. And I did, delving into things that probably weren’t good for me but I was ambitious and bright enough to not go too far into the dark although it beckoned me. It was dangerous and sexy and I wanted the passion of it all. She knew this about both of us. And she guided, taught and only stopped me when I went too far.

Sometimes we went too far. We had a safety net.

Her name was Jacqueline. Named after a box of shoes and I find that to be so very compelling and charming.
The night before she died, my friend Mark, who my blogger friends met on Wednesday night in Nashville, came and sat with me in the hospital at midnight that horrible evening. He came. You guys need to know this for reasons I can’t explain. He sat with me as I sat slumped against the ‘dying room’ at the local hospital against the wall in the bright, fluorescent hallway at midnight and he tried to convince me that it wasn’t as bad as I knew it was, and despite it all, I knew in my depths that she was dying.

She was leaving and there wasn’t anything I could do.

And he tried to help.

That, my friends, is why he’s my friend. Even when I disagree with him in public.

And he did my mother’s eulogy in a packed funeral home where all I did was smile at people who apparently needed more comforting that I did, I smiled and I talked of things that were wonderful. I gave a hug and I said it was going to be okay to strangers and friends alike.

I didn’t cry for two weeks. When I did, I didn’t move for three days.

This, my blogger friends, will happen once a year. This is a gift, and curse, I give to myself.

So, I raise my glass to the woman who gave up so much for me.

Allow me a moment… as this is my blog and isn’t this what blogs are for?

I’m allowed that.

Of course, when I came into possession of said T-shirts, I though I was the most clever person alive. Last night, not so much.

My niece, the little one, is a fashionista and came to help me break down my lack-of-glamour predicament. She is eight. As she took belts and matched them with pants, she was definitely talking over my head. She also eyed the bright yellow Crocs and gave me a disapproving stinkeye saying they just “would not do.”

She also brought me a curling iron and asked me if I knew how to use it. Whaaa?!!?

Umm, the answer would be no.

Tim Gunn, where are you when I need you? And, I got a kid that you might want to hire.

Just saying.

In other words, I feel like my dad has to cross through the dark forest Death hunts in. And I, more than anything, don’t want him to come to Her attention.

Those words are absolutely beautiful and, you see, I remember feeling that way not too very long ago but instead of articulating it in the lovely way B. did, I think for me it was more of an “AAAAGGHAARG” sort of noise I made and that buzzed in my head for a good part of two years. I was 31 years old when my mother became sick and I lived with that static for quite some time.

First of all, I believe I’m a spiritual person and I’ve been undergoing some sort of faith transformation recently that I would prefer not to put on this blog. That’s just me. I’m just not comfortable putting my positions on faith out in the blogosphere and I never have been.

I’m telling you this because this month marks the 10-year anniversary of my mother’s passing. Homer and I have talked about this quite a bit and I’m very lucky that not only is she my little sister but also my dearest friend which is a wonderful combination. That a decade of our lives were lived without our mother being in the background, telling us what to do and how to do it because we relied on that even though we sometimes resented it as kids are wont to do. She has also never met my niece, Charley Bear, who I think she would adore as she is sassy and strong. And she has these deep blue eyes that could only genetically come from my mom. It’s almost eerie.

We were told she had cancer in 1996 and for the next 14 months, we walked around as zombies and caretakers. There was never any doubt that the cancer was terminal. We knew there was no saving her. Instead we had to move from trying to “fix” her to just loving her. And we did.

But it was the confusion on the journey for us as her children, the deep stabbing pain of not knowing what to do or even where to get on the path. B.’s father will have heart surgery and it’s scary. And damn it all because I do understand that level of seeking something, anything from the cosmos that Aunt B. writes about, although I may be misinterpreting it as we tend to internalize what we read and how we react to it.

How do you fight something that you can’t see (the illness) and then ask for help from something you can’t see (God or whatever one worships)?

I was raised a Cumberland Presbyterian but when I was in Nashville I went to the Unitarian church pretty regularly. I felt comfortable there. I was also taught not to pray for frivolous things. In my home, when, let’s say someone won an award and then said they prayed to God the would win it, would make my mother growl. (“Why weren’t they praying for hungry kids to be fed?” she’d say.) This is what I know about prayer. And being a good CP kid, I was taught to pray and offer gratitude for what I had and not for “things” I wanted.

But see, illness is not frivolous. It’s the most terrifying thing in the world especially when it’s someone you love. And I didn’t know what to do.

Man, this is getting a bit deep, isn’t it. I’m sort of out of my comfort zone here. Seriously out of my comfort zone and I’m feeling the need to run away from this post.

But, when my mother got sick, those elements of asking the cosmos (God) for help felt very weird for me. So I finally just had to say “Thanks” and that was it although I was angry at my powerlessness over the situation.

See there are different phases of loss. Loss of a loved one, loss of mobility, loss of innocence, even loss of a job or a familiar situation. And we grieve each of these elements in different ways. And with loss comes fear.

I’m rambling this morning. We seek answers to questions we cannot even formulate. I guess as blogging is some sort of internalization of other things we have read and our reactions to them, I guess I can only say this.

B., I’m not very good at prayer but in many ways I believe in it. And I’ll do my best. Not only for you but for the other people who need it. And maybe the best I can do is say “Thanks and Please.”

And I will light a candle for your father. For whatever reason, lighting a candle comforts me when the flame hits the wick when I do it for others I care about when I don’t have the words to articulate what I want to say.

Me: “How do you like being president?”

Homer: “It’s pretty good.”

Me: “How did you seek this office? How much money did you pay in campaign dollars? Which corporations backed you?”

Homer: “I didn’t pay anything. Hell, Trace, I don’t know any corporations. I sort of got recruited into it. I wanted my kids to have a voice and learn to how to use their voices. That’s why I decided to be active in PTO.”

Me: “You’re lying.” (She glares at me sometimes and I get scared and she also knows that I’m not very good at being Chris Matthews or Glenn Beck so I cowered as I am wont to do when she gives me stink eye.) “Umm, you love your kids?”

Homer: “You are an idiot. Yes, I love my kids and I wanted them to have opportunities. We have to raise money for things and I just wanted to be a part of their childhood. I want them to have fun being kids, so that’s why I’m president of the PTO.”

Me: “So, who will you be supporting for president?”

Homer: “Of the PTO?”

Me: “No, for the United States of America.” (Cue National Anthem and theme to the movie Independence Day for dramatic effect.)

Homer: “I’m not going to tell you because you’ll put it on Newscoma.”

Me: “I’d never do that.” (When I lie, my eye twitches. She saw it right away just as she did when I use to rat her out when we were kids.)

Homer: “I’ve been reading up on the candidates, douche. Isn’t that what you are supposed to do? At least that’s what I think people should do because then they know the issues. So, I’m liking what a couple of them have to say. Interview over.”

Me:  “So, you are saying ‘No Comment.’”

Homer: “Shut up.”

Me: “That’s no way to end this interview.”

Homer: “You want to eat something half way decent tonight?”

Of course, she knows me.

Not everything was wine and roses, mind you. We are talking about spending time with our families. There is usually that one comment that sends you over the edge, and then you realize it is YOUR family so you give them a pass and realize they aren’t acting out of character.

I received some really nice presents that I know I don’t deserve but it was really cool nonetheless. As Squirrel Queen has never had her own camera, I gave her one hoping she will participate in 365 whole-heartedly this year. Her cameras are used for her job. Sometimes, you just need to have one of your own. She seemed to like it.

I think the most beautiful part of the Christmas holiday was the kids, Homer smiling a lot, Squeegee Monkey having a couple of cocktails and talking incessantly. He does that. He’s usually very quiet but you get a glass of Jura scotch in him and he goes on a marathon. The twins at Harris were given motorbikes. I, of course not understanding that going a million miles an hour on a small yet dangerous looking motorcycle thingamabob, don’t understand the whimsy of being a boy and almost had a heart attack. But then again, I pine for a turquiose colored Vespa, so I realized I needed to just watch them do their X-treme thing with a bit of hesitation and wonder.

Being nine-years-old without fear is really something. Of course, at this age, they don’t realize about odd things such as mortality and being reckless can sometimes come and bite you in your ass.

A Wii was found and played by everyone but me. I was too tired, there wasn’t a controller available and it looks suspiciously like hard work.

Cuppa will be happy to know I got a Buffy comic book. Woot. Smiley, of course, will make fun of me for my excitement of this.

The movie “Hairspray” is also now in my home. I had not seen the movie although I did see the stage production in Memphis a few years ago, and the nieces seem quite smitten with it. Of course, my love of Christopher Walken was evident, which the nieces called him an old dude. I, of course, received Kung Fu Hustle. Woot. I’ll watch it later when the kiddies are away. I also received an I-Pod Shuffle. It’s green. I have no idea how to use it but I’ll learn.

The nice thing is giving folks stuff. Squirrel Queen’s mother is an outdoor sort of person and Santa left her a copper fire pit in her backyard. You would have thought we had just given her a Tiffany diamond. I mean, Santa gave her one. Whoops.

Also, the hardest thing is the youngest niece is figuring out about Santa. I noticed the whole thing displayed on her face. She whispered to her mother. She went from a look of recognition to sadness to resignation. It was heartbreaking.

As for me, back to work. I had a few days off (of course I received bookoos of phone calls. Does that count as a vacation day? I think not, but what the hell) and I’m looking forward to getting back into my regular routine of work and job hunting.

But, with all of it said I have two lines of thought. The first one is that it’s really nice to be with family and friends that understand you. It really is. One the other hand, I’m kinda glad it’s over.

It’s a reminder of how bitterness can poison your heart and take other people’s hearts with you. It’s a reminder of how when your spouse cheats, you need to either cut them loose or forgive them with your whole heart, because living with the bitterness is Not. A. Good. Thing.

Why did this speak to me? Because I understand. My mother died and I also put her up on a pedestal. Time healed some things, gave clarity to the pain and the loss and I can remember clearly the day in 1999, months after I stood in a hospital room and saw her take her last breath when I realized that my mother, whose name was Jacqueline, was human. That she made mistakes. That although I did a bit of the hero worship that I had forgotten that she was just as flawed as I sometimes can be.

And as for bitterness, she’s right. After a very long year, in the past month, I’ve had to put some bitterness behind me, much of it given to me on a silver platter but also a great deal of it that I brought on myself. Realizations are hard things to go through. Even when you know you participated in your own pain.

Ivy, great post and a huge reminder to us all that although we grieve when we lose those people that we love and those things that didn’t work out the way that we thought it might, it’s up to us to deal with the bitterness and to embrace our own humanity, as that is all we have.

By popular demand, a zombie cheerleader and a zombie football player who is a friend’s son.

Make-up by Squeegee Monkey.

My family makes me laugh.