Letter from my Closet

As I scanned my Facebook feed; I came across a topic of the day posted by a dear, old friend, dare I say, ex of my youth responsible for several closet skeletons.  I read the posed question, shook my head and scrolled onward.  Wait a minute.  Did I really just read what I think I did?  Ugh.  Now I understand that my high school years were far from the land of political, religious or moral fortitude discussions, in fact, my youth blazed behind me fast and infamously, but I don’t regret much, though some would say I should, because I am proud of the sum of my experiences both positive and slightly off balance - Elena always knew.  There was never a question of conservative or liberal, Jesus, Buddha or Allah; we all coexisted as bando, druggie or jock with random non-molders.  A boy/girlfriend was never expected to outline their perspectives on life, the universe, and everything before being considered worthy of making out in the park across the street after school - philosophy was better savored in college.

Where was I?  Yes, the posed question.  I shall paraphrase, “When does life begin?”  Pause.  Breathe.  Moment of unconsciousness. 

Letter from my skeletons: To the boy you once were.

Now a father yourself with a beautiful daughter, recovering from a life of debauchery and wickedness, I seek out that former self to lay ourselves to rest.  Many seasons ago you swept a girl away from naïveté.  For one moment allow yourself to see your daughter as a teenager when she comes home in love with the boy next door, from a good Christian family, who rocks her world completely and heedlessly.  Remember her and understand now what your former self could not comprehend.

You were twenty and I turned 16 that year: in my eyes you were an older, fast talker, larger than life…swoon.  I slid into your circle with ease and your family welcomed me as one of their own.  I believed the best in people and assumed I was protected and safe, that honesty directed all things and everything was right. 

This was the 80s decadence and drugs: cocaine, pot, hash, LSD, opium.  I dabbled and experimented, and assumed the same of everyone.  I had a line that I never stepped over, but inched ever so closely, not noticing those around me leaping well beyond the safe zone.  I was hospitalized one night from too much speed, recovering with a slight case of anxiety that haunts me to this day.  I smoked laced pot on several occasions that still seem like hypnotic dreams.  I don’t remember much of the Pink Floyd concert – the devil may know why.  I came from a conservative Greek household and never had the talk, and my parents trusted too much or were merely too afraid to find out the truth.  You took my hand and said it would all be ok.

At the height of our whirlwind I didn’t know your true poison.  Whether it was the good in you or selfishness not to share; I am grateful for your shielding me from the crack of your world.  A simple I’m sorry and make up adventures always brought my forgiveness and affections.  I felt full of life in your guidance and trusted your desires in our exploits.  Ahh the stump in the field, the basement sleeping bag, going through the toll booth, the boat, the beach…bahahahah some of my best stories come from those days.  Surprisingly for my naiveté I lived.  Abruptly, your world and my world crashed the day the police came, took you away, and I learned that I was pregnant.

       

Eddie came to my rescue with an ear and a hug and encouraged me to tell you.  With a child’s heart I didn’t even know how or why or what.  There was no feeling of options or happily ever after, merely a darkness and unreality.  Your parents brought me to you.  I never understood if it was prison or rehab: I just shut down and my mind thought of nothing.  I remember a large room almost like a cafeteria and everyone gave us some time alone to visit.  I can’t recall if we were across the table or side by side.  I don’t even see your face as I remember telling you.  I don’t know whose idea yours or mine, or if the decision was an unspoken agreement or of there was discussion.  I can’t remember if we talked about options or plans or possibilities.  I don’t remember walking away sad, but I don’t remember you beyond this moment.

That day.  That day so long ago in April was cool and Ed and Missy picked me up and took me to that place in Paoli.  My mom was afraid there’d be protestors and talked to them about how to shield me.  My mom, bless her for her patience with me.  I couldn’t let her come, I begged her not to come, and she agreed as long Ed and Missy promised to take care of me.  You were nowhere or somewhere and not there. 

The required counseling terrified me and robotically I said no thank you and why do you make girls feel so awful about a decision that they make.  The wait felt grey and numb.  I didn’t exist.  I don’t remember changing, but I remember that room.  It was cold and smelled overly-sanitized and was very small.  On the table, shivering, exposed, I heard voices, but didn’t want to open my eyes.  I remember them explaining each part, and thinking, “Why. Why. Why?!”  I wasn’t under general anesthesia because it was too expensive and this was all I had saved.  I heard the machine…r.rrrrr..rrrrr…rrrrrchug chug rrrr chug.  The pain that I wasn’t supposed to feel seared inside and out. 

After that day my memory fails.  The infection that followed brought anything left of me to the brink.  I hurt and screamed and cried and had nightmares that woke my parents from deep sleep.  I had an allergic reaction to the pain meds and wanted to die.  My father raged and sobbed that he failed to protect me.  He never said a word to me, but I heard him yell at my mother, and he bought me flowers as the only gesture he could bare. 

A family friend was looking for a nanny to take with them to the Bahamas to watch their little angels on vacation.  A free trip to the beach and I just had to watch the kids over dinner time so the adults could enjoy their vacation.  My parents agreed this time away would be great for my health.  Suitcase and bathing suit in hand I landed at Club Atlantis with such promise.  The kids beamed in front of their parents and turned behind their backs.  They spit, hit and threw things at me and yelled that they didn’t have to listen to me and I was nobody.  The parents went out to dinner and dancing and parked on the beach and left me to their entitled monsters who took advantage of my fragile state.  I remember the trip occured over Mother’s Day and I sat in the hotel room on the double bed while the kids screamed that they didn’t have to go to bed and they didn’t have to listen to me.  A typical Lifetime-esque show about mothers, their love of motherhood and their children brought me to my knees.  I called my mother gasping for air, crying for so many sorrows.  Worst decision ever.

You stayed in jail after your court appearance, and I think we passed a few letters or calls.  And after your release I went to Wildwood to see you.  In fact, our best picture together was there along the rocks of the bay.  We looked picture perfect, standing there in the breeze, arms around each other.  But holding on was useless.  I resented your lack of participation in the whole affair; the fact that you could never know the darkness I experienced, what lived deep inside because of our innocence - or stupidity.  It never happened to you…like a blowing wind and a whisper it passed you by without a mark.

I hospitalized myself that fall because I couldn’t come to terms with my pain.  It’s not that I ever wanted us back – the naiveté and school girl fantasies no longer resided in my heart.  I needed to understand life and everything I could know about what life meant: my ignorance of the ways of the world, my foolishness, believing so blindly, my anger at my parents for leaving me unprepared and exposed.  My desire to define the existential questions didn’t find answers: I was ill-equipped for my journey.  I hid myself from my classmates, friends, family, the world.  It took me a long time to realize that I went there to hide amongst the suicidal, drug addicts, the abused and neglected, since I felt unworthy of the normalcy outside the walls as well as needing protection from that scary outside life. But I didn’t belong there.  The anger I learned in therapy never left, seething beneath the surface, and prompted so many reckless and bad decisions thereafter.  I know now that I was punishing myself, not forgiving myself or you.

I carried that Scarlet Letter in my heart for too long.  It wasn’t until I was pregnant with my own little girl that the guilt and pain slipped back into my sub-consciousness.  How did one life deserve to arrive and another not.  I didn’t deserve motherhood.  And how would I look into her eyes knowing that she will be an only child, but shouldn’t have been.  I know now these were silly mind games to play with myself and left me wallowing in a pit of despair that I didn’t deserve.

So your question about when does life begin prompted me to reply that life begins when there are organs and a brain to support life functions.  I wanted to cyber scream, “You Bastard!”  I wanted to send you an email blasting your selfish question.  I wonder if you understood my position.  I wonder if you felt a pang like I did.  It’s not fair to hold you to that image of who we were then or expect that your closet holds these same demons.  But then I slipped into that time of long ago and realized you and I never made peace with that time.  I’ve held you accountable instead of asking both of us to forgive each other and share a moment of empathy for our youthful foibles.  I’m not here to have a religious or scientific discussion about the start of life, the difference between life or the potential for life.  I’m not here to guilt you or me into some sympathic apologies.  But I am here to ask you how you come to terms with your question yourself.

My skeletons have packed their bags and walked into the light.  I’m grateful for modern technology for bringing us cyber together and laying a potential life to rest.

For Deb - Rule #112 of What I Wish Someone Told Me about Pregnancy

As the oldest of 4 girls I played mommy young and happily. Each new little sister was the best Baby Alive a girl could ever want: they cried and needed fed and rocked and loved – my living dolls. My dreams foretold the joys of motherhood and the fabulous glow of pregnancy – barefoot of course. I couldn’t wait to find that special someone to create an amazing life – my prince charming. The years went by as did relationships begin and end, and my dreams turned dark like lies, mocking my hope. Just as my clock neared midnight that amazing moment came like a magic wave of the wand…key fairy godmother singing bibbity bobbity boo.

Reality check: scared, knowing how many miscarriages and false positives exist in the world as well as watching all of my friends go through fertility treatments with futility, I didn’t actually accept the reality nor did I feel worthy when so many had failed before me, especially after a several weeks binge of living up the non-parent life with wine and parties and adventures o my. I told my hubby, who was thrilled (stifle fears and worries here), and we agreed to only tell immediate family since I had this twinge of concern. We asked those in the know to pipe down until we were prepared for the world to know, and day by day we accepted the new reality, but kept buttoned up for the bulk of the tests.

The landmark week 8, first doctor’s appointment, arrived and I hoped this would assuage my fears and growing anxieties, but, alas, over 35 meant high-risk doctors, testing, and decisions and quitting my 2 pack a day smoking habit as well as my party nights. I cringed, thinking about being a pin cushion and fearing for the health and well-being of myself and unborn, let alone what decisions I may have to face and did I already cause damage. I feared the worst and began building a wall between me and the world. I selected the non-CVS route and instead went with genetic marker tests and ultrasounds, with the more invasive amniocentesis only-if-necessary. I nervously went to the counseling and blood tests and regular ultrasounds and waited. I waited for the joy of pregnancy to begin.

All my tests came back normal and strong and healthy – yeah! But that didn’t seem to lift my mood. As each milestone test returned I hoped for a smile and flutter of excitement, but instead I vomited for 7 months and developed reflux and the heartburn seared holes in my esophagus; I could no longer walk from planters fasciitis in both feet, the equivalent of bursitis in both thighs, and a dropped groin – let’s not go there, all right?! The pain moving from sitting to standing and walking or rolling over sent red hot flashes through me. I longed for the days I sat outside drinking my Hoggarden or Sauvignon Blanc or Vodka martinis with my packs of smokes and all the time in the world. My body changed for the miserable and I wondered why I ever thought pregnancy beautiful.

I couldn’t break my smoking habit, but patted myself for cutting back to 6 cigs a day. I had to hide myself for fear of chastisement and disgust. The doctors encouraged my continued efforts and allowed me this small piece of my former life. They asked how I felt and I replied cautiously, “ok as can be expected.” Slight grin. I hated people, especially those who kept berating me for “not enjoying pregnancy” and that “I should be thrilled and happy” and “I needed to change my attitude” and “get over it”. O each little word out of each ugly mouth gave me visions of ripping their heads right from their shoulders, spinal cord swinging and stomping on their pathetic, foolish brains. SHUT THE FUCK UP!

I wondered if I was cut out to be a mom after all. I was happy living my rock star life complete with rock star husband and fabulous freedom and adventures. I worked hard and played hard and lived life like no tomorrow. My belly grew, my drinking ceased, my smoking declined, my hours of wakefulness became nil and my mental state went black. I beat myself up: how could I be so resentful of what I always dreamed? I’m a monster for feeling the way I do. I couldn’t pull myself out from the quicksand. My exhaustion and pain fed my depression, which fed my exhaustion and pain. No one understood, and how could they: I was the bad person. At the same time I was warring with the demons in my head a delicate balance grew within the household - my husband lost a child at birth a wife-ago, feeding his own concerns as birth day closed in, stewing below the surface, preventing either of us from comforting the other. The house simmered just below boiling.

An unexpected moment of happiness occurred at my 22 week ultrasound when I learned I would bring a daughter into the world. Hubby and I enlisted my mother to come along to this level 2 ultrasound, not only would yiayia get to experience the joy of modern technology, but she would act as a buffer as they told me it was a boy – my husband was certain. The heartbeat more real than the Doppler at the ob/gyn office, the image of ten fingers and toes, left arm in the “drama” position and possibly thumb in mouth made me awestruck, the measurements and movements and the reality... Then the tech asked, “Do we want to know what the sex is today?” I replied, “I do, but hubby wants to wait. Send him outside.” Hubby interjected, “No, no I want to know.” “Well, it’s a girl. You see these 3 lines….” And I heard nothing else. And my hubby turned an ashen-shade of white. That moment of utter joy carried me through the day. Yet the darkness in my grey matter slowly wrinkled the truth with suggestions that it wasn’t 100%, the baby’s position could have been off, or maybe they made a mistake. I hoped, but couldn’t believe.

The sickness in my head wouldn’t let sunshine stay long. I spent each day crying and paralyzed at the office. The pain increased daily, allowing me to offer only meager smiles and cordialities. I spent more time traveling from desk to bathroom than I could fathom, and the intolerable pain making me dread any form of movement; pushing up from my seat with my arms, I would hold my breath until I could maneuver my legs to hold me upright. The first few steps I took seemed impossible, exhausting all the energy my body contained. By the time I made it to the bathroom I usually had a small accident (panty liners and I were well acquainted) and had to rest my head against the cold metal stall before I attempted the trek back to my desk. When I could, I spent lunch time in the car: heat on, the seat slightly reclined, phone alarm set for 30 minutes. I relished the days that I could do this because that brief 30 minutes helped me until I could leave for home. Some days if I couldn’t nap I sat there crying to the radio or into my daydreams.

I hurt inside and out. The cycle never ended. At night sleep failed to refresh me because of the pain ravaging my lower body, the symbiont creature in my belly, the burning in my throat and the hourly trek up and down the stairs to the bathroom – whose brilliant idea was it to buy a house with only one bathroom on the first floor?! I learned to crawl down the steps on my hands and knees and back up on my butt – talk about land of the living opposites. By the time my body rested enough for sleep the urge came on again. I couldn’t sleep downstairs because the only comfortable place was my 4 inch memory foam topped bed with 27 pillows fixed just right. I dreaded the arrival of little miss with feedings and the promise of no sleep yet to come – I was already too deprived. Lost in the mist of depression and physical pain all I could dream was sleep. I remember my days-of-ago motto: I’ll sleep enough when I’m dead - how foolish! No one understood and my dirty little secrets consumed me.

I didn’t want to resent the little creature or the new life we faced together. Even when the stomach sickness subsided sometime around month 7 and the kicks and spins in my belly replaced some of the sadness and woe, I never really felt aglow. I resented missing out on everything that once made me happy, and resigned myself to the new life – really what choice did I have. At the same time I looked for a doula to assist me through delivery and educate me on breastfeeding and postpartum depression – I anticipated the likelihood. My spirits rose slightly as I prepared to evict the little alien from my body one way or another and teach her the ways of the world. I felt there was never a time when I could confide my story to anyone at least until I met my postpartum group. Each time I made a small attempt to hint that I wasn’t the glowing baby factory that a woman is expected to resemble, I watched eyes go blank, jaws slacken, and heads tilt. With a wave of the hand I was labeled “ill” or ridiculous or dramatic. I still harbor anger towards those who could have (should have) seen that I needed compassion and strength, not a waving, pointing finger and insults or brushed off or ignored. I thank my little symbiont for saving me. From the day she arrived nothing else has mattered. I had never heard of perinatal depression, and it scared me more than delivery – it shouldn’t have…and that’s a tale for another day.

If sheep could read

I'm fairly private and tech savvy.  I keep all my Facebook options to Friends Only; I typically only accept friend requests from folks that I want to keep in my life, speak to regularly, and genuinely care about; I don't allow FB apps (anymore); and I don't fall for any of the virus posts, millionaire emails, or allow bank account access to anyone but my bank and another bank for wire trnasfers that I am initiating.  That being said, I am noticing how my privacy is really not private any longer.  SURPRISE!  Not.

Due to some recent business ventures I've accepted friend requests from folks that I normally would have declined, not because I'm a mean, heartless bitch, but because I really wanted Facebook to be the place where I kept in touch in this crazy world with friends and family ONLY.  I didn't want to friend co-workers past or present unless we were friends outside of the office or we have a commraderie that would extend outside if we had time; I didn't want to friend old school acquaintances whom I didn't really plan to stay connected or agree with their philosophies on life; I didn't expect to use Facebook as a marketing tool.  And Google+ really?  Not right now please.

I've ventured out into the world of dance instruction and have needed to market my business to attract people that may be interested in lessons, especially from an old friend.  I've also tapped my inner sales woman and been marketing Arbonne products to said expanded friend base.  I of course offer my discounts and freebies to these friends and families.  I am also slowly (but not forgotten) working on a project to open my own business in the ARTS.  These ventures have eroded that sense of security that I once had on Facebook.  I've friended one timers and friends of friends that I will most likely never speak to again...until the next party.  I've friended acquaintences to shamelessly market myself, my services and my goods.  I've friended all sorts of family because I love my family, but, then again, they now also have access to this blog, which is sometimes not a pleasant read.  I've allowed the ease of technology to creep into my personal space and blast to the world. 

I started this blog to help myself and others who have or may or are suffering post-partum.  I wanted people to read it so that they may better understand me or themselves.  I wanted the writer in me to re-emerge and spread the word.  The problem is that at times this blog became more of a journal than a public blog, and I found myself not wanting to Facebook blast that particular post, hoping that only my die-hards would actually peer into my soul.  Or that if one of my friends or family did see that "one" that they would take it for what it was and not "react". <-- and for you english friends, yes, I do prefer the British punctuation rules to our MLA.  LOL.

Yesterday I tried to use PayPal to pay for our dinner delivery online so that neither of us had to trek out in the sweltering heat if we didn't have to.  Well guess who did anyway?!  Let's try and make this short-ish, shall we?  Apparently, I have to a) give PayPal direct access to my bank account, or b) get their credit card, or c) pay a $4.95 convenience fee for the equivalent of a gift card in order to continue using their services.  Now mind you I've had PayPal since the days they were in their infancy, and well before the concept of "account verification" was conceived by their greedy leadership.  I rememeber the notices stating..."hey get verified, but it's optional!"  Now they tell me since I have cumulatively sent $2000 over 12 years, I now have to do a, b, or c in order to continue using their pay service.  WTF.  They have my debit card.  The equivalent of my bank account, not a regular credit card.  I should not be forced to give them my direct account information to be used as a wire transfer instead of a payment service.  If someone steals my card numbers it's easier to replace, but my bank account numbers?!  Come on!!!  You are not a bank or a retailer, you are a payment service!  You should not legally be allowed to force me into providing you my bank account information.  That makes you not much different than my favorite Nigerian Scam artists.  Even my bill payments and other banks don't force my direct bank access - I can use a credit card or debit card of my personal choice.  So now I can no longer purchase from Amazon, EBay, or several other of my regular vendors.  O well.  The reality is none of the corporations that have control of our broken economy really want it fixed, so I won't spend my money the way or where I am accustomed any longer.  Fuck You PayPal!  O, BTW...look into the 2004 Class Action suit against PayPal to understand more.  I guess I should have paid more attention to it back then.

So here I am blogging away.  A fairly harmless one today.  I have a lot on my mind, but I'm not in the frame to share my abyss at the moment.  So enjoy my worthless tirade on privacy and paypal in lieu of emotional meltdown.

Poison

What is the worst thing someone you care about can say to you; 6 inches from your face at the top of their lungs; something that feels the equivalent of being stabbed? Let me share: “I hate you. My family hates you. I don’t care.”

According to Merriam Webster the word hate is defined as:
noun
1. a. intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, or sense of injury
    b. extreme dislike or antipathy : loathing
2. an object of hatred
verb
1. to feel extreme enmity toward
2. to have a strong aversion to: find very distasteful
intransitive verb
1. to express or feel extreme enmity or active hostility

You can’t take back words. They resonate and bang around your brain at varying octaves and tones in waves. I’m sorry never erases the venom that stung. The poison will eat away until there is nothing left. You can kill a person with words.

Yes, sometimes being responsible sucks: it includes, putting your children and partner above all else, making some people unhappy with your decisions, and making sacrifices that are unpleasant. No one said that being responsible was easy or comfortable. But that’s what makes the world go around: responsibility and respect…it’s what makes us civilized.

Rant

I'm not really in the mood to write today, but I haven't been "in the mood" for a very long time.  Such is the story of my modern life in o too many ways.  I'm washed up and feeling quite old and worthless.  Being a mother is for the young, but society encouraged us to change our views on such nonesense and we became older mom: superbeing.  Bull shit.

Where does wife, friend, sister, daughter fit in or self for that matter.  One group of people says that you should work to teach our daughters to be strong women; another group says bring back the stay at home mom for our children's welfare and security; and yet another says daycares are best; and then still, stay at home dad's are just as good.  I don't knock anyones opinion, but I do knock people stepping in on my decisions for my family.

Don't question my authority, decision or ideas.  Do not go against my wishes and don't believe that your views are superior in any way.  My family is my family and I make decisions for its welfare and safety and comfort.  These decisions take careful consideration of working hours, finance levels, child care and discipline, home care and maintenance, travel options, available time and nourishment and most of all my ability to function to make it all happen.  I don't expect anyone to agree with me wholely, but respect that I am a smart, educated, common-sense filled female and don't tread on me or the family I have created.

In memorium

Rest in Peace, Mark Lewis.

 It hurts my heart knowing the suffering of this world troubled you in too many ways.  I hope that today you find peace and comfort.  My friend, you live on in all of us in our memories and hearts. You were a talented artist and a sweet, sweet friend, and I have missed you dearly and will do so always. You were always the good guy in a difficult world.  All my love.

My Phoenix

I spent a wonderful week with my daughter and mother and grandmother - 1 week, four generations, all women - in Pittsburgh swimming and going to the zoo and being away from my daily grind.  Nice, but lacking in the relaxation department.  I am happy to have this memory of my grandmother playing with my daughter in the early summer sun.  My time, however, was bitter sweet.  So much has changed in life and knowledge and expectations that I had to bite my tongue more often than not to prevent a generational war.  I yearned for that "wisdom" to reach our conversations, but, alas, in 86 years too much difference taints perceptions.  I smiled and walked away and did what my maternal instincts said was correct.  I snapped a few pics and looked from the outside so that my movie would capture the sentiment instead.  

As I watched time pass melding history and future I learned that a friend lay weak and worn in a hospice bed, waiting out his last days in suffering.  An odd fear gripped me as I dug through my long stored hey days for the memories of youth and immortality that held our shared time.  I remembered his kind face and troubled emotions and days that never ended.  I thought of friends long since tucked away and places and events better left in the closet of phantoms.  My heart aches for him.  At moments I think of him alone in his pain and confused, much like my father had been, and say a few words to the universe begging for his comfort and whisper to him all the love that so many of us have for him.  I want to see him, but want to remember him as my memories do.  I will contact his father today.  I'm afraid to call or write.  I selfishly don't want to know when he's left this place, but I want him to know it's time to move on and be free from the plagues of this world.  Another kind soul, an artist, a friend, fading to the other side. 

And while I cry for Mark I cringe every time a CaringBridge update arrives in my inbox.  Lisa fights the moster as well.  I don't know that my heart can take much more.  We all watched and followed her through her breast cancer treatments, disolution of her marriage and her young boys eyes looking upon their mom with adoration and strength.  We cheered as the results seemed to say she was free of the demon that assulted her.  Now it has returned with a vengence powerful and cruel, engulfing all but her beautiful soul.  I panic for her and want to take away all the pain.  I want her boys to hold her tight and her family to give her strength.  I want the dragon slayed for good.  I want a miracle to shine upon her.  I believe.  I believe.  I want to make new memories with her and our children.  I want to play on the beach together as we did what feels like so long ago.  I want us to laugh and dance and be free.

And now I wait, incapable of fixing, curing or relieving.  I am helpless and lost myself in the whys and hows and fuck this dirty world thoughts.  I think of my own feelings and fears and sadness and none are so powerful as what I feel for these friends.  I start to look at the puzzle pieces of my life.  I notice that where there were missing pieces, now the holes are filling in.  I think of the legacy that we leave behind and how immortality is nothing more than other's memories, the imprints passed on by the living.  A completed puzzle forms out of the requiem my father's voice sings for the lost souls.  I will follow this song and see where it takes me. 

Today my vision forms a place where I can offer help to those that suffer disabilities or illness and a place where the community can create their immortality in dance, music, art, writing, drama, and all the muses.  A place that can heal or comfort and make some happiness in place of the pain.  A place where children through seniors can create and explore their passions and souls.  I want to bring this place to life in honor of those who I love and miss.

Me Paparazzi

I am my own stalker. 
I stalk myself out of curiosity. 
I stalk myself out of boredom.
I stalk myself to understand, learn, know, translate, explain, contemplate, discover who I am. 
I amuse my self, scare my self, fear my self, love and hate my self. 
I'm baffled by the puzzle and clues of me.
I'm amazed by the web created by me.
I want to be a part of me.
I want to entertain the same reality as me.
I worship me.
I want to be me.

Natural Disaster

I walked out my door this morning at 6:45, 15 minutes later than I should, but 5 minutes earlier than usual. Instead of a bone chilling cold the air felt not cold, just light with a hint of forsythia. I decided to take a second and survey the new day before I slugged to my car and off and away to warm a seat. I noticed our garden welcoming spring with bright yellow daffodils and the buds filling the Magnolia just about to burst. Soon the irises and tulips will burst through the ground then the multi-colored oddities that continue to bloom year over year even though they shouldn’t will complete the garden. The hydrangeas and lilies and delphiniums will sprout overnight making the aura of our home fragrant. For a second I thought about how much happiness I miss each day lately.

We are still awaiting the debate between the attorney and the mortgage company to come to a close. Not knowing if it will be in our favor makes it hard to breath one moment to the next. I think to myself, where will we go, what will we do, how about Anya’s playhouse and swing set her IPop built and the sandbox that just arrived for her birthday. The years of sweat and tears already invested in this home that we got married in and brought our baby home, to lose it all…because of timing: a hubby laid off months before the birth of our child, account-sucking post-partum medical bills and the vanished savings. We bought our first home with money from working 2 jobs, me at the bookstore and Rich playing gigs. We bought it in disrepair, crying out for salvation from 130 years of neglect and no updates since 1905. We believed in this home and what its ghosts could bring to our lives.

As soon as we de-siliconed the windows we felt her breath…it was a deep, life affirming sigh of gratitude: you could smell the air circulating through each room, chasing away the must and gloom of decades. We poured our dreams into what she deserved with her original transoms, knobs, and light fixtures. We loved her 1945 newspaper tales of WWII and bread for $.10 hidden beneath the rugs and the pleasantly distorting view of the outside through wavy glass. We reveled in her now defunct but topic of discussion outhouse and chicken coup. In four years she already needs fresh paint on her walls, real floors installed instead of carpet over 2x4s, and a kitchen that includes cabinets and counters and a sink newer than 1935. The roof scares us the most with its perhaps 70 year old tiles slowly giving way, and the cement walkways crumbling into dust with each new step…they trip and slip all who dare come and go.

We figured we had time and money to afford her care and reconstruction: we would bring her to glory and pride. But now, 2 years into financial and emotional ruin we sense a different sigh from the walls. We hear the neighbor on the other side of our twin as his curses boom the 40 years of abuse to his wife. Anya cringes and cries and runs for comfort from the joining wall, we turn up the TV or radio, and sometimes throw shoes in their direction, thudding their shut up against the walls. The lights burn out and aren’t replaced quickly enough, making the rooms darker and smaller. The padding on the cheap “we’ll replace them in 3 years” carpet has deteriorated making each step hard beneath tired feet. I feel like we’ve let her down, yet another promise of love and nurturing her beauty and history failed.

I realize I’ve become a cave dweller. I move from my bed, to my car, to my desk, back home to my living room and back to bed. Most days I can’t stir up enough energy to cook or take a walk or make calls or just enjoy life. I’m constantly harried and stressed and emotionally a wreck. In order to afford to live now we would be forced to move to an area where I wouldn’t want Anya to attend school or sit outside in the evenings. I feel like I’m running from one job to the next even though I love teaching dance and sharing Arbonne , and how can I find more minutes in 24 hours to play with my little girl who is growing up faster than the breaths I take. I still have too much pain for the efforts I’ve made to reduce the physical suffering from the complications of my pregnancy. Some days I still feel like throwing in the towel and running away.

My family and friends keep me going. Sometimes they even bring a smile to my face and a skip in my walk. The energy boosts they provide get me through the next hurdle. Lately, though, I have an unhealthy kind of fear; it’s that damned news and people fucking up life every day that brings it on. I hate selfishness and lack of community and mean, abusive asshats. I despise drivers who think they own the road and always have to get there 3 seconds faster than you. I groan at corporations that have nothing to do with life-saving or sustaining responsibilities treating their staff like the world will end if they don’t work 100 hours a week and forsake their family and health to meet stupid deadlines. I spit on condescending attitudes and general esteem-killing language: contrary to what you may believe, demeaning someone does not make them more productive or quality focused. I resent modern technology for putting me back in touch with people whom I care about, but not providing me the extra time to spend with them.

My daughter reminds me that love is life. Her giggles and tall tales in toddler babble complete with a range of arm motions and facial expressions that indicate a passion and emotion larger than life give me a reason to fight against all that ails. She gives me strength and motivation to strive harder, believe more and be something for her to be proud of. I fear that this horrible world of bullies and beasts and bombs and stupidity will bring harm to her. I am useless against it all and cannot protect her…I am afraid.

I know there are many me’s. I am strong, independent and willful, but I am also shy and demure and afraid. I can be funny and angry and alluring. I am a leader and a follower. And for all these me’s I survive and strive. I feel ugly when I am depressed and down and afraid. I resort to self-deprecating and emotional beatings at my mistakes. This also makes me moody and much more aware of my physical pain. I know I need to snap out, and I will, but I need to stop this from happening all together. I wonder if that’s possible. The life I live now versus that life I worked hard to live aren’t having tea together in the park.

We have yet another gloomy day, bringing clouds and rain and dampness to a colder than usual spring. The dots of color in freshly mulched beds don’t seem to be enough to balance the lack of sunshine that is apparent on everyone’s face. I like tricking myself into warm shiny analogies of weather and emotion. But also understanding cycles and time - everything is temporary. What happened to my eternal sunshine? I miss being happy more than not, and feeling capable and successful. I don’t want to be a statistic of any sort. Honestly, I don’t want to accept that I can’t fix everything. My father taught me that failure is not acceptable…this was not one of his better lessons for sure. It’s become my personal hell. Hrm…that’s interesting.

The earth and its people are still struggling to recover from the March 11th 9.0 earthquake, resulting tsunami and nuclear reactor failure in Japan. Every day there is more news of suffering, radiation leaks and doomsayers. There is also a fair amount of those being ignorant. I had to stop myself from reading and watching any more. The earth is not so large as it once was. Being a grown up makes me mortal. I remember being told, don’t rush life, enjoy being young. Of course that means nothing to the immortality of a kid. We want so much to be grown up, then we realize that it sucks, but you can’t go back…and if you try you just look stupid. I think of history classes and reading of wars and industry and the emergence of the modern world we live in today. We consider advancements genius = always. Maybe the Amish have it somewhat correct. But you can’t have one without the other.


We have longer life expectancy, but more disease. We have faster transportation, but more accidents. We have higher birth rates, but more poverty. We have better technology, but less human-ness. I have always expressed life as a balance between two opposites; it usually makes the most sense to me. But I also know there is plenty of in-betweens that I can’t justify, just accept as a fact. And again I am wont to apply this to my emotional purgatory. I am not bi-polar, but I sympathize with those who are. My mood swings since my pregnancy are wide and wild. Now…attaching this concept of failure from my father I begin to breach the mystery of my planet Nay.

When I defeat the villains of my world I am proud and strong and hopeful, but when I fail I am low, distraught and fearful. I wade and wallow accordingly. I have a successful dance instruction business that I am proud of and motivated to grow, then an earthquake hits when I feel less than qualified due to my inability to perform shaking my self-confidence, mostly a result of my physical limitations post pregnancy. Immediately following the depression sets in waves, one after another, creeping deeper into my psyche, eroding more of the strength and progress I’ve made. While picking up the pieces and moving onward, various containment failures pick at the delicate façade during repair, cumulating and reaching critical levels, then balancing then peaking, and cycling. I’m in a constant state of natural disaster and recovery. Ha…Natural Disaster Nay. peanut gallery have fun with that.

I have a lot to contemplate.

Time Tricks

Deep breath. Mind sorting. Another deep breath. Sigh.

Time. What a strange concept. I would say that time didn't really exist if it wasn't for the sun and moon playing peekaboo each day to night. And with the seasons warming and cooling with the leaves green to red to dead and back again. But really...what is time?

I celebrated my daughters 2nd birthday this past weekend. I was able to manage a day-long extravaganza for her with young playmates to adult smiles, lots of food and Blues Clues cake and presents that made it feel like Christmas again. I always wish that more friends and family would fit into my home and that celebrations never ended. I needed those laughs and conversations more than I knew. I understand now that my social butterfly sat beneath the bell jar for too long, and for one day that freedom simply cleared my cobwebs. Anya is older now and needs less suffocating attention. I was able to sit back and converse and have a relaxing drink and enjoy my friends and family. I was smarter this time and had food brought in and had the kids play at Gymboree so that my stress level could remain at handle-able versus overdrive.

I looked at my little baby and realized for the first time she was different to me. New in her features, the way she held herself, the tone of her voice, the exotic facial expressions, the language she was beginning to control; she was a little girl, like magic, turning two. She holds my cheeks in her hands and says, “o mommy.” She squeals with excitement and babbles a story that is half English half gremlin like she was conversing with Loreli Gilmore, then runs off into a million directions. I’m fascinated how 2 years have passed and I am lost finding those minutes, hours, and days that got me here. I am in awe of this being that came from love and grows and thrives and amazes me every moment of every day. I can’t allow myself to consider how fast forward my life will continue to morph or that I can’t protect her all the time and the anxiety as I must let her experience life. One day she parasitically melded with my body, the next she emerged as a separate entity.  She will continue to grow and change and develop and make friends and enemies and make memories.

I went to a fundraiser for a dear friend, a sister of hearts, my youth’s twin. The memories came flooding back as we pull into the DQ parking lot. The line already wrapped around the door and passed the other stores. I feel my heart skip a beat and my lungs compress and my muscles tense. For a moment I allow myself to be a teenager, walking from my house around the block on Moonflower, arm in arm with my partners in fun, in the warm summer evening, hearing the gathering grow in the light breeze before twilight. We would arrive in the mini strip with enough cash for a slice of pizza from Mark’s, a medium coke, and a blizzard from DQ, carrying only a pack of smokes and gum. Inevitably the crowd of crazy teens would frighten the store owners or family-type folks that saw the potential for a mob and teens up to no good and the cops would breeze through chasing us out with little success. We would scatter, hide out in the Village Mall across the street or walk the neighborhood for a few minutes only to return and dance with the cops again. Occassionally, they would ticket the brazen of the boys for saying “fuck” or “shit” or generally cursing, a fineable offence in the 80s - at least that’s what they told us..

An eternity of summers passed in that parking lot. Some nights we were stormed on and others we melted into the pavement. But always there. Together. Being kids who wanted to be grownups who didn’t know the rules or even cared to consider them. How could we be any different? Time doesn’t exist when you’re 16…you never get old and nothing bad ever happens and all we need is each other. We gossiped and lost virginity and cried and had fights. We kissed, smoked pot and snuck beer and thought that we ruled the world. It was ours after all.

Tonight I saw familiar faces, but recognized the years, more than 20, that separated most of us. We introduced spouses and children and suddenly two decades vanished, but reflected a different universe. We crowded the parking lot and filled the air with chatter. Old man winter blasted the evening air with a spring cold snap near freezing, making the ice cream event seem odd, yet you felt the determination that we wouldn’t consider being chilled out of our purpose. My eyes shifted back and forth scanning the crowd for my partners, my friends, my strength, fearing that I couldn’t accept what time was doing to pieces of my heart.

Once we settled in the back of the line, three stores down the strip, I looked up and in an instant saw her. She looked strong and radiant and beautiful as ever. Each hope she saw in the gathering made her seem taller and more grounded, yet overwhelmed. I couldn’t wait in the back for the feet to shuffle close enough to touch her fortitude. I left Rich and Anya to hold our place and held my breath in fear that she was leaving not greeting, I had to grip my panic and urgency. I couldn’t let another minute pass without holding her close and trying to take away all the suffering and pain she experienced. My bff stood there teary-eyed holding the gatherers tight for herself, and even more so for them.

I saw her brother leaning against the DQ window. He shadowed her and stood like he always did: strong and protective and imposing. He was the best big brother a girl could want. And seeing him there, knowing that he couldn’t protect his little sis from her disease, made our hug hello bittersweet. I didn’t know what to say, and felt apologetic for life putting years between our inseparable memories, but we are grown up now, and we know that love doesn’t tell time. I missed this other family of mine and I hate seeing them again under such stressful circumstances. I hated that even though we all stood there, crowding the parking lot of our childhood haunt, the warp of time had screwed it all up: it was cold and orderly and sedate.

Finally I wrapped my arms around her back and worked the smile of warmth that came over me. We hugged and cried and held each other up. I didn’t want to let her go. I could have stood there an eternity cleansing the demons from her. Her sorrow broke my heart and I wanted everyone and everything and all this suffering to disappear. I wanted to be back at the shore on Memorial Day weekend in our bikinis and a case of beer and the boardwalk after hours on the beach. I wanted to pick her up for a cruise through town on a Friday night and a party. I wanted to skip across the carnival with her, laughing and believing that nothing could tarnish our happiness. I wanted to beat and maim all that caused her hurt. I wanted her to know that I loved her so much and that I know that we have plenty more memories to make together and that life works in strange ways and to never let go her strength and hope and love.

Slowly the hum and buzz of the crowded lot broke through. People were hungrily waiting to donate their strength and health and I wanted her to take as much as her body needed to fight. I got back in line with my husband and daughter and let myself breathe in and out slowly. I couldn’t make sense of the upside down vortex that we were sharing in this place of happy memories. I knew not to try.

After our ice cream treat and Anya anxiously wanting to be free of the crowded inside of DQ we went back outside to see more phantoms of my memories continue to arrive. I looked over and saw my surrogate mom beam at the crowds gathered for her daughter. Now, a mother myself, I felt something new for this woman whom had been an integral matriarchal figure in my youth. I felt her hurt and her need to protect and confusion over her baby girl growing up and being consumed by a disease that we still understand so little about. I want her to know that I love her so much and want to help her in any way that I can that she will allow me. I don’t want her to burn up from the stress and pain. I know what she feels as the caregiver.

I circled the lot a few times confused and lost. My husband gently reminded me that it was time to go, and that he and Anya would be waiting in the car. I am grateful for his nudge and direction; otherwise, I may have taken up the block and walked into a stranger’s house that I once called home. I waited for her to catch her breath in between supporters and took my chance to hold her tight again. This time I wanted her to know that on good days and bad days and all of them in between I was here for her. We are sister and we stick together. We cried some more and hugged even tighter, but we knew that I had to go or we would never leave that moment. I had to share her with all of the other loves there for her tonight, and this whole week. I wanted her to be healed by the love that we all brought her. I kissed her hand as we reluctantly let go, waved a quick goodbye to her family, and ran for the car and to breathe again.

I can easily look back on last night and know that my mind was unable to close on time’s tricks. There I was in a place with people that bring back summer breezes and laughter to my heart, but none of us could hide from the sober reason we all amassed. The location was fitting and familiar. We could use the ghosts of our youth to strengthen and reclaim her health. She will fight and we will fight with her. We won’t let time dictate how we perceive or use or experience life. It’s ours after all.

You Never Get Used to It

I woke up this morning with an ice pic stabbing my cranium above my left eye.  I rolled over confused and saw Anya all snuggled up in her footies on daddy's pillow.  She had thrown up at bed time and no matter how much resolve, odor eating shampoo formula, fabreeze and open windows the smell requires atomic cleansing to remove...so she slept with me in the big bed and daddy found himself on the couch.  The yogurt she found on the table after her nap yesterday had been sitting out for hours, forgotten, we had figured out this morning.  I went to put her into her crib for bed after a verse of Twinkle Twinkle, she looked at me blankly and swallowed hard a few times....blllllaaaauuuwwwk....and for me, since puke is something I've never been able to tolerate, and don't let them fool you that it's different with your own...bullshit...this was the worst ending to a bad day!

We stripped down as she shook and shivered, whimpering while I controlled my own impulse to add to the slop running down the crib bars and drip drip dropping onto the rug.  It was everywhere...across the room, on the bedspread, on me, oozing off her.  I grabbed old receiving blankets and tried to collect the chunks and give a compulsory wipe down before we cleaned ourselves in the tub.  I grabbed my phone unconsciously and called Rich while the tub filled with water and bubbles. 

"How much longer do you think you'll be?"

"I don't know.  Why?"

"Puke-tastic.  But it wasn't on purpose.  Seems like something she ate."

Overly loud disgruntled (and disgusted) sigh, "I'll get home when I can, but you'll have to figure it out."

We hung up and I sunk deep into the bubbles and cursed to myself.  Anya relaxed, stopped shaking and started trying to pop the bubbles.  The best part of a puke-tastic night is sliding into the warm, bubbly bath tub.  I haven't taken a bath in about 20 years (I do shower daily, mind you, so no snarky euwws), so this bit of heaven for me is pure entertainment and happiness for Anya.  She takes the wash cloth and I ask her to wash each part of herself and am amazed how much she understands.  Too bad our tub is a fake, miniature, fiberglass, excuse-for bathing and I can barely get myself back to standing for the wash and rinse off.

I dry her off in a fluffy purple towel and dress her in a new pair of fleece footies and get her snuggled on her rocking chair with some Wonder Pets.  I grab some paper towels, greenworks, oxi-clean resolve, the shampooer with industrial strength odor removing formula and struggle up the steps in dread.  I'm already psyching myself out.  Come on.  You're a grown up.  You've done it before.  Just get it over with.  I start with the dripping bars and crib contents.  Slowly I pluck each corner of the sheet and mattress pad from its corner, realizing that the ooze will also be behind the bars and essentially get on the mattress, albeit covered in plastic.  I step on something cold and fight the image of vomit on my clean toes.  I wrap everything up in the sheet and put them in a plastic bag, then attempt to wipe down the bars and O God I don't think I can do this and saturated them with Greenworks and used too many paper towels, but felt fairly successful in finding all the crevices.  Next I got on my knees with a soaked wash cloth and aimed at getting all the milk fats up so that the shampooer could actually clean the carpet.  I kept turning my head to the side to get a fresh breath of air from the open window, then turning back to the carpet and scrubbing the next spot with a glance.  I dowsed the carpet with Oxi Resolve and took all the mess to the washing machine downstairs.

On my way back up, I stopped and hugged Anya to make sure she was okay left alone downstairs so I could clean up.  She was so tired and was asking for more milk, but O no I wasn't making that mistake tonight.  I let her drink some water and told her I'd be back in a few minutes.  Thumb in mouth and fingers twirling her hair she nodded yes.  Back in the bog of stench I plugged in the shampooer and began to flood the carpet with super-powered cleaner.  I felt like I had beaten the monster and I did so by myself - instead of George the dragonslayer I was mom the Puke-slayer.  But I know he will return again and again to test my strength, making me weary and drained.

Anya fell asleep on my shoulder as we made our way upstairs.  I texted Rich to change over the washer to the dryer when he got home and that I think I did well cleaning up - this morning proved otherwise as the stench still eminates from beneath the closed door even with the window cracked open.  Anya curled up fetal on daddy's side of the bed and I just closed my eyes and drifted off into Neverland.

This morning I know the Puke-monster wounded me.  I managed to get myself up, dressed and off to work, but very late and in a state of torpidity.  For a moment I considered working from home, but instanly thought better.  There is no way anyone would let me get away with working from home on a Friday with the reason of: migraine - perception = taking advantage of the cat being away. 

I wanted to write something extrodinary today, but I want to do that everyday.  Who the hell am I to consider myself more profound or exceptional compared to the mass of bloggers around the world.  In reality the wound to my left brain will take some healing time, and until then I am without elite storytelling skills.  Enjoy my adventures in puke-tasticness.

Eternal Memory Closing

So there you have it...my morbidly depressing obsession with death.  I couldn't help it: 3 people in 12 months poofed and they kept dying.  When Anya was born I squirmed thinking that I had 3 full sets of grandparents - both maternal, paternal and great grandparents; Anya has 1 full set and her matriarchs.  The Estrogen House...perhaps there's something to be said about the women in her blood line.

Reading over my piece I heard my heart weeping; I felt pangs of ache being transported to a time that seems foreign to me now.  I'm glad I have these writings,  otherwise,  memory distorts the emotions and images and scenes.  Every year when the anniversaries arrive I know I am sad and it feels like yesterday, but the deep, penetrating sorrow has morphed into quiet reverence.  In some respects I feel guilty, like I'm betraying my ancestors or denying their due, like the expectations at a "Greece" Greek funeral. 

I also consider my post partum world...it was not much different than the place I found myself during the year of The River Styx.  I felt unreal.  During my father's last year and the one that followed there was no ability to comprehend the reality of life and inevitability of death and loss and being alone, and during my post partum year-ish the pain of change, confusion and physical suffering brought me back to that world of suffocating and abyssmal existence.

If I were to hold some philisophical discussion with myself I would bring out the big hitters and see how they would disect and process my perceptions.  Perhaps for another day as I'm too spent.  It's also, my birthday...a day quickly losing it's flavor in my annual celebrations - merely a reminder that one day my little Anya will hurt as I have and I can't bear to fathom those concepts.

Today I close my closet door, asking that my gremlins and trolls and furry monsters grant me a day or two of sunshine and smiles as I enter into the year before I am...not young any longer.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 9

Meditations

I’m sitting here, watching the snow melt as the winter season succumbs to the freshness of spring. I’m listening to songs on the radio, looking through my CD stack and a pile of poetry books that I need to find a shelf for. I notice a connection, or perhaps merely my own superstitions, in what surrounds me. For years I’ve recognized the sorrow I feel when I listen to my City of Angels soundtrack. The lyrics speak my story. Books that I’ve collected over the years contain quotes and verse that touch my soul.


Sweet sweet Impermanence,
The world is lightened by your presence.
- Azam Ali

I have found that life can threaten many things, but promises only one – death. The only promise life keeps is that at some point, some where, some time, some way, death will come. A life is born, but there are no guarantees that they will marry, have children, a job, have friends, or know their family. These are chances, not promises. A life is born, but may have to overcome abandonment, loss or lack of love, solitude, misery, pain – no promises of happiness and harmony exist. The only assurance is that at last death will come.

We can be sure of nothing. Yet there is one fact that is certain, namely, that a time will come, a morning or a night, when you will be called to make the journey out of this world, when you will have to die.
- John O’Donohue

Death is partial to no one. It does not distinguish between religion or culture, location or age. Death finds no prejudice or discrimination. As one is born, they will find death.

The destination of human time is death.
- John O’Donohue

People attempt to cheat death in their search for the fountain of youth and the immortality granted by the golden apple. These quests to escape death had failed.

We witness the death of strangers, friends, family, animals, life. The pain felt is universal; it tears at the heart; tears flood the void; emptiness prevails. No matter that a spouse lends a hand for strength, the last breath frees itself from the body, the heart drum fades, darkness comes; pain ripples through the senses. No matter that a child peers pleadingly at their groomed parent’s coffin; agony and confusion suffocate.

I buried my father on his 59th birthday, and it made no matter that he suffered his last years; I felt the pain of ages gone by. I cried with all those that had cried before me and with all those that would in times to come.

The life and passions of a person leave an imprint on the ether of a place.
- John O’Donohue

If this is true that death leaves behind something for the living. If this is true then we must go beyond the five known senses and reawaken our unknown senses to find comfort from those who have gone before us. Are these the hauntings and ghostly presences that people claim to witness? These imprints must be strong to recapture the physical-ness of life past. I seek each day for my father’s imprint, but I do not sense it or maybe I have not reopened my inner self to feel him.

Because my father and I shared little more than blood prior to the last year of his life, I do not know where to look for him—where his mark may be. I look to the sky for an image in the clouds; I listen to the wind for his voice; I breathe in his cologne for a sense of his smell; I sit in his chair hoping to feel his essence, but he is gone; only his memory haunts me.

Memory is where our vanished days secretly gather.
- John O’Donohue

Will his memory be my only comfort? The thought pains me. Where is the key to open my soul to find him once more to not feel so alone?

The death of a loved one is bitterly lonely.
- John O’Donohue

The mind is full of what could be, but no one knows for sure. I fear the possibility of nothingness.

All of human life stands under the shadow of nothingness, the umbra nihili.
- Master Eckhart

But I revel in the thought of a beautiful and peaceful afterlife with the possibility of reincarnation. My hopes lie in the idea of destiny, a purpose for living.

To be born is to be chosen. No one is here by accident. Each one of us was sent here
for a special destiny.
- John O’Donohue

I find comfort in believing that my father’s purpose was met; his destiny achieved, and that his time on earth had passed accordingly. This I hope so that there may be a place where I can hug him tightly once again.

In all the answers that we seek only one is true – death WILL come. And when death takes one of us a connection is forged between the spirits of the mourning people: a shared pain throughout the ages.

There is the darkness of the unknown at our origin. We suddenly emerged from this unknown, and the band of brightness called life began. Then there is the darkness at the end when we disappear again back into the unknown.
- John O’Donohue

We don’t know or understand, but we feel what is in our soul.

There are things that are known, and things that are unknown: in between are the doors.
- William Blake

Death is the door between life that we know and beyond - the unknown.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 8

Catch me as I fall

Say you're here and it's all over now
Speaking to the atmosphere
No one's here and I fall into myself
This truth drives me
Into madness
I know I can stop the pain
If I will it all away
- Evanescence

I have a mahogany jewelry box with a pewter fairy, resting atop, protecting its contents. This box hold three items: my father’s gold cross that only left his neck upon his death, engraved with his initials, a blue, beaded necklace from my mother, and an old, white, cotton handkerchief. The handkerchief is my maternal papou’s. It was given to me by my grandmother the day I arrived in Greece too late.


“Yiayia, hold tight. I’m on my way. See you in two days. I love you.”

Passport…tickets…suitcase…strength...Ok. Into the car and off to the airport I go.

Just over a month before, my maternal grandfather - who lives in Greece - went to the doctor in Athens because he had been losing weight, had problems swallowing, and wasn’t feeling quite right. Mind you my grandparents still climbed their own olive trees for picking and making fresh olive oil – I am lucky enough to get a few gallons each year, savoring the flavor brought out through their labors. My papou hated doctors, refusing to go to one of “those butchers” ever. But this time was different. They found that he had esophageal cancer, so advanced it necessitated surgery. The surgery left his immune system weaker than the cancer itself, and over the next six weeks he declined at an exponential rate.

My Aunt Elaine was already with my yiayia, taking turns with her at my papou’s bedside. I was speaking with them daily, sometimes two or three times a day, wanting to understand. I wanted to know each and every thing that was going on, and how I would be able to help.

“Come, Renee, come if you can. And come quickly,” was the only response I received from my aunt. I arranged my tickets, and asked my bosses if they could help me with my time off. Everything was set, including planning my reluctant mother’s trip 10 days from then. My aunt called just as I picked up my suitcase and headed for the door.

“Renee, we’re going back to the island.” She began. “We’re leaving tomorrow. See if you can catch the flight with us, if you get to Athens on time. They said papou could travel, and he wants to be home.”

I stopped in Heathrow first, and scurrying through the endless terminals to find my connecting flight. Why does Heathrow seem like such a nightmare? I have time for just one smoke, but I have to find one of those new smoking areas. Geesh. Ridiculous.

The second leg brought me safely to Athens. As I got my bags I heard the boarding call for the flight to Ikaria. I can make it. I know I can. I ran up to the counter and explained that my papou was on the flight being transferred to the hospital in Ikaria.

“Se parekalo, o papouV mou eina mesa stin aeroplano, eine poli askimoV, parekalo, borw na pou?”  I beg the attendant at the Olympic booth to get me on the flight. But no, they couldn’t or they wouldn’t, I don’t know if my broken Greek was getting me anywhere but laughed at. I tried a few more times, and they even claimed to have called down to the plane, but refused my boarding. Damn me for not continuing my Greek studies.

I went to the Sofitel in the airport and got a room. I picked up some biscuits and water in the lobby store, but I was too unsettled to wander far from my room. I flipped through channels and caught some English on a BBC channel. With each new program or news segment, I surfed the channels again, looking for familiarity and distraction while waiting to try my aunt’s cell to ask about the flight to Ikaria and my papou.

I fell asleep sometime during the Greek news, which I couldn’t understand anyways. I awoke from a pounding heart and nasty head pain. How long had I slept? What time was it? I dialed my aunt’s number.

“Thea, how was the trip? I tried to get on the flight, I really did. They wouldn’t let me, but you guys were still boarding. Is everything ok? How’s papou? Is yiayia doing all right?”

“I can’t believe they didn’t let you on the flight. We thought you would make it. Stupid idiots! The flight wasn’t too bad and it wasn’t full.”

“And papou?”

“He’s home. He’s home now. I told him you were coming. I told him and he smiled.”

“Is he ok?”

“We’ll see you tomorrow. I have to go. I love you, baby.”

And that was it. Nothing else.

Several hours of tossing and turning, fear and anxiety, finally passed, getting me to the terminal for the Ikaria-bound flight. I boarded the four thousand year old plane, held together by rubber bands and superglue, and settled into my six inch seat (the planes that go to the island are small, carrying maybe fifty people max). The island is close by plane (9 hours by boat), basically, if you blink, you’ve landed already. However, these planes don’t allow you that luxury – of blinking. You hold your breath ascending, praying that a rubber band doesn’t snap, and the paper outer layer doesn’t crumble from wind shear, and as soon as you are ready to let out that breath, you can see a few hundred yards long, dirt path at the end of the island in the distance. One more inhale and you’re descending, begging any gods out there that the plane doesn’t miss that dirt path up ahead because what you see is supposed to be the landing strip. Plop…stop. These pilots are amazing.

I exited the plane and entered the small building known as the airport. My aunt and yiayia were waiting for me. They hug me tightly and ask me about my flight. I looked at both of them, and instantly knew what they desperately tried to hide.

“Yiayia? Yiayia, no.”

“Yes, baby, oh yes. I’m sorry, Renee. He’s home now.”

Yiayia’s paleness was more pronounced by the stark black head-to-toe outfit she was wearing. For the first time I saw lines in her face and realized that her hair was no longer Lucy red; her eyes were shallow, pronouncing circles and bags. My yiayia always looked fresh and well kept - now I didn’t see my yiayia only the idea of the woman whom I loved so dearly. Yiayia and my aunt unfolded the sorrow while holding me tight to their chests.

They arrived in Ikaria, and the ambulance took my papou to the hospital. My yiayia checked him into his room, gave him a kiss with love, and left to get their car. When the doctor came into his room to check on all the wires and machines, he leaned in to my papou and said, “Eftases, Xhrsto (You’ve arrived / you’re home).”

Papou smiled, took two breaths, and left us…moments before I called.

I was too late. The storm gathered strength in my mind and heart. I never got to see him, to tell him I loved him. Along the winding S-paths and cliff edges, we drove to the village of Pangia, silently. I looked out the car window telepathically calling my grandfather:



Not so long ago in a place not much changed
pain brought the mountains to the sea.
The winds raged chaotic change
relentlessly, unfeeling
The bitter numbness could not raise the fallen rubble, not calm Neptune’s caps
The stretch of village was veiled by somber stirrings
flooding with rising waters
The mahogany phoenix sprayed lovingly in fragrant offerings of devoted love
A shell lost at sea
The tempest sprang from within engulfing, consuming souls.

My memories of Ikaria were of warm sunshine, busy promenades, and soothing air, my summers full of vitality amidst an island far removed from modern life. My current arrival in Ikaria contrasted these images of joy and freshness with harsh winds, bone chilling cold, and grey; winter obscured my pleasant thoughts of my home away from home. The dead of winter.

My papou would be buried the following day, my grandparent’s anniversary. I tried to help where I could; funerals in Greece were much different than here in the states. We went to the market to purchase the needed food and beverage for the mourning to be held after the burial, next door at Popi’s; through the barren platia we walked store to store, looking for the best prices, and receiving condolences from villagers out in the winter chill. They praised my yiayia for having a daughter and granddaughter by her side during the somber events.

We awoke the next morning to ominous clouds in the sky and winds whipping around the mountain. I looked out the window from my yiayia’s dining room to where the mountain met the sea, the dark water, broken by white caps, churned, baring the fury of winter. The atmosphere of the outside world reflected our inside emotions, raging pain. We went down to the hospital to follow the car, which would carry my papou to the church just beyond their home in Panagia. As we entered the church the pall bearers placed the mahogany box on its stand, and we, my yiayia, my aunt, and me, were shown to the few chairs beside the coffin. Despite my sobbing, I still managed to observe how beautiful the wood-carved images of the phoenix, symbolizing perpetual rebirth, looked decorating my papou’s eternal bed.

The service was brief, but my tears met the ocean waves below. Many villagers from near and far arrived to share my yiayia’s grief. I knew so few of my grandparent’s friends and family that spent their lives on this small island in the eastern Aegean Sea. Their sorrow was pronounced, and mourning was real, not merely a term applied to those who have lost. Not a smile dotted lips or eyes meeting others’ tears; a grand respect for the dead demanded complete discipline.

The ancient world of Antigone and Medea rose before me. The ideals of time past still reigned in these mountains; there were dos and donts, rituals, expectations, and demands on the family that to my American upbringing stunned me. Skin must not show; all garments must be black; eyes must drown in sorrow; wailing expected; no raised heads or pleasant greetings. Love for the deceased would be measured in self-effacement. The wife, children, and immediate family have no entitlement to strength; the death of a man reflects the greatest, most unbearable loss and suffering. My yiayia will be subject to these laws for all her days in the old country, never turning from the pain, never recovering from loss, never to be whole again. Archaic and barbaric.

Once the ceremony concluded, the pall bearers braced the coffin on their shoulders, and we followed, all on foot, down the road, up the hill, step by step, to the cemetery, a parade of mourners, shadow forms, trailing the mahogany phoenix. They placed the coffin in the freshly turned dirt, and opened the box. I was warned by my aunt, “Don’t look!” But how could I not. O, I wish I had not. I thought they made a mistake; the man in the box was not my papou. How could it be? The face was grey and sagging, no embalming fluid or mortician placed makeup, frail, bones. The image haunts me. Some dirt, a few drops of oil, and a single flower, tossed in by my yiayia, rests with my papou for eternity.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 7

Life gets so confusing

And hard to figure out.
I’m growing up so fast
What’s it all about?
Things are changing quickly,
Time is flying by.
I’m becoming a different person,
Sometimes I wonder why.
Sometimes it gets real scary
And I want to run away.
But I know things will fit together,
Somehow, sometime someday.
- Anonymous

My metamorphosis began (unawares to me) on the day I lost in the hospital waiting room with my mother; the day I entered my cocoon where I spent years undergoing a transformation. Heart beat by heart beat I changed, realized, awoke; I left my fiancé, moved back to my childhood home, went to college, cared for my grandparents, then my father, then found my family and myself.


The sicker my father became the more withdrawn my mother was. I had to make up for all those years of pain I inflicted on my family: my penance. I took on multiple responsibilities, including nursemaid, confidant, peace keeper, household leader - a whirlwind of responsibilities that I would never have believed humanly possible or personally capable of managing. Wasn’t I still a child? I didn’t understand what was happening in my unconscious mind; how the pieces of my life were putting together the intricate puzzle that began the day I was born. How I survived I can’t explain. I look back in wonder at the stress and confusion, and still can’t paint a picture. Then again, some consider me more than slightly off balance, but a sane insanity.

One night in my father’s room I was crushing his meds to be put through his feeding tube followed by the nutrient formula that was his only sustenance. He sat there looking at me with a look I was unfamiliar with.

“Honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“For what, dad.”

“For ruining your life and my family.”

“Why would you say something like that? We want you to be better. You’ve ruined nothing. Stop that.”

“My wife hates the sight of me, my children can’t be in the same room with me, and you…you I’ve been a monster to. I’m so sorry for all the things I said to you growing up; for you I was the most scared, but you are the only one here for me now. I’m so sorry.” His head fell into his hands and he cried, ashamed.

“Daddy, please, you didn’t know, and neither did I that all I went through was going to make me who I am; it made me strong for you. It made me strong for you,” fighting back my own tears I knelt down and hugged my father’s shuddering frame.

Why now when it was too late to enjoy the newfound father before me? Now that I had a father who I would be honored to walk me down the aisle; now that I had a father who was proud of me, loved me, his delinquent and rebel; now that I had a father who would beam looking into a grandchild’s eyes. Why? Why? Why!! None of this would he experience; none of this would I ever be able to share with him.

And who was I? I was a stranger to myself, feeling emotions that were foreign and developing ideals that I never before considered. Had I reverted back to my innocent childhood perspectives of family and responsibility? Or was I someone all together different? I didn’t have the time to ponder these questions at that time, nor did I until many years later, when I had time to focus on me and my experiences, when I was forced into solitude, confronted with grief and chaos; I came to understand and respect me.

Αἰωνία ἡ μνήμη (Eternal Memory) Chapter 6

♪♪ I grieve
For you
You leave
Me
So hard to move on
Still loving what’s gone
Said life carries on ♪
- Peter Gabriel “I Grieve"

August 4th, my father’s 59th birthday. How truly karmic being buried on your birthday. I drug myself into the shower and got ready for the church. I walked around promising everyone in the house that I would bark at anyone who pissed me off. They cocked their head and nodded, saying, “Uh, yeah. Sure you will.” I was monstrous and unwilling to accept the day’s planned events. Not even my yiayia, who arrived from Greece, sometime during these blurry days, could console me.


Arriving at the church, I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. Through the doors I could see the casket set in the middle of the marble floor before the altar. I could see the bright array of flowers that we had ordered for my father—we had told the florist, “think roy-g-biv” for a color scheme, a rainbow—my father would have expected nothing less from his wonderful harem of women. But I couldn’t go in there. I couldn’t see him lying there—dead.

I had a cigarette before going in and forced myself to stand beside him. He looked good, but it wasn’t him. No matter what version of life after death I choose to believe in, the fact remained that it wasn’t him lying there; it was just the physical shell of what I called “Daddy.”

I stared at him for a while when I leaned forward to kiss him as I always had on the forehead. Not only was he cold, but he didn’t feel human. I recalled Reenie’s voice in my mind saying, “Whatever you do, don’t touch his skin. At yiayia’s funeral I tried to hold her hand, and I will never get the feeling out of my memory. Don’t do it.” His skin had become taut and felt strange beneath my lips. I began to gently stroke his arm and head and again talk to him, speaking the same words of the past few days, like a broken record, replaying the same phrase - echoes in the scratch of the recording - running numbly from my lips and tongue. Again I felt I couldn’t leave him. I thought I’d stay there forever. But the masses were gathering, friends, family, strange faces surfaced from the back of the church, searching for recognition, blundering over hellos and grief-filled embraces. I reluctantly kissed him again and walked away.

I went to the front pew where my mother and sisters sat greeting people. I couldn’t bear it, all these people that kept coming up to me with red eyes saying, “I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to deal with all these people: my father’s co-workers, family that I hadn’t seen in years, friends of mine and my sisters, an endless parade of grievers, but they couldn’t know the depths of mine. Where had they been all this time while my father suffered? Their absence during my father’s last months began to anger me. I hated them for visiting him after he was gone.

I started walking out of the church. On my way someone grabbed my arm. I turned around to see one of my oldest and dearest friends, Argie. We had lost touch about twelve years before and I missed her terribly. We hugged each other so tight and for so long I felt the twelve years compress into nothing. Just seeing her and holding her so close to my heart brought monsoonal tears of joy and sorrow. No words passed from our lips while inside the church, just tears and embraces. We walked outside arm-in-arm like the school girls we used to be. She had to leave to go to work.

“I love you, Renee. I had to come here to see you.”

I didn’t care what had come between us; friends, good friends are hard to come by, and she was one of them. The arrival of past, present and future gathering for my father’s memory had begun.

For the next two hours I stood out front smoking cigarettes and greeting people before they went into the church – I couldn’t bring myself to return to the front pew. My dull recognition of faces allowed little more than a numb hug and absent voice saying, “yes,” to the figures passing before me. I felt safer out there in front because no one had seen him yet, so I greeted people still in denial, not after they had faced crushing reality. The flow of people seemed to never end. I saw family from both near and far. I saw all the people who belonged to the church whose lives my father had touched in so many ways, most of which I hadn’t realized, since I had left the church in my teens. People just came and said goodbye to a man whose immortality rests in not just his family, but friends and strangers too. For the first time I saw my father as the man he really was: a strong leader, a compassionate heart, a man of will, a power to achieve goals thought unthinkable, a father, a husband, a friend. I had never realized how loved my father really was—and still is.

I was ushered back into the church when services were about to begin. I took my seat beside my mother and stared off into the distance in hopes to catch a glimpse of my father looking out at all the love that was around him. I hoped for just a moment to see him smile and know that he was alright, and that he knew we would be alright because of the fantastic extended family that he had created for us. But instead, no, I felt empty.

The priest made the most wonderful eulogy. Father Bob shared my father’s conversations with him in hopes that my father’s voice could be heard above the sorrow. He gave a message to my mother saying, “George knew that times weren’t always that good, but he loved Maria with all his heart, and hoped she could forgive him for his not always showing it.” He went on to talk about my father’s 35 years of employment at Raytheon: his accomplishments and the friendships he had made. Beyond this he called our home the “estrogen house,” something that my father always said because he was the only male in the house with five women and four female pets. He shared with the many people there that day all my father had done to help the church and make it what it is today. When he spoke of my father he made him shine like a bright light, and made me realize that if I could only be half of what my father was, I could move mountains.

When the ceremony was over everyone was invited up for one last goodbye. I couldn’t bear to think that in a few moments I would stand up there too for mine. I watched the people gaze upon my father with such love that I couldn’t be more proud to say “that man is my father.” I felt each painful goodbye because all these people were linked through my father. He had touched them too.

The moment finally came when I had to stand with my mother and sisters before the casket for one last time. I would never hold his hand or kiss his forehead again. As I looked at him I realized that he wouldn’t be there to see me graduate from college, or walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. I knew that he would never hold a grandchild or retire with my mother. He was gone, and I could never share my future with him. I had a Daddy no more. One last kiss and the casket closed.

The cemetery service was brief. Yet again I couldn’t bring myself to walk away from him. I stood there and watched them lower the casket deep in to the ground. The clank of the rotary and belts supporting the casket rang in my ears: dirt, bugs, ultimate solitude, death, how, why, confusion, fear, incomprehensible. If I listen hard enough I think I can still hear the crank grind as the weight of the casket bared down.

A lot of people came back to the house for a luncheon afterward. It was wall-to-wall people who loved my father. A few of us even joked that since it was my father’s birthday he would have been eating a steak and singing like crazy because that would have been the best birthday present that he could have ever gotten.

In many ways the house reflected life, not death: a celebration, a birthday party, my father’s life and legacy. Traditional Greek funereal fare of fish and cheese filled the tables, which friends had set up while my family was still at the cemetery. Wine and Metaxa wafted through the air as people toasted to memories and love.

My sisters and I lost ourselves in our own sense of madness with our friends by our side to guide us through this stage of grieving. We laughed together over evermore drunken comments and antics – the numbing of the soul. Erica, drunk on migraine meds and wine, fairy danced about the porch, thus inventing the “interpretive dance” that became her trademark for expression, unable to comprehend her emotions; Chrissy mingled in and out of friends and family numbing herself with whisky, conversation and spiritless laughter; Connie, still in her prime youth, sat mostly silent, regarding the chaos in her home, the spectacle of life, lacking the ability to cope with the sensations running through her heart. I can’t remember myself. The surreality of my condition lacked a connection. I was watching the movie of tragedy and pain unfold, unable to create sense in a senseless time.

Later that night when the house was quiet again, I tried to close my eyes and rest. I kept tossing and turning and feeling like I wanted to be in the cemetery sleeping next to him. I felt as if I had broken a promise—to be there. But deep down I knew that I was there for him, I just wasn’t ready to let go. For many months I continued to wake abruptly at four o’clock in the morning just as I did that first night. I don’t know if my dad was saying, “hello,” or some other strange coincidence. It happened, and sometimes still eerily occurs in the darkest nights: the mysterious wonder of the mind.

I drive myself insane wondering where he is now, if he can hear me, see me, and what is out there in the beyond.

If I’m locked away somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind someone will be able to tell my story. The insanity never rests, haunting me, tormenting me each day of my life. I wonder if I will find my peace and come to understand this hollow in my heart; the pain is still so great—I should feel relief for the release of my father’s suffering—but I don’t. Selfishness...it’s a disease.