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.
25 March 2011
04 March 2011
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.
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.
02 March 2011
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.
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.
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.
01 March 2011
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)