Little Brown Athlete

Don't tell me I've nothing to do

Left brain, balance, strength, conversation, speech, comprehension. Motor, sensory, connectivity. Important part of her brain. The stroke was large. The bright spot on the film is in the worst spot for her brain. Narrowing arteries, nothing we can do. But we suggest you try this. Therapy might work. Twice a week for speech. Three times a week for physical.

These are the words of the day.

I stand beside her, over her. I have no other purpose but to protect her, love her, understand her. I stand above her, and listen. She needs help, and I think I need help. But who am I to think so? I want the doctor to speak in words more gentle. Less clinical, somehow. This is my mother, after all. But the language is for me.

I am guardian, protector. I am daughter. I wheel her out of the building. Away from the words and into hope.

She gives me her confused, angry eyes, wonders why she is here. She wants to be treated, not assessed. In fact, she's angry that the doctor speaks to me, not her. She manages to tell me her disappointment in me on the way home.

Her disappointment in me.

I suffer the accusation. It's what you do. Slip of the tongue... It's what I do.

The nurse is home when we arrive. Mom pushes against her.

Together, we change her mind from anger to her hunger. We give her dinner; she demands a Scotch.

We wheel her to her room, undress and dress her. She falls into bed. I tremble but watch her drift to sleep. Exhausted. I watch her chest rise and fall, slowly. It's hard to tell she is alive. I put my ear on her breast to be sure. She breathes. I kiss her cheek.

She mumbles what I think is "Good night." Gggnaaabbb.

I turn out the light, stop halfway up the stairs, look out over the rooms of my mother's house.

Am I losing her? Or is she fading?

And isn't that one in the same?

I pledge allegiance

When I look up and see our flag flying, caught on a breeze, or hanging still, it always takes my breath away. This morning when I was out for coffee, I paused to take these and heard church bells ringing from the nearby church. That's about enough to make me pass out from joy of the senses. I know, I know, separation of church and state and all that, but still, for me to hear the bells and see the flag, was to have a moment of joy in my morning that was not only a complete surprise, but also completely needed.

As sure as I'm standing here, this is the present

Two steps lead to the front door. The first rises about four inches, and the second about six. Between these, the brick landing is about five feet wide. After the second step and before the front door, there is about eight feet of porch. I take these steps from door to driveway without thinking, without considering the movement or calculating any sort of risk. She eyes them with caution and grips my arm tight. I have you. You're okay. Her grip does not loosen. Stopped at the first step, she looks to the front door as if it were on the horizon. She looks back at the first step, raises her left foot but cannot bring it forward. She lets out a short, frustrated sigh, steps forward a bit and tries again. Wobbly and afraid, she succeeds. Again she looks at the front door, her goal. And she faces the next step, breathing hard and hanging on. She looks at me with eyes that implore me not to let go. Again I tell her she's okay. You can do it.

Inside the house, she climbs into bed, exhausted from the afternoon of doctor appointments and negotiating unsure paths on unsure feet. She looks at me and whispers one word: Die.

She does not want to be a burden, cannot find any peace between needing and accepting help, or more to the point, accepting that she needs help. She wants to give in and let us care for her, but can't let go the frustration that she is unable to do these things, to walk unguided, to eat a meal without assistance, to take a drink and hold her own glass. She does not want to unravel.

The house is quiet, the lights low. She rests. I walk to the kitchen and turn back to the livingroom where I see previous times of celebration. Christmas parties, Thanksgiving gatherings, my brother's wedding reception. I can hear voices no longer here, see faces long gone. I see my father in his red sports coat, opening a bottle of champagne and raising his eyebrows at me. I see Christmas morning and smell the tree, I think I see ribbons on the floor and discarded wrapping paper. I see her in the entry way, perfectly dressed, perfect hostess. She's holding the conversation, her manicured nails drifting in a red arc as she moves her hand in the air, her red lips curving in a smile around her words. I see friends in the chairs, on the couch, there's warm life filling the rooms. I see all that was once here, all at once. And I stand still and remember.

I shake my head, turn around, place the dishes in the sink.

When I turn back again, the voices have hushed, the memories faded back into the walls. The house is quiet now, the lights low. She rests.

Holding shadows

On the bedside table in the guest room at my parents' house is a framed photo of my father in a Santa Claus hat. The day he died, I went home to pack my clothes so that I could stay at my mother's house and I grabbed that photo off my dresser and tossed it in the suitcase. I took the photo about ten years ago at our Christmas party. I've always liked the way he looks in the picture, his head slightly turned to me, a smile on his face, his blue eyes looking right at me.

Whenever I think about bringing the photo back home, I can't bring myself to do so. On the nights I stay at my Mom's house, I like having it there beside me. I'm comforted by his presence, instilling it with meaning and purpose as if he were watching over me through the portal of his photo.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I do not know when she began her journey, nor do I know how long she'll travel or what path she'll take but I do know that my mother has taken her first steps towards him and away from us.

Her words tumble in shapeless sounds without meaning. Her eyes are cautious and filled with fear and need. Her body defies her will.

This is personal. And devastating. Something goes on here, something that must be guarded and we all feel the need to be protective. It is also quiet and with the same feeling of watching a child sleep, a mixture of peace and urgency hover in the room. Hush the phone, keep the lights low, let her rest.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Last night I sat in her driveway and looked at the bright moon through the branches of the tall Pine trees in the front yard. I felt a warm breeze circle my shoulders and closed my eyes and took a slow breath. Above me, the leaves were restless.

Later, with my suitcase unpacked, and Cheyenne's water bowl filled, I crawled into bed exhausted. Reaching to turn out the light, I paused to look at my father on the bedside table. His eyes looked back into mine. Much was said, but no words were spoken.

As I step into the trenches, I sigh recalling so recently knowing this

A weekend in Vermont in the rain with my niece, my dear friends and two little girls who laugh so wildly that their whole bodies shake with their joy

I needed exactly what this weekend gave me. Big fun. Big love. Pink tootsie toes. Proportionate umbrellas. Lots of hugs and silly kisses.

Windows of Boston

Last night after work, my coworker and I took a cab to Cambridge where her boyfriend and two of his brothers own a tavern. We sat at a tall table by the open window in the front and watched the dark sky rumble with a storm and then drop rain in straight lines because there was no wind. All evening, the big window stayed open, allowing us to smell the rain and enjoy the storm from the dry comfort of our table.

This afternoon, we took a break from our work and I picked up my camera and took this picture of the view outside our conference room window. I love this view and found it so difficult to keep my mind on my work yesterday that I had to change seats so that I was not facing the window. Today I loved it even more because of the rain and the clouds. Today I sat in the chair facing the window, just so I could look up every now and then and have this to see.

My kind of window display

Well I love that dirty water

When the sun glows through my window at 5:00 in the morning, I stir with the light and for a moment think that the bedside clock is wrong. Then I remember that I am in Boston. And I go back to sleep. But that only lasts until 6:15 when my eyes and my body and everything about me says to get out of bed and go for a walk because it's not every day that just one block away is the oldest public park in the country.



Although the Boston Commons was not formally incorporated until 1837, the 50-acre plot was set aside as military training grounds in 1634. Knowing that delights me to no end as I stroll through the park, looking at the giant Willows and Chinese Maples. How often is it that I can stroll past a cemetery established in 1754, 22 years before the 13 colonies signed the Declaration of Independence and became states? Thin slate and stone grave markers dot a small hill, informal yet stately still. I walk on, wondering about a woman named Sarah who died in 1800.



There is something about Boston that I'm never quite able to describe. Big city, indeed, but without the temperament. Small town charm, but without the small town. Saturated in history, humming with the present. Charming, to be sure.