The dangers of excess

When it comes to energy, when I have it I typically spend every bit. This weekend was no exception. In addition to the gym Saturday morning and organizing and cleaning out my garage Saturday afternoon, and the three-mile walk Sunday morning, on Sunday afternoon I decided to go to the garden center and buy five bags of potting soil, several pots and two flats of geraniums and other flowering plants. My little patio was blanketed in leaves fallen from the neighbor's tree over the Winter and the plants there were in desperate need of larger pots, the empty pots were begging to be filled again with dirt and plants. So, I tackled that project as well. I raked, swept, bagged, transferred, poured, planted and rearranged. When I went to bed Sunday night, I was delighted with myself for my progress over the weekend. Monday morning and even this morning, I'm still delighted but I'm paying for it in muscle currency. Two days later, I still have not refilled my supply of energy. It's only 7:00 in the morning and I'm already looking forward to going to sleep tonight.

But, my garage is clean and my little patio is alive with color.

Tumbalina gets a prize

Although I managed to walk three miles for charity yesterday without incident, later in the day I was not so sure-footed when trying to put one foot in front of the other in the short distance from my parked car to the front doors of my neighborhood grocery store. To put it lightly, I ate it. Bad. My foot met with a crack in the pavement and launched me forward and down. All the way down, hands scraping against the concrete, my hip, one knee and my arm slamming against the pavement, car keys sent flying across the parking lot, purse contents scattered everywhere. My lipstick rolling past me at eye level.

A young couple and a man helped me out. The man helped me stand up and asked me if I was okay, if my ankle was okay and if my arm was okay. Although my entire body was hurting and throbbing, I assured him that I was fine. The young couple retrieved my purse contents and handed them back to me. I thanked each of them for stopping to help me out, put the stuff in my purse, dusted myself off, assured them that I was okay, and started my way again towards the grocery store.

Walking towards me was a man carrying a dozen long-stem roses. He stopped when he got near me, pulled a single rose from the bunch, held it out to me and said, I think you could use this today.

How nice was that?

Sunday, volunteer Sunday

This morning, Cheyenne and I participated in the Chevron AIDS Walk, a three-mile event to raise funds and support for those afflicted with this horrible disease. Three miles is not so much for me but Cheyenne blew out all her energy and enthusiasm after two and a half miles of greeting people and running ahead and running back and her normal over-the-top excitement, so she was moving a bit slowly towards the end. As soon as we got home, she drank the entire contents of her water bowl and fell fast asleep under the dining room table. Good dog.

Three Gs

This is my favorite photo of my parents and me. The occasion was my best friend's wedding, and this particular evening was the rehearsal dinner party. The wedding was in Rancho Santa Fe, just north of San Diego. I had been up there for the week and my parents flew in a couple days before the wedding. They were delighted to spend time with my friend's family in celebration of the wedding, and the three of us were excited to be there together.

Right before this photo was taken, my friend and her parents gave me a Maid of Honor gift. I held the Tiffany box in my hands and looked at my friend and her mother, then back at the box, and then slowly opened it to find a beautiful pair of diamond and pearl earrings. My mother could identify the color of Tiffany blue from a hundred yards and, as I held the box in my hands, I could see her light up with approval and curiosity. Both my parents were watching me and eager for me to show them what I had just received. After I wiped the tears from my eyes, I thanked and hugged Augusta and her mother, and thanked and hugged them again. Then I put the earrings on and walked over to my parents to show them. As I was leaning down to show them, my friend Donna picked up my camera from the table and asked us for a photo. This is that photo. It's a rare photo in that my mother allowed her picture to be taken at all and also that all three of us are smiling and our eyes are open. I like that our happiness shows so clearly. These are my mother and father's true smiles. These are our true eyes. My favorite color is the blue of my father's eyes.



A couple days after the wedding, my parents and I flew back to Houston. When we checked in for our flight, I was upgraded to First Class. Naturally, I gave the ticket to my father as his legs were hurting him and I wanted him to be comfortable and, well, it was the right thing to do. Mother was happy to sit with me in Coach. When our row number was finally called, we boarded the plane. As we passed the first row, there was my father, sitting next to and talking with an absolutely stunning woman, drinking a Bloody Mary, a plated Shrimp Salad on a bed of spinach sat with silverware and tiny salt and pepper shakers on his linen-covered tray table. Not wanting to blow his cover, I just glanced his way and smiled at him as we passed. He smiled back and opened his eyes wide in that mischievous What can I say? face he used to make.

Mom and I were situated in our seats, awaiting our shredded barbecue sandwiches wrapped in microwave-safe cellophane, when she said that it was very nice of me to give my seat to my father. Then she harrumphed, But I could do without him sitting next to that woman.

She looked over at me, smiled, and shook her head. I smiled back at her, leaned over and put my head on her shoulder and we laughed. Together in our seats, we just laughed and laughed.

I miss her, so very much. I miss them. So very much.

You must remember this

A good friend of mine read my words here recently and she emailed me some encouragement:

You must remember this: You’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.

I recognized the words but could not place them. I knew I'd written them before and read them before, but also knew they weren't my own. I wrote her back and asked about them.

She responded: That's what Christopher Robin said to Pooh.

How comforting it was for me that my friend sent me Christopher Robin's words of encouragement today. Not only is the message something I needed to hear, but the connection to my favorite bear, to Mom's favorite bear, has me taking the words and wrapping them around me in safe, cozy and familiar warmth.

I'm here for a pick-up

This morning before I go to the office, I will go to the funeral home to pick up my mother's ashes. My chest is a bit tight at the thought of it, at walking in alone and carrying my mother in my arms when I leave. As I wrote that sentence, I shook my head in a bit of disbelief. Carrying my mother in my arms.

Earlier this morning, my uncle, her brother, and I had a long phone conversation over our morning coffee. He shared some memories I'd not heard before and on my end of the line he had me in his hands, thirsty for his words and delighting in his stories. He spoke of when he and my mother were children how they would skate in Central Park and then skate to the Museum of Natural History at 79th and Central Park Avenue. The Security Guard at the entrance was a man they knew as Sugar. Uncle Carl tells me, "Sugar knew us because we were there every day. That's when Mom and Dad were both working so we'd spend our afternoons at the museum. Sugar would greet us in grand gestures and open the door for us." Uncle Carl chuckled at the memory, "Oh the hours we spent in Central Park and that museum. Hours and hours, so much time."

I'll be thinking about that when I pick Mom up, her as a young girl skating with her brother through Central Park park on their way to the museum. That's as clear an image of my mother's character as there ever was. And I have it now. I have that knowledge, that story.

Working through

Recovering from loss of a parent is a process and it takes time. Having gone through this before does not qualify me as better prepared. In fact, I've discovered that everything blurs, memories are not separated and the feeling of loss doubles. Grieving takes place in the heart, not the head. I'm not thinking my way through my grief as much as I am feeling my way through it. I'm not manipulating my feelings but allowing them and working with them. It takes time to locate how I feel, permit my feelings to surface and then deal with them, give them life, voice, time. At any given moment, I feel despondent, bereft, isolated, frightened and inadequate. Sometimes I feel relieved, and even thankful. And then, I feel guilty. While I understand there are no wrong or right feelings and that all are part of heeling, my heart is crowded and heavy.

A part of my life came to an end in January. And a part of my life began. Sometimes I don't know what to do with that.

Sigh

Twice this week, someone has asked me the question, How's your Mom?

The question has been asked by two people I work with, but not on a regular basis and not in the same office as me. It's the hardest question to answer. I feel my face warm, the breath leave my lungs. And I cannot say that she died, I am not able to do so yet. My answer both times has been, We lost her in January.

And when I leave the conversation, I walk away thinking how true the words and how tremendous the loss.

Applause

For the band's playin' one of my old favorite songs from way back when

The exact date and even the year are both outside my knowledge, but on a certain day of a certain year, and in a certain theatre in the city of New York, my Grandmother took my mother to Hello Dolly! during Carol Channing's first run as Dolly. Fifteen years ago, in Houston, I treated my mother to Ms. Channing's performance in her last run as Dolly. My father was relieved not to be dragged along and Mom and I enjoyed our night of just the girls. I delighted in Mom telling me at dinner about her first Dolly experience with her mother. I felt part of a special mother/daughter club and very much enjoyed my standing.

Tonight, I am going to see Hello Dolly! without my mother. And without Carol Channing. I'm a bit nervous, to be honest. I know I'll be missing my mother terribly. I'm only beginning to adjust to carrying on alone with what my parents instilled in me, even with such a small thing as love of the theatre and musicals. But I also know that when I'm there, I'll have my mother in my heart, just as my mom had her mother in her heart when she and I went 15 years ago. And I'll probably sing out loud and disturb my theatre seat neighbors, but I'll want to sing because in a way this will be like visiting the past and being greeted with, It's so nice to have you back where you belong.