Once in a Blue Moon

Astronomers are calling for a Blue Moon this New Year's Eve.  As we wait on the cusp of a new decade, 2009 fades away under this year's 13th full moon.  An event so rare, it is sometimes called a "once in a lifetime" experience.

 A full moon, a full circle, a close to a decade that brought me births and deaths and great happiness and utter despair.  I am ready to raise a glass, under the gaze of the moon.  I'm ready to reflect upon my joys and losses.  Teddy's first tooth.  Our first home.  Job changes and moves.  Farewells to Sandy and Sassie and Gran.

It seems as if the Moon holds my fortune.  What will be cast my way in this new decade?  I feel like a small child, gazing up at the silvery orb, wondering what magic it possesses.

I am frightened, braving the unknown without Gran's steady hand to guide me.  I'm excited, thinking of the experiences my children have before them.

So I am moving forward, stepping out of the silvery moonshine to embrace my future.  Farewell 2009, goodbye to the aughts; bring on the Blue Moons.

And here's to you

I remember the first time I took a drink.... I was 11.  I poured bourbon into my lemonade, watched The Brady Bunch and thought about how much I hated my father.

I love the sound of a cork popping.  I love the slow pour of a aged wine into the appropriate glass.  I relish Stilton and Port.  I adore the sweet trickle and minty zing of a perfect Mint Julep.  The right combination of lime and vodka in a Cosmopolitan can make me swoon.  A good Zinfandel is like velvet... smooth and soft, warm and inviting.

I am in love with the beast.

I am never alone with a glass in my hand.

I sip between each sentence... I swallow between each thought.

I am anesthetized.  I wish.

I miss you.  I have no one to call.  I miss your guidance.  I miss your gentle drawl.  I have so much to tell you... so much I want to know.

Its only as good as the bottle is full.  Each pour, I suffer a little more.

The electric hum of the television in the other room is like a cadence.  My mother and husband sit before it and are absorbed with its offerings.  In the study, I try to write.  What can I say?  Christmas has come and gone.  As the new year approaches, all I can think of is that it will be a year without you.

I read a story today in The Washington Post about a 29 year old woman who had lost her husband.  29.  She had only yet begun to know herself much less her husband.  88.  You were 88 and married 70 years.  There was nothing left undone.  How happy I am that I had so much time to spend with you.  How scared I am that I have so much more to live without you.

I am weary with condolences; I am unsure whether or not you are in a better place.  I am frightened.  I am tired of being told that your suffering has ended.  Remember, we promised one another that whoever would be first to go would get in touch with the other?  Where are you?  If there is a heaven, surely you are there.

I take another sip.  I have ceased to taste the wine... my mouth is sour.

You gave me a gift this Christmas.  Days before your death, you chose a gift for me.  I am cored.

The days have wafted past... I am unsure of the time.  Mornings seamlessly meld into evening.  Easy come, easy go.

Of this I am sure... your beauty is unparalleled.  So soft your touch, so gentle your heart.  Maybe, maybe, I needed your kind of fairy tale magic... maybe you weren't all that you seemed to me... maybe no one can live to those standards... but I believe.

I remember my first drink.  I drank to forget.  It is so easy to pick up a glass.  Bottoms up, Gran.

Christmas

The ice has glazed the fallen snow.  A quarter moon silvers the ground.  I wrap my arms around myself to brace against the cold and watch as my breath mists into the air.

A week has passed.  The days ebb and flow.  Get up, go on, lay down.  I go forward.  I work.  I play.  I cook, and clean, and fold, and put way, and answer and question and finally close my eyes.  She's gone.  The first Christmas I can remember without her... without her voice, her hands, but not her gifts.  She chose a gift for me.  She chose a gift for me before she died.  A pottery lamb.

Carols ring hollow.  Words fall carelessly.  I operate on automatic.

Its been a beautiful Christmas.  A charming Christmas.  Beautiful gifts, bountiful food, good company... and yet.  And yet.

Merry Christmas Gran.  Wherever you are, the light shines brighter.

My angry heart

The day after Gran died, Virginia was inundated by an historic snowstorm.  We chose to drive south on I-95 in the midst of it to spend an early Christmas with Tim's family.

I felt myself gliding, acting on automatic; smile here, laugh there, eat... it wasn't so hard.

Coming home was harder.  The snow, heaved to the side of the street like so much refuse, had turned a dingy gray.  The lines of traffic ahead of us plodded slowly along, careful of the slick patches the snow plows had missed.  Light glared off the crest of the snow, blinding me. I had an hour in the car with nothing to do but think.

Today I sat in my psychiatrist's office with my five year old on my lap.  Crisply, I informed him of Gran's death.  He wrote me a two month prescription and conveyed his condolences.

I left his office disturbed at with the quiet in my head.  When I feel emotion, it is only anger.  I bristle when told to rejoice for her soul.  I seethe when told it is a blessing she is no longer suffering.

Sitting to compose this, though, I did think of how fortunate I am... I had time to adjust to the idea of losing Gran.  The knowledge of the imminent end allowed me to prepare myself.  I have no regrets, no secrets I didn't share.  Indeed, to many my loss may seem almost trivial... how many 39 year olds still have their grandmothers?  One acquaintance even sniffed, as I mentioned my grandmother's impending death, "And how old is she?".

True.  She lived a full life.

Yet, she also filled mine with so much happiness... and I have much more life to live without her.

Is anger part of the grieving process?

December 18th

Honestly, I was dumbstruck.  The cell phone almost seemed to burn my hand.  I could not believe that Charlie was relaying the message to me; Gran was gone.  How was I not the first to know?  As many times a day as I called, how was I sitting in the traffic line waiting to pick up the children and just learning that she had passed that morning?  The knowledge stung me like a slap to the face.  

I looked through the window shield of my car and saw the cross atop the school building.  I felt betrayed.  I felt abandoned.  I didn't feel relief that her suffering had ended.  Fuck God for making her suffer in the first place.

The whistle blew and I exited my car, tears coursing down my face.  Several teachers stopped me, embraced me; Teddy's teacher even suggested that Gran was in a hurry to meet Jesus before Christmas.  Jesus is right.  Jesus indeed.  Jesus Christ are these people serious?

She served her god.  She attended mass regularly.  She observed the stations of the cross.  She was a regular server for Adoration.  In the end, she wore morphine patches and had to have pain killers placed in suppository form.  God wanted that?  In his infinite wisdom, God created cancer and afflicted my grandmother with it?

I have questioned a lot in my life.  Interestingly, I have never questioned, Why me?  Why am I afflicted with bi polar depression?  I am unconcerned.  Some people are diabetic, others are hemophiliacs... I get it.  Some people are born to suffer.  A cross to bear, my mother would say.  Well enough is enough.  Pick on the rapists, the pedophiles, the murderers.  Sweet little grandmothers should be off limits.  

I used to be firebrand.  My tongue was silver and quick and I rarely paused to check with my head before using it.  I like to think I have mellowed and matured... that my bodily parts are more connected to my mental faculties.  Well consider me undone.  Unhinged.  For those of you who are devout, consider me uncouth.  Save a plane that crash lands into the Hudson but condemn thousands of innocents in Darfur?  Where is the logic?  Where is the justice?  The Infinite Wisdom?  When a "miracle" occurs, a baby snatched from fire, a warrior brought home, God is credited... where is God for the little girl smothered by her mother in Florida?  Where is God for Matthew Sheperd?  Where was God for Gran, and spare me the explanation that she was put out of her suffering because who would have caused her suffering in the first place?

I am spewing bitterness and hatred... most likely because it is a bile I cannot keep down any longer.  I am sickened.  My heart is halved.  

Green is a Christmas color, right?

I have always been envious.

I sat next to Brooke Hayes in our Methodist pre-school.  She was my best friend.  And I coveted her glasses, braids and pretty dresses.

I envied my cousin in Chicago with all her fancy clothes, which I received generously handed down.  She had a father who loved her; I couldn't fathom what that must be like.

With braces and acne, I envied all my friends with clear skin and straight teeth.

So I should've recognized the ugly emotion broiling within me last night, and held my tongue, but I failed.  Wine and comradarie loosened my lips and I spewed nasty sentiments about a gracious host.  Her home was "too decorated, too pat, contrived" I spat.  Her home, in truth, was lovely and large, and reminded me of the well appointed homes in the Delta.

I woke up this morning, feeling sheepish, my tongue thick in my mouth.  Not unlike a drunk regretting her antics, I thought of friends to whom I needed to apologize.

There will always be someone more beautiful, smarter, wealthier than I.  Why do I take that as a personal insult?

Christmas pasts

A dense low sky hung over Austin.  Icecicles sparkled from wires, tree branches, cactus nettles.  It was unusually cold.

I spent most of my days unpacking wedding gifts and attempting dishes like Marchand Du Vin.  Having barely settled into our new apartment from our honeymoon, going back east for Christmas was not feasible.    So we braved black ice and frozen armadillos and set out to find a Christmas tree.  We had ten ornaments.  Fortunately, misletoe and rosemary grow plentifully in South Central Texas, so I decorated herbally.

It was the first Christmas either of us had spent away from our parents.  It almost seemed taboo.  We drank champagne and ate citrus infused turkey.  We gave extravagant presents and skipped church.

When all of the candles had burned low, we retired.  Then as I lay in the moonlit room, I listened for Tim's breathing, as I held my own breath... knowing of course, that I didn't deserve such happiness,  and surely it would be taken away from me.

We have spent twelve Christmases together, twelve treasured seasons.  Some have been shared with parents, Gran and Grandaddy, and once we even stayed in our house with Teddy and Annelise, creating our own traditions.

Still, when all is quiet, after stockings and the rustling of wrapping paper, the meal and the satiated nap, when the last ember of the Yule log has burned low and everyone is under covers, I write our "memories" down, afraid that if such good luck is not acknowledged, it will turn bad.

Higher ground

I rode in his immaculate truck to the lumber yard.  He held one steady weathered hand on the wheel and the other he used to drink his endless cup of coffee.    He is one of seven children, catholic, old school.

Most people have horror stories about their contractors; I feel as if mine could be my grandfather, albeit a rather young one as he is in his sixties.

My own grandfather is mucking about in Mississippi, making lives miserable.  At 93, he is cantankerous, ornery and unapologetic.  He blames the world for his lot in life, a lot so many would be lucky to have.

Robert, my contractor, reminds me of the grandfather I thought I had, before I became an adult, before I knew better, before.  He is a hardworking self-made man.  He took risks, but he took them holding his wife's hand.  He made money and he lost more.  Then he rebuilt his business and recouped his losses without forgetting who he was or where he came from.

My mother followed my grandfather to the casinos yesterday.  She said he must have been doing 90.  he angled for the closest parking space to the building.  That's where my mother caught him.  Cagily, craftily, he cackled and wagged a finger at her, "I was just testing you", he called out.  It is despicable.  He is a sad Faulknerian caricature, embroiled in debt and deceit, sidestepping as his wife lies dying.  He wails and moans, cries and prays.  My mother wants me to understand his pain, his terror at losing his beloved.  My sympathy has run dry.

Robert turned the truck into my driveway and then caught my arm before I tried to exit.  "Careful", he said.  "You could fall from there; let me back up to more level ground".  Too late, I thought.

The last Christmas

70 years of marriage.  Through feast and famine.  A young city girl and daydreaming country boy.  A catholic and a protestant.  Irish and French.  Reticent and gregarious.

He jumped off a pier in Bay St. Louis, MS on July 4, 1938.  He landed on her sister Merrie Gayle but it was Fannie that he fancied.  She was petite yet curvy.  Black wavy hair and thick eyebrows.  I have a photo of her, standing in a restaurant parking lot, wearing saddle oxfords; it is black and white of course, but you can almost see her blushing.

It was a whirlwind romance.  Married February 15, 1939 in the big house on St. Charles Avenue.  He had big plans... oil, land and money.  He eschewed college to make money faster.  He was jovial and good looking but had a fierce temper.

She was young, 18, and naive.  Her family spoke french and had servants.  His father was a country dentist, though he had studied in Vienna.  Her sisters would marry men with college degrees, but Billy and Fannie were eager to get started with life.  They could smell opportunity and it was heady.

Money was made.  And money was lost.  Great wealth and staggering loss.  He was a gambler.  A business gambler.  He took risks.  She held the fort.

Children were born.  First Billy, then Susan, Merrie Gayle and finally little Gussie.  By the time Gussie was of age to go to college, only a state university was feasible.  In fact, at her fancy private girls school, their daughter Merrie Gayle had to seek financial aid.

Her love was unwavering.  When business deals went bad, they fled the Delta and headed to the Coast.  A fresh start.

A timeless love story.  Is it touching enough that I can forgive him now as he encourages her, semi-comatose, to live another day?  He cannot let her go, cannot fathom a day without her.  He sits by her bed and holds her unresponsive hand, watching Wheel of Fortune.  I know her.  I can read her heart.  She is living for him.  Who will take care of him, she wonders.  What will become of B?  She drifts in and out of consciousness.  You think she is sleeping and then you hear "God Bless You" in a small voice when you sneeze.  I know she is still there.  But I am willing to let her go... I am wanting to let her go.  Dear God, take her and end this suffering.  And yet... what will we do with Grandaddy?  How can you fill the void made from abstracting 70 years from someone's life?  Truly.  Who is he without her?  Does he become again that gangly  23 year old dreamer, living in the last year of his life he lived without her?  At 93, he can't possibly begin again.

As I watch his sorrow unfurl like some dusky funereal rose, I wonder how can we possibly pick up all the petals?

Taking it with you

I must've been eight.  We were still living in Spartanburg, SC.  There were already frays at the seams of our family.  My brother and I learned to play outdoors or in the playroom, far from the adults.

Charlie was 4 years younger than I and slight for his age.  He had yet to give up his fetid blue "Ni-Night" and still sucked his thumb when he thought no one was watching.

We played together frequently, and well.   Ambulance, House, Teacher... we kept our games simple but always mimicked adult behavior.

As I was bigger, and inherently bossier, we usually played as I dictated.  Charlie, sweet and reticent by nature, was happy to comply.  Our only bone of contention was The Chair.

Situated in the only corner suitable for watching the T.V., was The Chair.  It was a wingback with a loud abstract floral print.  We two comfortably fit into The Chair together, like kittens nuzzling to keep from cold.  I usually didn't even mind when Ni-Night was nestled between us.  We watched Scooby-Doo and sometimes The Brady Bunch.  However, I had begun to feel a little smothered.

There was a moment, I'm not sure exactly, when the tilt of our little planet shifted.  Seemingly overnight, my father awoke and decided to start parenting.  Suddenly my poor showing in math was pertinent.

My room was untidy.  My hair was disheveled.  I talked too much.  I was too negative.  I didn't try hard enough.

At night, next to my purring cat, deep beneath the covers, I cried myself to sleep.

I was too busy to play House, too grown-up to play Ambulance, too bored to play Teacher.

The Chair however remained the same.  When all my homework was completed, I was allowed to watch T.V.  Charlie and I sat together, gape mouthed, learning about meddling kids and ancient chinese secrets.

I was sour as vinegar.  I bit my ragged fingernails and picked at scabs.  I did NOT want to share The Chair.

Cramped, and caught in the folds of Ni-Night, I became irate.  I pushed Charlie from The Chair.  Unfortunately, an upholstery nail had poked through the fabric and as he fell, Charlie's leg, from thigh to knee, was ripped open.

I bolted.  "Safe" in my room, I hid underneath the bed.  I stayed there, among the dust bunnies and wayward toys, and eventually fell off to sleep.  I remember being pulled out and abruptly awakened.

I thought of all my heinous crimes, the Cs in math, the messy room, and knew that this latest of course was the most despicable.  I braced for pain.  And it rained upon me.

Audibly though, over the slaps and crying, was a small voice beseeching my father to stop.  My brother pleaded, insisted that the accident was just that, and that we two just no longer fit in The Chair.  In truth, we didn't.

My brother is 34 now and my father is dead.  Yet, the scars remain.

When your expecting

We sat at her dining room table, steaming mugs of coffee before us.  Our daughters sat quietly in the next room, perusing books and somewhat watching T.V.

My medication has resurrected me and my friend and I banter easily so I felt warm and open.  Mothers.  Frequently my conversations with my adult girlfriends center around our mothers.  When do they cease to become infallible?  When do you recognize that they are human?  When do you finally stop craving approval?

I was eighteen when I struck my mother.  Almost as tall as she, it occurred to me that I no longer needed to physically fear her.  I'm not sure whether she was wrong or right or even what the argument might have been about but I do remember when she slapped me and the split second I decided to slap her back.  Only 21 years older than I, and going through a divorce and dating while I was dating as well, made our relationship tense during my teens.  I remember with clarity that it was then that I realized that my mother was not in possession of all the answers.

However, it has taken me years to accept that I crave an approval I may never receive.  I have touched on this topic before but as my grandmother lays dying, I am reevaluating my needs.  What if love is enough?  I know my mother loves me; it is indisputable.  What if her love was so great, she expected more FOR me, not from me?

I know that I expect so much for Annelise; will anything ever be good enough?

As I cradled Annelise soon after she had been born, I remember the terror I felt.  I had always wanted a son, whom I had, and was frightened at the thought of raising a girl.  Eventually, she would become  13. Bleck... I am not greatly anticipating the teenage years.

Yet all of the possible future angst seemed ludicrous as I stared at her lovely face.  Her eyes seemed to posses depths unimaginable.

Annelise has been a remarkable child, an fairy book child escaped from the sweetest of stories.  She is gentle and seems fragile but is incredibly capable of standing up for herself.  She is bright and assertive, patient and funny.  So now, as I have donned the mantle of motherhood, I realize I must answer questions cautiously, pose questions judiciously and listen attentively.  And love without expectation.

Gathering time

When sunshine fell like rain
when giving love was the greatest gain
clouds were elephants, angels in the sky
only boo boos or broken toys could make you cry
your hand was small, warm to hold
you had no fears of growing old
those days so long since past
someone told you life would happen fast
remember to laugh, remember to dance
who knows in this life if you get a second chance

Plunging into madness, with a fork

I started with licking the spatula after I frosted the cake.  Pure sugar.  So to combat the sweetness, I ate a snack bag of Goldfish.  And then another, and another.  When the children came home from school, I tasted a piece of cake and then washed it down with Diet Coke.

A few scant hours later, we went out to dinner and I ate the Tater Tots and hummus before my entree arrived.

As the hole in my heart rips open further and further, I scavenge for food to fill it.

This is new for me.  I have always been thin.  The largest size I have ever worn is a 6.

I crave mashed potatoes and gravy, fried chicken, chocolate pudding and double bock beer.  I long for Coca Cola and truffle fries followed by caramel cake.

The further I descend, the more my hunger grows.  I am larger now than I have ever been.  And truly disgusted with my size.  The fabric of my jeans strains over my ever expanding girth and I pilfer my husband's tee shirts to swath my frame.

It's not as if I surrendered; up until two weeks ago, I was running and working out biweekly with my trainer.

And then... a week off my medication, a week of personal losses... and then the withdrawl.  It has begun already... already I shy from the phone, retreat from touch, avoid eye contact.  It's like picking up Crime and Punishment... you relish every page even though the story is morose, you eagerly digest each sentence, even though you know the outcome will not be pretty.

I am Cassandra.  I know my fate.

The descent... it is like coming home, to an empty house.  You recognize the artifacts, even welcome the familiarity, but it is lonesome.  No lights have been left on.  The refridgerator is bare.  It is like when you came home from college and your parents had turned your room into a guest suite.  You lay your weary bones upon the bed but the paint is different and the sheets are new and your photos have been taken down and as you spin off to sleep, finally, you aren't even sure where you are.

I wear my madness like an old coat; I need it but know I have outgrown it.  Haven't I?  Shouldn't I recognize the coat, shrug it off... didn't I cast it off before?  Why?  Why do I don it now again?  Even as it settles around my shoulders, as I pull it in close underneath my chin, I swear it won't be long.  I filled my prescription today.  It shouldn't take long... should it?

The food.  The memories of Gran.  The nettles of everyday strife.  I can break free of this... can't I?  If I can write about it, how far along have I gone?  Although... I still lift the fork.

I will always be your girl

I haven't showered in two days.  I saw New Moon last night for the second time.  I am listening to Outkast while writing this post.  I haven't been thinking rationally.

Through an unhappy coincidence, Tim's surgery was scheduled for the same day as my psychiatrist appointment.  I missed Dr. Rahman.  I have been off my medication for a week.

My skin is pulled taut over my bones; it blisters to the touch.  I have been cooking and crying.  The cakes turned out too flat.  The egg whites won't peak.

Gran was read her last rites yesterday.  Hospice has applied morphine patches to quell the pain.  She slips in and out of consciousness.  I caught her yesterday afternoon and she whispered she would wait for me upstairs.

How did I become a middle aged bottle blonde crying to The Pixies in the kitchen?  When did I stop holding a hand to cross the street?  When did I start buying products called Regenerist?  How did December become just another month with 31 days instead of the crescendo of the year?

My eyes are swollen; I've taken to wearing sunglasses, all day, indoors.  I've bitten my nails to the quick.    Two days ago I ate 10 chocolate covered pretzels for lunch.

It's a miracle she lived for 2 years, my mother breathes over the receiver.  I hold the phone a good distance from my face so she cannot hear my sobs.  I cannot tell her, I cannot tell anyone my blackest secret.  If she dies, when she dies, who do I remain?  As long as she breathed, I was still young, her namesake.  I study the puffy face in the mirror; the creases, the newly emerged folds, the flat silver hair.  When did time cease to crawl?  I waited an eternity to turn sixteen.  My days now are wild horses, rushing the paddock, flattening the earth.

carrying the wait

I am tired.  Small children bother me.  The barking of dogs disturbs me.  The bread burns, the pot boils over, the water scalds, the bills mount, the milk curdles, the laundry sours, the phone rings incessantly... nothing is simple.  Life rushes ahead and none of it is comforting.

I am bitter.  Everything angers me.  Every simple chore has become a difficulty.  The sink is stacked with dishes.  The dog is not yet potty-trained.  The sheets need to be changed.  The floor is unswept and the lawn needs to be mowed.

I seethe with each task.  I gain a pound each time I look at food.  My hair has ceased to grow.  My skin blossoms with irritation.  Wine sours in my mouth.

I listen for the unspoken.  I keep note.  I bide.  I track.  I feel to my core the impending change.

Each jangle of the phone nettles me.  I answer warily.  It won't be long.   I am short and dismissive.  I am abrupt and irritable.  I drink more to feel less.

It is a countdown.

I've been told it won't be long, not to expect that she will last till Christmas.  I've been informed that she is already gone, that I wouldn't recognize her, that she is not the Gran I knew.

The children are sleeping.  The dog is in his crate.  The din of the TV hums from the other room.  I type. And delete.  And type.

Tomorow, the sun will rise and the it will begin again.  The dishes will still need to be washed, the paper will be spread out on the kitchen table, the dog will need to be walked, the litter will need to be changed.  Who knows how many things will remain the same?  Who knows if the unimaginable will come to fruition?  Will she leave me?  Will the sun set upon her face again?  Will the night fall without her heartbeat?  I spend these days waiting, wondering...

I am short.  I am tender.  Touch me lightly.  I cannot bear the weight.  The wait.  I cannot bear.

Twilight approaches

I do not venture out into the cold and wet.  I turn on enough lamps to light the whole house like daybreak and I busy myself.  I reorganize Tupperware cabinets or sort through linens.  If particularly bored, I might even iron.  Usually, I wait until around 11 AM EST and then I call Gran.  Yesterday was rather gloomy and chill, so I puttered about the house and then placed my call.

Her voice was a sad slow whisper.  I worried that perhaps just holding the phone would tire her.  She commented on the weather and how nice it was that my mother was visiting.  I tried to sound upbeat and chatty, commenting on my children's busy schedules but she had trouble following the conversation.

I call almost every day, afraid that every conversation will be our last.

I have nothing left I need to say, no admissions or pleas for forgiveness.  I do not need to convey any unspoken wishes or feelings.

I simply want to hear her voice.

I wish that I could hold her tissue thin hand in mine one more time.  Moreover, I wish was small, my plump hand in hers as we run errands through the sunny streets of Clarksdale.  I wish I was 15 and playing tennis, trying to return her wicked serve.  I wish I was 27 and receiving the beautiful peignoir she bought for my honeymoon.  Anywhere but here, anytime but now.

Every ring of the phone twists the strings of my heart; I pick up the receiver apprehensively.  I know soon I will take the call I have so long feared.

There will be no shock, no sudden loss.  Instead, we have endured this long goodbye.  Each day she weakens, slowly drifting away.

It is like watching twilight edge over the earth; the sun fades away as the darkness descends.

The Anniversary Post

There is laundry, dishes, lunches to be packed, dog poop to be disposed of, negotiating with the contractor, searching for fixtures, making up beds, vacuuming, sweeping, tidying... before noon.  When Tim gets home there is endless schlepping, fetching clothes, water, wine.  Put the children to bed.  Feed the dog. Scoop the cat litter.  Take out the trash.  Deep breath.

With Tim's foot broken, the chores around the house are endless.  And my patience is limited.  I regret getting the dog.  I second guess adding on to the house.  I rethink life in general.

Gran is dying.  The cat has chased the dog under the chair in the kitchen.  The dog yelps in distress.  Tim asks if everything is alright.

How is it that I am the one in charge?  I don't want all of this responsibility.

Well, too bad.  I signed up for this eleven years ago.  I fully disclosed my illness to Tim and he chose me anyway.  He lived through two pregnancies marred by my suicidal rants.  He pieced me back together when Sandy's death shattered me. He supported me when I told him that I could no longer work outside the home.

I hate when people say "Marriage is hard work".  It shouldn't be... marriage should be the toughest job but the one you love to face every day... not "hard work" but putting in long hours and dedication.  Don't liken marriage to a sentence.  Don't condemn yourself.  Marriage is a blessing; life is the work.

I probably won't be pleasant the next 12 weeks or so.  I will be short tempered and frequently have bouts of "Why me?" but in truth, few people have it this good.  I am temporarily inconvenienced but I am forever blessed with marriage.

A fading light

When I visited in the summers, she made pecan tarts and carrot and raisin salad, two of my favorites.  When she came for Christmas, she always brought spiced pineapple and homemade chex snack mix.  One Spring Break in college, two friends and I drove to the Gulf Coast and stayed with Gran and Grandaddy.  She made chicken pot pie and stocked the fridge with cheap beer.

My grandmother has always expressed love through her food.  Red beans and rice.  Snickerdoodles.  Chess squares.  Cheese grits.  Coffee with chicory. And later, when I was of age to drink, Yellow Birds.

So it crushes me now to know that Gran is not eating.  Her body is systematically shutting down.  She is whisping away.  My mother says her stomach is distended and constantly gurgles, audibly from the bedroom to the den.

I cannot picture my grandmother's kitchen without her in it.  I cannot imagine her house without its savory aroma.

The cruelty of the situation is that she still has her mental faculties.  Certainly, she is forgetful but she is cognizant.  She understands what is happening.

The question is what do I understand?  What will my world be like when I can't pick up the phone and ask Gran for a recipe or guidance or just a tender word?  In truth of course, we don't talk about recipes anymore... our conversations are brief and consist mainly of reports on my children.  I did just ask her a few weeks ago if I could freeze cookie dough.  I know I could've ascertained that by using Google, but I wanted to ask Gran.  I wanted her to know that I still need her, still love her, still want her help.  I always will.

All words fail me.  What I wouldn't do for caramel cake right now.

The right recipe

The summer Andrew was born, the tomatoes would not ripen.  They clung to their green skins until they split in the heat.  A slow mold had edged it way up the cinderblocks of our foundation and my brother Charlie and I drew pictures in it with sticks.  Laundry wound not dry on the line and trees lost their leaves early in August.

Gran came.  Andrew was born on a sultry late june day.  Gran was there to mind me and Charlie.  She cooked and cleaned and made me some new summer clothes.  I do not know what happened when the lights went down.  The adults spoke in heated whispers and you could hear crying in the dead of night.

We took our new baby down to Mississippi to be baptized.  We were a hobbled family at best... Sandy had left, I refused to wash my hair, Charlie wouldn't take off his ridiculous Fisher-Price tool belt.  Yet Merrie Gayle remained regal and composed.  She pinned her lush auburn hair back with tortoise shell combs.  She stood tall and proud in the dresses she had made herself.

If anyone was unhappy that Sandy wasn't there, I didn't know it.  I myself was so glad to be rid of him that I couldn't fathom why anyone would want him around.  Andrew was feted and celebrated, held and petted.   Still at night, the sobbing from the other guest room would leave you breathless.

I remember sitting in the kitchen while my mother and grandmother deveined shrimp.  The boil of the pot made me nauseous.  Suddenly, I fell ill.  And was racked with crying.  I couldn't stop and I couldn't explain why I had started.  The pot boiled over and left to myself, I bolted out the back door.

This I know is true; my father did not come to my youngest brother's baptism.  My beautiful mother wept in closets, bathrooms, under pillows, anywhere she could be alone.  Neither of my grandparents ever said an unkind word about my father.

I have learned to love shrimp and green tomatoes.  It hasn't been an easy journey but with the right amount of seasoning, coating, I can tolerate almost anything.

truth and consequences

I was unattractive during a time when looks are prized the most.  I was fifteen and my most remarkable feature was my braces.  I tried to cover my flaws but only so much can be accomplished with a curling iron and Sea Breeze.  It was all very unfortunate.

I worked for the dress shop downtown.  Mrs. Derrick employed Washington and Lee boys for manning the mens side of the store and local girls to handle the ladies.

My world had become small and dark that year.  My parents impending divorce left my family anxious and surly.  I withdrew from friends and spent a lot of time roaming the woods with my dog.  I think that is why parents asked Mrs. Derrick if I could work for her.

I was a small town girl, homely and lonely.  Peyton was handsome and worldly.  He drove a fast car and wore Ray Bans.  His chestnut hair was always slightly disheveled but his clothes were impeccable.  He was friendly and funny.

Within an instant I had developed a crush.  I bragged to friends in high school about my cool older W&L friends and before long I had fabricated a relationship between me and Peyton.  I wanted so badly for it to be true that I honestly think I fell for my own stories.  Of course, Lexington being the size that it is, word circulated fast and a friend's boyfriend, who knew Peyton, heard the rumor.  He knew of course that it was a lie but rather than addressing the issue with me, he took the news to Peyton.

Singlehandedly, I had cast myself from lonely wallflower to social pariah.

It was not long thereafter that I ended up on my mother's bedroom floor next to an empty Tylenol bottle.

It wasn't love or shame that put me into that place.  Of course I was humiliated and worse, I felt terrible for Peyton as I had besmirched his reputation.  I wasn't just simply a spurned girl suffering from heartache, nor was I  just a liar caught by her own web... I was sick.  But how could a fifteen year old explain that to the 21 year old she had just lied about?  I didn't have the knowledge; I didn't know that the beginnings of my manic depression had manifested.  I didn't have the arsenal to begin the fight.

Years later, when I was 22, a friend and I crashed a bachelor party in a hotel room in Roanoke, VA.  I heard his voice before I saw him.  I could feel the flush creeping up my face, the perspiration gathering at my hairline.  Christ, I thought, just don't let this be Peyton.  I thought briefly, hopelessly, that maybe he wouldn't remember me.  My friend grabbed my arm and propelled me through the room.  I could feel the bore of his eyes before I looked up to see him.  I watched as a slick sneer drew across his mouth.  Someone handed me a cold beer and I brought it up to my fevered forehead.  Just please, please don't let him say anything, not now, not while I am standing here, I thought.  My friend introduced us.  I hesitated, withholding my sweaty palm, waiting to see if he could bear to touch me.  "I think we've met", he mumbled and walked away.  We left shortly thereafter.  There was raucous laughter as we departed  the room, and I wept quick hot tears of shame, wiping them away quickly before my friend could see me.

You forget while you are balming your wounds, or fighting the throes of depression, you forget that you are not the only one who suffers.  It feels like it is you against the world... only it isn't the world.  It isn't the unrequited love or the umpteenth traffic ticket or the high tax bill.  It isn't the crummy job or the sordid home life or the wretched grades.  You want a culprit, you want a foe with a face but the closest you get is staring into the mirror.

Fools Gold

So I read today on CNN.com a story, and I will call it a story and not an essay, by a british psychiatrist in which she claims she conquered being bipolar by using Mood Mapping.  I paused and thought about all the times my mother had told me to "pull myself up by my bootstraps" and to "let go and let God" or to just "buck up" and I thought if I could get my hands on that dumb brit quack I would strangle her.

At 23, as I let the warm bath water close over me, I thought to myself if I had been more positive, if only I had chosen to look for the bright side, I wouldn't be high on pilfered drugs and trying to drown myself.  It was a fallacy of course.  There is no bright side to being bipolar; sure, the mania can foster great creativity and true, some artists can become addicted to the manic highs but they crash eventually.  I never would have found a bright side to any facet of life without Wellbutrin, Zoloft and Abilify.

It is irresponsible, reckless and even murderous to suggest to someone who is bipolar that they can overcome their disease without the aid of drugs.  It is ridiculous, misleading and blatantly false to suggest to them that they can even overcome the disease, period.  You don't "beat" being bipolar; you manage your disease, much like a diabetic.

Heavily pregnant with my second child, I should have been beatific.  Instead, without my armory of drugs, I was suicidal, again.  I remember sitting on my kitchen floor, painting a baby gift for my friend Susan, and weeping, the tears trickling into the oil paints, leaving a watery trail.  My mother cooked frantically at the stove, trying to feed my family as I rocked myself back and forth, wondering how on earth I would care for my 2 year old son much less my unborn child.

As Dylan Thomas wrote, "Do not go gentle" but arm yourself.  Mood Mapping might assist you but it will never cure you.  Drugs will allow you to function but they won't inoculate you.  You are a winged creature battering yourself against the cage just as a normal human being... we are asked to perform miracles every day; forgive, forget, assist, devote, donate, shelter.  Bipolar, you are blindfolded and deaf locked in a cage of thorns.  Therapy, drugs, perhaps Mood Mapping, these weapons should be used together; no one is powerful alone.

Also on the CNN website this morning was the story of the german soccer player who had killed himself by jumping in front of a train.

Depression is a sly curse; it is a hunter undeterred by the strength or beauty or stature of its prey.  It is manageable but as with any management, you must first know your tools.  Maybe Mood Mapping has a place in assisting the bipolar but a cure, a singular savior, it is not.

Taking care

The pile of the carpeting felt itchy upon my face and the ringing in my ears was incessant.  There was a full moon and it cast its sad pallor over the immobile objects of the room.  My mother's chest rose and fell comfortingly and I pretended that her breathing was a lullaby casting me off to sleep.  But the bile pitched from deep within me and I retched upon the floor.  I shook my mother awake and told her that I had overdosed on Tylenol.  I was fifteen.

The ER nurse forced me to swallow charcoal to absorb the toxins in my stomach.  I cried and feigned ignorance; I had simply taken too many capsules to conquer a painful headache.  I pleaded stupidity and hoped that I would escape the mental ward.  I winced when they jabbed the IV into my arm, but in truth, honest pain was more durable, understandable... I was scrappling with the unknown, the intangible.  Blood and physical pain were welcome intermediaries.

They released me, with a few notable head shakes and stern warnings.  I went home.  We made cookies.  It was Sunday.

In another environment, perhaps I would've shot up heroin.  Maybe I would've snorted the next available drug.  In Lexington, VA, I went back to high school and sat through Earth Science.  Lucky.  My options were limited.  There were no guns in my house.  I hated knives and was terrified of ropes.  The strongest drug in our medicine cabinet was Tylenol.  How fortuitous.  How strange.  How simple.  My options were limited.

My friends bemoaned unrequited crushes, lamented poor grades.  I secretly swelled, poisoned with my knowledge, my affliction, my fatal desire.  Homecoming, exams, Valentine's Day... the days rushed past me... and I flitted between reality and my morbid obsession, my greatest wish, the desire to end all pain, all suffering.  My parents marriage dissolved around me, my grades crumbled, my mind withered... I vacillated between hyper-productivity and vast withdrawl.  I couldn't explain to anyone what had absorbed me because I was at a loss to understand.  Was I depressed?  Was I elated?  My pendulum swung to such extremes.  I loved.  I hated.  I could dance a thousand steps; I couldn't move a muscle.

Time did not care.  My friends moved forward... awards were won, grades were earned, love was requited, rejected, renewed... and I remained.  I staggered through life.

It stretched interminably... my adolescence.  I slept.  I awoke.  I labored, I failed, I drifted, I stalled.  Somehow, I lived.

Today.  Today, I savor.  I relish.  I marvel.  And I mourn.  What if I had known?  What if someone had seen and understood?  What if someone had thrown a line?  I am 38.  Married.  Loved.  I have stared down death and put aside angst and collected my broken parts and moved on.  But what if it had never come to that?  How bitter am I?  How much of me is still unknown?  Is that different from anyone else?

There are some wounds that escape time... they never close.  That doesn't mean you can't move forward... you move gingerly, you favor a leg, you skip a step.  I walk with a limp... on especially cold days, the day my father died, the day I lost my first baby, the day I ended up in the UVA Psych ward...my gait is a little jaunty, a little encumbered... we never walk away unscathed.  Our wounds, our scars are our merits.  I have never covered my scars; it took too much to earn them.

What we are left

The phone split the silence.  He was gone.  Mary Alice had been with him until his last breath.  The soft lavender of dusk edged the horizon.  I hung up the phone and measured my breath.  What was really over? The man who was my biological father had died.  A painful battle with cancer had ended.  What else? How much would be buried with Sandy at Arlington Cemetery?

You are a child.  Your days are spent looking up.  The countless things you are told to do are followed.  You measure your worth by your parents reactions.  I lived my days to make my parents smile.  Each child does that.  Careful what you expect of your little ones... all they want is to see you smile.

I remember the glint of the fading sun, hitting the cars parked outside our house.  The air was sharp, painful to inhale.  Gone, I thought.  But what is left?  I am left... standing here, remembering a thousand hurtful things.  February, I thought.  Remember this day.  It was a bitterly cold, yet sunny day.  There would never be another opportunity to make him smile.

Gone.  What was gone?  The sorrow, the pain, the shame?  None of that would dissipate.  We are left.  We the living are left with what cannot be taken... the nebulous strings, the tenuous ties, the heartbreak, the burden.  We bury and we carry.  We put to rest the vessel and keep the contents, messy and portentous.  We sift through the sands which are remaining and grasp, desperately trying to give shape, meaning.  We clutch at what is left to us and try to decipher... anything, something.  Death is a merciless angel; there is no solace for those who are left behind.

There is no reach beyond the grave.  There is no warmth, no embrace to remedy an old wound.  Use your time wisely.  Mend your fences while the sun still warms you.  Tomorrow is never a forgone conclusion.

Careful what you wish for

We had moved to Austin and it was unseasonably cold.  An ice storm prevented a dear friend from the east coast from visiting.  Tim and I took solace in expensive dinners and wine.  We were newly wed and new  to each other in so many ways.  We tried to embrace Austin as our great adventure.

I had left a fantastic job at The National Confectioners Association when we married.  Alone in Austin, I slept late in the morning, shopped for and prepared extravagant meals and romanticized the east coast.  Tim worked long hours but brought home flowers on numerous occasions.  We drank champagne and traveled.

So we were ill prepared when I missed my cycle.  Terrified.  And bereft.  Our extended honeymoon was rapidly ending.  I called Gran and tearfully related my situation.  She understood, having gotten pregnant on her actual honeymoon.  She assured me that our new stage would be equally as exciting if a little more challenging.

I set adrift.  Suddenly, I felt alien... to my new life, to my husband, to myself.  No more champagne.  No last minute travel.  Nauseous, I could no longer bring myself to cook.   I could feel myself withdrawing from the tidy little life we were beginning to carve out for ourselves. Doubt and anger nestled in my soul and I fought myself to regain a sense of sanity. I mourned my lost lifestyle.

And then, seemingly, an answer to my misguided prayers.  I began spotting at a friend's wedding.  Immediately, the halves of my heart severed.  I felt relief... and guilt.  I had longed to be released from what I had perceived more and more as a life sentence and then, when my wish had been granted, did I realize the portent, the grace which had been granted to me.  The loss was staggering, a serrated jab to the soul.  I felt hollowed, incomplete.  And responsible.  Tim had wept inconsolably as we drove away from the hospital.  I sat, numbed and shocked by my own duplicity.  Hadn't I willed this pregnancy to its end?

Our life moved forward.  We acquired a cat, a house, frequent flier miles.  I buried my grief, and my guilt.  We learned more about wine and how to prepare fish.  We befriended neighbors and hosted parties.

The rest of the story can be summarized in any suburban housewife's diary.  We got pregnant and returned to the east coast.  We had babies and pets and courted memberships with the zoo and the Smithsonian.  We added on to the house and changed jobs and stumbled toward 10 years of marriage.

But when its quiet, when the night has blanketed and the days worries have been  eradicated, the last meal fed, the last story told, when the sheets are tucked under chins, I wrap my arms around myself.  I quiet my soul and listen to my unsettled mind and wonder... what in life are we truly responsible for if not our deepest wishes?  For when they come true, you alone are holding the reins.

Valentine's Day is Over

He was 21, what seemed so much older, wiser.  I was 19 and insecure.

I was at Miami University, a transplanted sophomore.  I met Mark Little at the first party I attended.  I had not even intended to meet anyone.  I wanted to moon into my beer and bemoan the distance between me and my high school sweetheart.  Mark was a senior; I thought him a man.  He asked for my number.  I insisted that he give me his instead.  I think I really believed that I would throw it away.  As it turned out, I didn't need it.  I remembered that he was an architecture major and walking home from the library late one evening, I ducked into the hall where the architecture students were making their presentations.  I shyly asked around if Mark Little was there, half hoping he wasn't.  Yet there he was.  Beautiful.  Far too beautiful for me.  He seemed ethereal.  His blonde hair fell over his face and he pushed it back in consternation.  He looked up and caught me staring.  I stammered.  He smiled.  It was effortless.

His intensity bore through me.  Mark was direct and thorough.  I quickly became a priority.  I had never felt desired before.  Loved.  Respected.  Not desired.  Mark was fervent and impassioned.  Even his skin seemed hot to the touch.  He stood close to me when I was speaking.  He walked with my step.  He found me witty.  I found his wanting me intoxicating.  I drank him in.   I craved him.  It was a rapturous semester albeit an abstinent one as well.  I lied to myself.  I lied to my boyfriend.  And when Mark declared he loved me, I lied to him too.  I told him to find someone else.  I told him I didn't want him.  I believed that I had taken the moral path to true love, standing by old boyfriend.  Really, though, really I was terrified.  I couldn't see what Mark wanted in me.

And now almost twenty years later, I can recall with clarity conversations we had almost verbatim.  I remember the moonlight trek to a Quarry pond, the silver ripples below us as he reached for my hand.  I remember tracing the planes of his face, marveling at his perfect bone structure.  I can recall the crush of him, the urgency behind his first kiss.  Twenty years later and though I rejected HIM I bet Mark Little does not remember my name.  For all of his professed love and romantic notions, he never could have imagined the impact he had upon me.  Mark chose me and for that I am eternally grateful.  Of course, it would be years still before I even knew what to do with the knowledge he had bestowed upon me... too late for him, far too late for us.

He made me a tape which I tragically lost only but a few years ago.  The love songs were poignant and bittersweet and I imagined him laboring to choose the right ones.  He introduced me to Billy Bragg to whom I cannot listen without weeping.  I can see his long delicate fingers, nails bitten to the quick, carefully writing the songs on the tape cover.  His handwriting was beautiful, lacy yet you could run your fingertip over the words and feel how he had ground the pen into the paper as if he was forcing his soul into it.

I wrote him once.  Selfishly, I told him I had made a mistake.  Brazenly, foolishly, I told him I would take him back.  I wonder if he laughed when he read that.  Humbly, yet distantly he wrote a short missive back wishing me well with the rest of my life.

Of course, I am happy with my life.  I feel loved and fulfilled.  Still, Must I paint you a picture  evokes a longing in my depths.

An accurate picture

It was like biting into the most tempting fruit, bracing for the delicious flavor, only to discover that it is sour, not sweet.  Not entirely disappointing, but not what you were expecting.  High School.

I've been thinking a lot about high school.  Autumn usually turns my thoughts to the past, especially those school age years.  However, I have also dredged up old mementos recently as my Happy Hour gang is gathering for a Haunted Halloween 1980s Prom.  Scary.

I have written quite a bit about the depths of my depression and the toll it took during my adolescent years, however, I have not extolled on the wonderful highs I experienced during that time.  Bi Polar is as the name implies, radical swings between mania and depression.  Although tinged, I did have great times in high school.

The bittersweet pain of an unrequited crush, the thrill of a great grade,  the sticky anticipation surrounding Prom, the rush from performing on stage,... I was not immune to these.

He sat behind me in Earth Science freshman year.  Raleigh Mason.  He was taller than the other boys, strapping even, while the rest stumbled over gangly limbs.  The other boys were brash and rowdy, vacillating between critiquing the feminine figure and arguing over last night's game.  Raleigh was reticent, reflective.  In truth, I did not know him well enough to accurately describe his personality but I imagined him moody and sensitive.  I romanticized him.  He ignored me.  My imagination flamed.

Medicated and educated about my depression now, I reflect quite a bit on what could have been had I simply known my ailment.  I was never a stellar student but I think perhaps I could have been.  Intermittently, I found my footing and excelled in certain courses.  Sophomore year, my english teacher, Mrs. Drake, allowed me to participate in an independent study.  I wrote reams of poetry, expurgating my  soiled soul.  Mrs. Drake encouraged me, plying me with authors our little library didn't even stock.  I earned a perfect score and more importantly validation.

My junior year found me still mooning over Raleigh Mason and fretting about the impending prom.  Rumors swirled that Raleigh might ask me, however I also caught wind that he might go with Rebecca Worth.  Adamant that I would not be relegated a castoff, I took the initiative and asked.... Alex Reithmiller, a boy who attended a private school.  I was brave enough to ask a boy, just not brave enough to ask THAT boy.  A large group of friends decided to gather pre-prom at Fran Downey's house.  I have a snapshot to commemorate the evening; a gathering of sparkling, smiling girls and puffed, proud boys and front and center I stand, sullen, casting a sidelong look into nowhere while everyone looks at the camera.

By senior year, I hit a high in my mania.  My grades radically improved.  I played soccer, danced ballet, made Homecoming Court, and auditioned for the lead female role in the school play.  I hardly recognized myself.  In truth I didn't stand still long enough to look in a mirror, afraid that the old me would step out from the reflection.  I got the part.  It was as if the cage around my heart had opened and a thousand song birds flew into the sun.  At such a dizzying height, you would think I would've walked slowly, carefully planting each footfall but instead I seemed a performer, racing across the tightrope, blindfolded even.  Our play won regionals and went on the State competition, where we were disqualified for unsuitable material... my character projected too much sexuality!  Although disappointed that we could not compete for the state championship, I was thrilled that I had performed so convincingly.  Heady, emboldened, I harnessed the energy from my character, and pursued my latest crush.  He rejected me, though a month later HE asked ME out.  The rejection barely stung, so impressed was I with myself.

Along the way, at each of this pivotal points, I was surrounded by my incredible friends...Cary Ward, Drewry Atkins, Aaron Hickman, David Phemister, Brice Rose, Joshua Elrod, Susan Groves, Missy Philipps, Jack DeCourcy, David Harbach, Jenny Darragh, Angie Jackson, Gloria Fennel, Sarah Williams, Ian Wallace, Cochran Lyle, Shawn Grimmer, Carla Smothers, Stewart Worrell... the names too many to enumerate.

In short, it was the American High School experience... friendship, failure, love, lust, rejection, triumph.  I am recognizing now that your past is what you choose to remember.  Too often I have felt doomed by my previous failings, rather than lifted by my accomplishments.  As I have pulled out my old yearbooks and tried on the old prom dresses, I can recall clearly that there was also sweetness in that fickle fruit.

A night to somewhat remember

I was thirteen.  Adolescence was not kind to me.  My face was inflamed with acne and my hair hung lank and oily.  I was thin and gawky.  Ashamed of the breasts I had recently developed, I curved my shoulders improbably forward, concaving my chest.

My parents had separated when I was 11 and had reconciled.  I did not rejoice.  My father and I were constantly at odds.  I thought him cruel and insensitive.  He thought me insipid and irresponsible.

That year in school was the first my grades began to slip.  My crippling disease, though yet infantile, had begun to worm its way through my psyche.  I fantasized about death while my friends dreamed of sock hops and honor roll.  Unaware of my crumbling mental state, my parents decided that I was lazy and shiftless and those were the reasons for my less than stellar academic performance.

They started with punishment.  T.V., phone calls, weekend outings... all curtailed.  Yet as I slipped further from reality, they realized their efforts were futile.  Next came the cajoling, the promises, the possible rewards.  As I had no social activities to distract me, I did focus slightly more on my studies.  My father dangled his best carrot; if I could make honor roll, he would take me to The Homestead for dinner.  The irony is that such a proposal left me terrified, yet my grades improved.  Dramatically so.  I made Honor Roll.  My father crowed and picked a night to drive an hour and thirty minutes to dinner with his sullen, forlorn teenage daughter.

I don't remember the drive, aside from the fact that we stopped at East Lexington and picked up a six pack for the trip.  I want to say that it was a startlingly cold, cloudless night, but I am unsure.  I do remember that I was served sorbet in between courses and that I wore a handed down Gunne Sax dress, loaned by my cousin.

I wish that I could recall a magical evening, a turning point, a realization or a reckoning at least.  I imagine now that we drove home in silence.  Perhaps I fell asleep.

As my depression deepened, my grades inevitably sunk lower and lower.  All promises and punishments were rendered idle.  My parents were too absorbed in their own tangled web to notice that possibly something stronger than vapid teenage despair was at hand.

Obviously, I survived.  And now, on an annual pilgrimage, I take my own family to The Homestead for President's Day weekend.  The dining room, though remodeled since  20 odd years, is still the same and sorbet is still served between courses.  I don't think of him much; like Leonard Cohen once beautifully warbled, "That's all.  I don't think of you that often", I recall Sandy every time I set foot in The Homestead.  Never mind that I will never remember a word we said to each other that night; at one time, maybe only even once in my lifetime, Sandy focused on me.  For an entire night.  I wish I could say I felt special.  I wish I could say that one night was enough, that I had a deeper understanding, a connection.  "That's all.  I don't think of you that often".  I always weep when I listen to Leonard Cohen.

Civility

So I was driving in my car, in Northern Virginia traffic, with a two year old in the backseat.  When the woman from Maryland cut me off I snapped, "Nice!  Thanks a lot!" to which the two year old responded "You're welcome, Mommy.".

Can we still function while practicing good manners?  Is it possible to ignore the woman with 50 items in the Express Lane at Safeway?  Are you capable of smiling when someone you have met 100 times introduces you by the wrong first name?  Is it beyond us to bless a stranger who has sneezed?

My paternal grandmother was a stickler for manners.  She stressed how to hold a soup spoon, how to answer the phone, in which direction the toilet paper should unroll.  It did not endear me to her.  I bristled under her tutelage.

Yet, today I find myself constantly questioning, "Was that appropriate?".  Much has been written about the death of civility in this country.  Pundits have expounded on how base the population has become.

I couldn't disagree more.

A short study of history should provide anyone with the clear prejudiced, misogynistic racist society which has flourished since the dawn of man.  The cruel workings of humanity rendered the great works of Dickens, Jouvenal, Harriet Tubman.  Reams have been written about the diabolical deeds of the Romans, Visigoths, Mongols, and Nazis.

It is not that we have denigrated.  It is that there is no longer a tolerance for these heinous behaviors; the media has routed evil and shown it to us ad nauseum.  We are no worse a species than a hundred years before; we simply know more... more about the twisted strings of the human heart and the soaring heights of compassion.

I believe in humanity.  Don't ever let anyone tell you that the world is going to Hell in a handbasket... the world has seen plenty of hell and it still manages to give rise to Mother Teresas and Dali Lamas and the hundreds of nameless souls who toil every day to leave the it a better place.  We are not worse; we simply know more and sometimes knowledge is damning.

Seeking solace

My mother asked me to stop writing my blog, although, to my knowledge, she has never read it.  I'm not sure if she was speaking for herself or for the family, but apparently the idea that I am "airing dirty laundry" is frowned upon.

My mother read The Help.  She loved it, even though she was raised in Mississippi in the privileged class.  I thought perhaps she would be interested in my post about the book.  She read about half before she stopped and yawned.  She patted my shoulder absentmindedly and said "fun" when I asked for her reaction.

When do we stop looking to our parents for approval?  When will I wake up and say to myself, "Ah, today I feel like a grown-up"?  When does your own approval become enough?

I remember my senior year at Mary Washington I was taking an English course with a professor who encouraged us to write and to do so frequently.  I took this encouragement seriously and brought my work to class to share.  Evidently, I shared too much because I remember being rebuked for asking to read a newly written poem.  I was stung.  If that class wasn't the appropriate forum, if I couldn't find support there, where was I supposed to go?

I've always appreciated tangible results; I miss the grading system from school.  I am rudderless in the open world, trying to navigate what I need to share and with whom I share it.  I still crave approval.

In truth, I never should have expected more from my mother.  She has loved me but she understands me about as well as I understand Quantum Physics.  She has never asked to read my work and when I have foisted something upon her, I am always disappointed by her reaction.

Will I be able to appreciate my children's unique gifts?  Will I read what is handed to me; will I watch what is performed; will I support that which I perhaps may not understand?  I hope so.

As my mom left the room and continued to clean and organize my shabby life, I stood there crestfallen.  I couldn't keep the baseboards clean or iron the clothes properly, but I bare myself with every post and strive to write honestly, persuasively.  Will I recognize what is right and pure about Teddy?  Will I be able to acknowledge Annelise's talents?

When will writing what is on my mind be its own reward?

The Landslide

I have suppressed this post for quite a while now... I didn't know quite how to broach it.  Women never fondly discuss aging.

I never believed that I would struggle with getting older.  I have never been a great beauty, like my mother, so I was sure that I wouldn't mourn a loss.  However, I recall quite clearly now something my Gran said years ago and it is so apt; youth is its own beauty.

I lived in my mother's shadow.  She was tall and willowy.  I was short with powerful thighs.  She had thick auburn hair while mine was baby fine and dishwater blonde.  She was curvy and vivacious.  I was petite and reticent.  She grew up in the deep south, where beauty was touted as a woman's ultimate gift.  I grew up in Virginia with professors families who encouraged me to get a PhD.  She spoke with a drawl.  I spoke Latin.

I kept things simple.  Minimal makeup, maybe lip gloss, and short hair.  I embraced fashion but kept a safe distance from trends.  In short, I tried not to compete.

Now I stand poised at the cusp of 40.  Suddenly, I have almost been rendered invisible.  As a young woman, I could walk into a room and acknowledge a few heads would turn... because of my youth.  Now I am relegated to Mother status.   The situation is not assisted by the fact that I am growing out my hair which now hovers just below my earlobes, thus clinching my Soccer Mom title.

And I am shocked.  I miss the attention.  I miss the position, the slight power a single young woman can wield.  I have to buy my own drinks now, damn it.  I don't have to fend off untoward conversation from leering young men.  I don't command attention.  And I am further shocked by who does... yes, youth is its own beauty.  I watched this past weekend as my beautiful late 30 something friends sauntered around the bar and stared in amazement at how the men there were fixated by women who were only under 30, even though my friends were clearly more attractive.

So what is beauty?  Can only the young hope to be considered beautiful?  What about knowledge and kindness and understanding... all of those things that frequently accompany crow's feet.

Maybe it doesn't help that I am reading the Twilight series; all those eternally young attractive vampires and a heroine lamenting her impending age.  I don't know.

Can you miss something you never had?  I was never a beauty but yes, I was young...

The Conditions of Love

We picked up a new puppy on Sunday; a seven week old Boston terrier.  He is instant family.

I had two noteworthy pets growing up.  Each taught me invaluable lessons about love, commitment and tolerance.

Major was a German Shepherd.  He was a beautiful animal... sleek and muscled.  During our time in the country, before Sandy left us, Major and I spent spent better parts of entire days roaming the woods.  We lost ourselves numerous times and stumbled our way home.  We encountered snakes and spiders and most horrific, my own imagination.  Major was a constant companion; a fierce protector and a loving friend.  However, he was better suited to country life than city and when we had to sell our house in the country, because we could not afford it after the divorce, Major also needed to find a new home.  I was devastated.

Shortly after we acquired Major, we got a couple of barn cats.  I instantly took a strong liking to the gray tom cat.  He grew up solid and being a cat, when we made the transition to town, he acclimated fairly well.  Mr. Gray.  Short, soft pearl gray fur and golden eyes.  He was probably 15 pounds but light on those 4 feet.  He was stealthy and low key, loving and gentle.

When the world ceased to turn and the sun refused to shine for me, Mr. Gray was never far.  Times when I could not bear my own reflection and the din of others voices could drive me mad, the caressing purr of Mr. Gray would soothe me to sleep.  His loyal affection never wavered.  The cat had an uncanny sense of need and was readily there when crisis struck.

I went to college, graduated, lived life and moved on.  Still, whenever I visited home, Mr. Gray provided both primary and undying adulation.  I relied upon his warm acceptance and unbridled affection.

I was in my thirties when Mr. Gray was either hit by a car or struck by some predator.  My mother found him curled upon our front step, his injuries innumerable.  I have never mourned a death more than that of Mr. Gray.  I weep as I write.  Mr. Gray solaced me.  When I could no longer communicate with people, that gentle gray cat would climb into my lap and give me purpose.

It has been said that animals provide unconditional love.  I think that statement belittles animals.  I think they recognize us, the good, the bad, the entire package.  Theirs is not a blind love.   They have the capacity, the enormous power to forgive... it is not unconditional; I have known animals that have recognized undeserving people and have demonstrated their disgust.  The love of an animal, if you are worthy of it, is total.  Total acceptance.  An animal can look at a misshapen face and find beauty.  An animal can forgive your neglect.  An animal can sense your pain.  However, an animal looks deeper than we are capable... they are better judges of purity.  Animals love conditionally.... upon the condition that you are worthy of love.  An animal's love can redeem you, but you must be deserving.

I have given my children this tiny expectant little bundle... it waits, for love, for learning, for life.  And I wait for the precious lessons it will bestow upon my children.  God bless the animals, great and small.

Mississippi, learning

You want to do yourself a favor?  Go pick up a copy of  The Help.  It is the most jolting read I have had since The Bluest Eye.  The author transports you to Mississippi in the 1960s and gives you the most startling, revealing account of race relations I have read.

For some inane reason, I have always been proud of being a  Mississippian.  I have always revered the genteel culture and the fabulous cuisine.  I grew up, in Virginia,  in what was strangely both a homogenous and integrated atmosphere; most of my immediate friends were caucasian, protestants but everyone got along with everyone else.  At Reunion, I was particularly happy to see my African-American friends.  Yet, I idolized the most wretched state in the union.

Mississippi to me is sweltering heat, sweet tea, cicadas, pecan tarts, tennis and cocktail hour.  It's saying Yes Ma'm and dressing up for football games.  It's caramel cake and Tabasco and cotton fields.  And though I have read numerous books by many a great African -American author about the woes and abominations of Mississippi, I could never ignore the fact that Gran was Mississippian and therefore, it must be good.

The Help is a fantastically accurate book about the close and tremulous relationship between black maids and their white employers.  I ache, reading those poignant words about loving little innocent babies and tolerating their racist mommas.  The author nails the inflection, the accent and vividly describes the social strata.  I should say here that it is written by a white woman.

My Mississippi has nothing to do with silver being polished, and country clubs, and monogrammed clothing cast off to the maid.  I don't reflect upon separate bathrooms for different races or the tribulation between choosing between your white mother and your black momma.

Should I?

Yes.  I have been wooed and silenced by the nostalgia.  I have embraced the romanticism and ignored the ugly truth.

I have never asked Gran how she feels about African-Americans.  I know that prior to the last Presidential race, she told me she thought Obama was a man of integrity, an intelligent man and that of all the potential candidates she supported him the most.  Now my Gran is catholic, so I have a hard time believing that she would for a democrat, but I hope.

I cannot picture my Gran spitting on another human being or belittling someone because of the color of their skin; she is a lady.  But is she open-minded?  I don't want to know if she is tolerant; I want to think she is supportive.  I want.

Can I love someone unconditionally if they are bigoted?  Do I want to know if SHE is? I have never heard a prejudiced word from my grandmother; never seen an act that would make me ashamed.  Is that enough?

Black people have been running the state of Mississippi since its inception... raising white babies, chauffeuring white men, picking white peoples' cotton.  However, now Mississippi is being run into the ground.  It is the poorest, least educated state in the nation and yet more Fulbright scholars come from Ole Miss than any other school.

The Help.  I close my eyes and picture Hilda, my grandmother's maid for so many years until she had to go on dialysis.  I picture the beautiful" high yellow" woman who made the best biscuits and sweet tea at my best friend Brooke's plantation.  I know the Help.  Now I know the suffering they went through to make my Mississippi possible.

Would I write this if I had spent all my years in Mississippi?  Would I have the courage, or more importantly, would I have the insight?

I am like an embarrassed teenager shying away from her parents... I love being Southern and yet I am ashamed of what that connotes.

Fear

I've been afraid of a lot of things in my life... mostly of being alone.  Sure, the usual suspects prey upon me as well... spiders, heights, needles.  However, my real fear was always that I would end up some wasted old woman, barren and bereft, idling her days away with 99 cats.

I have been spared such a fate.  A husband, two children, two cats and a dog on the way later, I am no longer afraid of spinster days.

My fear now is more bothersome and less solvable.  I constantly fear that which I cannot control, mostly the fate of others.   I cannot control the terror with which my Gran lives; I cannot control the cancer ravaging her body.  Nor can I control the ridiculous circumstances which may force my mother out of business.  And I am rendered useless in balming their wounds... no number of visits or plenitude of floral arrangements will stop Gran's cancer.  My money will not stop the rain which has poured into my mother's shop and flooded her inventory, leaving a rancid trail of black mold.  No amount of wishing or praying will make these ails cease; I know, I've tried.

Surely there is nothing worse than standing by and watching your loved ones suffer.

Dream

It was deep into the night and I awoke, dewy with perspiration.  I had dreamed again of Sandy, Bio-Dad, my father.  He was ashen, perhaps even dead, but speaking to me nonetheless.  I woke with a start.  I "dream" of him frequently... I quote dream because it connotes happy thoughts.  I guess I should say I envision Sandy in my sleep.

I never envisioned Sandy while he was living.  I rarely thought about Sandy while he was still alive.  I frequently referred to him as Bio-Dad and called my stepfather my Father.

My dreams have always been vivid, colorful, breathtaking.  I often feel I am more intelligent in my dreams than in reality.  I speak different languages, quip gracefully, spar efficiently in my dreams.

If I had dreamed of Sandy while he was alive, perhaps I would've dreamed that he was the father I always wanted.  Perhaps I would've dreamed of wreaking revenge upon him, for all of the angst and heartache he bestowed upon my family.

I don't dream about my  fourteenth birthday, when I was given an ABBA cassette, even though it was mid-eighties and I didn't listen to ABBA, even though I didn't have a cassette player and the 99 cent sticker from the truck stop was still on it.  I don't dream about my fifteenth birthday, when Sandy gave me a pearl earring, necklace set, marked 18-24 months on the box.  I don't dream about the countless soccer matches, ballet recitals, dress rehearsals, homecomings, Proms, he never made it to.

I also don't dream about stage 4 cancer.  I don't dream about the clinical trials or the chemo or hospice.

In my waking hours, I think frequently about that one cold saturday in March; a knock upon the door and I opened it to a smallish grayed army man wearing a beret.  My surprise, my shock to recognize that there before me stood Sandy.  Hadn't he seemed so much larger?  He asked to come in because I was too stupefied to invite him.  I quickly called Tim, begged him to come home from errands with the children as fast as he could.

He's gone, of course.  No more awkward phone calls received in the late hours of night, no more inappropriate gifts for me or my children (a farting bear, really?) to acknowledge, no more tense introductions, no more disappointments.

Except, I am still waiting for an appropriate 15th birthday gift, the proud applause, the escort, the fatherly hug.  Except, I'm still reeling, stunned that Sandy could die.

I also dream of sticky sweet summer days in the Delta with the unrelenting sun beating down and the taste of Gran's cooking and the comfort I feel in when Tim envelopes me with his big 6'4" frame.  I dream of my children and what I can offer them.  Dream... not envision.  I dream about those things.

Barcroft

When Gran and Grandaddy started to age more rapidly, I thought they would retire to the Coast since my Uncle Jon and Aunt Susan and most of their kids lived there.  I thought they would enjoy being surrounded by grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  I thought the easy clime would be especially welcome, given Gran's knee replacements.  So I was bewildered when they chose to move back Clarksdale, 6 hours north yet decades behind.
 
The Delta has spawned many a great poet and plenty of beauty queens.  Deltans have fostered fantastic food and have an innate sense of style.  However, Clarksdale's days of glory have long since passed.  There are faded reminders in the crippled downtown; shops shuttered and streets abandoned.  I couldn't imagine why my grandparents would leave family for this backward burg.

My family of 4 lives in respectable home in a small community.  The house is "cozy" and the address is in the less illustrious south side of Arlington, not the pedigreed North.  Truth be told, I rather loathe the house.  It is a 1950s ranch with all the charm of a block of wood.  We have painted and papered and even added on but the house remains a ranch.

So why am I about to embark on a rather pricey endeavor and add yet it again to this less-than-dream home?  For the same reason my grandparents moved back to Clarksdale; we have found our niche.

Our friends come from varied backgrounds and strata.  Some are athletic, some are artistic, some are complex and some are carefree.  All have children who fall somewhere in ages between my own.    People frequently ask me if I wish to return to the small southern town in which I grew up and where my mother still resides.  I have no intention of doing so.  It is a charming, cerebral little town with much to offer... but I have been there.  In my own little village of Barcroft, I have carefully cultivated a group of friends whom I cherish.  We have shared births and deaths, weddings and divorce.  We have cooked for each other and tended children and cheered our athletes in their races.  In our most trying times, as struggling parents, we have bolstered one another and turned the time into one to be cherished.  I feel understood and appreciated.

It is a gentle community, one of sweet families and happy memories.  My house, though humble in origin, has given rise to many a great occasion.  I could love another house more but without the close camaraderie of my neighborhood friends,  the beauty would lose its luster.

The fruit of Love's labor

My earliest memories are of Gran.  Gran in her Diane Von Furstenburg dress and blue spectator heels.  Gran with the western Texas sun setting behind her.  Gran bringing my mother a bag of treats for the kids as we prepared to move from Clarksdale, MS to Spartanburg, SC.

Gran was fifty years old when I was born.  I was not the firstborn grandchild or even the first granddaughter but I was named for Gran.  We had an immediate connection.

Through my harrowing adolescence, I took solace in my relationship with Gran.  She was my refuge.  I spent summers in the sultry Mississippi delta.  I flew into Memphis and Gran and Grandaddy would be waiting for me.  We would make the 90 minute drive through lush cotton fields and carefully planted pecan groves down to Clarksdale.  Grandaddy was jovial, charismatic.  Gran was reticent, careful with her emotions.  Gran never teased or tickled.  When I was child, she may have treated me as such, but she treated me as an inferior.

Through my college years, I made many poor choices but I never lost touch with Gran.  I would frequently ask myself, "Would Gran be ashamed of my behavior?".  And I have written reams  about how much she has influenced my life.

My thoughts tonight are about how much I influenced Gran's life.  Did I remember the birthdays?  Did I call just because?  Did I write enough letters?  What is enough?

I think I all I had.  I have loved Gran to the fullest extent.  I have shared secrets and traded recipes.  I have called to share funny moments and I have called in deep despair.  I have listened and disagreed, respectfully.  We made a promise; whoever dies first will contact the other... and I believe it is possible.

She is, to borrow loosely from Tom Wolfe, the full measure of a woman.

So how will I carry on without her?  Certainly, I have surrounded myself with trustworthy, lovable people.  I have carefully weeded those whom I thought might be poisonous...like Sandy.  The irony is not wasted upon me;  cancer will claim both my most estranged and most endeared.  The two people who have left the deepest impressions upon my soul will be taken by the same despicable disease.

 The heart is lyrical; there are many tunes to be played. Gran has given me the necessary chords.  When she is gone, I will still need to play.

Defining Moment

"What do you do?".  It seems like an innocuous enough question. And it generally is.  However, for me, it is a loaded question, one which is a scathing judge.

I was prepared to meet this question head on at my reunion.  People are curious and most venture out every morning to some building where they spend the majority of their time and collect a paycheck.  I was never particularly good at spending that much time away from home.  Even when young, I was borderline agoraphobic.  I begged to be rescued from sleep-away camp and I cried myself to sleep the first week of college.  I like familiarity.

For the last seven years I have hidden myself under the cloak of motherhood; I was staying home for my children.  I had no such excuse when we lived in Austin and found myself coming up with snarky responses when posed with the question (I'm a social critic.  I'm the CEO of the Gray Establishment).  With both children now in school, I find myself in a precarious position again.  People judge you, define you by your work.  What if you don't work?

I used to tell people that I would've made a fabulous courtesan, before I realized that the term actually means "high class prostitute" instead of a dilettante.  I can hold a fascinating conversation about Juvenal's Sixteen Satires and can wax poetic on Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Leonard Cohen but I am pretty sure I would have no clue how to function as a cashier at Trader Joe's much less trade stocks during the day at home.

When I was suicidal, my obituary sometimes came to mind.  Macabre, I know.  I wallowed further into depression thinking that the obit would be no more than two lines.  When you're bipolar, you frequently define yourself as either "good" or "bad".   I'm good now... on my meds, seeing my psychiatrist regularly.  Should that be enough?  Have I used my depression as an excuse so that I do not have to try to accomplish more than just healthy?  I read that Madeline Albright didn't go to law school until she was in her fifties.  So why, at 38, do I feel as though I have hit my plateau?  Is being bipolar holding me back or is there a deep seeded fear of failure that I need to confront?  What goal can I set for myself?  Who do I want to be?

The triumph of the Scarlet Hurricane

There are sometimes when I sit to write that I can barely breath as I viciously attack the keyboard.  And then there are times like tonight when I know there is something to tell but drawing it forth is an epic endeavor.

This past weekend cannot go by without being duly noted in this blog.  A 20th reunion is a celebration to say the least.  Celebrating it with people you would still chose to befriend 20 years later, is astounding.  Our "reunion" for a class whose school no longer exists, was pulled together in 45 days.  Out of 105 graduates, thirty-something people gathered.  David Martin flew in from the other side of the country.  There were a dozen or more people who represented the hometown and then various others scattered along the eastern seaboard.  We called and heckled those who couldn't make it.  We reminisced and drank and laughed as though twenty years had passed in twenty minutes.  There were athletes and preps, homecoming queens and drama queens, country boys and city girls.

I'm sure there were some who were curious about old flames, some who had something to prove, some who wanted comfort and some who wanted a good time.  Reunions are a smorgasbord for the curious.

It was a lazy afternoon, cerulean and warm.  The river drifted gently past as a handful of small boys rippled its waters.  People mingled and hugged, repeated their stories endlessly, hoping for glimmers of understanding, reckoning.

The night settled amicably and the beer flowed.  We gathered as we had years ago at a friend's house, whose parents were out of town.  This time we bought beer legally and drank responsibly.  We talked about children and housing markets, football teams and high school memories.  

Our time is fleeting.  The sun can set too early upon your best planned day.  My past has not always been easy to look back upon but if I hadn't I would have missed the opportunity to reconnect with so much of what was good about my youth.  That little high school of 500 in the Blue Ridge mountains housed giants. Its so good to know that they all still walk among us.

Crap shoot

I am lucky beyond my wildest wishes.  Don't get me wrong... I've put in some serious time.  If misfortune builds character, I have more than a Shakespearean play.  However, when I climbed out of bed at the luxurious time of 10 AM today, I felt like a queen.  Both children in school and the day rolls out in front of me like a red carpet.

I know luck.  Good. Bad.  Luck and I have waged war.  I've won airline tickets to France and I have been suicidal twice.  I've had my heart broken, more than once, and I found the love of a lifetime.  I can take Luck on.

Yet I am powerless when Luck goes bad for those I love.  I have offered to help.  I've given what I could but sometimes that is not enough.  I have offered money, my home, my shoulder... sometimes, there is nothing you can give.  Watching someone suffer is painful.  Luck is a brutal mistress.

I was fifteen the first time I tried to take my life.  My parents were separated, I was abysmal in school and pocked by acne.  My mother was drowning in her own desperation and my brothers were young.  I overdosed on tylenol.  More of a cry for help than actual attempt?  Probably.  Yet I was thrashed by bad luck  and wanted to end the pain.

I'm thirty eight now.  Medicated, happily married with beautiful children and a lovely home.  I am lucky.  Lucky that I married someone with great health insurance to cover the outrageous cost of my medication.  Lucky someone loves me.  Lucky I lived this long to find love.

Tonight I feel especially lucky... and sad.  I have dear friend who is not so lucky.  She is brilliant and brave and she followed her dreams and they led her to a sad reality.  Friends are harder to care for than family.  They are squeamish about receiving aid, especially financial.

In addition to my brave, brilliant friend, I have a family member who needs a savior.  She calls upon her God.  I want to convince her that God choses angels... that maybe I am one for this person.  Can I work a miracle for her?

Luck.  Good. Bad.  The roulette wheel constantly spins.

The price of life

The daily struggle.  What am I, who am I, without this disease?  What would it feel like to walk after being immobile?  Your whole life spent on the sideline, watching the game, cheering for others.  Yeah.  It's like that.

Facebook is a marvelous tool.  Frightening, but marvelous.  As I dredge up old memories and old friends, I wonder, who did they know?  Who was I?  I remember so well riding in a bus back to school after a tennis match... Jim Osbourne was reading some poetry of mine that I had recently submitted to an English teacher as part of an independent study.  Drewry Atkins queried, "Isn't it good?" and Jim said "It's all so depressing".  But could I have written a word without being depressed?

I take 5 pills a day to function.  Just one of my prescriptions alone would cost $450 monthly without insurance.  It is no small feat that I sit here today pondering my existence.  I estimate that it takes about $700 a month to keep me alive, barring food and drink. Am I worth it?  Can you put a price on what you contribute to your family, your neighborhood, the world?

Recently I read that a Stay-At-Home mom would earn an income of about $150K annually if paid.  What is the measure of quality?  Do my children get $150K worth of a mother?

The bitter side of blessings

The milestones of my life - graduating from college, my wedding, the birth of both of my children - are momentous and to be treasured.  However, a deep love was instilled in me as a child and the memories are precious yet simple.

 The taste of lemon chess squares, the sound of Gran's high heels on the sunroom's brick floor, the rose scented hand lotion in her bathroom. Gran.  The deepest well of memories I hold, contains memories of Gran.

At three in the morning, I lay awake.  I can feel Gran slipping away.  Each time I call, she sounds a little more frail.  She has lived with cancer now for 2 years.  She is 88.  

I cannot imagine not being able to hear her voice.  She is my constant.  I have never known a moment when I have not felt completely loved by Gran.  I have questioned the love of my parents, my children, my husband, even God but I have never questioned Gran's love.  Knowing her has been my blessing and losing her shall be my curse.