Thursday, December 31, 2009

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.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

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.

Friday, December 25, 2009

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.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

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?

Monday, December 21, 2009

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.  




Thursday, December 17, 2009

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?

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

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.

Monday, December 14, 2009

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.

Friday, December 11, 2009

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?

Thursday, December 10, 2009

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.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

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.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

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

Thursday, December 3, 2009

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.