Hell in a Handbasket

Well, I guess its safe to say, you got out in good time. It's been minus negative degrees here on pot-hole island and frankly, I'd like to believe whatever powers you acquired on the other side, have you able to manifest perpetually sunny days.

Two years ago tonight, you left your mortal coil (i love that phrase..its so appropriately dramatic). I think I would prefer to consider it the Anniversary of your Liberation.

I am more sad on your birthday, or mine, or my siblings. On days when we celebrated living and being alive.

Death is something different. It is to be be revered, and celebrated more than mourned. It is a moving on, a graduation of sorts. So, Congratulations? That feels kind of weird. Good Job? Not really.

How's it going? That's what I really want to know...what's it like over there?

In this picture of us we look like we are peering into the future. I have to say, you look kind of skeptical. For sure, there are crazy weather patterns and freak natural disasters smattering the globe. The biggest man made error in history happened in the Gulf of Mexico this year, so our oceans are pretty much destroyed. I'm glad you went snorkeling in Mexico when Leah got married...that's a perfect way to remember it.

I think I look hopeful, and I'm happy to be here... holding down the fort, as it were. That's what you and I, as Capricorns do. Our archytype is the One who gets the tribe through the winter. Also in the Chinese Zodiac, we are both Ox. I can go a lot of places with that, but lets just say that Oxen are so rooted in the stability of the earth, that they are the quintessential long-game members of the zodiac. I've got the long game in mind, and I think it looks really good. Definitely stay tuned.

You will always be the Boss of me.

The summer before you died, when i came home to stay with you, we spent a lot of afternoons sitting on the deck, drinking ice tea in our sun hats, reading magazines. You had, (as you always did), piles of home interior magazines. You seemed to never tire of glossy pages with room after room of fabrics, furnishings, lighting, texture and color. I brought my past year's subscription of Yoga Journal and read articles on Ayurveda, meditation and alignment tips for poses I had been working on.
In the weeks that we had been home following your diagnosis, my siblings and I had quickly fallen into our roles as courtiers, of sorts, entertaining you by displaying our talents, gifts or efforts for your delight and amusement. Because you have strong Libran tendencies, in life you loved all things sensual. I tried often to create yummy things for you to eat, but it wasn't long at all before your body's need for earthly sustenance diminished, even before you mind was ready. It satisfied you for awhile to order up elaborate, exotic, or just very specific meals that you would eat, if you could...and then it became the responsibility of our brothers and Roger to eat your fancies, while you sipped on split pea soup. So unfair.
Meanwhile, my sister Megan was running around with her tool belt and a power drill, trying to re-create scenes that you found in your Interiors magazines. You pointed at the host on the do-it-yourself program beaming from the television set, telling your first born, the heart transplant nurse, "You should do that". It was remarkable how you directed an entire household to do your bidding by pointing a sharp-nailed finger into a magazine or at the television and then digging it into the arm of the person meant to execute the wish.
Speaking followed eating on the way out the door, and we developed some fairly primative modes of communication. Along with the visual aids and poking commands, you would often point in the general direction of the person you wanted to make commentary about. For example: we might be sitting at the table in the morning with our coffee, (which you still poured into a cup every morning and set to your lips, long after you stopped being able to drink it). While flipping through a mail order clothing catalogue you would point at an outfit and then point at me or yourself, to tell me who you thought would favor the style. Or you might point at something and give me a thumbs down if you thought it was ugly. I would repeat back to you my interpretation of your opinions and you would nod no or yes until you got your point across. It was an entertaining game, and kept you participating in conversations, even though your being was beginning its slow recede from this mundane world.
It was frustrating during that time to have so much silence surrounding your final time with us. I longed to hear your voice and ask you questions and take your commands or criticism or opinions on anything. I wanted you to retell every story I had ever heard pass your lips, I wanted to gather it all up and save it for the future when you wouldn't be here to deliver. So I didn't mind the endless games of 20 questions, modified charades and picture association, and as much as I wanted to indulge your wishes, I truly valued your voice.
So when I felt the finger poking through the cover of my yoga magazine that late summer afternoon, I peered over the top to find you with your big sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat. I raised my eyebrows at you and you pointed at the yogini on the front cover doing Eka Pada Galavasana, one-legged flying crow.
Then you pointed at me, then you pointed to free space on the deck next to my lawn chair. This meant, "I want to see you do that". Obediently, I stood up and began moving through some postures to warm up, while you sat along on your chaise, sipping tea, patiently waiting for me to perform. I think mothers are the first to recognize talent in their children, and it is their job to cultivate the natural gifts of their progeny by creating an atmosphere for practice. With respect to piano lessons and grades and general merit, you did this simply by saying." You are capable of this, therefore I expect it," there wasn't a lot of coddling or propping up.
That summer, yoga was my therapy. It was my outlet for all the stuff I couldn't possibly deal with straight on.. but I never thought of it as something I was actually good at. After several minutes of expanding and contracting and a fair amount of ungraceful shimmy-ing, I was balancing one leg on the backs of my tricep, while the other leg extended out behind me. I managed 2 or 3 breaths before literally hitting the deck. You smiled and nodded your head. "You should be a teacher", you said. With that, you stood up and went inside and I sat there staring at the cover of the magazine and felt that little seed plant.
It would be months before I could really think about anything besides surviving. But once you had passed, I started to cling to everything you had ever said, especially in the end, you were so economical with your words.
I don't know if it means the same thing where you are now, but for what its worth, you were dead on. I can't imagine anything feeling more right than teaching yoga.

Happy Birthday from You, to Me..

Hi Mom.
In 1 hour and 45 minutes, it will be 12:14am CDT, marking the 36th anniversary of our relationship...hope you don't mind, but I'm going to keep counting for both of us. As it's our first one on opposite sides of this dimension, I wasn't really looking forward to the new arrangement. You always used to call me and tell me about the day I was born, and it was the part of my birthday I most looked forward to. Your voice, so calm and smooth, telling the story as if it came from your very core, made me feel like there was at least one other person in the world who revered the day, as much as I. Repetition was effective, and I can now recite the story to myself, and forgive me if there are minor embellishments, as sometimes whim and fancy overshadow memory.

" On the day you were born, I knew it was going to snow. The barometric pressure had dropped, and so had you. You are Monday's Child, (and a Midnight one, at that), so the day leading up to your arrival was Sunday. We went to church that morning, and dropped your sister Megan off at Aunt Julieanne's. I told your dad that i thought you would be here by nightfall and he smiled. He was excited to be a father again.
The whole world felt quiet and sleepy, that first Sunday of 1974; but you were swimming and stirring the whole day long and I was sure you were going to be a dancer. I felt very calm and confident when we checked into the hospital. Technically, you were my third baby, and i knew pretty well how to read my body. While your sister and your half-brother took their own sweet time making their entrances into the world, i was certain that once my water broke, you would be very close behind. Your dad and I were very relaxed...that's how we were back then- laughing and joking about how if i had a hundred babies, probably all of them would be late. i really thought you would be born before midnight and Grandma would be so pleased that you arrived on the Catholic Feast of the Epiphany...but midnight was drawing near, and i was still only dilated to 2.
Your father was getting hungry, and things didn't seem too pressing, so i sent him downstairs for popcorn. Almost immediately after he left the room, i felt one powerful contraction and then my waters broke. There was a tiny bit of apprehension, but otherwise i was pleased. It was Showtime.
I calmly called for the nurse, and in her stead, got a newly minted candy-striper who dutifully raced to my bedside, tripping and stuttering...'Yes, Mrs. Wroblewski?! What can I do for you?'
'Call the Doctor,' I said. 'This baby is coming.'
'Oh no, Ms. Wroblewski, your baby can't be coming...you were only dilated to 2', the young lady observed.
A force was coming over me, and I knew with great certainty that you would arrive within 10 minutes, despite the apparent lack of "scientific" evidence. I wasn't panicked, but i was stern: "Call your nurse, NOW!" I commanded. The nurse and doctor had both been called, but no reply-and my contractions were seconds apart by now. That poor young candy striper was white as a ghost. She was trying to think of every possible alternative to her delivering the baby herself when she got an Anesthesiologist to come to my bedside. I was literally at the point of pushing when she screamed, "Stop! Don't push!"
The next thing i knew, there was a mask coming down over my face, and i felt my left arm swing wide.
"Get that thing off of me, this baby is coming!" I proclaimed. A small battle ensued as i struggled to retain consciousness and at the moment of climax, I saw the nurse fly in past a pale candy-striper and a red-faced anesthesiologist. I grabbed the bed rails and instructed in a convicted, though raspy voice, "Get down there and catch this baby".
You wiggled out, into the tentative hands of an unprepared nurse, just as your father sailed into the room in cap, gown, mask and popcorn...tears in his big blue eyes and a huge smile across his face.
The doctor arrived to officially announce your birth, 15 minutes later.
I always knew you would be independent, caring not if the world was ready for you. Happy Birthday Sarah Jane. I love you."

I was wondering about a few things....

Bless me St. Catherine,
I haven't posted on this blog for more than six months...

When I started writing here, I was trying to find a method to communicate with my mother, who had been diagnosed with ALS and lost her ability to speak.
I had intentions of recording those days with visual and written expression, which I think are often more pure and effective than verbal means; and I am so glad I captured what I did,
because it went by fast.

Now, 212 days after her death, I still want to talk about her and remember her, call her on Sunday mornings and ask her how to get an ink stain out of the Irish linen tablecloth.

I wonder when I can expect my hair to really start coming in gray? Mom "enhanced" her hair color for-EVER. I'm sure she was gray, but who would ever know? Her own mother, is 95 years old and has jet black hair.
I look at myself in the mirror and write down my birthdate, and I feel too young to be in the world, without a mother.

In addition to starting this blog, I tried to interview my mom after she got sick, asking her questions about her life, trying to cram in the 25 or so years I took for granted she would be around...
This method pretty much went the way of all forced endeavors, and week by week, her communication with all of us became increasingly limited, and markedly labored. My siblings and I would sit around with her in the evenings and recall perfect moments that had bound us all together is some multi-sensory way.

"Remember that place we used to go for breakfast after church on Sundays? The one with the strawberry waffles and the tiny boxes of cornflakes that Leah would always order?" We would all smile and our cheeks would flush a little bit.
"Is that the place with the Acquarium? Was it by the gas station where they used to come out and pump your gas and wash your windows for you?" I think so, that was the place.

It was an exercise in synchronizing our connections to one another, and particularly, to our mother. She would laugh when we would all find common ground, and strangely, she would egg us on, if we started to argue. She just liked to see us engage. It must have been a trip to regard the countless combination of traits she had contributed to 50%, of the DNA, of five individuals.
In her last months, Mom's communications was all physical. She would either be laughing with her mouth wide open, or poking you with her long finger-nail to show you that she wanted you, especially, to pay attention to whatever was being done or said in the moment. And most surprising to me and my big, healthy sisters and brothers, was her increasing strength when she would curl up her 59 year old, bony-ass fingers and punch us in the arm. She weighed 110 pounds but her knuckle carried the weight of a thousand maternal reprimands.

But when we would ask her questions about details that had yet to be recorded, she would mostly just look through us, and shrug her shoulders. I felt desperate to discover where I've come from, in order to know who I am.

I still have things I want to ask you Mom.
So maybe if I post them here,
and send them into the ether,
you will hear,
and speak through me.

We Have A Winner

Today Mom thought it would be nice to show us her check from publishers clearing house. Its only a small amount but she is determined to win that big prize money and have Ed McMahon show up at her door. She made me put up more christmas lights the other day since she loves to put us to work; undoubtedly, once she wins, Ed will be able to tell her that she can now have her children build that room just for her shoes that she always wanted. I can't wait, good luck Mom!

Prank Phone Calls

If you have gotten any obscene phone calls from an automated voice lately, you may be a victim of a "Marilee Robo-Call". Having just gotten a new communication device which speaks in a low, sexy female voice, (much like Marilee's own voice), she engaged in some mischevious behavior Wednesday night, prank calling her daughter Megan around 11pm, saying things like, "You, and your fat ass," with her talking machine.