Little Cat Feet

Do y’all remember the poem by Carl Sandburg? I barely did, so here you go:

FOG

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Pretty nice imagery and the analogy is fairly apt, fog comes in quietly, just suddenly appearing and then it is gone. Cats, hunters by nature, can operate with wonderful stealth. And they do whatever they please, appearing and disappearing without invitation. I can’t see Lewis Carroll using a Cheshire dog*

But my cat? He’s freakin’ loud! I think he needs to have this poem read to him, take a hint or two. Alright, if you must know, he’s perfectly capable of being quiet and stealthy. He’s caught a few mice in the house – so I know he can do it.

Then again, he seems to have some canine genes, or something. Dogs have a reputation of being very dependent on their owners, not just for food and toileting, but for companionship, for love. And cats are thought to be aloof and rather patronizing. Our Two-Bit is…different.

This kitty LOVES to be petted. When he gets a victim family member nearby, and a wee bit of petting and purring has commenced, he then does “the Plop”. That’s when he arches up his back, getting hindquarters as high in the air as possible, and then just sort of collapses in one heap on the floor, his desire for increased petting and stroking made evident by his posture. This goofy boy rolls to his back in a totally submissive pose, looking more like a dog than a cat, and he actually wants his belly scratched. Oh, and the purring…talk about – he sounds like he is at the starting line at Loudon Speedway.

So, the loud thing I mentioned earlier. When Two-Bit is feeling needy, he follows us around, meowing with real gusto, back and forth. In this room and out. Into the living room, into the kitchen. If the bathroom door is not securely latched, in he stamps, meowing questions or statements – not really sure what it all means. Of course, at certain times of the day he is asking for a meal. And maybe an hour later, he’s asking for a snack. And in the mornings, he’s developed a habit of asking me for attention, I call it “coffee and cuddles”. Sometimes, the minute he sees me with my coffee cup, he gleefully clomps into the living room and hops up on the windowsill, looking at me expectantly. He wants me to sit in the chair by the window and sip my coffee while we both look out the window and of course he’d get petted.

Not that I or anyone else in the family begrudges cuddle time with the kitty. But c’mon, we have our own lives/chores/needs/schedules. It’s like having a two year old following you around asking to play with you all day long, or feed him, or change his diaper, all the while asking “why”.

Bed time is especially hilarious. I’m usually the last one to bed, typically between 11:30 or 12:00. The habit is for the cat to go up to bed with Tom (sometimes Tom has to force the issue) around 10:00, and “tuck him in”. This means that Two-Bit lies on the bed, never in the right position for Tom’s liking (he usually gets a face full of cat butt), or sometimes the cat pounces on Tom’s feet – just for fun. But this tucking-in time only lasts about 10 minutes, tops. Then down the stairs comes the cat, and then he sits and stares at me. The minute I get up off my chair for anything, wee Two-Bit is up and following me around, stomping his feet, meowing, getting tangled up with my feet – it’s not a lot of fun.

And when I am really showing signs of going to bed, he’s so thrilled! The going-to-bed preparations take a few minutes, and Two-Bit follows me every step. Often I finally head to the stairs, and ohhh MAN is he excited – but his fervor is squashed when he sees that I have abruptly turned around because I forgot to turn on the dishwasher, or blow out a candle, or turn down the heat. He’s rolling his little kitty eyes for sure.

So, NOW I am going upstairs for good. Two-Bit races up next to me, and he’ll skid to a stop at the threshold of Tom’s room. He will typically take a few steps inside, meowing really loudly. I infer that to mean that we should check on Tom for a moment, and sometimes I indulge him. Mostly I just keep trying to shush him, as I make my way into my own bed.

Kitty is still mewing, maybe it’s not that loud, but it seems loud, because of the contrast of the very quiet of the bedrooms. Once I’m in bed, Two-Bit paces on the floor, waiting for an invitation to come up. I do invite him, hoping to just shut him up. So then there he is, purring again like a race car, and he comes up to my face and sniffs me. I scratch his chin, and his ears, not for too long, because I’m tired and lazy. Sometimes he licks my forehead, or puts his paw in top of my hands. It’s all very sweet.

And then he’s off the bed minutes later, plodding down the stairs, looking for mischief, or mice. Sure, now he’ll quiet down.

I Hate Cliches

So - right. It's January and time to: manage my money, manage my weight, get rid of wrinkles, overcome my shyness, stop smoking, exercise, learn how to speak a foreign language (merde!), or - last and least - learn to juggle. Those who know me know realize that most of these familiar life change thingies are not my own resolutions, but a few could and should be. Anyway, my point is that I really hate being typical. I hate the flippin' cliche concept that is a grand marketing shtick this time of year - self-help and New Year’s Resolutions.

I don't want to be a cliche!! I don't know why this bothers me so much. Sometimes it seems to me as if people make resolutions solely because the calendar prompts them. Has there been soul searching? Insomnia? Has that person really, really given this a lot of thought?

Well, damn it, I have! And it's high time I did something about my angst. Need to make some good life changes. But now, does this mean that I am one of those unimaginative types? Gym-flocking, calorie counting, Rosetta Stone uttering, ball-dropping sheeple? Hold on now.

Wait a minute.

This needs to be sorted out.

See, as a parent of a high school kid, schedules and life choices often follow the school year calendar. Typically, September is the time to re-think a lot. Backpack weary and stinky? Time for a new one. Last year's pants too short? Gotta hit the Mall. New teachers, new friends, maybe new activities/sports etc.

And then the pace picks up. By mid-October I think I might want a break. But ahead is Halloween, then November comes quick and then it's The Big Holidays - and like my expensive-but-tasty roast - I'm all done. I can't bear to think about much else. Hell, and that's when times are "normal". So it only makes sense that we look to a future time to regain our footing in our life paths.

These last few months brought some odd stomach ailments for Tom. Some of it has been recurring bouts of C. diff., while some of what's been going on has been harder to figure. Problems with digesting fats, or acids getting too active - something isn't right and we've found ourselves in a similar roller coaster of illness that we faced in the extended spring of 2009, and again in the spring of 2010, I guess you could call it the Chronic-Coaster. Of course more recently Tom's illness put a strain on our holiday prep, not to mention his schoolwork, and other things. The good thing is this has nothing to do with his new liver.

But since Tom's health ordeal began three years ago, and I occasionally ride that Chronic-Coaster, it's been taking me longer to recover, to bounce back into normal patterns and schedules. Thinking is muddled, I'm distracted, and naturally somewhat depressed. And a lot of important things get neglected, or at least postponed, à la Scarlett O'Hara, which brings me to the fresh slate month of January. It's probably illusion, but I feel like I have more free time in January. And I want to try to pick up some threads of my former interests and needs.

So, now with that pesky list I opened with. There are things that should have been on the list, and one big one is to write. Anything. Write more often, and write better.

I have several Works In Progress going, and very recently I did some revising - which is great. But I know I need to get back to blogging and blog simultaneously while working on other projects. I know I jokingly blamed Facebook for my lack of blogging, and there’s some truth to that.

Or sometimes I can get caught up in my email. My good friend Mark Saleski and I have occasionally written our share of email screeds a-back-n’-forth about all manner of things. Music, food, our fellow Mondos, the Internet, books – etc. As a matter of fact, just before I had started my re-blogging adventure recently, I interrupted my work to shoot him an email – “do you know that I have tried to spell ‘resolution’ three times, and I keep making a typo?” (And he’s just one friend; I have other email pen pals that I write nice long letters with.) Of course, I had to laugh at the irony, here I was trying to be really productive, and I couldn’t last but a minute before I had to go off into email land. Which reminds me of a funny story.

One day Mark and I had planned to meet for lunch and before that I had been doing some shopping. I had just picked up Julia Cameron’s great book How to Avoid Making Art (or Anything Else You Enjoy). It’s done cartoon style (and tongue-in-cheek) with statements like “tell your most negative sibling your dream, and then listen to their reasons why you shouldn’t do it”.

Basically it’s a humorous way to look at the toxic relationships in our lives or our own bad habits and how they hurt our creativity. I had thumbed through it briefly, and was feeling extra magnanimous and offered to let Mark borrow it for a while. He flipped it open and randomly landed on a page with the illustration of a dog (the characters are mostly all some canine breed) sitting by a computer. The copy reads “write long emails to your friends instead of writing your novel.” Mark just closed the book with a resounding “Fuck you.”

He still borrowed the book though.

But regardless of the source of my lack of productivity, and my aversion to New Year’s Resolutions – I have not been writing enough, and I need desperately to fix that!

Crooked Cookbooks!

There’s something that gives me a little weird tingle – right here in my kitchen. It’s the sight of one of my Pampered Chef cookbooks – complete with Doris Christopher’s happy shiny visage – placed in the row of books – upside down. It’s a simple thing, and I could fix it in an instant. But it gives me the strange perverse combination of chilling and comical.


We all know the connotation of an upside down cross, or an upside flag. Thoughts of loss, chaos, evil or distress come to mind. But a cookbook? Well unless it’s some sort of item like How to Serve Man, or The Anarchists Cookbook, then cookbooks are fairly innocuous, right? So it really just makes me laugh, but it kind of creeps me out too.

Weird, I know.

So, as I ponder this week – it happens to be crazy full of stuff – the age old challenge “what can I make for dinner?” weighs on me. Then I remember my upside down Doris – and realize that the cookbook in question is Busy Moms Cookbook.

I’m thinking I better right her up immediately and start cooking!

I Blame it on Facebook

I really do. If it weren’t for that damn addictive (and I don’t even play Farmville!) social networking site – I’d be blogging much MUCH more.

The thing is, it’s not that I spend that much time on Facebook. Not an inordinate amount anyway. I go for days w/o reading or posting. OK – at least a day without FB – but the matter is not the time spent – it’s what I’m doing there.

Expressing my feelings is what.

All those giddy/profound/pissy or just plain dumb Facebook postings have taken the place of my typical blog entries. Mostly my Facebook postings are little slices of the mundane – “I had the best sandwich for lunch” or “I just took a walk and now I’m a ball o’ sweat” and so are many of my blog entries. But here in this space (swanky space don’t forget!) I don’t have to compete with everyone else’s mundane stuff. And, I don’t have to read the glowing reports of a social event that my peers attended and I couldn’t get to. (Or as it sometimes happens, wasn’t invited to – oh the shame)

So here is for the real good stuff. Or for the mundane. It's all the same.

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Quantum Media

There is a phenomenon in the world of Quantum Mechanics called wave function collapse. I can barely understand it, let alone explain it very eloquently, but this collapse seems to occur when wee tiny bits of matter change their patterns of “behavior” during observation. I won’t elaborate on the whole double-slit experiment – but the general idea is that the wee particles or electrons were doing one thing, creating waves and interference patterns – which, by the way, was pretty astounding and confounding. But the even more astounding thing was that when the brainiacs (physicists) decided to get a closer look at the electrons by setting up a measuring device – and then all of a sudden the electrons behaved entirely differently. True story.

So, this is what comes to mind when I am being bombarded by the news media’s sound-bites about whatever is the current event of the moment. Last month it was Tiger’s tales of woe. Before that we had the D.C. gate crashers. And Balloon Boy. And remember the diaper-wearing-astronaut?

Now about Tiger Woods. I’m just as confused and saddened by these developments as anyone else. Compared to so many public figures, he really seemed like someone to admire, to look up to. His whole story, complete with moral outlook is still untold. And yet so many are quick to write him off. Maybe he deserves the vilification, maybe not. But what really gets me is the media’s involvement. A respected Boston radio station ran one of their many polls for the listening audience; “can Tiger Woods make a comeback?”

Hell, I wanted to shout at the radio – “Not after all these stories you keep running!!!!”

And, coincidently, 60% of the responders said that they will not be able to look at Woods in the same way.

Ack, the media has a job to do and all, but when my usual outlets start acting like TMZ, it’s too much to bear. The schadenfreude is clear and getting worse. Oy. I’d ramble on about that, but maybe another time.

Synchronicity, Gratitude and Beyond

I do believe in synchronicity. In fate. In higher powers. I have seen this poster in Life Alive, a local restaurant. Not only did it make me fall in love with the restaurant even more, but I put this on my list of things to search out. Literally, I took pen and jotted down, "find "How to Build a Community Poster." That notation, along with "get more kitty litter", "call the bank", and "kill viruses on Mike's computer" sat quiet, waiting for action until this morning.

OK, I have not jogged out to my nearest poster store, and I have not ordered it online (yet?) But I have not let the timing of recent events slip by unnoticed - I rejoice in what God is putting in front of me.

Last night Dave and I attended the presentation of Rachel's Challenge at the high school. The program was led by a young man named Luke from Denver, CO. He is a good friend of Craig Scott, who was nearly killed at the Columbine shooting. Craig's sister was Rachel Scott, the very first victim on that horrible day. He also lost two good friends at the hands of the killers.

You can check the site for the particulars, and please do, but the main point of the project is to spread kindness. Young Rachel was a strong believer in reaching out to others, to show that no one needs to be alone, and that it's easier to spread kindness than hate.

This was an overwhelming experience, even with Tom's previews. He had attended the same assembly yesterday, and was not only tremendously impressed with the presentation, he was impressed by his fellow students. "Mom, everyone was SO...quiet."

There are other things coming to my attention that involve the concepts of charity, altruism, kindness, gratitude...it is not just a coincidence.

Speaking of gratitude, one of the cool things that I'm referring to is the site, The Whole 9. I read many great essays on the site, and there was one piece, a write up about the photographer Sebastiao Salgado. The author included one of Salgado's image, a heartbreaking, but beautiful image of a naked boy. A starved naked boy. This boy was standing next to a tree that was as naked and stark as he was. It was done in B&W, and it looked almost like it was set in snow, the sand was that white.

The comments following contained the word gratitude, many were immediately so thankful as they were reminded of their own blessings. That's important.

But what kept haunting me was this thought...

"It can't stop at gratitude."

Clarity

Those dreaded "Dog Days of Summer" have finally departed, leaving us with the some truly gorgeous weather.

As the thick humidity clears from the air , I find that my mind functions a little bit better. Now this is not a out and out guarantee of brilliance, functionality,or organization on my part, but it sure does feel good.

New Beginnings, New Name?

Love this time of year. Although the calendar shows time is beginning its final descent into the realm of End of Year Clean-up, for me - and maybe because I still have school age children - it feels like a new beginning.

And here's my proposal. I want to change the name of this Blog. I have not liked the name for years now, but was hesitant to change. So maybe all you fine readers can help suggest a new name. Maybe I should hold a contest, and do this reality show style with creating teams and stirring up egos.

No, forget the ego stuff, but you may work in groups. : ) Discuss.

What Does it Feel Like?

(Note- Previously published at Blogcritics Magazine on September 28, 2009)

Or translated: How are you doing? How are you coping?

Of course, we must begin with the neurotic disclaimer - coming from the part of me that must fend off criticism or doubt before it surfaces - is that Tom's story is not my first visit to hell. No exaggerations, but I've been in the shit before.

And so, what does it feel like? How do I manage this whole illness thing?

Mostly not very well, or so it seems.

I walk through the kitchen, fairly numb to the impossible to clean floor, which looks every bit as impossible, grit trapped in relentless pockmarks that make a once white surface a collection of dingy stains. But what really catches my attention is the sight of the full pill cup.

Not just full, but seemingly abandoned. This means meds not taken on schedule and this observation reaches up and smacks me across the head, hard, with the dire message that I'm perhaps not a very good mother. And inside I think, "see, you shouldn't have spent so much time with your email, or you would have been on top of this." Even if the previous 40 minute email session was a chance for me to vent, rant, cry, and even laugh with some good souls, the pure organic goodness of that unburdening is trampled on, muddied with my own constant guilt of not measuring up.

That's one thing.

Another thing is exhaustion. Physical, mental, emotional. Nothing that parents - OK, humans - don't typically deal with anyway, but this is still unexpected. Especially the end of the day collapse, I feel like I'm the mother of very little babies all over again. When the meal is done, the dishes are cleared, all I want to do is melt into the television or a good book - and then I remember. I have to get the night pills ready. Or I have to prepare the tube feed. And really, it's not all on me to do this. D is very capable and is usually ready to do what needs to be done on top of his own crazy exhaustion. But that's not the point.

The point is - those extra steps - they suck. We shouldn't have to deal with pills, weekly blood draws, infusion bags, tube flushes, stool checks. We shouldn't have to refinance the house because money suddenly got so tight, we shouldn't have to run around collecting signatures, and forms, forms, forms, forms to apply for additional insurance.

We shouldn't have weeks piled with clinic visits in Boston, nurse visits to the house, social worker visits, clergy visits, Make-A-Wish visits. Make-A-Wish? Isn't that for real sick kids? Kids who might die? Indeed, it is.

And the worst really is that whole "might die" scenario.

All parents go through this, from the time they tip-toed out of the nursery, to the time they tossed over the car keys, to the time that their very precious child said, "Mom? I've enlisted", parents hold collective breaths all over the world, willing that nothing wicked this way will come. Never, ever. They chant the universal pleaseDearGodkeepthemsafe prayer until their rosaries and prayer beads are worn smooth from anguish and hope.

Tom could have died last February when he had the esophageal bleed. He could have died this June when his kidneys failed. He could have died each time he had a simple endoscopy, in fact one simple procedure resulted in an unexpected overnight stay, because his lungs weren't responding well during recovery. And he could have died during the seven hour surgery he had in 2007.

So, naturally, of course, this brings us up to the big T. The transplant. The waiting. The uncertainty. Tom does appreciate on the surface how significant his "listing" is. He knows in theory that the surgery will help his life dramatically. But he's remarked, "Everyone keeps congratulating me - but they don't have to go through it."

And so next week Tom starts his freshman year at Dracut High, he'll have to "go through" this new school year complete with ninth grade anxieties and an NG tube taped to his cheek.

And how am I doing? I'm a mess like any other parent, yet I'm damn proud of that kid.

What Gives Hope

(Published first on PNN.com - the Personal News Network)

Note: I started writing this back in March - and finally find time and inspiration to finish.

I was at the doctor's office yesterday, it's a family practice so the patients come in all age groups, young and old, male and female. I was there for some funky female issues, nothing horribly upsetting, but still somewhat concerning. So, before actually being seen, I was OK, but feeling a bit apprehensive. And in walks this tiny little girl with her mother. The wee thing had to have been not much more than two years old, if that. (Rather like Cindy-Lou-Who, who was No Bigger Than Two - just as cute, if not cuter). She had this adorable little poncho and an adorable little purse. And her poncho hood was still on, which gave her a sort of Kewpie-esque /Snow Babies appearance.

While her mother checked in at the window, young "Cindy-Lou" toddled over to near where I was sitting, attracted to a toy house. " 'ouse, 'ouse", she said. I smiled and confirmed, "house!" Then, too soon, I was called in for my appointment.

My own appointment went smoothly enough, but even knowing my issues were most likely going to be OK, it was still nerve-wracking to be setting up further appointments for an ultrasound and then a biopsy. Once those dates were set I was ready to leave. And out comes little "Cindy-Lou", still no bigger than two, but even cuter than before. She sported a smile that was killer. And the energy between her and her mother was tangible and lovely.

And if you know me at all, you know our family's story - how the Young Prince has been battling liver disease, but at this very moment was healthy and in school (for a nice change). You also know that the Crown Prince was dealing with a new diagnosis of diabetes. In fact, at that very moment he was with his dad at the Joslin Clinic in Boston, having been called in on a somewhat urgent basis, based on the blood numbers that his doctor had sent them.

So our lives had been shaken, our family momentum had been thrown quite off course, and I was trying to be calm about every bit of it. And if you know me - am I ever calm, really? So, it was an effort.

But this little girl, this tiny sweetie carried a wave of pure goodness with her, it was hard to feel anything but happy in her presence. I imagine even still following her and her mom around, not just to observe, but to maybe absorb the good juju that she was blessed with. Little "Cindy-Lou" gave me a boost that stays with me even now.

Fast forward to June 9. Tom has been sick. He was sick in May with a GI thing (in the hospital for three days) He never really felt very well once he was discharged, he still had odd symptoms that brought us back to his pediatrician the very next day. Within a week he developed a cholangitis infection, and directly on the heels of that news, a cellulitis infection in his foot. Eventually the two antibiotics did their work, and he felt a little better.

Better, but not fantastic. His liver docs stressed that he needed to eat better, he'd lost maybe ten pounds in just a short time, so we struggled with that during the end of May. But he just kept feeling worse, and by early June he was eating even less. And on the 9th we were on our way to Boston, knowing he was probably going to be admitted for fluids and testing, and perhaps insertion of a feeding tube.

We were driving through Boston, I think just merging onto Brookline Avenue, when I saw this small gaggle of school children on an outing with their teachers. It was a rainy drizzly day, and the kids were all wearing the most damn adorable rain gear. Boys and girls alike, they were like little water-repellent jewels splashing their way through the afternoon. Polka-dot boots, striped slickers, brilliant little backpacks; the sight of them made me yearn for my old camera, and my old life when I used to take lots and lots of photos of scenes like this.

The reality is though, that those kids - just like little "Cindy" - have stayed with me. Seeing the utter naked joy that floated over these bright souls like little auras of hope was a kind of a tonic. A mini-salvation in the midst of real worry.

We perhaps laugh in our jaded adult ways, at the innocence of children. Not out of meanness, but sadness that we lost our innocence, and dearly wish for it back. But behind the laughter, we have hope. Hope that these sweet precious babies never lose that natural buoyancy of curiosity, laughter, and love. Hope that their goodness will rub off on us. Hope that somehow, life will get better, and even in the midst of the nastiest of nasty days, there are still good and sweet things in our lives that must be recognized for what they are.

Little blossoms of hope.

Making My Wish

A few weeks ago we learned that Tom was going to be eligible for a wish from the Mass. chapter of the Make-a-Wish foundation. He has not formulated his wish yet, but he's meeting with his "Wish Team" next week, and I imagine it should be interesting.

And the whole fantasy granting process has always been something folks indulge in - as a day-dreaming exercise. If you won the lottery, what would you do with the winnings? If you had a Fairy Godmother, what would you have her provide? When I was a kid we used to just riff on the "how would you spend a night if locked in the Burlington Mall?" theme. (Who knew that Kevin James aka Paul Blart would be able to answer that one?)

As Tom's illness has progressed, many family members and friends have offered help. Much of the time I appreciated the offers, but didn't know what to ask for. Clueless! I'm not crazy about other people interacting with my laundry, and it seems silly to ask someone to remind us to get the oil changed in our vehicles. But it does open up the fantasy floodgates.

I'd like a personal secretary/assistant. Not only to remind us to get the oil changed, maybe to take the vehicles themselves to our mechanics and get it done (and it's a fantasy, so the assistant can pay for it too). I'd also like a pedicure. The beautician/manicurist shouldn't mind a little nail fungus, I'm hoping. Ideally the assistant would have already driven me to my podiatrist to renew the scrip for the fungal stuff that I should have taken care of a year ago.

Personal Trainer...yeah, that's the ticket. I have not been to karate since late May or early June, because of Tom being in the hospital, or us being on vacation, or just being overwhelmed with life and forgetting how to put one foot in front of the other. Fat rolls have given birth to new rolls. Ugh. But with my desire to work out comes the fact that I can't right now, due to the funky bizarre knife wound. I'd love for the trainer to also be a cook and nutritionist. I'd reallllly love for someone to recreate the goodness that is "The Swami", a brown rice vegan affair that is at the top of my list as my go-to take out food.

Now back to that assistant. Maybe he or she is fully magical like Mary Poppins, or maybe they have that snarky sensibility that comes with the head wag and the "Oh no girl-friend, you are NOT wearing that outfit in public" type shtick, but either way - being financially savvy would be a real plus. The paperwork is a pain. Seriously.

Oh, and they need to re-order the enteral feeding supplies for Tom too. Make it snappy!

Notes to Self - Under Glass

It sounds a bit maudlin, but I can identify with Sylvia Plath somewhat. I never see it descending, but at some point I realized that the bell jar is already covering my existence, creating a distorting view of the outside world. My experience of life is skewed, voices are muted through the thick, bubbled glass of situational depression.

One event that hovers outside the jar is an upcoming vacation. We're just going to the trailer on the Cape, so no airline weirdness or strange climates to consider or worry about. But still, clothes need to be washed, other details need to be attended to, and we have a whole bunch of new items to bring this time, with all of Tom's tube feeding paraphernalia. And there is still, a great deal of paperwork to take care of in the next few weeks. But the whole idea about getting ready to go seems like something not quite within my grasp. Like maybe it's an episode on a TV show that I stumbled onto. Mildly entertaining, but no identification with my real life.

But since I know that our departure is in the short future, I'm trying in my muted, bubbled over way - to make lists of things to do. Lists upon lists, and notes to myself about what to bring and what to do before we go.

Sleep is something I need to do, because health and a cheerful attitude is something I need to bring, not only on vacation, but with me everywhere.

Tears

Tears for the peony flowers, heavy on the stems from too much rain - now muddy and trampled. If my mind was present, I would have cut them and brought them in the house. But my heart is muddy and trampled and so the flowers languished in the rain and no one but God saw the blooms.

Tears for the U.S. mail. I cry when I open a bill, I cry when I open a document that asks me for more documents in order to get the process going where we'll need no more documents. And I cry when I open a card for Tom and feel the love rising from the goofy cartoons and sweet sentiments.

Damn laundry. Enough said.

Tears for the immeasurable kindness of the staff from Lakeview Jr. High. They made difficult things a little bit easier.

Tears for the words not spoken, the thoughts not expressed, and the stories not told.

I ache from the silence, I drown in the tears shed, I choke on the tears inside still.

Midnight Rambler

Well after Midnight actually.

I have not had this insomnia thing in a long time. So that's something to be thankful for.

But here it is, caused or accompanied by a dull ache in the gut. That will sort itself out come morning I expect. Morning and a cup of coffee.

But for the rest? What will sort out the worries? Worries about money, worries about Tom, worries about Mike. Even silly worries about moi! The surface health issues seem fine. Yay. But I had one of those horrible daydream musings about --- what if -- what if I was suddenly struck by a deadly staph infection and succumbed. (and we can substitute struck by a renegade truck or renegade meteor)

That would be most inconvenient. Just entirely horribly bad timing. I picture a dead me, sort of floating above myself, not unlike Patrick Swayze in Ghost, floating and full of anguish. It's never a good time really, to die. But if it were to happen right now...well I just couldn't bear it.

I see myself floating above Dave - trying to comfort and guide him to the right medical websites, pushing Tommy's health folder under his nose...screaming.."look here! Here are all the meds, the phone numbers, the notes, the scribbles, the authorizations."

Then I would try to help Tom get through whatever he needs to deal with, but in such a mournful way. Too soon, too soon. If ever there was a time to bargain with death - this would be it.

It's such a needful thing - the desire to do whatever you can do to help your child - and if you were suddenly robbed of that ability - it's beyond frustrating, it's pure torture. Really.

The Perfect Mother's Day

I'd had the perfect Mother's Day planned. Well scratch that, I never have anything really, fully planned. I have wisps of ideas and with luck and work they turn out into something tangible that sometimes doesn't suck.

And so there were some wisps and daydreams about what would constitute the perfect "day off" for me.

Sleep late, but not too late. Wake up and wander downstairs to find freshly made hot coffee and a breakfast pastry of some sort. Like a low fat corn muffin and... and some fresh fruit...yeah, that's the ticket. (Amend dream fragment to include taking thyroid pill an hour before waking up for coffee and muffin) Enjoy muffin and fruit and coffee. (Amend further to include natural morning activities that leave one feeling more...relaxed, and ready to enjoy food)

And important note - all this is done so far in solitude. The family is off in another room, playing video games or doing homework or whatever - just leaving me time to wake up without queries as to my health, or my willingness to do laundry or drive someone somewhere -- NOTHING. Just solitude and maybe some quiet jazz streaming discreetly from the dining room speakers.

And the windows are open, and with no neighbors are awake, the only sounds that the light breeze carries in are bird calls. And during this hour or so of quiet time, I'd read the paper, listen to the news on the radio, and check email. OK maybe just a little Facebook too.

The thing is, I do get these quiet mornings several times a week, time where I don't have to answer to anyone. I don't have to get dressed and go to work and worry about being late. I don't have to take someone to a bus stop or to daycare. Well, I haven't had to get a child off to school in two years, unless you count bringing The Crown Prince to some college classes. And I don't have to worry about getting to work on time - I just have to make sure that I turn the heat on in this room, and that the coffee is made. And I certainly don't have to worry about what I wear to work.

But even though these mornings are not necessarily rare, they still feel precious. And what else would I include this in my perfect, precious fantasy day? Probably a chance to sit outside in the sun, either reading or talking with whomever would want to join me. See, that's what would make this the optimum day - sacred time alone, and then sacred time with the family. And of course the family would be in the most sunshiny of moods, no arguments, no homework questions, and no illness.

Does that mean that the perfect Mother's Day would have no "Mothering" involved? Really, isn't that what the commercial fantasy is? Mom is taken to brunch, to lunch, to the theater - she's shoo'ed away from the kitchen, pointed in the direction of the chaise lounge in the pest-free garden, and she's a goddess for a while.

And that's a great image. And it's not always a fantasy. But to try to make it happen on Mother's Day, is not easy. Not when we planned to have in-laws over in the afternoon - there's the hustle and bustle of bathroom cleaning and straightening up - one can't really call the day their own when one needs to play hostess. And not when there's illness in the family.

Years ago, maybe 10 or 12, one of my boys, I think it was The Crown Prince, had a stomach bug. I have a memory of him running to the bathroom to vomit, and in his urgency, he forgot to lift the toilet top. So, you can imagine the aftermath of cleaning up a projectile mess that was intended to go into a vessel, that instead spewed with force on top of a flat surface and then sprayed out in many directions.

You're absolutely right, it was a disgusting mess. And as I remember, it was the Friday before Mother's Day weekend. I remember saying to myself with bitterness mixed with a little humor - "Happy Mother's Day to me." It wasn't my first bathroom mess and certainly not my last, but the irony of the calendar did not escape me.

And that irony was again present during this weekend.

My Tom, AKA The Young Prince, the boy with the sickness, the boy with the liver disease, the boy who is more fragile than we realized, and the boy who has surprising stores of strength, of spirit, and of love - caught a stomach bug.

He came home from school on Thursday, exhausted and complained of a mild stomach ache. He managed to eat a bit here and there, and although he stayed home on Friday, he seemed to feel a little better by late morning. He took a walk with his brother and when he came home he was wiped out again. By Friday evening he was vomiting and had diarrhea.

It continued during the evening and on Saturday morning I was calling for the GI folks in Boston. I spoke a few times that day with the on-call doc, and we decided that by Saturday afternoon he was on the mend. Fever was gone, vomiting was gone, he was asking for food. It was encouraging. Then Saturday night he was back to vomiting again, and by Sunday morning he was very miserable and asking to go to the hospital.

We took him to a local ER, and they found he was quite dehydrated. After a couple liters of fluids, he wasn't responding as well as they'd hoped, plus they found blood in his urine. They transferred him to Boston, and he was ultimately admitted for more tests and observation. The next couple of days were a jumble of worries - tests for this, tests for that, everyone had to gown-up before coming in his room, it was not horribly scary, but rather a drawn-out event of recovery tempered with many questions.

He's home now, slowly recovering, and the rest of us are trying to recover too. Some Mother's Day weekend, huh?

Yes...some Mother's Day weekend. I did what other moms - and dads - do all the time, take care of someone without thinking of thanks, without noticing the calendar. You just do it because you love that person so much that to do otherwise is not an option.

But yet my Young Prince surprised me. While we were still in the Lowell emergency room, while Tom was still nauseous and nervous - he turned to me and said..."Mom -- Happy Mother's Day -- I'm sorry I didn't say it earlier."

It really was kind of perfect.