A Tale of Two Mamas
Trying to keep someone IN timeout
Archive for Life and Death
December 25, 2008 at 11:48 pm · Filed under Life and Death, Milestones
Christmas is nearly over–the family is finally asleep after a long day of unwrapping gifts, eating and playing. Graem got a ton of toys, and best of all, bunk beds. She’s actually sleeping in them right now, which is an achievement for us.
I thought I’d see you again for one more Christmas–it brings tears to my eyes thinking of the anxiety every holiday would bring as I struggled to balance a visit with you with my family. I was hoping you would get to see the kids open their gifts. I especially wanted you to see that Graem is reading–I can almost hear your voice boasting about how I was reading at three, and here Graem is three days shy of four.
I still can’t believe you’re gone; I can still hear your voice from the last phone call I had with you. I knew something was wrong, the way you asked to see me and Dennis, “just your two kids and no one else.” If only I had listened… I would have seen you one last time. I miss you so much, and now am so sorry that I felt you were an inconvenience at times. I cry about you a lot–at work, in the car, in my sleep.
What I miss about you the most is the comfort knowing that you were there. I could always ask you about something, anything. Not that I did–I know I often acted like I already knew it all. But now that you’re gone, I’ll be doing something, wondering what to do next, and automatically think to myself, “I can just ask Dad.” But now I can’t. I often wonder about what things you had left to show me or teach me. Or if there were any recipes I forgot to get from you.
My memories keep bringing me back to February of last year, when we went to Chinatown for Chinese New Year together. Every time I look back at those few photos, I realize how sick and fatigued you were, but how much you wanted to go. It will always mean something to me, spending those few hours with you and Dennis, Shawna and Graem. It was the trip that you showed me which salted fish it was I had to buy–is it called ham gui? I don’t even know the name of it–but I was worried that I would never know how to buy it or find it, and that I would lose those dishes that you used to make for us.
Graem cries for you every now and then, slowly more infrequently. It’s so hard to see her cry about you, because inevitably I start crying too. And then I beat myself up for not being strong for her. But I can’t lie to her, I tell her I miss you too and that I’m sad. Then I tell her that she won’t be sad forever, and that we have to remember you. I am so thankful that she knows who you are, and that we have photos and a movie of you together for her to remember, and to help tell her little sister about you. And I’m glad that you got to meet Emmy–we’ll always remember how you called her Little Buddha. She’s only gotten chunkier since you saw her! And she smiles so much.
I am so thankful for these kids. I really think that without them I would have gone nuts with grief. But they make me keep going, and certainly make me smile when I don’t think I can.
I hope you can see and hear us, wherever you are. I hope you can see how much we all miss you and love you.
Love,
Margot
November 27, 2008 at 3:23 pm · Filed under Life and Death, Milestones
Shawna and Emmy are asleep, Graem is frying her brain on SpongeBob, Dennis is on his computer. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m in legal limbo, since we can’t get our hands on my dad’s death certificates, plus it’s a holiday anyway.
We already went out for a little walk and grocery shopping. It was nice to get out, it’s getting a little stifling in here. I feel like I haven’t accomplished enough, but every time I try to start organizing something, I can’t really move forward or finish. I can’t really nap, I’ve eaten as much as I can.
So here I am. Every now and then thoughts of my dad pop into my head. I dreamt about him last night, I saw him in his scrubs, smiling and happy, and healthy. I told him I loved him, and that was about it. I feel like he’s here at times, since I’ve been here a number of times when he’s been in the hospital–it’s like he’s just there, but he’s here. So often he’d be resting upstairs, and the rest of us would just be hanging out talking and eating. Waiting for the fleeting moments when he’d have enough energy to hang out with us. Or we would just head to his bedroom to chat.
I can’t believe he’s gone, it’s like a dream. Being around his stuff is like being around him. Trying to organize it, you can start to categorize his life, imagining how he saw himself as a reflection of his belongings. This overabundance of expensive shoes, cameras, tools, art supplies. Seeing his cameras in particular has been emotional. I remember being around my dad and his cameras ever since I was a baby. I’d “play cameras” with him–he just loved to tinker with them all, and he’d let me hold them and play with them along with him.
That’s the thing about all his collections of stuff, none of it is precious or archival. He loved to hold them use them, actually interact with his things. No white gloves for my dad, a collection is of no use if you can’t touch it. That being said, it’s not like he ever really used his tools. He had piles of toolboxes, each of them labeled: “wrenches,” “hot glue,” “rachets,” “solder,” “rivets,” and “special tools.” But then he’d taken them all out, as if to play, and he displayed them all in his garage, in order, to show that he’d collected every one there was out there. Gala would tell us about how he’d sit there, and just look at them, admire them.
I guess if I were at home, I’d be cooking or something. But I really don’t care right now, can’t think of it. I’m not sure what else to do.
March 9, 2008 at 7:14 pm · Filed under Cancer, Life and Death
We just got back home, unpacked and half-bathed (I have yet to bathe). I’m glad to be back home, and away from the hospital insanity. My dad seems to be recovering well–he’s awake, his stats look good, and is on pain medication. The down side is that he’s starting to get depressed: he’s upset that the surgery didn’t go quite as he expected, the tumor was more aggressive than anyone had thought, and he now has an ileostomy and a colostomy. I think he’s also starting to realize that he will be fighting this the rest of his life, on some level or another.
It’s hard because I’m just relieved that he made it through surgery–both of them–and seems to be healing up well. I kept thinking the past two days that he seemed stronger, healthier and better off now than how he was when I drove down last week. There is also something reassuring about him being in the hospital–being cared by others than himself.
I have to admit I was a bit appalled by the hospital he is in–and am greatly appreciative of our local hospital. The hospital is pretty run down, not even up-to-date with HIPAA regulations and privacy screens, and worst of all: it had some of the filthiest bathrooms I have ever been in, including interstate rest stops! We made sure to wash our hands frequently, but half of the hand sanitizer dispensers were empty. I know we bitch and moan about our hospital, but even before the recent renovations, our hospital was so much cleaner and well-maintained. I just hope that my dad’s hospital makes up for their maintenance in quality of care. The nurses in the surgical ICU were fabulous–most of them were Filipina, which was nice for us: my aunt and my dad both worked the Filipino connection with them.
Hopefully my dad will get to talk with his surgeon tomorrow (he hasn’t seen him since his surgery, which is surprising), and maybe he’ll be moved to a regular bed.
February 23, 2008 at 6:45 am · Filed under Cancer, Life and Death
I cry all the time now–I cry at work, I cry when I get home, I cry when I wake up and can’t sleep any more. I don’t want my dad to die, I don’t want to bury 2 parents in less than a year. Then I start thinking about my mom, and I start missing her–the idea of her, I guess. I google her, and I find articles she’s written, people she used to work with. I google those people–I vaguely remember meeting some of them in her lab. I remember spending Saturdays at the lab with Dennis, our only entertainment the stinky mice they studied and beakers.
I toy with the idea of emailing those people. I want to know who she was…but then I wonder if I should just let it lie, and let the dead stay dead. Would they even remember her? How could they not…to spend years of research together, and then have a partner (in so many ways…) just vanish. Did they call? Did they wonder? I was too young to wonder or notice.
And then last night I thought of where I want to spread my mom’s ashes: Wave Hill, along the Hudson River waterfront where we grew up. My mom used to take us there–one of the few remaining memories I have. Respite for her on a weekend, rolling down hills and playing around the koi pond for Dennis and me. I also thought it would be an interesting counterpoint to what I do for a living–it would be interesting to revisit it now as an adult and a landscape architect. Different eyes. I wonder if that huge beech tree is still there, if the gardens are still the same. I just remembered how in high school a friend and I made pesto at home for lunch, and then drove over there to have a picnic.
My dad, my poor dad. It’s not fair, he just finally kicked all the drugs, and we’re just starting to rebuild our relationship. More around Graem now. I watch him interact with her, and it reminds me of how he was when Dennis and I were kids. He was a great dad, once. He was the one we always wanted to play with and spend time with, not my mom. He was just more fun.
I can’t remember when he became so frail, it was a few years ago. I guess it must have happened when I moved out of the house for college, and came to visit less and less. All my memories of my dad are of a strong, arrogant, garrulous person with a sometimes fiery temper. When Dennis and I were about 2 and 5, he could lift the two of us, one in each hand, arms outstretched. The push-ups, the chin-ups, the martial arts that he would show off to us and encourage us to do…and now he spends most of his time in his massage chair, or in bed. I suppose the loss and pain in his life, the drugs, the cancer–all have diluted him to what he is now. I just missed when it happened.
I hope–pray–that he kicks this. I feel like we’re so close, he has struggled through so much with the chemo and radiation, suffered so much nearly alone. He just has to make it to this surgery–then all will have been done, all that could have been done. The rest is up to the universe.
September 21, 2007 at 6:15 pm · Filed under Health, Life and Death, PP
I can honestly say that this group of thirty something’s isn’t quite the party type. In fact, it’s 7pm on a Friday and we’re watching Maisy (cartoon) while hanging out in our undies after a home cooked meal.
Now there’s a reason to throw a party!
The Alzheimer’s Association is a non-for-profit organization that we wholeheartedly support. They offer assistance for families and also provide funding to research for a cure. I have been the chairperson for our local Memory Walk in the past and we have seen how Alzheimer’s has affected the people that we love and care for.
Now they are hosting Purple Party for World Alzheimer’s Day! You can go right to ActionAlz.org and sign up instantly. You promise to raise $150 to go towards the Alzheimer’s Association and they send you party supplies! It’s really simple and you can actually make your donation online.
The best part about donations in the month of September is that they will be matched dollar to dollar by the Harrah Foundation. Which means that if you donate $150 then $300 will go to find the cure for Alzheimer’s.
Have your Purple Party today and help make a difference one memory at a time.
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