Growing Pains

Life is amazing turning twisting evolving into a new reality.  I am continually growing up. I am not dead yet. It is painful and beautiful, a sadomasochistic dance within my soul. I have the ability, the hard fought maturity, to go beyond my needs, my preconceptions to celebrate the joy that exists in finding someone, something that bring affirmation of life and hope. 

My memories swirl in a rich fabric of color, texture and pattern. My mother smiling, in tie-dyed explosion wrapping the world in generosity and love.  My father‘s astonishing memory directing historical insights and humor. My friend, my sister-in law giving me the gift of family, forgiveness, and acceptance. They all envelop me with the fierce, undeniable truth of humanity.

They are in my heart, my memories, my being. Physical life may stop with the last beat of the heart, but the kindness, the interest; the example will carry on with each generation, each friendship, and each experience. It is a part of the singular soul, the dust we all become.   

We never are gone, recycled in the dreams and passions of a new world.

Celebrate life with Harriet and Maude!

As my dear sweet Harriet battles Immune Mediated Hemolytic Anemia. I reflect on her life and the joy she and her sister Maude have brought me.

 

       This is their story.

It was the coldest day of winter when Harriet and Maude were born, outside, in the snow, to Lassie the farm dog.

They were very, very cold. We brought them indoors. Their tiny puppy bodies had to be warmed and rubbed and brought back to life.

They had to learn how to eat and to stay close to their mother. They were all moved to a house in town.

Their mother had to learn how to live indoors. She learned very quickly.

They grew bigger and stronger. It was time for their mother to go home to the farm, but Harriet and Maude were already home. The family that had helped them, loved them and wanted them in their family

Harriet and Maude had to share their home with three cats. They had to learn how to get along. Some days they did well and some days were not so good, but that is what it is like when you live with someone.

Harriet and Maude were shown many times, what a toy was and what was not a toy. Most of the time they remembered, but some days; they forgot. They broke windows and chewed many, many remote controls, shoes, pillows and even books!

Harriet and Maude went to school. This was very hard for them. They did not understand the rules and would sit by the door and cry to go home, but they stayed and learned. They finished Puppy Kindergarten with new friends, new skills and a diploma.

Harriet loves her squeaky ball and fish. She will jump in the air to catch them.

Maude loves to look out the window and patrol the yard for any intruding cats, dogs, or bicycles.

They both love their walks and to play with each other.

When Harriet and Maude were six months old they had an operation so they would not have puppies. This was very important because there are many animals in the world that need homes. Their mother and cats all had this operation and are healthy and happy.

Harriet and Maude are always happy to see you, whether you are late, early, tired, cranky, or just left the room and came back.

They like you when you smell like onions, dirt, and other dogs.

They lick tears off faces and make you laugh when it tickles.

They never say anything to make a bad day worse, but they do put their big paws on your hand and their head in your lap.

They came into the world a big surprise and were a wonderful gift.

They know that leaf piles, mud puddles and putting your head to the sky and smelling are all good things.

It is good to run and yell or bark and have someone by your side.

No matter what happened last year, last week, a minute ago, that life is good and beautiful and every second is special.

Thank you Harriet and Maude!

All Cats Go To Heaven

I buried my cat yesterday. She had been missing for over two weeks. A small tiger with too short legs, that made her run look like a hop. I take blame for her death. My son had admonished me for feeding the cats in the woods. It is against the law in Chicago, where he lives, to feed your animals outside.  There is an  increasing coyote population. I had grown comfortable feeding my not so feral cats, even at night. I would see them playing in the grass chasing leaves, stalking each other, lounging in the grass. They would run to their bowls when I walked outside. I answered their crying and zig- zagging in front of me by filling their bowls with brick colored food.


I had lost earlier woods cats gone from their base by the crooked tree. Neighbor cats disappeared into the swamp never to return. Sadly I would call them, a hollow voice into the brush. This cat commune began when my husband was using a chain saw to cut up a fallen tree on the edge of the yard and three kittens popped their heads out. It was he who fed them first. Later he would curse this decision to tell me about the kittens in the tree.  Two would survive. Their mother and pseudo-father Rambo vanished in the cold of winter. Trilly Lilly, a sweet calico and Buster, her orange-tiger brother grew strong, content in the woods. Trilly would brush up against me slowly  letting me pet and  then  pick her up where she would lay her head on my shoulder. Buster remained aloof not trusting my touch. Trilly became pregnant, an unfortunate consequence from my negligent procrastination
.

She had two kittens, a small female tiger, Twilight that looked like her grandmother and Punkin an orange and white male. She proudly presented them inviting me to pet and protect them.  Twilight like her uncle was unsure of humans, but Punkin loved being petted and held. 

 My mission was to have them spayed and neutered before more kittens emerged from the tree.  I wanted no gifts for birthday or any occasion that year, just help with my fertile cats. I made an appointment and after being clawed and scratched trapped Punkin  in a cat carrier. I put him upstairs with litter and food, unable to catch the others I had Punkin fixed as a feral and with more cats I was given a group rate. Four days later with barbwire scratches decorating my arms Twilight and Trilly were captured. Twilight was crazed, climbing the walls, digging herself in the bowels of the mattress, while howling an unearthly wail. 


 I had found homes for the kittens after their surgery, but after seeing my raw skin combined with their unknown credentials, their perspective owner hurriedly said "No thank you. "I released them outdoors two weeks later. Trilly and Punkin had become accustomed to laying on the bed, but not Twilight, she glared at me as she skulked across the floor on her little legs.A friend asked to adopt Trilly and though sad I rejoiced that she would have a home. 

After her mother left Twilight began to seek me out, to be petted and picked up, laying her soft head on my shoulder melting into my arms.  Twilight became my outdoor companion following me everywhere as Punkin began to roam the woods like Uncle Buster. My husband built a house for them tightly insulated with wool floor and walls, in the blizzards of winter they stayed warm and safe. Spring began with Buster returning mauled and beaten I was unable to catch him to have him treated. He would sleep in the cat house isolated from the elements. He seemed to be healing from his traumatic injuries. (He has not come home)

           Twilight did not come to breakfast one morning. She returned at night. I was so relieved to see her, but before I could pick her up I noticed her fur seemed detached from her back in a strip and she was limping. She ran back into the woods. I was in a hurry.  I would find her later and bring her into the house and see what had happened to my sweet Twilight.

            I never had that chance I did not see Twilight alive again.  I searched everyday calling and crying into the swamp. Two and a half weeks later with the death smell in the wind I found her badly decomposed body under a tree, down the hill, an empty can of Fancy Feast close by. It was far from where she was fed. Had someone poisoned her?  Her fur and feet were all I could identify. I am not a forensics scientist, but I have seen many dead cats, none with so little form I could only envision a horrifying death. I condemned her to this violent evisceration, with my earnest but ignorant interference. I try to wrap her in an old red sweater, but it is difficult.  I think of people who die and are not found until much later, the boy in the attic in the heat of summer. Carrion beetles fall from the shovel. I get a box and use my secret power of blocking reality.


I dig a deep hole near where I cared for her next to the small unpainted statue of a sleeping cat. She is buried with Pizza, Stimpy, beloved cats that lived long indoors lives and the unknown cat I found hit by a car. I place heavy rocks on top to make it difficult for the grave diggers of the wild. I plant petunias near the silent cat and say a prayer of thanks for knowing and loving this gentle cat. I pray for forgiveness.

            I am overwhelmed with the grief, of loss, of guilt, of time, of cruel randomness. Deep feral sobs assault me covering me in a montage of, sweet cats, loyal dogs, supportive friends, heroic mother, protective father. I am seized with a desperate hope implanted from childhood Catholicism a heaven exists.

Never, forever to see the ones I love, is that the definition of Hell?

Time

 I am again met with the emotionally unexpected loss of a loved one. Death is inevitable for everyone, why is it so difficult to comprehend? Why do I curse this thieving specter? Is it my own selfishness to want everyone I love protected in an impenetrable bubble?  Death is what makes us appreciate life. There is no deal making,  no do over, no magic clock to set back. I can no longer call her,  hear her laugh, lament together our grown children, our in laws, our lives. I desperately try to quell the monster of regret as I said goodbye.

My sister-in-law and friend had a wonderful life.  She loved and was loved. We can honor and celebrate her giving, enthusiastic spirit by sharing her legacy. Read a book out loud today, to a child, a friend, someone who can no longer read, or outside in the fresh air to yourself and listen to the magic of words.   Write, call, email a thank you to that special teacher and let them know what they meant to you. Do it today and if they are no longer on this earth say a prayer of gratefulness for the part of them that is in you.

Tell your mother and grandmothers you love them, hug them, sit with them and really listen to that story you think you’ve heard a hundred times. Give them your time and presence, as it is the most cherished gift a mother can receive. Do it today and if they are no longer on this earth say a prayer of gratefulness for the part of them that  is in you.

If you have been blessed with a special person to travel through this amazing adventure with, show them how much they mean to you by simple acts of kindness. Bring them breakfast in bed, do the dishes, hold their hand. Remember how important they are to you and tell them. Do it today and if they are no longer on this earth say a prayer of gratefulness for the part of them that is in you.

She had a wonderful life and we were so fortunate to share part of it with her. She has left us for the most magical kingdom of all. It all goes so fast and before we blink, we will hear her in the distance.  “Second star to the right and straight on ‘till morning”.

Today I will Dance

Two years have passed since my mother left this earth. The date on the calendar does not make me tumble into a melancholy stupor.  I hear my mother’s fierce spirit,  singing in my head, Today is a beautiful day.

My heart is open, no longer covered by the heavy quilt of mourning. I walked to work, no, I skittered across the gleaming sidewalks framed by ice ornaments hanging on the trees, leftovers from a recent storm. They have become shiny bright wrappers sparkling and glittering in the sun. The air smells clean in its coldness,  blending in the  faint intoxicating promise of spring. My mother would have  pronounced it a wonderful day to hang up the freshly laundered  clothes. She would smile and praise our sculpture of pastel underpants, flanked by half denim ghosts saluting the parade of salt covered cars.

 Her view  was never obstructed by dirt, or pain, or regret. She always saw the good.

I am overwhelmed with the need to dance, to yell, to raise my hands to the sky in grateful joy to my mother, for this life, this world, this time.

Backtrackin Blues

After my inexplicable demon possession on Friday and subsequent rectal exorcism I am now sufficiently medicated, rested, and in a more mature frame of mind. I must retract my verbal crucifixion I angrily inflicted on my semi-innocent spouse. I have trust issues transforming me into an explosive homunculus when faced with real or self-created abandonment. It is unfortunate that I cannot delete this misfiring signal of raging nihilism, but it remains in hibernation until the next time it burrows its way forward, a tapeworm feasting on irrationality.



After the manic barrage of hysteria is exhausted, the equally demented release of laughter begins. I extract his cell phone from his coat and see he has not listened to the overwrought curse laden call I had made. I listen and laugh after his polite please leave a message, I commence my tirade “You want a message here’s your message, you’re a ###### @@@@@” I continue with my blood pressure soaring – diatribe alternately huffing and puffing as I schlep through the snow. It was funny a nasally whine infused voicemail with what I imagine Marge Simpson’s sister Selma sounded like in the throes of passion with Sideshow Bob.



By the next morning all is past except my husband’s wish for the now deleted voicemail. It would have been played for years, a running loop of, The Day The Oompa Loompa Erupted. I am fine with that erasure. I am also fine with my grand mal hissy fit. A dramatic diva presentation, was beautifully choreographed, over the sidewalks and pseudo-mountains, sung in native Greenvillian  The 2011 Snow Follies.

Night Shift Lullabye

So, I became a raving Bitchasaurus this morning when I did not receive a phone call and my beloved did not pick me up. We had discussed this the night before as a blizzard had occurred two days earlier and many people do not shovel. I wanted to be assured of a ride. He absolutely said he would pick me up. I became nervous when he didn’t come and did not answer his phone. I knew he might be having an interview, but I was infused with anger that he didn’t answer my text or calls. My irritation was compounded by yesterday’s unfulfilled request. I had asked him the night before to get the garbage out as it was buried in snow. He promised me he would do it the next morning. The next day he growled at me when I reminded him, he needed to finish his breakfast, needed to finish watching The A team. I found him asleep a few minutes later. I trudged through the snow, lifted the can as best I could through the drifts, gathered the heavy garbage and set it out. Yes I knew he was tired, but what I do, or feel doesn’t matter anymore. My job pales in comparison because he works a twelve hour night shift. I could never be as tired as stressed, as overwhelmed as he. My life is centered on letting him sleep, which he apparently is not able to do, that my f-ing dogs, my f-ing phone, my f-ing brother, my f-ing medical show, evilly plot against him.and his circadian clock.


I try to get the work done, make his lunch, keep the dogs quiet, keep the papers out of bed. I am dancing the waltz of my youth keep things even, maybe Dad won’t get drunk, the frenetic jig of motherhood buy them what they want, maybe they will stay sober, let him sleep maybe he will not yell. I no longer trust he will pick me up, help me with the endless tasks of living. He’s sleeping and doesn’t want to be disturbed.

Time for Her to Fly

I have rescued my mother, again, kidnapping her velvet bagged ashes from the seat of her broken wheelchair. They have been imprisoned for 22 months in a smelly, dark, cat litter room. Her chair is surrounded by her paper treasures being randomly eaten and soiled by resident mice. This satchel of dust was enshrined, mourned in self destructive depression by her grieving son.


Disturbingly reminiscent of the last day she was home when I came to help her as she was in pain. She was bright and happy when I first arrived, before the debilitating onslaught began again. She went into the bathroom to dress and I began to cry surveying her cluttered, impassible, life. I had been powerless to correct it, unwelcome to touch anything by my sibling who lived there, interpreting my offers, as criticism of his care. It was wrong for my beautiful mother to wheel through the maze of recycling, papers, and junk. I knew my brother was paralyzed by his obsessive compulsive brain and symbiotic life with our mother. I understood.

I had to save her, but as in all sad movies I was too late. She went to the hospital. A pilgrimage of family came to say good bye.

I look at the red pouch in front of a window at my house. She still is not all the way home, not in my earthly thinking. It is time to let her ashes dance in the wind, sing by the moonlight, grow brilliant sunflowers and fly joyfully away.

Confetti Parade

It truly is a wonderful life, George Bailey
Breathing in the cold winter air, against a giant pink sky

Married thirty-five years - Still like each other-most of the time
Three children - who are kind, tolerant, and see the humor in life

A large and eclectic family

Amazing friends who listen and still are friends
In-laws that are productive and strong at eighty-six and eighty-one
Cats that keep me warm and make me laugh
Dogs that protect me and make me laugh

Job that is challenging, rewarding, and fun
House that is paid for
A family farm shared with siblings

Good health
Good health insurance

Opportunities
Accepted at UM and MSU
Full scholarship at MSU ( college terminated by marriage)
Lived in Italy two years
Essays published in local and Detroit papers
Swam with dolphins in Xcaret Mexico
Ran two marathons

Planted trees with my dad forty years ago
 Now trees tower in a wooded refuge

Christmas Eve parties with traditional Czech foods at my house.
Eighty-Seven friends and relatives celebrated this year

My mother giving me the extraordinary gift of life.
The extraordinary gift of being with my mother as she left this life

I want to take each moment and pump it up until it is full without bursting.
 If it does burst confetti will rain down in bright streams of laughter.

If Gabriel Byrne was listening

I have been watching “In Treatment” to see what the protocol of therapy encompasses. I took the advice of the neurologist and went to see a Neuro-Psychologist. I talk he listens. I am confused by so little interaction. I am uncomfortable talking without mutual sharing. I don’t know where to begin, still confused by the benefit of counseling to remedy my visions of birds, nocturnal self-violence, sleep invasions and numb face. Which if any of my emotional dog bites are causing these physical reactions? I do not feel better dragging through the mud of my life. I struggle with the reason for remembering painful experiences. I am overcome with futile grief. I could not change it then and can not change it now. There is no time machine, if there was I would need instructions to make the right decisions and even with that knowledge, what about the factors I cannot control?

I am circling, trying to find the way out.

Is the purpose to make me stronger, when hands are wrapped around my neck squeezing the air from my lungs? Will it help me forgive myself when my depressive alcoholic genes come to life in my children? Is it to acquire coping skills watching my father feverously try to hang himself from the clothesline? Is it to teach me patience after yelling at my mother for potatoes not cooked to my specifications, she hemorrhages dark red blood in her wheelchair and on the floor? Is it forgiveness when  a relative steals, and lies? Is it tolerance when confronted with hatred laced diatribes in the name of religion? Is it empathy when I hear the grief of loss in my daughter’s voice? Is it gratitude when my dad stops screaming and dies?

I keep watching this HBO version of psychological healing; my appointments appear to be similar, though no one has manifested their turmoil with such symptoms except, perhaps the psychologist who is sure he has the signs of Parkinson's disease and researches obsessively on the internet. I remain conflicted on my creation of neurological phantoms. My counselor tells me I have misinterpreted the diagnosis.

I talk he listens…. Will this change anything? Will this fix me?

The sun is shining.  I can feel my heart beat.  I am alive.