How to get through the passings of people you really didn't know when you have way more important stuff to do

For the record: Yes, it is quite possible that I am a big fat hypocrite because I know I wasn't anywhere in sight. Your mother can explain it better than I can.

Dear My Best Friend's Beautiful and Busy Children (even Nathaniel),

I know that I lack the integrity of someone who actually came to the funeral (see your mom about this--I have a note), but a polite person will always send a gift in their absence and this is that gift for you--these thoughts that most people don't get until it is too late. There will come a time when it is too late (we all get at least one) and you will know immediately that of which I write.

I knew your grandmother for a million years. She welcomed me into her home when my own became too much to bear. She was benign with her criticisms (and they could have been legion--again, ask your mom) but she simply let me have a place to be. A huge gift to a difficult kid who was in way over her (my) head in about 400 parts of her silly (more than most) little teen-aged life. She took me to the beach and let me and your mom just be who we were. I would not, have not seen that again in my almost 42 years (note: your mother will always be older than I, just for the record you should always know that). Thank you Miss Ceta.

You were, for the most part, not around your grandmother. I do understand that you didn't know her very well until she was more of an intrusion and a bed-taker than a beloved guest. I understand that she was a huge weight on your parents' shoulders and that it is a relief that she has passed. All that is to be expected and not held against anyone at all.

BUT.

I want you to understand that no matter the condition in which you met her or saw her last, she was much, much more than that physical and mental limitation. You will never know her as she was, but I would ask you to trust those who did when they tell you how colorful and funny and loving your grandmother was. How she smoked like a chimney (a very busy downtown chimney with a 24hr furnace) until Brittany got sick. Then there occurred in the town of Essex, a flat-out You-Can-Call-Me-Jesus-And-Hang-On-While-I-Calm-This-Here-Storm-for-You-Miracle. She worked it out w/God that if she quit smoking, Brit would recover. Sweet, yes? Brittany, you're lovely and smart and everything in your path sparkles with promise, but Baby, you have got to know your grandmother LOVED her some smoking. Loved it. But she loved you more.

I realize that your visits to her house were not entirely pleasant or comfortable as you might recall. The human condition sucks as we age. Her house was smaller than you needed and perhaps dirtier than you liked, but she offered it to you on a (okay, not so clean) platter. Just like she did to me. Remember that. Even as she was unable to provide fabulous housing for you, she offered what she had with a glad heart. It's rather like what we have to offer God. Not so much, but with a glad heart. And God, who shows us how to be, accepts our grubby offerings with a glad heart and without critical words.
Your grandmother did not come to a gentle end, despite the efforts her children made. She was absolutely as comfortable and cared for as circumstances permitted. But you must know that her children would have done anything to give her more. It's like that sometimes. As much as we can, it is not enough. Human Condition sucks.

Perhaps she was not the person you would have chosen as your grandmother. Perhaps. But she was the person God chose for the job. Now, Granted, He rarely calls me into into His Office (okay, He never does, no matter how smart I think I am and how many degrees I have but whatever), but He's really quite savvy about such things. So know that and think on it, even if you don't accept it. God doesn't mind if we roll things around in our silly heads like tennis balls in a dryer for a bit.

Ohh, how she loved every last lovely one of you. Oh My Gosh. You all were beyond her wildest dreams and hopes. You amazed her. That sort of thing may or may not happen again-- Amazement is hard to come by, so hold it tightly, treasure it in from your grandmother. Aside from that, she taught your mother how to love. And your mother loves y'all pretty darn good. I adore my kids, but I think you'd all end up huddled in my carport under an old blue tarp if you were here more than a day or two. By your own choice. And you'd really be pissed if nobody under the tarp had a cell phone. I'm just saying. You were five golden points on a glorious, brilliant star for your grandmother. And where she fell short for your mom (as moms always do) that's where your mom learned to do better. And your mom is good. No really.

The other thing is that your mama's losing her mama. This is certainly not the least of the hard stuff here, but I would ask that you please, please be gentle on your mama because this whole MLM (mama losing mama) is horrifying and frightening and cold, no matter what kind of mama a mama might lose. Even if you don't realize it, it puts you a tiny bit closer to the head of the line in terms of this mortal coil. No matter what you believe comes thereafter, when your own mama passes, there's a draft whisping around the corners of your life and it whispers, "swifter...sooner....sadder." I could improve that image, but you know how it is. Might come back to it.

Your mother needs you to know that she is grieving for someone you might not have known so well, or liked so much and that This doesn't matter one teeny weeny micro-atom sized bit for you. Read that last sentence again. Outloud. You are called to pray and grieve for and with your mother because she is your mother. There's no homework pass for that. I think maybe there's even a commandment about it, but as your mother and father can tell you, my theology is not especially similar to your own, even as much as I respect your beliefs. I know that if you respect life, so then you must grieve for the loss of it, especially, especially if it is a life on which your own has been built. Please, my best friend's beautiful children (even Nathaniel), I want so badly for you to learn this now instead the dreaded "too late." Too late will show up, and dag, you think THIS is a pain in the buttocks, oh, you have no idea the pain of too late. BTDT.

In these times, as hard as it is, just as you are finding out who you are, please try to put that aside for a speck of time. You will be you for a really long time(I think that's true even in Star Trek episodes) and the funny part is that you never will figure out most of it and if you do, you will be completely bored by it. So take a break, and for right now, for just this minute, and simply be your mother's children. Be that. Be also your grandmother's beautiful, glorious, blinding star. Always, always you should and will be that, even when you go back to being you. But especially now, remember the women who love you most and offer up yourself up to them for this brief time. Be the child and the grandchild. It matters. They will be impressed, and you will learn from it. And, best friends beautiful children (even Nathaniel), the lesson and the learning is the thing. (Also, it's all I have in my bag of tricks, since this old teacher couldn't even manage to get her sorry self to Maryland to say it in person.)

I adore you, every one, even Nathaniel, and I am sorry that I don't see you very often because you really are a great pleasure. Now, if that's how I feel, all down in Alabama with the fire ants and all, then consider how much more your grandmother felt. Just consider it. Getting through the passing is pretty quick--two viewings and a funeral, maybe a trip to the cemetery. Learning from it is the hard part.

So, my best friend's beautiful children (even Nathaniel), it won't cost you anything to read this or think on it. Won't cost you to pray on it. Really, it won't cost you to do it, but that's your own business. You will be busy for your whole lives. Pause just for now and think of what might look good to God. And your Mom.

Okay. You can crumble it up now. And Nathaniel, I'm just messing with you.

Sorta.

Best Friend's Mommy

My childhood best friend called me Friday. Just as we're entering the critical staging period for our annual Halloween/Harvest/HappyBirthday to Oldest Son Party. More about that later, as the party is over and I can only say that it was one of those parties in which articles of clothing were left behind (Okay, Truth: a kid took off his/her socks and shoved them under the trampoline and I found them on Monday).
Am tearing around awful, sticky, who-set-off-the-crap-everywhere-bomb house, mostly trying to hide initial bad impressions and my dear friend called. Her mother had just passed away. Like not 30 minutes before. Of dementia. Remember how dementia makes those clever, clever lungs eventually forget the in and out act that makes them so important? yeah. And remember how snivelly (sp?) and self-centered I can be (am) in situations where big-girlness would be well-regarded? yeah. Crap. So I didn't go home for the funeral. Could Not Face It. Nope. Did my Apostles on Maundy Thursday Act.
The two things I couldn't face (not justifying, just listing) were that I would have to see my own mom and I would have to see how it ended for bf's mom. It was the really that first one that I couldn't do. Am (me, me, me) in pretty bad shape down here all by my lonesome. And no one up north has to know. (shhh....ROBERT THAT MEANS YOU. Sweetie.) I did confess all this to my beloved friend and she was (too tired, maybe?) perfectly understanding about it, but I know I dropped the ball here. Yeah, we sent flowers and yeah, I am extending all the sorry-for-your-loss sentiments, but I know I should be there. I grew up around her mom. When the skies shook on 9/11, when my bf had just birthed her last child while stationed in Israel, I called her mom. Pulled that phone number waaaay from the back of my memory and dialed it just like when we were two white trash-ish high school girls working out some zany 80s scheme. Her mom and I spoke for a bit about whether anyone had heard from bf...was she coming home? Did she need baby stuff? (Oh, I was all over that, let me tell you.) And bf's mom, a rather colorful character summed the whole thing up very tidily. She said, "Osama My Ass!" Those three little words. I offered them to bf's dh who is doing the eulogy, but he declined. Anyway, I (me, me, me) am distracted and out of whack (have new doc who is horrified by my general situation and demeaner--more later. About Me.) and deeply shaken by this turn. And I can't think of any more stuff to write. And I have stupid insurance survey to take before bell tolls midnight. So I should go. Oh hell, who is kidding whom? Right this minute, I suck. And I'm hiding. There.

Mommy's Mommy

Remember my mom? I only ask, because she pretty much doesn't and my kids sure as hell won't. Damn. Yesterday she and my father went to the electroshock doc (I know they're not actually called that, but it would be cool, wouldn't it?) finally after a year of first my father not wanting it (not your head, Dad, not your head) and then my mother not wanting it ("I just don't." Oh Jesus) and now the shock doc (okay, it ends here) tells them that he suspects more dementia than depression. Crap. Oh Double Crap and Damn. Because while these two conditions are similar and can fuel and/or disguise each other, and they quite frequently present together, the prognosis, folks, the outcome is waaay different. See, depression can conceivably lift, either via meds or procedures or talk therapy. Depression only feels permanent. You know how in the middle of winter you try to think what it's like to be outside in shorts and you can't imagine how that's ever possible? Feels like winter is just constant, so weighty and opaque and bone-aching. In truth tho, odds are good that summer might just show up again. Depression is like that sometimes. And dementia (crap oh crap oh crap.) differs from depression in that it is a veritable Ice Age. Don't nobody go looking for the shorts and sunblock because Summer has left the building. End. Of. Story. Okay, so there are twelve types of dementia, not including pseudodementia (wha?), and they all pretty much grind an iceberg into the brain until not even those clever class-valedictorians, the lungs can remember the simple in and out of breathing. I'm no genius (as has been clearly demonstrated in prior posts), but even I know what happens when you stop breathing. Damn. There's nothing in the medicine cabinet to help that.
Oooooh, so I'm (It's not about me, but still, you know) mad. I'm scared too, b/c I have no idea how to be the biggest girl in the family, but mostly I'm mad. For all the years I've had kids, I have begged, wheedled, asked, nagged them to spend time w/their grandchildren.How awful could a visit with three admittedly quirky, but surprisingly handsome boys be? Visits end. Everything will be right where you left it. No one will move your remote, I promise. Look, I grew up in the house next to my grandmother and her sister lived next to her, and my dad's parents visited every Sunday and so forth, so I know how important grandparents are. That's why they're call GRANDparents (Okay, that was scary Hallmark-y. Sorry) But they always had a reason. Their parents...their animals...their house improvements...and I am boiling mad because all those reasons are gone with the wind, but now, ironically enough, so is my mother. The last reason she won't get to know her grandkids is her own self. I just wanted this for my kids, you know? I mean, I grieve my own grandfather in ways and at times and with such fury that it shocks me. And he was ready. I would not have asked him to stay if I could. But my mother is, no no no, it's not time. My children, Your grandchildren, they need you. I need you. You never showed me how to can vegetables. I can live with that. But you never got to know my children and they are worth knowing, even with their uh...quirks. Always something more important. Eight years of very important stuff, apparently. I am sorry and ashamed for it, but I am mad. I want my mommy.

If I have learned nothing else about down in the past few months, I have learned that there is no bottom. People will tell you, you know, that it (insert troubles here) just has to get better b/c it can't get worse (chuckle, chuckle), but that is such regoddamndiculous crap I can't stand it, because there is no bottom. You can go down down down and never even stop for gas.

No. No. No.

I'll wrap this up now because I can see by re-reading that my selfish anger is really quite unnatractive. That, and I'd rather you not see me cry. I get real red and puffy.

Anniversaries are so special...Don't you think?

And today was a special anniversary for sure. It has been one month since I asked Dh to help assemble my treadmill. Ah...time certainly does fly when you're having fun (or staring at a half-open box of treadmill guts day after freaking day). When I asked him to help (one month ago today), he said "we'll do it wednesday." I could hardly get to sleep on Tuesday night. Why, it's Treadmill Eve! All joy is fleeting tho, because Treadmill Day came and he announced that "he needed to take it slowly because it was pretty complicated." Right. Gotcha. Okey Dokey. Well, I had no idea just exactly how slowly he'd be taking it. Apparently he was modeling his schedule after the guys who built Stonehenge. Days to weeks...weeks to month...*sigh*

So this morning I, me, myself AND moi put the damned thing together in like 90 minutes. NINETY MINUTES. I mean from laying out the guts to striding that first mile. Yeah. 90 minutes. Tops. I am complicated and should be taken slowly. The treadmill, on the other hand, was not. See, I do so know the difference.
I love him, I do. But sometimes he's just another guy hanging around here with a cowlick and a penis (all of them have the same cowlick, penis, not so much.)

And how does all this affect my disposition?

Well, now, that's complicated.

The Truth about Bourbon

It's time to come clean about a topic that has surfaced on several occasions here in Lahlahland. Yes, I'm talking about the brownest of the brown, the mellowest of the mmmmmmmmmms, the sweet mama-hold-my-hand-while-I-drink-it-neat bourbon. While I do enjoy it upon occasion (yes, Bobby, I do recall that magical mid-summer night during which we were granted the super bourbon-drinking powers but not the waaay more useful-- trust me, super hangover-survival skills), I feel rather silly because while I may cry for it at the end of a post, it's a bit of a conceit. All that bourbon would cloud up my standard bitchiness, I really think it would. Bourbon-based bitchiness is a whole 'nother stop on the toll road to Hell. (Yes Bobby. I know Bobby. Enough Bobby. ) My bourbon-induced tallulah bankhead/auntie mame/dixie carter (early seasons of Designing Women--you know, before she got so preachy) is precious because it is so very rare. I don't have any real sources for that last statement, I'm just assuming that it's precious and best if rare.

I'm too old for all that stuff. There's no respite after a hard night on the Bonbourbon. More likely there's a four year old sitting on your head arranging his stuffed animals so that they're all just looking at your old hungover mommy self with no small bit of marble-eyed disdain. I have had this happen. Not an urban myth.

I'm glad we got that all cleared up, aren't you?

Hard Times in the Land of Lah

Since there may just be someone who has crossed the borders into LahLahland, whether intentionally or not, it would seem to be simple good manners for me to explain my recent absence.
Things are tough here. Not adjusting at ALL to Dh's work schedule--it's messing w/my sleep and my already tenuous grasp on sanity, and not necessarily in that order either. It's like my whole life is suddenly on one of those slanty walk things you might see at a fair. Nothings really changed, but it's all just really slanted , so then everything has changed. Profoundly. Deep, no? Or it's like wearing someone else's glasses. I don't want to explain that one b/c I'll just mess it up, but surely you've tried on someone's glasses simply for the hilarity of it, right? Well, it's like that. Only w/o the hilarity.

It would seem (acc. to those clever internet quizzes and years of experience with the disease) that the combined crap soup of schedule/kid/dh/home stress and the crazy mother/father counselling nightmare, I have twirled myself right on down into a depressive episode. Now, I will be modest and not call it a major episode, if only because that sounds like something I'd have to plan and I just don't have it in me right now to plan anything beyond hot dogs for dinner tonight. And that's iffy right there.
This is not a new seat on the bus for me. BTDT. But if you will recall, my doc retired. Poof. Gone. Aloha. Sooo I have to try to work it out via other routes. Routes not familiar with my dysthymic terrain. Routes that don't have my records. Routes that don't know that I'm far enough down the hole to not even remember to take the red-flag- on-my-chart meds b/c they're sched. II and altho I have always respected the drug and its properties, good and bad, you know how docs get all itchy and blinky about stuff like that. Yeah. Not overmedicating. Not bothering to overmedicate. If you knew me in the 80s I will give you a moment to re-gather yourself and process that "not overmedicating" thing. There. All better? Maybe I'm just not remembering. Does it matter which?
Kids are fine, but they'd like bedtime stories instead of being hustled off like cattle. My mother is preparing for intensive electroshock therapy (see me not holding my breath for this one). Dh loves what he does and can't figure why oh why oh why I must always um...piss on his party (sorry Jenny). He thinks I should go back to work. He thinks that's a good idea. I think it's a good one, all right. I asked him who, in the event that I should go back to work, would do my job here? Oh...you know, the housework, the yardwork, the maintenance, laundry, blah blah blah. The man looked at me like I'd grown a third eye (I wonder if that would come in handy...). He really so doesn't have any idea. And don't say, "well, stop doing all that stuff and just you see...he'll get the picture mighty quick" because he won't. Nope, not a bit. He will not even know that a picture is coming around, much less get ahold of it. And I will gain only a larger variety of sticky, smelly and quite possibly congealed household situations. Also, he has conveniently forgotten that teachers work a lot. And some teachers really need to stay at school to get stuff done. Some teachers are not whizzes at the planning thing in the first place, and also don't have fax/printer/copier thingies at home. Some teachers are kinda bad about forgetting stuff and so must stay in one place so as to keep aformentioned stuff handy. And some teachers are still at work at six in the evening. All of this I have lived and he has forgotten.

So you see how it is, here in the land of Lah. Maybe it's hurricane season in these parts, I don't know. I just know that I'm feeling just a bit taut and weepy and more than just a bit exhausted. And I don't care. And that's not how Mama rolls, my friends. Not how Mama gets it done. So I need to be thinking and praying and spending time in the late-year sunlight. Oh, and Bourbon. I do need some Bourbon.