August 25, 2006
Growing up, I never knew a lot of money. Even so, my family and I had a certain way of life. We skiied, and played tennis, and swam. My dad's parents had a little cottage on the water by Gloucester, so much of the summer would be spent there - taking out the little sailboat, walking the beaches, and at night playing endless rounds of gin rummy.There was always a week spent on Cape Cod, usually shared with another family to save money - a gaggle of giggling kids stuffed in sandy sleeping bags at night being yelled at to go to sleep by the parents who were smoking and laughing over bridge games in the other room.
Holidays and special occasions were a New England stampede of relatives in madras and polo shirts. My mom's siblings and their kids, my dad's parents, his brother, and assorted pseudo-family of folks who had been friends of the family going back for generations. Whose grandfathers had been close with my grandfathers, whose mothers had double-dated with my mom.
There was always a kids table, even when the event was FOR a kid - which galled us under-21 set. Little Jimmy just played in the State Finals and aren't we proud of him and he's over there at the rickety card table sharing burgers and chips with the 4 year olds. But it was the way things were.
Maybe that's why, even though I was bullied as a kid, I came out OK. Because, man, I always knew I was loved. And I mean, bone-deep love by a family as varied and wide as a village. The kind of love that doesn't care if you're a pain in the ass and a show-off and have shiny braces on. Because I was one of the clan. I was claimed.
And this is what I wanted for him. For my Bear. For my miracle child with bright red hair and a zillion freckles.
I wanted him stamped with the seal of family, for all the world - and mostly him - to see. I wanted him at that damn kids table, eating with a plastic fork. I wanted him looking up from his tournament or recital to the embarressingly loud hoots and hollers of a dozen relatives. I wanted him to know, into his blood, that there was a village out there - the security of that.
But I made a mistake.
I moved away. I left Massachusetts for Chicago and London and anywhere else and I never looked back. So I shouldn't be surprised that the rest did, too.
I shouldn't be. Yet, I was.
It was disheartening when CD's family simply didn't care. His mom, who lived in St Louis with her American husband until she died a few years ago, adored Bear. She would come up whenever she could. But his dad, his brothers, and his sister have never shown any interest. They live in Sweden and Iceland and in a world unto themselves. I tried, sending letters and pictures and cards...no response, really.
It was more disheartening to discover that my own family had become unstuck. Except for my mom, her sister, and my brother - the rest scattered emotionally if not physically. And each summer, the realization has sunk in a bit more.
Until this summer, when I finally had the time and energy to really pay attention.
The world I grew up in is gone.
And I shouldn't be surprised, because I suspect it faded away long ago. It's just that I wanted, so much, for my son. It hurts me to admit how much.
Each Thanksgiving, spent with just CD and Bear and I curled up on the couch watching a movie and eating take-out. Each special occasion - when Dee's presence or my mom's (who, really, is Bear's number 1 fan) was all that marked a difference. Something felt missing.
I should have been building new traditions, instead of working so hard to resurrect the ones I knew. And to my son, and my husband, who feel happily complete with just us - there is no understanding of why I am looking around, looking for more.
They do not see ghosts of holidays past. The room doesn't feel quiet. They do not miss the laughter and chaos they never knew. This is just me. And something I must let go, so that what I want doesn't tarnish what I have. I left for Chicago 20 years ago, and built a new life. It was incredibly unrealistic and selfish of me to think that the old one had waited for me and my child. That time hadn't marched on everywhere.
My father invited CD and Bear and I to join him and his wife and her kids (I'd met the son a couple of times, but never the daughter) at a Cape Cod rental house. Dad and his wife have been together for 12 years, since her kids were little. Built a life together that was kept pretty separate of me. I don't know why, maybe because I was already living in Chicago when they got together.
So we said yes to the invitation, because hey - its the Cape. And my dad and his wife took us yesterday on a Whale Watch - something I'd never done before. Bear was uncertain about the whole thing but soon was scampering about the boat giggling and watching the Humpbacks fluke and spout.
We were lucky, the whales came so close they actually swam under boat. I leaned forward an told my Dad's wife how thankful I was they they had brought us - it was an adventure we could not have afforded to give Bear this summer. And he was absolutely thrilled by the Whales and was learning so much.
She turned to her daughter and they tried to figure out if the whales had ever come so close before.
And I sat there and quietly realized that they had been coming to the Cape every summer.
Looking at whales every summer.
The same weeks that we'd been here, and never occurred to them to say "hey, come down and join us for a day".
I don't know why that was the final piece to my revelation. I don't know why that's what finally made it all click in my mind.
It stung to realize how excluded we'd been. That especially my little son, my father's only grandchild...
Yeah. I choked up a little about that. Yeah, I did.
I walked up to the bow of the ship, and stared into the sunset, and tried not to cry. Just a little self-pity party.
It's hard to feel left out. No matter what your age. Especially when you've worked so hard on your child's behalf to be included.
Up on that bow, the wind tangling my hair. I thought, how I missed my Uncle Mike. How I missed my grandmother, my dad's mom, who had been such a good friend and the heart of that side of the family. How I'd tried so hard to stay connected to my family and CD's family and how, really, it had been this sort of silly fruitless effort.
And with deep breaths, I realized - This is now. Things have changed. So what if I am no longer part of a big family that I can share with my son.
And then I realized.
I am still claimed. And so is he. And so is CD.
We claim each other.
Our village is small, our family just a handful. It is time to stop thinking that somehow means it is less.
We are healthy. We are together. We can enjoy my dad and his family for this moment. We can experience these whales.
I finally noticed the beautiful sunset. The blue waves. The lighthouses in the distance as we made our way back to port. My son, laughing and giving CD a run for his money.
I let go of the rail, and remembered the camera. Thought to take some pictures of these memories.
I let go.
Mostly.
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August 15, 2006
When I awoke at 5 the next morning, the sun was a pink crease in the windshield. We were exiting the highway to the Buffalo (NY) airport. All too fast, CD had kissed us and said goodbye.
He called 3 hours later, already back home and headed into bed. We just can't afford for him to take any unpaid time off this year, so he's back at work.
Meanwhile, I pulled into my mother's driveway at 3PM. Adjusted for the time difference, we made the 1,000 miles in 17 hours flat. A new family record. So was the cost of gas this time - over $100 plus the $30 in tolls.
But ....as happy as we are to be here, it's just not the same. Without him.
God, I'm a sap.
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August 09, 2006
Dr. Specialist the culprit thanks my disorientation and clumsiness is...
Lack of sleep.
No. Shit.
See, he thinks that a combination of the joint pain that comes and goes with Lupus combined with the stress of leaving my job is probably why I don't sleep through the night (I sort of come awake off and on but hadn't thought anythging of it) and THAT culminates in sleep deprivation.
And extended sleep deprivation would cause these bouts of crushing fatigue, the disorientation, forgetfulness, and clumsiness (and all other fun stuff).
Seriously? Sleep.
All that drama. The serious face of the docotor who sent me to a neurologist. The anxious explanation of a brain virus that occurs in second-stage Lupus. CD, Bear and I holding hands before the appointment....
and?
Sleep.
They're confirming the diagnosis with an MRI and other tests to be sure. But in the meantime, I've been prescribed Ambien and a blankie.
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August 08, 2006
In a conglomoration of all the things he has learned and wanted... this is the conversation I overheard him having in the Doctor's waiting room the other day. As I sat with my nose in a Golfing magazine while he talked to the mom of a new baby that was entrancing him, with her tiny toes sticking out from the carrier.
Bear: "Is she going to have brothers and sisters?"
OtherMom: "She already has one of each, they are older."
B: "Oh. I have lots of brothers and sisters. Lots and lots."
OM: "You do?"
B: "Yeah. In my mommy's tummy. But I'm the only one who ever got born."
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August 07, 2006
A woman is having a heated discussion into her cell phone on the other side of the fake palm tree. I debate informing her that it has no soundproofing capabilities, because she seems to think it does.
When I was in college, one of my suitemates was a Cancer survivor.At 15, a growth had been found and removed. She'd been given a course of radiation. And then showed no signs of any illness after that. I knew her at 21, and would sometimes make what I thought was a callous remark - like "that boy is a Cancer on the Sorority."
I'd look at her, and mouth "sorry" and feel awful.
One day, she pulled me aside and asked me to stop apologizing. "The thing is, it was a month of my life 6 years ago. I hear about chemo and all that, and I feel like an imposter."
On my other side came a couple of ladies chattering in French. Both dressed more fashionably casual than I could ever hope to be. My size huge shorts sagging down my thighs, the red paint half chipped from toes. I close my eyes and try not to hear either conversation.
Dee takes forever. I suspect she has been kidnapped by one of those infamous Florida alligators that can swim up the plumbing and attack women on the toilet.
"You don't have authorization for that," Intent cell phone lady says. "You didn't have to pull me out of a movie for this. You already knew the answer."I hope to myself that at least she'd shown the good manners to have her phone on vibrate.
"I'll speak to you in the morning," she snaps. "At the staff meeting."
She brushes past me, grim and tired-looking, and into Theater 2. "Barnyard." And she's ALL about the jolly kid's movie, I can tell.
It's Sunday night, and Dee has been kidnapped by the Ghost of Ladies Toilet. Right here in Oak Park, Illinois, a grave mystery has occured. But I don't have the strength to go investigate.
I am an imposter. I feel it humming through my veins.I was diagnosed with Lupus 10 years ago, and since the initial sickness have never really suffered since.
Sometimes tired, sometimes, clumsy, sometimes confused. And a funny red rash like a sunburn on my face for a few days.
This is not the disease that kills so many. That is always a Usual Suspect on the TV show "House".
I used to feel like an imposter to even say I had the damn condition.
But now, I am ashamed. I feel like somehow, I have brought this on. After years of whining about wanting to quit my job, I finally do - and cursed us. Cursed us, yes. I am being frivolous in thinking I could have that power, but yet I suspect it. Did I make this happen? This crazy rush to ruin?
The fast approaching disaster of our finances, our lives, or my health.
You see me standing here, a regular Midwest Housewife. Except I am just a new kind of imposter.
Behind my facade, my nonchalance in the glow of a fake palm tree, is a tangled web of "what if" and "what next".
She climbs up the stairs to me, her sapphire eyes snapping.
"Thank Heavens," I said. "I didn't know if the kidnappers would release you. After all, I couldn't make ransom. Couldn't come up with enough Flounder to fit their demands."
She looks at me, a wrinkled-nose confused smile. And then she slips her arm around me to help me to the car.
"That's OK," she confides. "I used my ninja Yoga powers."
"It's all good, Supergirl," I commend her.
And laugh loud enough that the French ladies paused, to glance at me.
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August 03, 2006
The other day at the store, I started pushing down the aisle and called for Bear to follow; "C'mon Sweet Peaness," I said, unthinkingly combining the two.
He looked at me for a long, bland minute. And then shook his head. "Uh, Mommy?"
First uncomprehending. Then my mouth opened in a big circle as I realized what I'd said. Then a blush of apology. And then, as I walked away, I burst into hysterics.
Oh, I'm the baaaaaad mommy.
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A saxophone playing while pictures slide across the screen. But no lyrics. No rhymes or soft alliteration. The sunset speaks for itself, because I can not.
Some call it writers' block, but the truth hides behind the label - as it will.
It's easy to write when life makes sense. Angry, lusty, giddy, wistful, grinning, yawning, yearning, bristling with outrage. Wanting a baby. Losing a baby. Seeking God. Losing weight. Gaining it back. Propping up my husband. Agonizing over my son. Tangles of friends. Battling the corporate titans. And sometimes winning. Tripping over the mess in the hall. Groaning over the mess in Washington. Striking up the grill over some new recipe. Striking out on a trip across the ocean. Stroking my son's hair and wondering how I would explain that daddy doesn't live here anymore. Slipping, with relief, back into love with my husband and sneaking something more than kisses before our son wakes.
Everything that is life. The granules that fall from my hand back into the sandbox. Reflecting the sun sometimes. And real.
I am sick, and that is real. My Lupus has flared up, due in part to my own carelessness. I have done all the things I should not do since leaving Mega - tossed away my structured (if stressful) existence for hours in the sun, poor diet, not enough sleep.
Lupus flares mean that my body is, sort of, attacking itself. My short-term memory flits on and off. My bones break easily (I have a broken knuckle and toe). I fall, for no reason. I become crushingly tired, holding my son in my arms in front of Noggin TV while I doze in and out. My kidneys struggle.
This is the worst flare since my diagnosis, a decade ago.
But it is not what silenced me. Only the last straw, really, in a battle against the quiet.
Life has stopped making sense.
Not that I contemplate the alternative.
But I do not know, quite literally, where I am going from here.
The money is running out. There is no better job for CD on the horizon. I had thought he would get one, at the last minute - which is his way. After all, before his Depression, he was making a fine living. But that hasn't happened, although he has looked.
Happy Montessori became a battleground last year, and is not for Bear this year. I am not even sure anymore that holding him back for a second year of Kindergarten is the right thing to do. And even if it is, the local public elementary school is so poor that it is regularly reviled in the newspaper.
There is no Elia, to help. I miss her. Our new health insurance, switched to CD's job after I left Mega, is inadequate. Our out-of-pocket for even regular lab tests is about 50%. And I am sick, which means even more bills. And even a part-time job waitressing is out of reach until I'm well.
We are about to run aground.
I am 40 years old, and I walked away from a lucrative career. I thought it was the right thing to do, and in many ways it has brought this family closer together than it has ever been.
But, I ... think it might have been a mistake that will cost us all everything.
Would CD and I have divorced if I'd stayed at Mega? I don't know. We were headed there, for a long time.
I don't know.
But I do know that the money is finite. And almost gone. And economizing simply won't make it be enough. 1+ 1 will never equal 3.
Something will be changing. Soon.
6 months ago, I was sleepless in fear for my marriage, my priorities, my son's childhood. I made a decision that I revisit every day. A leap of faith that is quickly turning to disaster.
There's a piece of dialogue I remember, vaguely. About someone saying, sadly, "look how things turned out". And the other person saying "we're not at the end yet."
That's what I hold on to. That in the next 2 months there is some kind of... miracle. That he gets a better job. That my health improves, so that maybe I can work too. And, you know, not end up in the hospital calling my mom for a loan and one of her kidneys. That ... well, that we find the path forward.
But for now, I battle my body. My terror. And my words? Have fled. For the dark quiet, and the unknown.
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