(Almost) Ten

September 30, 2009

Dear Mom,

I’m a couple days ahead of the 10-month mark, but you always said it was better to be early than late.

Writing to you makes no sense, of course. If you’re in heaven, you probably get the early edition on everything happening with the folks you left behind, so you don’t need me to tell you about it. And if there is no heaven after we die, then certainly there is no reading, either. But after all these months of not being able to cry over your absence, now I’ve started and I can’t stop. And you’re the only one I want to talk to.

I’ve been pretty impressed with how neatly I was wrapping up this first year without you. Back in January, someone said that with time, your absence would become less of a tragedy and more a part of my history. Sort of like a surgical scar or a broken bone that eventually heals, and the events that precipitated it become just another story to tell. Tragedy is tiring and difficult to sustain, so I was looking forward to seeing you as a historical figure, without any sharp edges of longing snagging my emotions unexpectedly. When I got to that point, I’d know I was finally an adult in my own right. Not a girl who needed a mother. A legitimate grown-up.

Then last night we watched a movie that impaled me on those sharp edges. The plot should have been safe enough: a lonely teenage girl, covered in tattoos and piercings, makes an unlikely friend of a conservative man in his late 40s who also has distanced  himself from relationships. The story is complicated by the revelation that the man is dying of leukemia, but it shouldn’t have gotten to me. The characters sound nothing like you and me, right?

Except the part about these two being each other’s best friend. That’s when I finally started the Big Cry. See, I have great friends, but I don’t have a best friend. I always had a mother for that. All my life, even when you were not quite yourself those last few years, you were the first person I went to when I needed to talk.

Perhaps you can see us from where you are. If so, you’ve probably noticed that we’re struggling lately. Between the demands of his work and the upheaval with his dad, Mike is chronically exhausted. The stress is taking a mental and physical toll, and I’m starting to worry about his health. I’m trying to be supportive and undemanding — like a nice wife instead of my usual self — but I’m a little limited in those qualities. I could use one of your lectures that starts with, “Think about how he must feel…” You were always much better at putting yourself in someone else’s shoes than I am.

One of the kids is suffering with depression again, and it’s a bad bout. We’ve had so much practice with it now, I’m starting to rate them: this one is a 7. I’m trying to find the line between helping and interfering, but it moves daily, sometimes hourly. I wish I could get a re-run of that pep talk from a few years ago when you assured me that we were doing the best we possibly could, even though we weren’t convinced of it ourselves.

And on a minor note, I burned myself three different times while cooking last week. Three times in one week! The worst one seared the freckles right off my arm, and I don’t think they’re coming back. I really wanted to call you for some pity and tell you how gross the blister was. Then I remembered. Mom-sympathy is an essential part of recovery for me, but now the line is disconnected.

Hurray for letting go and moving on and becoming a grown-up who doesn’t need a mom. But it’s lonely without you. Somewhere between missing you constantly and complete numbness, I have to find some way to feel connected to you again. If one of my children needed me, death would not be powerful enough to keep me away. Surely that is true for you, too. I just have to find the door to let you back in.

Love,

M

Blogs I Have Known and Loved

I’m a fussy reader. I’m a crank about grammar and spelling and am easily aggravated by sloppy thinking. These qualities severely limit my enjoyment of most of what’s available in the blogosphere, but here are some blogs I do read regularly.

Straw Cottage is written by my long-time friend Judy, who can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Or window coverings out of some burlap she had laying around. Judy sees a discarded wicker chair and knows that with a little apple green paint, it is destined to become a planter on her patio. She’s like Mac Gyver — she can transform an unlikely collection of materials into something useful and make it look easy.

Another friend, Dan, posts on This Just In! Unlike many of us who barely manage a couple entries a week, Dan writes every other day or so about a variety of topics, many inspired by his broad reading from different news sources. But his interests aren’t limited to current events. He also writes about yoga, as well as personal anecdotes about his family history. He’s a fine photographer (he took the photo of me for this site), and many of his posts are enhanced by his photographs.

Mason-Dixon Knitting and Yarn Harlot are specialty blogs for knitters, but I read them even when I’m out of knitting mode, as I’ve been lately. The women who write these blogs are just plain funny — the fact that they’re collectively so knowledgeable about knitting, spinning, and sometimes quilting is a nice little bonus.

Recently, Judy turned me on to Rock the Silver even though I don’t have any gray hair yet. No, honestly — I don’t! Donna writes about her successes and failures as she attempts to embrace her age and still rock it. She doesn’t take herself too seriously and sometimes posts photos of the disasters. It demonstrates great courage to take pictures for an entry called “Bad Hair Night.”

Margaret and Helen is not for the easily offended or those with conservative political leanings. Margaret, who is purportedly in her 80s, writes to her lifelong friend Helen in this blog and addresses all manner of absurdities, mostly political. She swears like a sailor and pulls no punches. She’s not polite, but for a ranter, she writes pretty well and makes me laugh. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

And finally, because I am a Creative Writing geek, I also subscribe to Nuptial Vowels which is devoted to “writing, editing, grammar, language and style.” One of my favorite recent posts from that site is entitled “Spellcheck is the Devil.” Unless you’re a word geek too, you probably won’t understand my enthusiasm; if you care about these things, you’ll feel like you’ve finally found your people.

One last thought. I love RSS feeds (see the sidebar on your left), even though I don’t know what RSS stands for. In practicality, it means I no longer hunt all over the web every day to see if my favorites have posted something new. I’ve set up RSS feeds that link my favorite blogs to my email and automatically deliver new entries as they are posted. This keeps me up-to-date on new postings and frees up lots of time that I can put to better use.

Just yesterday, for instance, I ordered a new compost container for my kitchen…

Three Little Words

No, not those three little words.

Today’s topic is thinking things through. Or not, in the case of our Arizona legislature. Lest you think I’ve abandoned my determination to keep this blog as apolitical as possible, let me assure you, this week’s events are deeply personal to my family and me.

My husband works for one of Arizona’s universities so our health insurance is part of the state system, a benefit I am thankful for every day because it covers all of us, including our sons, who are 19 and 20 but not enrolled in school; our 17-year old daughter; and me, the unemployed, blog-writing wife. The kids don’t use the insurance a lot, but one of the boys has two pre-existing conditions that would complicate finding coverage that he — or more likely, we — could afford. Since we can afford the cost of an uninsured injury or illness even less, having both the boys on our policy has been a huge relief.

But you know, the economy, blahblahblah…revenues are down, and we still don’t have a complete state budget. Aha! The legislature discovered an area where they could cut costs: drop health insurance eligibility for certain dependents of state employees. Domestic partners? Out! And the DP’s children? Them, too. The 20-year old kid delivering pizza for a living? See ya.

Here’s an excerpt of the email my husband received last Friday, September 18, from the president of the university:

TO:       Campus Community

RE:       Benefits Eligibility

Just hours before the close of the FY2010 benefits open enrollment period,
Governor Brewer signed House Bill 2013 which states: “For the purposes of
this section, beginning October 1, 2009, ‘dependent’ means spouse under the
laws of this state, a child who is under nineteen years of age or is under
twenty-three years of age and a full-time student.”

A strict reading of this language suggests that those excluded from coverage
are domestic partners and their children and all children over the age of
18, including disabled children, unless they are enrolled as full-time
students and under age 23.  Initial interpretations of the bill suggested
that those who had already enrolled during open enrollment would be
permitted to retain coverage, at least for this year; however, the delay
from the State in announcing the impact of this language may mean that
coverage will cease as of September 30th or November 24th, 90 days after HB
2013 was signed.  The families of hundreds of employees will be affected
by these changes.

In case your eyes glazed over after the first paragraph, here’s the summary: no more coverage for our boys, possibly as soon as September 30. Of this year. Here are three more words: insufficient heads-up.

I’m not sure how many 19- and 20-year old kids you know, but of the ones I’m acquainted with, 0% have the education or skills to land a job that offers benefits. And yes, it would be super if our boys were enrolled in college but they’re not ready for it yet. So the double-bind is that they are legally adults but can’t get the kind of grown-up jobs that provide health insurance. Not only does a career in pizza delivery lack benefits, but it pays too little to cover the premiums for private insurance. Especially if you have pre-existing conditions.

You’d think that having a second working parent might provide a safety net, but not so. My stepson’s mother has insurance, but she also works for the State of Arizona so he’s not eligible under her policy either.

The consequences of leaving the boys with no coverage is an unacceptable risk. If something were to happen while one of them was without insurance, we would pay out of pocket for their medical care, and one car accident or appendectomy would create a financial disaster for us. They can’t afford private insurance, and we can’t afford private pay for a hospitalization.

What to do?

The only reasonable option remaining for young adults who can’t afford their own health insurance is to apply for AHCCCS, Arizona’s answer to Medicaid. Both boys will certainly qualify because they make so little money. And guess who will pay for it? Yes! The State of Arizona.

Are you seeing the absurdity yet? Then you, Reader, are smarter than Arizona’s governor and the majority in our legislature combined. They may have saved money out of the budget in one area, but the cut will end up adding personnel, administrative, and medical costs in AHCCCS as enrollment swells with the ranks of all those displaced dependents.

See? It isn’t a political post. It’s just an anecdote about how my family — and a lot of other people’s — will be affected by a huge failure to think things through.

I See Myself on Videotape

I was never going to write about this topic, I swear. It’s been done to death and when you realize where I’m going, your eyes are going to roll so far back in your head, they might never return to normal. Especially if you are a man. In fact, if you are a man, you might want to bail now. Go watch the game or something.

The subject is women’s self-image.

I know. I could smack me. The covers of any 20 women’s magazines you can pick at random will address some aspect of how miserable women are with the way we look, while simultaneously filling its pages with photos that contribute to that insecurity. The feminist in me has no patience for it at all. But then there’s the inner 16-year old, who clearly has a lot of work left to do because she’s been in a huge uproar since yesterday when…

I watched myself on videotape for over an hour.

This is totally my friend Dan’s fault. He’s a blogster in his own right and in a recent post, he took the unusual approach of interviewing himself, to which I responded by offering to interview him with my own set of questions. We finally got our timing coordinated yesterday and committed the questions, answers, and laughter to videotape. We had a great time, and over beers afterward, we reviewed the tape he’d made. This is when the trouble began.

I tried hard to watch the interview objectively. Barring that, I’d like to have been able to focus on Dan’s responses to my probing queries. But it was hard to hear him over the noise in my head.

Is that really my nose? (I never see my nose from the side and was appalled to discover that my silhouette has a lot more in common with my late mother’s than I’d like. Note to self: never allow photography or videography to catch me in profile again.)

Damn, look at those creases around my mouth. Is it Restylane or Botox that works best on those? Maybe Botox is for the frown line between my eyebrows. And look, even my legs have freckles! Why didn’t I stay out of the sun in the 70s? Do the circles under my eyes always look that dark or is it just the lighting? What the hell is happening with my hair? And is my upper arm jiggling?

I am 47 years old. And this line of thinking is a poor use of my mind power. So why can’t I stop?

I’ve read that we Baby Boomers are particularly obsessed with trying to stay young, long after time has dragged us kicking and screaming into our Middle Ages. We’re so self-absorbed, so frantic to avoid aging and mortality that we spend zillions of dollars on creams, fitness memberships, cosmetic surgeries and procedures to stave off the inevitable. And how’s that workin’ for us?

On a good day, I feel pretty pleased with the shape I’m in, much of which I owe to genes and healthy eating habits, along with the daily walks the dogs make me take. Following my mother’s good example of caring for herself for her own satisfaction, I usually throw on a little makeup, clothes that match, and make sure my hair isn’t doing anything scary before I leave the house. Some people tell me I look younger than my age, although I can’t vouch for their motives. But even on that good day, the internal litany of complaints goes on.

Stomach too squishy. Cellulite on the backs of my thighs. Feet need a pedicure. Old lady skin starting to gather around my knees. More old lady skin wrinkling on the backs of my hands. Breasts…oh, never mind.

If I thought this was my own special neurosis, while the rest of you were waltzing through your 40s and beyond feeling absolutely fabulous, I’d keep it to myself. But it’s not. I know where our insecurities come from, and that analysis has also been done to death. I’m more interested in how to get beyond it.

I’ve seen a few different models of how American women age and I don’t love any of them. One is to give up, eschewing physical attractiveness as being either out of reach or no longer important. Another is my approach: a little effort, undermined by a lot of self-criticism for no longer resembling a college student. There’s the Joan Rivers look — ’nuff said. And then there’s the “screw you” attitude, which comes across as bravado. These women sound confident, but their tone is a tad strident. This is what 47 looks like, they might say. If you don’t like it, screw you. Methinks she doth protest too much.

Where, oh where, can I find an American woman who is aging gracefully?

My guess is she’s not blogging about it because she’s simply doing it. It’s a non-issue for her. So in a bit of a departure, I’d like to read your comments about women you’ve known who moved through the various stages of their lives, still looking lovely but not clinging to the beauty of the previous stage. You must know at least one. Bonus points if you can figure out how she does/did it.

Meanwhile, I’m going to send the inner 16-year old to her room until she can speak to me in a nicer tone.

Flag, Waving

I’m flying the flag today even though 9/11 isn’t technically a national holiday.

I almost hope it doesn’t become one. Memorial Day and Independence Day have gotten lost in long weekends and barbecues. Maybe when those of us who remember 9/11 are gone, they’ll turn it into a day off for everyone to go to the mall to take advantage of the sales. But for now, I’m glad we’re all just sitting with our thoughts.

Remembering those who died, those who served, and those who survived.

Nine Months

In 9 months’ time, a couple of microscopic cells can turn into a breathing human being. Nine months is the length of an academic year, moving you from one level of learning to the next. It seems like you can really accomplish some things in that amount of time, and this is what I’m thinking about as I mark 9 months since my mother’s death. When I look back at my first post here, written in March when the grief was still so raw, I know I’ve made progress. No completion (whatever that looks like in grieving), but progress.

Because I’m a person who tends to notice what’s missing first, I’ll start this update there. At 9 months, I’m still waiting for the Big Cry and am starting to believe it’s never going to come. Mom’s absence certainly warrants a huge emotional catharsis, and it’s not like I’m holding it in. It just won’t happen, and it’s pissing me off. I keep thinking if something could just push me into a really Big Cry, I could move through this grieving process more efficiently — you know, get a little closer to the end of it. But no, there is no crying.

And most days, I still feel pretty weird. Not sad, angry, or disoriented anymore — but still at loose ends. One of my friends worked up my astrological chart and described this phase I’m in as “total annihilation,” which seems a tad melodramatic and completely accurate all at the same time. My identity is in meltdown. No mom to care for, no kids at home. Just lots of empty space in a life that just a year ago was frequently demanding, sometimes exhausting, and looked like it would continue that way for several more years. Some days, I feel freer than I ever have. Other times, it seems like I’ll never do anything again that’s as important as the job I just lost.

On the up side, I’m able to remember the Real Mom now, the one I had until dementia started to steal her personality in those last few years. The beauty of this stage is that I can reclaim the versions of my mother I loved best and discard the parts that were difficult. Sometimes I get the memories from a particular scent, but lately, they’re musically induced. A few weeks ago, I heard this song on a movie soundtrack, and suddenly I could picture my mother singing it at the piano. It’s from the musical Guys & Dolls, but when I was little, I was sure it was a song she’d made up just for me.

Mom at the piano, Aunt Lou and me, 1967

Then there’s this one, which puts me back into the store in Vermont where Mom bought me a Betty Crocker Boys and Girls Cookbook. The first recipe I made from it was marshmallow fudge, a concoction so sweet it makes my teeth hurt to think about it now, but that was my initiation into cooking and I still love new recipes 40 years later. After Mom died, I kept the wooden spoon from her kitchen that I used to stir that first batch of fudge.

Now I can remember proudly the Mom who was always well-dressed when we went out in public, even though she was often wearing her sisters’ hand-me-downs. Other kids’ mothers might go to the grocery store — or worse yet, show up at school — with a scarf wrapped around their spongey pink rollers, but not mine. I asked her once why she bothered, since Dad never seemed to notice how she looked at all.

She shrugged. “I don’t do it for anyone else,” she said. “I do it for myself.”

I’m definitely keeping that Mom, along with the one who was always on my side even when I made choices she couldn’t comprehend. Everything I know about being a kind, decent human being, I learned from her and I’m keeping that, as well.

And after years of feeling sad about the disappointments in my mother’s life, the ones I couldn’t change but always wanted to, I finally understand that my sadness serves no purpose. Mom’s already let go of everything that was painful for her here. I don’t know where, if anywhere, we go when we die. But I feel certain that wherever she is now, my mom is okay and I don’t need to hold onto unhappiness that she’s already  released. I wish I could convey what a huge relief this realization has been, but words fail.

At this juncture, I also see clearly how temporary life is, and it doesn’t scare me the way it used to. The husband I adore, the family I love, my dogs who are such great companions, the way I look and live in my 40s — none of it will last. You’d think coming to terms with this fact and holding it at the front of my awareness every day (instead of secured in a vault in the basement, where most people keep it) would bum me out. But it doesn’t. On the contrary, I feel grateful for the time I do have with the people who are still where I can reach them. It makes me want to call them, send flowers, go dancing, get on a plane to visit — say “yes” to more things – while I can. This was a gift my mother left me.

So this is where I am, nine months later. You can accomplish a lot in nine months — but most of the time, you won’t be done and neither am I. A newborn baby is not a finished human being, anymore than a teenager who has completed her first year of college is an educated one. Nine months isn’t the end of anything, even when it looks that way. It’s only the beginning of something else.

What If You Couldn’t Read These Words

Here’s what I know about you: you had no trouble learning to read. Or if you did, someone cared enough to get you some help to overcome your difficulty. And that one fact of your childhood has given you options that you now take for granted because reading is such an integral part of your life. But you would not be sitting where you are, living the life you have now, if you had never mastered reading.

I’m thinking about this topic because of Eddie (not his real name), the tile setter who renovated our bathroom last month. It seems like the guys who come to work for me always want to talk, especially if they’re here for several days. I hear about their families, their hobbies, their wives or girlfriends. Sometimes both. Eddie is particularly chatty. He has five kids, ranging in age from 1 – 16, and he’s worried about his 10-year old son, who struggles with reading.

“He sees the letters funny,” Eddie says.

“Dyslexia?’ I ask.

“Yeah, that’s it. I’m like that, too. I always had trouble reading in school. I mean, I can read but it’s hard for me. I try to help my son but I don’t know what to do.” I tell him my husband, who was a special ed teacher for years, might be able to help. Eddie says his son is too embarrassed to talk to people about his reading problem.

Eddie is a machine. He owns his own business, and while he and his helper were here on the bathroom project, they typically put in 10-hour days and rarely stopped for lunch. They worked on Saturday. If I’d let them, they’d have come Sunday, too. Eddie knows tile and does beautiful work. The difficulty came when it was time to install the glass shower doors, something he’d never done before.

Eddie could identify all the pieces, hardware, and connectors by looking at the diagrams, but he couldn’t understand the written instructions. I’m not sure if his dyslexia prevents him from reading the words as they are written, or if he can’t make pictures in his mind even after he reads the words, but he finally had to ask me to read to him. He said if he could hear the instructions, he could make sense of them. And he did fine after a couple of false starts, but it took him a long time to put everything together because he couldn’t go back to the directions for clarification and had to rely on his memory and the diagrams instead.

Eddie’s son is 10. He gets no extra help in school because he hasn’t been officially identified as a child who needs special education services. Eddie never got that help either and didn’t know he can insist that his child be tested for learning disabilities. I don’t often predict the future, but I see with some certainty what will happen if Eddie’s son doesn’t get help soon. Success in school hinges on reading. If you’re not good at it, you’re screwed.

Not just in school, but in countless ways that we who read effortlessly rarely think about. If you read with difficulty or not at all by the time you enter middle school, you won’t do well academically. The assignments get harder as you enter high school, and if you’re still struggling with reading and comprehension at that point, success in school will be beyond your reach. Nobody likes to fail, so you’ll probably drop out. No diploma, no college, and no career that might’ve sprung from higher education. Your income potential will be seriously limited.

Also, functional illiteracy eliminates the possibility of any kind of employment that requires reading or writing — so office jobs will be out of your reach. Ditto for working at the postal service, police department or most public sector jobs that pay well and offer benefits, except maybe in janitorial services or groundskeeping. The box into which your opportunities fit shrinks some more.

Aside from the economic limitations of being unable to read well, the social hurdles are staggering. Picture going to a restaurant and not being able to comprehend the menu. Try putting together your child’s bicycle or helping with her homework if you can’t read the instructions. How would you understand a written contract to buy a car — or a house? Imagine wanting to vote but being unable read about the candidates and issues on the ballot. Think of how much energy you’d expend every day trying to hide your illiteracy from the people around you. After your 10-hour workday, I bet you’d be pretty worn out.

Sure, there are organizations that help adults learn what they didn’t get in school, like Literacy Volunteers of Tucson, and they do great work. But adult learners have jobs, children, and the same mountain of commitments everyone else has. Even if a person has overcome the shame of illiteracy and sought help, life frequently gets in the way of those after-work tutoring sessions and homework. It’s not impossible for an adult to learn to read, but it is a Herculean task.

Here’s what else I know about you: if your child or grandchild has a learning disability, you’ll move heaven and earth to help him overcome it. You’ll contact the principal, the special ed department, or you’ll tutor that child yourself. You’ll make sure he doesn’t get to high school still “seeing the letters funny.” I’m not worried about the kids in your family. What I’m concerned about is who will help Eddie’s son and how small his world will become if someone doesn’t do it soon.