Tag Archives: Daughter

Dec17

Comings and Goings: Light and Silence

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Last night, Chris and I stood at the international exit gate of Boston Logan’s Terminal E and awaited Sarah’s return from a semester of college abroad. She came home from Greece with lots of stories and a great craving for iced coffee! We welcomed her home. It’s our first Christmas re-assembling ourselves as a family that must travel to find each other. Sarah is an adult off and about in the wide world, and Chris and I are both living in Ipswich … but always busy somewhere else … so our family rhythms are now timed, in some ways, to her comings and goings.

And Jessie … she is all around us. But there will not be a reunion here. She will not, on this earth, flash her passport at customs, wink at security, and waltz in glittery red shoes through an airport gate, back to us.

There are many sorts of comings and goings.

One week ago, we climbed the swaybacked granite stairs to the top of hill and visited Jessie’s grave. As I’ve mentioned before, it’s a small pink stone set flush with the grass that spreads itself between the roots of two towering maples. It was an international night sponsored by Compassionate Friends, an organization for bereaved parents, to light candles for departed children everywhere. Many communities hosted vigils. Chris and I sat together. Laid on a blanket, staring up at the starry sky clasped between the crooked fingers of the naked winter trees. Lit candles. Put a tiny fir tree by the headstone, and hung one crane on it. Said a prayer full of thorns and hurt and sharp-edge stones and starry nights and hope. There

jessie_headstone

One week later, it seems as if we should hold that vigil again. In fact, its been held over and over, across the country and many other places, to remember the families in Connecticut. We’ve made circles, said prayers, wept, wondered, argued, shouted. I would also say, lighting a candle has its place.

I just don’t have any soft and gentle words for this. I don’t want to light more candles … for little ones … ever, for any reason. Not because of disease. Or starvation. Or natural disaster. Or violence. Not for any cause.

On the other hand, when Toni Morrison spoke at Harvard a few weeks ago, she reminded us about the silence of the Amish community after their own trauma. How they would not speak to the media. Instead their beliefs were enacted through deeds. They attended the funeral of the one who took away the lives of their beloved children. They comforted his widow and children. They raised funds for his family. They razed the schoolhouse full of unspeakable memories, and built a new one. They lived out their compassion and forgiveness, in the midst of their own great sorrow.

I’m not saying that’s the solution for every loss. Just that it is another path, another way, another example among many responses to devastating circumstances.

This weekend, I don’t have words at all. And maybe that’s best. Oh, so many voices already speak into this space, this trauma, this irrevocable tragedy.

And some are comforting. My colleagues found the inside themselves the prayers we all needed to acknowledge the darkness we felt and a reminder to reach, like the winter trees, for the starry night, the promised light.

Yet for me? Though my family knows much about loss, it is not this kind.

So rather than fill the air with more words, I will listen. Listen to silence. Listen to sorrow. Listen to songs. Listen to stories. Listen.

And yes, I will light a candle. It is one act I can offer, when I feel powerless, for my own family and so many others.

Sep17

Partings

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Today Sarah joins her college classmates and sets off by plane for Greece. She’ll study nursing in Thessaloniki for three months. Probably visit other cities, and even other countries, while she’s there. She’s considering more travel around Europe after the semester ends.

Why not? She’s young. Relatively footloose and commitment-free. When is there a better time?

And what can substitute for life experience, when it comes to education? Books and professors are great. They give us context. Theories. Even practical ideas that we can apply in the real world.

Yet lessons often come the other way, too. Firsthand. In person. As realities that we handle and experience. Eventually, to make space in our minds and hearts for greater understanding, we must touch, see, think about and feel events, cultures, people and ideas for ourselves. We cannot fully appreciate the similarities and differences that make the world so complex — sometimes beautifully so, other times tragically so — unless we take the chance to engage it.

She’s traveling to the second-largest city in Greece, steeped in history of many cultures, ethnicities and faiths. For instance, some of its inhabitants appear in the sacred text of the New Testament in letters from the Apostle Paul; she’ll walk some of the sacred sites I’m studying in books. She’ll reside in and explore ancient ground that was holy, thousands of years before Christianity was ever born, populated by Greek deities and temples. She will live in the multicultural realities of a city that was once a bustling part of the Byzantine empire, became a sanctuary for Jews outcast from Spain for a period of about 400 years. It joined the Greek nation in the early 20th century, burned in 1917, was largely rebuilt, and was home to thousands of refugees in the wake of a ‘population exchange treaty’ between Greece and Turkey in 1923. It remains a vibrant and diversely-populated place. For more detailed information, visit www.greecetravel.com/thessaloniki/introduction.html

We’ll stay here in Boston. Say good-bye and watch her walk across a threshold. It’s a coming of age moment, as she launches herself into the world, to learn lessons from her college classrooms and other lessons on the streets or in the cafes, shops, and other hangouts around the city.

I expect, as we say good-bye, that she will continue to experience her own partings. She’s leaving behind her high school self. Her friends are all already on their college campuses. Or finding jobs and moving away from home. Or serving in the military. Beginning the next phase of their young adult lives. Sarah, too, will let go of childhood and start anew.

When she walks through the security gate and later through customs, she will be walking into a new world. And a new part of her life.

And here? Though we aren’t flying away, but staying home, we’re also beginning the “next step” in our family life. Whatever that might mean … whatever shape it takes … big house, empty rooms, long work or school days, late nights, early mornings … two of us trying to make chances to connect. Finding purpose in our adult lives, now that we have started Sarah on the path to her own life apart from us. And always, the way parents do, thinking about both of our daughters.

Somewhere, Jessie fits into this transition. We’ve said good-bye before. Farewell to Jessie was different. This day, as Sarah waves and joins her classmates, this is the good-bye you’re supposed to say to a child. It means you’re doing what you should, helping your child take steps toward adulthood and independence.

After all, it’s not permanent. It’s not forever.

Yet we also realize … the young woman who comes home again after her adventures… she will be Sarah. But she will be a new, changed, more mature and experienced Sarah.

Sure, I thought I was ready to let her go. Stoic. I knew, cognitively, what this separation meant. I talked myself through it. Rallied around its importance and symbolism. Believe it’s good and right for her to do. But there’s a difference between knowing something and feeling it. It’s easy to know something with your head, but much tougher to live through it with your heart.

So I thought it would be easy enough to get ready and say farewell, because this departure has been happening in stages for several months. Years, even.

Yet we’re all on edge. Trying to be gentle with each other, but equally prickly and moody and temperamental. Right now, we often say or do the wrong thing, as often as we make the right choices, to help each other through this good-bye.

My husband I will be different, too. All of us – humans — change. Nobody is static, fixed to one moment in time and space, unable to transition. Life and consciousness itself is a response to stimuli. All humans, even when we feel stuck, are somehow in flux, moving, transforming.

We’ll all get through it. And blossom on the other side of the transition. Yet that doesn’t make the moment of parting any easier. In order to hold the love, you must also hold the pain.

Sep15

Apples, Corn and Dogs

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Just paying attention. Autumn in New England rustles just outside my door.

About 10 days ago, I saw the first pale leaves flutter down and skitter along the sidewalk. Swirl upward again in circles. Come to rest.

Pumpkin seeds to be baked.

Now small splashes of color burst from the green canopy of trees. Auburn. Amber. Gilt. Fire. Fall sets the horizon alight with her bright palette, in our part of the natural world.

Local orchards are thronged with tourists enjoying an idyllic weekend: filling bags with apples and other fruit. Visiting geese and farm animals. Taking the hay ride out to the low-hanging trees. Plucking among the many choices of crisp, ripe apples. Splurging on cider and donuts, debating about recipes and ingredients for pies or cobbler.

Local farms come to life at harvest season. They’ve set up their corn mazes! Labyrinths wind through taller-than-head-height stalks; these puzzling trails beckon to adventurous folk. Get lost in fields of green and gold! Find your way out again. It’s even more fun, and a little alarming, in the dark.

Early Jack O Lanterns

Our daughter Sarah and her friend brought home hefty pumpkins to carve. Admired curling stems. Cut off the lids. Scooped out the insides. Carved faces. Baked the seeds. Just to pass some time and connect with the season.

Farmers’ markets continue to hum with activity. Jams and honey line the shelves. Shares from Appleton Farms bristle with crops. Yet the countdown is coming; soon the barns will be quiet and the staff busy planning for next year.

Just now, though? The vaulted sky is bright blue. Branches arch overhead with changing hues from green to crimson. Orange gourds dot sloping verdant lawns.

And a neighbor drives past with the family dog. The dog’s head hangs out the passenger window, ears blowing back, tongue lolling to one side, gulping in the fresh air, grinning a canine grin.

That describes how I feel today. Drinking it all in. Enjoying this moment in time.

Sep8

Beyond Appearances

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Did I ever tell you? About my first time getting painted toes, and my misconceptions about the woman getting a pedicure in the next chair?

First of all, I was introduced to pedicures at the age of … I’m calculating … give me a second to do the math … um, age 41. Basically many “salon” grooming experiences such as waxing, massages, hair-coloring, manis and pedis … are relatively new to me. I wasn’t exposed to them growing up.

As an adult, my girlfriends have slowly introduced me to these wonders. Or talked me into having my own firsthand experiences, and deciding for myself whether I want to invest in them regularly as a personal habit, rather than a one-time indulgence

So one of my dear friends took me out for a day of pampering.

There was an extra reason for this outing. It was just a few weeks after my youngest daughter Jessie had died. I was still shell-shocked and trying to cope with loss. My friends were taking turns getting me out of the house in gentle ways. Going to the salon was a chance to let go, let someone else take care of me. To escape and float.

First we ordered frothy chai tea lattes from our favorite coffee shop: Zumi’s. Carried them next door the nail salon. In our flip-flops, because of course you don’t want to ruin your paint job at the end of the session by shoving them into closed-toed shoes. (That’s one of the things I learned.)

The biggest decision of my day was what color to paint my toes. Should I choose something feminine and pink? Something bold and crimson? Something dangerous and midnight dark?

Or something else? I plucked through the bottles of color. Chose five pigments. Mentally recited middle school science lessons: ROY G BIV. (Hint: that’s the acronym for the colors of the rainbow.) I gathered up a palette of visible light.

After selecting our polishes, we settled into overstuffed chairs and put our feet into tubs of hot soothing water. Sat side by side with books and magazines. Sipped our tea.

Staff women knelt down and started scrubbing and massaging our feet and talking to us. I tried not to think about issues of class and subservience, of manual labor and contrasts of privilege. Me in a chair, and someone crouched low before me. Me paying money for someone else trained to soften my feet, rub off the callouses, and make me pretty and desirable

It was so different from the hospital. From necessary invasive procedures and toxic drugs introduced into a body by highly trained nurses and doctors to save or extend life.

I didn’t want to talk. I retreated into silence. Used my book as a shield to ward off conversation.

The pedicurist settled down with a brush and file and clippers. I held my breath and tried not to mind having someone else handle my feet. But I couldn’t distract myself by reading.

So I glanced up from a novel to peek around. I looked at the woman fastidiously cleaning my toenails. Glanced left at my girlfriend reading her magazine.

Peeked right at the salon’s other pedicure client. She had sunk comfortably down into the upholstered wingback chair next to me. Relaxed. Chatting with the woman doing her nails.

She’d chosen a bottle of lady-like pearlescent pink polish. It seemed to fit her. She was tidy and trim, the glint of silver and precious stones a subtle wink on fingers, wrists and ears. Her short perky hair, tucked behind shell-like ears, was almost platinum. To hide her grey, I told myself, guessing her age to be least two decades beyond mine.

She wore linen. Kept a designer clutch tucked down into the cushions by her side. Lifted one hand and shook a Tiffany bracelet down over her wristbones.

You get the idea. She came accoutered in labels and brands. Ones I don’t own and may never be able to afford.

I couldn’t read anymore. So I closed my eyes and tried to relax through the filing and clipping of my own toenails.

And eavesdropped on the salon client’s amiable banter with the staff member giving her a pedicure. I learned that the woman on my right lives a few towns away. She likes this salon, however, and comes here regularly. She and the staff members are on a first-name basis. They talk about pets and kids and vacations and doctors. She’s comfortable here.

But she has a lot more money than the ladies that own or work in the salon. Or me.

I made assumptions about her. It’s amazing how catty you can be, even in the midst of grief. I wanted to find fault with her…maybe I was understandably irritable, poised to be annoyed and critical. Maybe my judgments were out-of-proportion, because all of my reactions were extreme right after my child died. Or maybe I’m just a selfish and petty person.

The town this salon client lives in has a noticeably higher tax bracket than ours. More conservative politics. Lots of wealth and generations of breeding.

From my perspective, she comes from a bastion of privilege … and I was predisposed to think poorly of her because of it. Or at least to think that she couldn’t possibly comprehend the depth of my loss, and the great yawning chasm that was broken open inside me, just below the surface of my closed eyes and clean toes.

I assumed she was shallow and spoiled.

After all, she was sitting in a nail salon on a weekday afternoon. Gossiping. (I was in the nail salon at the same time, but I was silent, and we were here for different reasons, right?)

Although we were seated side by side, with women crouched in front of us cleaning our toes, we didn’t really have anything in common. Not like my girlfriend sitting in the lefthand chair, who is a college-educated working mom like me, with kids about the same age, and enough flexibility in her schedule to make a date with me in the middle of a workday. A friend who knew my whole broken family and my deceased daughter and was gently trying to draw me out of the house and back into the light of day.

The woman on my right, talking about Cancun, was not like me at all. Obviously she had plenty of time and resources to indulge herself.

She couldn’t possibly understand why I was in the salon. Or that it was my first-ever pedicure. Or that I was living through hell.

Or what hell even felt like.

I tried to stop listening to their stories: the client and pedicurist. I didn’t want to know more about their plans and their lives. I just didn’t have any tolerance for mundane, everyday experiences. Like which doctor to visit to have a mole removed. What airline to take to Mexico. What yogurt to keep in the fridge.

Behind my closed eyes, didn’t I radiate waves of pain and anguish? Couldn’t everyone just SENSE my grief and loss as I sat in the overstuffed chair?

How could they talk about their normal lives when I was mere inches away, full of turmoil and sorrow and anger?

I was in the salon because I was fresh from the pediatric hospital and its traumas. Recently recovering from the experience of planning my child’s funeral. I had a reason … a good reason … to take a break. What was everyone else’s excuse?

The pedicurist dried my feet, put the foamy separator between my toes to spread them out as she worked. On her worktable were the colors I had chosen. I planned to wear red-orange-green-blue-violet on the tips of my feet.

When the pedicurist saw my array of colors, she hesitated. One on each toe?

Yes, a rainbow. I didn’t explain why. I couldn’t, without weeping. But my girlfriend knew the reason. The colors were selected in celebration of Jessie and her bright spirit and her flare for fashion and her favorite song “What A Wonderful World.”

The smallest toes would be bright red.

I opened my eyes as she uncapped the first bottle and dipped the brush into the sunrise-colored pigment.

The woman on my right was just about to have her color applied, too.

She looked my way. Noticed the rainbow of colors down by my feet … because honestly, during a pedicure, you always want to know what color your neighbor has chosen, and wonder if you’d be brave or foolish enough to wear what they have dared to put on themselves.

She arched a plucked brow. Lifted her left hand, curled her fingers into her palm, and adjusted the silver links on her wrist by waving it gently in the air.

She smiled lopsidedly at me with coral lips. This woman with plans to go to Cancun, and a mole that needed attention, and children off at college. And time for a pedicure on a weekday afternoon.

She wanted to chat. I didn’t want to, but I was curious what she’d say.

“You’re using a lot of colors.”

Her sentence lilted upward at the end. An innocent question. Why so many colors?

I inhaled before replying. The honest answer took an act of will and lots of practice. But I was determined not to back away from the truth, even if it was uncomfortable in casual public and social settings like this one.

“It’s in memory of my daughter. She died recently. Leukemia.”

“Ah.” The woman lifted her eyes to meet mine. Tucked a strand of artificially blonde hair behind her ear. Winced and nodded slightly.

I thought that would be the end of the conversation. Death is often of a conversation-killer.

But her eyes held mine, and she continued. “I started coming here a few years ago. Just to treat myself.”

I nodded back politely. Tried to smile. Nicely.

Inside, I ranted at her. So what? Do you think I care? You and me. We don’t really have anything to say to each other. We’re not going to bond over these personal truths that we share in a salon. We have nothing in common.

Yes, I was also here for a break … but our reasons for needing the respite … I could only imagine that they were dramatically different.

Then this woman from a wealthy community a few towns away, from a background of breeding and privilege, and a life that involved tropical destinations and indulgent salon appointments, said, “My older daughter and my husband were diagnosed at the same time. They were both treated. My daughter survived. She’s back in school now, but I had to take time off and go take care of her for a while. My husband didn’t make it. That was a few years ago.”

She looked down at her toes. Wiggled them in the water. She added softly, “I like coming here.”

I swallowed every assumption I’d made about the pampered matron in the chair next to me.

We sat next to each other. Didn’t make eye contact again. Or speak anymore. But we both relaxed, or at least it felt that way to me. As if we were suddenly comrades. With a shared experience that assured that we understood each other on a gut level.

Not strangers anymore, but intimately connected by a common experience. Side by side in the salon, letting someone paint our toes bright colors.

I appreciated – suddenly – that the color of our toes was our warrior’s paint. And the late afternoon moments in the nail salon are a strangely private opportunity, removed from the usual demands of life, to acknowledge sorrow. To breathe and let go. To retreat.

And that this woman, despite all the contrasts between her world and mine, her life and mine, has a lot in common with me.

I was humbled by what I learned that afternoon in the salon.

I realized – all over again, because I had clearly forgotten it — that appearances really don’t tell the whole story. That the woman next to me … whether we meet in a doctor’s office or in a grocery store aisle or on the bus or by the sidelines of a playing field or sitting in a nail salon … has her own story. And each story is worth hearing. And that it’s much more beautiful and colorful and poignant than all the fiction and preconceived narratives I might allow to fill my head.

Her story was right there, waiting to be shared.

Every woman has a story to tell. And we may have more in common than we’d ever guess. If we’ll just listen. Oh, and take the time to sit down and choose some colors and get our nails done.

Never apologize for a good pedicure or “spa day” at the salon. It can change your life. And you deserve it. We all do.

Sep1

If These Walls Could Talk

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What stories would they tell?

Our daughter’s friend Shelly, who has been living with us since the spring, just moved along to college! She packed up her life in 9 hours. She’s taking some things to her mom’s place in Haverhill and others to her college residence near Boston.

Outside in the twilight, skyping by phone from Ipswich to Italy for a long distance BFF college good-bye between Shelly and Sarah.

She wanted us to see how tidy it all looked: boxes, bins and suitcases, zippered and capped, stuffed with her paraphernalia, organized into different piles depending on their destination. Then she carried down load after load of belongings. Filled a truck. She’s gone and the room is empty. Last night the street outside was filled with final hugs and reluctant good-byes.

We remain behind, as our children leave. Empty nesters? Us?

Well, there’s one empty room in our house, anyway. It has been home to several girls. It’s the same bright blue room that was once Jessie’s. (Jessie chose its colors back in 2005, when we were just moving in, right before she relapsed with leukemia for the first time.) Later it was the bedroom for two beloved Rotary exchange student host-daughters: Tina Danila from Belgium and Chicca Tizzoni from Italy. In between, it has often served as a guest room for family and friends.

Now it’s plain. Bare of any evidence of its latest occupant. Shelly’s “personality” drove away in a borrowed pickup truck … it used to be spilling off her corkboard covered in favorite mementos, a bright striped bedspread, the sprawl of her adolescent clothes and shoes and books. Now there’s silence where her music played and her voice rose and fell.

It’s a room that has known a series of comings and goings. Even when Jessie was alive, she only stayed there part of the time, because much of her life was also spent inside the hospital. We always had a suitcase handy, and the room was often the recipient of random bags stuffed with the evidence of her re-entry to home life, bringing along the detritus of hospital stays (craft projects, medical items, etc).

Over time, we have moved Jessie’s memorabilia to other parts of the house, and allowed the blue room to be a blank canvas for more recent occupants. So when they move out, it’s quite sparse.

Sarah’s room, on the other hand, is only temporarily empty of her presence. It remains filled with her “stuff.” She’s coming and going all the time. She’ll be back next week with suitcases and souvenirs from her cultural exchange in Italy. A week later, she’ll pack up and head out to her first semester in college.

In many ways, Sarah’s room won’t change drastically. We expect her to come and go for years, back home on many holidays and school breaks, using the house as her operating base, even when she’s always on the go. She can safely leave behind her overflow of gear and childhood belongings, and take only what she needs for a dorm room and college life.

For a glorious few months this summer, Sarah’s and Shelly’s friends, along with our exchange student Chicca, filled our house with their clutter, debris, noise and life. We loved it.

They made messes. Built bonfires in the back yard. Slept over in sleeping bags, in small groupings, unable to let go of each other. Generated odors from gym shoes and wet swimming gear. Cooked food for each other. Burned some of it. Moved furniture. Used computers. Ate all the snacks we put into the cupboards. Made noise late at night and early in the morning with their comings and goings. Played a concert of sounds in the house with slammed doors, shouts, chuckles, thumping footsteps on the stairs and in the hall.

They filled the house. And it’s meant to be this lively. To contain this much commotion. It’s spacious and old enough to welcome all of their activity, and not be more scarred for the experience.

I admit it. It’s lonely without all of them, even if it’s nice to have some privacy again.

Chris and I will stay here, while the girls are launched to their different destinations. Oh, the abrupt contrast between all those 18-year-olds, some so tall they had to duck to walk between rooms, filling up the space with their summer busy-ness before setting off for new adventures, and the current quiet.

The house feels too big now. In other ways, it feels as if our own lives are shrinking. Getting a little more hollow. Requiring less space … a smaller footprint.

Maybe that’s not true, but it’s part of how we experience the transition. It’s a natural and honest feeling from parents letting go.

Our house as painted by Miranda Updike in 2006.

In our town, our house is 130 years younger than the oldest homes. In other words, it was built c. 1770, but the oldest-standing residences in town go back to the 1640s.

Anyway, even if it’s only 230 years old, it’s seen a lot of life. Generations have been born, married, left home, returned and grown old within its walls.

Wherever you look, the house is full of stories of centuries of town life. It’s been a single home, it’s been wartime apartments, it’s been worker housing, it’s been multiple units with separate entrances of shared spaces, it’s been a combined doctor’s office and home, and probably seen many other configurations along the way.

It had two additions added in the early 1800s, so there are three chimneys and a total of nine hearths. The remnants of others, such as the large kitchen hearth, were largely removed during later construction along the back of the house, but nine fireplaces is plenty. Lots of cooking and warming of cold hands and feet must have taken place at these hearths.

Though its bones are solid, and were once built square and true, they have long since settled. Floors rise and fall, and some are thin enough to buckle or pitch with changes in the seasons. Walls tilt. Ceilings slope. Doors creak and latch with old cast iron hardware, but swing open mysteriously of their own accord (we often tease that Jessie is visiting, but then again, we mean it, too).

Every room and story has different details, as they have been altered over time for different uses. Soft or hardwood floors, plaster or panel walls, plaster or strap and tile ceilings, wooden trim (or not). Fireplaces are much-changed: none their original size, since all were made shallower. Chimneys lean, bricks curve unnaturally, and a few are missing.

When you leave the light on in the basement, you can see it shine up through cracks between the wide ancient wooden boards on the first floor. Some stairs lead to nowhere, or turn aside abruptly. Wallpapered rooms are still tucked up under the attic eaves, probably the former too-hot, too-cold territory of servants, household workers, or poor relatives (just guessing). Some doors don’t have a purpose anymore. Closets and cupboards were tucked into odd niches around the leftover space of the chimneys. Some rooms have been kitchens, later converted back into bedrooms or other spaces, but they retain leftover sinks, wiring or stove holes.

Despite centuries of use, we don’t think our house is haunted. Unless you consider Jessie’s visits to be that, and it doesn’t feel that way to us. She’s a lively, active presence, not a ghostly one. We never detected any other activities or presences before hers.

Like every other generation who has lived here, we have put the house to work and made it as useful as possible to us. Once upon a time, some of the rooms were used as classrooms and medical staging areas for Jessie, since she couldn’t always attend school. Some rooms have been (or remain) offices. This year, we added an accessory apartment downstairs, by restoring a wall that had been removed in the kitchen with some better plumbing and restoration of kitchen fixtures (granted through approval by the zoning board of appeals — ZBA — as a permissible use). We have a friend completing work on it. Eventually it will produce some rental income to help with college expenses.

Since our needs have changed, the house is changing with us. Sarah will continue to come and go. When she’s home, maybe her friends will land here, too. So the noise and activity level will continue to ebb and flow for a few more years. But in many ways, a long-term change in our lifestyle is setting in.

We’re (almost) empty-nesters. Aaaahhhhh!

Phew. At least we have friends from England coming to stay in October. They’ll roost in Jessie’s blue room. They’ve stayed here before, contributing their adventures to the collection of intangible experiences that fill our house.

Our family stories are being added to centuries of life that have animated this swaybacked antique house. We’re part of its old bones and skin. We’re part of its memory.

And it is part of ours.

Aug23

Au Natural?

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I’d call this a confession, except that it’s not a surprise to anyone who knows me. In many ways, I’m not very “girly” in outward appearance and behavior.

  • Can’t stand the sensation of makeup on my face; don’t wear cosmetics.
  • Don’t apply lashes or artificial fingernails.
  • Stopped using any hair color; let it grow out flecked with grey.
  • Just wash ‘n go for the hair styling (don’t even blowdry, curl or brush it).
  • Wear skirts occasionally; and dresses, hardly ever.
  • Don’t pad anything (have enough natural for wherever it’s needed, and then some).
  • Choose to avoid wearing heels (hurt my feet, can’t walk, can’t stand very long, back hurts, knees hurt, lose my balance, sprain ankles, that kind of thing).
  • Refuse to weigh myself. (I am what I am.)
  • Shave legs on an urgent as-needed basis only.

There’s some hope, if you’re feeling concerned about my professed lack of “girliness.” To be clear, I’m discussing this in terms of appearance;  presenting myself or undergoing salon treatments to achieve what we culturally perceive as a feminine style. This is in contrast to talking about “girliness” in reference to biological gender or sexual orientation, which are separate items. (As I was reminded last weekend during OWL / Our Whole Lives training, human sexuality and gender roles and cultural typecasting and body images and our ideas about femininity are all very complex.)

What I do like, that might be considered “girly?”

  • Enjoy wearing bright colors.
  • Enjoy loose, flowy clothing. (Girly?)
  • Recently underwent my first bikini wax. (Wow, that’s an experience all by itself. Do research if you want more details. Otherwise, just imagine a really friendly woman working around your naked nether regions with hot wax, chatting and then giving you a quick warning as she uproots hair follicles. You consent to this procedure, by the way. And you thank her for her expertise.)
  • Enjoy pedicures: relish some aspects of getting my toenails trimmed and polished, though my soles are ticklish and I won’t let salon staff use nail files (can’t stand the sensation).
  • Love massages.
  • Feel naked without a pair of vivid earrings (also collect them from wherever I travel).
  • Fond of henna tattoos.

So there’s a modicum of “girliness” going on in my life and self-care, if that’s how you define “girly.” (And remember, one of my daughters was a princess in style, and I cheered her for that approach to life. So don’t think I’m setting up the pros and cons of this style. I’m not.)

My older daughter Sarah learned to apply makeup without any help from me. Years ago. Maybe friends advised her? At first, her application (mostly around the eyes) was extreme: dark and thick. It made a definite statement; it also suited her age and mood in middle school. Now she wears a more neutral palette: open and confident and attractive in a different way. Like many women, including my friends, she prefers to travel with mascara, eyeliner and lip balm, at a minimum.

Lots of my friends feel that way. Practically naked without some cosmetics. The baseline depends on the person. Some just need lipstick and mascara. Some need foundation, eye liner, mascara, eyeshadow, eyebrow pencils, lipstick, blush and whatever else might go with all those layers. Emergency touch-up supplies packed tidily into compartments and available as needed while on the go.

A few friends have even had their eyes tattooed with eye liner (kohl-style). Or had lashes glued on in a more permanent way. Hair extensions. Or parts of their bodies slowly defoliated with treatments that are relatively permanent.

Everybody feels differently about what they want and like to do to their bodies. Some of it seems like torture to me, and yet we enjoy the results, if not the process. Some of it is easily removed or reversed. Some lasts a while. Some, I suppose, is permanent, but that’s probably in the realm of surgical alteration and not what I’m thinking about right now.

I found a picture of me and our exchange student Chicca. Our feet, actually. With newly painted toenails. We sipped Zumis and finished pedicures, got some White Farms ice cream, and went for a walk on Crane Beach.

Walking in sand is a natural exfoliation treatment, right? As if I needed a reason to walk there. Or to feel good about myself while doing it.

I don’t. I do.

You? Me? We are beautiful, however we choose to make ourselves up. Or not. To be “girly” or not. To be whomever we are, in whatever ways we want to be. Inside. Outside. Painted. Bare. Perfect. Flawed. Me. You. Just ourselves.

Aug14

Nominated and Disqualified … Every Day

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I have a friend who frequently says, when something has gone wrong while parenting one of her three kids, “They took away my Mother of the Year award today.”

I guffaw every time. I must lose my “Mom of the Year” award about … oh, nine times daily? Okay, maybe only five times daily. But since I only win it back twice a day, then any way you count, I’m not gonna get that shiny special certified-blue-ribbon-and-gold-engraved-plaque-with-my-name-on-it recognition. (Does anyone actually give out such an award? Hah.)

At least from a child’s perspective, fairly often, our “Parent of the Year” awards ought to be rescinded. Whether you’re wrestling with a toddler in a public place and trying to keep your cool while you listen to “No-no-no!” or try not to throw up your hands in total exasperation when a teen shouts for the umpteenth time that “It’s just not fair! You don’t understand! You ruined my life!” … you’re in a tough no-win situation. As parents, we are often perceived by our children as imposing unjust rules, expectations, duties and standards.

In the end, we are the buffer between our children and the world. And sometimes that means we’re incredibly tender and gentle with them, when no one else would be. And other times, it means we’re tougher on our own offspring than any military officer or high court judge would dare to be.

Meanwhile, I’m sure you’ve been told that everyone else’s mom or dad does “it” differently. Better. Or even worse … better-er-er.

And who will remind you … except a very patient spouse or partner (if you have one), your girlfriends, or yourself (yes, you talking to yourself) … remind you that your own child’s view is a little biased? In this example, tipping toward the negative side. Who will remind you that maybe there’s another frame of reference, a different viewpoint, or an alternative interpretation that actually validates your worth and judgment? (Just give it five minutes, the mood and opinion will swing in the other direction anyway.)

By now, you know that I’ve lost one child to cancer. So yes, I cherish the opportunity to watch my eldest daughter grow up. But we have plenty of differences, skirmishes and challenges as she matures into an independent woman, and I remain a … mom. We’re the same as every other family. Nothing idyllic here, just real and messy.

Now let’s be fair. Sometimes we share good stuff. For instance, I hear treasured words such as “Thank you.” “I’m sorry.” “I love you.” “Can you help me?” “I’m so lucky to be in this family; I wouldn’t trade it.”

Sometimes she lets me into her life. And we occasionally have crazy fun together. Just yesterday we spent the day in Boston, after filing her application for a student visa at the Greek consulate. We did things she hasn’t experienced since she was much younger, such as eating Italian ices, riding on the swan boats and wading in the Frog Pond.

Yet these good moments between us continue to seem … more rare than I might wish. Each one is placed like a deposit into my emotional mothering bank account.

Right? Mothers (and fathers) save up positive interactions with daughters and sons. We stockpile them, as one of my girlriends (aka, mom-friends) phrased it. Then we withdraw those memories of good moments again during the difficult interludes (arguments, silences, slammed doors, disappearances, misbehaviors, rolled eyes and all the rest).

Several weeks ago, one of my girlfriends leaned on the kitchen counter and sighed, “Isn’t it sad that we’re grateful every time they show affection? That we hoard these moments, because we need to know they can happen?”

Whether our children are aged three months, three years, or only three months away from legal adulthood … our offspring can be both our biggest fans and also our fiercest critics. Additionally, while they may be unimaginable blessings in our lives, they also represent some of the most challenging relationships we’ll ever know.

We, mothers and fathers, need our collection of good times to offset the hard ones.

Because we – moms in particular, I think – will often be the targets of their wrath or sorrow. In the eyes of our children, we are the “bad guys” — the instigators — the source of much of the unfairness and injustice and petty cruelties in their personal worlds. They have such deep, unfiltered connections to us … such bonds of love and kinship and every other possible emotion … that we’re also the most likely, the most easy target for any troubled moods they might be experiencing.

Of course, as a mom or dad, you don’t set out to ruin your kid’s life. Far from it. You think you’re being supportive.

Do the tally. Meals you prepare. Laundry you wash and dry. Clean-ups you do. Rides you give. Errands you run. Money you loan. Appointments you schedule. Forms you fill out. Games and performances you attend. Negotiations, talks and interventions you undertake.

Or the softer, more emotionally-intimate interactions, which are harder for some families to achieve. Sitting down at the table together. Asking about a child’s day. Listening. Playing a game together. Engaging in an activity such as a book or a workout. Sharing rides and talking in the car. Working on a family calendar and making plans for time together. Maybe daring to reach out and put a hand on her shoulder or draw him into a hug.

Every one of these logistical or content-rich items is an act of love. Each one demonstrates the tangible value of your love for your child in time, energy, focus, commitment and love.

This is your parental love in action. Every day. All day. All week. All month. All year. Every year. From the moment of conception until right this very second.

It all adds up to a whole lot of love.

Unfortunately your child doesn’t measure the same way you do. She’s got her own frame of reference.

Your child is tuned to a whole different range of messages. What you do and say, and what she sees and hears, are very different. She listens for tone of voice. Watches for facial expressions. Body language. Perhaps you believe your words and actions convey affirmation, affection and assurance. Or you think they do. Your child detects something else: frustration, criticism, doubt, worry, disappointment, anger.

Due to the many traumas that have shaped our family, we have worked individually, or in parent-child combinations, and sometimes as a family, with counselors. Before and after Jessie was alive … we worked on these issues.

The professional wisdom that I have received has been specific to girls, not boys, since I raised daughters, not sons, but some may be universally applicable. A few counselors have stated such tidbits as:

  • If your child cares what you think, and engages in fights with you, you’re actually in good shape. It means she (or he, since I assume it could apply to both genders) feels bonded with you, and she’s invested in the relationship. She’s trying to connect, albeit in a tough way.
  • When she stops caring about anything you do or say, that’s when you should worry.
  • It’s okay to express your own emotions. Within reason. It’s instructive for your child to know you have limits. That you can, in fact, be hurt by her words. That you expect to be treated with respect. That you have boundaries, and if she crosses them, you might lose your temper and raise your voice.
  • Listen, listen, listen.

You are, shockingly, human! Where you love, it’s difficult not to be open to pain, too. You can easily inflict damage. You can be bruised in return.

There’s a balancing act. Yes, sometimes being a mom or dad is really rewarding. I can see more and more of the adult our daughter is becoming; I like and admire a lot about who she is, as she grows up.

Other times, we’re both one big knot of hurt. She’s in pain. I can’t seem to “get it right.”  We both feel broken inside.

In such times, I ache down to the marrow and deep into the gut. I’m exhausted. Tapped out.

I’ll bet it’s familiar to other parents, too. Sometimes you want to quit this job. Except there’s no “exit” clause. (Sure, some people have chosen to bow out and disappear anyway … but that’s another topic … and I have been humbled when I dared to have an opinion about such situations, because I cannot be inside someone else’s head or heart, and know what decision is best for anyone else to make regarding their own relationship with their child … what each adult is capable of giving, or losing, or if, indeed the greatest act of love is sometimes to walk away.)

In general, for parents who stay in a familial relationship with children for the long haul, and put in the time to be connected to your offpsring, you hit bottom sometimes. Your can’t seem to connect with your daughter or son. Perhaps for reasons outside anyone’s control.

Whatever the cause, that’s when you may feel as if you just withdrew the very last penny out of your emotional parenting savings-account. We are all, at times, virtually bankrupted (emotionally, if not literally) by the complex and challenging experiences that are still so frequently part of our lives as parents.

That’s when you need a good laugh. A deep breath. And someone to tell you that you’re a good mom. Or a good dad. Assure you that what you’re investing in your child is worth every grey hair and wrinkle, heartache and clenched fist, bitten lip and worn-out pair of soles. Believe that someday she’ll realize it. Or he’ll acknowledge it. Someday.

Who cares if your kid takes away the “Parent of the Year” award that they nominated you for about 12 minutes earlier? You don’t need a medal or a pin or a plaque. That’s not why we do it, right?

But hey, it helps to know that someone believes in you, when you’re in the middle of second-guessing yourself for the gazillionth time, and there’s no voice of reason to tell you differently.

That’s what today is for. I’m putting a deposit back in your parental savings account. Today, I’m going to assure you, “You are the best at raising your child. You are a specialist. No one else can do it better. You are a good mom. You are a good dad.”

Really, you are. (So am I.)

Aug6

Time: Then and Now

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I recently teased my friend’s daughter, almost outraging her, about freezing time so that she can’t grow older than 14 years. She is reaching for everything that comes after this year. High school. Summer jobs. Learner’s permit. Driver’s license. Voting. Graduation. And everything beyond that.

This young lady is the same age that my youngest child Jessie would be, if she’d continued to grow up.

Isn’t it provocative, to consider what you’d do if you could slow, stop or reverse time? It’s certainly been the subject of many stirring and playful plots by authors and screenwriters over the centuries. It could be a thriller or a life lesson, depending on whether you’re Steven Spielberg, Frank Capra, Audrey Niffenegger or H.G. Wells.

Time. Stopping it. Letting it flow.

At some points in life, we’re in such a rush. We want what comes next. Just like 14-year-olds. As children or teens, we’re looking ahead. Counting down. Or counting up, depending on your point of view. Striving toward the goal of being a grownup. Yearning for what seems so enticing.

Yet ask almost any recent high school grad. Wouldn’t they sometimes prefer to relinquish the pressures and responsibilities piling up on top of them, and just be a kid again? With only a child’s concerns? They’re staring adulthood in the face, feeling it shifting their frame of reference, altering their sense of the value of free time and work time, play and respite, labor and effort, privacy and intimacy and friendship and social liberty versus  commitments to college, jobs, loans, housing, relationships and many other binding connections.

A recent graduate might actually wish to stop the hands on the clock. Or spin them backward, to return to what seemed like simpler times.

If you look backward or forward with too much idealism, it’s basically a “grass is always greener” viewpoint. Every moment, past or future, is layered and complex and special and compromised.

In other instances, we’re wise enough or foolish enough, or at just the right cognitive developmental stage (babies, for instance) to loll around in the moment. Bask in it. Splash in it. Submerge ourselves inside it. Be present, here and now.

So recently, I was tugged into my own past during a lively reminiscence with this same 14-year-old girl about our favorite Disney television comedies. Hannah Montana, to be specific.

I found out, much to my shock, that the television series continued beyond the years I’d watched it. Why was I surprised? But I was. I’d missed some seasons, because we don’t have expanded cable access at home. And I don’t have a reason to watch it anymore.

So where did I originally watch this Disney series? When I spent endless hours at Childrens Hospital with Jessie. That was a surreal slice of life, living inside a climate-controlled atmosphere, unable to feel the touch of wind or sun most of time, shut inside an environment with its own rhythms and traditions and language, unlike anywhere else in the world: time lifted out of any other reality, stretching out from hours and days into months and years.

We spent time meaningfully. We conducted plenty of school work and tutoring, reading and writing. Creative projects with fabric and glue and paper and paints and clay and scissors and every sort of craft material you can imagine. Imaginative therapy with music and play and art and talking and role-playing.

But we also spent recreational time playing competitive video games, board games, reading books or watching hours of movie and television, when Jessie felt especially yucky.

Do I miss living in the hospital? No. Do I wish I could snuggle up next to Jessie in bed, watching her favorite Disney shows … yes.

Though the reality of Jessie’s mortality was always palpable, we couldn’t imagine a time we wouldn’t be able to feel her curl up close, still fitting into our laps at age 9, thin and graceful, long and prickly, moody and sweet. It’s impossible to imagine that you won’t be able to touch, protect, play, argue with and console your child. It’s impossible to imagine the emptiness where arms once encircle, or a weight that won’t press against you any more, or a breath, or a voice, or a giggle, or a brush of her fingers.

We’ll say good-bye again again, in a healthy, natural way when Sarah goes to college in the fall.

But a child’s passing? His or her permanent departure? You can’t imagine that will eventually feel like.

Yet the shadow of it  made us pay attention to the time we had with her, and each other, in the moment. In a sense, it focused us. Acted as a lens, and changed how we viewed and measure time. We tried not to take any of it for granted.

Afterward, time changes again. You must grow familiar with her absence hour by hour, day by day, month by month, year by year. Now we measure time, in part, by what came before. And after. For instance, as my conversation with a 14-year-old revealed, there are  years punctuated by High School Musical and Hannah Montana. And years without.

Some children will achieve those milestones that my friend’s 14-year-old yearns to reach. Others will never get there.

Yesterday during the PMC, I watched the results of time’s progression: its blessings and its losses. Survivors posed for a “Living Proof” photo, and many of them were once toddlers or elementary school students on treatment for cancer. Now they’re teens and young adults riding to support cancer research. Like Sarah, many members of those families grow up to study medicine of some kind. I also sought out and hugged sweaty panting adults riding in memory of their children. Others, whom I don’t know, rode for siblings, spouses, or parents.

Then there’s Hannah Montana-time. I realize that some parents don’t approve of the Disney channel. Or Hannah Montana. Mostly on principle. It represents some frothy, silly values that don’t gibe with feminism, for instance. It’s sort of like letting little kids play with Barbies. It demeans, in a way, a more intellectual and wholesome value system. There’s merit, of course, to that position.

Yet it doesn’t make me feel guilty or apologetic for enjoying Hannah Montana with Jessie.  I have written before about the importance of letting children feel like princesses. Role-playing. Therapeutic play. Externalizing experiences and developing scripts and games and roles around it. The potency of magical thinking and the power of fantasy, dreaming and escaping. (Aside: Hannah Montana was a big hit for little girls of Jessie’s age, in part because they could imagine themselves living a double life as “regular kid” and a “superstar.” The possibility of being either ordinary or fairy-tale … or both at once. And in Jessie’s case, perhaps her wishfulness extended to being healthy, as well as all tossing around all those long blonde tresses and rocking those great wigs and outfits.)

So yes, I appreciate the value of my Hannah Montana-years. But I don’t think I’d turn back time. Nor would I fast-forward it.

Here? Right now? A whole lot of life is happening in our family. Sarah’s last month at home before college. My final few weeks before graduate school. The start of a new season and transformation in our family’s life.

The same is true in most families, for a variety of reasons. Summer versus autumn. Vacation and camps versus school, sports, extracurriculars and work. We’re all in the height of this time of year, but it will come to a close soon enough. We’ll all be in the middle of transitions, and the stress that comes with them.

For now, I’ll just savor right where I am. Sure, maybe I’ll sneak in a new episode of Hannah Montana, in honor of Jessie and childhood and the silly ways we escape difficult realities, and the magic of both childhood and a rich adult fantasy life. (Trust me, hours upon hours of Disney channel didn’t steal Jessie’s ability to use her imagination … or mine.) But mostly I’ll try not to tune out; I’ll pay attention to the experience of my living daughter Sarah, who is letting go of childhood and grabbing onto adulthood, even as I write this journal.

Aug4

Spin

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Here is the other theme song I wrote a fear years ago for our cyclists. Sarah has performed this at the Coast of Hope bike ride a few times.

Our first family PMC, with Jessie as a young pedal partner, pictured with the team riding in her honor.

Again, the song has wider meaning than just one event. To me, it represents any ride or journey, including the one that Chris and Sarah will continue when they ride together tomorrow in the Pan Mass Challenge / PMC. (I’m posting more images from several years of the PMC, so you can see just how young Jessie and Sarah were when all of this activity began, and how mature Sarah is now, as an adult rider celebrating this tradition with her dad. You’ve already seen images from 2010 and 2011 in the past few days.)

None of us can imagine, from start to finish, just where we’ll go along life’s pathways. And most of all, what determines the finish line? There are so many milestones we pass, so many balloon arches underneath which we ride, so many bridges we cross, so many lines we draw and then step over, so many gateways through which we move … we don’t always know what’s around the corner or beyond the next crossing. You may cross one demarcation, but in many ways, the ultimate destination is always just ahead.

Enjoy the ride, enjoy the journey, as much as you can. It’s the passage from one way station to the next, the route from one stopping point to the other, that comprises our life together.

Here’s the song.

Spin
by Gail Doktor © 2009

Hearts cry out as wheels start turnin’
One more ride and one more day
Dare ask questions along this journey
Hope for answers along the way

Sure I’ve been lost and I’ve been broken
Look for hope after living through hell
Had to stop and start all over
Still carry scars from times I fell

      Oh you can’t measure life in speed and distance
      Or starting points and finish lines
      It’s where we go and who rides with us
      Every moment, every mile

What comes next? No way of knowing
Each arrival includes farewell
In our coming is our going
…in between we spin the wheel.

      Oh you can’t measure life in speed and distance
      Or starting points and finish lines
      It’s where we go and who rides with us
      Every moment, every mile

Find the beat
      Moving you onward
Breathe the song
      Of our going
Hear the drumming
      Of our heartbeats
Risk the turning
      Of the wheel

      Oh, you can’t measure life in speed and distance,
      Or starting points and finish lines
      It’s where we go and who rides with us
      Every heartbeat, every hope found
      Every moment, every mile

Chris and Sarah hold up the Bright Happy Power banner during a rainy 2011 PMC.

Jessie and Sarah waiting at family stop in Dighton for our PMC riders.

Our 2009 PMC team (in Wellesley, MA … more riders left from Bourne, MA).

Aug3

Why We Ride

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Something short, for a change, I promise.

Below are the lyrics to a song that I wrote for the Coast of Hope bike ride, but they apply equally to the Pan Mass Challenge bike ride this weekend.  Chris and Sarah will ride as a father-daughter team for the fourth year. We welcome your support for their ride, but also know that many of you actively support other causes that are close to your heart.

Let this song speak to you. It is written for any ride, any journey, regardless of the cause or inspiration. As soon as possible, I’ll share the recorded version with music and vocals by a local high school band called Gnarly Charlie. It’s inspired by the many cyclists in my life, past and present, and there are lots!

WHY WE RIDE
by Gail Doktor © 2012

We ride to feel the rush
And the stirring of the wind
We ride on paths unknown
And roads where we have been

We ride through wild silence
In rugged highs and lows
We ride in dappled sunlight
And where the seawind blows

     Oh, we ride for those who can’t
     We ride because we can
     Yes (oh), we ride because we believe
     We ride for one more chance

We ride to push each other
Past distance, youth and years
We ride to push ourselves
Beyond all doubt and fears

We ride in celebration
We ride beyond our loss
We ride to honor others
Or to help a greater cause

     Oh, we ride for those who can’t
     We ride because we can
     Yes (oh), we ride because we believe
     We ride for one more chance

We ride to find a way
To get up when we fall
We ride to finish first
Or to cross the line at all

We ride at softest daybreak
We ride til touch of night
We ride in search of hope
We ride to catch the light

     Oh, we ride for those who can’t
     We ride because we can
     Yes (oh), we ride because we believe
     We ride for one more chance

Jessie and Sarah on bikes, before cancer.

Jessie and Sarah on bikes after cancer.