Because You're Still Here

The very second you're gone, I feel your absence.
Our place is still. I'm seeing it for the first time
without motion.

I drink from your favorite mug.
I hold it the way you do, fingers
and palms wrapped around it
for warmth.
I play your music and lean in,
listening closely
for what you hear.

I've come to wrap myself around you because you're here.
Because you're still here,

The Oblivious Moon

I was driving home that very familiar route. I turned automatically onto the freeway ramp leading to the 170 that would take me home to Hollywood. I anticipated the long thoughts that would accompany me on my comfortable ride. I glanced to my right to a carpool sign, defaced with graffiti. I don’t know that language so I didn’t know the sentiment. But something so common was quite suddenly giving me pause.

As I rounded the final turn that bleeds into open highway, I faced another sign, as inspired as the first. I maneuvered my machine onto and into the concrete ocean before me; and letting myself into it, I noticed the oblivious moon, and all its glory.

If I'd Gone To New York

If I'd gone to New York I would have ridden the subway
and felt the soft heat of a stranger's breath
on the back of my neck.

I would have eaten ethnic food every day
and been lost in crowds,
swept job to job
and moved with the tides of traffic.

If I'd gone to New York
I would have sharpened into hard edges
rather than these soft ones
that only start projects,
never completing them
because the process is so freakin' fun.

I would have seen clearly, spoken harshly, and not broken
when loss hit.
I would have seen flowers
in the cracks of the sidewalk
rather than vanity plates
on the freeways.

I would have been cold but strong
and successful and hard.

If I'd gone to New York I would not have heard your voice last night.
It would have taken me longer to get to the
what-ifs.

If I'd gone to New York I wouldn't have gotten out of bed
just now
to write this vision of what might have been.

I wish I'd gone.
I'm glad I'm here.

The Mystery of Grandmothers

Grandmothers have always been mysterious to me,

because I never knew mine.

As I’ve aged I’ve watched grandmothers

and my friends who know theirs.

Relationships that reflect

genetics and gestures.

I miss my grandmother

and how she was described – 

longingly with love, and the endless sense of loss

my mother had for her.

If I am ever blessed with children,

they will know the mystery of grandmothers

too.

Nearing the End

Mom, your birthday came and I celebrated with you. I made you see the colorful balloons and read your cards to you. I carefully read each word, really wanting you to absorb the love from each one.

Sometimes you look at me as if you know and in the next instant, kind of glaze out. Instantly distant. I love to lie next to you and talk into your ear. Tell you things you used to enjoy and people who were your friends. I tell you my woes and how much I miss you. You certainly made me feel special. I was your only girl. You pursued me. And I ran. I felt you chasing me and felt suffocated. You wanted to know me so badly. And you wanted to help me –– maybe to become what you wanted me to be.

Now you stare and mostly sleep. Sometimes you smile that incredibly adorable smile. Makes me want to squeeze you. I want to let you go to God but I know I’m still holding on.

•

November 2, 2003

Mom was lucid today. Answered questions, smiled a lot. I told her I loved her and she said, “I love you too.” I live for that. I told her I was going to brush her teeth and slowly she began to lift up her arm and draw it toward herself. I watched as she slowly reached and pulled out her teeth herself. I couldn’t believe it! Wow. Clara said she’s been really clear lately and talks more.

•

January 4, 2004

Happy New Year. A few weeks ago Mom stopped eating. Sometimes she’d take a few bites but most of time, refuse. She began to lose weight but nothing alarming. And then boom –– within five days she became fragile and weak. Steve and I made the difficult decision of having a G-tube (feeding tube) put into her stomach, with the hope that she’ll regain some strength and start eating again. All this has taken us to a new level of letting go. Excrutiating. Just when you think you’re ready, it’s “wait a minute wait a minute!!” I feel near a breaking point. Like a lot of grief is building up inside me and it’s so overwhelming I’m holding it back. I shake. I keep busy. I stay away from thoughts.

January 14

Mom has not awakened since the G-tube went in and I finally called the doctor. He had her transferred to ER for a CatScan. She’s in the hospital now. Brain is ok, shrinkage normal for her age. Has internal bleeding with no known source and we’ve decided against probes and colonoscopies. Deeper into the new phase of grief.

She’s totally unresponsive. Sleeps. Stirs. That’s it. She’ll moan if you hug her and I am hoping she will come back even a little bit.

•

It’s hard to remember the figure of you when you were whole and pursuing me,
wanting to know me and all my secrets.

I get flashes in my head but what sticks
is you now in that bed tiny and shriveled
and deeply deeply sleeping.

I’m glad you are peaceful. So many
years you were struggling, putting on your
game face, even for yourself. At least now
you can sleep.

•

You were still asleep today. Tomorrow will be two weeks you haven’t been awake. God, please tell me what is happening to her. Is she dying now? Do I prepare, give up hope of her answering me again? Moaning to my hugs.

She’s almost in the fetal position. She curls her legs up always. I like it when she’s on her back and draws her knees up. She could sleep like that. I don’t even know how to feel right now.

I feel the choke of crying coming and then it shuts, like an almost-sneeze. Ah! Ah! Oh. I feel anxiety inside me like laundry bundled in my stomach. My heart has been palpitating. I don’t know I’m stressed until my body tells me.

I like going to the hospital a lot better than going to the nursing home. Quiet. Doesn’t smell. No ancient loud speaker. And a great gift shop. It’s like a secret. It’s like a treasure for me. I can go in there and look at all the amazingly pretty things. I guess it’s a getaway. Mom would have loved it.

I can’t believe she’s completely asleep! I lie with her and squeeze her hand, kiss her little face, stroke her hair, talk in her ear and hold onto her. Tonight, laid my head on her breast and it felt full for some reason. Maybe the position she was in. It felt motherly. I liked it. I think it was the first time I ever did that.

I wish she would wake up. Even if she’s going to die soon, I hope she wakes up at least. I want to see her eyes again. It’s painful when you don’t know if you’re saying goodbye, or if you already did.

•

January 23

Mom’s back in her room, still sleeping. Sometimes she’s a little more responsive but not much. She’ll eat a piece of chocolate slowly, and reacts to minor pain. She said no to a question of mine and several words to Steve.

I feel buoyed lately. Not fragile. But if I focus on her, I would probably lose it.

I really miss our phone calls –– our long, girlfriend-like phone calls with lots of laughter. It’s amazing the relationship we ended up having. I miss that so much. Our own relationship. Just Mom and me. I can’t believe it’s gone and yet it seems so far away. Like it was sooo long ago.

Quietly I look at you...

•

February 1, 2004

Death is lurking only this time I anticipate it. I pressed my cheek to hers and felt her closed eyes blinking. I feel her breathing, deeper when I speak, as if it’s her only way of communicating. Like when you only breathe through your nose and when you feel pain you push out and pull in air.

I grasp her hand, I lay myself on her as much as I can. Caress her hair, cream her face. No response hurts, like she’s mad at me. Stupid I know, but I’m a daughter.

Tonight I looked for a second into the abyss of her absence and it scared me. I just realized I’m frightened of that overwhelming black feeling. How can I face life without her? Of course I know the answer but I somehow must ask the question. She’s my mother. I need her prayers. Who will pray for me the way she did?

It’s amazing how little you’ll cling to. Right now she’s down to being asleep in bed on a feeding tube and temporary oxygen. But her hands are here to hold and feel. I can feel each finger, its length and the nails I used to file and paint. Every part of her body has a memory for me. Her ears - I cleaned them. Her hair - I brushed, Steve cut. Her little nose - I always wanted it and she always said I could have it! So cute. Her adorable legs - I creamed, did her toenails, her gnarly toenails.

What do we do now, Lord? What do we do?

•

Dear Mom,
You’ve been asleep for over a month. It’s only the last week Steve has heard an “mm-hmm” from you. Unbelievably, music to our ears. How little we’ll settle for. How little it takes to make us feel close to you, to know you’re in there. Your voice is the voice of my childhood. It is the most familiar sound in this world. So even an “mm-hmm” in your voice comforts me. You’re there, and I’m alright.

But you’re not going to stay. You’ve been declining. I don’t know if it will be a month or a year but I sense your departure, and I fight it. Sometimes I feel as though I get a glimpse and it overwhelms and scares me. The feeling I get is a big openness, a cravass, a hole, an emptiness...a pit. That’s loss. I know the long dark tunnel is coming and I dread it. The closer it comes, the harder it is to see how great it will be for you. You’ll finally be free and with Jesus. I will be here without you, without a mother whom I need so desperately. I long to mother and to be mothered. Who will pray for me? What compares to a mother’s prayers? I’m selfish, I know. I’m in pain. I wait for the light at the end of the pain.

•

I’m 42 and I’m too young to be losing my mother.
I’ve been trying to have a baby for three years and I need to talk to her.
She was with me in the beginning of the trying and felt the excitement with me. But a few more years and she faded away.
I married “late” according to our culture and I’ve pretty much late-bloomed in everything.
I’m sorry that my future kids won’t know their grandmother. I’m sorry because I never knew mine. I feel sorry for myself because my kids won’t have cousins to grow up with and I won’t have parents or in-laws to babysit and spoil us.
She was 43 when she had me. I big surprise. Now I know why I came.

•

February 10, 2004

Mom was finally beginning to “talk.” More “mm-hmms,” some “yeahs, yes’s and no’s” and nods of the head. Taking her off Dylantin seemed to be clearing the cobwebs and waking her up. Clara reported that she lifted her head and said, “What?!” A nurse said she found Mom laughing out loud at the television. Astounding. But Saturday, she had a grand maul seizure. Back to sleeping. We figured at least two weeks before any hoped-for improvement, but she’s already responding. If only a little.

•

March 20, 2004

Sometimes I think she must get so sick of hearing the same stuff over and over. She used to get irritated. But can you imagine somewhere in there she’s going “Oh not that song again!” So I sang something else. Songs that she used to make me sing and that she was proud of. I hope it stimulated her somehow.

It’s awful to see her crumpled in the bed like that. Salty and sleeping so deep, no sound seems to reach her. Sores on her back that are opening up and not healing. How much more? Is this indignity? Would she hate this? I feel like I have no idea anymore.

•

March 29

I’m sitting here in the hospital holding my Mommie’s hand. It’s really all I have left to do for her. Caress her hair, rub her legs, her back.

She has pneumonia, and a whole body infection (sepsis). Today it was determined that she is not improving. Her white cell count is high and it seems her body is not fighting the infection. They gave her morphine today for pain. I don’t know what to expect.

Periodically she clears her throat. Aaagh. Aaagh. Aaagh. Over and over.

•

March 31

Mommie went dowhill today. Someone said she may not last a week. I’m wondering if it will be days. Even tonight. Her breathing is labored. It’s hard to see her like this. I feel strange. Disconnected. John said it’s a defense mechanism. Strange. I want to feel so I can connect with it. But it may be too overwhelming. I guess I can’t really comprehend it. I can’t believe my Mommie’s going to die –– soon.

I can’t think. I can’t feel. I love my Mom deeply deeply deeply. I wish I could crawl into bed with her and stay there until she goes.

•

April 3, 2004

I told her about heaven today. I told her I would be fine because we’ll be reunited one day –– God has promised, and I’m standing on His promises. I described what it might be like and she was going...”ahhh...ahhh...ahhh.” Not moaning but softly sighing.

Her moaning sometimes seems like communication rather than pain. I love talking to her, gently, softly.

1Cor15:12

•

April 11

It’s Easter today. Mom died on April 3, after my last installment, at 4:10 p.m. We were with her (body) for several hours, trying to say goodbye. It’s been rough trying to let go. Having regrets (always). Missing her. Long black cave. Deep dark void. Gigantic pain. Beautiful Mommie gone. In the presence of God. I’m waiting for some sign of her.

•

I packed a bag because I planned to stay the night on that side of town. I wanted to be with her every day now. It could be days or weeks and I wanted to be right there. John and I went to the antique store to pick out a hutch. We had it down to two. We went back and forth for a while and finally picked the one we wanted. I felt very pressed to get to my Mom, butterflies in my stomach, so I asked John to talk over the hutch in the car. We did and then I sent him back in to complete the deal so I could go ahead to the nursing home.

When I got there, Mom was alone, sleeping. I finally remembered and brought my boom box to play some worship music. I brought my journal too. I remember talking to her about heaven and how she’ll be able to run and jump and do cartwheels. She’ll dance and see her mother and all her siblings. I told her that though my heart was breaking, she could go now. That God would take good care of me and get me through my loss of her. I played the worship softly in the background and would occasionally lean in and sing to her. I read a little from the Bible.

It was such a precious time. I could feel something in the air. It was just Mom and me and I loved it. It felt big and endless. I was so happy in that moment to have it.

A nurse came in and said she needed to change Mom. I didn’t want her disturbed since she was so peaceful, so she said she would come back later.

My cousin was coming up from Orange County and so I ended my quiet time with Mom. Carole visited a little, but since Mom was asleep, she and I went outside to talk. When Steve arrived, he saw us outside through the window and came out and told us the nurse was in changing Mom. I had asked her not to, so we went inside. And of course, Mom was now in distress. She seemed to be having trouble breathing, she was coughing a bit. She looked worried.

I got another nurse to help. I asked if she should have the phlegm from her throat suctioned. He said ok and went and got the suction kit (took forever). He suctioned her, but she was still uncomfortable. I called the hospice and they told me not to suction, that it can worsen the condition. Oh great.

Mom still seemed to be distressed. I talked to her calmly and tried to get her to calm. It took quite a while but she finally seemed to calm down. After more time, she got to the point where she was almost sleeping. That’s when I suggested we all go lunch. I’ll always regret it.

I was standing on Mom’s left. Carole and Steve were on the other side talking to her. Mom seemed to lift her head and look at them intensely. Carole remarked how intense Mom’s eyes were. Steve moved over to my side of the bed and was talking to Mom. He turned around to me and said, “Couldn’t you have brought another kind of music? She should be hearing Big Band or something.” He was very angry. I didn’t answer him and he suddenly left in a huff. I stayed where I was and Carole was talking to Mom. I left the room for a minute so Carole could have time with her. I waited in the hallway. Steve said he would meet us at the restaurant. Carole and I said goodbye to Mom and that we’d be back.

We went to restaurant, a place we’d been countless times before, but for some reason, this time, the service was sooo slooooowww. Steve didn’t even show up for almost an hour! He said he couldn’t eat. He ordered but his stomach was upset. My friend Virginia called me on my cell. We finally got out of there and drove back to the nursing home. Carole dropped us off as she wanted to drive back down to Orange County.

Steve and I went into the nursing home, down the long hall and around the corner to Mom’s room. Clara was in her wheelchair down the hall. The curtain was drawn around Mom and I immediately thought, “Oh God, now what?” We pulled the curtain back and there was a nurse on either side of her doing something with her hands. We said, “What’s going on?” One nurse said, “She is no more.” And I said, “What?” and the other said, “She passed away.”

Random thoughts and memories

My mom and I didn’t click. In hindsight I see that I take after my Dad. That’s why it was easier for us to connect, to understand each other. My mom was sort of a mystery, I guess. I remember one of my earliest memories was that I thought she was a man. Well, she had short hair and a deep voice, and I thought only men had short hair, and that women had to have long hair. She came into the bathroom once when I was in the bath and I covered up because I thought maybe she was a man. I must have been really young, but recalling the house we lived in, I had to be no younger than seven, and you’d think I’d know better by that age. Ridiculous.

My Dad and I could sit down and talk a thing out. When my mom was mad at me, she would give me the silent treatment. She did it to Dad too. Especially after he drank the night before and embarrassed her at a party or something.

I was an artist but I didn’t know it yet. I would dress differently on purpose and she would say, “Oh, is that what all the kids are wearing now?” which would infuriate me because I wanted to specifically NOT wear what all the other kids were wearing.

In college, my Dad came to me and told me mom had been reading my journal and was distraught at how depressed I sounded. He asked me to write something upbeat so she wouldn’t worry so much. He didn’t ask me if I was really depressed. I think he knew instinctively that it wasn’t as serious as she thought. Maybe she was worried I would be like her, with depression. I was just so angry she would read my journal, I couldn’t see past my rage. I wrote that I would just die if anyone ever read my journal.

What daughter doesn’t long to connect with her mother? Deep deep down we want that connection. My mom and I were trying to make each other what we wanted. She wasn’t the cuddle-me, read-to-me, lavish-me-with-love type. Is that what I wanted? I don’t know, but it is now. Back then, whenever I had a problem with someone, she’d tend to side with them, afraid of prejudicing herself toward me, but she overcompensated in my opinion. I never felt safe talking to her. She wasn’t “on my side.” That pushed me away too.

In her effort to understand me, she turned me off. Typically, I thought she was "behind the times" and ridiculous. There were just questions all the time, never statements about what she thought of me or if she was proud.

How does a person even begin to write about their own mother? It’s almost like writing about oneself, it’s that close. Too close to see, perhaps. But I must write about my mother because my experience with her has been extraordinary. I am still processing it.

21st Birthday

I had gone to ROTC basic training camp for 4 weeks in the summer when I was 20. It was grueling and character building and I copped out of a few things and carried the guilt around for a long time. Still, looking back, I have a lot to be proud of, but it’s my nature to focus on the negative aspect and never look at the positive. I had no freedom those 4 weeks and was so happy to be home. It was my 21st birthday. My parents were going to take me to the Country Club for dinner and my mom wanted me to wear a dress. I didn’t want to wear a dress, and she was insisting on it. I remember the frustration I felt as I sat there saying I didn’t want to wear a dress. And really, who’s birthday was it, anyway? She was always more concerned about how I looked...how I made her look, to her friends and others. That’s got to be what that was about. I exploded. I lunged from my chair and cleared a shelf, throwing books and knick-knacks onto the floor as I screamed, “Help me!!” My Dad, feeling helpless, walked over to me and threw his soda in my face and said, “Help yourself.” I guess he thought he was showing me tough love. It was so pitiful. I ran out of the house and sat between carports for a while.

When I came back in I went straight to my room and sat on the floor. My Dad came in and sat on the floor next to me. That was a first. He comforted me in a way I had never experienced with him. But my Mom never came in, nor did she apologize. We never talked about it and I don’t even remember if we went to the Club for dinner or what I ended up doing for my 21st birthday.