Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

The story of a daughters love.

The receptionist buzzed to give me a heads up that my dad was on his way in.  My office was just off the lobby in the purchasing department so I stood up from my desk and peeked out the window and yup, there he was.  His old baby blue Mercedes was pulling up to the red painted curb right at the front door where he always parks.

I met him at the glass double doors in the lobby and quietly said, “Dad, what are you doing here?”   Trying to be patient with him but he’d been warned many times that it wasn’t ok to visit me at my office.  I’d already missed so much work during mom’s long illness.  I needed to get back to normal now that she was gone, but he is so lonely and doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Mom’s in the car.”  He said sheepishly.

“What do you mean ‘Mom’s in the car’?”  I retorted with hands and shoulders held up in exasperation, keeping my voice down but wanting to be firm with him.

“She’s in the car.”  He’s actually scuffing the toe of his sneaker and looking down with his hands in his pockets, knowing he is in trouble.

“Where in the car?”  I said with a parental tone to my voice.

“Up front, with me, where she always sits.”  A bit of pride and a mischievous hint to his voice.

“Dad!  I told you Ron would pick her up.  Why did you do it?”  I wined.

“I just couldn’t leave her there.”  He said.

“So, now what?” By this time my frustration was no longer veiled. But it was more than that…

His only answer to me was “Give me your keys and I’ll put her in your car.”

“That is exactly why I’d asked Ron to pick her up so I wouldn’t be in this position, Dad. Fine.”  With a heavy sigh, I turned, walked back into my office and got my keys to hand to him.   A kiss on the cheek and he was off.  I never wanted to be alone with the ashes, it gave me the creeps just thinking about it.

After a very long battle with bone cancer and almost a year and a half in the hospital her body finally gave up.  Before she died, she told me that my Dad would drive me crazy and that I’d have to be firm with him or he’d show up daily at my office.  As much as my heart ached for him feeling alone, I had to work, I had responsibilities.  I had a life.

Later that afternoon I walked out to the parking lot, jumped in my little white BMW with the red leather seats and started it up to back out when I remembered, Mom!  Where did he put her?  I looked in the front seat and the back seat then jumped out and opened the trunk and there she was amidst all my other stuff.

I unfolded the small paper bag and peeked inside.  There was a brown plastic box a bit smaller than a shoe box inside and gingerly I slid open the top and found a clear plastic zip lock bag filled with the white, grey and beige bone chips and ash.

“Hi, Mom.” I said softly.  I both missed her horribly and was also happy it was over, her long and painful death.  I held her in my arms having to make a decision.  I left her there in the trunk.

I slid the top back on to her temporary home and put it back in the brown paper bag, folded the top of the bag down and laid it carefully on its side.  Seeing the ashes immediately brought tears to my eyes, I swallowed the lump in my throat, looked around the parking lot, hesitated, taking a deep breath, swallowed my tears and slammed the trunk closed, got back in the car and drove home to be mom to my own kids.

I left her there.  For almost a year I left her in my trunk.  I showed her to anyone interested in seeing what ashes look like.

In all the years they were married my Dad had never left her alone.    He’d drove her to work most mornings, then pick her up for lunch and again at 5 o’clock…there he was waiting for her.  She wanted more for me…she wanted me to have freedom of decision, freedom of time.

I left her in the trunk so that she could go to lunch with me everyday.  So she could vicariously enjoy a more pampered life.  I left her there so she was always with me.

She’d worked every day of her life since she had been 14 years old and ended up being the matriarch of our family.  The one everyone turned to for a mature and sensible solution to family drama and trauma.  A working mother of three. She carried the weight of caring for her parents, siblings and extended family as well as her own.  They weren’t an easy group, none of them, none of us, and my mom was the sane one, the one that caused my cousins to mention to me that I had a great mother, even my cousins from my Dad’s side.

Even at work, she was the go to office lady.  She was the business manager at a large Italian owned car dealership in both New Jersey and California.  The typical language used in dealerships stopped at her door.  She ran a very tight ship and was respected by all.

She raised me to expect more from life and I got it. Many months later our interior designer was telling me that her son Christopher was starting a new business.  He loved luxury cars but of course couldn’t  afford one so he thought of starting a car detailing business.

I liked Chris and loved a clean car so I called him to make arrangements for him to take me on as a customer.  He came on time, came to my office and got my keys, drove the car to his house where he did his work in his own garage.  A few hours later he returned it sparkling clean, I paid him and off he went to his next job.

As I left at 5 that afternoon, I thought I’d check his work.  The exterior was sparkling, the interior looked great,  and then I opened the trunk.  Spotless!  Perfect job, I was so happy with his work.  Half way home it hit me.  “Mom!”  I screamed.  I drove directly to Chris’ house but no one was home.  This was long before cell phones so you could never reach anyone when you really needed them.

My mind went to horrible places.  What if he’d thrown the brown paper bag away thinking it was trash?  Now she’s sitting in the bottom of a trash can or worse.  Could I live with myself if she ended up at the dump?  Oh, my god, my heart was racing, I was crying, and at the same time I realized that she and I would have laughed till we cried at this story.

I drove home and for the next hour I continued to call Chris over and over and I called his mom, Pam, at the office and at home.  I couldn’t live with myself  if Mom ended up at the dump. I couldn’t live with myself.   I had to get her back.

Finally, Chris called and it turned out that he had put everything that was in my trunk into a box and had only forgotten to put the box back in my trunk.  I couldn’t tell him why it was so important, why I was so freaked.  He was too young to even imagine what could have been in that bag that he’d moved.

That night Chris brought over the box of my belongings from my trunk  and that’s where she stayed for safe keeping. I could rest easy, she was home.

A month later we were up in Ron’s brothers prop plane.  I held the clear plastic bag tightly in my hand, holding some back to keep and share with my father.  Ron popped the window open for me as we flew over Natural Bridges Park in Santa Cruz, my Mom’s favorite place, where the Monarch’s visit every October on a layover on their annual journey.  Most of the ashes flew into the crashing waves yet still I screamed, sputtered, shook and cried as some of the ashes flew into my face.  When we got home that evening I needed to find a permanent home for what was left of her.

On a recent trip to Amsterdam, Ron had brought home a beautiful hand painted ginger jar.  I took a velvet bag with a draw string meant for a bottle of good Scotch and placed the clear plastic bag of ashes that I’d saved inside.  Dad had decided that it was just too odd for him to keep the ashes.

A year and a half after my mom had died we moved to Singapore for Ron’s job and I found the perfect place for Mom.  Yes, we brought her with us…she’d never had a passport and had never traveled.

We had a beautiful flat in a high rise with Italian red marble floors and 5,000 sf to fill and make homey.  We bought an antique Persian rug during the embargo era and placed a very large glass table atop.  Her ginger jar sat in the middle of the table so that she could enjoy the rug and the view.

Now she resides in a cabinet in my dining room at our home in the desert of Southern California.

I learned that never did I need to savor those ashes in order to be reminded of her.  She lives on in my heart and I see her qualities of confidence and wit reflected in my granddaughters eyes.

Grief Has A Thousand Names

none of which I can speak yet 

In February it was 30 years since I lost my mother. That time was especially difficult for me and still to this day I struggle telling the story of her death and how her life affected me. For so long I thought it was just her death that hit me hard, but no, it wasn’t just her death and the part I played. 

So much more was happening at the time. 

Sitting in the darkened room holding my mothers hand while she slept. There was nothing I could do to make her more comfortable. I was there and that’s all I could offer. Her pain was more than the morphine could handle anymore. She’d been here in this bed for 6 months and I was tired. 

I am grateful that I was ignorant of the way death comes. Somehow I thought when she couldn’t handle it anymore, she’d die. I had no idea it was just the beginning. She’d been eating organic for years and her organs were healthy, it was just her bones that were disintegrating and causing her beg to die in agony.

I sat holding her hand, her best friend Barbara sitting across from me holding her other hand. We watched her breath. In and out, then we’d wait. Was that the last one? No, there it is, another breath. Each one reduced to her last breath. We sat there through the night, napping when we didn’t want to, so afraid I’d miss her last breath. I couldn’t, wouldn’t leave her and I was so grateful that Barbara was there with me. 

In the morning, Carl, my mother’s first born, came to the house. He’d called his friend who’s father owned a glass company in town. A stretcher wouldn’t fit through the hallway so we had to remove the window to get her out. We’d decided it was time to give up and take her to the hospital.  She’d spent years fighting the AMA and choosing alternative care instead.  We realized we couldn’t control her pain anymore.  We called the ambulance once the window was removed, they brought in the stretcher and I rode with her to the hospital, leaving her home for the last time. 

She didn’t die then just because she couldn’t go on living that way, she lived in the hospital for another 15 months. It is still too much for me to face, it’s been 30 years in February, but it was so much more than just my mother dying, my whole life was changing and I was in a rushing tide with no control or choosing of my own. I held on tight and tried to save myself. There are no words. Still. 

Three Months

Stepping off the elevator, I turned left towards the Recuperative Care Unit of Dominican Hospital in Santa Cruz.    

Standing in front of a big picture window stood a young woman about my age.  Jeans, tee shirt and a zippered sweatshirt, long brown hair falling in her face, I could see she was crying.  Since that’s about all I did anymore, I thought I’d stop and see what was up.

I felt pulled to this young woman as I often do to strangers.  I walked up and just stood next to her.  “Why are you here?” I asked. I’ve always been willing to speak to a stranger and my style is to talk to them like I know them personally.  I figure we’re pretty much all the same when it comes to this sort of situation.  

  Her answer was unsettling to me.  She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, looked at me and said, “My mother has been here for 3 months and today I am taking her home to die.  To my home.”  

“Is she in pain?”  I asked.

“No, but she’s dying.  

After a moment for this to sink in I said softly, maybe to her, “Oh, no.  Three months?  How did you do it? I couldn’t do three months! No, I can’t do three more months.”  

She looked at me with tearful eyes and told me that she’d been here every day with her mother who was fighting lung cancer and had been getting treatments but now wanted to go home to die.

She looked at me with pity in her eyes.  She, too, had thought, “No, I couldn’t do that.”  

But life has a way of showing you just what you are capable of  and it’s always more than you thought you were able to handle.  

I heard her pain and immediately empathized.  Three months seemed like more than I could ever consider.  Three months of coming to the hospital?  I sympathized with her and told her she’d already done more than I could imagine.  We stood together and thought of our Mother’s, ourselves.  We didn’t talk for long but I’ll assume she probably had a husband and kids like I did.  We were both too young and so over our heads with grief.  

It was early December 1984, I was 28 years old.  Life had gotten very complex for me in the past year.  I was barely hanging on to my own sanity, my full time job and my newly formed blended family.

My Mother had been bedridden for the last six months at home trying to fight her bone cancer through an alternative therapy.  She’d been eating organic for eight years already and following the strict dietary requirements of the Gerson Therapy.  

For those six months that my Mom was stuck in a bed at home, I’d drive the 20 minutes it took to get to my parents house, during my one hour lunch break. I’d run in the back door, make the healing drink of liver from a calf no older than 3 days mixed with chopped carrots and apples and centrifugally spun into a juice.  While she drank her juice I’d give her a coffee enema to relieve her pain and I’d sit with her. I was her sunshine but I could only stay less than a half hour.  I raced to get back to work on time fighting through my tears.

While she was trying to self heal she drank so much carrot juice that her skin turned orange.  She consumed two 25 pound bags of organic carrots every week.  

This was in the mid 80’s and it was lucky for us that we lived near Santa Cruz because the  organic movement was just becoming important and it was available up in the mountains. She’d been fighting her cancer for about 6 years already.  She’d done the surgery, the chemo and the radiation.  Then she decided to follow the Gerson Therapy, illegal in the states, an alternative nutritional therapy and had gone twice to the clinic.  I went with her once and learned much about life and death at that renovated Mexican motel in Rosarita Beach. She’d forged a gallant fight for so many years. 

This young woman and her mother left that day.  All I could think about all day long was ‘3 months?’  I can’t do 3 months.  Oh, no, I can’t do 3 more months of this.  I’m already tired, already done.  We kept looking at my mom  being admitted to the hospital as some kind of relief. I don’t know what I expected.  I didn’t have the luxury of time to consider what might be coming at me because what was in my lap was so much more than I could cope with already.

I was at the hospital to visit my mother who had cancer that had metastasized from her breast to her bones.  She was bright, vibrant and had been in charge at work and at home and was only 56 years old. 

I remember her crying to me after her doctor had first put her on bed rest after breaking her leg at my house on Mothers’ Day seven months earlier. She was worried she’d go crazy in bed for two weeks but she refused to go to the hospital.  Little did she know that those two weeks would turn into 6 months.  The morphine she took for the excruciating pain was provided by a holistic doctor and administered by a holistic nurse who was also a neighbor living  up in the Santa Cruz mountains but at some point it wasn’t enough.

On December 1st we just couldn’t manage her pain anymore and decided it was time to admit her.  That night our family friend Barbara and I had spent the night sitting in small wooden chairs on either side of her bed watching and waiting for each individual breath willing her to live.  

The next morning we called the local glass company to come out and remove the picture window of the room my mom had hibernated in for the last six months trying to heal herself.  She could no longer move and would have to be carried out on a stretcher and the stretcher wouldn’t make the necessary turns to go down the hallway.  A lack of foresight on my Mom’s part I’d say, and she’d agree with me.   Neither she nor anyone else ever thought it would be 6 months that she’d spend in that room and even though at some point we knew it was not working we never thought that she’d have to be carried out.  

Once the window was removed we called the ambulance and they came to take her to the hospital, I rode with her  leaving her home for the last time.   My father and older brother followed, my husand and son following them.  

My father sat by her side morning till nightfall day in and day out. He’d sit and read the paper and they’d watch tv together.   She was on a permanent morphine drip and was alert and sociable. She had many visitors and often it seemed she held court.  I came 6 days a week.  

It was different having her in the hospital but not really a relief.  My days were now longer and I was just as tired but I was no longer responsible for her daily juice, the race to visit and assist during my lunch hour.  

Mornings were still full of activity, laundry, bed making , breakfast, kids, shower, hair, makeup, finding a clean and ironed outfit.  Before leaving the house, a quick run through picking up stray items, I pour myself a cup of coffee and as I drove past the hospital on my way to work, I give my mom a quick nod, ‘see you later, Mom’.

I was her sunshine and she needed to live vicariously through me so I had to make sure to have a story or two for her entertainment each evening after work.

For the next 15 months I worked full time, and 5 nights a week I would stop by the hospital and visit with my mom and dad. Saturdays were spent in her big double sunny room with the entire family watching sports and visiting, kids playing on the floor.

In one way life was better for me now. I could work without her calling me screaming to help her die.  I could go to lunch with friends without guilt.

In another way my day was so much longer now.  After work I’d jump in the car and fight the traffic to Santa Cruz.  Sitting in the parking lot at the hospital, I’d take a moment for myself.  A moment when I wasn’t responsible to nor for someone else.  When I’d muster up the strength to face my parents another day not knowing what I’d find as I walked into her room after work in the early evening, bringing her my world of sunshine.  

Some days I’d have Jasmine, our nanny, bring the kids to me at the hospital after she fed them but other nights I’d stay for only an hour or so and rush home to be mom and to do homework and baths and bed.  

This was a time in my life that I often thought I couldn’t go on but somehow I did.  My mom spending six months at home in bed and 15 months in the hospital  caus me to carry the burdens of the stress those hours, days, weeks, months and years heaped upon me.

When you think you can’t go on another step all you can do is take it one day at a time and if that get’s too difficult take it hour by hour or even breath by breath, but when given no other choice know that you can do just about anything.  

I wish I still knew this young woman I’d talked to that day on the way into seeing my mom.   How had I thought this was going to end?  How long did I think that my Mom had to live?  I knew I couldn’t do 3 more months. I remember thinking it might be days, maybe weeks but never months!  We brought her here to die in comfort.

My Mother died at Dominican Hospital on February 23, 1986. 15 months later. 

I couldn’t have imagined how I’d ever get through 15 months that day I stood next to that young woman at the window.  But now I know how I did it and I can teach you just as easily.  Day by day...you just get up and do it again.  Don’t think about it, just do it. The payoff is that I know in my soul that I did everything I could have done for her.  I have no guilt, no regret.  

I once met this woman who told me she’d just done 3  months…I said, “no, I could never do 3 months.’

A Short Ten Minute Walk

Never a dull moment

It’s just a short ten minute walk is what I’ve been told.  Living so close to the Skytrain is a real benefit, the realtor said.

  I walked home from the train today at a slow and steady pace.  It’s been one of those days where the trains were so packed that I had to wait while two trains had come and gone without enough room for one more person.  90% humidity and about 90 degrees today, it’s hot, it’s Bangkok.  I have air conditioning on my mind.  Each step bringing me closer to the cool air of my high rise apartment.  

Finally the third train came and I found just enough room for one more, but it was so crowded that there was not an inch between me and anyone.  Nuts to butts as they say in the military.   I am always so grateful that the Thai people believe in physical cleanliness and modesty so that  I am never worried nor feel uncomfortable in such tight quarters, though very happy to finally get to my stop and burst from it’s seams.  

Down the steps from the station, a three minute walk on the elevated sidewalk above the city streets, down another set of steps, 100 all in all, I’ve counted them several times on the way up these very same steps.  Around the corner I pass two 7-Elevens, one on each side of the street, a bank, a few restaurants, apartment buildings and a Starbucks located in a very cool old traditional Thai house. Sitting on the sidewalk at the entrance was an elderly couple begging.  The old woman sings a song in a high and screeching voice holding the cup with a few coins while her ancient husband plays an instrument made of a tin can and a wooden stick with some strings attached.

 Further down on the same side of the street is the Hotel Muse, all in black, inside and out, a new and happening hotel for the young, rich and famous with their Ferraris, Bentleys and Porsches.  I step around the begging couple after dropping in a few coins and then I dodge the luxury cars at the Muse.  This is south east Asia, a land of extremes.  A fleeting thought of stopping in to my favorite foot massage place I decide that no, I want to go home and get out of my wet clothes instead of spending $10 for an hour of relaxation. 

.

Getting closer to my high rise I pass through the street vendors who set up folding tables surrounded by stacking plastic chairs set among umbrellas for shade.  They cook, serve and clean right there on the sidewalk from their portable push carts they bring in early each morning.  Their carts look ancient and jerry rigged but they cook some amazing street food.  

There is a lady who brings her sewing machine and sets up business every morning, doing alterations.  She sits within five steps of the ATM machine which is right next to the grocery store, oh, so convenient.  Then there is the guy who sells roses, he’s there every day, too.  There’s a lady who makes flower garlands made of tiny pikaki flowers for a whopping 30 cents each.   I’d often buy one to lay on my pillow and it was enough to make the whole apartment smell wonderful.

I crossed the four lane busy one way street  out in front of the french bakery and walked up the  driveway of the Marriott, the guard raised the arm of the barrier so I could walk over the paved driveway up towards the lobby.  Khun Oui  greeted me with “Sawaddi Kha, Khun Brown” and a smile, she was there to open your taxi door or to welcome you home after a long day on the streets.  

On a ‘high risk’ day the guards out front will check for bombs under the cars as they enter the property by using a mirror attached to a long handle as they walk around the car checking for hidden bombs. On days when there have been threats to any western interests we have to walk through a metal detector to get into the lobby.  The first clue we have is that the  American and Marriott flags are missing from their poles out front, that and a note under our door at daybreak.  Not like we could hide but there’s no sense advertising with flags.  Life is generally normal but you have to be aware at all times of your surroundings.    

After a seven minute walk from the train, I finally made it to the air conditioning, said hello to the staff at the front desk and pushed the up button.  The doors opened to an empty elevator.  I stepped in with a sigh of relief knowing I could ride up alone.  The city is so loud, busy, hot and humid and just plain crazy that a moment of silence is golden.  And the air conditioning, ah the air conditioning is so welcome. 

Just as the doors were about to close I saw a hand reach in to set off the automatic safety switch.  The doors popped open and two people entered.  One sitting in a wheel chair being pushed by the other, both in black burka head to toe.  All I could see of their flesh was their hands from their knuckles down and their eyes.  Both wore black veils covering their noses and  mouths.  

The woman pushing the wheel chair was very tall and she had large leathery hands with thick uneven nails.  Probably labor and a hard life caused premature aging.  I was grateful for a moment that neither of them were wearing the metal shield over their nose that some Saudi women wear.  For some reason that really scares me.  

More importantly I had no confidence at all though, that these were surely both harmless women.  All my American prejudices came pouring out when I started doubting their intentions and their sex, for that matter.   And no telling what they thought of me, in my summer clothes with bare skin showing, makeup either gone or melted down my face, my hair lying flat from the humidity, no modesty at all.  They might have had just as many fears being in the elevator with me alone.

I considered that they could be mother and daughter in a loving and caring situation, one of those rare trips that each will remember forever or they could be two men hiding and camouflaged in black burka hoping to cause havoc in an American hotel in the heart of an international city to drive home the suspicion and belief that no one is safe anywhere, anytime.  

All my prejudices came to the surface.  I pride myself on being open minded, trusting.  I don’t hate Muslims.  I don’t fear them.  I know they are a peaceful people and those wearing traditional garb are usually the more orthodox so by all logic I should have been fine.  I tried to calm myself and remind myself to trust.  It gives you a whole other perspective on things when you find yourself alone in such a small and intimate setting.  Even though I’m brave and trusting, ‘alone?’

Luckily the elevator doors opened on the 20th floor, the one pushed the other and I knew enough to not say a word to them.  Allow them to be and hopefully they, too, will allow me to be. Mutual respect between cultures.  They got out and the doors closed behind them.  

Three floors later I got out, walked down to the end of the hall and unlocked my door, stepped in to the cool and silence of home and let the door close behind me.  I leaned against the door resting my head and finally reminded myself I was home.  So much life in a short ten minute walk.  

My Name Is

My full and legal name is Linda Ellen George Jerome Brown.  Each of those names brings along with it so much emotion and history.  I don’t use all five names, and never have, but over the years I have been known by one combination or another.  

Linda, meaning beautiful in Spanish was the name chosen by my father when I was born.   As a Latin man, his family from Bermuda, he had a special place in his heart for his baby girl. 

Ellen was my mothers maternal grandmother.  She came to America around 1880 with her husband John, from Sheffield, England and settled in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.  As a widow she lived with my Mom’s family until she died around 1938.  The story goes that she was bed ridden and my grandfather had to carry her to the bathroom.  

George is what I was called through high school and all the years I was in the Navy.  In fact, often friends would call me Linda George, as if it was one name, instead of just Linda.  At times I think George was quite fitting for me.  I didn’t mind it and was a bit proud of my name.  That wasn’t always the case in the past.  My father wore that name as well, but when he was a child his older brothers were both quarantined for contracting Leprosy and their family was ostracized and rejected in their community and their school.  The George Boys were known country wide and were in fact written about in Time Magazine in 1925.  I imagine the name George at that time was a burden.  I have chosen to embrace the name.  

Jerome brings bad memories to me since I married my first husband and he let me down as a man, as a friend, as a husband and as the father of my only son.  Now, my son wears that name as do three of my grandchildren and they all make me proud so the negativity is starting to wane.  

Brown has become my new name.  I stand proudly next to my husband who shares that name with me.  When I first became Linda Brown I resisted, too boring, too normal.  We were in Ojai shortly after we were married and I saw a beautiful painting.  The signature in the bottom right was signed Linda Brown.  I thought it was a bit dull but then I decided if she was willing to take the name, I could, too.  Now I am proud to have found my true and lasting name, a writers name, Linda George Brown. 

Larry and The Dog!

 Tonight I faced my fears.  Rarely in your life do you get the opportunity to come to that point, that very sharp point where you clearly have the choice to walk into your fear or turn and walk away.  The price is often greater to turn your back.  Tonight for a split second I faced this decision.  

They say I’m brave.  When I first heard this I thought of all the things I couldn’t do, wouldn’t do.  But over the years I’ve learned to see myself as willing to do what others won’t.  I’ve learned that brave is not without fear as I thought, it is the choice to go on with fear in your heart, anyway.  

The six of us walked out of the room, carrying all his belongings in plastic bags, nothing more to say. It was over.  We walked to the elevator in a group, our heads down, not looking up at the people we passed, all lost in our own thoughts.  We reached the elevator, my husband holding the door as the rest of us filed in.  Khun Nuk spat out, “his dog!”  “The little dog, we forgot the dog!”  We looked at each other and since I was the last to enter the elevator and I was only carrying my pocketbook, I said  with an audible sigh, “I’ll get it.”

It was a split second decision.  I turned and went back.  Back down the carpeted hall, with my head down, hoping someone was behind me so I wouldn’t be alone, knowing I was.  I walked past the nurses’ station and came to his door.  We’d only been gone a moment and still my choice was to turn and get someone to go in with me or face my fear and enter on my own.  The slightest hesitation and I knew in my heart, I had to go.  I was an adult…I had just walked out…2 minutes ago we were all standing at his side…I could do this…I should do this…I pushed the door open and walked in.  

It would have been rude not to have said something, it was his room, he was still there.  “Larry, we forgot your dog.”  “Larry, we all love you, you are surrounded by love, good by, Larry.”  This I said as I walked to his bedside, saw the little stuffed green dog with the dgorji around his neck that I’d brought for him from my recent trip to Bhutan to keep the evil spirits away and to bring him power.  I turned and walked out the door, again, alone this time.

Earlier when BY, Ron’s right hand guy and long time friend,  was packing up Larry’s things he’d grabbed the neck pillow from the bed, I’d noticed the dog on his pillow and thought, let’s not forget the dog, but neglected to say anything.  Now here I was alone in the room to get the dog.  Another big sigh.  

When I got back to the elevator, everyone was waiting for me and again we all got back in, pushed the button and there was a bit of a group chuckle.  Khun Nuk asked, without looking at me, “where you scared? Is your heart beating faster?  You were just standing there touching him and now you were scared, weren’t you?”  Everyone knew what I’d done.  They all knew I had been scared.  We were sad and yet still were able to find the funny.  

Doll House

Pulling away from our home, down the gravel driveway for the last time is a  sight burned into my memory bank.  I sat in the back seat of my fathers big white Cadillac on the far right just behind my Mom where I always sat.  

As we passed the old barn where I had played I cried out, “My doll house!”  

My Mom said to me, “Oh, Linny, there’s just no room for it.  We left it behind.  We had to.”

Not only did I loose my doll house that day but we lost our home to bankruptcy, a word and concept I was about to learn a lot about, I was seven.  

My parents had designed this house and had it built just for us.  We lived in an idyllic hamlet in the rolling hills of northern New Jersey, a little town named Oldwick.  Historical sights were abundant.  Polished brass signs on inns along the road claiming that ‘George Washington slept here’.  This was where my childhood was supposed to happen.  

Small lanes tarred and graveled.  A main street one block long with Mary’s Soda Fountain, a general store, a magic shop, a tavern/inn, two churches and a little red school house where my Brownie meetings were held.  The Johnson and Johnson family home which was surrounded by the typical 3 rung white fence and could be seen from our front yard.  Mrs Johnson rode a black buggy pulled by a big black horse past our home on her way to town on Sunday mornings wearing a long black riding coat and a bonnet.

We not only lost my doll house we lost our future, our dreams, our hopes.  If we hadn’t left my doll house behind I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to learn such profound lessons in life.  

My Eel Skin Pocketbook

Christmas was just around the corner.  I was sitting next to her bed by the window.  The view from her hospital bed was of tree tops and the ever changing sky.  Nearer to the window, where I was sitting I could see across the street to the fenced in graveyard.  Not far to travel and the irony not missed.  So depressing, they should outlaw that zoning.

Usually we just sat and chatted about my work or the kids but this afternoon Mom told me she’d been thinking and wanted to have a talk.  She’d been thinking and planning for Christmas presents and since she couldn’t shop, obviously, she still was interested in knowing what it was that I wanted because she had a plan.  

I should say that my mom had a great sense of humor and a healthy sense of self.   Seemingly, she also had no shame.   Not to say that the free flowing morphine didn’t make a difference it’s just that her lack of remorse was embarrassing, even to me.

She asked me what I wanted for Christmas.  If I could have anything what would it be?  I thought for a while and since this was the mid 80’s and eel skin pocketbooks were in style, that’s what I asked for.  I told her it didn’t matter to me, though, I was just glad to have her.  I told her it didn’t matter, but it did.

I asked her what her plan was and without  hesitation she told me that she knew that my husband Ron could not say no to her so she would ask for the eel skin pocketbook and then right after Christmas she’d give it to me since she was dying and would never need to carry a pocketbook again anyway.  I asked her if she didn’t think this was rather underhanded and again without flinching she said, “Yes, in fact, I  do think it’s  underhanded but I have no options, you must agree.” Therefore in her estimation it was justified to lie to him.  I was disappointed in her obvious lack of morals and told her so.  Nothing seemed to get through to her higher values….she was on the slippery slope of power grabbing as she faced imminent death and there was nothing I could say to change her outlook but enjoy the eel skin pocketbook I received from my mother that year for Christmas.  If she were alive today we’d both be reminiscing about her obvious success and the beauty of her advanced form of manipulation.  Again I see her better qualities in my granddaughter’s eyes.  She lives on in my laughter.

Mother's Day

We gather together to share the stories of our Mothers.  

My Mother always claimed she didn’t like women.  They were silly, fragile, manipulating, cry babies.  My Mother had none of those qualities. It was difficult growing up in her shadow, and it took years to understand just what it was she didn’t like about women.  You see I was doomed to eventually become a woman so what did it mean that she didn’t like them, categorically?  What was I to become if not the very thing she disliked?  What was she if not a woman?  This was not only confusing but also intimidating.  

Now I get it.  My Mother appreciated beauty from afar.  She just didn’t value it.  To be appreciated for your beauty was a positive thing but not enough for you to rest on.  It was to be a perk, an added benefit to life, nothing to count on. Worthless in the end.  

You might remember the qualities women were taught before the 60’s; to be coy, helpless, giggly, back biting, tearful, but quaffed, made-up dolls.  My Mother had a different view of what a woman should be.  

She had a few rules in the house.  No crying was a big one.  No one gets sick.  If you were bellyaching about a splinter, she’d pinch your arm and ask which one hurts more now?  If you didn’t want to finish your dinner, she’d say ‘Good, more for us.’  If you wanted to run away, she’d offer to pack your bags.  My Mothers’ reality was a very heavy burden and she didn’t have the time nor desire to sweat the small stuff.  One of her favorite sayings was “Who gives a rats ass?”  Other than that and ‘damn it,’ she didn’t curse.  Though the word ‘witch’ was used an awful lot.

“Life is hard“, she’d tell me.  “I can’t be easy on you.”  From my point of view she coddled my brothers and strongly encouraged me to toughen up.  

You’d think, knowing I was doomed to a hard life and having to face it as a woman she would have put me on the more traditional path of at least educating me.  But, no, my Mother valued inner strength and guts and charm and a sense of humor.  And you didn’t necessarily learn those by following anyone else’s path. She either didn’t think college was necessary for me or she just couldn’t afford it, I’ll never know, but it wasn’t an option.  Instead she was always in my ear whispering, chanting, ‘lead don’t follow.’  Those were her words, but she lived life, and taught me by example to ‘Lead, Follow or Get out of the way!’  She was in a hurry and had a heavy load to carry.

Now being a parent I realize how much freedom I really did have in life to explore, wander and find my way.  She didn’t always agree but she let me go and allowed me to deal with the consequences in my own way.  She allowed me to grow up being me.  

The older I get the more I realize I’m very much like her.  I’m more emotional and dependent than she ever was but I get that from my Father.  My Mom was all English.  Well there was that red haired Jewish money lender that is a distant female relative, from what I’ve been told,  but other than that little bit of spice my Mom was pretty cool blooded.  She had the wanderlust in her though.  I think our family has a female gene that resembles a wild red hair.  My Mom and I got a double dose.  Well, after some thought I’ve got a dose from all sides.  It’s amazing that I can function at all.  

My Father was all Latin and I get my passion and emotional range from him.  Mixed with my Mothers’ role modeling I am a fine mix of raw emotion right under my veneer of good cheer.  Sometimes I am all fire and others I am a stone.  I get that from her, you know.  My Mother had a way of looking across a room at you and she’d stop you in your tracks.  Unfortunately, she didn’t have that ability with my Father who was her main concern.  She did her best to keep him out of jail and encouraged him to keep working though he was a dreamer and always about to make a million on his next deal.  You can’t wait for that to happen so my mom just kept working while waiting for his ship to come in.  It never did and she worked till the day she was bed ridden.  

It was 30 years ago today, Mothers Day that we sat on our back deck in the sunshine enjoying a family day when she stood up and the bone in her right thigh finally broke.  In great pain, my father carried her to the car and took her home.  that was the last day she was on her feet.  Mothers Day 1984.  

She stayed in bed for six months till December 1 when we decided she could no longer handle the pain and admitted her to the hospital.  

As a rare double scar of heart ache, my father died on Mothers Day in 2003.  Mothers Day is a bitter sweet day for me.  As much as it is a day of celebration, for me it is a day of heartache, gratitude and raw emotion.  My mother would not approve of my crying so…shoulders back, chins up and a smile on my face, I go on.  

Macaroni Grill

About a month after Grace was born we were in Arizona visiting the kids.  We were waiting in line for a table at the Macaroni Grill in Avondale, a new little town west of Phoenix where our son and his wife Jennifer lived, about a 3 hour drive from our home in the desert in Southern California.  

We were all leaning against the wall on the ramp across from the deli case waiting for a table.  I stood between Ron and Daniel- Grace between us in her car seat on the floor, asleep.  Jen was next to Dan and we were just trying to stay out of the way while we waited.  It was loud and crowded, we were patient.

We’d been there for a little while when I heard the front door swish open and I noticed a couple coming in.  Without really looking directly at them I did notice something was not right,  the symmetry was off.  They went directly into the bar and set at the far end of the U shaped counter.  When they got settled and I heard the bartender take their order I turned completely around to look.  I was right, the man, about 40, had one arm that was short with a hand that wasn’t completely formed.  

I was still trying to process our new reality, still stuck in the stage of tears, heart break and trying to make some sense of it all.  I wanted to talk to this guy.  I wanted to ask him what, I didn’t know, I thought I’d slide by him and if I chickened out the restroom was near so I could just duck in there.

Instead I just walked directly up to him and with no prepared question or statement what came out of my mouth was a surprise to me as well as unexpected by he and his lady friend.  

I stood next to him, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to offend you in any way but we’re out to dinner with our kids and our first granddaughter who was born a month ago.  She has no hands and no forearms.  I am worried and I can’t stop crying.  Do you have something to tell me?

He looked at me kindly as did his companion, wife? coworker? first date?  I didn’t care I just needed to know what he obviously already had learned in life.

What he said to me was this.  " I have been around handicapped people all my life and the human spirit is incredible.  She will amaze you!"

What he said to me, I have since learned for myself to be true.