When I returned to St. Louis after failing in my first move to San Francisco, I was devastated. Fortunately, I was greeted by the most loving arms of one of the older girls from my college basketball team. I showed up on her doorstep and started crying as soon as I saw her. She looked and me and almost laughed with such love for me as she pulled me into her arms. The joy in her embrace was because she knew what I was feeling, she knew I was safe and loved with her, and she knew I would be okay.
That image is burned into my brain and has become my definition of real love. Almost a definition of God, if I were going to define one.
In my late 20s, as I explored more about my own personal childhood and family issues, I found myself operating out of a place of fear - more like a child would. I envied my friend who knew everything would be okay. So I found a way to believe in the future person I would become who would know all of that and could offer that comfort to myself. I started channeling 40 Year Old Monika, who was wise and loving and laughed warmly when I hurt, to help me through my fears.
It really helped me. It helped to understand that so much of the time when I felt scared it had little to do with the situation, but because it reminded a childhood me of similar feelings. It helped me to know that I could learn to look to me (even if it was a future me) for comfort, rather than asking others to participate in something they didn't really understand.
To some of you it might sound New Agey or a like psychobabble, but 40 Year Old Monika helped me. I've grown into her in so many ways, and I can usually recognize when I'm sabotaging something because of old patterns when I have the power to heal it myself. But as I get closer and closer to 40 Year Old Monika, I start to wonder what's next. How can someone so close to who I am be a guide? And if I still need so much guidance when I'm this close to being the person I naively thought knew it all, how can I envision what the next step looks like?
What's more challenging to me right now, though, is how do I balance the wisdom and confidence of 40 year old Monika with the fears that I still have because even though I've gotten so close I'm still not there? It was very clear when I was 28, and I was envisioning the wisdom of someone 12 years older than me against the fears of a 5 year old me. But now, I'm not sure 40 Year Old Monika is old enough. I'm trying to tell myself 40 Year Old Monika knows what's going on in my life right now and she's got it under control. But the fears she's going up against aren't from 5 year old me. They're from 35 year old me. How does that work?
40 Year Old Monika wants to say to someone, "do what you need, that's okay, I know better, and I trust this." But 35 year old me knows enough now to know that maybe I don't know better. How do I balance thinking I know that someone is acting out of fear and thus staying steady versus not letting go if they really are pushing me away? Sometimes even when people act out of fear, the damage is real.
And so...I find myself in a place where all I know I can trust is to be open and honest and put myself out there. Because that's what I know is true. And I put this out there to you lovely people in hopes that maybe someone else feels this, maybe this touches you, maybe you have some wisdom to offer back to me.
And I wait for my next version of 40 Year Old Monika to show herself (hopefully before I turn 40, dammit!)
7.31.2016
3.04.2016
repercussions of being a crazy cat lady's daughter: Part II
I started this story in a previous post, but it somehow feels more possible if I break it up a bit. Probably better for you, dear reader, as this is definitely an indulgent long one.
You can read Part I here.
Trigger Warning: This is sad and may make some people cry
When my mother got sick in October of 2014, I started taking care of all of those cats. My mom's partner was disabled, and the nurse who came to care for him couldn't care for animals. When I was in town, which I was much of the time for the months that she was in the hospital, then the rehabilitation home, I cared for them. When I had to return to SF to actually work, I paid for someone else to come take care of them.
After a few weeks, it became apparent that my mom wouldn't be well enough to return the house. I convinced her that if she did get well enough to leave the rehab facility, she would still need to be in a retirement apartment of some sort. In the few of those places that do allow pets, they only allow one. Mom chose to keep her small dog, and I promised I would take care of the cats. By mid-December, it was clear to us that my mother would probably need full-time care in the nursing home for remainder of her life, and I went home to clean out the house.
Mom's partner had just moved into the nursing home with her, and I ended up only having about a week to clean out a 2 bedroom home in which my family had lived for more than 35 years. By myself.
I had spent the last couple of months looking for homes for the cats to no available. I called every sanctuary in the region - as far as Arkansas and Oklahoma - and I begged pretty much everyone I knew with a farm. I had thought a supposed friend of my mom's would have at least let them live in her barn if I paid for the food, but at the last minute she told me all she would do is open the doors for them. I thought as a last resort I could take them to the local no-kill shelter my mom had supported for years, but I harshly found out they don't accept surrenders. After spending some time there with all the cats who really wanted to be loved and pet, I honestly wasn't sure that was a bad thing. My mom's cats really only loved her.
And now I need to step back for a moment. I had spent quite a bit of time in my mom's house over the previous two years. I had SAVED Hannah and bottle fed her myself, but she wouldn't come near me. Brett curled up on me and let me love her, but her niece Precious wanted nothing to do with me. And then there was Caleb. Caleb wanted to know me. He wanted to find out about me. But he'd never let anyone other than Mom or her partner pet him. Remember, this is the kitten my mom saved from the driveway and bottle fed because he wasn't weaned. I had spent hours sitting there talking to my mom, intentionally leaving a hand dangling down so Caleb would come up and sniff it. I was so proud the few times he actually let me touch the top of his head before he ran off. Once, Mom handed him to me in an attempt to show him I was okay. The skin on my arms and chest did not survive that encounter. Yet, I had this need for him to love me. I seriously debated taking him back to SF. If I hadn't adopted Gracie and Nolan before this all went down, I probably would have. I loved that elusive little guy.
All to say that I knew that these cats wouldn't be easily adoptable. Hannah and Brett were both 12 years old, and Precious was only a couple of years younger.
I called animal control, in hopes of guidance and in hopes of borrowing some traps to catch the cats that didn't want to be caught. The guy on the phone told me I'd be better off taking a 22 in and doing it myself. He told me what kind of poison I could buy to leave around the house. Looking back, he was probably right, but I knew I was losing my mom and I just couldn't do that. I called the Humane Society and they agreed to accept them for a small fee and a big dollop of judgment, but they clarified that they would most likely have to euthanize all but Caleb, who I told them was only a few years old.
So I waited. I slowly removed everything from the house. My dad's best friend came and hauled away a full truckload of junk, and I left dozens of giant trash bags for the weekly pickup. Once I got enough stuff out of the house that I didn't feel that cats could hide as well, I decided to try to catch them. Brett was easy, she just let me pick her up and put her in the laundry basket. The others were much more difficult.
After about an hour of trying to catch the cats, I finally got a hold of Caleb. Understandably, he was terrified. I held on tight as he ran by, and he leaned back and sank his teeth into my hand. I tried not to let go - I knew I had traumatized the poor guy - but it hurt so much and I was afraid he'd do it again. I let him go.
Another quick step back - some of you may know this, but in 2011 I was bit by a cat and came a lot closer to dying than I'm comfortable with repeating. I spent 4 days in the hospital hooked up to an IV while they tried 8 different antibiotics and had me sign consent forms to remove my finger to ease the infection. So you might say I'm a little more scared of cat bites that some people.
I cursed myself and decided to wait until the next day to try again. I figured I could get more of the stuff out of the house and trap them in a room and try again.
And then my hand swelled up like a balloon. It hurt like a mofo and I knew I was in trouble. So the next morning, instead of spending valuable time clearing out the house, I went to urgent care. I explained the situation to the doctor, who was amazing. First of all, he assured me that cat bites turning into major infections were super common, but that he wouldn't let this one get as bad as the other one. Then he told me I should have just taken a 22 to the cats. He told me given how swollen it was, I'd probably have to stay in the hospital for a night or two, but we had some time to try to ward it off. Then he gave me a giant shot in my butt, a bunch of antibiotics, and traced the line of the infection. My instructions were to not use my right hand at all, to keep it elevated, and to go to the ER and have them page him if the infection went more than an inch past the line he'd drawn.
During this time, I was also trying to spend as much time with my mom as possible. So of course she noticed the bandage on my hand and felt horrible when I told her what happened. She felt like it was all her fault and told me we could wait until she could go to the house to help me catch the cats.
But I knew that my mom was never going to the house again.
So I went back to the house. I realized I had a limited time before my hand was so swollen I couldnt use it, and I still had half a house to pack up. I decided I could hire someone to put traps out for the cats later if I had to, so I worked until the fever set in.
Before I got so sick I couldn't, I made the almost hour-long drive back to my friend's house where I was staying. The infection wasn't past the line, so after a long teary conversation with my friend about how I didn't have time to go to the hospital, I decided to fight through and just get some rest. I went to sleep terrified that I was going to wake up and have to go to the hospital. I fell asleep feeling like I've failed at everything
Thankfully, I woke up and the infection was down a bit. I spent the next day slowly packing up the house in between visits with Mom. The last day possible, I decided to try again with the cats.
I had a laundry basket with a lid, a box, a couple of blankets that smelled like Mom for them, tons of treats, and a bunch of duck tape. Again, Brett was easy. She was happy to curl up in a box and wait. I chased the remaining three cats into the bedroom with the least furniture left in it, I armed myself with work gloves, and I grabbed a big towel. I wish I could tell the story in the way that shows the humor in this moment. Maybe someday I'll be able to. If it was me catching them to take them to the vet, I could have you rolling in laughter. But I wasn't catching them to take them to the vet. And I can't make light of what it really was.
I spent 3 hours chasing cats in circles around a room and grabbing them with towels, forcing them into a box, and trying to hold them in there without hurting them. It was terrible.
The drive to the Humane Society took over an hour - it's far on the north side of Springfield. I cried the whole way. The woman I had spoken to about the cats saw my face and realized that I wasn't deserving of the judgment she'd given me on the phone. I filled out the paperwork for each cat. I paid the surrender fee. They told me they'd most likely have to euthanize all of them, but if they could socialize Caleb they would him up for adoption. They noticed the bite, and they told me they would definitely have to euthanize the cat who bit me. I told them Hannah did it because I knew she'd be euthanized anyway. I didn't want to hurt Caleb's chances.
I leaned down to say goodbye. Hannah and Precious were in one box and had no desire to be touched, so I just told them I was sorry through the cracks.
Brett and Caleb were in the laundry basket. Brett kept reaching up against it to be rubbed me. I hesitantly reached in to hold her, and Caleb didn't seem to mind, so I pulled her to me for awhile. I talked to both Brett and Caleb while I was doing this and I told Caleb I needed him to be friendly. I told him if he was friendly he might get adopted. I PRAYED - and I don't pray - for him to be friendly with them. All of a sudden he came forward and pushed his head against my hand. He was obviously scared, but he let me pet him. For the first time ever, Caleb let me pet him. It was a beautiful goodbye.
I can only hope he did the same with the technician who took them. I like to think that being in the basket with Brett led him to follow her cues. I like to think they saw how beautiful he was and were patient with him.
One of the conditions of surrender to most shelters is that you give up the right to know what happens to the animal. You legally sign away your right to know if they find a home or if they are killed. I know what happened to the other three. I know I saved a kitten in 2003 who I ended up loving and naming Hannah, and then surrendering to be euthanized in 2015. I know I took the cats my mom viewed as the gifts of her relationship with her best friend to be euthanized. But I hope, I HOPE, that I took Caleb to be adopted. I don't ever get to know.
And this is what I dream about. I dream about saying goodbye to animals who never asked for this.
And in awful twist of meanness, I hope that Brett went out getting pet and loved, and that Caleb, if they did euthanize them, bit the hell out of them first.
You can read Part I here.
Part II: The Surrender
(or, how to feel like the most awful person in the world)
Trigger Warning: This is sad and may make some people cry
When my mother got sick in October of 2014, I started taking care of all of those cats. My mom's partner was disabled, and the nurse who came to care for him couldn't care for animals. When I was in town, which I was much of the time for the months that she was in the hospital, then the rehabilitation home, I cared for them. When I had to return to SF to actually work, I paid for someone else to come take care of them.
After a few weeks, it became apparent that my mom wouldn't be well enough to return the house. I convinced her that if she did get well enough to leave the rehab facility, she would still need to be in a retirement apartment of some sort. In the few of those places that do allow pets, they only allow one. Mom chose to keep her small dog, and I promised I would take care of the cats. By mid-December, it was clear to us that my mother would probably need full-time care in the nursing home for remainder of her life, and I went home to clean out the house.
Mom's partner had just moved into the nursing home with her, and I ended up only having about a week to clean out a 2 bedroom home in which my family had lived for more than 35 years. By myself.
I had spent the last couple of months looking for homes for the cats to no available. I called every sanctuary in the region - as far as Arkansas and Oklahoma - and I begged pretty much everyone I knew with a farm. I had thought a supposed friend of my mom's would have at least let them live in her barn if I paid for the food, but at the last minute she told me all she would do is open the doors for them. I thought as a last resort I could take them to the local no-kill shelter my mom had supported for years, but I harshly found out they don't accept surrenders. After spending some time there with all the cats who really wanted to be loved and pet, I honestly wasn't sure that was a bad thing. My mom's cats really only loved her.
And now I need to step back for a moment. I had spent quite a bit of time in my mom's house over the previous two years. I had SAVED Hannah and bottle fed her myself, but she wouldn't come near me. Brett curled up on me and let me love her, but her niece Precious wanted nothing to do with me. And then there was Caleb. Caleb wanted to know me. He wanted to find out about me. But he'd never let anyone other than Mom or her partner pet him. Remember, this is the kitten my mom saved from the driveway and bottle fed because he wasn't weaned. I had spent hours sitting there talking to my mom, intentionally leaving a hand dangling down so Caleb would come up and sniff it. I was so proud the few times he actually let me touch the top of his head before he ran off. Once, Mom handed him to me in an attempt to show him I was okay. The skin on my arms and chest did not survive that encounter. Yet, I had this need for him to love me. I seriously debated taking him back to SF. If I hadn't adopted Gracie and Nolan before this all went down, I probably would have. I loved that elusive little guy.
All to say that I knew that these cats wouldn't be easily adoptable. Hannah and Brett were both 12 years old, and Precious was only a couple of years younger.
I called animal control, in hopes of guidance and in hopes of borrowing some traps to catch the cats that didn't want to be caught. The guy on the phone told me I'd be better off taking a 22 in and doing it myself. He told me what kind of poison I could buy to leave around the house. Looking back, he was probably right, but I knew I was losing my mom and I just couldn't do that. I called the Humane Society and they agreed to accept them for a small fee and a big dollop of judgment, but they clarified that they would most likely have to euthanize all but Caleb, who I told them was only a few years old.
So I waited. I slowly removed everything from the house. My dad's best friend came and hauled away a full truckload of junk, and I left dozens of giant trash bags for the weekly pickup. Once I got enough stuff out of the house that I didn't feel that cats could hide as well, I decided to try to catch them. Brett was easy, she just let me pick her up and put her in the laundry basket. The others were much more difficult.
After about an hour of trying to catch the cats, I finally got a hold of Caleb. Understandably, he was terrified. I held on tight as he ran by, and he leaned back and sank his teeth into my hand. I tried not to let go - I knew I had traumatized the poor guy - but it hurt so much and I was afraid he'd do it again. I let him go.
Another quick step back - some of you may know this, but in 2011 I was bit by a cat and came a lot closer to dying than I'm comfortable with repeating. I spent 4 days in the hospital hooked up to an IV while they tried 8 different antibiotics and had me sign consent forms to remove my finger to ease the infection. So you might say I'm a little more scared of cat bites that some people.
I cursed myself and decided to wait until the next day to try again. I figured I could get more of the stuff out of the house and trap them in a room and try again.
And then my hand swelled up like a balloon. It hurt like a mofo and I knew I was in trouble. So the next morning, instead of spending valuable time clearing out the house, I went to urgent care. I explained the situation to the doctor, who was amazing. First of all, he assured me that cat bites turning into major infections were super common, but that he wouldn't let this one get as bad as the other one. Then he told me I should have just taken a 22 to the cats. He told me given how swollen it was, I'd probably have to stay in the hospital for a night or two, but we had some time to try to ward it off. Then he gave me a giant shot in my butt, a bunch of antibiotics, and traced the line of the infection. My instructions were to not use my right hand at all, to keep it elevated, and to go to the ER and have them page him if the infection went more than an inch past the line he'd drawn.
During this time, I was also trying to spend as much time with my mom as possible. So of course she noticed the bandage on my hand and felt horrible when I told her what happened. She felt like it was all her fault and told me we could wait until she could go to the house to help me catch the cats.
But I knew that my mom was never going to the house again.
So I went back to the house. I realized I had a limited time before my hand was so swollen I couldnt use it, and I still had half a house to pack up. I decided I could hire someone to put traps out for the cats later if I had to, so I worked until the fever set in.
Before I got so sick I couldn't, I made the almost hour-long drive back to my friend's house where I was staying. The infection wasn't past the line, so after a long teary conversation with my friend about how I didn't have time to go to the hospital, I decided to fight through and just get some rest. I went to sleep terrified that I was going to wake up and have to go to the hospital. I fell asleep feeling like I've failed at everything
Thankfully, I woke up and the infection was down a bit. I spent the next day slowly packing up the house in between visits with Mom. The last day possible, I decided to try again with the cats.
I had a laundry basket with a lid, a box, a couple of blankets that smelled like Mom for them, tons of treats, and a bunch of duck tape. Again, Brett was easy. She was happy to curl up in a box and wait. I chased the remaining three cats into the bedroom with the least furniture left in it, I armed myself with work gloves, and I grabbed a big towel. I wish I could tell the story in the way that shows the humor in this moment. Maybe someday I'll be able to. If it was me catching them to take them to the vet, I could have you rolling in laughter. But I wasn't catching them to take them to the vet. And I can't make light of what it really was.
I spent 3 hours chasing cats in circles around a room and grabbing them with towels, forcing them into a box, and trying to hold them in there without hurting them. It was terrible.
The drive to the Humane Society took over an hour - it's far on the north side of Springfield. I cried the whole way. The woman I had spoken to about the cats saw my face and realized that I wasn't deserving of the judgment she'd given me on the phone. I filled out the paperwork for each cat. I paid the surrender fee. They told me they'd most likely have to euthanize all of them, but if they could socialize Caleb they would him up for adoption. They noticed the bite, and they told me they would definitely have to euthanize the cat who bit me. I told them Hannah did it because I knew she'd be euthanized anyway. I didn't want to hurt Caleb's chances.
I leaned down to say goodbye. Hannah and Precious were in one box and had no desire to be touched, so I just told them I was sorry through the cracks.
Brett and Caleb were in the laundry basket. Brett kept reaching up against it to be rubbed me. I hesitantly reached in to hold her, and Caleb didn't seem to mind, so I pulled her to me for awhile. I talked to both Brett and Caleb while I was doing this and I told Caleb I needed him to be friendly. I told him if he was friendly he might get adopted. I PRAYED - and I don't pray - for him to be friendly with them. All of a sudden he came forward and pushed his head against my hand. He was obviously scared, but he let me pet him. For the first time ever, Caleb let me pet him. It was a beautiful goodbye.
I can only hope he did the same with the technician who took them. I like to think that being in the basket with Brett led him to follow her cues. I like to think they saw how beautiful he was and were patient with him.
One of the conditions of surrender to most shelters is that you give up the right to know what happens to the animal. You legally sign away your right to know if they find a home or if they are killed. I know what happened to the other three. I know I saved a kitten in 2003 who I ended up loving and naming Hannah, and then surrendering to be euthanized in 2015. I know I took the cats my mom viewed as the gifts of her relationship with her best friend to be euthanized. But I hope, I HOPE, that I took Caleb to be adopted. I don't ever get to know.
And this is what I dream about. I dream about saying goodbye to animals who never asked for this.
And in awful twist of meanness, I hope that Brett went out getting pet and loved, and that Caleb, if they did euthanize them, bit the hell out of them first.
repercussions of being a crazy cat lady's daughter: Part I
I've been trying to write this for a long time. Every time I start, I stop and push it back. Tonight I decided I needed to get it out. Maybe if I put it here the nightmares will stop. Or maybe, at a minimum, someone out there will at least have a better understanding of why I have nightmares every single night.
The dreams aren't always about cats, but more often than not the worst ones are. It's always been that way. This won't be short.
Growing up, we lived on about an acre in a family-oriented neighborhood close to the middle of a small town. We always had cats, and more often than not they were indoor-outdoor cats. When I was born there were two: Babsy and Boots. Babsy was my brother's big blue tabby cat. I used to draw pictures of her with my blue and purple crayons.
Boots was an asshole siamese that didn't love having a toddler in the house who wanted to bug her all the time, but she was named after one of my favorite people on earth, so I loved her anyway. My first real memory of losing a pet was when the neighbor stopped by to tell my mom that she had hit and killed Boots. I don't remember being that sad.
But then there was Thomasina. Thomasina was a boy, but I refused to call him Thomas because I was in love with the movie. A neighbor saw him try to jump across the main road and hit the side of a delivery truck. I told Mom I wanted to see him one last time. I shouldn't have looked. His face was completely flat, and it still haunts me.
Then my dad let Timothy out on my 8th birthday. Timothy had never been outside, and he never came back. I'm still not sure I've forgiven Dad for that one, although I'm pretty sure Timothy went to live at a neighbors house who just fell in love with him and denied that he was stray when we asked.
That's probably when the first nightmares started. We had several other cats, and I started waking up screaming telling Mom that someone had returned Timothy's body and it was in the mailbox. I started crying in the middle of the night thinking that the other cats were going to disappear.
As a teenager, L.D., one of my most beloved cats, disappeared. Mom thought she saw his white fur toward the edge of the property, and thought the neighbor's dogs got him. She only admitted that later, though. For months she told me someone stole him because he was so beautiful. I was devastated, and honestly, so was she. I had dreams about him all through my freshman year of college.
We had other cats, Katie, Pepper, Bart, Gatsby - all who lived long happy lives in our home.
After college I briefly moved home, and a couple of pretty important things happened the few months I lived with my mom. Mom's best friend, Pat, had found kittens in her yard - beautiful kittens who looked like furry monkeys with giant eyes - and needed to find homes for some of them. Mom adopted two. I named them Brett (she was dignified and elusive, like her namesake from The Sun Also Rises) and Mallory (she would climb up to the highest point she could get and strand herself, never coming down unless we rescued her).
Shortly after we brought these guys into our house, I walked into work at Silver Dollar City and found that the sawmill guys were about to shoot some kittens. They had found a pack of feral kittens whose mother had "abandoned" them (or maybe she was scared of the big loud men with guns and ran away?) The kittens were under a shed, and some of them had already died or been killed. My arms were just long enough that I could get to them (and they were MAYBE 4 weeks old - too small to hurt me with their bites). I pulled out three tiny little beautiful kittens and kept them in a box all day. I ended up finding a home for one of them during the course of the day, and took the other two home to place them later. Of course, we ended up keeping both Talulah and Hannah.
I have great memories of hanging out with my mom and Pat, the four kittens, and Gatsby, the remaining grown cat. I moved out of the house a couple of months later. Talulah disappeared one night - she'd never been outside and she never came back. Mallory got out before Mom spayed her and ended up having a litter of kittens that all died except one. My mom's partner named it Precious - it's important to be clear that I would never do that to an animal - and they kept it.
Mom and Pat were both recent breast cancer survivors, and a couple of years later Pat got really sick. She died from complications of treatment. I don't think my mom ever recovered.
Right after that Mallory died, and something changed for my Mom.
She had always taken care of strays when she felt it was needed, but she started caring for a few of them to the extent that twice a day she was leaving out a bowl of dry food and a bowl of wet food, and they all started letting her pet them. One day she found that one of the strays had kittens - 3 of them were in the driveway. A dog had gotten to them and only one was still alive. Mom saved it, bottle fed it, brought it back to life. Like she had with so many other things while I was growing up. That cat became Caleb. He was one of the most beautiful cats I'd seen, with crazy big curious eyes.
Mom found it entertaining that she'd get the occasional opossum or skunk feeding at her house. She ended up feeding a litter of 5 identical cats, only two of which would let her get close. There was a gross-looking orange and white cat outside, and another cat that lived outside that my mom named Rags - ugly little fucker. There were a couple others who came over occasionally, but those were the ones I knew.
The last couple years, Mom had 4 indoor cats and 7 outdoor cats that she had fixed and vaccinated and felt responsible to feed. For years I'd been begging my mom to move into an apartment that would be easier for her. Her number one reason for not moving was that she wouldn't be able to choose which cat she could take. She felt like her moving into a home would be her choosing to kill all of those cats.
While I didn't agree, and while I promised I would take care of them - I had just lost my beloved cat back in SF, my mom had lost her best friend and so many things in her life, and there was no way I was about to force her to go through that.
Until she got sick.
But that story is in Part II.
The dreams aren't always about cats, but more often than not the worst ones are. It's always been that way. This won't be short.
Part I: The History
(or, the part where you think I'm just going to talk a lot about cats)
Growing up, we lived on about an acre in a family-oriented neighborhood close to the middle of a small town. We always had cats, and more often than not they were indoor-outdoor cats. When I was born there were two: Babsy and Boots. Babsy was my brother's big blue tabby cat. I used to draw pictures of her with my blue and purple crayons.
Boots was an asshole siamese that didn't love having a toddler in the house who wanted to bug her all the time, but she was named after one of my favorite people on earth, so I loved her anyway. My first real memory of losing a pet was when the neighbor stopped by to tell my mom that she had hit and killed Boots. I don't remember being that sad.
But then there was Thomasina. Thomasina was a boy, but I refused to call him Thomas because I was in love with the movie. A neighbor saw him try to jump across the main road and hit the side of a delivery truck. I told Mom I wanted to see him one last time. I shouldn't have looked. His face was completely flat, and it still haunts me.
Then my dad let Timothy out on my 8th birthday. Timothy had never been outside, and he never came back. I'm still not sure I've forgiven Dad for that one, although I'm pretty sure Timothy went to live at a neighbors house who just fell in love with him and denied that he was stray when we asked.
That's probably when the first nightmares started. We had several other cats, and I started waking up screaming telling Mom that someone had returned Timothy's body and it was in the mailbox. I started crying in the middle of the night thinking that the other cats were going to disappear.
As a teenager, L.D., one of my most beloved cats, disappeared. Mom thought she saw his white fur toward the edge of the property, and thought the neighbor's dogs got him. She only admitted that later, though. For months she told me someone stole him because he was so beautiful. I was devastated, and honestly, so was she. I had dreams about him all through my freshman year of college.
We had other cats, Katie, Pepper, Bart, Gatsby - all who lived long happy lives in our home.
After college I briefly moved home, and a couple of pretty important things happened the few months I lived with my mom. Mom's best friend, Pat, had found kittens in her yard - beautiful kittens who looked like furry monkeys with giant eyes - and needed to find homes for some of them. Mom adopted two. I named them Brett (she was dignified and elusive, like her namesake from The Sun Also Rises) and Mallory (she would climb up to the highest point she could get and strand herself, never coming down unless we rescued her).
Shortly after we brought these guys into our house, I walked into work at Silver Dollar City and found that the sawmill guys were about to shoot some kittens. They had found a pack of feral kittens whose mother had "abandoned" them (or maybe she was scared of the big loud men with guns and ran away?) The kittens were under a shed, and some of them had already died or been killed. My arms were just long enough that I could get to them (and they were MAYBE 4 weeks old - too small to hurt me with their bites). I pulled out three tiny little beautiful kittens and kept them in a box all day. I ended up finding a home for one of them during the course of the day, and took the other two home to place them later. Of course, we ended up keeping both Talulah and Hannah.
I have great memories of hanging out with my mom and Pat, the four kittens, and Gatsby, the remaining grown cat. I moved out of the house a couple of months later. Talulah disappeared one night - she'd never been outside and she never came back. Mallory got out before Mom spayed her and ended up having a litter of kittens that all died except one. My mom's partner named it Precious - it's important to be clear that I would never do that to an animal - and they kept it.
Mom and Pat were both recent breast cancer survivors, and a couple of years later Pat got really sick. She died from complications of treatment. I don't think my mom ever recovered.
Right after that Mallory died, and something changed for my Mom.
She had always taken care of strays when she felt it was needed, but she started caring for a few of them to the extent that twice a day she was leaving out a bowl of dry food and a bowl of wet food, and they all started letting her pet them. One day she found that one of the strays had kittens - 3 of them were in the driveway. A dog had gotten to them and only one was still alive. Mom saved it, bottle fed it, brought it back to life. Like she had with so many other things while I was growing up. That cat became Caleb. He was one of the most beautiful cats I'd seen, with crazy big curious eyes.
Mom found it entertaining that she'd get the occasional opossum or skunk feeding at her house. She ended up feeding a litter of 5 identical cats, only two of which would let her get close. There was a gross-looking orange and white cat outside, and another cat that lived outside that my mom named Rags - ugly little fucker. There were a couple others who came over occasionally, but those were the ones I knew.
The last couple years, Mom had 4 indoor cats and 7 outdoor cats that she had fixed and vaccinated and felt responsible to feed. For years I'd been begging my mom to move into an apartment that would be easier for her. Her number one reason for not moving was that she wouldn't be able to choose which cat she could take. She felt like her moving into a home would be her choosing to kill all of those cats.
While I didn't agree, and while I promised I would take care of them - I had just lost my beloved cat back in SF, my mom had lost her best friend and so many things in her life, and there was no way I was about to force her to go through that.
Until she got sick.
But that story is in Part II.
2.19.2016
battling the waves
I wanted to share a post about grief from reddit because I think it's probably the best description I've ever heard.
It's 2 days after my mom's birthday, 2 days before the anniversary of her funeral, and I - for the first time - attempted to tell my best friends how I'm really feeling.
I used this post to try to describe it. I wanted to share that with you, dear Reader.
This is the viral response to a question posted on reddit:
This post terrifies me. It is so overwhelming that, a year later, I can still lose the ability to breathe while walking down the street. I've been told sometimes grieving only really starts at the one year mark. What I know is that it NEVER stops. From everything I hear, it doesn't actually even get easier. You just learn to navigate it. I think I'm just starting to do that. Or not. But I'm at least finally starting to try.
I read through the comments to this post, and I found one that I couldn't help but share.
I added this one because I know I'm throwing a lot of sadness out there right now, but I want to acknowledge that I know how beautiful this all is. Life sucks, but it's still fucking beautiful.
It's 2 days after my mom's birthday, 2 days before the anniversary of her funeral, and I - for the first time - attempted to tell my best friends how I'm really feeling.
I used this post to try to describe it. I wanted to share that with you, dear Reader.
This is the viral response to a question posted on reddit:
Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
This post terrifies me. It is so overwhelming that, a year later, I can still lose the ability to breathe while walking down the street. I've been told sometimes grieving only really starts at the one year mark. What I know is that it NEVER stops. From everything I hear, it doesn't actually even get easier. You just learn to navigate it. I think I'm just starting to do that. Or not. But I'm at least finally starting to try.
I read through the comments to this post, and I found one that I couldn't help but share.
My dad died 2 years ago and it still hurts. But the thing is, he knew he was dying (throat cancer). He deliberately went off his meds about three days before the end so he could be clear and lucid. We had that talk that people always say they never got. I got to tell him how much I loved him, and he got to tell me (and everyone else in the family) the same. It was the most beautiful experience. Two days later, I had my arm around my mother, as she held his hand. My wife held his other hand. He took his last breath. I am amazed at how beautiful death can be. As much as I wished he didn't need to die, his death was the most beautiful thing I've witnessed in my whole life (46 yrs). Goddam I love being a human being. Even grief is beautiful.
I added this one because I know I'm throwing a lot of sadness out there right now, but I want to acknowledge that I know how beautiful this all is. Life sucks, but it's still fucking beautiful.
2.11.2016
how Gracie got her name
In the letters between my mom and dad when she still lived in Germany, my mom demonstrates a strong grasp of the English language, but you can tell that she learned more formal English that she uses with my father.
I happen to love how she used the word crazy, and I love even more that she spelled it "grasy". She used it quite often, and I read these letters right before I got the kittens.
I couldn't think of a better way to honor this little smiley bit than the beautiful cat Gracie has grown into. Mom would have loved her!
I happen to love how she used the word crazy, and I love even more that she spelled it "grasy". She used it quite often, and I read these letters right before I got the kittens.
I couldn't think of a better way to honor this little smiley bit than the beautiful cat Gracie has grown into. Mom would have loved her!
Schlafzimmergangster
Sometimes I'm lucky enough to get a rare glimpse into the woman mom my was when she was very young.
My mom met my father when she was a nurse in Wiesbaden and he was stationed in the Air Force in Erbenheim. Erbenheim was my mom's home town, and was about an hour train ride from Wiesbaden. They had one date, declared their love for each other, then wrote letters back and forth until they decided to marry.
This is an excerpt from one of those letters.
I can't tell from the letters what happened on their previous date that she references at the top. And it breaks my heart that I can't ask her.
But I will always chuckle when I see that my mom called my dad her "bedroom gangster".
My mom met my father when she was a nurse in Wiesbaden and he was stationed in the Air Force in Erbenheim. Erbenheim was my mom's home town, and was about an hour train ride from Wiesbaden. They had one date, declared their love for each other, then wrote letters back and forth until they decided to marry.
This is an excerpt from one of those letters.
I can't tell from the letters what happened on their previous date that she references at the top. And it breaks my heart that I can't ask her.
But I will always chuckle when I see that my mom called my dad her "bedroom gangster".
the things you miss
My mom was known for some pretty fantastic tidbits of advice.
She was a wise woman in so many ways, and she was smarter than most people thought (funny how a thick German accent in southern Missouri will make people think you're dumb), but my mom was not the best mentor when it came to dating.
Mama was eager to have me married off and bearing her grandchildren. She never wanted me to be unhappy, and she never nagged, but every once in awhile her agenda came out in terrible, and terribly funny ways.
When I was frustrated that a serious boyfriend was still protecting his ex, my mom's advice was, "Why don't you just get pregnant so he'll marry you?"
Good job, Mom.
And when I was missing that boyfriend months after we'd broken up, rather than consoling me, Mom said, "You should just go over to his house now and propose."
Even better.
That was my mom. She wanted to see me be a mom, and she wanted to know those kids. Badly enough that in later years she thought the quality of the man wasn't nearly as important as the grandchild he might give her.
She wasn't serious - not completely. But she didn't filter herself. (I mean - we all knew I had to get that from somewhere.)
Fast forward to a few weeks ago. That same ex was up at the ski house with his new girlfriend while I was there. I played it cool and was very nice to both of them, but when I went to bed I lost my shit. I found myself crying and reading through old emails, and I stumbled across the ones where I shared my mom's "wisdom" with my sister.
And then I really lost it.
In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to call my mom and hear whatever crazy piece of guidance she had to offer. I wanted to hear tell me to make a scene, or go dump cold water on his head, or profess my (non-existent) love to him. I'm sure whatever I can think of that she would say wouldn't compare to the amazing gem she would have actually given me.
And THAT is one of the things I miss the most.
She was a wise woman in so many ways, and she was smarter than most people thought (funny how a thick German accent in southern Missouri will make people think you're dumb), but my mom was not the best mentor when it came to dating.
Mama was eager to have me married off and bearing her grandchildren. She never wanted me to be unhappy, and she never nagged, but every once in awhile her agenda came out in terrible, and terribly funny ways.
When I was frustrated that a serious boyfriend was still protecting his ex, my mom's advice was, "Why don't you just get pregnant so he'll marry you?"
Good job, Mom.
And when I was missing that boyfriend months after we'd broken up, rather than consoling me, Mom said, "You should just go over to his house now and propose."
Even better.
That was my mom. She wanted to see me be a mom, and she wanted to know those kids. Badly enough that in later years she thought the quality of the man wasn't nearly as important as the grandchild he might give her.
She wasn't serious - not completely. But she didn't filter herself. (I mean - we all knew I had to get that from somewhere.)
Fast forward to a few weeks ago. That same ex was up at the ski house with his new girlfriend while I was there. I played it cool and was very nice to both of them, but when I went to bed I lost my shit. I found myself crying and reading through old emails, and I stumbled across the ones where I shared my mom's "wisdom" with my sister.
And then I really lost it.
In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to call my mom and hear whatever crazy piece of guidance she had to offer. I wanted to hear tell me to make a scene, or go dump cold water on his head, or profess my (non-existent) love to him. I'm sure whatever I can think of that she would say wouldn't compare to the amazing gem she would have actually given me.
And THAT is one of the things I miss the most.
a thousand goodbyes
A year ago today I spoke to my mother for the last time.
I'm not sure she could hear me, and I'm not sure she could understand me if she did. She sounded like a very drunk person on the phone - someone on the verge of passing out, but trying to talk to you. The encephalopathy in her brain had taken over, and I knew it was only a matter of time before her body shut down, as well.
I remember what I told her. I told her I loved her over and over, and I told her it was okay to let go. I told her I would be okay, that she didn't need to worry about her children - that we would all be okay. I told her it was okay.
I lied.
More on that later.
This had happened three times in the preceding 4 months. The first time, we thought she had a stroke. We were thankful to find out that wasn't the case, but the truth wasn't much better. Her congestive heart failure, accelerated by an infection that sent her into septic shock and almost killed her in October, was slowly depriving her body of oxygen. The other times it happened, she was rushed to the hospital and placed on BiPAP, and the encephalopathy quicky resolved.
By January, however, my mom had had enough. She called me to tell me that they wanted to move her to a specialized facility where she would remain on a ventilator - her biggest fear and the one thing she consistently told me she didn't want to do. She told me that she didn't want that - that she wanted to go home. We agreed that she would return to the nursing home she had just moved into to spend her final days with her husband. I flew home to move her and spend the remaining time with her.
The doctors told me it could be a few hours or a few days, but not likely more than a week or two. I set her up with hospice and helped her with all the things she wanted to do before she died. She wanted a bowl of these terrible candies I couldn't stand, a domino's pizza, and all the diet coke she could drink. She talked to her siblings in Germany. She asked me to bring her the paper she liked so she could write letters to people.
She never did write those letters.
Mom immediately got better after arriving back at the nursing home. Her oxygen levels maintained without the ventilator, and she felt good enough to get out of bed and take her wheelchair to the dining room to show off her daughter to her new friends. We watched tv together and talked about plans. She talked about getting healthy enough to walk again and I asked her if she wanted me to get a red hat to join the home's red hat ladies club. She definitely didn't.
I had heard from enough people that when someone is dying, they frequently get better right before they pass. That happened with my father, and I thought it was happening now. So I extended my trip home. I decided I would stay until she died.
But she didn't die. She kept getting better. She had energy. She made jokes. She yelled at me for all the things I threw out when I cleaned out her house. She nagged me to marry the boy I was seeing who had the German last name. She let me fix her hair. We even had a photo session where she learned (kinda) where to look on the phone for a selfie!
She was happy.
Almost three weeks after she decided she didn't want anymore treatment, we also decided I should return to San Francisco. She was doing fine. The doctors said it might be months before something else happened. I had already taken 8 weeks of unpaid time off at a job I started 3 weeks before Mom got sick. I was paying for so many of the bills that me losing that income was more of a factor than I would have liked. I was also scared that maybe Mom was just hanging on for me. I wanted her to hang on for me, but I didn't want her to fight through something if it was really her time to go. I struggled with the decision for a while before I finally booked a return flight.
We talked about death. We talked about how this might be the last time we saw each other. We talked about what she wanted. I knew that I might never see her again - that the next call might be the last call. But I didn't really KNOW it. I made plans to come back and see her in March - a mere 5 weeks away.
As I left her room after telling her goodbye and hugging her about a thousand times, I heard her call my name. I will forever remember her voice in that moment.
I turned back, "yes, Mama?"
She looked at me with skepticism, "If you want to get me a red hat, make it a really funky one."
That was my Mama.
I promised, we laughed, and I went back and did the hugging goodbye ritual another few times before I finally left.
I called her as soon as we landed, and we talked the whole way home. We spoke every day for the next 11 days. I could tell she was getting a little more tired, but she was doing okay. And then she wasn't.
I noticed on the 9th that she seemed a little more tired than normal and she wasn't responding fully. On the 10th I could tell the encephalopathy was taking over her brain again.
On the 11th I talked to her for the last time.
I tried to call her on the 12th, but her phone was busy. I called my sister instead. As I was telling my sister that I was ready because I didn't want Mom to hurt anymore, as I was telling my sister that I wanted this to be over, as I was fooling myself into thinking that it could ever really be over, I was telling my sister that I had already said goodbye, and that I could only say goodbye so many times - I got a call from my brother. Mom had just passed as her husband held her phone to her ear with my brother on the other end of the line.
Mom died knowing how much we all loved her. She died knowing that we all had good lives and people who loved us. She died having taken control of the decision and having chosen not to suffer more than she already had.
But she also died with me having just lied to her.
I told her I would be okay.
I'm not okay.
I honestly don't know if I'll ever be okay again. Or maybe I'll just find a new definition of "okay".
It's been a year since I last told her I loved her. I wish I could say it again and again and again. It's been a year since I told her goodbye. It's been a year since I believed I had said goodbye more times than I could.
Today, a year later, I wish I could say goodbye to my mama again. I wish I could say it every day and never have it be the last one. I wish for a thousand more goodbyes.
I'm not sure she could hear me, and I'm not sure she could understand me if she did. She sounded like a very drunk person on the phone - someone on the verge of passing out, but trying to talk to you. The encephalopathy in her brain had taken over, and I knew it was only a matter of time before her body shut down, as well.
I remember what I told her. I told her I loved her over and over, and I told her it was okay to let go. I told her I would be okay, that she didn't need to worry about her children - that we would all be okay. I told her it was okay.
I lied.
More on that later.
This had happened three times in the preceding 4 months. The first time, we thought she had a stroke. We were thankful to find out that wasn't the case, but the truth wasn't much better. Her congestive heart failure, accelerated by an infection that sent her into septic shock and almost killed her in October, was slowly depriving her body of oxygen. The other times it happened, she was rushed to the hospital and placed on BiPAP, and the encephalopathy quicky resolved.
By January, however, my mom had had enough. She called me to tell me that they wanted to move her to a specialized facility where she would remain on a ventilator - her biggest fear and the one thing she consistently told me she didn't want to do. She told me that she didn't want that - that she wanted to go home. We agreed that she would return to the nursing home she had just moved into to spend her final days with her husband. I flew home to move her and spend the remaining time with her.
The doctors told me it could be a few hours or a few days, but not likely more than a week or two. I set her up with hospice and helped her with all the things she wanted to do before she died. She wanted a bowl of these terrible candies I couldn't stand, a domino's pizza, and all the diet coke she could drink. She talked to her siblings in Germany. She asked me to bring her the paper she liked so she could write letters to people.
She never did write those letters.
Mom immediately got better after arriving back at the nursing home. Her oxygen levels maintained without the ventilator, and she felt good enough to get out of bed and take her wheelchair to the dining room to show off her daughter to her new friends. We watched tv together and talked about plans. She talked about getting healthy enough to walk again and I asked her if she wanted me to get a red hat to join the home's red hat ladies club. She definitely didn't.
I had heard from enough people that when someone is dying, they frequently get better right before they pass. That happened with my father, and I thought it was happening now. So I extended my trip home. I decided I would stay until she died.
But she didn't die. She kept getting better. She had energy. She made jokes. She yelled at me for all the things I threw out when I cleaned out her house. She nagged me to marry the boy I was seeing who had the German last name. She let me fix her hair. We even had a photo session where she learned (kinda) where to look on the phone for a selfie!
She was happy.
Almost three weeks after she decided she didn't want anymore treatment, we also decided I should return to San Francisco. She was doing fine. The doctors said it might be months before something else happened. I had already taken 8 weeks of unpaid time off at a job I started 3 weeks before Mom got sick. I was paying for so many of the bills that me losing that income was more of a factor than I would have liked. I was also scared that maybe Mom was just hanging on for me. I wanted her to hang on for me, but I didn't want her to fight through something if it was really her time to go. I struggled with the decision for a while before I finally booked a return flight.
We talked about death. We talked about how this might be the last time we saw each other. We talked about what she wanted. I knew that I might never see her again - that the next call might be the last call. But I didn't really KNOW it. I made plans to come back and see her in March - a mere 5 weeks away.
As I left her room after telling her goodbye and hugging her about a thousand times, I heard her call my name. I will forever remember her voice in that moment.
I turned back, "yes, Mama?"
She looked at me with skepticism, "If you want to get me a red hat, make it a really funky one."
That was my Mama.
I promised, we laughed, and I went back and did the hugging goodbye ritual another few times before I finally left.
I called her as soon as we landed, and we talked the whole way home. We spoke every day for the next 11 days. I could tell she was getting a little more tired, but she was doing okay. And then she wasn't.
I noticed on the 9th that she seemed a little more tired than normal and she wasn't responding fully. On the 10th I could tell the encephalopathy was taking over her brain again.
On the 11th I talked to her for the last time.
I tried to call her on the 12th, but her phone was busy. I called my sister instead. As I was telling my sister that I was ready because I didn't want Mom to hurt anymore, as I was telling my sister that I wanted this to be over, as I was fooling myself into thinking that it could ever really be over, I was telling my sister that I had already said goodbye, and that I could only say goodbye so many times - I got a call from my brother. Mom had just passed as her husband held her phone to her ear with my brother on the other end of the line.
Mom died knowing how much we all loved her. She died knowing that we all had good lives and people who loved us. She died having taken control of the decision and having chosen not to suffer more than she already had.
But she also died with me having just lied to her.
I told her I would be okay.
I'm not okay.
I honestly don't know if I'll ever be okay again. Or maybe I'll just find a new definition of "okay".
It's been a year since I last told her I loved her. I wish I could say it again and again and again. It's been a year since I told her goodbye. It's been a year since I believed I had said goodbye more times than I could.
Today, a year later, I wish I could say goodbye to my mama again. I wish I could say it every day and never have it be the last one. I wish for a thousand more goodbyes.
1.31.2016
Songs the Perfect Man Would Sing To Me #4
How I Learned to Pray by Charlie Worsham
When I was sixteen, that set of keys was a pair of wings
Daddy, pretty please, can I take her out tonight?
I swear I won't get her over fifty-five.
With 'Back in Black' racing through my veins,
Last thing I thought was a flip in this thing
Don't get me killed.
I'm pretty sure my old man will.
And seeing his face when the wrecker hauled my freedom away
That's how I learned to pray.
It wasn't in a church with a chapter and a verse
Some preacher made sure everybody heard
Or just some words somebody taught me to say.
I was living like I wasn't long for the world,
Mama always said it'd take a special girl
To get a hold of me,
But I never let one get close to me.
The man upstairs must've heard her prayers,
'Cause I looked up, you were standin' there waitin' on me
Like you were made for me.
And I knew right then and there, I'd been saved
And that's how I learned to pray.
It wasn't in a church with a chapter and a verse
Some preacher made sure everybody heard
Or just some words somebody taught me to say.
I can fold my hands and bow my head,
But there's just some things that can't be said
Without a little walk-on-water kind of faith.
And that's how I learned to pray.
Have you ever looked up at the stars in the sky,
Felt a tug at your heart didn't know why
But you just knew
Someone is up there lookin' out for you.
Well you know just what I mean when I say Grace.
That's how I learned to pray.
That's how I learned to pray.
When I was sixteen, that set of keys was a pair of wings
Daddy, pretty please, can I take her out tonight?
I swear I won't get her over fifty-five.
With 'Back in Black' racing through my veins,
Last thing I thought was a flip in this thing
Don't get me killed.
I'm pretty sure my old man will.
And seeing his face when the wrecker hauled my freedom away
That's how I learned to pray.
It wasn't in a church with a chapter and a verse
Some preacher made sure everybody heard
Or just some words somebody taught me to say.
I was living like I wasn't long for the world,
Mama always said it'd take a special girl
To get a hold of me,
But I never let one get close to me.
The man upstairs must've heard her prayers,
'Cause I looked up, you were standin' there waitin' on me
Like you were made for me.
And I knew right then and there, I'd been saved
And that's how I learned to pray.
It wasn't in a church with a chapter and a verse
Some preacher made sure everybody heard
Or just some words somebody taught me to say.
I can fold my hands and bow my head,
But there's just some things that can't be said
Without a little walk-on-water kind of faith.
And that's how I learned to pray.
Have you ever looked up at the stars in the sky,
Felt a tug at your heart didn't know why
But you just knew
Someone is up there lookin' out for you.
Well you know just what I mean when I say Grace.
That's how I learned to pray.
That's how I learned to pray.
9.30.2015
habits aren't easy to break
Last night I felt the weight of losing my mom more than I thought was possible at this point.
My mom and I didn't always talk at regular times. She'd call me every Saturday morning super early, forgetting the time difference, and I'd let it go to voicemail and call her back sometime within the next couple of days. We'd call each other when something happened or we just needed to talk. But we never had a standing phone call.
We did, however, start our own tradition of always talking before and after flights. When I started flying pretty regularly in 2006, Mom would always worry a bit. So I called her on the way to the airport, and I always ALWAYS called her when I touched down back at SFO. The cab drive back into the city was OUR time. It was a reminder that coming home to SFO was also coming HOME. Sometimes it felt maybe a bit annoying that I needed to report in, but mostly I cherished that time with my mom.
When I was flying to Malaysia or Thailand or China every other week, we spent hours on the phone before and after my flights. Even when I was dead exhausted, that call home was my top priority. I loved sharing my adventures with Mom and hearing about her life that I'd missed while I was way.
When I flew home from the Funeral at the end of February, I cried as I landed because there was nobody to call. It hit me hard and I spent the next week wallowing in bed (and sick as a dog from some airplane bug).
I haven't flown since then. Until last week.
I recognized the temptation to call Mom on the way to OAK to head out on this trip. But I also was aware enough to realize I couldn't. I let myself feel sad for a moment, and then I moved on.
Last night was different. Last night I was exhausted. It had been a long flight in with tons of turbulence and a 30 minute delay on the tarmac. I was tired and fuzzy and not really thinking. As soon as I got into the cab to take me home, I picked up the phone and hit speed dial on my mom's number.
As it rang I realized my mistake, but I couldn't hang up. I needed to hear that out of service message on the other end. I needed to hear the finality of it. And then I lost my shit.
After all these months, my first instinct upon returning to SFO is still to call Mom. To tell her I'm okay. To find out how she is. To tell her I love her.
It's heartbreaking. It's gut wrenching and it has thrown off my whole day today. I'm not very good at functioning while trying not to cry all over my computer.
But I hope that impulse NEVER goes away.
My mom and I didn't always talk at regular times. She'd call me every Saturday morning super early, forgetting the time difference, and I'd let it go to voicemail and call her back sometime within the next couple of days. We'd call each other when something happened or we just needed to talk. But we never had a standing phone call.
We did, however, start our own tradition of always talking before and after flights. When I started flying pretty regularly in 2006, Mom would always worry a bit. So I called her on the way to the airport, and I always ALWAYS called her when I touched down back at SFO. The cab drive back into the city was OUR time. It was a reminder that coming home to SFO was also coming HOME. Sometimes it felt maybe a bit annoying that I needed to report in, but mostly I cherished that time with my mom.
When I was flying to Malaysia or Thailand or China every other week, we spent hours on the phone before and after my flights. Even when I was dead exhausted, that call home was my top priority. I loved sharing my adventures with Mom and hearing about her life that I'd missed while I was way.
When I flew home from the Funeral at the end of February, I cried as I landed because there was nobody to call. It hit me hard and I spent the next week wallowing in bed (and sick as a dog from some airplane bug).
I haven't flown since then. Until last week.
I recognized the temptation to call Mom on the way to OAK to head out on this trip. But I also was aware enough to realize I couldn't. I let myself feel sad for a moment, and then I moved on.
Last night was different. Last night I was exhausted. It had been a long flight in with tons of turbulence and a 30 minute delay on the tarmac. I was tired and fuzzy and not really thinking. As soon as I got into the cab to take me home, I picked up the phone and hit speed dial on my mom's number.
As it rang I realized my mistake, but I couldn't hang up. I needed to hear that out of service message on the other end. I needed to hear the finality of it. And then I lost my shit.
After all these months, my first instinct upon returning to SFO is still to call Mom. To tell her I'm okay. To find out how she is. To tell her I love her.
It's heartbreaking. It's gut wrenching and it has thrown off my whole day today. I'm not very good at functioning while trying not to cry all over my computer.
But I hope that impulse NEVER goes away.
6.18.2015
How Jezebel Just Lost my Readership, and Maybe Yours
Those of us women over 6' tall in the U.S. (I'm 6'4") only make up 1% of the population. That's about 3.2 million of us out there. It's not a huge number, but here's the thing about that number:
Well, Jezebel, you just lost us.
The quick spotlight Clover Hope wrote about the TLC series My Giant Life was bad.
It was dismissive, and the use of the word "gripe" was unnecessarily snarky.
But that's not the problem. No. The problem is Clover Hope and her response to the comments.
One commenter questioned the snark and Clover responded with, "how about you chill," as you can see in the screenshots below:
Kara Brown also commented:
The problem here is the lack of respect for readers. Especially those that represent the population on which are you commenting. Not that I ever mistook Jezebel for serious journalism, but does an outlet like this really want someone with a childish, "I know you are but what am I?" mentality representing them? This is digusting.
There have been over 500 comments in the couple hours since this article was posted. Thanks to Clover's offensiveness, a comment war between short and tall has now started. This is ridiculous.
This is not about Tall versus Short. This is about a wanna be journalist treating an entire population as if they don't matter. Several commenters brought up the similarity to race issues:
And now we have race wars. This is extremely unfortunate and I am personally disgusted that a contributor to a national outlet could be so dismissive and disrespectful of an entire demographic, and then not hear the concerns when they offer feedback.
You can read all of the comments here.
Clover Hope has, in one comment, invalidated any good she has done in the past. I personally will not consume or share Jezebel content anymore, and I'm willing to bet that my sisterhood of tall women, and honestly - just women who have empathy for others - are with me.
And just to educate those of you who don't understand why tall women "gripe" about being tall, let me throw out a very small smattering of how it impacts our lives:
I've blogged a bit about being super tall before. You can read those posts here, here, and here.
I don't complain about other populations "griping" about their problems. I try to understand them and empathize. I don't ask that you understand my issues - I just ask that you don't call us out as whiners. We are definitely not among the loudest voice of complainers in the world, and a lot of us have worked to change our world to address our issues.
So sure, Clover - I'll chill. But I'm gonna be chilling without Jezebel because of you.
- 99% of us are between the ages of 20 and 50
- We are internet savvy because we had to be (to find clothes, communities, etc.)
- A decent chunk of us tend toward the liberal because, again, we had to (traditional roles don't work with us, we faced a lot of bullying growing up, etc.)
- We are constantly exploring the world around us for innovations (because we're looking for the world to offer things that work for us)
Well, Jezebel, you just lost us.
The quick spotlight Clover Hope wrote about the TLC series My Giant Life was bad.
It was dismissive, and the use of the word "gripe" was unnecessarily snarky.
But that's not the problem. No. The problem is Clover Hope and her response to the comments.
One commenter questioned the snark and Clover responded with, "how about you chill," as you can see in the screenshots below:
Kara Brown also commented:
The problem here is the lack of respect for readers. Especially those that represent the population on which are you commenting. Not that I ever mistook Jezebel for serious journalism, but does an outlet like this really want someone with a childish, "I know you are but what am I?" mentality representing them? This is digusting.
There have been over 500 comments in the couple hours since this article was posted. Thanks to Clover's offensiveness, a comment war between short and tall has now started. This is ridiculous.
This is not about Tall versus Short. This is about a wanna be journalist treating an entire population as if they don't matter. Several commenters brought up the similarity to race issues:
And now we have race wars. This is extremely unfortunate and I am personally disgusted that a contributor to a national outlet could be so dismissive and disrespectful of an entire demographic, and then not hear the concerns when they offer feedback.
You can read all of the comments here.
Clover Hope has, in one comment, invalidated any good she has done in the past. I personally will not consume or share Jezebel content anymore, and I'm willing to bet that my sisterhood of tall women, and honestly - just women who have empathy for others - are with me.
And just to educate those of you who don't understand why tall women "gripe" about being tall, let me throw out a very small smattering of how it impacts our lives:
- We are pushed into sports, whether or not we want it
- We get unwanted attention all the time - people constantly comment on our bodies and our lives and tell us what we should and shouldn't be doing with it.
- We cannot fit into airplane seats, first class is expensive, and in foreign countries that isn't always an option.
- We have to buy bigger cars.
- They don't make pants or shoes in our sizes, we have to make them or wear ugly things. Even when we can find something, it doesn't actually fit right and it's very expensive.
- Dating is hell - not because we want tall men, necessarily, just because of societal standards.
- We get back problems, ankle and knee problems, and circulation problems.
- We never ever ever get to feel "cute".
- We can't hear our friends when we're out standing somewhere.
- Want to go watch that baseball game or that movie? Prepare to have bruises on your knees the next day.
- Our feet hang off the end of the bed.
- The desk at work don't fit us.
I've blogged a bit about being super tall before. You can read those posts here, here, and here.
I don't complain about other populations "griping" about their problems. I try to understand them and empathize. I don't ask that you understand my issues - I just ask that you don't call us out as whiners. We are definitely not among the loudest voice of complainers in the world, and a lot of us have worked to change our world to address our issues.
So sure, Clover - I'll chill. But I'm gonna be chilling without Jezebel because of you.
4.10.2015
the benefits of never deleting voicemails
My mom left me practically the same voicemail every week. Thankfully, I didn't delete them manually, so I still have the last few before she got too sick to leave them.
I've been listening to my little playlist of 2 and 3 second Mom snippets for the last half hour.
I only wish I had more.
I've been listening to my little playlist of 2 and 3 second Mom snippets for the last half hour.
I only wish I had more.
4.09.2015
an unusual birthday present
I picked out a casket like I would shop for any other large purchase. I went into it thinking I wanted a rich wood casket. Unfortunately, caskets are ridiculously expensive. The cheapest wood option was over almost four thousand and was not what I would call “rich”-looking. The cheapest casket of all was just under a grand and was literally a dark black metal box. It looked like an ugly safe. The funeral director patiently walked me through the catalog so that I could view the metal choices in between those two price points. The online system had a terrible user interface and all I could think was how I could help them fix this so that grieving families didn’t have to suffer through the horrible waiting times during all the clicks it took to view each option. We clicked (and clicked and clicked) through the slate grey and cheesy blue options for almost an hour. I didn't cry. I didn't waver. I shopped. I planned. I managed the situation as I would handle any professional project. I settled on a warm tan casket that had a wooden feel at nowhere near the price and moved on to choose the flowers, the programs, and the guest book. After I confirmed everything with my siblings, the funeral director brought in the paperwork so I could sign on the dotted line.
The problem with signing things is that you have to enter the date. I can never remember the date. Even if I've written it a gajillion times that day, even if I've been monitoring my calendar like crazy - I can never remember the date when it comes time to sign a form. This time, though, it flowed out without me thinking.
2/17
My mom's birthday.
I wrote it without thinking. I wrote it knowing the significance, but without it hitting me until I filled in the year.
1943
Over the past several months, I had become so used to filling in my mom's birth date, that I couldn't write 2/17 without filling in her birth year. I looked down at the papers and realized my mistake. My chest tightened and for just a second I wondered if I could take another breath. The air felt like tar seeping and blocking my lungs from filling. I had just purchased my mom's casket on what would have been her 72nd birthday.
I scratched out 1943 and wrote in 2015, wondering briefly if the blurred wet ink would be a problem. The funeral director must have thought I was having trouble with the date because he helpfully chimed in, "It's the 17th."
I looked up at him through tears for the first time and made a horrible imitation of a real smile.
"I know."
4.08.2015
pure self-indulgence
It has been almost two months, and I have yet to write about my mother.
I know a lot of people process emotions by writing. My challenge is that I process them by talking to people, but I don't internalize them and really feel them until I spend time with them on my own. When I try to write in my journal and keep this to myself, I end up cheating myself. I tend to use a short hand that I expect future Monika to understand. I write a prompt, and then I get caught up in that one thought or distracted by life and I never come back to it. Writing here is different. It's terribly self-indulgent and probably narcissistic, but it forces me to follow through on my thoughts and actually deal with whatever I'm feeling.
I'm posting this disclaimer of sorts to explain why I’m choosing to share so much in such a public way – why I always do, really – but why it is particularly important now. I haven’t yet really cried over my mother’s death, or the last few months of her life. I’ve had little spurts, but I’ve shoved them aside. I have yet to honestly grieve, and I feel like I need to start. Now.
Soon.
3.12.2015
Capital One Handles Account Holder Death with Grace and Assurance
I know most of us think of credit card companies as awful - and I agree they often are. But today I encountered a human and surprisingly ethical side of Capital One that I had to share.
I called the bank to tell them that my mother had passed away, fully expecting them to ask me to pay the balance on her cards. Other debtors have already tried to push me into paying her debts, even though legally I'm personally not responsible for any of these financial obligations. I thought Capital One would be the worst. Obviously I was wrong or I wouldn't be writing this post.
First of all, they have a dedicated line that when you call, they know you have lost someone. Meaning - that person on the other end is prepared for what you are dealing with and knows how to handle it right away. The first thing she said to me was that she was sorry for my loss and she wanted to make the process as simple as possible - before I even told her why I was calling. They don't require a death certificate, which makes things so much easier, and the process wrapped up in about 2 minutes. The other 3-5 minutes or so were the representative expressing her condolences, and then the thing that surprised me:
Rather than trying to get me to pay, the representative firmly stated that I am not responsible for the balance. Only the estate, if there is an estate, is responsible, and I should not make any payments to any creditors holding accounts in my mother's name. She reiterated this several times.
I knew this already, but I thought I was going to have to be the one defending that. I was so surprised that someone representing a large bank would be so adamant about my rights.
So thank you, Capital One, for making this easier. And for making sure you're not exploiting grieving families.
I called the bank to tell them that my mother had passed away, fully expecting them to ask me to pay the balance on her cards. Other debtors have already tried to push me into paying her debts, even though legally I'm personally not responsible for any of these financial obligations. I thought Capital One would be the worst. Obviously I was wrong or I wouldn't be writing this post.
First of all, they have a dedicated line that when you call, they know you have lost someone. Meaning - that person on the other end is prepared for what you are dealing with and knows how to handle it right away. The first thing she said to me was that she was sorry for my loss and she wanted to make the process as simple as possible - before I even told her why I was calling. They don't require a death certificate, which makes things so much easier, and the process wrapped up in about 2 minutes. The other 3-5 minutes or so were the representative expressing her condolences, and then the thing that surprised me:
Rather than trying to get me to pay, the representative firmly stated that I am not responsible for the balance. Only the estate, if there is an estate, is responsible, and I should not make any payments to any creditors holding accounts in my mother's name. She reiterated this several times.
I knew this already, but I thought I was going to have to be the one defending that. I was so surprised that someone representing a large bank would be so adamant about my rights.
So thank you, Capital One, for making this easier. And for making sure you're not exploiting grieving families.
10.06.2014
Abstract Comfort
When he arrives
with red
roses
[so common
and impersonal]
not orchids
or daisies,
I seek comfort.
Or when she comes with me,
only
because I begged,
["His
friend is great,"
I told
her.]
and has
more fun
with her
date,
dancing and
laughing,
than I do
with the
double left-footed man
sharing my
side of the booth
at the pub
on the corner,
I seek comfort.
Or when everything is wrong
even when
all is right,
and the
tears come
for no
obvious reason-
Mittelschmerz-
as the old German
woman,
with all
the cats,
[my sweet
mother]
calls it,
I seek comfort.
I find it-
In the room I've known since childhood
lying back
in the bed
that has
felt my weight
so many
times in the past.
In an array of lines above me,
light
pouring out between the panels
of my old
reading lamp,
creating a
colorless Picasso
for me
alone
to
experience.
The scribbles
[long crooked fingers]
draw me up
to where
roses fade into daisies
[such
simple white and yellow petals]
and a podiatrist,
a small
creature with glasses
that
magnify his curious eyes
[tiny
little frog man]
stands at
the entrance of the pub
covering
the words
[please
wait to be seated]
on the
welcome sign,
offering
free foot transplants.
The corners of my mouth rise
into a satisfied grin
as I find
my abstract comfort.
9.12.2014
Subtext to every request to be CC'd
From a friend's experience with her consultant:
"When you send the brief to the client, can you CC me . . . so I can see how you twist my words?"
"When you send the brief to the client, can you CC me . . . so I can see how you twist my words?"
9.09.2014
Normal exchange at mom's house
mom: Judge Judy is on!
mom's husband: that smart-mouthed woman
me: there's nothing wrong with a smart-mouthed woman
mom's husband: oh we've got miss women's lib over here
mom: yeah, and who do you think taught her that?
mom's husband: that smart-mouthed woman
me: there's nothing wrong with a smart-mouthed woman
mom's husband: oh we've got miss women's lib over here
mom: yeah, and who do you think taught her that?
7.31.2014
We Still Need Feminism
This post is most likely going to come across a little disorganized and a lot emotional, and I've decided I'm okay with that. And I'm gonna pull a John Oliver on this one and promise you that if you can get through this one with me I'll reward you with funny cats at the end.
A couple of weeks ago Buzzfeed took a tumblr viral when it critically posted that 14 women posted why they were against feminism. I say critically because the intent of the post was to highlight the idiocy of the tumblr (read the URL: http://www.buzzfeed.com/rossalynwarren/i-do-not-think-it-means-what-you-think-it-means), but in doing so they gave so many more people access to this hurtful, ignorant website.
Just look at some of the pictures on this website. Some of them have understandable reasons they've been hurt by radical feminists. But some of them are just ignorant. "I enjoy being a homemaker..."???? Being a feminist gives you the choice to do that OR go to work. Glad you enjoy it, some women don't. Do you think everyone should HAVE to? fahsdklfhghdaios;hjsgfjs;gj; < me hitting my head on my keyboard
I have some unorganized thoughts on this that I need to get out, and I really hope you can just hang with me for a minute on this one:
I Kinda Sorta Maybe Halfway Understand - ISH:
YOU do not get to make ANY judgments against feminism to me IF you have never:
And feminism is ABSOLUTELY still necessary.
There are so many studies and well-written articles on why it's ridiculous. Here are a few:
My favorite response comes from an artist named Rebecca Vipond Brink. I think she's fabulous. And I think her response is on point: http://www.flareandfade.com/i-dont-need-feminism-because/
And now, those promised cats: http://confusedcatsagainstfeminism.tumblr.com/
Thanks for listening.
A couple of weeks ago Buzzfeed took a tumblr viral when it critically posted that 14 women posted why they were against feminism. I say critically because the intent of the post was to highlight the idiocy of the tumblr (read the URL: http://www.buzzfeed.com/rossalynwarren/i-do-not-think-it-means-what-you-think-it-means), but in doing so they gave so many more people access to this hurtful, ignorant website.
Just look at some of the pictures on this website. Some of them have understandable reasons they've been hurt by radical feminists. But some of them are just ignorant. "I enjoy being a homemaker..."???? Being a feminist gives you the choice to do that OR go to work. Glad you enjoy it, some women don't. Do you think everyone should HAVE to? fahsdklfhghdaios;hjsgfjs;gj; < me hitting my head on my keyboard
I have some unorganized thoughts on this that I need to get out, and I really hope you can just hang with me for a minute on this one:
I Kinda Sorta Maybe Halfway Understand - ISH:
- I once was a young woman who didn't want to be called a feminist - I thought feminists weren't feminine.
- I want to be a stay at home mom for a couple of years at least. I LOVE the idea of having a man who can care for me - that didn't sound very feminist to me before I became educated about feminism.
- I don't want to be associated with the people who go overboard. I am not a radical. I am not an extremist.
- I believe there is a difference between men and women and used to not understand that most feminists understand this, too.
YOU do not get to make ANY judgments against feminism to me IF you have never:
- been told to keep your mouth shut because it's a client and it doesn't matter if it's sexual harassment.
- been raped.
- been paid less than your male peers when you work more than they do.
- been abused.
- been told you didn't get the job because they think you'll want to have babies soon.
- been kept out of meetings that you made happen because only men were invited.
- seen how women outside our borders are treated.
- been told you were a bitch when the man who did the same thing was aggressive and doing his job well.
- had a relationship not work out because you make more than the guy.
- been told you were asking for it.
- been delegated to party planning and ordering everyone's lunches when you outrank everyone at the table.
- been told, "girls can't/don't do that."
“A discipline of thought and action that aims to enhance mutuality and trust among all people; to reveal the meanings of gender differences, especially as these might interfere with reciprocity and trust… and to oppose all models and methods of dominance-submission for relationships among people. What feminism has revealed, in its many forms from theology to literary criticism to psychology and philosophy, is that the silencing and trivializing of women and their ideas affect all of us all of the time in the way that we expect the world and ourselves to be.”
And feminism is ABSOLUTELY still necessary.
There are so many studies and well-written articles on why it's ridiculous. Here are a few:
- http://www.pay-equity.org/day.html - Women will have to work through April 14, 2015 to make what men will make in 2014.
- http://www.heraldscotland.com/comment/bloggers/why-feminism-still-matters-in-2014.1394191059 - 2/week in the world are killed by a current or former male partner, 1/4 women are victims of domestic violence.
- http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lisa-solod/feminism_b_1693029.html - young women have a choice: pretty and married or successful and bitchy.
- http://listverse.com/2013/03/16/10-reasons-we-still-need-feminism/ - because many countries still remove women's clits without anesthetic, marry them off before puberty, and sell them into prostitution.
- http://www.patheos.com/blogs/simchafisher/2014/04/23/yes-we-still-need-feminism/ - b/c we are constantly faced with new challenges in an evolving world
My favorite response comes from an artist named Rebecca Vipond Brink. I think she's fabulous. And I think her response is on point: http://www.flareandfade.com/i-dont-need-feminism-because/
And now, those promised cats: http://confusedcatsagainstfeminism.tumblr.com/
Thanks for listening.
5.31.2014
Your Argument is Invalid
Sometimes at work when someone is asking for something I don't want to do, I feel like busting out with, "I just had back surgery!"
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