There was no interview. I did not respond to a classified ad or present a resume of my qualifications. My education to this point was not going to be of assistance in this particular long-term employment venture. Really, the job fell into my lap not because I pursued it but because I ignored the possibility of it being possible . . . for me.
In a waterslide whoosh of singular effort, preceded by hours of focused breathing, convulsing physical discomfort, and orders by initialed individuals dressed in tan cotton-poly blend scrubs, my biggest job to date landed in the waiting hands of Dr. Potestio of Saint Mary Corwin Hospital in Pueblo, Colorado. At the time, all I could utter was a surprised and tiny “oh!” of exclamation. I had anticipated hours more of concentrated pushing before the arrival of this miniscule mound of pink-skinned perfection into my world. Instead, with nary a single bearing down to be executed, my first day of parenthood had begun with a wee but lusty cry from a 5-pound, 6-ounce perfectly formed baby girl.
Though she would leave me for the required examinations and bathing, what she had started for me – a neon-lit M-O-M on the permanent letterhead of my life – would become my ongoing work. A 24-7 bonanza of thrills, spills, and more than a few uphills.
My first test I would fail: diapering 101. Her legs were twigs I felt sure would snap if I touched them, much less moved them into position for wiping, powdering, and taping securely! “Um, here,” I mumbled, handing her back to the ward nurse on duty, “I think I’m gonna need one more day before I tackle this. Let her put on some weight or something!” However, by that night, I could boast that she had ‘latched on’ as they say in the La Leche League handouts. We passed those twilight hours in a fog of fatigue and wonderment – me in my hospital gown and her in the knit cap and baby gown she would have to wear for her maiden voyage to her first home because her ignorant young father told her naïve young mother that we didn’t need to pack an outfit because the hospital gave them to all the new babies.
Somehow, though, I managed to overcome my lack of specialized education and the absence of an exhaustive training manual. She ate, slept, pooped, cried, laughed, grew, welcomed two more additions into our merry company, and became that oxymoron we all lovingly call ‘the adult child.’ And I’m STILL working!
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Around Every Corner
My second daughter now drives on her own. She uses my big Chevy truck. Often and with great enthusiasm. In exchange, my errands -- including filling that tank with gas -- are now often performed by someone other than myself. That aspect of this new parental adventure is outstanding! Oh, the countless trips to Super Wal-Mart I've NOT had to log since October of last year. You simply can't imagine the inner sigh, okay, perhaps audible sigh, of relief that moves through me each time I dodge that bullet.
But, having a child out on the road, moving, stopping, and starting in traffic with hundreds of other drivers, many of them not very capable, is also troubling. My eldest daughter did not go after her driver's license early, waiting as she did until the almost elderly age of 18. Though we worried, the worry was on a smaller scale. She had presented us with myriad other concerns early on in her illustrious career as an American teenager. We managed to scale those mountains, without safety equipment much of the time, and get her through the graduation procession with cap and gown intact. Seating her behind the wheel as master and commander of the veteran Nissan Pathfinder did not seem nearly as daunting in light of those adventures.
So, it was with a mixed sense of excitement and anxiety that we first put our 16 year-old into the cab of the ol' Silverado and pushed her off into major intersections without training wheels or her mom and pop. "No texting! Keep the music down! Watch for stop signs! No speeding! Make SURE the light is green and no one is coming!" ranked high on the list of DO's and DON'TS. And, she heard it all more than once or twice.
On that list were a few items written in invisible ink with instructions not to reveal themselves until the proper moment. Alarmingly, those 'proper moments' invariably came either during or after the fact. For instance, how was I to know to remind her to "check the bed of the truck for those throw-away beer bottles your grandpa sent home for me to recycle so they won't be there when you go to that bonfire you talked me into letting you attend . . . that way, when the sheriff's deputies respond to a tip that minors brought alcohol to the event, you won't have to explain under duress to everyone there why you are in possession of Bud Light and Dos Perros empties!" (The mini-keg-bearing kids who threw the evidence into the bushes -- creative choice -- should have been warned by THEIR parents not to be so obvious when breaking the law!)
Or, how about informing her to be on the lookout for the one male driver in a few hundred cars who is not just executing a quick double-take to admire a pretty girl. "Um, be aware of the man who will follow you to a stoplight and then pass you up to make a right turn off into the distance . . . only to turn up parked directly beside your truck when you emerge from the fast food joint you visited for an employment opportunity. Don't look into his cab and realize he is masturbating while looking directly at you and then freak out, jump in your truck, call your mom, and head home! No. When you see him and recognize that he has stalked you, quickly note his license plate, return to the store in the safety of strangers, and call the police." (He did not follow her home, and there was a follow-up visit by the police to take it all down.)
I'm gonna make it through this. I know that. I worry far less. I'm a realist, having witnessed more than my fair share of reality in the lives of those for whom I carry much love and affection. In place of the worry is that matter-of-fact knowledge that even with the best of drivers and the safest of roads and the smartest of kids, sometimes accidents will happen. And, they have . . . thus far to other people's children. I read of them in the newspapers or hear of them on the nightly news. So, my practice is to hug her whenever she is going out and about. Just in case. Even if we are not on the best of speaking terms as is sometimes prone to happen in mother-teen dynamics. If my son, who will be the next and final teen driver in the household, accompanies her, he gets in on the embrace action, too.
Why, just this afternoon they both journeyed forth to pick up three cheesy pies for Pizza Night, and I corraled them in for the obligatory hugs. "Just in case! C'mon over here! I want to remember the love." She one-armed me with a "Gee, mom, I can drive!" and was out the door; the boy gave me both arms, a squeeze, and a buss on the cheek. We laughed as I yelled out, "I'll remember him best . . . he'll get the biggest tombstone!" Gallows humor to mask that which we cannot control.
But, having a child out on the road, moving, stopping, and starting in traffic with hundreds of other drivers, many of them not very capable, is also troubling. My eldest daughter did not go after her driver's license early, waiting as she did until the almost elderly age of 18. Though we worried, the worry was on a smaller scale. She had presented us with myriad other concerns early on in her illustrious career as an American teenager. We managed to scale those mountains, without safety equipment much of the time, and get her through the graduation procession with cap and gown intact. Seating her behind the wheel as master and commander of the veteran Nissan Pathfinder did not seem nearly as daunting in light of those adventures.
So, it was with a mixed sense of excitement and anxiety that we first put our 16 year-old into the cab of the ol' Silverado and pushed her off into major intersections without training wheels or her mom and pop. "No texting! Keep the music down! Watch for stop signs! No speeding! Make SURE the light is green and no one is coming!" ranked high on the list of DO's and DON'TS. And, she heard it all more than once or twice.
On that list were a few items written in invisible ink with instructions not to reveal themselves until the proper moment. Alarmingly, those 'proper moments' invariably came either during or after the fact. For instance, how was I to know to remind her to "check the bed of the truck for those throw-away beer bottles your grandpa sent home for me to recycle so they won't be there when you go to that bonfire you talked me into letting you attend . . . that way, when the sheriff's deputies respond to a tip that minors brought alcohol to the event, you won't have to explain under duress to everyone there why you are in possession of Bud Light and Dos Perros empties!" (The mini-keg-bearing kids who threw the evidence into the bushes -- creative choice -- should have been warned by THEIR parents not to be so obvious when breaking the law!)
Or, how about informing her to be on the lookout for the one male driver in a few hundred cars who is not just executing a quick double-take to admire a pretty girl. "Um, be aware of the man who will follow you to a stoplight and then pass you up to make a right turn off into the distance . . . only to turn up parked directly beside your truck when you emerge from the fast food joint you visited for an employment opportunity. Don't look into his cab and realize he is masturbating while looking directly at you and then freak out, jump in your truck, call your mom, and head home! No. When you see him and recognize that he has stalked you, quickly note his license plate, return to the store in the safety of strangers, and call the police." (He did not follow her home, and there was a follow-up visit by the police to take it all down.)
I'm gonna make it through this. I know that. I worry far less. I'm a realist, having witnessed more than my fair share of reality in the lives of those for whom I carry much love and affection. In place of the worry is that matter-of-fact knowledge that even with the best of drivers and the safest of roads and the smartest of kids, sometimes accidents will happen. And, they have . . . thus far to other people's children. I read of them in the newspapers or hear of them on the nightly news. So, my practice is to hug her whenever she is going out and about. Just in case. Even if we are not on the best of speaking terms as is sometimes prone to happen in mother-teen dynamics. If my son, who will be the next and final teen driver in the household, accompanies her, he gets in on the embrace action, too.
Why, just this afternoon they both journeyed forth to pick up three cheesy pies for Pizza Night, and I corraled them in for the obligatory hugs. "Just in case! C'mon over here! I want to remember the love." She one-armed me with a "Gee, mom, I can drive!" and was out the door; the boy gave me both arms, a squeeze, and a buss on the cheek. We laughed as I yelled out, "I'll remember him best . . . he'll get the biggest tombstone!" Gallows humor to mask that which we cannot control.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Joined Over Hollandaise
There was this moment during our Savannah breakfast outing -- the one planned around my desire for eggs Benedict -- when the spirit of friendship manifested in an almost physical presence at the table. I looked across the expanse of brightly colored coffee mugs, plates of fruit, smoked salmon and poached eggs, and discovered a mother, teary eyed and beaming, leaning into the embrace of her grinning daughter. Having just experienced my own emotional inner quaking, I was surprised at what I saw in this tableau. She shared her story of how this loving child had told her how very pleased she was that her mom had these good friends in her life. This gem of truth had embedded itself instantly. Hence the tears.
In an almost simultaneous broadcast, my communion with this truth had come as I listened to my fellow Earth Diva sitting next to me in our booth. What the actual conversation was, I do not recall. What I remember is my appreciation of her as I watched her profile of brow and nose and mouth shape the words and express the tone of our talk. A sudden wash of affection engulfed my entire being, warming me from the inside out. I felt the urge to cry as my mind filled with this one big heart thought, "I really love these women." My gratitude at having stumbled upon this balance of chemistry and personality with three other unique ladies and their families (the daughter is an Earth-Diva-In-Training) felt suddenly as right as a perfect Spring rain.
It solidified a bond which had been growing between us, those at the table and the lone friend unable to make this trip, with a clear and satisfying snap. As if the final joints and edges in a fine piece of handcrafted furniture were dovetailed into place, never to be undone again. The end result is a thing of obvious beauty, all at once fully functional and given to a familiar comfort. A solid structure of complex angles and deceptively simple unions that will endure the years with grace, taking on a patina with age that will only increase its value and enhance its appearance.
Only a Master Craftsman could have planned and completed such a construction as this.
I see myself curled on this chair or leaning over this table, reading or writing or gaming, for years to come. Only the softest of dusting rags with quality orange oil polish will ever come into contact with its surface in gentle concentric motions. Our reflections will settle permanently into the grain of the wood, each of us a knot or a whorl of character and interest.
It will never end up in a yard sale.
In an almost simultaneous broadcast, my communion with this truth had come as I listened to my fellow Earth Diva sitting next to me in our booth. What the actual conversation was, I do not recall. What I remember is my appreciation of her as I watched her profile of brow and nose and mouth shape the words and express the tone of our talk. A sudden wash of affection engulfed my entire being, warming me from the inside out. I felt the urge to cry as my mind filled with this one big heart thought, "I really love these women." My gratitude at having stumbled upon this balance of chemistry and personality with three other unique ladies and their families (the daughter is an Earth-Diva-In-Training) felt suddenly as right as a perfect Spring rain.
It solidified a bond which had been growing between us, those at the table and the lone friend unable to make this trip, with a clear and satisfying snap. As if the final joints and edges in a fine piece of handcrafted furniture were dovetailed into place, never to be undone again. The end result is a thing of obvious beauty, all at once fully functional and given to a familiar comfort. A solid structure of complex angles and deceptively simple unions that will endure the years with grace, taking on a patina with age that will only increase its value and enhance its appearance.
Only a Master Craftsman could have planned and completed such a construction as this.
I see myself curled on this chair or leaning over this table, reading or writing or gaming, for years to come. Only the softest of dusting rags with quality orange oil polish will ever come into contact with its surface in gentle concentric motions. Our reflections will settle permanently into the grain of the wood, each of us a knot or a whorl of character and interest.
It will never end up in a yard sale.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Tony Died Today
Tony died today.
Early this morning. One of his common coughing fits in the middle of the night, awakening Anthony from a dead sleep. I see him sitting up, signaling for the pounding fist on his back, the force loosening the constriction in his chest. Each action is a repetition of movement and habit performed countless times over the past year, made more intense in the past month, suddenly urgent within the past week. As the coughing spell resolves itself, Anthony leaves their bed for a quick snack trip to the kitchen. It is in the middle of this mundane chore that he suddenly hears the hacking resume. Then, that final urgent call from the bedroom, bidding him to quickly return in the thin weak voice that hijacked Tony’s once robust vocal presence, “Anthony!”
Though he rushes to respond to this strangled exclamation within seconds, Anthony discovers an unresponsive form, wide-eyed, still, void of life. The ache of regret at having missed the chance to steal one moment more, one final word, one last living touch, sears his uncomprehending heart. Something in Tony’s weary and cancer-ridden body has given way; the crimson stain on his sheets speaks of a vital eruption which shook internal pieces out of place. No amount of resuscitation by Anthony or the first responders will revive what is now merely a body. This man, my cousin, once a son and partner and friend, lover of pleasures, restaurant manager extraordinaire,imperfect and selfish,funny and generous, is gone from this physical plane of existence.
Even as a dead man walking, this death is unexpected.
This does not fit even within the tight parameters of two months left [though six to nine might be possible] prognosis by a team of physicians. This does not fit with the level of care he was receiving from hospice in an entry-level capacity. This does not mesh with the up days where toilet scrubbing and kitchen cabinet organization fit in between couch sessions of two and three hour naps. This does not mesh with . . . with . . . with anything and absolutely nothing.
Less than a month has passed since the news of inoperable, untreatable, impossible bone cancer traded places with suspected lung cancer in this second metastasizing of the unwelcome evil which entered his life through an esophagus made susceptible by years of alcoholism complicated by repetitive burning reflux. In a phone call just two nights ago, he was yet absorbing the reality of his terrible news, one foot planted in his faithful hope of a God of miracles, the other set in the practicality of medical information. Somewhere in the midst of his tears and determined laughter, his shock was still so evident. On a daily basis, he was struggling to incorporate his new state into the structure of his ongoing existence. I sensed his weariness; understood his vacillating moods; yearned to shoulder a portion of his burden, and resigned myself to the truth that I could not.
I drifted into a fitful sleep that evening deep in prayer with the Lord over Tony -- his future, his suffering, his need. Morning arrived and there was Tony, still embedded in my thoughts and present in one of his many very early morning text message hellos and updates. I knew I was being stretched by all that had been this New Year 2010. The Lord was using even this dire situation to grow me and to touch the heart of a man not used to truly opening his heart to honest friendship with no strings attached. There was healing to be accepted. There was forgiveness to be reckoned.
However, tonight I take my turn in absorbing the shock and accepting this new reality in my ongoing existence. It is an end to early day “top o’ the mornin’“ text messages and midday update calls and evenings of one, the other, or both. It is an end to wondering when I would board a plane in Tennessee and hit the runway in Colorado to sit at the bedside of a man dying. I was at his bedside via the presence of modern technology almost every day for a month while he was living his wish to remain at home with Anthony and his dogs, doing things on his own terms. Family relationships were restored and his faith in God reconstructed. Strangers reached out and delivered joy, compassion, and surprise to his mailbox from places near and far.
And, there will be no more suffering in his mind AND body as he anticipated the further pain and invalid state that surely awaited him in the months to come. The Lord of compassion saw fit to release him from his earthly chains and for that I offer my gratitude and . . . one day soon . . . praise for that grace.
Early this morning. One of his common coughing fits in the middle of the night, awakening Anthony from a dead sleep. I see him sitting up, signaling for the pounding fist on his back, the force loosening the constriction in his chest. Each action is a repetition of movement and habit performed countless times over the past year, made more intense in the past month, suddenly urgent within the past week. As the coughing spell resolves itself, Anthony leaves their bed for a quick snack trip to the kitchen. It is in the middle of this mundane chore that he suddenly hears the hacking resume. Then, that final urgent call from the bedroom, bidding him to quickly return in the thin weak voice that hijacked Tony’s once robust vocal presence, “Anthony!”
Though he rushes to respond to this strangled exclamation within seconds, Anthony discovers an unresponsive form, wide-eyed, still, void of life. The ache of regret at having missed the chance to steal one moment more, one final word, one last living touch, sears his uncomprehending heart. Something in Tony’s weary and cancer-ridden body has given way; the crimson stain on his sheets speaks of a vital eruption which shook internal pieces out of place. No amount of resuscitation by Anthony or the first responders will revive what is now merely a body. This man, my cousin, once a son and partner and friend, lover of pleasures, restaurant manager extraordinaire,imperfect and selfish,funny and generous, is gone from this physical plane of existence.
Even as a dead man walking, this death is unexpected.
This does not fit even within the tight parameters of two months left [though six to nine might be possible] prognosis by a team of physicians. This does not fit with the level of care he was receiving from hospice in an entry-level capacity. This does not mesh with the up days where toilet scrubbing and kitchen cabinet organization fit in between couch sessions of two and three hour naps. This does not mesh with . . . with . . . with anything and absolutely nothing.
Less than a month has passed since the news of inoperable, untreatable, impossible bone cancer traded places with suspected lung cancer in this second metastasizing of the unwelcome evil which entered his life through an esophagus made susceptible by years of alcoholism complicated by repetitive burning reflux. In a phone call just two nights ago, he was yet absorbing the reality of his terrible news, one foot planted in his faithful hope of a God of miracles, the other set in the practicality of medical information. Somewhere in the midst of his tears and determined laughter, his shock was still so evident. On a daily basis, he was struggling to incorporate his new state into the structure of his ongoing existence. I sensed his weariness; understood his vacillating moods; yearned to shoulder a portion of his burden, and resigned myself to the truth that I could not.
I drifted into a fitful sleep that evening deep in prayer with the Lord over Tony -- his future, his suffering, his need. Morning arrived and there was Tony, still embedded in my thoughts and present in one of his many very early morning text message hellos and updates. I knew I was being stretched by all that had been this New Year 2010. The Lord was using even this dire situation to grow me and to touch the heart of a man not used to truly opening his heart to honest friendship with no strings attached. There was healing to be accepted. There was forgiveness to be reckoned.
However, tonight I take my turn in absorbing the shock and accepting this new reality in my ongoing existence. It is an end to early day “top o’ the mornin’“ text messages and midday update calls and evenings of one, the other, or both. It is an end to wondering when I would board a plane in Tennessee and hit the runway in Colorado to sit at the bedside of a man dying. I was at his bedside via the presence of modern technology almost every day for a month while he was living his wish to remain at home with Anthony and his dogs, doing things on his own terms. Family relationships were restored and his faith in God reconstructed. Strangers reached out and delivered joy, compassion, and surprise to his mailbox from places near and far.
And, there will be no more suffering in his mind AND body as he anticipated the further pain and invalid state that surely awaited him in the months to come. The Lord of compassion saw fit to release him from his earthly chains and for that I offer my gratitude and . . . one day soon . . . praise for that grace.
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