Glo Blog

It took a long time for me to hit the wall. Literally.  Years.  And then without a hint of a warning, there it was.  My wall. Never even saw it coming.  And I hit it hard-going ninety to nothing in a fitted black cocktail dress and leopard print pumps. Bam!  Left a mark on the wall of glass in a perfect shade of dusted rose with a hint of shimmer.  Squished lips imprinted on plate glass.  The scene of the crime.

I hit the glass wall so hard the pain did not even register at first.  But the sound sure did.  A guy loading in his drum set rounded the corner took one look, removed the cigarette from his mouth and simply said:

That musta hurt.

I check my two front teeth- still there. Blinding pain-and then I remember something about noses and lips bleeding a lot.  A real lot.

And sure enough, lips bleed.  A lot.

A part from the pain-I was pissed.  In between cursing myself for doing something so stupid-and for doing it so well- I apply pressure and access the damage.

Ewwwwwwwwww.

Lip flap and blood-split my cupid’s bow it did.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

And then I have to decide what to do.  Leave it alone?  Ice?  I have to sell art and mingle about in an hour-do I wing it and just go on?

I go on.  Nonchalantly mingling and hobnobbing in the name of art, as my top lip swells to porn star heights.   And every time I hobnob and smile, I feel the trickle of blood begin again…..

Um…your, um, lip is bleeding.

Oh. Sorry. I walked into a wall on my way in.

Jokes about screen doors and alcohol.

A mark of distinction?

Oh, it’s nothing.

THAT’S going to leave a mark.

Funny.

Does my husband secretly wish my upper lip would stay this swollen?? Hmmmm?  What is it about swollen lips and men?

Advice on where to go, where NOT to go, what to do and what not to do.

You’re gonna need a plastics guy ya know?

Really?  Plastics guy?  But I don’t know any plastics guys.

And then thanks to the power of word of mouth( no pun intended) I find a plastics guy.

Who very carefully and artistically put me back to together again.

Me and my cupids bow.

The swelling will go down. ( sorry honey) I will slow down. And best of all, I will have a small little scar to remind me to do so.

And my plastics guy?  If he is this good on lips I wonder how he is with………?

Well, every good woman needs a good plastics guy.

**Gracious and sincere thanks to Dr. Russell Babbitt III, Lyn and Robin for putting me back together again…..the guy is a genius.

In one direction or another.  Right?  If change is the constant then we all have the ability to move forward-one way or another. Change will be the evolution of us all. Even if we don’t do one darn thing. I have lived enough to know life cycles-beyond the obvious of life and death;this we all know.  More so , the life cycle of what comes back around to affirm?  confirm? deny? Remind us? taptaptap us ever so gently heed a warning?  Or better yet, suggest we try that again.  Once more.  I am happy to report a few good, really good circle of life moments.  When all the pieces and parts of the puzzle come together.  People and circumstance all at the same cocktail party, beautifully dressed and on time. Right there in the same room and there I am too, by force or will( or whatever else got me through “it” and got me where I needed to be).   When the past tears and disappointments meet with the joy and success and questions are answered(or not) and that particular circle of life moment is complete. Wrap it up.The trick is staying in the business of life long enough to cycle back around-again..and get it right. (or not) Life will cycle on- we don’t get to live life backwards.  Life is in the business of here and now.  Some days I am present.  Give me all the here and now I can handle.  Some days, though I hate to admit it, my what if’s scratch and claw at my here and now and I find myself on a side trip-there in the back of my mind, where every moment is kept. Oh. And. I remember everything. And there, right there in the deepestdarkest place, I find the road stop sign posting:

No regrets.

For once, I think I am okay with this.

Wouldacouldashoulda.

Can I now be so bold to look back and say that my shoulda’s gave way to whatever else I felt was more important?  My woulda stepped aside for passion?  Pain?  Grief?  Love? Coulda-there, on the sidelines testing my vanity and ego.  The road of no regret is long and hard won.  It is not for the faint of heart.  It is for the ones who take whatever other road seems more interesting and well, yes, less traveled.  Secluded even.  That road in that moment. Not the one of least resistance.  The road of change.  Get on it.  Buckle up.  And have enough sense to stop and pee when the trips get to long, or at least rest….and try, very, very hard not to run over anyone along the way.

I have been on a positive kick these days.  Living life in the now.  My now.  This moment to moment of taking whatever comes my way. Maybe the yoga is kicking in-Is it my Buddha and incense?   The four hours a day of biking?  Something is ever so slightly adjusting the level of serotonin in my brain-but by God, I have been happy.  Yes, that’s right!  Happy in a balanced, alliswellinmyworld kind of way. Even-keeled if you will.  Even a quick trip to Walmart to purchase last minute supplies left me-well, okay. Granted I was only there for 15 minutes-but I was able to leave the store without wanting to scream at anyone or tap someone on the shoulder, in a way my Grandma Brown would have done to remind them not to:   talk on the phone in public, have any body part exposed in a most disgusting way, or to beg them to stop having children. Just stop.

But then…………….

Something rose from way up inside the innards of my truest feelings this morning that no amount of incense, biking or Buddha would quell.  A general disgust at all things I simply have tolerated because it was the polite thing to do-people included.  This was the morning I was not  going to take it anymore-because I don’t have to. Nope. Not gonna do it.

No, no, no.  I. don’t. give. afly’infig ( my Grandma Brown would say that too) about what this says about me, about my temperament, my ability to breathe it all in and let it go, my “lack of”, or inability to.  I don’t want to calm down.  I don’t want to make peace.  Has anyone ever thought that by getting rid of all the things( and people) you simply tolerated ( in spite of, because of) can be a very positive way to make peace?

Hey!  I don’t like you.  Never have.  You are not nice and you take too much work to navigate.  Nice know’in ya.  Well, not really.  You never liked me either.

My nine year old daughter has been having a particularly difficult time with a certain other little nine year old. A budding she devil if you ask me.  The troubles with said she devil started last year.  And trust me when I tell you, this little dar’lin has all the makings of manipulation wrapped up in mean( and then I met the mom and it all  made sense to me)

I just don’t like her, my daughter said.  There is nothing nice about her.  There is something to be said for nine year old wisdom.

And while I wholeheartedly agreed, that thing, that make nice gene kicked in and I found myself saying exactly what my mother would have said( and probably did) to me when I was ridiculed by a pack of nine year olds myself-way back when.

You don’t have to like them, you don’t have to be their friend, but you must be nice and be respectful.

Really?   I remember, even to this day, that made no sense to me.  At nine.  At nineteen.  At 29…and well, today.

But why?  (we said this in tandem, my daughter and me)  Only her voice had more conviction and strength, unshaded by years of being nice.

Just be nice Gloria.

No.  I don’t want to.  Any. More.  I don’t want to be nice to people whom I just do not like.  I don’t want to pretend.  Don’t want to carry the burden of  nice anymore.  Not that I will be mean-that’s just not nice.  But I won’t be anything.  Void.  Stop pretending.

My mother was the queen of nice.  She did not know mean.  Well, she did, but her mean was, well, too nice.  And it cost her.  To her, nothing, because she would not have it any other way.  To those of us who knew otherwise, it cost her some extra years of life.  She should have, could have, would have.  But it was not in her capacity.  I chose differently, but it has taken me this long.  To find the voice to say no.  NO thank-you.  Not gonna do it anymore.

Those who know me know me well.  For them I save my nice.  My warmth,  my strength. My compassion and love.  Deep love.

No,if I don’t like you, I don’t want to be your friend.  In a plane, in a car, in a meeting or in a bar.  I am Me. Me I am.  I have nothing to give any more to those who continue to take. My time is valuable.  Not to be wasted.  Anymore.  I can not give an iota  to those who say one thing and mean another.   ALL. THE. TIME. Talk to someone else.  I do not want to pray for God fearing hypocrites-who do the most ungodly of things-and then blame it on God.  Figure that one out. Blame somebody else- and start with yourself.

Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times?  Okay so I am still learning.

“My mother wanted me to be her wings, to fly as she never quite had the courage to do.  I love her for that.  I love the fact that she wanted to give birth to her own wings.”-Erica Jong.

In this ongoing, very long chapter in my book of life I come face to face with the very heart of what this whole mother daughter thing is all about as I watch my mother die and my daughter grow into her own person.  Me, in the middle.  I could not have asked for this-and would only wish it on those with the strongest conviction  and belief in the process of life and living.  In the ongoing of living while dying-and doing it on only the terms that work best for you.

The Erica Jong quote does not necessarily apply to mother.  Her father taught her to fly-and at a very young age.   I am sure she looked courage head on and met the match.  In home movies, she seemed oblivious to anything but happiness.  There in the mid to late 50′s, in love and married-going to school, working and having babies. Her terms.  But somewhere along the way, after the big chunk of raising a family, maintaining a marriage and working, something happened.  I think my mother replaced courage with complacency and making everyone else happy, at all costs.  Especially hers.  She taught all of us, her children, how to fly and supported us along the way-an extra push when needed-extra wind when we had none.  And fly I did.  Fly I have.  I took her lost courage and gave it wings too.

I don’t think for one second she regrets her clipped wings- knowing she raised us well enough to care for her now, at the end, on her terms, giving her a final flight of fancy- which has taken nothing but courage-from all of us.

It took me this long to look at life with enough wing span to fly right.  It took me this long to teach my own daughter to fly, even now-with wings so little-to fly and have the courage to land, again, and again, and again.  It took me this long to see the courage it takes to die-to fight for breath-to remember nothing except the deepest long held memories. It took me this long to know there is no shame in learning to fly-no shame in taking hold of courage. Most importantly, it took me this long to realize there is no cost too high for living on your own terms-even if it is while you watch your mother die.

Thanks mom.

 I have been accused from time to time of seeing the reality of situations and not the possibility.  Yet, I have taken many a sows ear and silk purses I have made.  It is the nature of what I do and it is the nature of who I am.  I am a big picture kind of gal.  I see things for what they could be-never mind what they are.  I also, fortunately, have the well earned ability of seeing things for what they never will be.  My grandma used to say, “if the horse is dead, get off”.  It took me a while to stop riding, but I did.  And this I know:  If the tree is rotten from whatever analogy one wants to use:  Lack of sun, air, water, elements essential for growth- then it is true, the fruit from that tree will fall to the ground, just as rotten.  Forget one bad apple not spoiling the whole bunch-thank-you Donny Osmond, but one bad apple can stink up the whole darn orchard.

I am obsessed with family dynamics and the pursuit of family.  So many of my friends, myself included found family-apart from the family of origin.  And often I am moved, pushed- to write about family and what makes families function.  If at all.  I can not quote books written on the topic and I can’t clinically diagnose the issues at hand- with the exception of clinically dealing with my own family-but I can try to stop the unraveling.  I can speak to watching how one tree, not grounded in anything substantial can bare the fruit of bitter taste.  And sadly, those trees go on to produce more bitter fruit.  I don’t buy the whole cycle can end theory.  The cycle can not end if the elements are not present to replace what has been learned.  The cycle is just repeated.  Poison tree, poison fruit.  And that is the reality.

………………………………”it is all because”, he paused as he stared off into the distance, looking for a vision, maybe?   And then he drew in a deep cleansing breath- started right into my eyes and repeated:

“It is all because God drew his hand away from that whole area”   “God lifted his hand and allowed things to unfold as they did”  “Haiti. Was. In Trouble.

and then more:   “Well,” she said, with a slow forgiving sigh, “I think there is truth in Pat Robertson’s statement”

Wait.  What?

“There was evil going on in Haiti”, she said.  ”Pure evil”.  ”They all made a pact with the devil so God gave them what they wanted.  The wrath. The fury.  The end result of no longer having the hand of God as it sits upon us.”

And she smiled.  A pursed lipped soft smile and continued.

“But now, you see, God is good!”  “Now, there is relief flowing into the country.  There are miracles happening in the rubble.”  “Now, there will be the rebirth of Christianity and Haiti will now really know the hand of God”  “God is good”

Wait. What?

I have friends, dear friends I love and respect who have a different set of religious rules.  I have my God, my universe, my Grace- is not the norm around here.  I know there are things we can discuss in the religious sector-and then, I am quite certain,  there are some things we will never discuss-ever.  Godly things- or rather ungodly.

What then of Scott Roder?  A member of the God squad, on a mission to murder a doctor who ran a clinic that provided abortions.  Scott said God told him to “Kill!”.  And crazy Scott did just that.  God said so.

Really?

And now in the wake of health care reform-some very unhappy members of the republican party are inciting hate with their words and performing acts of violence.  God told them so too.  And this is not mild anger.  These have been purposeful fits of hate.  These God loving people.  Haters all the same.

Really.

I wonder though, as I think my thoughts, how many of those against reform have really nice insurance.  I wonder why the republicans have not been so vocal about the abuse of welfare in this country.  How fair ( though I honestly believe the word fair should be removed from the English language) it is to so many hard working people that there are some, actually, a whole heck of a lot- who make more money off the government by sitting on their ass.   Lazy ass suckers making more money for nothing than the average worker who gets up to go to work everyday. How does God feel about this?   Chew on that Sarah Palin.  Why not incite those lazy suckers to go out, get a job and actually contribute?  And what about the rising teen pregnancy rate?  Teenagers have sex.  Why not preach safe sex and get teens to understand a baby will not make them feel more loved.  Teenagers should not have babies( and for the record, it is not a baby until it is born).  There.  I said it.  Some say God wanted it this way.  He knew teens would have mad crazy sex and bring more babies into the world.  The world needs more babies.

Really?

Who is going to take care of the neglected babies?  Sarah Palin?  Glen Beck….blech? 

God?

What if the hand of God came down really hard?  What if he threw down a smashing two fisted slam onto the table of righteousness. 

Who would be saved then?

Or blamed?

Just once, just for one minute, I want to meet the person who has shook the hand of God-or better yet, had his ear.

And then what?

   Just an observation:   Girls that were mean in high school are still mean-only older and bloated.  Thank you Face Book.  I still remember how horrible it felt being in the path of their wrath…….

Not the first chosen

OR the last either

Somewhere in between.

Not a Pollyanna

(and certainly not a purebred)

I am a poopoo platter of what I’ve seen -

and where I have been.

Taken out what did not work-once or twice with this-

A late bloomer, they ( still) say-she’s either hit or miss-but

 I am evolving all the same.  Thank-you very much.

Wanted to be a blond-

but then again I was six.

Now, I’ve forgotten my true hair color

somewhere between deep brown and hidden vixen-at least that is what it says on the box.

null

Home movies showed a happy kid-rambunctious,full of joy-the only girl

at first

followed by boy

after boy

after boy.

I never took the easy path-or it never found me. Not once.

But each and every by-way, highway and sidestep I took

provided lessons-they (still) say-not from a book.  It has always been this way.

Chasing the whatif’s and why not’s has given way to my here and now-

full of sacrifices and the challenges- the winter of my discontent-on some days-

when the weight of the world sits right there-right there in the slab of my back-always a sore spot.

I’m not that girl that always got what I wanted-but I got what I needed and got what I never thought I wanted-right when I wasn’t looking so I could not shoo it away-far away. Just let me be.

I’ve been the girl who for a long time-looked way over there for something else-for fear of looking anywhere else that would require peeling back the onion layers.

Never self medicated-but met many who did. who do. still. 

I’m not that girl-perfectly aligned and bound for the best of the best to complete the picture. I struggle.  I wonder about being a mom-a good mom-wonder if I left too soon-stayed too late. One too many creases and cracks where smooth should prevail.  But then no. 

 I think.

I am that girl.  That girl that- come one obstacle or other-one wrong path or the other-one something or another-made it to this point of knowing.  And still not know it all.

The sum total of all my girl parts that got me here-

right here.

I can say content.  Content. 

For now.

  I should have known.  Maybe I did-but did not want to hear it.  I should have known when I got the first phone call indicating there had been a significant decline with my mother.  I should have known when the Chaplin repeated the same sort of statement in her calm and monotone-with a hint of grace way.  I am smart, alert and aware. Can it be that daughters know, just know when something is wrong? Yet, even with the carefully laid out statements to prepare me- it was not easy to actually see the decline.  My mom sitting there, catching her breath, looking so much like her own daddy when he became so sick.

“How are you mom?”

 I hug her boney body, releasing the scent of her recent Marlboro Light. Damn death, she will smoke as much as she likes-though now, she tends to hold the cigarette, in that way she does, more than she actually lights it.  She seems shorter, slower and on the fringe.  My daughter hugs her, tighter even, and notices none of this.  The joys of being 7.

And then, with her mental script that loops through her mind she says

” I am doing great!” with all the optimistic cheeriness of Marjorie Morningstar.  And then she begins the loop of her self preserving well scripted text.  Repeat.  Repeat. Repeat.  Her blue eyes don’t light up anymore.

There in the back seat of her car she and my daughter continue on with their ritual upon seeing each other.  The home health care worker tells me mom is having trouble breathing-except you’d never know it listening to the conversation in the backseat.  My 70 and 7 year old. Thick as thieves.  As many times as my mom asks my daughter the same questions, she answers as if it were the first time. From time to time I get asked a question as I drive the thirty miles or so back to the island my mom loves so well.  I know this will be the last time she will make the trip in to meet us at the airport.  I turn my thoughts from things like the words last and time and concentrate on what needs to be done while we are visiting.

My mother takes a pill to breathe, a pill to remember, a pill to strengthen, a pill to distress, a pill to whet her appetite, a pill to take away the anxiety, a pill to take away the cough.  Where is my better living through chemistry?  The all knowing, sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet pill to get through it all and remain in tact. My pill to be mindful, my own pill to remember, so I please, please don’t let me forget. 

I suppose the saddest thing-apart from knowing I am losing my mother is knowing I am losing a part of my own life.  Is this the defining moment in adulthood?  Am I all grown up now?  Am I to be medicated to make it through these next few months? To maintain-and up the emotional bandwidth of taking on death and then redefining a family.  To be there. To be prepared.  Do I continue on with the skills I have-some handed down by my mother-and stay busy until I get that phone call?  That phone call that even now, when the phone rings early in the morning or late, too late at night, I feel my throat tighten.  In my compartmentalized world, I am not sure where to store this, until.  Until.  The  until with my mother is in the day to day and the week to week.  Until.

I saw this today and it hit home.  I tend to feel watching my mother emotionally ebb and flow and watching her lose more of her independence is worse than watching her physically decline.

“No people are so piteous and forlorn as those who are forced to eat the bitter bread of dependency in their old age”