P.S. I love you

Dear Mom,

You may already know this, depending on how much you can see from where you are, but last week the traveling husband and I took Nine, Eleven, and OtisNO* to Palm Springs for a few days.

I figured a change of scenery would be good for me, and it was. But everywhere I looked, I saw you.

How could I not? You and Dad used to go to Palm Springs all the time. Lying on a raft in the pool was your thing. Getting brown and wearing flip-flops was where it was at. Palm Springs was where you got your Hawaii fix, when we couldn’t go to Hawaii. Plus, since your initials were P.S., and Palm Springs is also P.S., you were always kind of synonymous with the place.

And I don’t know if this is just coincidence, or what, but did you know that Frank Sinatra, the man who recorded the theme song for your entire life (“I Did It My Way”) had a house in Palm Springs? Ever since I can remember, that song was all about you. And to prove it, your license plates read “PSMYWAY” for as long as I can remember.

“PSMYWAY” was you, and Palm Springs, and Frank Sinatra.

It was clearly NOT a joke about the fact that you never knew which way to go when you were driving.

Right? Because we were never “lost.” We were “on an adventure.”

Now you’re gone, but you aren’t lost. You’re just on another adventure. And in true form, you left for your adventure your way.

We moved you to hospice on a Thursday. It was a rough transition for you – for all of us – but our plan was to get you comfortable, and get you home.

When I called on Friday, I was told that you were dying. It wouldn’t be long. A couple days, maybe. You don’t expect to hear that news while you’re sitting at the car dealership waiting for your oil change to be done, you know?

But I totally kept it together, Mom. I swallowed repeatedly and blinked tears away, paid my bill (no idea what it cost or what the service manager said to me), and climbed into the car. I do remember being kind of amazed that I could put one foot in front of the other. Then I pulled out of the driveway, drove across the street, stopped in a small parking lot, and promptly lost my shit.

I called the husband hysterical, terrified and rambling:

OHMYGODITSHEREISITREALLYHEREHOWCANITBEHEREITHOUGHTIHADMORETIMEWHATDOIDOWHATDOIDOWHATDOIDOSHOULDICALLMYDADDOIGOHOMEWHOWILLPICKTHEGIRLSUPFROMSCHOOLWHATDOIDOWHATDOIDOWHATDOIDO.

Well, he may not have been able to get a word in edgewise, but he knew what to do. He booked me on the next flight out to see your pretty face. (You always did like him.)

I came straight to you. I brought a small bag of clothes and a big bag of Excedrin, because the nurse I spoke to said you might not see Monday. (Ouch, right? The blows were coming hard and fast. Hence the Excedrin.)

The weekend flew by.

Then, Monday came and went.

So I went to Target, which I’m sure you know we could see from your hospice window (thank you Jesus/Mom/Karma), and I bought some more comfy clothes to hang out in. I wore the same flannel pajamas every night. I think you would have liked them. I’m wearing them as I type, too. Now I call them My Hospice Pajamas, so they make me sad, but I wear them anyway, because they remind me of you.

Tuesday came and went.

I watched a lot of TV. I held your hand almost nonstop, day and night. I was the only one who could get your wedding ring off. We listened to the Peaceful Christmas compilation on Pandora, because the Country Christmas mix got a little twangy for us. We bought you a thick, soft blanket, which I think you liked the feel of, and we put Christmas lights around the foot of your bed, along with some sparkly garland. And we hung one ornament from it. An owl. I wish I knew when your love for owls started.

Oh, and you probably know this too, but owls are freaking everywhere now. I don’t know if it’s a sign or a trend, but I’m trying very, very hard not to buy everything I see with an owl on it, or soon I will be that crazy old lady with all the owls. No offense.

Wednesday came, and with it came one of my favorite nurses. She walked in and Mom, I shit you not, she said “Well, she’s still here. She’s doing it her way, isn’t she?”

I just stared at her. It was like one of those movie scenes where it’s like twelve minutes until the end of the movie and something finally goes DING in the movie star’s head, and everything pivotal that happened in the previous hour and thirty-three minutes replays itself, and she understands that all those moments were actually missed clues along the way, and then it zooms back to her face, and she realizes her journey is complete.

Except for at that moment, I was the movie star, and my movie took me zooming back to being a kid in the back of the “PSMYWAY” mobile. I saw your tanned, pedicured feet in flip-flops by a pool. I watched you singing along to “I Did It My Way” as you smiled at Dad. And then it zoomed back to my puffy, exhausted, grateful face. And I said with a sad smile, You have no idea.

We had some flip-flops-by-the-pool time last week in Palm Springs. We had some good meals and good times. And I don't know why, but all three nights we spent there I found myself awake at 3:38am. Why I woke up at the same time each morning is anybody's guess, but each time I spent a good hour thinking about you and trying to figure it out.

Then I came home and promptly got the flu. But don’t worry, I’m better now. And I’m out of Frank Sinatra land and back to real life. I have to go to Costco tomorrow because Nine and Eleven lost their goggles, and we are out of paper towels and freezer bags.

I wonder if they have a gigantic pack of owls there. I’ll look.

I miss you, Mom.

Xoxo,

Me

P.S. I love you.

*Note to the reader: The 160-pound puppy’s name is Otis. But when we first brought him home, it sounded like his name was OtisNO, because he was constantly either eating something inappropriate or peeing on it (or both). My Mom was in town for a visit and for her, the nickname stuck. So now you know. And in case you were wondering, OtisNO loved Palm Springs. He did not lose his goggles.

Nobody does it better.

Nobody does it better,

Makes me feel sad for the rest.

Nobody does it half as good as you,

Baby, you’re the best.

- Carly Simon

My Dad has always loved James Bond flicks. What’s not to love really? You’ve got a martini-swilling Brit who’s good with a gun and even better with the ladies. There’s intrigue, booze, and the promise of lots of hot sex on mink coats in a car that turns into a submarine.

It was a winning combo for a nuclear engineer who lived in the suburbs with his wife and their four children. I mean, he enjoys his evening cocktail (replace the Vesper with a scotch), and according to my Mom they had lots of sex (cue: fingers in the ears, and sing it with me LALALALALA), but figuring out how to unkink the garden hose was about as intriguing as things got in our neck of the woods.

Yep, my Dad is an OG fan from way back – we’re talking Sean Connery in Dr. No circa 1962 (before I was even a twinkle in his eye). He stayed loyal as Connery left and Roger Moore took the helm, which was a far easier transition to make than the shifts to follow. Timothy Dalton was cute enough, but he was missing the depth of character that makes James Bond so engaging. Pierce Brosnan was a much better choice, and his Bond days were a preview to the dashing character he played so well in The Thomas Crown Affair (if you haven’t seen it, you’re missing out). But the most current 007 – Daniel Craig – is the closest to the early days. He’s got just the right mix of ruthlessness, heartache, and badass.

As you may have gathered, I was educated early on all things 007. Octopussy. Sexy! That huge guy with the weird braces. Scary! And The Spy Who Loved Me. Which for my Dad may have been all about Barbara Bach in a bikini, but for me, it was that Carly Simon song.

In our house, Carly was played alongside Mac Davis, Simon & Garfunkel, and Anne Murray. It was probably a broader play list than that, but these are the ones I remember the most. A Sunday at my house meant listening to the wind chimes through the open sliding glass door, and hearing those 70s tunes come through the 8-track, while a baseball or golf game played (muted) on the TV. The house smelled like coffee and cigarettes, the LA Times were spread all over the coffee table, and the garden hose was kink-free. Saturday mornings were beauty parlor appointments and grocery shopping and the Little League field. But Sunday mornings were chill mode.

Those were good days. The memories from those days are what compels me to shop for wind chimes and listen to 70s music even now.

Especially now.

For Mom, nobody did it better than my Dad. She used to say that he could just look at her a certain way, or reach for his zipper (cue: LALALALALA) and she’d be pregnant. And she said that when he asked, her answer was always yes.

Easy? Maybe.

Frisky? Yep. (Her nickname wasn’t “Pussycat” for nothing.)

Crazy in love? Absolutely.

One wouldn’t necessarily expect all that game from a quiet engineer hailing from South Bend, Indiana, but still waters run deep.

Maybe on those Sunday mornings, before the stereo and golf got going, a little 007 mission was happening behind the closed bedroom door. Perhaps Dad took a sip of his chilled martini coffee, set it down on the cockpit control panel bedside table, and handled his business with the babe in the bikini his wife of many, many years. All I know is they told me they were “talking”, and I found that boring, so I wandered back down the hallway and left them to their “conversation”.

The bottom line is that I grew up knowing certain things were good. Wind chimes. James Bond. Unconditional love. Music on Sundays. Coffee. “Conversations” behind a closed bedroom door.

And I grew up knowing that Mom was hopelessly devoted and happily convinced that nobody did anything better than my Dad. Selfishly, I like to think the last line of the chorus – Baby, you’re the best – applied to her baby. Me.

I’m pretty sure I’m right on that count. And she was right too, of course. That suburban Bond girl was a smart lady.

Suddenly, I have a taste for a martini. Who's pouring?

I'm a dip.

Sometimes I feel

Like I’m a 7-layer dip.

I’ve got tiers, and I’m good,

And I know my way around a chip.

If you don’t care to dive,

You’ll just scoop into the cream.

It’s friendly and accessible,

But down deep is the dream.

The salsa layer is spicy,

The guacamole is a delight.

The cilantro you love or hate,

But the refrieds are the best bite.

Some try to get there,

But their chips bend or break.

Only authentic dippers can reach it,

No beans for the fake.

A little taste might be plenty,

For those who don’t yet know.

But the ones who already love it,

Can leap in - hello!

You know I’m good with a cocktail,

And spirits are the theme today.

So be safe, salty and drunk with me,

And have a great St. Paddy’s Day.

I'm barely fine.

At the risk of sounding ungrateful, please don't ask me how I am. And especially don’t ask how I’ve been. I know you mean well and it's a simple, kind inquiry. Or maybe it's just what you say without thinking with a quick smile, as you rush to your car, or the coffee shop, never really stopping your forward motion because you're not actually trying to invite conversation. As the words come out, you’re already nodding and getting ready to say “Good!” You’re expecting just a quick, simple "Fine, and you?" which is perfect because you're cordial, and nice, but let’s face it, you're also in a hurry. Which I get, I'm not trying to give each person I see at Starbucks a full ten minutes either.

Now, none of this applies to those of you who say to me expectantly "How. Are. You." because you've read my heart and you're sitting down with a full cup of tea, ready to hear it. Because you know that question is for you - and to me - an invitation to let it fly. To you, I can say (and probably have said well before 8:00am or after 10:00pm) that I'm doing pretty well as long as I don't have to say out loud "I miss her."; that I'm shredded and raw and puffy, and I can’t stop eating noodles; that I dreamed of her last night because I heard that song on the radio that reminds me of her and I cried, even though I hadn't cried in two days which I thought meant I was past the crying. And you nod, and wrinkle up your nose, and quietly shush your kids and let them watch a little more TV because you’re listening. And I have loved that lifeline. I have clung to it and will continue to do so, even as weeks turn to months and things get "easier".

I can see that while it's been a very, very sad few months (year?), I should be fine. Better than fine. I mean, tomorrow will mark three months now and shouldn't I be fine? Shouldn’t I be better than fine? I haven't lost an arm or my sight. I haven't just sent someone off to fight in a war. Nobody – thank heavens – has been abducted by pervs or aliens or anybody. I know this in my head, and I recognize my loss isn't unique or special in the realm of Life's Lessons And Loss. I get it. You're born, you live, you die. And yet, I'm still stumbling around off balance. I can steady myself as I go but something is off. My world is officially rocked and as one friend’s note described so perfectly, I am untethered.

I read somewhere that our grief is our love turned inside out. That's why our grief is so big and deep, because our love is too. We know loss is coming and yet in one of life's great miracles and mysteries, we love anyway. We love all the way down into our bones, knowing that we will one day lose, and those bones will shatter along with our hearts, and we will desperately long for that which we can no longer have. Ever. 

We run along like children, skipping in the sun, laughing and loving and fighting and gritting our teeth. We make plans and drinks and memories and dinner and babies. And then one day, suddenly, we find ourselves frozen in the dark.

Or maybe it's not so sudden.

Maybe instead it’s realizing the bright light of life is on a dimmer switch you were too busy – or distracted, or dysfunctional, or afraid – to notice until now. Slowly you're able to take off your sunglasses without squinting, and then as it gets darker, you find yourself nearly holding your breath and straining to make out the figures you see slipping away into the purple, dusky distance. And finally it's pitch black and cold and nobody feels like playing or skipping or laughing anymore, least of all you.

Or me, as it were.

I suppose I always knew it was coming, but especially in the last year or so it became unavoidably apparent that not only could it happen, but it would.

And it did.

And I'm trying to be grateful, and cheerful, and pep talk myself into exercise and smiles and an unclenched jaw, I really am.

And some days I'm okay. Some days I'm even better than fine. I'm rolling along, moving forward, checking all the boxes, and then...boom. A huge iron gate slams shut in front of me with a crash and a wall closes in right behind me (thud) and the realization that she's only in my heart and not in my world anymore takes me by the throat, puts it's cold mouth over mine and inhales me out of myself. The sun is gone and I don't recognize myself because who am I if I am only what's left of her. I've never felt more like a lost, trapped little girl and yet I am also now all grown up.

I still can't catch my breath in those moments. I can't look at my feet or hands without seeing hers. I see her in my freckles and nose and in the way I put on lipstick, and I see her in my daughters.

Some days it's so comforting I want to wrap myself up in it and let it warm me through.

And other days, it leaves me barely fine, stuck between that wall and that gate, with only my unrecognizable self, just trying to breathe without falling to my knees, because carpool and homework and making dinner is hard enough without a complete breakdown attached to it. Seriously, 5th grade math makes me want to cry as it is.

And so when you ask how I am, my real answer is so complicated that it leaves me sputtering through an uncomfortable “Well…? I’m…uh…”. You’ll have to slow your forward motion and miss your coffee date, and really, even if you wanted the whole story, it’s way too much for a passing sound bite. Especially pre-caffeine.

So how about I spare you the awkward silence (and the cold latte) and you spare me the question that used to be so easy to answer. Let's instead just switch it up. Throw me a “Hi...nice to see you.” I’ll take a “Hey, great flip flops.” Possibly, “Good morning, you have spinach between your teeth.” Anything but “How are you?”

Just until I can get past those crashing iron gates.

Or, forever.

Whichever comes first.

The scoop. (Not for the faint of heart.)

Here's the scoop.

Nobody puts Baby in the corner. I for one don't want everyone to think I'm sitting in a dark room a la Glenn Close, flicking the light off and on, because that's only me part of the time. In general, like I said, I'm rolling along, checking the boxes.

So today I thought I'd share this box with you:

The puppy, in case you've not met him, is 160 pounds of happy. He's on a diet because even for a Bernese Mountain Dog, one-sixty is pushing some sort of limit. Plus, we are in Los Angeles, so you know, image is everything to him, and once he heard about the Beyonce and Jay-Z cleanse, he was like, Sign me up. We support his need to express himself and also I don't want anyone in my life to lose their ability to breathe when he gallops up to them and arranges himself on their lap.

Yep, he's one gigantic hunk of hairy love. A bull in a china shop with a big heart, droopy jowls, and huge paws.

And you know what they say about guys with big feet.

That's right.

Big feet, gigantic...poop. 

(Oh yes, I'm going there.)

I kid you not, on today's walk when he, uh...expressed himself, I heard a THUNK on the trail. Every single one is a double-bagger for me. I need space between me and the poop, or at least two layers of plastic. One just won't do. It takes some serious skill and speed to harvest this crop. I can only hold my breath for so long. Sometimes I need to use two hands. (That's four bags, for those of you who have lost count.) 

Anyway, today after I knotted up the bags, I hung the package from the handy poop bag hook on the dispenser, which is attached to the leash. As we finished our stroll, the tethered bags hit my leg a couple times and I'm pretty sure I have a lavender-and-poop-scented charley horse.

Granted, wrangling his poop tends to be a lot less tricky than the up-the-back situation that infants manage to spring on us. CONFESSION: I threw the poop-up-the-back onesies away along with the diaper. I know children are precious but I didn't want that preciousness in my washing machine.

In summary, poop.

You're welcome.

Head in the clouds.

"For a second I was almost jealous of the clouds. Why was he looking to them for an escape when I was right here beside him?" ~ Kamila Shamsie, Kartography

My mom loved clouds. Whenever I look at the sky, I think of her, whether there are tons of clouds, or just one, or none at all. She was always taking pictures of clouds wherever she went. Usually at sunset, frequently with palm trees in the foreground, almost always with a pink blur in one of the corners - her finger.

Yesterday I was on a plane for the first time since losing her. I was in a window seat, which is rare, but fitting, because as I looked out the window while we soared into the sky, through one layer and then the next of cloud after cloud, I suddenly thought, "I wonder if this is how she felt when she left?"

Until then, I'd been mostly terrified every time I thought of that moment when she finally let go. I always think how scary it must feel to exhale for the last time and silently slip away, knowing what you're leaving behind. Knowing what you'll never see or feel or touch again. And not knowing where you'll go.

But then the thought creeps in that maybe at that last minute, that last breath, somehow you do know exactly where you're going, and it's amazing, and that's what helps you release your grip on this world, and turn toward whatever awaits you in the next.

So when I looked out the window and saw all white, and realized I was completely within a cloud, I wondered about her. I wondered if at her last moment she inhaled deeply and smiled and said "Finally!", outstretching her arms, tipping her head back, and letting go as her spirit found it's buoyancy again and she soared, leaving behind the frustration and the pain and the cage that her body had become.

A friend of mine sent me a card and inside she put a poem. It describes the departing soul as a ship with beautiful white sails, gliding towards the horizon. And as she sails, everyone who watches her slip further and further away says quietly, "There she goes." And those beyond the horizon wait expectantly, and when they see her coming over to their side, they cry out in jubilation, "Here she comes!"

I keep that card with me in my purse, and I read it from time to time. I'm comforted by the reminder that she is not alone. It helps me step outside of my pain and realize that in order for her pain to end, she had to go towards the horizon, towards the unknown. And that the second she let go of this world, as I crumbled, she became whole. She took hold of my sister's hand for the first time in eleven years. The joy she must have felt to be reunited with her first girl lifts my broken heart up, and while it doesn't heal it, it gives me a soft place to land when I stumble and fall.

When I returned from my quick trip, Nine, Eleven, and the traveling husband all welcomed me with bright faces and open arms. I breathed them in and looked up at the sky knowing that as my Mom has become the clouds, I have become her. I want her with me like my girls want me with them. And while I can't have what I want, I can give them what they need, and I know that my Mom is watching, smiling, finally, from a place of peace.

We are both home now.

We are both home.