The Fish Pond

Lost Connections

A History of Civilization second edition, volume two, read the worn red cover. The book had been in a box of books that I'm ashamed to admit has been sitting on my bedroom floor for the two years since my grandfather died, but I just had lacked the emotional fortitude to deal with it. This morning BigDaddyFish made me sit and go through it, because he was tired of tripping over it on the way to the bathroom in the dark. There were myriad treasures in it: an old nature book with beautiful pictures of flowers and birds that Sunny has adopted and spent hours poring through and drawing her own versions of her favorites; a book of the rules of baseball from the 1940s; my great-aunt's (who raised my grandmother as her own) bible, with her name and the year 1936 written in pen on the first page. BDF had saved a couple of history books he wanted, and that left this red book, clearly an old college textbook, and at first I was perplexed why I'd saved an old history text. Then I opened it.

On the third page, in the upper right-hand corner, were the words "Mary Lee Exxxxxxxx, Newell Hall 227, 823-9667" written in blue ink in my mother's hand. I ran my fingers lightly over the words as the tears welled and my heart clenched. I caught a sob in my throat and had to put the book down, overcome. BDF took the book from me as I let the wave wash through me and then pass.

"This is a GREAT book!" he enthused, flipping through the pages, showing me passages my mother had highlighted, a page where she'd written "Exam" in red and and run a line down the middle of a page. "Can I read it?"

"After I'm done with it." I nodded.

I took the book back, flipping through it, scanning the pages for the passages my mother thought important. "Between 1715 and 1789 the commercial revolution was the most mature of the three." The three what? "Meantime, the improvement of charts and the installation of lighthouses and buoys made navigation safer." Good to know. I noticed that the front half of the book was rather heavily marked, the last half marks appeared rather sparse. Was this one of the courses she dropped when she dropped out of school to marry my dad? Or had she, like her daughter after her, tended to lose interest and discipline as the semester wore on? Questions for a woman I never knew, questions that will forever be unanswered.

I slipped the book onto one of the bookshelves in my room, where it will remain for my children to put in a box for two years after I'm gone, until they themselves will puzzle over what their mother was doing with a marked-up history text from a course at Towson State University for a school year a handful of years before she was born.

Olympic Blubbering

Friday evening I was looking at one of the many sites for the Olympics to find out when the opening ceremonies were on and what the schedule was for the other events I was interested in, and as my eye scanned down the page it found and zeroed in on something I had completely forgotten about: the sport that my grandfather judged for over 40 years. I had somehow totally forgotten it was an olympic sport, and when my eye saw it listed there I was unprepared for the waves of grief that washed over me. Within seconds I was sobbing, head cradled in my arms, sitting at my dining room table with my laptop in front of me.

How on earth had I forgotten? For forty years it had taken my grandfather, and later my grandmother, all over the world for meets, to two other continents and to almost every state in the US. It had taken them to two Olympics. They missed my birthday more years than not because the annual convention is always held in late July. Even when my grandfather wasn't judging, which was rare, they followed the sport intently. They used to call us up every time it was on TV, which was a rare occurence, even though most often, especially in our teenage years, we just weren't that interested. They would talk on and on about seeing this person or that person at meets, and after my grandfather died and I had to track down their contact information to notify them, it was as if I knew those people, even though I hadn't "met" them since I was a baby.

I have always watched the Olympics with great enthusiasm. I remember sitting on the floor in the family room at my parents' old house when I was about six, caught up in the excitement and emotion of the games. I remember being upset and angry when we boycotted the summer games in 1980, not clearly understanding why. I have always looked forward to Olympic time, and did so this time with more anticipation than usual, because this is the first Olympics that my older two kids "get" it, understand that they, too, have the potential to do great things in representation of our country if they so have the desire and are willing to put in the hard work to do it.

I guess this demonstrates the lengths to which the mind will go to protect the heart when necessary. I was already missing my grandfather tremendously, and this is the first Olympics where he isn't calling me to tell me that his sport is on and to watch it. I am grateful to my brain for doing what it had to do so that I could look forward to watching with anticipation and not too much pain.

Once again, though he is gone, he is here.

This year, I watch the Olympics with great enthusiasm. I cheer for our team, and revel in the achievement of all the athletes, Americans, allies, or not. Doesn't matter - I just love to watch the amazing things those fit people do with their bodies. I think about the hard work and dedication they all have, that their families all have, and wonder if I could make that kind of commitment, to achieving something like that myself, to helping my kids achieve that. I don't know the answer; my gut says no, I give up too easily, I search for moderation and balance in all aspects of my life. Trout is a daredevil, and I can readily imagine the day she comes to me begging to make the commitment with her to swimming, or ballet, or volleyball, or gymnastics, or fencing, or something or other. I know my grandfather would have said yes, immediately, with no hesitation. I hope that when the time comes, he will give me the courage to say yes.

In the mean time, I'll just continue to be a blubbering mess with every medal ceremony. Michael Phelps just hasn't been good for my emotional state. But he sure is fun to watch.

One More Day

I think if you ask most people who have suffered the trauma of losing a loved one much too early, they'd tell you that there are few things they wouldn't give up to have that person back, even if just for one more day. One more day to ask the unasked questions, to express our love, our regrets, one more day to make our apologies for being asses. One more chance to right wrongs we have committed, one more day to experience.

That's an awful lot of pressure on one day.

Losing my mom when I was 15 was one of the most profound experiences of my life. It shaped most of who I am today, of how I choose to live my life. And I always said I'd give almost anything to have her back for one more day. To ask her about my childhood. To let her see her grandchildren. To apologize for being a jerk on the day she died, for telling her I hated her. To let me take her picture a hundred times (she was profoundly camera shy), so my kids would have some way to know her, so that I would never forget what she looked like.

I have now spent one more day on this earth than my mother did.

One more day of life. Of getting thrown up on. Of getting talked back to. One more day of tantrums and messes and shouts of "I don't WANT to wear clothes today, I WANT TO WEAR my PAJAMAS!" and "WHY can't I stay home by myself???!? I'm EIGHT, YOU KNOW!" Oh, how well I know, my dear. One more day of timeouts and confiscation of property and tears and slammed doors. One more day of hurt feelings and broken hearts.

One more day of telling off credit card companies, and shopping for groceries, and trying to qualify for a bridge loan to get into the bigger house we desperately need. One more day of paying bills and doing dishes and laundry and wiping down counters and cooking dinner. One more day of picking up clothes and toys and trash. One more day of driving kids home from preschool.

But also one more day of rubber stamping, of making valentine cards by hand. One more day of sharing the pride of being the leader at school. One more day helping a three-year-old pour her heart into the valentine she's making for her Daddy. One more day of excitement over something new learned at school. One more lost tooth. One more night of forgetting to be the tooth fairy, and feeling guilty and leaving too much money for one tooth in the morning. One more day of giggled peek-a-boo, of a mischievous little boy who climbs chairs with delight and then cries in fear when he can't get down. One more day of cuddles and nummies. One more day of the song "Here's a heart and here's some glue, here's the letters I Love You, Can you guess what we will do, Hold it and give it to [Mommy]" complete with hand motions. One more day with my beloved husband, of sharing his stress and trials at work, his nervousness over meetings. One more day of his kisses, one more night in his arms.

One more day would never, ever be enough.

And yet, somehow it is. One more day, so very full indeed.

For my Mom

August 2, 1985 was a day a whole like today, except I don't remember it being so hot.  My sister and I went to a recreation department camp, where they had 2-week sessions, just day camp, but on the second Thursday of the session camp had a sleep over.  I was a counselor in training by then, and I remember staying up all night long with a group of younger campers to help out.  My mom picked up my sister and I from the bus stop that morning.  Friday was always her cleaning day, the day where she scrubbed the house from top to bottom.  She said she was feeling tired, and asked for my sister and I to help with the house.  I was 15, a horrid age anyway for a girl and her relationship with her mom, and I HATED to clean house (not much changed there), and I was tired and cranky anyway, so I "resisted," and we had a huge fight.

I told her I hated her.  She made me clean anyway.

She was real tired, said she'd been up with my dad the night before (of this I have no doubt - they didn't have too many kid-free nights, and liked to stay up and drink a lot of wine on the weekends, anyway), so she went upstairs to take a nap in the afternoon.  My grandmother came over, because my grandfather was out of town, and our family always ate out for dinner on Friday nights, to give my mom a break.  My dad got home about oh, 5:15 or so.  He went in to wake my mom up, and soon came out of the room and called down for my grandmother to come up, but for us kids to stay downstairs. 

An ambulance arrived about 15 minutes later.  I had to run up the stairs to grab the dog, who was attacking the paramedics who came to help my mom.  He didn't understand they were trying to help her.  That's how I found out something was wrong.

My mom was blue.  They pulled her off the bed to get her on a hard surface to resume the CPR that my dad and grandmother inexpertly started on her (it wasn't doing any good since the mattress would give with each chest compression).

Mom was loaded in the ambulance, and driven away.

She never came home.  My dad came home a couple of hours later.  He took my sister and I in the bedroom, and told us that our mother was gone.  My sister wailed and punched the wall.  I was just in shock.

She was 37 years old. 

They did an autopsy.  She died of a heart attack.  For years, my father insisted that she had arteriosclerosis, not ATHerosclerosis, and that her death had nothing to do with cholesterol and such.  More than 14 years later, I finally got a copy of her death certificate for myself when I started having heart-related problems.  One of her coronary arteries was 90% blocked, and she got a blood clot in her aorta.  She died peacefully in her sleep, of old-fashioned, run-of-the-mill, clogged arteries.

I internalized my grief; I was the oldest, and my dad fell apart, so I had to step up and make sure we kept running as a household.  I called people to notify them.  I wrote thank you notes after the funeral.  I kept this up for all of high school and much of college, when I started to have completely unrelated issues, and finally got the therapy and help I needed to process my grief.  I had told her I hated her.  I had previously had thoughts of her "going away," though usually through divorce and not death.  I thought I had done this to her.  I hated that she died thinking I hated her.  My therapist, and my father, assured me that she knew I didn't hate her.  I wasn't so sure then.

Now, I am a mother.  I understand.

Now, I miss her more than I ever did in the first 10 years after she died.  Now, I have kids, and wish she could know them, too.  I know how much she would have loved them, and they her.  I hate that they are missing one of their grandparents, and in fact, the only grandparent that could have nurtured them like I do.  Now, I am a grown woman, and I wish I knew what my mom was like as a woman, and not as my mother.  It was too painful for anyone who knew her to keep in touch, and my father's memory isn't reliable, not that he really would have known a lot of the things I want to know about her, anyway.  What made her stay with my dad despite his general crankiness and his mental illness?  How did she feel about staying home?  What other ambitions in life did she have besides raising my sister and me?  How did she cope with the isolation of being a SAHM in a careerist world?  What was I like as a baby?  Why didn't she stop smoking?  Why did she drink so much?  What were her pregnancies like?  What was her favorite food?

I hope that wherever she is now, she knows that I did, in fact, love her.  I love her still.  I miss her.  I hope she is proud of the woman I've become, of who I try to be.

I am now 36 years old.  My mom has been gone 21 of those years.

I love you, Mommy.