Happy Belated Birthday, Evelyn Snowdon!

This was begun on September 6, 2013 and set aside.  I finished it this morning.


Yesterday would have be my mother's 85th birthday.  It's the first of her birthdays without her around.  My mother, Evelyn Marie Meserole Snowdon, died on Saturday, May 4 of this year after lingering 5 days in the hospital, in a coma from a hemorrhagic stroke.  I spent those 5 days with Mom, thanks to a confluence of events:  she got moved to Fairfax hospital from Fauquier, I had plenty of accumulated leave, my 4th grade teammates were amazing at stepping up and handling all my plans, and I had a great sub who offered to stay as long as I needed her.

Mom had the stroke at home on the Monday.  My brother Chris, who has been living with her and taking care of her, called to say Mom was saying the same sentence over and over and he couldn't understand it.  Could I?  I had just spoken to her a few hours earlier on my way home from school, and she was her normal rambling self of late.  As soon as I spoke with her I could tell something was different and I knew it was a stroke.  Mom had a history of small TIAs (transient ischemic attacks - or "mini-strokes"), so I figured this was another one.  I suggested Chris to call the rescue squad.  He did and they came to take her to Fauquier Hospital.  He rode separately and met Mom at the hospital.  Mom was still awake as Chris sat with her, but the docs there said she needed to go to Fairfax since it had a neurosurgery department.

Then it became a matter of hurry up and wait, while Chris waited for the ambulance that would take Mom the hour and a half to Fairfax.  I told him that I would meet Mom there, so he could go home and rest.

By the time mom got to Fairfax, her condition had degraded. One of the nurses said that my mother initially did respond to commands, but by the time I found her room she didn't seem to be interacting at all.  Turns out that she would need surgery to reduce the pressure on her brain from the bleed, but she would still have ramifications due to the stroke including right-side losses.  My brothers and I spoke on the phone and decided to forgo the surgery.  We consoled ourselves with the knowledge that Mom missed my dad so much, and that she would be in a better place.  

One can always second-guess those decisions, but it was a jointly made decision, it seemed wisest and what Mom would have wanted.  

So we waited.

In those 5 days, each day could have been her last, but Mom lingered.  I'm not sure why.  Some say the dying are waiting for someone to come, or waiting for someone to leave, or waiting to deal with some unresolved issue.  But, for me, I think it was perhaps to allow us the mother-daughter time that we never really had. 

Mom was in a beautiful room, thanks to my ex's pull as a physician.  It faced west, overlooking Fairfax in a way that hid the suburban homes under towering tress.  It was a glorious view.  So I sat by that window with Mom, pulling my chair close so I could hold her hand, stroke her arm and her hair.  I talked to her.  I shared letters of my father's I had brought from home, so she could hear his voice in his words.  I downloaded Andrea Bocelli and Josh Groban onto my phone, and we listened to lovely music.  Peter came down midweek to provide moral support and spent the night with us in the hospital, giving me the love I needed to give my mother the love she needed.  

Those days were excruciating, but also lovely.  My mother was a formidable woman of beauty and strong opinions.  I'm not sure why she wasn't effusive with her love, but I've come to believe that her propensity to give stuff - gifts, boxes of things she was ready to give up, freebies she'd gathered at work meetings, stacks of coupons - that giving of "stuff" was her way to give love.  

I didn't have stuff to give my mother, but I did have my time.  I am incredibly grateful for those hospital days.  It's selfish of me to think that Mom's lingering was good.  I didn't want her to suffer; I choose to believe that she wasn't.  Who knows.  Her lingering, though, allowed me the time I needed to tell my mother I loved her.  Those days allowed me to care for my mother, to be tender with her, to be a mother to the woman who was my mother.  I love you, Mom.

Free Floating

I've been so crazy, busy for the last several months that now that I'm here in Delaware, I'm not quite sure how to handle the calm.  

Having spent much of my working life being a teacher of some sort, I think in terms of the school calendar.  This past Monday was back-to-school for most of my teacher friends. I walked the pup past the neighborhood elementary school and the parking lot was full, unlike the previous week when there had been just a few early bird teachers, likely getting their rooms ready.  A teacher was heading to his car with a dolly in order to unload a desk, just as Watson and I were passing.  I said something, "welcome back" I think, and then said to the air "I'm a teacher."  And then I was stuck - stuck by the inaccuracy of that statement. I'm not now.  Or am I?  

I applied for teaching jobs in 3 local districts, but got caught up in the thick of my life and only followed through with one principal, who offered me an interview, but it was when we were away. So no job.  I've signed up to substitute but needed to make an appointment with the state police to get my fingerprinting and background check done. So, no job.  Not even subbing, yet.  How do I define myself now?  I'm a teacher, but without a job am I really?  It's perplexing.  We so often define ourselves by what we do: she's a lawyer, he's a doctor, she's in marketing, he sells cars.  Even, she's a mom, he's a stay-at-home dad. What am I? 

I'm a woman living with the man I love, trying to integrate all my things into his small place, getting to know his friends, being with him, but giving him space so I don't suffocate him.  I'm walking the dog since we don't have a fenced yard, I'm trying to eat healthy, I'm cleaning, I joined the gym, but I'm still trying to figure out the rhythm of my day without a job.  How do I manage the extra time that we all wish we had?  

That's where this sense of free-floating comes in. It's as if I'm in a dream like the ones I had as a child: jumping up and finding myself over the crowd. Flying, floating, arms out, unable to land, then realizing that I could propel myself forward by gently fluttering my arms, extending my legs. As I'd lower closer to the tops of heads, I could lift myself with some gentle effort. And then, finally, when I chose, land gently, safely, gratefully, but with a strong urge to jump and float again.

Perhaps I need to embrace this free-float of mine. Be grateful for the time and opportunity to be with myself, to learn and grow and be my own student.  I have this gift of time I've been given due to good luck, hard work, and alimony. I suppose I could say that I'm on sabbatical.  Not that that's what I'd intended, but it sure sounds good.  

So that's it.  

Sabbatical [suh-bat-i-kuh l] noun 5. any extended period of leave from one's customary work, especially for rest, to acquire new skills or training, etc.

I'm not free floating, I'm on sabbatical.

Bank Sorrows

Just when I thought things were bad, they got worse.  There's a huge backstory (cancer, deaths, separation) to share in another post, but know that right now it feels like I'm walking along a cliff's edge, just barely managing to keep my balance. I'm trying to hang onto the rocks on my left, sometimes by the tips of my ragged fingernails, just to feel the pull of gravity into the abyss of sorrow at my right.

This morning I awoke to the joy of an unplanned Saturday.  I was able to sleep past 5:30 and keep my mind off all the camp planning I should be doing.  I had a lazy pajama-clad morning with Watson and the newspaper and then decided to get dressed and return some library books, check out new ones for this week's camp classes, and deposit some checks into my dwindling account.  The bank was first and all was well until, post-deposit, the teller asked me about overdraft protection.  I said that I thought I had such, and had for 15 years, and he said, after fiddling at his computer, "No, no one's talked to you about it."  He handed me a paper about overdraft protection and fees for overdrawn checks and was confusing me into thinking I didn't have overdraft protection and needed to buy some 'plan.'  I hate stuff like that! The other teller came over and kept saying "Good Morning, Hello?" as if she was on the phone and it took me more than a moment to realize that she was talking to me.  She basically let me off the hook, saying everything was fine, I didn't need the paper, not to worry.

But worry I did.  The gravitational pull of the abyss took over and I walked out of there with tears in my eyes, not really sure of what all the fuss was about.  For the record, I've been in the position, in the past,  of overdrawing my account and having to pay exorbitant fees over and over again, which depleted my account further.  It seems patently unfair to hit those with the least funds with fees they can't afford in the first place, but I learned my lesson and never pushed the limits again.  Nonetheless, I felt shamed and embarrassed by the teller and the tears turned into full fledged crying by the time I was in my car and I had to start deep breathing to calm myself enough to start driving.

I ended up going via the Beltway to get to the library and the stress and sorrow just welled up again and I was a friggin' mess while driving. No cell phone distraction needed.  No inebriated driving.  Just sorrow.  Sadness.  Shame at my inability to deal with a bank teller.  Shame at my inability to get over my sorrows.  I was terrified that I wouldn't get to my exit, only 2 exits away, because I was shaking so much.  I was thinking, "This is what a nervous breakdown must feel like.  Can you call 911 for a nervous breakdown?"  Even now, hours later, writing about it, I get upset.  Not as upset as I was, but upset.  It was like the sorrow had welled up and just couldn't, or wouldn't, be contained anymore.  Like opening a steam valve to relieve the pressure.

The rest of the day brought its distractions and a better sense of balance, but I'm more than a little worried about walking along that cliff's edge.  I'm not sure my fingernails can hold out.

Guess who's coming to town?

Those of you who catch my posts on fb know this, but this past weekend I finally went to visit my mother. That's always a bit of a challenge, but I'll leave that for another post.
I was heading home, north on route 29, when I had to stop at a traffic light. I happened to look up in the rearview mirror and noticed the couple in the car behind me. She had a short gray bob and was adjusting a red shawl around her shoulders. He was white haired, had a lovely long white beard, and wire rimmed glasses. They had red seat covers on the car seats which helped define their light hair and got me thinking.

When the light turned I pulled away and noticed their license plate in the mirror: SLEIGH

That confirmed it! The Clauses were on their way north after a bit of a summer vacation!

It was a bit of magic I needed.
Thanks, Santa!

So I'm coming clean. No more anonymity. This is my blog. No more convoluted conjugations to make it seem like I'm not who I am. No more writing about me in the third person. So there.

The Year of the Ox

My friend Leslie, the one who has breast cancer, has had a rough year so far. She says her Vietnamese hairdresser warned her at the Lunar New Year in January that this year, the Year of the Ox, would be a hard year. "The ox is hardworking," her hairdresser said, "he works very, very hard;" it would be a difficult year for sure.

In Leslie's case, she was right. As I wrote before, it was a cancer diagnosis, mastectomy, mother in car accident, father's unexpected death, chemo, younger dog hit by car, radiation, and then the older dog put down. She has kept it pretty well together, even teaching through it all, except for the time she got sent to the Social Worker at radiation.

Leslie tells it like she's a kid who got in trouble at school, except her trouble was crying:

"It was the 6th of 7 weeks of camp, and the 6th week of my daily radiation treatments. I was counting on the momentum of camp to keep me going through the summer, but I had been teaching both morning and afternoon sessions. Our camp is very intense - like a thematic birthday party every day. It's creative and fun, with the academics slipped in under the kids' radar and in a completely authentic way. But it also required lots of planning, forethought, and running around gathering things. I was beat. I was like a precarious highwire act, just waiting for a strong wind to blow me off the wire. And I was okay, until someone asked if I was okay.

"Thursday afternoon at radiation, I was lying under the machine, listening to the mechanical buzzing, waiting for the thing to be done, hearing the Sade CD the techs had playing, and trying to hold it together. I'd lie on a table, gown tucked off to the side to uncover the left non-breast, butt up against the butt pad, left arm up over my head in an arm pad, right arm clinging to my belt buckle so as not to fall off to the side, and head tilted up and back to keep my chin out of fire of the radiation. I wasn't allowed to move.

"And the tears just started. I imagine it was the fatigue. But the tears were there and I couldn't move. I couldn't brush them away. I don't think I blinked.

"Techs come in and out between adjustments of the machine, but they don't look at you. They just do the job of switching out the plates that focus radiation on certain areas, and call out numbers to each other (99.6! shift 11.8!) to adjust the table. Sometimes the two techs you start with aren't the two techs who are there at the end, but Thursday Meghan came in at the end to lower the table and help me off.

"She saw the tears and asked if I was okay. She shouldn't have asked that! That just brought on more tears. She said how positive I'd always been and that I should take care of myself and take some time off from work. Which, of course, I couldn't. Camp classes are so personality driven, we're really discouraged from taking any time off. And I chose to teach camp. I was obligated. I cried even more and, after a hug, left to get dressed.

"I then had my radiation on Friday as usual. But Monday, as soon as I was done, the tech said the Social Worker wanted to see me. Don't worry, he said, she sees everyone.

"Yeah. Right. I knew what this was. My last week of radiation and I was being sent to the Social Worker for crying. It seriously was like being sent to the Assistant Principal. When they tell you to go, and tell you not to worry, you know you're in it. Damn. Why did I have to cry?

"She introduced herself and led me to her office, shut the door and asked how I was doing. This time I was prepared. No tears. Just a suggestion on my part that perhaps I should tell her my story first. She listened and wanted to make sure I knew she was there for me. I could see her the next day even. Would I like to do that? Had I had time to grieve for my dad?

"Who knows? How in the mix of everything that is my life this year would I know? I miss my dad. But I miss my mom being the way she used to be. I miss my breast. I miss my hair. I miss the dogs.

"Last week, when teachers had their pre-service week, I was heading off to school with purse, tote bag and lunch box over my arms. I'd grabbed the car keys off the hook in the kitchen, and was walking to the front door, when, out of habit, I stopped and grabbed the baby gate to shut the non-existent dogs in the kitchen. It was a daily habit that had become instinctive over the years.

"It took me aback. I stopped in my tracks and just cried. I cried for the dogs who were no longer there. I cried at my stupidity in thinking they were.

"Is that grief? The beginning of grieving? The end? Or just a crazy, difficult, hard year to get through? "

Leslie, next year is the Year of the Rabbit. Perhaps it will be a little easier. Just hang in there until February 14. The Lunar New Year and Valentine's Day.

Wallflowers

So, some business first.

You might notice that I'm not calling myself the Village Idiot anymore. A friend noted that my observations didn't really seem idiotic, nor comical, but rather somewhat deep and insightful. Huh.

But I thought about it and realized that perhaps I am not here just to comment on the absurd but to record those things I just noticed as well. I will now call myself the Village Wallflower.

I see kids at school who are like that. They are watchers. They don't dive into things; they don't want to make any mistakes. So they watch and listen and notice the details. Sometimes details that I'd never noticed. They're the kids who can be underestimated, but don't be fooled. They're waiting until they have things figured out, and then, like a morning glory in the early sun, open up and begin to glow.

So, I'll be the wallfower: watching and waiting and quietly letting you know what you might be missing.