Nana

Nana thinks she's dying. I don't know how else to put it.

She had a health scare a few weeks ago, and she's having a really hard time recovering. She keeps talking about how she wants to be well, but she's just getting sicker. She says she doesn't think she'll ever fully recover.

Part of me wants to tell her to snap out of it--that she can and will recover. Another part of me believes her.

It's all I can think about.

I can't navigate the world without Nana.

I just have no idea what that would look like.

She is my source of never-ending love, compassion, wisdom, and chocolate.

Together.

I'm lying in bed wondering how I'm going to put on a smile and gather enough energy to play with my active little girl when she wakes up from her nap.

...

They cried and confessed and questioned and proclaimed and prayed.

They talked about Hope and Christ and Promises.

The pastor prayed that his death would bring reconciliation among the families--clearly he knew some of our story.

In a sense, death can be healing for the mourners--something I never understood until today.

We are a very broken family, no doubt, but we are also a family united in mourning.

For the first time, we are united.

We know grief and how to fight our way through the storms; we each know how to cope because we've had to do a lot of it.

We don't know how to do it together, though.

A mother

He was technically my step-brother, although I'd only seen him a handful of times. I saw his name and picture in the local newspaper--reporting him missing, and I dreaded the news that would follow--news that seemed inevitable.

We got the news today.

It has always been difficult for me to feel empathy for his mother--until now. It was easy to make her a scapegoat--the villain in the story of our family falling apart. It wasn't her fault. I always knew that, but I didn't know her, so it was much easier to hate her.

Now I see her for who she is: A mother grieving her son's death.

It must be the worst pain there is.

My heart aches and my hands shake today.

A pain that's unimaginable.

"Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."

When something this messy happens, it's hard to decide how to respond. Anger? Sadness? Love? All three feels about right. I just wish I knew what I'm supposed to DO.

This world is really screwed up sometimes.

Mama's vows

"Every child begins the world again." 

--Henry David Thoreau

I cried as we shared our stories--stories that are filled with a legacy of brokenness. We talked about how little we knew about the home that must have been filled with hurt--the home that raised her mom and my dad. In our family, it just isn't talked about. But we know that people aren't born with the issues that plagued our parents; they're issues that must be developed over time and painfully.

She said she was excited for me because having a baby changes things. It's healing. It's a second chance. It's our way of making it right and proving to the world that the cycle can be broken.

It made me think about the things I want to make sure that Klara will never know--and those things she will know intimately.

As your mama, sweet little one, I promise that:
You will never see me drunk. Ever.
My hands will be used to nurture you, not to hurt you.
I will notice you, know you, and celebrate you.
You will know, in the core of your being, that you are loved and wanted and that you, and all human beings, deserve to feel that way.

Needy.

In the last year, Livermore (and, I imagine, many other cities) has experienced a homelessness boom. When I was a child, I don't remember ever seeing a homeless person in Livermore, and now we have a tent city of sorts out by the freeway; the times they are a changin'. People have been complaining about it on Facebook because, according to their comments, Livermore has no ordinances regarding people who are homeless, and some people think they should be "kicked out of our city."

After a number of comments on a post from people who were "fed up with the bums," my friends' (I consider all four of her children my friends) mom wrote, "Maybe they just didn't have someone to help them when they needed it." You see, she helps people; it just comes naturally for her. If someone's in need (even just in need of a little extra comfort), there's always a spot at her table, a place on her couch, or an extra stocking on the mantle at Christmas. She's good at loving people--practically, how they need it. I haven't stopped thinking about her comment since she wrote it a few months ago.

Lately, I've needed to depend on my family and friends more than I'd like to. My mom and step dad are helping me with my medical bills, my friends are loaning me their maternity clothes, and my colleagues are helping me through my rough days. All of them are there for me for an extra "pick-me-up" (often in the form of dessert). I wonder what it would be like to not have people to support me; I've never known what that feels like.

I hope I never forget to notice and help those in need--of financial support, emotional support, and love--and we're all in need of a little extra love.

Bigger than a man yet so much smaller.

It was the most vivid nightmare, yet. It's been three nights, and I still can't shake it.

I could hear the muffled bellows of his voice reprimanding you, a voice filled with hatred and disgust--the too-familiar voice of my childhood.
The walls were shaking as he threw you against them.
The pounding of his crazed steps down the hallway assured me that this was no nightmare--this was real.
I can still feel the adrenaline rush that told me that I was the only one who could save you.
I held you as you shook, and I called for help.
I told the police that, now, he was trying to kill my brother and they just had to take him to jail.
This was it.

Your chair was empty.

We all sort of had a feeling that you wouldn't make it tonight. That didn't make it any easier, though. It's the first time, since you were born, that I haven't shared a holiday with you, and it's just not the same without you there. The image of you alone in your apartment makes me ill.

I hope you get better.

Dear Dad,

What you don't realize is that this looks all too familiar to us. You're working the steps, and you're at step nine.

I think I'm supposed to have forgiven you by now, and I usually say I have, but, to be honest, I have no idea what that looks like. The memories of you have become so much a part of my consciousness that I have no idea how to reconcile those memories with this abstract idea called "forgiveness."

I will never forget the way Mom looked and sounded when she was sitting on the floor sobbing in a way that I had never (and have never since) heard a person sob.

I can't forget the note you wrote on the whiteboard in our house after we moved out that said, "Life is good." Mom put that whiteboard on the fridge. It was for phone messages, and I probably wasn't supposed to see your note, but I did. I wrote in response, "My life sucks." And it did. It was awful.

I will never forget the many family vacations that you destroyed through drinking and drugs and your ruthless anger. I will never forget the embarrassment that I felt when I knew that the people at the other campsites could hear you or the fear I felt driving in the car with you after you had been drinking.

I will never forget Mom's screams from the bedroom. I heard the pounding and the sobbing and the screaming.

I will never forget the time when I was an angel in the drive thru nativity at church. You drove through drunk, honking at me. The angel next to me said, "Who is that idiot?" I said, "I don't know," in a voice of disgust. I couldn't even admit that you were my dad.

I will never forget hurrying home from school to clean the house every day. I thought that, maybe if the house was clean, you would be happy. You never noticed, and there was always something that was wrong.

I will never forget the feeling of dread as I climbed the front porch steps with friends from the neighborhood--never really sure what we would walk in on.

I will never forget night after night of Mom wondering where you were. Driving through the parking lot at the local bar should have become routine, but every time it would make my heart race because I was afraid you would come out and see us.

I will never forget Roxanne's boyfriend sleeping in his car in front of Nana's house because he was afraid you would come and kill us--an act that has made me love my brother-in-law unconditionally forever and hate you a little more.

It's just hard to take you seriously, now. I can only make amends with you so many times before I start protecting myself from you rather than trusting in your good intentions. I'm a big girl now. A girl who knows who I am and what makes me happy and that you just don't fit into that picture.

You know, I'm not sure I do forgive you. I just don't know how I can.

She's Somebody's Hero

You were born 53 years ago today.

It's weird to think of you before me. You were a baby, a carefree child, an awkward teenager, and a stressed out college student at some point, I guess. To me, though, you are Mother. It's the only role that makes sense for you to fill.

You are the one I can count on to bring me medicine when I am sick. You are the person I call when I'm crying hysterically for no logical reason. You are the one to come to my defense when someone has hurt me. You are the one who knows me better than I know myself. You are the one who gives and gives and gives until you, too, just need to break down and cry, and then you do it all over again.

You are Mom. 

Thanks for giving me life and for teaching me how to live.

Kirk says,

I was once told that I measure everything on a scale of "cuteness." It's true, and my mom and I share a love for all things cute.

Sometime during my adolescence, my mom undertook a recipe card project of epic proportions. She was tired of not remembering whether or not we liked a recipe in her recipe file, so she decided to start making notes on the cards and then laminating them. When I went away to college, one of my leaving-home-projects was copying my mom's recipe cards, so I have photo copies of her cards in my own recipe file.

I often pull out a recipe and find something written on it like, "Sherry says this is the best pasta she's ever had," "Dawn recommends making these in the crock pot," or "Kirk said, 'Can we just have hot dogs?'"

Tonight, I had my mom over for dinner for sweet potato fries and corn flake chicken. (Sometimes you just gotta.) The recipe card says, "[a picture of a heart] I bake these for a healthier version. Kirk likes them fried better! Kirk couldn't wait to tell Dad about the great chicken Mom made while he was working at Clear Lake 6/96."

It makes me laugh, but it also makes me appreciate my mom. She was always coming up with little systems to make our house run more smoothly (laundry baskets for us to unload our own clean laundry, a white board to keep track of our behavior, and making notes on her recipe cards). None of the systems stuck around very long, but they are sweet reminders of her good intentions.

And...they're just so cute.

What does it feel like?

Like watching someone you love being held at gun point for hours on end.
Like waiting to hear back from a job interview for the job of your dreams.
Like a train wreck happening before your eyes, where you would throw yourself in front of the train to save others, but that won't help.
Like walking into a room at a party and realizing you don't know any of the guests.
Like dark storm clouds on mile 1.8 of a three-mile hike.
Like death is real.

I've been having nightmares and panic attacks and breaking down in tears quite a bit. I keep asking myself what's going on with me, but then I remember that it's you I'm worried about. The insane tension makes everyday obstacles seem impossible.

I love you, and I wish I could fix it. I hope you decide to do what you need to do to get healthy. Our hearts are getting heavy from carrying you.

I said, hey sawbones, I'm just carrying on an ole family tradition...

"To be rooted is perhaps the most important and least recognized need of the human soul."

- Simone Weil

From my maternal grandmother, my self-deprecating attitude, my desire for peace, my love of laughter, and my worrying soul.

From my paternal grandmother, my independent spirit, my passion, and my scattered mind.

From my father, my sensitivity to the way others view me, my stubborn nature, my struggle with dark emotions, and my black and white view of the world.

From my mother, my love for all things "home," my tendency to feel my way through the world, my attraction to shitty men, and my empathy.

You have made me who I am. You gave me both your demons and your strength. Some parts I don't understand, and others seem perfectly natural.

I see the world the way I do because of you.

I am you.

Update: It's probably a little too late for this, but I showed this to my mom, and she would like me to clarify that my step dad, Rocco, is not a shitty man. She's right. He is a very good man. I was referring to my dad.

What now?

This weekend was our first weekend in our new cabin. Spending so much time together leads to some funny conversations (and belly laughter pretty much every time my nephew Roman opens his mouth).

On the way to our much-needed ice cream run, we had the following conversation:

[Doobie Brothers playing in the background]

“Baby” Roman: Don’t yous guys have any rock ‘n roll in this car?

Mother: Um, this is Rock ‘n Roll, Roman.

Baby Roman: NO! It’s not!! Ya, know, like Ozzy Osbourne?

Cameron: Yah. Ozzy’s not hardcore enough for him, even. He’s like “Give me some Slayer.”

Roxanne (sister/mother of two of my favorite people): You don’t even know who Slayer is, do you Roman?

Baby Roman (confused face in reference to Slayer): What now, Cameron!? You are like Britney Spears.

Auntie Sherry: Your mom’s Britney Spears.

Baby Roman (turning to his mom): Oooooooh….You just got owned!!

One of the fun things about a little guy with a brother so much older is that he picks up on things, and when they come out of his sweet little mouth, it’s always a bit of a shock (and pretty damn funny).

Have I told you, lately, how much I love my nephews?

Thinking of my baby brother tonight. I just love this bearded kid.

I love you.

I think I know--just a little--how it feels to be you right now, and I hate it more than you could ever know. My protective instincts want to take it all away. I want you to see you the way I see you--the way WE see you.

I want to get into your soul to communicate to you that I love you, I think you are so amazing, I'm so glad to call you mine, and I can't imagine my life without you. I tell you, but I don't think you can hear it, or maybe it's just that my words can't express the way I feel about you.

And that scares me, makes me sad, and makes be feel pretty damn helpless.

I love you, and "I love you" seems petty to describe my feelings toward you. It's not an e-mail sign off, or a thoughtless expression. I really love you.

Hang in there, okay?

Nana's small, cold heart.

Nana had a test on her heart last week. They told her it was working fine, but it's really small. Papa, of course, thinks this is hilarious. Nana says, "Yeah. Papa's telling everyone who will listen to him. He says, 'Everyone's always saying what a big heart Donna has. Turns out, it was really small all along!'" Poor Nana and her small, small heart.

Cheers.

The last few years, I've skipped Christmas with the McGowan family. It's one of the best decisions I've ever made. It's exactly what I needed to give myself permission to do. There's one little thing about it that makes me sad, though.

I have this cousin on my dad's side of the family. Her mom is like my mom. Our moms are educated, open minded, and they're definitely not McGowans (even though they borrowed the name for a few years). My cousin went to Berkeley, she's teaching English through Teach For America, and she's naturally kind. I like her. A lot. Not seeing her is the saddest part of not spending the holidays with my dad's family.

We've been e-mailing because I'm passing some lesson plans on to her, and she told me she missed catching up, but she thought it was wise of me to bow out of the yearly Christmas-family-love-charade.

She's right. Going to Christmas doesn't mean I love my paternal family any more. It just means I'm faking it for the day. It's a duty that I've since released myself from. Sigh. Deeply.

...which reminds me of this video. My story is different from "their" story because I have incredible friends who never fail to fill in where my family leaves gaps. They know that this time of year can be unbearable for me, and they care enough to do something about it. I have had many very bleak holiday seasons, though. I can only imagine not having people to fill those gaps.

Will you notice those around you who might need a place to go, a distraction, or an extra dose of love?

Too bad I prefer Coke.

My Jesus Grandma (of Harry Potter fame) just tried to convince me never to buy Pepsi products because they "promote the gay agenda." I wanted to tell her that I promote "the gay agenda" (whatever that means), but I decided to remain silent out of respect. I just acted like I didn't hear her. That's usually what I do when I really respect someone. Trust me.

Depressing tens of readers each day.

My mom doesn't spend too much time in this space. I send her sporadic links to posts that might interest her, but she doesn't stop by unless she's invited. Does she even read the posts I send her?

I don't know how I feel about that. Should I rejoice that she respects my privacy? Should I mourn that she's not curious enough to read? Should I file this under "I'm the middle child who goes unnoticed?" It pisses me off; it makes me feel just a little bit lonelier; it makes me sigh a deep, deep sigh of relief. Sometimes all at once.

I asked her the other day why she doesn't read my blog, and she said, "I feel like I'm intruding, and sometimes it's just too sad."