revisionist history

Are we entitled to whitewash our memories? They are our memories after all, and inherently subjective. I think it's human nature to look back through rose colored glasses. But is there some acceptable standard deviation from the cold hard facts? I guess even "facts" get squishy when filtered through our tiny human brains, don't they?

A while back, my little brother posted a photo of my mom standing alongside my sister, brother and one of my mom's best friends. My brother wrote that the photo was taken after the Bay to Breakers 10K in San Francisco, and that she'd pushed him in a stroller the whole way. That did actually occur, but that is not what this photo depicted. My sister and I both mentioned (separately) that the picture was in fact taken after Mom had run a marathon in the Redwoods. My brother got annoyed and said something along the lines of, "Thanks for editing one of the few memories I have left." *Sad face.* At the time I was surprised by his reaction. We reasoned that if it were us, we would want to know the actual story behind the photo. But now? I'm not so sure.

My mom is the one with legs for days and totally tubular hair.
My sister is the cute blond.
My brother is the one staring at the clouds ;)

For those that don't know, my mom and step-dad died in a plane crash when I was 18 years old. My little brother lost his mom and his dad-dad. He was 7 years old at the time. He doesn't remember a whole lot beyond moments captured in photos and stories he's been told. My sister and I often discuss how sad that is, and how sad it would be if we died tomorrow. For lots of reasons, obviously, but not least because our children, ages 7 (hers), 5 and 3 (mine) probably wouldn't remember much at all. From our perspective, a whole little life has been lived in those 3, 5 and 7 years. It is the entire universe of our experience as parents and so to imagine that being reduced to a few fuzzy memories and dusty photo albums is just... unfathomable.

Now, as a mother, and a big sister, the saddest part of remembering my parents is that my brother... doesn't. The notion that he can only experience their love in snippets and freeze frames and secondhand stories just breaks my heart. And so I consider myself, albeit a poor proxy, an ambassador of their love. I feel like it is my responsibility, along with others who hold a piece of his mom and dad in their hearts, to pass these imperfect memories on to my brother, in perpetuity. It's like a kidney transplant. You don't need the whole thing. Just cut a little sliver and wedge it in and your body will take over from there. (Or is that the liver? ;))

(Side note: this is yet another justification for my mamarazzi tendencies. My sister actually played this card on Halloween, when DM and my bro in law were grumbling about us trying to get one single decent photo of everyone. "Well, when you lose someone you love and pictures are the only thing you have left you'll be thankful we made you pose for this godforsaken Halloween photo." Jerks. ;))

Somehow the issue of my parents' untimely death came up a while back (probably because Jack is intrigued by morbidity, bonus points if a flying metal death trap was involved). I was furiously texting DM like, "Mayday, mayday, the kids are asking how my parents died!" DM: "In an accident." Me: "Tried that. Not cutting it. They want specifics. What do I say???"

I ended up giving them the general idea even though they're probably too young and I probably damaged their wee psyches and I'll certainly regret this next time we're flying on a plane with other members of humanity. "Mama? Are we all gonna die in a fiery pwane cwash like your mommy and daddy did?" Anyway. It came up again last night in a conversation about grandpas and Colby said, "WAIT. You lost one of your dads, too?! You must be SO SAD for yourself."

Yeah, kid. Sometimes, I am.

I wrote a couple of posts about this back in The Cheese's infancy, one about my mom, and one about the anniversary of their death. I've actually written plenty of posts about death, for a grandpa, a couple of grandmas, my dog, my best friend's mom, etc. For whatever reason, these types of posts really resonate with people, more than the so-called funny ones. Misery loves company and all that I guess. Or maybe it's just easier to tug on heart strings than it is to make people laugh. Anyway, in the spirit of laziness and not reinventing the wheel, every Mother's Day and October 17th (the day they died) I usually just trot out the mom post and call it a day.

This past Mother's Day,* in response to my recycled post, "Uncle P," one of my mom's best and oldest friends, wrote "Your mom would have liked this post a lot. She would tease you a bit about it being a little over the top (it is), but she WAS a good soul and a good friend. You apparently don't remember her fiery temper and biting tongue, but she was also quick to laugh and quick to forgive. She also loved her children as fiercely as she loved her independence. She would be proud of the adults you have become."

Made me smile. And he is right about the post being over the top. It is saccharine enough to make your teeth hurt, and Mom was not one for hyperbole. But the part about her temper and biting tongue really got me thinking. I would never list those among her memorable traits. Maybe I didn't register the biting tongue so much because I inherited a bit of the biting tongue myself? Who knows. But the temper? No way. I can honestly remember two serious arguments we got into growing up, and only one real, legit fight that my mom and stepdad had in front of us. Maybe it's because my father had a very volatile temper and so, in comparison, she seemed calm, cool and collected? Or have I just completely rewritten history in my mind?

Which brings me back to my original question: Am I not entitled to do so? Do I not have artistic license over the memories I've woven in my mind's eye?

Uncle P was actually there when my mom, step-dad, and their friend Bud, died. Like, right there. He scaled down rocky cliffs and into the ocean waves that were crashing against the rocks to try to pull them from the wreckage (at least, I think this is how the story goes, but again, I could be completely making this up). Uncle P has been very open and forthcoming with my siblings and me about this. If and when we want to know the nitty gritty, he will be there to tell us. But again, enter Mackenzie, cherry-picker of memories. I really don't want to know. I have been to the crash site, by the way, and even in broad strokes, its enough to give me nightmares. The few gruesome details I have gleaned can still, nearly 20 years later, wake me from a dead sleep in a sweat. I have almost nothing but good memories of these people lodged in my heart, and I guess I'd like to keep it that way. Some people say, "Oh but you need closure." But you all know I think the notion of closure is a bunch of BS ;)

This train of thought makes me think of my mom's funeral, where one of her brothers stood up and talked about how my mother lived her life in service to Jesus Christ, her Lord and Savior. At the time I was doing a Category-5 eye-roll in my head, thinking, Really? That's funny, because the way she told it, as soon as she was old enough to do so, she ran away from Jesus so fast her hair was on fire, and never looked back. She thereafter avoided religion like the plague, and made absolutely no effort to instill in her own children any of the religious tenets that were the foundation of her upbringing.

But you know what? Despite her tumultuous past with the church and good ole JC, my uncle was right. At her core was an enduring kernel of faith. People who knew her in her later iterations might be surprised to hear it, but I remember my mom telling me about a handful of childhood "miracles" from which this tenacious thread of faith was spun. She spent a good chunk of her life thumping Bibles. It is not a belief system that is so easily outgrown. My uncle remembered one of many Moms. And who am I to begrudge him that?

Linear thought is not my strong suit, which might explain why I am also reminded of this story:

Once I was sitting with my mom and step dad, listening to a Blue Oyster Cult CD my mom had just bought in a fit of nostalgia. My stepdad said something like, "I can just see you with your Mathlete/Band Camp friends jamming out to this heathenous rock-n-roll." My mom replied, "More like getting stoned out of our minds." She then went on to recount one specific Blue-Oyster-Cult induced memory where she drank too much tequila and she got so sick she lied down behind a car in the parking lot and prayed (presumably to the Father the Son and the Holy Spirit) that the car would roll over her and put her out of her misery. I remember the look on my stepdad's face, like he'd never met this woman before in his life. It still cracks me up to think about it. See? We fabricate memories of the people we love even when they're still alive.

One of my best friends recently lost her mother. They had a deep but complicated bond, and I think that makes it so much harder on the person left behind. I thought this quote really captured the intricacies of love and grief and the many roles we play in each others lives and the ways in which our memories of one another evolve into these stories we grasp so tightly in our sweaty little hands:

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, You’re doing the same thing, trying to reconcile all the moms that Mom ever was - The one you wanted, the one she was when you needed her and she was there, the one she was when she didn’t understand. Most of us don’t live our lives with one, integrated self that meets the world, we’re a whole bunch of selves. When someone dies, they all integrate into the soul - the essence of who we are, beyond the different faces we wear throughout our lives. You’re just hating the selves you’ve always hated, and loving the ones you’ve always loved. It’s bound to mess you up.” - Christopher Moore

I think in that way I am very lucky. I mean, sudden, tragic death sucks balls, but, all things considered, I had a great relationship with my parents. I am not left with regrets, or resentment, or some burning question I'd been meaning to ask, or words I'd always meant to say. My grief was (and is) sharp and pure and as uncomplicated as grief can be. And for that I am grateful.

Well, anyway, the whole point of this line of thought was to write a less theatrical tribute - Mom: IRL. But I just wrote a LOT of words and that seems hard now (on me AND you!) so, another time :)

Until then, some quotes I like:

“When we think of the past it's the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.” Margaret Atwood

“It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” Rose Kennedy

“Whoever said that loss gets easier with time was a liar. Here's what really happens: The spaces between the times you miss them grow longer. Then, when you do remember to miss them again, it's still with a stabbing pain to the heart. And you have guilt. Guilt because it's been too long since you missed them last.” Kristin O'Donnell Tubb

“He always thought that Touie's long illness would somehow prepare him for her death. He always imagined that grief and guilt, if they followed, would be more clear-edged, more defined, more finite. Instead they seem like weather, like clouds constantly re-forming into new shapes, blown by nameless, unidentifiable winds.” Julian Barnes

A baby Mama. I mean, c'mon. Cutest little fish monger you ever did see <3

* Yes, it has taken me 6 months to turn the note "write about mom memories" into an actual blog post. What can I say, it's been a busy year :)

in lieu of flowers, send underwear

“Mom is dying. Like, today,” the text message read.

The text was from my BFF Claire, to my other BFF Betsy and me. It was a WhatsApp message, actually, because this is how we have to communicate with each other while Betsy is in disease- and poverty-stricken third world countries without cell service, which is often.

Fuck.

There have been scares like this before. Edie (Claire’s mom) has been unwell for most of the 15+ years we’ve known her. They’ve been down this road before. But Claire is not one for drama or hyperbole, particularly not when it comes to her mom. Something about this time made the others seem like fire drills. This was real. This was a fire.

My first thought was, “I need to be there.” My second thought was, “My boss(es) are going to kill me.” I cannot tell you how sad it makes me that this was the next thought in my brain. But it was. This was a Tuesday. I had taken off that morning for my kids’ cultural enrichment – going to the preschool and talking about Norouz – Persian New Year – (a month overdue because – life). Though I am 0% Persian, my children are 50%, and honoring that heritage is something that’s important to DM and me. I’d also taken sick days recently for some virulent strain of preschool plague that wracked our family, and I knew I had more time off coming up for a “nebulous important engagement” (a.k.a. book signing for the book that no one knows I’m in), plus impending knee surgery. I can never quite shake the feeling that my superiors at work think I’m utterly full of shit with my requests. I mean, how many sick kids, doctors appointments and family emergencies can one woman have? Well, you’d be surprised. The final complicating factor was that we had a family camping trip that weekend for my sister’s birthday. My brother was coming in from out of town. It's an annual thing. No offense to my family or his, but I would probably try to murder DM in his sleep if he sent me on a camping trip with his family and didn’t show up for it, and I assume he feels the same, so that was definitely a consideration. Oh yeah and there weren’t any return flights on Friday.

I went to go tell X, my work BFF, about my dilemma. She cut me off mid-laundry-list of bullshit quotidia. “Who cares?! Get on a plane! Today! I have points on Southwest, do you want them?” (And this is why she is my work BFF and life coach – her uncanny ability to cut through the crap and arrange last-minute travel plans). F work. I mean, not really. This is me:

But I really, really don’t want to be the person that is so consumed with work that she forgets about LIFE. Your best friend’s mom is dying. Work will understand and if they don’t you need to find some people to work for that don't suck. Nothing is more important than this. 

Meanwhile, Betsy is arranging a flight back from Haiti, so I figured I better stop pussy-footing around and get myself on a damn airplane.

I told my brother and sister what was going on, along with my so-called travel "plans" (a one-way flight to Fresno, return status unknown). My sister replied, “Are you sure she even wants you there?” This stopped me in my tracks. My skin got hot and I felt a flame rise up in my chest as it does when something gets me really fired up. This was probably mostly because I was afraid she had a point. I had spoken with Claire, asked her if I should come, and she said no, thank you, that wasn't necessary. But she wouldn’t say “Yes” even if she wanted me to. It’s just not her style. By the way, my sister is basically the sweetest person you will ever meet, and does not have a malicious bone in her body. She wasn’t trying to be mean (and she later apologized), she was just legitimately concerned that I was going to commit a grave social faux pas. She explained that if our dad was on his deathbed, she wouldn’t want to have friends there distracting her. I got defensive. “It’s not like we’re going to take her for a fucking pedicure.” (Funnily enough, a pedicure is exactly what Claire would suggest once we were there. She’s a people pleaser.)

I texted Betsy in panic mode and asked, “What if she doesn’t want us there?” Betsy replied, “She does. Anyone else, I would say no. But we are her people.” And it’s true. These are the caliber of friends you make in college, when you're floating, un-moored, through the wicked waves of elation and homesickness and freedom and confusion and mild to moderate identity crises and shared shower caddies and sickly sweet wine coolers, trying to find yourself, and you grab onto these friends for dear life, and you never let (some of them) go. These girls, we've shared beds and bathrooms and shitty beer and underwear (ew). We did each other’s makeup (badly), and held back each other’s hair. We shared our most sacred secrets. Betsy was my freshman year roommate and she’s the only person besides DM (and my kids, I guess ;)) I could ever imagine living with. Claire and I met at a frat party where we fell in friend-love and decided to go pee outside together, and regretfully chose a thorny rosebush in which to do so. We had a shared passion for the San Francisco 49ers, and made plans to watch the game the following morning. It was as awkward as any other sober Sunday morning you could imagine, but I’m so glad we persevered because we really are forever-friends.

All of my friends, actually.* I remember when we were in our late twenties, one of the husbands of our group warned us about the “post-30 spread,” and he wasn't talking about the size of our butts. He was referring to the reality of college friends growing apart and losing touch after they turn thirty. But we’re halfway through this decade and I’m happy to report we’re only closer for it. I remember when I got engaged, someone warned me to choose bridesmaids that I knew would be in my life forever, because it’s so sad to look back at wedding photos down the road and have your kids ask, “Who is that?” But these are my people. My tribe. My band of misfits. I have made "Top Shelf" friends before and since. But going through “the shit” really cements a relationship in a way that only divergent views on politics and religion can tear asunder ;) Together we’ve been through break-ups, make-ups, unrequited love, blind dates, bad haircuts, terrible bosses, jobs that make you wear "kiss my taco" t-shirts and skorts, sickness of loved ones (in body and mind), new homes, knee injuries, infidelity, pregnancy scares and infertility, weddings and an annulment, our parents divorcing and finding someone new when we're supposed to be "grown-ups" and immune to the earth tilting on its axis this way... together we've endured the loss of parents and pregnancies, carried babies in our bellies and brought them forth screaming into the world (with mandatory live-stream email-threads), we've held these brand new babies in our arms thinking, "Now what?"... then come the toddlers, preschoolers, and almost kindergarteners (WHAT?!), family pool parties and barbecues, wondering if/when we'll be too "adult" to play beer pong... and all that the future holds. My kids will look at wedding photos and they will know every last one of those crazy fuckers, dammit.

ANYWAY. I went. I wasn’t particularly useful when I was there. But I was there. I arrived late at night, without transportation or a place to stay. I texted DM and was like, “I’m in a cab. There’s no Uber here. I don’t know where I’m going. Guess I better find a hotel.” DM: “Uh, what exactly were you planning on doing? I just assumed you were renting a car and staying at their place.” Me: “Yeah. A car would have been wise. I didn’t exactly plan this out very well, or, um, at all.” I found a hotel (there was no way I was making Claire put out fresh towels as I was already paranoid I was imposing). Betsy arrived with a car the next morning. We sat. We held hands. We drank coffee. We ate (or, pushed food around on our plates). We reminisced. We talked about nothing and we didn’t talk at all. We said I love you. We said goodbye. We bought a shit-ton of junk food and booze from Trader Joe’s to donate to the cause, and the check-out gal 100% thought we were high AF. This is my M.O. in times of need: ply people with food and alcohol, talk too much, say the wrong things, hug, cry, listen, clean, needlessly organize shit, hold babies, bake cupcakes. In lieu of flowers, I'll send new underwear, or vodka, or trashy magazines whose pages can free your mind from the strangle-hold of grief for half a minute, or all of the above, because I know you need that more. And when all is said and done, expect a gift basket and a scrap book. For better or for worse, that’s how I do.

I came back for camping, and Edie passed the next day. I am glad I had that time with my family. I needed those hugs, and my big babies' warm bodies nestled next to me in sleeping bags (or, as it happened, barfing all over the tent ;)) But I’m sad I was drinking bourbon out of a plastic cup and roasting s’mores to the sound of crashing ocean waves while one of my best friends in the entire world was in a hospital room gently ushering her mother’s spirit to the other side. Choices are hard. But. Choosing “your people,” even when they say they don’t need you, even when it’s not that simple – that is never the wrong one.

photo credits to my sis <3

* "Best friend isn't a person, it's a tier." - Mindy Kaling. See also, Best Friend Rights and Responsibilities. #NoMatterWhat

Other stuff about BFFs that I love:

The No-Bullshit, No Drama Friendship Manifesto from Renegade Mothering. Love this. My friends have never done anything but make me feel like a hotter, smarter and more capable woman, wife, mother and friend than I really am. These are the type of people we need to surround ourselves with. I also love this line: "When my kids are acting like shitheads and you’re like “Hey child, No.” I won’t get all righteously indignant. Instead I’ll look at you in gratefulness for dealing with the little bastards so I don’t have to."

When Close Friends Live Far Away on The Mid. Waaaa. This made me sad. And made me want to build a Bestie Row immediately. "I want to go to the grocery store with you. I want to see where your kids go to school and see them run and hug you when you pick them up in the afternoon. I want to sit with you in your kitchen, and cook with you at your stove." Just kidding. I'll watch you cook instead ;)

How Do You Know If Someone Is Your Best Friend - 21 Ways To Know Your Love Is For Real, from Bustle. "Like, you guys will be discussing global warming, or who has the best fish tacos, and suddenly you’ll feel the urge to change into a dress because it’s too hot. Your BFF won’t even bat an eye, and will just keep talking about the environment and tacos."

closure and other myths

the concept of closure is a bunch of b.s.

maybe i've said this before. but i'm saying it again.

after my mom and stepdad died, after the grace period of empty platitudes had passed ("it was god's will," "it was their time," "they're in a better place now," "time heals all wounds,"...) people started asking if i'd found "closure." and if i said "no," or looked back with the confused but happy stare of a dairy cow, they would tell me how to find closure: therapy, art, music, medication, meditation, prayer.

and don't get me wrong. all of those things have their place in the grieving and healing process. but "healing" is not the same as "closure." just like a physical wound - when it heals, you are left with a scar. a scar that you can see, that reminds you, on occasion, of how it got there. that maybe pulls tight when you bend your knee a certain way or itches in the sun.

the worst thing about losing someone is that for a while afterwards, if and when you sleep, you wake up in the morning and for a second you forget what happened and you are just "hey it's friday" happy. then the realization comes, again, and hits you in the center of your being like a sledge hammer. it just rips a big, gaping hole of black nothing right in the middle there. every. single. morning. THANKFULLY, that does not last forever. after some weeks or months or maybe even years, you eventually get to wake up in the morning without fear of being punched in the face with this not-news all over again, and again, and again.

BUT. pain is a strange thing. sometimes it is a big, lumbering beast carrying an enormous mallet over its shoulder, and sometimes it's a snake or something else super sneaky like a "bwack smoke ninja"... it can still, out of nowhere, slither in and wrap itself around you and *squeeze* and take your breath away. almost 16 years out from my mom and (step)dad and i am still laid low on occasion, completely stripped bare. usually when i least expect it. like when watching a movie with james gandolfini and julia louis dreyfus with my honey on a wednesday night, and suddenly i'm SOBBING. me: "i'm just... so... SAD... that james gandolfini is dead." DM: "okay baby." then he pat-pat-pats me and kisses me on top of my head and lets the twin rivers of snot and tears soak his sleeve without comment.

anyway, pain is not like the type of thing where you can say, okay, light a candle, do twelve hail marys, and twenty bikram yoga classes and when you can finally do camel pose without feeling like you're going to puke on your own forehead, you're healed! oh and don't forget the coconut water and chia seeds!

a friend posted this quote the other day and i was really taken by it:

"We think that the point is to pass the test or overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It's just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy." - Pema Chodron

closure, to me, would be like sweeping things under the rug. like putting a piece of cardboard over the hole. if you lift up that rug, the shit's still there. if you step on that cardboard, you fall right back into that hole. personally, i think it's better to just keep the hole in plain view. i mean, maybe in the corner. and possibly you want to put up a "caution" cone or some caution tape, just so you don't accidentally fall in ass over teakettle (though, honestly, that still happens sometimes). but leave it out there. and maybe a ladder. so you can crawl back in when you need, and you can climb back out, too. it's dark. it's cold. it's not very comfortable. but you need a place like that. a little piece of rainy day in your heart where it's okay to be sad. to grieve. to pass through the pain and out the other side, and sometimes, back again.

some of you might wonder why i've got a case of the morbid mondays on this sweet sunshine-y friday. well, my stepgrams passed away yesterday. as you may or may not know from the blog, stepgramps passed away four months ago. we all knew it was coming that time, but that didn't make it any easier to let go. stepgrams and stepgramps were the real deal. their love was one in a million. sixty years of love like that - it truly was an inspiration and a sight to behold. we had all kind of talked about what would happen when one of them passed - because they were like that - one soul, two bodies. but to be honest, i never pegged stepgrams as the type to hastily follow her husband into the next life. as she recently said to me, with her trademark tact, "you and i are very lucky to have landed husbands that are so much nicer than we are." ;) she had so much spunk, plenty of fight left. i figured she'd plug along for another decade at least, fueled by piss, vinegar, and happy hour. so it caught us all by surprise, i think, when she up and died thursday morning, apparently of a broken heart.

to put it more poetically, in the words of one of my mom's best friends, "so sudden yet, in some ways, not surprising considering the frequency with which long-term, seasoned soul mates seem to end up 'in sync' in their senior years -- when the rich, shared journey ends for one partner before the other, it seems not unusual for the remaining journey to wrap up soon thereafter. and that all makes kind of poignant sense in an abstract, theoretical way, but man, i wasn't ready for either of their journeys on this earth to end!"

as you have heard me say before, my mom and sister and i "won" "the stepdadders" in the blended family lotto jackpot. they've been a part of my life for 27 of my 34 years on earth, and have never made me feel anything but welcomed wholeheartedly into their clan. the "step" is merely semantic. they are family. we have been loved so hard by them, and we have learned so much. i am thankful every day that the universe saw fit to bring us together.

stepgrams was the matriarch of this awesome family, and in her brazen and loving way, she helped mold my sister and brother and me into the people we are today. her legacy is one of fearlessness, adventure, honesty, humor, passion, family, and very little tolerance for bullshit. she taught us to climb up rocks, ski down mountains, speak up, say what you mean, start fires, sleep under the stars, pee in the bushes, play with knives, perfect our poker faces, properly pack a lunch for a hike (no smushed or soggy bread!), and reuse everything.

another one of my mom's BFFs just told me this story, too: once they were all hiking on the lost coast and there was some debate about who was the alpha male - my mom, or stepgrams. ha! it'd be a close call but i'd give grams the win on seniority.

i still can't really believe she's gone. i had just spoken with her the day before. she was talking to me about TBI (traumatic brain injury - you know, your typical wednesday morning conversational fare) and she said, "i sometimes wonder if my mother dropped me as a baby and i suffered from the incident." she was always good for a laugh. she was just one of those people who lived out loud, and the space she'll leave behind is too big to wrap my mind around. hers was definitely a star that burned out, rather than faded away.

[big sigh.]

kids are like dogs, they know when you're down and you need some extra love. and let me tell you, they have been lovin' on me quadruple-time! we haven't even told them anything yet, and they haven't seen me shed a tear. but somehow they just sense it, and i have been the lucky recipient of 27 full-body tackle hugs, 14 leg hugs, 8 arm hugs, 4 head hugs, and approximately 942 slobbery kisses. it really fills my cup, or, to the metaphor (simile?) above, it softens the landing in that space for grief in my heart. it makes me smile and it makes my heart hurt and it makes my eyes leak with a fierceness normally reserved only for james gandolfini... but... in a good way :)

i had written a lot of this earlier and said something like, "normally i cannot stand bed time. i would just as soon eat a crushed lightbulb sandwich than deal with the insane side show that bedtime, BUT, tonight, i am really looking forward to just sinking into it with them." and then bedtime happened. and it started out well. they were sweet and snuggly and handing out kisses and hugs like pot brownies at a marley brothers concert. they said again and again and again "i willy willy willy willy loves you, mama." but then. jesus mary and joseph. ladies and gentledudes, the bedtime train has DERAILED. jackson is an actual insane person between the hours of 8:30 and 10:30 p.m. he is terrified of invisible bugs, any sound in the tri-county area, extreme heat (above 73 degrees), extreme cold (below 73 degrees), dehydration, famine, the conflict in Iraq, president Obama's ability to make something of his lame duck presidency, the tea party's insurgence in primary elections, why his blankie isn't "cold" enough, why the dog gets to sleep in our bed but he doesn't, and OMIGOD he has to PEEEEE...Ope! Wait! now he is FIRSTYYYYY (again) and WHY DOESN'T HE HAVE ANY SOOTHING MELODIES TO FALL ASLEEP TO?!?!? and then my zen appreciation for my children's unconditional love and the circle of life came to a screeching halt.

it reminded me of this time i was at stepgrams and gramps' house - this was before i had kids, or maybe i was pregnant - and someone was making an annoying noise by incessantly "boing-ing" the door stop (i'm going to go out on a limb and say it was my little bro ;)) and i was like, "puhLEASE stop making that sound before i lose my mind!" and stepgrams said, in her diplomatic way, "you are going to be a terrible mother if you can't handle stuff like that. 85% of motherhood is being able to handle annoying noises."

she was right. (not about the terrible mother part, about which i assume she was, mostly, joking ;) i am so-so at that. but the noise. oh the noise.)

i'm sure mom and stepdad and stepgramps are rowdily welcoming stepgrams to that raucous hot tub party in the sky. margaritas on the house.

"Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones. A legacy is etched into the minds of others and the stories they share about you."

- Shannon L. Adler

"If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good help to you nevertheless
And filter and fiber your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop some where waiting for you."

- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

melvin rumplethorpe

My little brother is awesome. He is handsome and smart and talented and funny, and even though he has had a greater-than-average amount of suck in his life, he doesn't feel too terribly sorry for himself and still manages to be pretty freakin rad. My brother lost BOTH of his parents (my mom and stepdad) when he was 7 years old :( He bounced around some but ended up with Stepgrams and Stepgramps and stayed there through high school. So when Stepgramps died it was kind of like losing a father. Again. More suck, but as usual my little bro handled it with grace and really cool hair. He spoke at the memorial, and did such a great job. I thought I'd share his words here. I changed the names but everything else is verbatim.

What to say about Grandpa. He was an amazing man who had a profound impact on this world. He shared boundless joy and wisdom with everyone in his life. The saddest aspect of his departure is that we were robbed of his influence. The impression he left on people wasn't immediately obvious. It was subtle, but strong and far-reaching like a vast river.  Imagine the effect he would have had if he were given another decade. Or another few years. Or even another month of vitality. He had this way of quietly making you want to be a better person. After spending some time with him, you had an unexplained urge to try unconventional food combinations. Or put in some extra effort on your most recent project. Or treat yourself to your favorite sweets. Or try a new sport. Or take some time to laugh. Or fix that thing at home you've been meaning to get to.

Speaking of fixing things, he had this vast store of handyman know-how that he shared whenever the situation called for it. He taught me how to change a tire and check the oil. He taught me how to build a deck. How to prepare for ice on the road or bears in your cabin. The knowledge he shared with me was invaluable, though I would never admit it at the time. Before I left for college, Grandpa took me in to the garage with a paper bag like he was taking me on a shopping spree, putting in all of the essential tools I might need for being an adult. Hammer. Screwdrivers. Wrench. The works. I rolled my eyes and sighed heavily in the way that only teenagers can. I said that if anything went wrong, I would find someone else to fix it. I was so sure I wouldn't use those tools that I made a bet. Sure enough, those screwdrivers came in handy, and I had to pay up.

The fact that he was able to put up with my ingratitude and stubbornness speaks volumes about his patience. That was one of his other impressive qualities. How he was able to handle the Kellers [Stepgrams' family] is still a mystery to me. Can you picture wrangling the 3 Carter boys in to building a cabin from scratch?! And don't get me started on Grandma. Those of you lucky enough to have experienced Grandma Carter's candor know that she is not the easiest of women to disagree with. I asked Grandpa how in the hell he lived with her for 60 years. His answer to me was simple: respect. Respect for your significant other and the decisions that they make and the emotions that they have. I later realized that he must have applied the same philosophy to the unruly Keller clan. How else could he have earned the coveted status of honorary blood relative?

Patience was one factor, but so was humor. And boy did Grandpa Carter have a sense of humor. It was unexpected from a generally soft-spoken man. Some of my earliest memories of him were of his right hand, which had a tendency to be possessed by a kid-catching monster called "The Claw". He also got a huge kick out of the Harry Potter books. One of his hobbies was making up names that sounded like they belonged in the wizarding world, like "Melvin Rumplethorpe" or something. His funny bone didn't weaken with age either. I had the privilege of spending the last few months with him. And despite his deteriorating health, his wit was as sharp as ever. I was a bit of a care-giver, and noticed that his cough medicine said to take with plenty of water. So every time I would give it to him, I would also hand him a glass of water, which he would never drink under normal circumstances. Grandma came in to the room and asked "why is it that you'll drink water for him but not for me?" He looked up at her and said "because he's nice to me."

There are countless ways that Grandpa has influenced me. He taught me the importance of comedy, patience, respect, and manual labor. I'm sure that everyone here learned valuable lessons from him as well. And that's what I'll miss the most; the marks he left on this earth. But I take solace in the fact that those marks will have a ripple effect for generations to come. I'll leave you with one of the most inspiring messages I ever got from Grandpa. It's so important that he wore it proudly on a shirt. It goes like this. "Beer: not just for breakfast anymore." Let's raise a toast to that.

a painting of stepgramps that my little brother did IN ONE NIGHT

i wanted to add one last little snippet. lots of people stood up to speak at the memorial and had all sorts of great stories to share about the general hijinx to which stepgramps was a party. many involved margaritas and naked hot-tubbing and some borderline illegal activity. but one in particular cracked me up. you probably had to be there but i'll tell it anyway. it was told by a cousin of stepdad's that i'd never actually met before. he told how he got cancer in college, and stepgramps knew that he was really bummed out because he was normally a super active guy, etc. so, stepgramps figured he would benefit from interaction with a "woman of ill repute." so the cousin is in the hospital and he gets this racy letter from this "woman" which he has to read while his mother is in the room, and he continues to get communications from her over the years, including an email from time to time, even after he was married. turns out these letters and emails were really from stepgramps, posing as the now infamous "Boom Boom LaRue." :) another cute part of that story was that when the cousin did get married, and stepgramps first met his wife, they really hit it off. so the next time stepgramps saw the cousin he presented him with a little trophy that was engraved with the words "second-best wife-picker." (that obviously must have been before he met my mom ;)) <3

heaven-ish

my grandpa just died.

i mean, not just just. but. quite recently.

it was not unexpected.

but that doesn't make it any less sad.

this isn't my first rodeo. death is not a foreign concept to me. i've done the tragic, sudden-death, freak-accident, gone-before-their-time thing. i've also done the not-exactly-expected, but not-exactly-shocking, either, thing. in any event. it always happened quickly. there was no "saying goodbye." and in my mind, i always thought it would be nice to be able to say goodbye.

i didn't really think about the reality of being able to say goodbye, though. that somebody has to be slowly dying. that you know they're going to die but you don't know when. that you are basically waiting for them to die. that they are waiting to die. that dying really isn't all that enjoyable of an experience, and dragging it out over an extended period of time is not necessarily ideal.

i'm still glad i got to say goodbye. but i'm just saying. it didn't go down like it does in the movies, or at least, the movie in my mind.

another thing i didn't realize: even when you know it's just around the corner, even when you're waiting for the call, even though you're actually hoping it happens sooner than later, it hurts. it really hurts. no matter which way you cut it, death is a sucker punch to the gut. it takes the wind out of you. it's like an emotional brain freeze. it sucks.

he was my step-dad's dad. i didn't call him "grandpa," but he was mine. some people have said things along the lines of, oh, i know he was "just" your step-grandfather, but i'm sure it still hurts. thank you, captain obvious. for me, "step" is just semantic. i love words. but sometimes, a lot of the time, they don't really mean anything. or rather, they mean what you want them to mean. you know?

step-gramps and step-grams met my sister and me before they met their own grandchildren. i was 7 and she was 3. if you keep up with this blog, you may remember that on my mom's first date with step-dad, they went naked hot-tubbing with step-grams and step-gramps. i think she fell in love with them as much as she did with step-dad. "the stepdadders" were and are a kick-ass crew. i have never met anyone quite like them. we won the modern-family lotto, for sure.

i keep starting sentences and stopping them. i feel like there is nothing i could write that would adequately sum up this man and his legacy. he was a teacher. he was a spy. he was afraid of heights. he loved happy hour. he introduced me to crinkle cut salt and pepper kettle chips. along with his wife and three sons, and learning on the fly, he built a cabin in lake tahoe that three generations have enjoyed, and will continue to enjoy for years and years to come.

i started this post days ago and left it open on my computer. i had written "he was a" ... and never finished my thought. DM was using my computer and filled in the blank with "a-freaking-mazing." it's sweet. and true. DM loves their family, their dynamic, their 'french-word-for-that-certain-something.' he wishes he was a stepdadder. i'm glad he isn't though, because that would have made for a very strange situation. but the stepdadders, they are the genuine article. they actually consist mainly of step-grams' family. step-gramps was a "non-blood," as they're so lovingly called. an interloper. but he was the perfect complement. he was such a good man. a great man. one of the best men.

when i saw him last weekend, physically, he was a shell of the man he once was. but he still knew what was up. my brother and uncle and grams and i were sitting on the bed, going through old photos. we came upon a few photos of a pet parakeet that they'd had 40-some-odd years ago. apparently it had just been hanging out in the backyard and they brought it inside and there it stayed, sometimes perched on their german shepherd's back. we all thought step-gramps was sleeping, but suddenly, he hoarsely whispered something. "what was that?" we asked. "e." ... "a."... "nevermore." step-grams barked out a laugh. that was the parakeet's name! after edgar allen poe. he was still sharp as a tack ;)

when i was getting ready to leave at the end of the weekend, i wondered if i should just say goodbye, or say goodbye. i knew this was the last time i would see him. i flew up precisely because i wanted to see him again before he left this world. we had plans to come up in March, to celebrate Colby's 2nd birthday, because we knew he wasn't going to be around too much longer. but my brother, who has been staying with and helping take care of step-gramps for months, said he didn't think he would last even that long. so basically, i was there to say goodbye. but i wasn't sure if i was willing, or able, to make it a "thing."

a girlfriend of mine said she had read some literature that people in this sort of limbo state often pass in their sleep after saying goodbye to their family. she had watched a documentary about it. of course, then she added, "i also cried for like three days after watching that documentary, so maybe the concept is not totally ideal." ha. thanks for the helpful insight, friend ;)

i still didn't know what i was going to do as i walked into his room. i sat down next to him and held his hand. he opened his eyes and looked up at me. i said, "hey." after a few seconds he said, "how 'bout them niners?" i laughed out loud. i don't know if he noticed or not, but i was wearing a 49ers sweatshirt. it was superbowl sunday. we had asked him the day before if he might be interested in watching the game. he hadn't been out of bed in almost a week at this point so it was a long shot. also, he doesn't even like football. or, didn't. which just made it that much funnier. i talked with him a little bit. he asked about DM, my sister, my dad, and the kids. each and every word took so much effort. it meant so much to me that he would expend what precious little breath he had left asking about the well-being of my family. he told me he really appreciated that i came all the way up to see him. i said of course. he was closing his eyes after every sentence so i knew i needed to wrap it up. i said, "well, we'll all be up here next month for Colby's birthday, but......... if you're not around..... i'll catch you on the flip side, okay?" (that's the best i could do.) he mumbled something. i couldn't understand, so i asked him to repeat it. he said, "cold hands." i smiled and said, "yep. it's cold outside. california's finally getting some rain." (of course i felt it was an opportune time to talk about the weather.) then he whispered, "cold hands. warm heart." it's funny, because it's not even something i would ever picture him saying. but it pierced my soul. and my eyeballs. which promptly started leaking. i managed to get out the words "love you." but he had already closed his eyes.

it's weird. i'm weird. i don't think i've told anyone that story, not word-for-word. and yet i'm putting it out there on the world wide web for a million seven other people to see ;) just thinking about telling it, out loud, makes me so exhausted. and i feel simultaneously embarrassed and protective about sharing such a personal moment. but it also makes me feel better to write it down, like i don't have to hold on so tight. i can let go of it now. so. there you go.

this weekend i was looking at photo albums with the kids. i pointed out a picture of us with the step-grands in tahoe last summer and said, "step-gramps is in heaven now." DM looked at me quizzically and said, "heaven? really? wow. i would not have called that one in a million years." and i guess that's fair. i'm a notorious scrooge when it comes to organized religion and the bible and "god-with-a-capital-G." but, though i may not buy in to angels and harps and pearly gates, per se, "heaven" is shorthand for what i believe. step-gramps is reunited, somewhere, with his son, with my mom, with all of the friends and loved ones who went before him. heaven is a naked hot tub party in the sky. margaritas are mandatory.

"Melvin Rumplethorpe"
(Amazing art by my little bro)