Home to Stay

That morning I was awakened by a phone call. As usually happens, the cell phone disconnected before I could get it to pick up. My brother’s name showed up on the caller ID.

That’s not good. They don’t call at this hour. Is something wrong with Bob?

I immediately hit the call button, but went straight to voicemail.

This is so not good. Who else would Deb be calling at this hour?

I set the phone down and waited, knowing she’d call again. When the phone rang I grabbed it. It had my other brother’s name on the caller ID.

What the hell...?

His wife was on the line. “Deb died in her sleep last night.”

I gasped.

No, she’s not gone. It’s not time yet. She just called me, I know it was her.

We talked for a minute, then I called my brother as I walked down the hill to Mom’s apartment to break the news to her. My brother had to put me on hold and I quickly told Mom, so he couldn’t hear my voice break.

This isn’t real.

When my brother picked up I handed the phone to Mom and asked for hers in return. I call my daughters, neither of whom answered before the call went to voicemail. They each called back as soon as they saw Mom’s name in the caller ID. The tears started as I told my older daughter the news. I was able to talk a minute later when the younger daughter called.

The older one cried with me. The younger said she’d let me go since I had the other one on hold. I learned later she called her husband and cried to him, shielding me from her pain.

I made it through work in a daze, the hours broken by calls to my brother and from my girls. It still didn’t really hit.

The next night I lay down and cried hard, but as soon as the tears came, my daughter called. She has a way of doing that. She talked about everything but our loss. She told me about the conversation she just had with my brother.

In her amazing way, she rambled to him about her memories of my brother when she was young. She reminded him of the Thanksgiving when she was two or three. She had stuck olives on each of the fingers on one hand and offered them to the grownups. Everybody ate their olives, except for Bob.

Bob didn’t like olives so he said no thanks. My daughter went on around the room, but found her way back to him. “Uncle Bob, it makes me sad that you don’t like olives,” she said, one olive still on the tip of a finger.

He caved. He ate the olive.

She laughed about it on the phone with him. “You must love me to eat olives.” She acknowledged that her fiancé wouldn’t do something like that for her, so her uncle must love her even more than her fiancé.

Bob agreed. At some point their phone call ended. The next morning he emailed my daughter and me to say thanks. After laughing with her on the phone he was able to go to sleep, something he’d been unable to do the night before.

Through the next few days, my younger daughter called to check on me, filling me in on the little things going on in her day. She knew how much I was hurting, even though she didn’t say so.

Within a week, life seemed normal again.

Wait, no, she can’t be gone. Let me call her and tell her...

She was only sixty. In my family, that’s so young. In hers, it was old. She’d told us for years that she wouldn’t make it into her 60s.

No, you can’t know that. You can’t just decide you’re old and leave. You have to wait ‘til we’re old, too. It’s the rules, isn’t it?

I laughed with my brother over the thought of her waiting for us at the Pearly Gates. She’ll have her hands on her hips and be smiling. “I told you so.”

But, Deb, you can’t go...

I hear her laugh every time I picture her like that.

As the pain lifted, I noticed my dog slowing down. There was nothing specific, nothing to tell me to take him to the vet. Then one morning he woke up with his muzzle swollen. I assumed it was an allergic reaction to a bite, and in the next few days, the swelling lessened.

Then it came back, and this time he would only eat treats, not his usual food. We went to the vet who thought it was an abscessed bite. After shots and a prescription we went home to get better.

The swelling went down, but he still didn’t eat. Now he only wanted soft foods. We went back to the vet.

“It could be that it needs more antibiotics so we’ll try them for three weeks. But it could also be an infected tumor.”

The word hit me hard.

He’s too young, only 13. Old for his breed, but my last Aussie lived to be 16. He has three years left.

He had three days left. The first day, he stopped eating at all, even when I forced liquids on him. He grew weak, but he still followed me around. The following morning he could barely stand and we went back to the vet.

“We’ll give him IV fluids and antibiotics while we wait for the biopsy results.”

But I already knew the answer. A day later the vet called to tell me he was gone.

But, wait! He can’t be gone! I’m not ready. I still have three years with him...I don’t want to play this game anymore. This isn’t what we agreed to, is it?

Around me people are doing the same things they did a month ago. Going to work, school, parties, parks. The little stray dog who rescued me still wants to play. The guinea pig wants his lettuce. Can’t they see something is wrong?

He’s gone. She’s gone. Can’t you see the hole where they are missing? Can’t you see the hole in me? They’re gone...

I picked up my dog’s ashes today. The receptionist petted the box as she carried it to me. “Here you go, Woody. Your mama’s here. You can go home now.”

Deb, take care of my boy for me. Woody, don’t bark when you see her, you always scare her. Watch out for Deb ‘til we get there.

The box is so small. It doesn’t fill the hole in me. But my boy is home to stay.



Deb Fish
December 17, 1948 - April 2, 2009



Ridgerunner’s Ebony Woods
March 1996 - May 1, 2009

Live

Reflections on losing yet another friend to cancer.

As a quilter, I considered finding organizations to make comfort quilts for, in honor of my friend. I also thought about chemo caps, which she had informed us should only be called "caps". I had gone through this early last month when I learned a former coworker had lost his battle.

When we see our peers reaching the end of their journeys, we sometimes think of what we should do differently in our lives, how we can best honor them.

My mind wandered while I sewed yesterday, when tears had stemmed enough for thought to process. I had the chance a year ago to meet my quilting friends, including the one who just passed. I had let the chance slide by, mumbling the usual excuses of no time and no money.

The truth is that now is the only time we have, and there is no price you can put on being with friends and family.

If you are moved to raise funds for diseases or contribute to a cause in any way, that is great. But the best way we can honor their lives is to live ours.

Really live. Each acid-forming moment stuck in traffic. Every citrus-scented spring breeze. Laughter. Tears. Chocolate. Sunshine. Backaches. They are all a gift.

As the stress builds or the giggles overflow, give thanks. Then get back to living.

Now.

For the Birds

This weather is for the birds.

There are areas of Southern California where more rain has fallen in recent days that they had in the entire year of 2007! It's wet out. And the San Fernando Valley is not set up for this much water.

Storm drains are running, but the water still flows through half a lane of traffic. Where roads usually narrow from parked cars and trash cans, and commuters usually think, "Yeah, I'm in a good mood, I'll pull over so you can get through here first," we now smile and ponder, "Sure, sucker, you go first through that puddle and I'll wait to see if you make it."

The morning walkers and joggers are nowhere to be seen. Moms and strollers on the way home from school drop offs are now moms and cars.

Yet, as I crawled through the flooded road by the peacock place, where peacocks, chickens, geese and ducks sun usually themselves in the horse arena, I saw a goose in the wading pool, splashing away merrily. Several others stood in line in the downpour as if waiting their turn.

I guess it is all a matter of viewpoint.

Living Mindfully

I don't make New Year's resolutions, and technically this is all a result of having the doctor tell me that all of my ails are stress related, but as 2007 came to a close I realized that I am not really living my life. I am rushing through it.

Once again I find myself focusing on living mindfully, experiencing the moment. Whether quilting, writing, reading or just being, I need to be aware of what is happening.

As I begin, this means not entering into projects with a deadline. Quilt swaps and challenges are fun, but not when I save them 'til the last moment to complete. Writing toward a deadline lately seems to mean a rushed story that lacks much.

I will take time to explore and learn. I will let the story direct me instead of trying to force it into a mold. I will allow first drafts and learning quilts to have flaws, and watch for improvement as I go.

Even my diet has become mindless. How can my body deal properly with stress when I can't even say what I fed it?

I might not accomplish as much, but in the long run I will have projects I can be proud of, that show my enjoyment for what I do.

Isn't that what life is about? Enjoyment?

An Adventure Begins!

I love starting a new novel! Each begins differently, a premise, a certain character or a setting. It reminds me of quilting, picking up a pattern or a piece of fabric and letting it stew in my mind until I have found the perfect combination of pieces to fit together and make the perfect quilt.

After finishing my novella, Forever Spring, and getting it off to the contest judges, I chose a setting with the same publisher in mind, then let the characters introduce themselves to me. Cathy Seavers seems very level-headed while fun-loving. Toby Williams is a hard-working cowboy prankster determined to make her forget his twin brother. Toby has been telling me of the practical jokes his family has pulled in the past, and promises loads of laughs to come!

Of course, a pair of heroes who are waiting to have their stories published are now glaring at me for not polishing their environments and giving them a chance at a cover photo. Jon McCracken continues to be most patient, as his story is the most difficult to tell. Which of his lives do I include, and how many? Danny Reames says his year is up and he and Cassie should be happily-ever-aftering, and I agree.

So many hunks, so little time! What's a writer to do?

There's a Grown-Up in My Mirror

After piling on the layers of my face this morning, I stood back for my usual inspection. How do I look?

I look...grown-up. Not old, just grown-up. When did that happen? I know when I felt grown-up for the first time. October 9, 2004. No, I didn't make an entry in my diary, I am a grown-up today. That's the day my little girl got married and I suddenly had a Son-in-Law.

That's what did it, having a son-in-law! You have to be grown-up to have one of those, don't you? They don't give them out to just anybody. No one stands on a busy street corner handing out free son-in-law coupons. You have to reach a certain station in life.

Suddenly I felt more connected with my online girlfriends who were always discussing their kids, kids-in-law and grandkids. I was no longer the tag-along. Somehow, through no effort of my own I had a new title: Mother-in-Law.


Eww, wait a minute, that doesn't have the same ring of grandiosity as having a son-in-law! Mothers-in-law are, well, you know! Am I really one of them?

Does anyone know if you can exchange these titles for something with a better fit?

Losing My Mind

I often joke about losing my mind, losing my marbles. Well, technically, I did lose my marbles once, at the ticket booth at a Pow-wow, with my daughters and several dozen strangers there to witness. I have this horrible habit of putting things in my purse until I have time to find a good place for them. I was a daycare provider at the time and someone's child, might even have been mine, had thrown a marble at a window and cracked it. Confiscating the marbles, I dropped the bagful in my purse. Days later at the Pow-wow I had to dig and dig to find my wallet. Suddenly the marbles opened and began to spill everywhere.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but I think you are losing your marbles," the helpful cashier says. My daughters were just old enough to get it and haven't let me live it down.

But I digress.

Alzheimer's doesn't run in my family, nor does dementia. Losing one's train of thought does. I have inhertied my mother's tendency to embellish a tale so fully with details that the details become the better part of the story. It's very entertaining but makes it difficult to make a point. In almost every conversation, my mother reaches a point where she says, "Now, where was I going with this?"

It came to me one day. "Mom, you need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find your way back to your topic."

I haven't reached that point yet. Or won't admit to it. I know what I set out to say here. I had a woman on my mind who has just had to put her husband in a nursing home, as his Alzheimer's has gotten beyond her ability to keep him safe. He still has some awareness of reality at times and knows his mind is retreating into recesses from which he will one day never come back.

That thought terrifies me! I know my body will fail with time, should I be lucky enough to have the time. I have seen what aging does to the mind and I want so badly to steer away from that path. I may soon begin hording breadcrumbs, or writing key thoughts on little notecards that I can whip out like the Best Writer at the Oscar's. I'll buy myself a St. Bernard and fill his keg with all my scribbles of phrases I felt important enough to note, or hire a trail guide. Maybe I need to post a map above my computer, "You Are Here."

It could work. I'll probably be telling the same three tales over and over, as my mother does. All I will need is a well-marked trail to get me to the end of my path.