Lives, Lost

We met in a college French class, and during my 5 years in Colorado she was my best friend. To this day she remains the kindest, most gentle person I have ever met. I don't know how to put it into words, except to say that even in a place as granola as Boulder, she was the embodiment of Mother Earth.

I have a million wonderful smiling pictures of her, but this one of her and my son has always been my favorite.


She was so excited when I became pregnant with that little guy that she came to visit us in Phoenix just so she could put her hands on my 4 months pregnant belly. When he was 3 months old I brought him up to her. All I remember from that trip is laying on a bed, the two of us spending hours pouring over his little body and soaking up his babyness.


I hadn't seen her face to face in two years, but in our short exchanges through email and facebook I sensed she was having a hard time adjusting to motherhood. Caught up in my own family drama, I didn't reach out the way I should have, despite the fact that she had reached out to support me when my mom was dying. Even though I had yet to meet him, I loved her son fiercely through his pictures. His round little face and perfect boy hair reminded me so much of my own son as a baby.

According to the media the fact that she was suffering from post partum depression wasn't a secret -- her family knew, medical professionals knew, her neighbors even knew. And she was trying to find help.

I know I'm angry and hurt and devastated and irrational, but really, it never should have happened, not in a million years.


RIP sweet baby.

According to Olive

"Bunyees go RAWR!"

Two Weeks

Two weeks to the day after losing my Mom we spent the night at the vet, very unexpectedly putting our cat to sleep.

Back to raw.


Rest in peace, Belle. You were a little shit from day one, but in a super cool kind of way. You and your naughty antics will be missed.

(Tinker)Belle, 2001-2010

Day One: Trying to Use My Words

What I really wanted and needed today was have some quiet time to myself. Quiet time, by myself, uninterrupted.

Strike one, husband had to work. Strike two, my little guy's birthday. Strike three, stay at home mom of an easily angered 23.5 month old. Strike four, I don't want to turn off my phone because there are people I want to be able to reach me: my kid's school, my husband, and my dad.

First thing first, after being told explicitly by her brother last night that I wanted a day without phones, and then reading on Facebook this morning that I wanted to have a day without phones, my sister-in-law, who last year didn't call, didn't send a present, or even a frickin card for either of my kid's birthdays, sends me a Facebook message wanting to know if it's okay for her to call. Right, because when your brother said, "The one and only thing you can do for Heidi right now is NOT CALL" he totally didn't mean it. It's opposite day, y'all!

In the 35 minutes that I was in the Cracker's classroom this afternoon I received 7 unsolicited text messages. The kids actually stopped singing happy birthday to my child to yell out "YOUR PHONE IS BEEPING AGAIN!" I don't have a text plan because I am a stay at home mom. If I can't talk then I can't text either. Seriously, if it isn't need-to-know-right-now-or-the-universe-explodes information fucking e-mail it to me. I promise I will enjoy your non-time-sensitive messages a few minutes (or, gasp, hours!) later when they don't cost me a quarter each. Really, seven BEEP!BEEP!BEEP! texts during a 35 minute party? No, not disruptive at all.

BUT HERE'S THE CAKE!

Scene: The Cracker's classroom. Enter Carmen's mom.

"How is your mom?"
Whispering. "She's gone. (Gulp.) But I'm here to celebrate the Cracker's birthday and he doesn't know."
"HIS ACTUAL BIRTHDAY IS TODAY?"
"It is."
"When?"
"What?"
"When did she die?"
"Yesterday. But the Cracker doesn't know. I can't talk about it right now." And the kid is 5 feet away. Pretty sure this was the point at which I put my sunglasses on, cause you know, welling up now.
"When yesterday?"
Lady, I don't even know your first name. Fuck, I don't even know your your last name.
"Early afternoon. Excuse me, I need to go set up."
She follows. The Cracker comes over and attaches himself to my leg.
"Oh I think he knows. He was so sad yesterday. When are you going home?"
"We're not."
"Is she being cremated?"

What the fuck is wrong with people?! I am using my big girl words. Why can't they listen?

Rest In Peace

1948-2010

The End of the End

When we first had to tell my son that his beloved grandmother was dying he was 5 and a half years old. The only way I could think of to express maybe months, maybe a year, was to tell him that while she would probably live to see him be 6, we didn't have much hope that she'd make it to see him turn 7.

When Christmas 2009 passed March 30th became her new goal.

We never told my mom about what we'd told him, though I suspected she knew. More than once he broke down and tried to get her to promise that she'd come to his 7th birthday party. It was obviously more to him than regular birthday milestone.

After she made it past the hurdles of mid-February, the days where we thought she wouldn't make it through the night, I found myself worrying about the worst case scenario.

Please not near his birthday. A two week cushion, minimum, is not too much to ask for, right?

On Saturday the hospice nurses volunteered that my mom has taken a final turn, one that suggests she has reached her final 48-72 hours.

On Tuesday my little boy turns 7.

Please let them be wrong.

Life Interrupted

It's been a month since I returned home from saying goodbye to my mom. It gets harder every day.

People call constantly -- they want to know how she's doing. When I don't call back instantly they call more. Ring, ring, ring, leave a message on my home phone. Ten seconds later ring, ring, ring, leave the same message on my cell phone. Repeat. People I hardly know ask me at school. Everyone wants to be informed. What's the latest? Do you want to spill your guts to me?

Thank you, but no.

How about now?

Nothing like trying to calm your mom down while you are both crying during yet another seizure or changing her diaper. AND THE FUCKING PHONE IS RINGING THROUGH IT ALL.

It's a lot like having a newborn for the first time. The needs are basic: clean, diaper, and feed. They sleep constantly but there's too much laundry, always an errand that needs running, and no time to shower let alone catch up on the sleep you didn't get the night before.

...


I feel like I've been honest with people all along, and it's just biting me in the ass. The more I give the more they want. "This is a death sentence." I told them that it would be a year or so. "There is no hope." I continue to give details like the fact that she's bedridden, sleeps 23+ hours/day, can no longer communicate, can't drink, can barely eat, etc, that I am waiting for "the" phone call. I tell them that I'll let them know when she's gone. I tell them that we think days, maybe a week, maybe two, but we don't know. I tell them we were 100% she wasn't going to make it through the night on February 17th. Then again on the 18th. We don't know, but I promise I will let you know when it happens.

And then they ask again, they call again. "How is your mom?"

Same as yesterday. Still dying. Thanks for asking.

She is so young! I really need to express to you how hard it is on me that you are losing her. I don't know what I'd do if it were my mom. Do you want to talk about it because I want to talk about it.

...

The truth is I lost my mom some time ago. Life is moving forward without her. I did not choose this, I am not ready for it, nor would I have been 20 years from now, but I am powerless to stop it. For more than a year I was consumed by cancer and death. And now, even though she is still here, she is gone. She can't talk, she can't respond, she can't swallow, she can't anything.

Ready or not, I am already having to find my way in the world without her.

The sadness? It's there, it's always there. There are times, like right now, when it's overwhelming and I do need a shoulder to cry on. Thank you for your offers, I will come to you when I need to, like I am now. But when I'm laughing and having a great time please stop interrupting to ask again. To tell me again. To remind me again.

Ring, ring, ring.

...

While I was gone my two best girlfriends ran into each other. They shared what they knew, had a good cry in the middle of a public library, and then made a pact to go home to call their own moms. They both told me about it later, each in their own ways, when the time was right.

I cannot even begin to express how much I loved hearing it.

I need you to talk about it with others. I need you to call your own mom. I have a whole lifetime ahead of me; there will be so many opportunities for you to be there, and I will need you.

I also need to be Heidi again, more than your friend with the mom who is dying of cancer way too young.

Saying Goodbye

The Middle of the End

When my parents left 3 weeks ago I found so much comfort in the fact that I knew it wasn't goodbye. Not yet. Because my dad had asked me again to come, and I agreed.

On Wednesday I got the call I'd been expecting, the one that said start thinking about making your goodbye trip.

Soon.

***

I saw a dress recently that I really wanted for my girl Olive. It was way above my price range, but something I knew I could sew, and in a fabric I actually already possesed.

(How I deal with my mom's pending death? By buying way too much fabric. Not sure it's cheaper than Crack. Or any less addictive.)

My mom and I talked about the dress I was hoping to make. I sent her a picture of the inspiration, modeled by a 4ish year old girl. A girl with blond big girl hair.

Thursday morning, before coffee, I got a message from my dad.

"She thinks the model in the picture is Olive. I cannot convince her otherwise."

(Light but still) brown haired, short haired, petite 22 month old Olive? The same girl who just last week started sporting her very first pig tails? It was almost all we talked about the week before. Yay! Pigtails! Almost two and she finally has pigtails! There had been pictures emailed, discussions over how to best harness them, and a ridiculous amount celebration.

Maybe she meant that the dress itself was "so Olive"?

Later that night when we talked on the phone she brought it up. "I am so mad at your father. Can you belive he doesn't even know his own granddaughter in a picture when he sees her?!"

Remember last week Mom? The pigtails? Do you remember?

And to then hear her voice at the other end of the line... Heartbreaking.

Cancer is cruel.



***

So I'm making plans to make plans. With every day that passes she seems two days closer to death.

But when? If I go too late it will be like I'm not even there. If I go too soon she knows that we've given up on her. I don't have the answers and I don't know how or where to find them.

But soon.

What the Fuck

Somebody, and by somebody I mean the Cracker, placed the bathroom trash can next to the toilet and then peed in it all over it.

I fuckin hate six. Six is bullshit.

You can read more about six here. And here. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Nana

I don't have it in me to lay it all out right now, but the news on my mom -- it's complicated, it's bad.

Olive has a lot of words, the majority of which we don't understand, but her newest favorite, one of a select few which even a complete stranger would understand is "Nana."

I'm so grateful that my mom got to hear her say it.

2010

A few weeks back I got a voice mail from my mom. Her voice was all wrong, her words made no sense. She talked until the system cut her off, about what I’ll never know. I saved it so Jason could listen to it, tell me that I was mistaken, because maybe it was subtle and only I would know because we share 32 years of mother-daughter history, versus their 12 years as in-laws.

But it was wrong. Even he could not deny it.

My fight-or-flight response kicked in. Lala lala la...I can’t hear you. And for a few days it actually worked. I can honestly say that I forgot about it.

...

A box arrived. Two pairs of Hanna Andersson tights for Olive, purchased in a brick and mortar HA store, unreturnable by me, mailed USPS by my mom. Two tiny pairs of tights that might have fit my daughter a year ago, but certainly not now, from a woman who always buys everything two sizes too big. Two tiny pairs of tights sent all alone in the biggest flat rate priority box money can buy, completely missing the point and any savings alltogether.

I called my dad. I’m not sure really why, probably so he could help run interference when she asked to see they way too small tights on my daughter. Mistake. The flood gates open, he immediately began ticking off a long list of all of her new not-quite-right brain tumor behavior. And there's been a lot.

...

She does chemo every two weeks now, until a scan shows that she is no longer responding. Yesterday she had a scan, with the results expected next week.

Seriously, you will be able to knock us over with a feather if she's allowed to go on.

I know I'm not looking for it, it's just there. While she is not nearly as angry as before, more like seriously annoyed, she grabs hold of a topic and won't. let. go. This last month it centers around air travel, airports, the TSA, x-rays, pat-downs, taking off your shoes at security, pets on planes, pets in the luggage claim, overhead bins, and why luggage with wheels are destroying our once civilized society. In 10 days she is due to fly here. She is convinced that she will not be allowed to board the plane, detained as a suspicious person of interest, because she doesn't look "alert" enough. Huh. The more I think about it, maybe that last one isn't all that out-there after all.

...

2010. It's everywhere today, yesterday, last week. Hope, change, possibility...

And the year my mom is going to die.

Leaving Beta, Going Live

Without really intending to, I started a teeny, tiny side business with my sewing. I did a few craft fairs, completed a few custom orders, and figured out pretty quickly exactly where I want to be, which is....really, really, no, really part-time. All of the fun, none of the pressure. I sew what I want when I want. I have an excuse to buy fabric. Maybe if I'm lucky random strangers continue to occasionally give me money. A creative feast or famine! Just like this blog, actually.

Ta da! I have an empty Etsy store and a new craft blog, Modern Olive.

I think I'm more of a show girl, especially since I have a terrific girlfriend I show with. We split the cost, catch up on gossip, giggle, and get our craft thang on. The Etsy market seems so hopelessly oversaturated that I expect nothing, but with only 20 cent listing fees, why not?

Oh, Etsy! Just the other day I was thinking how unique this dress is, I mean the fabric was discontinued long ago and only one Etsy seller even has it, when I accidentally stumbled upon its big sister. WTF?

So I've come to the conclusion that I've never, ever had a unique idea, but I can still have a new blog. And maybe an empty Etsy store, too.

Black Friday 2009

Infamous

Her: I swear I know you from somewhere.
Me: Hmmm. I don't know.
Her: I've got it! You were at Costco the other day with your husband and your daughter. She was wearing a long sleeve black dress with white birds?
Me: We were.
Her: Haha! She was laying on the floor in the food court kicking and screaming and you were yelling at your husband "OMG THE FLOOR IS NASTY PICK HER UP!" You guys totally cracked me up!

Yay us.

Revelation

There are two stuffed bunnies. She wants me to hand her one. There is no right answer, but still I choose wrong.

Suddenly she is screaming at me, hysterical, crazed, completely oblivious to everything around her, overly emotional to the point of utter ridiculousness.

And then I get it.

"This," I say to my husband, pointing at our still tantruming daughter, "this is how men see women, isn't it?"

"Yup!"

HOLY SHIT.

Olive Goes Green

All by her little self Olive repurposed crawler tracks into John Deere jewelry. Totally bad ass, doncha think?

Anger Management

"Hey Mom?"

"Yeah buddy?"

"I hope that when Olive grows up she can find a husband who will be willing to pick up all the things that she throws at him."

Sigh. Me too.

Single White Male

Code name: The Cracker
Age: 6.5 years old

Interests and Activities:

• museums
• literature
• transportation
• collecting sticks and other forms of nature
• dressing up/role play
• good guys vs. bad guys
• play fighting
• weaponry
• 6 year old male humor
• all money making schemes
• fundraising prizes!
• party favor junk

Turn-offs:

• bedtime
• being asked to pee before a long car trip

Favorite food?
Pink Lady apples

Favorite animal?
My cat Corie

Favorite books:
Mr. Putter and Tabby (series)
Skippyjon Jones (series)
Chicks and Salsa
Eight Animals Bake a Cake

Aspirations:

• To sell random free shit treasures I find, like leaves, to strangers.
• lose a baby tooth

Anything else?

I am as sweet and loving as I am energetic. I am known for being that kid who is nice to everyone; I will never be mean to you or put you down. For this reason I am always given the role of ambassador to new students. I am loved by the ladies and find myself the only male at many (intimate) birthday bashes, and if I don't stop getting invited to everyone's party my parents will soon go broke. I love life, my family, and especially my little sister. My parents are so proud of the young man I've become.

So Big

A few of the Cracker's newest shirts are falling off the hangers. The necks are too big for kid hangers.

Sniff.


(Olive's 18 month stats: 20lbs, 14oz and 30" tall)

Single White Female

Name: Olive
Age: 18 months

Interests and Activities:

• climbing
• trying on shoes
• meowing at cats
• sand
• pretending to make smoothies in my toy blender
• pushing my doll stroller
• the words naho! and me!
• "decorative posable bat with 8 foot wing span and battery operated LED eyes" (available at Costco, limited time offer)

Turn-offs:

• pants
• not being allowed to wear my Converse high-tops to bed
• pants
• delayed gratification
• pants
• when my parents don't understand me
• pants

Favorite food?
E-ewe-ees (smoothies)

Favorite animal(s)?
Dogs, bears, and bunny rabbits

Favorite music:

• The ABC Song, Elmo and India
• The ABC Song, Tilly and the Wall

Favorite Books:

• Touch and Feel Kitten
• The Cheerios Playbook
• Biscuit and the Bunny
• Richard Scarry's The Bunny Book
• Pat the Bunny
• The Magic School Bus: Inside the Human Body

Aspirations:
To be able to climb everything my brother can climb, especially onto the giant no-net trampoline that sits 4+ feet off the ground at C and S's house.























Anything else?
Yes, pants are okay for bed, but NEVER for leaving the house, unless my mom lets me wear a dress over them. Then maybe, depending on my mood, but usually not.

Siblings Without Rivalry

Forgive me, I am an only child. Can someone explain to me why when you are trying to keep a potentially sick child off of a potentially healthy child they suddenly can't stop licking each other?

Lick-ing.

The baby I can understand. Our Olive is a licker. Her favorite "I'm going look you straight in the eyes and do exactly what you just told me not to" activity is licking. And biting. Well, not exactly biting. It's either pretending to bite or threatening to bite, the jury's still out on that one. She assumes the position but doesn't chomp down.

But why is my should know better six and a half year old licking back? Giggle giggle giggle. "She licked me first."

And now they're both laughing at me.

On the plus side, twenty-four hours of at home driving me crazy later, I am fairly certain that the Cracker's nausea + upchucking last night was a result of hyperactivity or the 30 minute flu.

But still. Eew.

Three Strikes We're Out

Once upon a time there was a family, a small family, but a close-knit family.

The family was made up of a grandfather, a grandmother, two daughters, two son-in-laws, and three grandchildren. The family agreed on very little: not money, not politics, not religion, and certainly not on a definition of family values. But it didn't matter. They bit their tongues and kept most of their opinions to themselves, and so despite their vast differences and great geographical distance, they loved and cared for each other very much.

One winter's night, when the grandchildren were still little, the beloved grandmother died quite unexpectedly in her sleep. The family never really recovered from her death, certainly not her sons(-in-law), to whom she'd been more of a mother than any other woman. Her death left a void that time would never be able to fill.

Years later, just as the grandchildren were entering adulthood, the grandfather fell ill. Liver cancer came on hard and fast and ugly. Diagnosis to death was measured in a handful of long, cruel weeks. The grandchildren were still too young to have children of their own, but old enough to understand and witness the immense physical pain and suffering of a death by cancer. The family relived it over and over again in their nightmares.

Years passed. Eventually it was the youngest daughter who was the first to become a grandmother. Mother to one miracle daughter, fulfilling her new role as a grandmother became her life. Five years later she was ecstatic to become a grandmother again, as the family welcomed the first and only female of the newest generation. It was when her granddaughter was only seven months old that the youngest daughter was diagnosed with stage IV of the most aggressive form of brain cancer. Treatment would be palliative. She would endure radiation and chemo just to have more time with her grandchildren. When six months and six rounds of one chemo drug failed she bravely embraced starting over with a new one. Last week the family found out that after four months of the newest aggressive chemo treatments the youngest daughter's tumors had shrunk a little. Not much, only a little. The family hopes that a little is enough that the youngest daughter will be allowed to continue treatment for just a little while longer. The family waits.

The oldest daughter and her husband would become grandparents of four boys, the oldest of which just turned five, and the youngest of which was only four months old as of yesterday. Yesterday, when the family found out that the oldest daughter's husband has prostate cancer, and there is reason to suspect that the cancer is elsewhere. The family waits.

We wait.

(PS Please do not mention anything on my fb profile, as my cousins do not yet know.)

I Ate Chicken and Then It Burned When I Peed

In early June I was feeling super exhausted and having super bad icky feelings so I hauled ass to the doctor with screaming daughter in tow while son with big ears was at a summer program.

My doctor and I both assumed I had a UTI. My symptoms were not quite textbook, and my initial test results a little odd, but whatever. As he pointed out I've been under extreme stress too. I was sent away with a rx for antibiotics.

Six days later his nurse called.

"We got your final test results back. And may I just say wow! Talk about rare! It's like really, really rare! First case ever in our office! And it doesn't normally show up this way either. That makes it even more rare!"


The diagnosis was a little scary and way confusing. I called one of my bestest friends, who besides having been a nurse just knows everything. She already knew I'd gone in and about all my symptoms, even made me a special tea to drink. (Insert warm fuzzy smile.) Now with my new surprising diagnosis we went over it again because it just didn't add up. Why wasn't the doctor asking questions to find out how I'd gotten a rare typically food-borne illness in an even rarer place?

My amazing friend Dr. Googled a few key items, translated a few medical articles back into English, and took a moment to think.

"Okay, so you totally know you don't have to answer this, but have you and J recently done it doggie style?"

OH. MY. GAWD. Just like two or many more times a day for the last solid week before getting sick! HOW DID SHE KNOW? Last time we'd talked silly girlfriend sex I'd still been a fuck me in a bubble bath phase. Stupid 30-something hormones and buzzy cock rings.


SALMONELLA. Confirmed on two separate occasions by two separate labs by four separate tests. And let me just tell you that nothing will make you feel like a skankier ho than having the state Health Department call and grill you. The nurse was really nice about it, but c'mon, salmonella as an STD?

And because everyone always wants to know: bbq chicken. At a friend's house.

But not the sex. That was at home.

Dear Olive,

At some point in the recent past I blinked and suddenly here you are, nearly 15 and a half months old. If I had the power to keep you this age for more than a month I certainly would. Simply put you're a damn hoot.

You still really love dogs and Lady Gaga, but I think you now love smoothies even more. We let you have your first one a couple of weeks back when you were really sick (reaction to the evil MMR) in a desperate attempt to get something/anything into you. But really if can be sucked through a straw you're down. Your brother still won't drink soda, even Yoda soda, but you've gotten your mittens on my Diet Coke more than once and thought it was awesome. Heidi 2004 would be shocked and horrified at all the things you've ingested thus far.

With food you are far pickier. Your absolute never refused favorites are guacamole, bananas, bean beans, yogurt and soup. Savory lentil, minestrone, veggie, tomato, carrot, and clam chowder - you love them ALL. You adore grilled chicken and tofu 90% of the time. The other 10% you're right, we are totally trying to kill you. You're down with eating raw onions for funsies just like your mother, and you'll also inhale pico as an entree like the native New Mexican you are.

Size-wise you're petite. (18lbs, 11oz and 29 inches) Throw in your short hair and you wow complete strangers everywhere we go because you look way too small to be walking, running and talking as well as you do. Currently most people peg you at 9 months, even parents with kids around that age. You just moved into a size 4 shoe, or as you call them FOOFS! which leads me to believe your feet might be bigger than the rest of you just like your big brother. It's really hard to find pants that fit so I continue to put you mostly in dresses, which you now seem to prefer. The last few times we've put you in jeans has elicited a "what the hell?!" reaction. Your hair is still far too fine for barrettes, but you love soft headbands and floral tiaras. You have this divaesque "I know I look good!" beam that's priceless when your head is adorned.

You are still a sleeper. You go to bed around 7:30p, sleep until 8:30-9a, eat like a madwoman for 45 minutes, and then go back down until 11:30-noon. Later in the afternoon I can count on at least another full hour, more often than not two if we are at home, other wise you cat nap while we're out. At night, if you decide we're taking too long getting you to bed you actually start waving goodbye, the first part of your bedtime routine. It's a big hit when we have friends over.

When you're tired and you have your beloved blankie you suck your left thumb. I had a bunch of waffle blankies that you liked just fine until your grandma, my mom, gave you one she had knit especially for you, and then it was all over. She spent months making it a twin, in part because of the oh shit what if it was ever lost factor, and in part because you're never awake long enough for me to wash and dry it between naps. Three weeks ago it was finally finished and ready for you, along with a more portably-sized sibling I named the potholder. We were all worried that you may not accept a newer, slightly larger, and less smellier version of blankie but you surprised us by nearly exploding with happiness. Of course now there are times when only the entire collection will do. Since it was such a hit your grandma has made two more potholders, which you also welcomed to your collection with love. You seemed to realize instantly that potholders + walking = the end of blankie tripping. Smart girl.

At least a hundred times a day you grab my finger and pull me to the computer demanding DUCKS!



You call your big brother Gah. When he gets in your way you do not hesitate to give him a good shove or five. Your father and I will never forget our last plane ride, when we had boarded and were waiting at the gate and you realized that your brother's window seat had some good viewing. Your ineffectual little fists, shrieks of "Gah! Gah! Gah!" and steam blowing out your ears -- something only a mother, or father, could love. And you have this new smile, one that uses your whole face and jutts out your chin. I'm still trying to catch it on camera. Something about it really reminds me of my own dad.

I could go on for days. You will never know how much we love you. Thank you for being just who you are.

xoxo Mom