MISSING BARRY


Barry has been gone for over a year and a half now, and even though I didn’t know her that long I still miss her. She was ten years older than I was, had made her peace with God, yet fought her rapidly spreading breast cancer up to the very end.

She was a generous friend; generous in spirit and in deed. When she found out that I was sharing my car with my daughter and had to drive Deborah to work weekdays if I wanted to go swimming, Barry suggested I use her car. I usually swam mornings and she often slept until noon anyway. She gave me a key to her car.

She was understanding. One day I locked my key in her car at the pool, and had to hitch a ride home. I woke her up to borrow her key to retrieve her car. I felt both embarrassed and stupid. She handled the situation with much grace, and urged me to continue to use her car as if nothing had happened.

She was a lady who cared about her appearance--a woman who dressed up to go out to lunch down the block. I’m someone who is often uncivilized around the edges both in appearance and behavior; I dress for comfort and basic modesty; I own one pair of shoes—by choice. I often tell the unvarnished truth. Despite this neither of us held those facts against each other. I appreciated it that she never tried to civilize me. Both of us took the opportunity of our friendship to exchange stories in essence about how the other half lived. Both of us gave each other unasked-for advice.

We had wide-ranging conversations about politics, about past lives (which she believed in and I didn’t) and religion and metaphysics, about writing and publishing, about husbands and lovers, about our children. She was interested in pop culture and I started watching Dancing with the Stars and American Idol so we could trade opinions about who we thought should have won each week. Barry was both optimistic and idealistic. When I argued that fiction needed conflict to sustain interest, Barry envisioned a utopian future shaped by cooperation and cheerfulness.

She had been a Unity minister before her retirement and was wise about death and dying. “I’m ready to go,” she told me toward the end. “But, I don’t think you’re ready to have me go.” I protested, not wanting to hang on to her, not wanting her to have to use her dwindling energy to reassure me. However, as it turned out she was right.

After her death I allowed my life to get smaller and smaller. I stopped calling friends and family; I stopped watching Dancing with the Stars, I stopped shopping at Trader Joe’s. Barry and I used to go out for lunch once a week, and would often stop by Trader Joe’s before going home. I was not consciously aware that this was happening.

By the first anniversary of her death I had begun to get my life back on track—to get more involved with the world. I enrolled in a writing class and began attending a therapy grief group. Good grief! Barry would have liked the humor in that.

Sunday Blessings

Today was a good day, the best Mom's Day in years. Sunshine helped; finding flowers lurking in my car helped (thank you darling daughter), swimming helped, playing a game of Scrabble with Michael helped, a phone call from Richard helped, having written my Mother's Day rant helped.

I'd like to know what happens for you, my daughter, when I do my psychotic dance -- if you feel like sharing.

Sounds like your 2-day pilgrimage to Alki was a healing thing. I always learn so much from your examples of facing up to adversity. As you know I'm such an expert in running away.

Thanks for the info re Mother's Day. I'm all for peace!

A better day than yesterday... by Deborah

Yesterday was an odd day for me. One of my errands was to the PCC Co-op in W. Seattle to get some sage. While there I decided to grab a coffee and spend some time walking or sitting down at the beach at Alki. Not sure if that was a mistake or what. Armed with my IPOD and a Starbucks off I went. Driving through the area brought back a whole host of memories, not all of them pleasant. I wonder why after this long that place still affects me. Walked the boardwalk for a while then settled on a bench to watch the people and listen to the water. I found myself staring at the water, tears running down my face, quietly crying for over an hour. I couldn't seem to get control. I decided not to try to stop the tears as they obviously needed to get out. I felt searing pain again and loss, grief and a feeling of failure. Silently I extend out a barrier knowing the shroud of pain that surrounds me will keep everyone away. Not being able to stop it or control it I decide to just let it go and let the waves take it all away. Don't know if I was successful or not, but the tears seemed to stop after an hour or so. It was a strange experience, I was feeling all these feelings and at the same time meta to it all watching the woman in a white tee and hoody (me) on the bench, tears streaming down her face as couples, families, runners and dogs all passed by seeming not to notice. I felt invisible and yet part of everything and apart from everything. In the end I just felt wrung out. Spent the rest of the day mostly in solitude. Sat on my deck and enjoyed the warm sunshine. Couldn't shake the melancholia and didn't even try. Stayed away from interacting with people as I knew I was not good company. I know it sounds pathetic but I kept and keep wondering what is it about me, that I put my heart out there and it gets smashed. Why can't I be loved and appreciated for me? What is wrong with me? Silly questions and (rationally) I know not totally accurate, but there it is. That's how I feel. Fuck! I hate this. Slept rather fitfully last night, dreamed a lot though I can't really remember what about. Not feeling particularly better today, but hoping one more day of sunshine and solitude helps my mood.

Today is Mother’s Day, typically a day that doesn’t mean a whole lot to me as I am not a mother. Of course that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate you, Mom. I do. Though we have had our fights and years of struggle and frustration, there have also been times when we had great rapport. And a few times when you saved my life. I am reminded of this particularly since yesterday I wallowed in hurt, grief and anger remembering the pain of my divorce. When things were the worst and my world had shattered you stepped in to offer an ear, a hug, lots of unconditional love, no judgment, fierce loyalty to me and a ticket to SoCal where I embarked upon a most excellent (and sometimes painful) adventure. Thanks for that. I don’t think I would’ve survived without you.

I went to Trader Joe’s early this morning to buy you some flowers to leave in your car on my way to wherever I decided to go today. The man that stands outside selling the Real Change newspaper was there as he is most mornings. I often want to buy a paper from him as I’m leaving, but I always forget. And it’s not all that convenient as my hands are filled with grocery bags with my purse and money not easily accessible. And because it’s not easy or convenient I usually don’t. I realize that is a sucky attitude so today I decided to get my money out before I went into the store and put it in my pocket so I could buy the paper when I am leaving.

I offer my money to the man as I am leaving and he thanks me. He is very polite. I tell him to enjoy his day and he tells me, “Happy Mother’s Day”. “You might like the article inside about the origins of Mother’s Day he tells me. It’s not what you would think.” I reply, “I look forward to reading it. I may just share it with my mum.” After exchanging a few more pleasantries I get in my car and leave.
I leave the flowers in your car so you will find them when you go out to go swimming. I hope this is one of those “good” days for you and that you do go swimming. Knowing it is Mother’s Day, a day you often have trouble with, I have visions of the flowers wilting in the hot car if you don’t decide to go out.

I went down to Alki again. I needed to test the theory that yesterday was just one of those days and that Alki doesn’t hold bad memories for me everyday. I got there early and sat on one of the benches by the volleyball nets. Watching them put up the nets and mark out the sand; I drink my latte and eat my pumpkin bread. It doesn’t feel awful inside me today. I am thankful. Yesterday was an aberration! Today I don’t feel the pain only a sense of peace as I listen to the waves and the people.

Remembering what the man said about the article revealing the origins of Mother’s Day I pull out the newspaper and turn to page 3. I read, “Underneath the layers of schmaltz our paramount Hallmark holiday has its origins in one 19th-century American woman’s response to war.” That’s interesting… I read further. “Mother’s Day started as a day to be a peace activist, says Sara Sutter, founder of Julia’s Voice, an organization seeking to restore the holiday to Julia Ward Howe’s original intent. She didn’t year have the vote, but she had the ability to organize mothers and her fame from penning the Battle Hymn of the Republic didn’t hurt. Howe issued a proclamation calling on women to take a day to stand up for peace!” Fascinating, I never would’ve thought that. Knowing you love to know stuff I’m passing this along to you. And perhaps it will give you something different to think about today. I do know you have some strange notions about Mother’s Day along with a whole bunch of expectations. At least you have in the past. When I was a child and even into my adulthood, I felt responsible to make sure you had a good day. Even though most of the time, I felt your pain of not getting what you want, and nothing ever being enough. Or at least that was my perception. These days I don’t take responsibility for you or your feelings. But I do sincerely hope you have a lovely Mother’s Day and perhaps you will someday, maybe even today, find a little peace.

Love and hugs, your favorite (and only) daughter

MOTHER’S DAY PSYCHOSIS


You can’t escape from Mother’s Day. Lord knows I’ve tried. I was most successful at escaping only when I lived in an RV and could easily leave town. Now I’m surrounded by newspaper ads, radio and TV, even email, that attempt to blackmail me into spending money on mother – whether or not I have one to honor. Anyone who doesn’t go along with this buy-more-buy-now agenda is not only seen as heartless, but also un-American.

I have a well-deserved reputation in my family for being neurotic. In and around Mother’s Day I tend toward the psychotic. I’m kinda like a hand grenade where someone has pulled the pin – a trifle unstable I fear.

I start out pretty reasonably I think. I’m not particularly materialistic so I neither want nor need more stuff. I’m allergic to chocolate and don’t have much of a sweet tooth, so candy is out. I’m not fond of crowds so Mother’s Day brunch doesn’t make much sense to me. That leaves flowers, cards, and phone calls. In the past I’ve been thrilled with a bunch of lilacs from the yard, a thoughtful card, and/or a phone call. Bottom line all I want is a brief acknowledgment from each of my four children on or about Mother’s Day.

I’d prefer it if they thought of it themselves without my having to remind them. But if it doesn’t happen I can become unglued. Irrational, unreasonable, actively miserable. Somehow there’s hell to pay and I have no control over any of it. Self-pity run riot rules the day. I make myself sick. I’m definitely toxic, possibly radioactive. Mostly I hate myself for being so petty-minded and hypocritical.

I think about my former mother-in-law who once told me, “When your children are little they step on your toes; when they’re grown they step on your heart.” I was young and appalled when she said that. Now that I’m older I have some understanding of her feelings. I think about my own mother whom I seldom wrote to. And I don’t remember sending her a Mother’s Day card either, but Hallmark had not yet turned the event into today’s orgy of spending, sentimentality, and one-upmanship.

When I’m smart I try to be proactive. And my children prefer a direct request rather than my often baroque suggestions. So, this year I asked my daughter to take me on a field trip some weekday; I want to ride the new airporter train and need help to manage the excursion. I’ve also asked Michael (middle son)to come over and play Scrabble with me on Sunday. Hopefully, those things will keep me out of mischief on this Mother’s Day.

If not, I recently overheard a superior strategy to obtain acknowledgment. Cookie, mother of many children, simply phones them up, and if she's out of town, she calls them collect. I wish I'd thought of that years ago when I was traveling! It might have saved the family a lot of grief.

by Jean

My "agenda" (and I'm always surprised to find I have one!) is that I want to feel more connected to my favorite daughter, to you. Recently I've returned to writing and found it useful. I'm hoping this willingness to share a blog will be useful to us both. For me, I've found if it doesn't pass the useful (or amusing) test, it won't last very long anyway.

For more than half my life I did not want to be anything like my foolish mother. I was nearly fifty before I made my peace with a woman who had been dead for over twenty years. One of the problems for me with her dying so young is that I ended up with no role model for what being over 70 should be like. So, once again, I often feel adrift having to use the trial-and-error-and-error-and-error method to figure things out. I also realize that I have often depended too much on you in similar ways as my mother depended on me.

By Deborah

My name is Deborah. I’m 51, the daughter of Jean and Gene (no longer married to each other). Allow me to put some context around these dialogues. I love my mother, though at times I dislike her behavior and her choices. In all fairness I’m certain she could say the same of me.

It seems that she and I have been actively at war with episodes of peace since I was old enough to have opinions of my own. My 3 brothers claim I am “just like my mother”, and in some ways I suppose I am. Growing up I despised that moniker because in my mind I was nothing like my mother and at that time she was not a person I admired, nor aspired to be like. Now that I am an adult (by virtue of my age, not necessarily my behavior), I accept the ways in which I am like her and embrace the ways I am not.

My friends will tell you I am nothing if not honest and ruthlessly blunt. In my life that has worked both for and against me. Regardless, it’s not something I can or am willing to change. So off we go.

At the moment I don’t have any “issues” with my mom. I suspect she has a few with me! I love her and accept the way she is, though I may not like it. I’m sure this may seem cold and perhaps unfeeling, but if she were to die today, I would greatly miss her and certainly there would be a definite hole in my life. However, on my side do not feel there are any outstanding hurts that need to be healed. For her I think it is a different story and so I am willing to have the conversations.

Ok, Mom – it’s your serve, what’s up first on your agenda?

by JEAN

My name is Jean. I'm 74, going on 14, the daughter of Florence, who died when she was only 49 and I was only 27 with a preschool-age daughter of my own. My mother would have loved and appreciated my daughter in ways I wasn't able to for too many years.
I never had the chance to resolve any of the mutual frustrations between my mother and me. I see this blog as a chance, perhaps, to heal some of the mutual frustrations between my daughter, Deborah, and I before time and opportunity run out.
Deborah and I have promised to respect each other by aiming for blunt honesty rather than by walking on eggs trying not to hurt each other's feelings
The goal is to post an entry every week or two, hoping other daughters and mothers will post their comments in the on-going dialogues.
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