Category: Slice ‘o Life

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Lost (Tooth) and Found (Joy)

It’s been a rough week around these parts.  Fevers, flu, general holiday malaise that takes up residence, like a familiar and demanding house guest. As karma for being the only member of the household who didn’t get their flu shot, I was bitten by the mother of all flus.  Forgive me, flu shot, for I have sinned in leaning out of you this year.  I vow not to make that same mistake again.

But enough about my fever, aches, and chills.

Just as I started to feel the tiniest bit human again, Mary Tyler Dad came down with it.  This guy never gets sick, like ever, so when he does, I pay attention.  Poor honey.  And, alas, tonight the baby went to bed with a slightly elevated temp.  It seems our home is not yet done with this beast.

In this midst of all this sickness and ick, Mary Tyler Son crawled into my bed this morning waking me up with a gleeful whisper in my ear, “I lost my tooth, Mom!”

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My second child had just lost his first tooth.  We laughed, I cried, there was a moment we shared, he and I, together, as Daddy showered in the next room.  He put it in the basket of my palm and I gingerly held this second child’s first tooth.  We both shared our fascination of the root in the center, marveled at how small it actually was, beamed with pride and joy.

I carefully placed the little chip of enamel on my nightstand and snuggled in with the boy.  As we waited for the day to begin, I thought about how happy Mary Tyler Son losing his tooth would have made Donna.  Seriously — the girl would have been thrilled.  In those quiet moments in the dark December morning, I could feel it.  As the boy laid on that same spot in the bed where his sister died, it was potent.  He was growing up. Donna approves of this.  And so do I.

Whatever hassles crossed my path today, and, let me tell you, there were more than a few, there was this constant undercurrent of joy buzzing along. Tonight the Tooth Fairy will make her very first stop to our familial home. We are initiated, my husband and I, finally, into another phase of parenthood.

And there, peeking out just behind the new gaping hole in his mouth, Mary Tyler Son has the beginnings of a brand new tooth cresting his gums. Both of my boys are prodigious in the tooth making department these days! Rejoice!

Something so basic, so very basic, has seemed to restore my faith and trust that everything will be alright.

My boy is growing up.  Things are falling out of his body and other things are popping up to replace them.  Exactly as is supposed to happen. Precisely as is expected.  Nature is taking its course.  Biology is a freaking genius.

The miracle of this is not lost on me.

I am so very grateful.

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Meeting Mary

Tonight, on the last night of this November month of gratitude, I think back to the start of the month when I got on a jet plane and flew off to a far away state to meet a friend.  A mere four weeks later, it kind of, sort of feels like eons ago.  Maybe because it kind of, sort of feels like I have always known Mary.  But I haven’t.

Mary is someone I met through blogging.  She started as a reader — an amazing reader, kind and supportive and flattering.  The kind of reader that a blogger dreams of and, if we’re honest with ourselves, never quite feel worthy of.  That’s my Mary.  I think she found me in September 2011 when I was posting Donna’s Cancer Story in daily increments to recognize Childhood Cancer Awareness Month.  Mary is one of those folks who came and never left.

She made herself known to me by leaving empathic comments.  Later, after September, she was still commenting, but her remarks evolved.  They became wicked funny.  Hilarious.  Spot on.  Protective.  Unfailingly supportive, but questioning when she felt questioning was merited.  I mean, seriously, you couldn’t dream up a better reader.

Somewhere along the line I started to see her pop up in fellow blogger’s pages.  I’m not gonna lie, part of me felt like Mary was cheating on me.  I mean, really, she was leaving cute and supportive quips for other bloggers, too?  Pffft.   What kind of reader is that?  Ha.  That’s when I knew something was changing, evolving.  Mary was becoming more real to me.

Somewhere else along the line we “friended” one another on Facebook. I’ve learned to become fairly protective of the line between Mary Tyler Mom, the blogger and Sheila, the woman.  I stopped accepting personal friend requests from readers.  I stopped posting photos of Mary Tyler Son on my blog page.  The walls went up as the numbers did.  Mary made it through though, and damn, I am glad of that.

When you blog on this here Internet, you “meet” a lot of folks.  Thousands of new folks.  It messes with you a bit.  People, strangers on the Internet, know things about you.  Deep and personal things that you willingly put out there and then just go about your day.  And then they want to know more and you, again willingly, tell them more.  And more.  And more.  Lines blur, judgment blurs, you trust openly and then you regret it.  It happens, if you’re lucky enough to have folks read your words.  Thanks to the help of fellow bloggers, I count myself as one of the lucky ones.

But it is the Internet, so not all things are as they seem.   Scams become exposed, hard luck stories (just like the one that gave me my own Internet street cred) abound, and requests start pouring in.  It’s an odd and heartbreaking phenomenon.  How do you say yes to them?  How do you say no to them?  I still struggle with it.  Most of the time, I just keep my head down and write.  It’s what I do and it’s one of the few things that helps me grieve and regain a sense of control in my life, however false it may be.

But wait, we’re talking about Mary here!

That Mary had plum insinuated herself into my life.  I found myself looking forward to her comments.  Thrilled to see photos of her little ones, eek out little glimpses of the Mary behind the keyboard.  She is protective herself, though, so we took our friendship nice and slow — just my pace. Life circumstances had her move to Europe in the middle of our friendship.  I started to miss Mary, this gal I had never even met before.  How is that even possible?  Yet I was so happy for the adventure she and her family were having.  I lived vicariously through her Facebook photos.  Did I mention what a gifted photographer she is?  Ridiculously gifted.

When I learned that Mary and her family were returning to the states, I made the decision to go and meet her.  With fair warning, before she even stepped foot back on American soil, I popped the question — “Can I come visit you when you return?”

It was time.

At Donna’s memorial service, her amazing dance teacher, Miss Shawn, talked about saying “yes.”  Donna said yes to her life challenges and adventures.  More often than not, I have said no.  Shawn and Donna inspired me to say yes to this burgeoning virtual friendship, to test it out, see if it had merit in the real world.  I am so glad I did.

Sure, I joked online that I might end up in a thousand pieces in a Hefty bag on the side of some dusty road somewhere, but deep down I never felt scared. Deep down, Mary felt like a friend, good and close, who I had just never happened to meet in person before.  So much of our virtual life is easy to dismiss by folks who prefer to communicate the old fashioned way.  I reject that, in part.  My virtual life, my Facebook life, is very real to me and completely valued.  Meaningful communication is entirely possible via “virtual” means.  My friendship with Mary is evidence of that.

Mary

Our visit confirmed my suspicions.  Mary is my friend.  One I had never met before, but no less a relationship for that, and now only the richer after our visit.  I look forward to being life long friends with this lady.  We’ve already matched two of our kids together in an arranged marriage, so, all in good time, we will be in-laws.  And her husband doesn’t even seem to mind my politics.  Virtual my a$$.

I love you, Lady!  And am so very glad to know you.  xox

 

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Rose Goes Home

People die and that sucks, especially when those people are ones in your orbit that you loved, or liked, or cherished, or relied upon.

Rose was Donna’s very first babysitter.  When baby Donna was thirteen weeks old, I got dressed all business like for the first time since her birth. I loaded her up in her car seat, had a little bag full of breast milk, and my electric pump slung on my shoulders.  Donna was off for an adventure and so was I.  For the first time, she would be in the care of another and for the first time I would walk into the office as a working mother.  I think it was a hard day for both of us, but Rose assured me all would be fine.  And it was.

Three days a week for the next 17 months we had the same routine.  Rose cared for Donna and some other little ones in her home.  She had been doing home child care for much of her life, starting when her own little ones were babies.  When Donna came to her, Rose was in her late sixties.

She ran a tight ship, Rose, and maintained order and structure amidst the chaos a room full of babies and toddlers can create.  Her husband, Poppy, helped out since he was retired.  Where Rose was order and structure, Poppy was a warm lap and loving arms.  Where Rose was feeding and diapering, Poppy was walking to the park down the street. They were such a great team, Rose and Poppy, each one complementing the other so perfectly well.  And, really, children and babies need both a little Rose and Poppy in their lives — a little structure and a little cuddle and warmth, each so important in their own way.

When the message came that Rose had died, I felt terribly.  I felt guilty.  I felt sad.  Did I ever properly express the gratitude I felt to Rose for helping us raise Donna?  Probably not.  Rose was not one to easily get warm and fuzzy with.  Again, she was business.  Kind business, gentle business when gentle was called for, but business still.  And, full disclosure, I to this day feel some responsibility, as Donna’s mother, that she was taken from those who loved her.  Rose loved Donna, I have no doubt of that. Sometimes it can be hard to face the people that most loved Donna, the guilt overwhelms, irrational as it is.

After Donna’s death five years ago, our visits with Rose and Poppy became less and less frequent.  Occasionally, a grandparent might ask after Rose and Poppy.  I would sheepishly admit that I hadn’t kept up with them, that we had fallen out of touch.  I meant to.  I always meant to.

Rose’s service was on a Thursday.  I would go and bring the baby.  People talk about “paying respects,” and Lord, did I wish to pay my respects to Rose, to Poppy, to all who loved her. Rose mattered to me, to my family, to my only and beloved and now deceased daughter.  I would get over my bad self, swallow my guilt, and pay my respects. I am so grateful I did.  I only wish I had done it sooner.

It turns out that the service for Rose was held at a church that I drove past frequently.  Once, I pulled over to photograph the message from the sign near the front door — “RELAX.  GOD IS STILL IN CHARGE.”  That spoke to me despite not being religious or a church goer.  The message of not being the one in control of life is one I fully embrace.  We can cling to the illusion of control, but it is nothing more than an illusion.  As a Cancer Mom, I get that.

I never knew the church was Rose and Poppy’s church, their religious home.  The fact that it was lent a greater sense of significance to being there.  I felt closer to both them and Donna.  The baby and I walked in, me a little timidly, wondering if I truly belonged there.  The church lobby was full and getting crowded.  I made a move with the stroller to enter the church when a woman dressed head to toe in white, including tights and gloves and shoes, like a retro nurse, took my arm and explained this time was private time for family to be with Rose. Oops. “Of course,” I said, grateful for the guidance.

Baby and I slinked back to a corner, waiting our turn.  About twenty minutes later the doors opened wide and all gathered were allowed in.  The church filled.  One by one, people filed past Rose in her coffin.  Family and friends greeted one another.  There was a joy in the air, a sense of reunion, old friends and family seeing one another after too much time had passed.  Funerals bring people together, just as years ago, when we were younger, weddings and babies did.  It is the cycle of life.

The service was rich and wonderful.  Those who memorialized Rose did her justice.  She was honored for her cooking, her child rearing, her hosting, her wry humor, her sharp instincts, her Christian life.  I felt closer to Rose and Poppy than I had in years.  The music soared, the humor and tributes flowed, a life was properly honored.

And as I watched all of this unfold, between wrangling a busy baby and retrieving fallen Cheerios from the red carpet beneath me, I couldn’t help but think of that other aspect of Rose’s life — her work of helping to raise other people’s children.  As I looked out on the crowd, there was only one other family I recognized, a girl who had “graduated” from Rose’s care before Donna was even born, but who, like us, would visit with Rose and Poppy on Halloween during trick-or-treating.  This girl was grown now, a tween already, inches away from being a teen.  She made me think of all the other children that had passed through Rose and Poppy’s home through the years, getting kisses (“sugar” as Rose called them) and hugs (“cush” as Rose called them) and diaper changes and warm milk.

I sat there and imagined an army of forty years of babies now grown, babies that Rose had a hand in caring for while their parents went off to work. Where were they now?  What were they doing?  Rose retired not long after Donna left her care.  Her graduates, though, must range in age from 6 or 7 all the way up to 40 years old. Goodness!  What an amazing legacy to leave, what sacred work Rose did in her life.

I am grateful to have known Rose and Poppy.  I worry about Poppy, now without his Rose.  She took care of him just like she took care of so many others.  When I worked with older adults and going to memorial services was part of my stock in trade, one thing the old Presbyterians always said was, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Well done, Rose.  Thank you for all the love and care you provided Donna and my family.  You will be so very missed by so very many.  

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