Slice ‘o Life – Page 17

May 24, 2014

My Perfect Moment Manifesto

Yesterday I had one of those idyllic days that you want to bottle up and sprinkle on your less than stellar sucky days that sometimes seem to overtake us. Those are the worst, but yesterday was the best.

About 4:30 in the afternoon, as my two boys were napping in the back seat after a very full day for each of them, having just gotten off the phone, I was struck with the lush green that surrounded me. Green leaves above me, green grass next to me — the green stretched out before me and it had that spring green quality, which is kind of like a summer green, but in technicolor. It’s the kind of green that hasn’t yet gotten ravaged by the August sun — a fresh green, a new green, a spring green.

Spring green is beautiful.

And as I sat there in my car, my two boys audibly snoozing behind me, I got to thinking about the amazing day I had just had and how that amazing day was a series of amazing moments strung together. Beautiful moments, rich in color and texture, and vibrant. The bubbles in my soda were fizzier and the sparkle on my freshly washed car was sparklier. Vibrant moments.

Most days are a combination of good and bad, but so often, we dwell on the bad, or the bad somehow overshadows the good. It’s human nature.

After dropping the boy off at school, Mary Tyler Baby and I met a friend for a walk at the Chicago Botanic Gardens. These gardens are one of my happy places. I love it best in the spring and autumn, but there is beauty in it year round. Yesterday it was glorious. We spotted a blue heron that my friend thought was a statue, but then it flew across the water, which is something statues don’t do.

After our walk, my friend and I sat and talked about what was happening in her life, what was happening in my life. We are both on the cusp of some changes that are daunting for us, but there we were talking about hope and rose colored glasses. I think it is no coincidence that we both live in Cancerville.

If there is one thing living in the presence of cancer has taught me is that nothing is promised to us. Not a thing. Not a damn thing is ours in this world. Nothing.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

My four year old daughter, my Donna, dying of cancer has and will continue to shape me in profound ways. I still don’t fully grasp what I had and what I lost. The years of Donna’s life are a conflicting combination of vivid snapshots of joy and life and beauty and a blur of fear and burden and sadness. But what my deep loss has done is given me a capacity to see the moments of my life, sometimes as if in slow motion.

Some friends and family mock me about the iPhone that seems surgically attached to my hand. For me, that phone is a tool, a recording device of those moments that are most precious. It is futile to try to record them accurately, those perfect moments in my day, but I try. And later I look back, swiping my finger across the tiny screen, seeing the moments come and go before me. I don’t photograph the sad moments, the defeated moments, the scared moments. I photograph the joy, the beauty, the things I find hopeful, the moments I want to remember, the moments that give me a lift on a sad day.

There are just a few from the past couple of weeks . . .

Nature's fireworks. — Nature’s fireworks.

"I wonder what my cash will buy me, Mommy?!" — “I wonder what my cash will buy me, Mommy?!”

Eye spy a bride and groom on a beautiful spring day. Oh, yes, and an abandoned barbecue grill, too! — Eye spy a bride and groom on a beautiful day. Oh, yes, and an abandoned barbecue grill, too!

Mother's Day bouquet. — Mother’s Day bouquet.

Two dandelions from two brothers who will meet her there, too. — Two dandelions from two brothers who will meet her there.

Lilacs as far as the eye can see and the nose can smell.

It’s hard to imagine that it is cancer that made these moments possible for me, but in some way, I think that is true. And even if “possible” is the wrong characterization, the presence of cancer in my life has allowed me to see these moments before they are lost in the haze of the day. I always loved lilacs and laughing with my sister is nothing new, but there is an appreciation now, of the fleeting nature of it all, that didn’t exist before. And with that appreciation of how life comes and goes, the need to capture it, to cherish those moments, grows, too.

Some may experience that as a disconnect, a futile attempt to capture what is uncapturable. I see it is an openness to all that is beautiful around me, all that brings joy and wonder. These are images of how hope exists in my day-to-day. Small things like coins on a nightstand and sugar crystallizing on a donut and a demolished home that still welcomes people through its front door.

Life is a series of moments, folks. Some good, some bad. Some potent with life and beauty, others heavy with tears and rage. Cancer has allowed me to see them, to feel them, to be open to them. All of them, big and small, good and bad. Children have this capacity naturally. It makes being around them lovely and frustrating all at once, because they always want you to see, to notice what they do. It can be exhausting, but oh so eye opening, too, and wondrous.

Open your eyes and see what is to be seen. See those moments that make up our days. There is so much beauty there.

April 30, 2014

Liking How I Look at 44

I grew up with a beautiful mother. KABLAMMO, man, she was insanely gorgeous. Like Hollywood starlet gorgeous. Like men might weep in her presence gorgeous. Like strangers would compare her to Jackie Kennedy and Audrey Hepburn gorgeous. Gorgeous. Except, she never really thought so.

My Mom's 1958 engagement photo. My Dad still wonders how he landed such a looker. — My Mom’s 1958 engagement photo. My Dad still wonders how he landed such a looker. And it is a damn shame this beautiful woman ever doubted herself.

You see, she grew up hearing she was skinny and had bad teeth. It was a different era, pre-war/depression America. Plump was where it was at beautywise, as it denoted status and enough wealth to have an abundance of food, and my Mom was never plump. She was naturally thin and couldn’t keep weight on until her middle age set in. Ha! None of her daughters were blessed with that genetic trait.

Once or twice my Mom and I talked about the poor self esteem she had related to her looks. It was painful for her to talk about, this mindset that had its roots in her childhood, and so she didn’t. My Grandmother is both revered and beloved in our family, too, so speaking the truth, that she had unkind words for her youngest daughter at times, is not something my Mom wanted to dwell on or publicize. Truth be told, I feel a bit like I’m talking out of school even writing these words.

But my Mom’s story is directly related to my story, just as my Grandmother’s is, too. It’s called “motherlines,” and with most things related to womanhood, our mothers impact us like few others.

I, too, grew up with poor self-esteem related to my looks. Mine was nothing related to anything I heard from my folks. To the contrary, my Mom would often tell me I was pretty. Well, in college she would encourage me to wear more blush and unbutton a button or two at my collar, but she was never ever unkind in any way.

I was such a squirrel of a girl, that my natural inclination was always to cover, withdraw, blend into the background. That, I think, is something my Mom and I had in common.

Another thing my Mom and I often discussed was that 30 was her hardest birthday. She was fairly convinced in 1964, the year she turned 30, that it was all downhill from there. She described a sad transition into her third decade that I found hard to relate to. When I turned 30 I was working at a job I loved where I was recognized and respected. I was not yet engaged, but in love with the man who I would go on to marry. The world was my oyster, you know?

Honestly, I had a lot of time to make up for. It wasn’t until my mid-20s that my poor self-esteem improved. At 30, I was just getting started.

At 44, I no longer feel that way, but, with a qualified “for the most part,” I like what I see when I look in the mirror.

There is an endless litany of women who complain about their looks on this here Internet. Women think nothing of disparaging their thighs, their hair, their waists, their unwanted hair, their everything, in excruciating detail.

Let’s stop doing that, okay? Let’s have a collective call for enough!

At 44, I look as good as I will ever look for the rest of my life.

My hair is enviable. My eyes and lips are full and expressive. My skin is well cared for from years of fleeing the sun and moisturizing — something my Mom taught me was important. The breasts are top notch and still perky. The view from behind, my husband says, is still enjoyable. I’ve got good style and know the value of a scarf tied just so or what a difference a well plucked eyebrow can make.

Is this conceited of me to say, or empowered?

If I were younger, I might care what you thought, but now, at 44, I don’t quite give a fig what you think, because I know the truth. It’s important to like how you look. And if you don’t, well, for the love of guacamole, change it, but don’t complain about it online.

The truth is, I work a bit to like the way I look. Moisturizer and hats and sunglasses are some of my best friends. And I now sit in a chair for three hours four times a year to get the hair color that used to come naturally to me. Not so much anymore. I glance at magazines to see what the youngsters are wearing these days. I dance in my kitchen when the spirit moves me. I don’t and won’t stress about eating a brownie or a cheeseburger. I choose hope. It’s free and not always easy, but damn does it improve most everything in life, including the woman who stares back at me in the mirror.

Because of that, too, I won’t dwell on the things about myself that I wish were different. Suffice it to say one of them rhymes with hate. Or fate. Or wait. (See what I did there?) I know, too, that when the resolve is there, when my dissatisfaction outweighs my pleasure in a neatly plucked brow, I will tackle my flaws, but you won’t hear me bitch and moan about it online, or in person either, for that matter.

Not bad for a 44 year old gal. — Believe in your selfies!

I am 44 and I like the way I look. My 12 year old self should be so lucky. And I think my Mom would be proud of me, too.

Do you believe in your selfie, too? Subscribe to my blog! Here’s how:

Type your email address in the box and click the “create subscription” button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.

April 24, 2014

When Friendships End

It was a warm day in late spring. I was walking home from school with a few of my close friends. We were eight, I think, third grade. We all walked home together every day, that day being no different. Until it was.

At some point, each of the girls I was walking with crossed the street. I crossed, too, to catch up. As soon as I did this, they crossed back. I followed, like a puppy, thinking it was a game I was just not clued into. And like that puppy I followed back and forth across that street until I realized this was not a game. This was a change in the known social order. I was out and the last to know it.

Just like that, my friends were gone.

I remember crying when I got home, and feeling lost, abandoned. When I went to school the next day, it was confirmed. I was no longer included, no longer one of them, no longer cool. These kids I had grown up with, played with, ran around with for all of my years moved forward and I stayed put. It was what it was. Kids can be freaking brutal to one another. Some of these girls, all grown up, are my Facebook friends now. It’s cool — no harm, ho foul.

In the third grade, though, it hurt like hell. I didn’t find a new best friend until the fifth grade when this amazing, silly, hilarious girl moved down the block. We were inseparable for years, she and I. Frick and Frack. I loved everything about her and she loved everything about me. She made me braver and more confident. My childhood was so much richer for having found her. But in high school, we too, drifted apart. Different interests, different paths, different social circles. She, too, is my Facebook friend and I just adore seeing the family she has created and knowing that her mischievous smile is duplicated in her two young children.

Friendships end, and that is never easy.

When my daughter was going through her cancer treatment, I isolated myself much of the time. There was never that BFF that came along to visit every hospital stay. Family was always there, but I kept friends at a bit of a distance, I think. I don’t know why I did that, but I did. Maybe it was the intensity of my feelings or the true discomfort felt at always being the person who has it worst. It’s hard to have a true and mutual friendship when just one of you is struggling so completely and in such totality all of the freaking time.

Being that person is a burden and an exhaustion and I had so very much on my plate with Donna and my constant heavy fear that I just drifted away on my little patch of ice with Donna and Mary Tyler Dad, the three of us lost in the sea of cancer.

Two friends stuck with me. They didn’t let me ever get too far away on that ice patch. They would watch from a distance and when I drifted beyond reach, they would reel me back in. Good God above am I grateful for these two women and for all that they did for me during those years. It is a hard thing, I know, to see someone you care for be so completely lost and know there is nothing, not a thing, you can do to help them in the way they need it most — bring their gravely ill child back to health.

But those two gals did the next best thing — they stayed with me. They sat with me in my moments of deepest terror and did not shrink away. They witnessed that fear and nausea and panic and kept coming back for more, when I would let them. They were the mothers of Donna’s closest playmates — we all became mothers together, within six months of one another — and I relied on them more than they could ever possibly know.

Today, only one of them is still my friend. The other is another lost friendship that I mourn often. And just like when those little girls crossed the street without me, I am alone in wondering what caused our friendship to end. I can wonder and assign reason, but at best, those things are guesses.

As a child, I think, I simply wasn’t athletic enough. When you go to Catholic school on the south side of Chicago, athletics and team play are valued above most other things. I sucked at sports and that was becoming pretty damn clear by the third grade. I tried, sure, but it was never my bag and the friends I had all excelled in those things. Eight year old me was too bookish and too introspective, I think. Ha! A lot like I am today as a grown woman. Go figure.

As an adult, trying to figure out the end of a friendship, well, it’s a lot more complicated to assign reason. On some level, I am certain I did something wrong, but don’t know what that might be. My worst fear is that I simply was too much of a bother in my grief, but that doesn’t square with the woman I knew my friend to be. I look for clues, try to recreate conversations we had, or didn’t have. Full disclosure, I have been too much of a chicken to address it head on with this gal. That is on me, I know, but something prevents me from taking that risk. The last time I saw my friend was at a wake and it was patently clear, obvious to both me and my husband, that something had changed. And, I suppose, I am more willing to accept that than to address it, which might give me every answer I need.

But still, I miss my friend, and while more complicated than in the third grade, when friendships end, it always sucks. What I remain grateful for, so very thankful for, are those many moments she witnessed my fear, kept me company, didn’t step away from the deep, deep pain that was my constant companion in those years. I treasure what she gave me, even when it is no longer mine to have.

Want to be my new BFF? Subscribe to my blog! Here’s how:

Type your email address in the box and click the “create subscription” button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: