26 February 2006

The dance

A moment in my day froze today, while I lived it. Paused and assembled into a memory that would last, with all the sensory elements recollected.
 
Peter and I d.j.'d a wedding reception tonight. This was the latest in a series of stressful events in our lives, and getting ready this afternoon, I cracked. (PMS, you are no friend of mine, and my family wishes you would get lost also.) I snapped twice at Pete because he just wasn't doing things at the frenzied robotic pace I was maintaining. Why isn't he dressed? Why aren't the speakers in the van yet?? my mind was ranting. I prefaced one of my outbursts with "I'm realLY PANICKING HERE!" which came out escalating, just like that. Maybe this sounds minor or stupid, but I just don't get mad very often. And never like that at Pete. Even worse, it wasn't really him I was mad at—it was my stress, my nerves, and my eternal penchant for taking on too many things that have honking deadlines and tons of associated details.
 
That wasn't the moment I had in mind, anyway. It's just a mortifying preface moment to the actual one. I never had time to apologize to Pete, that's how busy we were...and my resultant internal discord seemed so at odds with the wedded bliss we were soundtracking in the reception hall. Finally, six hours into the job, the last song slid into the CD deck: "You're Still the One" by Shania Twain. The bride and groom collapsed into the familiar fit-together of a slow-dance, as they'd done about a dozen times already. I stood up to stretch...and when I opened my eyes, in front of me was Peter's extended hand.
 
In the semi-darkness of the d.j.'s corner, we slow-danced. And here's the moment: my face pushed up against his chest. The tweedy jacket texture, that man-scent. And the flood of connection, forgiveness, and gratitude I felt in his arms. We fit together too, his tall-guy chin resting on my head, his hand caressing my neck, mine on his back, low. That moment: our married experiences, compressed into one dance. 
 
They said, "I bet they'll never make it..."
But just look at us holding on,
We're still together, still going strong.
You're still the one I run to,
The one that I belong to,
You're still the one I want for life.
You're still the one that I love,
The only one I dream of,
You're still the one I kiss good night.
 
Writing this, I'm crying for joy, not the first time today. I'm used to crying for others' joy—it's a by-product of providing first-dance music for people whose love shines all around them. Now it's mine, ours, his.
 
Enough writing. He's waiting for me.

17 February 2006

One year ago

Exactly one year ago right this minute, I was in the Boston Greyhound station, impatiently waiting for my connecting bus to New York City. Frantically rushing to my mom's side, because after a few uncertain weeks of tests and questions, the doctors had finally honed in on ovarian cancer as the cause of Mom's illness. The oncologist was due to visit Mom the next morning at 6:30, and I had to be there. Science writer, daughter, friend, I had responsibilities. 

My bus deposited me at Port Authority at 4:30 a.m., and I snagged a taxi uptown, dragging a suitcase that was weighted with the uncertain length of my stay. Mom had already apprised the Lenox Hill security staff of my unusual arrival time, so in I went at 5:15, when the hospital was still and gray with dawn.

Thank God I got there when I did. Other than some annoying symptoms, Mom was fully herself. She'd been crossword-puzzling, watching the city from her windowside chair, chattering with her roommate about the other people on the floor, red hair as resplendent as it could be under the hospital circumstances.

She waited for me expectantly in her chair. I'll never forget the sight of her leaning towards the door, her face yearning. I was yearning too. As we hugged, her mother-scent enveloped me and I felt young in a heady moment. That was all too fleeting, because with the arrival of the oncologist, I became mastermind interpreter and keeper of the medical details...roles I held firmly, with fire in my eyes, until the day she died.
 
That day came too damned soon. The woman I first saw at Lenox Hill, while slightly impaired physically, was cognitively and emotionally my mother. However, once chemo treatments began, everything about Mom faded and paled...except for one thing: the keen, unbearable pain. Soon she would never sit in that windowside chair again. Soon she would require a walker to get from her bed to a commode. Soon she would not be able to get to the commode in time at all.
 
I did not intend for this entry to become a catalog of Mom's illness, because having lived it, I would just as soon erase it. An impossibility: I will bear the images, the memories, and the extreme emotions of those three months forever. But what I was trying to convey was the rapidity of my mother's decline. Bizarrely, in the midst of it, each day crawled, twisted, and distorted. However, with that year thankfully in the rearview, I now find myself stunned at how quickly Mom's sickness became a life-threatening wrestling match. And how stacked against us it all was--when I was in New York, that thought truly didn't sink in. I pushed every resource at the fight because I believed.
 
I am a fan of believing. In fact, despite the overarching, soul-threatening suckiness that was 2/05-2/06, I remain an optimist. Kind of my trademark, I guess. And it's exactly what Mom wanted from me: not only in the hospital, but throughout our entwined lives. Hard to convey what a profound realization that is for me. Makes me cry, surfacing it.
 
When this blog began to take shape, iTunes tossed this song at me. It says absolutely everything that I'm feeling on this unwanted anniversary (not to mention the wrenching minor-key accompaniment). 
 
Hello, how are you.
Have you been alright,
through all those lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely nights?
That's what I'd say, I'd tell you everything,
if you'd pick up that telephone.
 
Hey, how you feelin'?
Are you still the same?
Don't you realize the things we did, we did
were all for real--not a dream,
I just can't believe
they've all faded out of view.
 
Doo wah, doobie doobie wah, doo wah doo lang
Blue days, black nights, doo wah doo lang
I look into the sky
(the love you need ain't gonna see you through)
And I wonder why
(the little things are finally coming true)
 
Oh, oh, telephone line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
Oh, oh, telephone line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
 
Okay, so no one's answering,
Well, can't you just let it ring a little longer, longer, longer....
I'll just sit tight, through shadows of the night,
Let it ring for evermore....
 
Oh, oh, telephone line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
Oh, oh, telephone line, give me some time, I'm living in twilight
 
From 1982 on, my relationship with Mom was primarily conducted by phone, pretty much daily. We were each other's checkpoints. 
First Mom blog. My friends, this is a huge milestone for me. I miss her to the point of tears every day and had begun to fear I'd never get anything said. Muse, inspiration, whatever it is...now I know the words will come. The other thing that Mom always expected of me.

07 February 2006

"Super" Bowl

Not a football fan. Never have been. Okay, I liked the Jets in the '70s because Namath was ultrahot, plus they played in my "backyard" at Shea...that's about it. 
So in my world, what made that game "super" last night? 
 
Well, we had friends over. Two frat brothers who've recently relocated to our area (one brought his sons, ages 10 and 9). And another guy, a work friend of Pete's. I was initially irked about this gathering, because Pete didn't ask before he extended these invites, and I knew what an abject wreck my home was. 
Thus I spent Sunday surrounded by the dizzifying scent of cleansers. (Lest you think this resulted in a spanking clean house, fret not--it only produced three usably clean rooms [LR, kitchen, downstairs bath]. I remain true to my messiness.) I merged the cleaning whirlwind with a cooking frenzy: chili with rice, homemade guacamole, spinach-cheese bars, chocolate-chunk cookies. All my food was raved about and no leftovers!--that felt awesome. Ergo, wifely success.
However, what made the evening super was the opposite of my wifedom: camaraderie, for lack of a better word. No, in fact, I can do better: shit-shooting, hanging-out without clock-watching, beer-swilling (one non-alki, but I nursed that), pointless conversations about the rather large-looking panties that were thrown onstage for Mick (were they panties? we couldn't reach consensus) and the monster-baby-Hummer ad and whether that ball was really over the line. The me that I had forgotten about when Pete told me we were having people over. I had pictured myself wrangling 4 kids plus 2 extra while the guys hung out. In reality, 3 of the kids immersed themselves in Pokemon battles, my 2 youngest went upstairs to invent puppet shows, and my eldest drifted happily from group to group. 
 
Freed, I reinhabited the persona that two of our guests know best (and that Peter married, BTW). And the third guest fit right in--in fact, he's the one who encouraged us to flip over to Animal Planet while the game was winding down, so we could all watch Puppy Bowl II...a bunch of adorable little doggies in a "stadium" playing with chew toys and rolling around together. 
 
I paid dearly for all of Sunday's hoopla. Pete's apnea is always compounded by beer, so I truly didn't get deep sleep until 6 a.m. when he got up. I had a migraine-with-aura at work this afternoon (like looking through cut crystal, all rainbow shards and flashes and wavy distortions). And I should be in bed now, but I napped after dinner, which bought me some extra time on this end.
But it was worth it. I learned something new (which ended up being something old...) and I'm always up for that.