the tigers scored in the 6th inning making the score 2-1 detroit. as the boys were running off the field the announcer said "and they got the go ahead run".
oh i like that. one cracking swing, a visible score, a good deed, a spectacular performance. the go ahead run.
when was the last time i got one, a go ahead run? surgery i think. the heart is fixed so go on linda, go ahead. do more. do it strong. do it well. do it in love.
go ahead.
run.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
stories
the train was crowded yesterday, standing room only. but we were all going to the same place and we were all so excited. twins and kansas city, second in a three game series. the twins were in first place, half game ahead.
a hansome man in front of me was leaning on a grab pole and chatting with his grown up son when his phone rang. "hi dad, we're on our way to the game." his son smiled and asked how is grandpa after the call had ended. i wondered if my dad ever took my brothers to a game. i doubted it but made a note to ask johnny next time we speak.
sitting on kirby pucket plaza with a corn dog and some curds, i noticed a young couple on the opposite bench. he was gnoshing on some ribs and she sat quietly next to him. she wore a long simple dress, pastel striped searsucker. her hair was up and her bun was covered with a small filmy fabric, neatly pinned up close to her bundle of pretty brown hair. on the another bench, two small girls waited patiently for mom to come back, when she did, she was toting hotdogs and cheeseburgers in silver foil, nestled in a paper boat. one of the girls popped up and clapped when she discovered a bag of chips hiding in the pile of steamy baseball food.
the couple in front of us at the dome had 2 small boys, one a smiley infant, the other a red headed 4 year old named evan who liked to draw. he had a tiny spiral pad with a scary scull on the front, and he drew and drew on those pages inches high, with a black ink pen. after a while he drew on dad's hand, too. they had their hands full with the boys and the supply bag - formula, diapers, a zip lock bag filled with blue green and pink cheerios. it seemd like a lot to manage but they were a calm and happy family, a solid team.
the guy to our right took a call in the 5th inning from his girlfriend who was walking around drunk in munich. she was happy, he was worried.
but the most intriguing of all was the tall man with the twins jersey who sat one row in front of us, a season ticket holder who knew exactly where his seat was without even looking at the silver and black numbers on the backs of the blue seats. his hair was the thickest white with silver lowlights, and he wore horn rimmed glasses and snakeskin cowboy boots fthat peaked out from the hems of his long levis. he looked like gregory peck in his older days, and i couldn't stop staring at him.
his twins jersey had a "40th anniversay" patch on the right sleeve, and on the back was the word "omer" over the number 666. he wore a sterling cuff bracelet with turquoise on his left arm, and next to that was a rope bracelet - the kind that shrinks to fit after just enough showers, the kind the cool hippie kids wore in new england when i was growing up. on his right hand, more silver and turquoise, and on his right arm, a glorious and fascinating tatoo. it looked as if someone had spilled ink all over his arm, but i pictured a man in candlelight at a desk with a scotch and some art, and piles of paper and as he went to light a cigarrette a small pot of black paint tipped over and splashed his arm, and there it sat still, a splash of memory. a statement. body art.
i wanted to climb over the row and ask him about that tatoo - and about him. was he an artist? a writer? an activitist? he was someone. he was definitely someone, something. i wanted so badly to know, and when he left at the bottom of the 6th i regretted not making that move.
most people show up as we walk this earth, but some show up with something important to say and they say it without saying it. a number on a back, an ink stained arm, turquoise and silver.
fascinating.
twins lost, 4 - 2.
a hansome man in front of me was leaning on a grab pole and chatting with his grown up son when his phone rang. "hi dad, we're on our way to the game." his son smiled and asked how is grandpa after the call had ended. i wondered if my dad ever took my brothers to a game. i doubted it but made a note to ask johnny next time we speak.
sitting on kirby pucket plaza with a corn dog and some curds, i noticed a young couple on the opposite bench. he was gnoshing on some ribs and she sat quietly next to him. she wore a long simple dress, pastel striped searsucker. her hair was up and her bun was covered with a small filmy fabric, neatly pinned up close to her bundle of pretty brown hair. on the another bench, two small girls waited patiently for mom to come back, when she did, she was toting hotdogs and cheeseburgers in silver foil, nestled in a paper boat. one of the girls popped up and clapped when she discovered a bag of chips hiding in the pile of steamy baseball food.
the couple in front of us at the dome had 2 small boys, one a smiley infant, the other a red headed 4 year old named evan who liked to draw. he had a tiny spiral pad with a scary scull on the front, and he drew and drew on those pages inches high, with a black ink pen. after a while he drew on dad's hand, too. they had their hands full with the boys and the supply bag - formula, diapers, a zip lock bag filled with blue green and pink cheerios. it seemd like a lot to manage but they were a calm and happy family, a solid team.
the guy to our right took a call in the 5th inning from his girlfriend who was walking around drunk in munich. she was happy, he was worried.
but the most intriguing of all was the tall man with the twins jersey who sat one row in front of us, a season ticket holder who knew exactly where his seat was without even looking at the silver and black numbers on the backs of the blue seats. his hair was the thickest white with silver lowlights, and he wore horn rimmed glasses and snakeskin cowboy boots fthat peaked out from the hems of his long levis. he looked like gregory peck in his older days, and i couldn't stop staring at him.
his twins jersey had a "40th anniversay" patch on the right sleeve, and on the back was the word "omer" over the number 666. he wore a sterling cuff bracelet with turquoise on his left arm, and next to that was a rope bracelet - the kind that shrinks to fit after just enough showers, the kind the cool hippie kids wore in new england when i was growing up. on his right hand, more silver and turquoise, and on his right arm, a glorious and fascinating tatoo. it looked as if someone had spilled ink all over his arm, but i pictured a man in candlelight at a desk with a scotch and some art, and piles of paper and as he went to light a cigarrette a small pot of black paint tipped over and splashed his arm, and there it sat still, a splash of memory. a statement. body art.
i wanted to climb over the row and ask him about that tatoo - and about him. was he an artist? a writer? an activitist? he was someone. he was definitely someone, something. i wanted so badly to know, and when he left at the bottom of the 6th i regretted not making that move.
most people show up as we walk this earth, but some show up with something important to say and they say it without saying it. a number on a back, an ink stained arm, turquoise and silver.
fascinating.
twins lost, 4 - 2.
Monday, September 15, 2008
yes, that's me
i walked past her on my way into the clinic. she was leaning hard on a walker with day-glo tennis balls on the front legs and she was slowly heading up the sidewalk to the same place as me. after i checked in and found a chair in the waiting room, i saw her again. but this time i realized that i knew her.
heleanor (not helen, and not eleanor ) was a counselor in the campus office where i worked as a student nearly 30 years ago. she had a thick patch of short silver hair and pronounced her own name "heleana" because of a swervy southern drawl that she was born with and never lost. she wore flowery blouses, plain trousers, and sandals. always sandals - even in the winter (with socks). she said she didn't like to feel confined, right down to her toes. she must have been close to 60 or more when i knew her back then.
she had an office which impressed me. anyone with an office, by virtue of those four walls and a real door and ceiling commanded my respect. she was important, knew her stuff, and had a need for privacy for confidential conversations and detailed work requiring focused concentration. the office itself was a mess. stacks and stacks of papers and files, procedure manuals and various dictionaries, and one small picture of a smiling woman; her partner.
heleanor was a lesbian and while she didn't talk about it much, it wasn't something she hid, either. she loved flowers, enjoyed poetry, was passionate about travel, and had a lover. as progressive as we all thought we were in 1980, there were still gossipy undertones about her being gay. funny, we could smoke at our desks and drink at 18, but being out at work was somehow odd. she retired shortly after i started working there, and i never saw nor heard of her again, until today.
she slid up to the desk in her white orthopedic socks, white pants, bright orange shirt, and black sandals. she still had that same shock of silver hair, and a wooden necklace of carved african animals swung heavy on her neck. her partner came in next after parking the car, and lightly rubbed her back during the check-in process. then, all checked in, she started towards the waiting room.
i looked at her straightaway and noticed that her lipstick, brilliant orange, matched her shirt. i smiled at her, she smiled back. i didn't introduce myself. i didn't think she'd know me.
she sat for a moment but only a moment, then popped up without her walker and started rummaging through the magazines to keep herself busy until she was called. she and her partner chatted sweetly, the love between them almost glowed.
30 years ago she looked old to me, today she looked beautiful.
"heleanor?" a nurse with a clipboard asked.
"why yay-us, that's me."
heleanor (not helen, and not eleanor ) was a counselor in the campus office where i worked as a student nearly 30 years ago. she had a thick patch of short silver hair and pronounced her own name "heleana" because of a swervy southern drawl that she was born with and never lost. she wore flowery blouses, plain trousers, and sandals. always sandals - even in the winter (with socks). she said she didn't like to feel confined, right down to her toes. she must have been close to 60 or more when i knew her back then.
she had an office which impressed me. anyone with an office, by virtue of those four walls and a real door and ceiling commanded my respect. she was important, knew her stuff, and had a need for privacy for confidential conversations and detailed work requiring focused concentration. the office itself was a mess. stacks and stacks of papers and files, procedure manuals and various dictionaries, and one small picture of a smiling woman; her partner.
heleanor was a lesbian and while she didn't talk about it much, it wasn't something she hid, either. she loved flowers, enjoyed poetry, was passionate about travel, and had a lover. as progressive as we all thought we were in 1980, there were still gossipy undertones about her being gay. funny, we could smoke at our desks and drink at 18, but being out at work was somehow odd. she retired shortly after i started working there, and i never saw nor heard of her again, until today.
she slid up to the desk in her white orthopedic socks, white pants, bright orange shirt, and black sandals. she still had that same shock of silver hair, and a wooden necklace of carved african animals swung heavy on her neck. her partner came in next after parking the car, and lightly rubbed her back during the check-in process. then, all checked in, she started towards the waiting room.
i looked at her straightaway and noticed that her lipstick, brilliant orange, matched her shirt. i smiled at her, she smiled back. i didn't introduce myself. i didn't think she'd know me.
she sat for a moment but only a moment, then popped up without her walker and started rummaging through the magazines to keep herself busy until she was called. she and her partner chatted sweetly, the love between them almost glowed.
30 years ago she looked old to me, today she looked beautiful.
"heleanor?" a nurse with a clipboard asked.
"why yay-us, that's me."
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
nice touch
11 hours after surgery i was sweating wet on the sheets, my head ached and my chest burned from the burning that was done inside my chest. my groins and neck were swollen and throbbing from catheters, and i coudn't breathe. but worst of all, my heart was racing and beating out of control. why was this happening? didn't i spend 5 hours in the operating room earlier today to fix this? is my heart bleeding? did they burn the wrong thing? the monitor said 103 beats per minute. that's too fast. and those lines i see are not sinus rhythm. something is wrong.
a woman dressed up in a nurse costume came to my room soon after the bell rang and peered around the curtain, then tugged at it and twisted it in her hands. "you look like you are having a rough time". after a resume of my complaints, she offered "wow there really isn't much i can do. do you want another vicadin?" i asked about the rhythm - why was it doing that? "i hear that happens sometimes but i'm not sure."
and this is the finest cardiac care unit in the country?
a few minutes later i heard a gentle knock and suddenly next to my face were the deepest espresso eyes on the loveliest young woman. she had her hands on her knees and leaned in close and said "you poor thing. what's going on honey?"
she sat down and patted my leg as i cried hard and told her everything.
"first of all honey, you ARE in sinus rhythm. it's a little fast but it's steady, just an extra beat once in a while. it's really normal to have this happen after an ablation, in fact it's a good sign. it means that the healing process has already begun."
heart rate 92.
she presented various meds like flowers from a magicians sleeve, and once that was done
"you're all slumped down there. let's scooch you up. how about some cold water? vaseline for your lips? here, let me wet a washcloth and wipe your face. by the way i love your overnight bag. did you get that at an estate sale? (yes). ok sweetie, close your eyes and i'll check back in a few minutes to see if you are snoozing".
heart rate
83.
Monday, September 8, 2008
south bitch diet
this is the longest night of my life. one second i am dripping sweat and the next freezing, so cold. blankets on blankets off. feet out feet in. my head aches i am so tired, and sleep would pass the time so nicely.
i had that thought at 2:2o and at 2:41 i was wide awake again, what just happened? what had i just been thinking? oh that's right, i was thinking about laughter. must have drifted off.
we were in an office, my girlfriends and i, and we were looking at books and making notes and all were very excited about trying this new diet. this one was really going to work. oprah said so. and then a man in a white coat came in to give us orientation and he said
"now the most important part of this regimine, ladies, is that there is to be no humor - i mean none - for the first 14 days. no laughter, no jokes, no sitcoms, no sarcasm, nothing. you are to remain calm and stern. that is the only way this will work."
that is SO not funny.
no wonder the dream only lasted a few minutes.
i had that thought at 2:2o and at 2:41 i was wide awake again, what just happened? what had i just been thinking? oh that's right, i was thinking about laughter. must have drifted off.
we were in an office, my girlfriends and i, and we were looking at books and making notes and all were very excited about trying this new diet. this one was really going to work. oprah said so. and then a man in a white coat came in to give us orientation and he said
"now the most important part of this regimine, ladies, is that there is to be no humor - i mean none - for the first 14 days. no laughter, no jokes, no sitcoms, no sarcasm, nothing. you are to remain calm and stern. that is the only way this will work."
that is SO not funny.
no wonder the dream only lasted a few minutes.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
i can't stop smiling
it's really going to happen this time. the last two times i thought the same thing until it turned out to be a false start, twice, but this time, i know that on monday
they will go after my heart.
i can't stop smiling.
it is really going to finally happen! bless my heart (if i may be so bold).
for so many months i've paid attention to the way my heart beats, monitored meds, learned about biofeedback and acupuncture, contacted long lost friends and loves, finished what i could, and then it all came to a screeching halt.
oops! sorry, equipment problem! sorry! let's do it three months from now.
and three months later this unpredictable heart has lived up to it's reputation and presented conversations i never dreamed of having, and connective situations that could only have come from god.
karma is good.
there is a woodfire burning in the backyard, a huge vase of mike's fragrant pink roses in front of me, and a small taste of red wine beside me. oh, and a basset hound.
and mike.
and to you,
thank you for the peace you are sending. it is working. and like i said
i can't stop smiling.
they will go after my heart.
i can't stop smiling.
it is really going to finally happen! bless my heart (if i may be so bold).
for so many months i've paid attention to the way my heart beats, monitored meds, learned about biofeedback and acupuncture, contacted long lost friends and loves, finished what i could, and then it all came to a screeching halt.
oops! sorry, equipment problem! sorry! let's do it three months from now.
and three months later this unpredictable heart has lived up to it's reputation and presented conversations i never dreamed of having, and connective situations that could only have come from god.
karma is good.
there is a woodfire burning in the backyard, a huge vase of mike's fragrant pink roses in front of me, and a small taste of red wine beside me. oh, and a basset hound.
and mike.
and to you,
thank you for the peace you are sending. it is working. and like i said
i can't stop smiling.
Friday, September 5, 2008
hair club for men
the man at the table across from me at lunch had barbie hair. tiny bundles of blond had been poked into neat pin holes in perfect rows and he had the whole thing shellacked to a rock hard finish. his sneaky eyes were small and close together and he had a forehead the size of a drive-in movie screen. the woman he was with was tall and sleek and lovely, with a messy copper do, a pencil skirt and 3 inch mary jane heels. poor thing was bored to death.
clearly these were co-workers, commrades, cubemates, business associates. they were out on a sunny friday to catch a bite and catch up generally.
she couldn't get a word in edgewise.
i wondered how his poor wife could stand his ramblings, or maybe she doesn't let him talk at home so he is taking it out on everyone else?
every buzz word and phrase from business and industry today were stuffed into longwinded sentences spoken between crispy bites of chicken:
"metrics...six sigma...what's in your bucket...expense managment...generic dollars based on source code...ya gotta watch the trend needle...enterprise solutions...."
the woman was patient with him, yet overjoyed when her salad arrived. she listened attentively and chewed voraciously and blinked very hard when, in describing a young colleague he said,
"she reminds me of a young me."
oh dear. i wondered why.
perhaps "she" needs hair plugs, too.
clearly these were co-workers, commrades, cubemates, business associates. they were out on a sunny friday to catch a bite and catch up generally.
she couldn't get a word in edgewise.
i wondered how his poor wife could stand his ramblings, or maybe she doesn't let him talk at home so he is taking it out on everyone else?
every buzz word and phrase from business and industry today were stuffed into longwinded sentences spoken between crispy bites of chicken:
"metrics...six sigma...what's in your bucket...expense managment...generic dollars based on source code...ya gotta watch the trend needle...enterprise solutions...."
the woman was patient with him, yet overjoyed when her salad arrived. she listened attentively and chewed voraciously and blinked very hard when, in describing a young colleague he said,
"she reminds me of a young me."
oh dear. i wondered why.
perhaps "she" needs hair plugs, too.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
i'd rather be in the morgue
most of the women in the waiting room at dr flynn's office had no breasts and no hair. some wore scarves, some baseball caps, and one carried her fuzzy head right out in the open. she had loud dangly earrings and couldn't have been more than 18. iwas here to get some blood work done, they were here for the fight of their lives.
it was hot and crowded and i felt ashamedly uneasy, upset. so much illness and would they recover? but doctors offices being what they are, i had plenty of time to study and observe, listen and learn.
many of them had a partner or a husband or sister or daughter or mom, and they took all of this in stride as if they were waiting to have their teeth cleaned instead of waiting in line for checkups and ct scans. the couple across from me were busy chatting about their winter plans, and when are the boys going on their ski weekend anyway? how about if we invite the pattersons in february? continuing to plan as if all is well and then off they went to their chemo class.
after they left another duo sat down. a tall and very hansome young man who was puzzled about the article he was reading in vanity fair until his mom pointed out that that issue was a year old. they both laughed and she handed him a magazine called "farmers" and he said "that's better." she was tall and amish looking with a silver topknot, long black skirt, black sweater and black sensible shoes. as he read, she pulled out her white notebook with the pink ribbon on the front and made notes about thoughts as they occurred to her. planning ahead, making lists, moving forward.
and then there was bebe. i'm sure that was not her name but that is what the silver sequins on her black ballcap spelled out, bebe. she wore a floral print blouse and black pants that were much too short - not in the name of fashion but probably because of a dryer that was too hot. fancy fuzzy white lacy socks, and black pumps. her face was grey and her lips thin and and crimson, and she was pissed.
"i hate it here! they are always behind. it's like a big cattle call. i can't stand this waiting. it's ridiculous the way they stack us up. i'd rather be in the morgue."
she unscrewed the cap of the the bottle holding a thick white liquid, poured cup after cup and winced with every gulp. "last time i spilled this stuff all over the inside of my purse. what a mess." and after a long pause she said
"i tell ya, i never thought this would happen to me."
so there i was feeling uncomfortable with the possibility of death and there they were living. doing what they needed to do and saying what they needed to say and being where they needed to be, and looking at them i thought
none of them is ending up in the morgue
any time soon.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
i want to live in my girlfriend's purse
the other day i asked my girfriend if she had any hand lotion and she said "sure honey, in my purse, right over there."
oh, this purse, or any purse of my friend jo's. the purse itself is always exquisite, and lucky us, sometimes she tires of them and hands them down to her girlfriends who have no problem at all nabbing a gently used coach, louis vuitton, or kate spade.
but the inside of the purse...oh the inside!
a photo of the inside of this purse should become an album cover. it's not necessarily what is in there, it's HOW things are in there. the leather cosmetics pouch is snuggled next to a tiny pad and pen, the breath mints stand tall with their cheeks pressed up against a tube of lipstick, a smart and snappy wallet finds comfort relaxing upon a clickity tin of credit cards, the small hairbrush is lying face to face with hairspray...this purse has every thing a woman could need or want and every thing has it's place and every thing fits; fits perfectly.
and that is why i want to live there. first, having a home desingned and constructed by gucci, prada or dolce & gabbana would provide fashionable reassurance that this home would last forever. only the finest materials and shiniest gussets are considered and used. no skimping on quality.
second, i envy the idea that everything in there has it's place, and leaving for a moment or longer won't compromise that spot upon return. imagine having your own little silken pouch that you slip into and out of, just like a cell phone. it's your spot all yours and always will be.
weird metaphor, isn't it. but as september 8th comes closer hour by hour i find myself haunted and intrigued by lots of odd things, and i wonder about my place, and if i will come back to it in the same way i left it.
and i want wonder if my spot will last forever.
oh, this purse, or any purse of my friend jo's. the purse itself is always exquisite, and lucky us, sometimes she tires of them and hands them down to her girlfriends who have no problem at all nabbing a gently used coach, louis vuitton, or kate spade.
but the inside of the purse...oh the inside!
a photo of the inside of this purse should become an album cover. it's not necessarily what is in there, it's HOW things are in there. the leather cosmetics pouch is snuggled next to a tiny pad and pen, the breath mints stand tall with their cheeks pressed up against a tube of lipstick, a smart and snappy wallet finds comfort relaxing upon a clickity tin of credit cards, the small hairbrush is lying face to face with hairspray...this purse has every thing a woman could need or want and every thing has it's place and every thing fits; fits perfectly.
and that is why i want to live there. first, having a home desingned and constructed by gucci, prada or dolce & gabbana would provide fashionable reassurance that this home would last forever. only the finest materials and shiniest gussets are considered and used. no skimping on quality.
second, i envy the idea that everything in there has it's place, and leaving for a moment or longer won't compromise that spot upon return. imagine having your own little silken pouch that you slip into and out of, just like a cell phone. it's your spot all yours and always will be.
weird metaphor, isn't it. but as september 8th comes closer hour by hour i find myself haunted and intrigued by lots of odd things, and i wonder about my place, and if i will come back to it in the same way i left it.
and i want wonder if my spot will last forever.
Monday, September 1, 2008
goodbye again
mom died at 3:15 in the afternoon on friday, september 1st, 2006.
the funeral director at the cremation society said she died at 3:30 when i met with him the next day. i argued briefly, insisting it was 3:15. i knew, because i was there. he seemed oddly uncomfortable that i would protest this point, and oddly uncomfortable with the whole situation. his name was warren and he smelled like carnations and old closets. he looked nice in his proper dark suit, but he was colder than i had expected as he ushered me into the conference area and told me to have a seat, that were just a few things we needed to go over regarding the death certificate and her cremation.
we sat at a gothic dining room table in a sun drenched room with a large box of tissues in the middle. out the sides of my eyes i saw sample urns, burial tombs, flag cases and memory books, all on display as if in a hallmark store. i felt so tight all in my core, breathing only deeply enough to get breath and nothing more. just enough to get through this.
warren handed me a tiny yellow envelope with a ring inside and said "she was wearing this, would you like to have it?" i took the envelope and clutched it in teary hands but did not open it.
he then explained that the time of death was recorded at 3:30 because the attending physician at the nursing home was the one who “called it”, and apparently he didn’t get to make that call until he answered his page and arrived in room 305, bed A, where she lay dead and that was at 3:30 p.m. on the 1st of september. warren didn’t understand why it mattered, as this piece of information was only for the death certificate.
but it mattered a lot to me.
it mattered because if she really had died 15 minutes later than she did, i am sure i would have acted differently at her passing. if there had been another 15minutes, i would have tossed off the awkward discomfort and terror of watching her die, and instead i would have leaned in said all the things i am thinking today, 2 years and 26 minutes to the moment she left.
that is what i would have said in an extra 15 minutes, but there were no extra minutes when the last words of her life were written. and when 3:15 came all i could say was
i love you mom.
and off she went.
the funeral director at the cremation society said she died at 3:30 when i met with him the next day. i argued briefly, insisting it was 3:15. i knew, because i was there. he seemed oddly uncomfortable that i would protest this point, and oddly uncomfortable with the whole situation. his name was warren and he smelled like carnations and old closets. he looked nice in his proper dark suit, but he was colder than i had expected as he ushered me into the conference area and told me to have a seat, that were just a few things we needed to go over regarding the death certificate and her cremation.
we sat at a gothic dining room table in a sun drenched room with a large box of tissues in the middle. out the sides of my eyes i saw sample urns, burial tombs, flag cases and memory books, all on display as if in a hallmark store. i felt so tight all in my core, breathing only deeply enough to get breath and nothing more. just enough to get through this.
warren handed me a tiny yellow envelope with a ring inside and said "she was wearing this, would you like to have it?" i took the envelope and clutched it in teary hands but did not open it.
he then explained that the time of death was recorded at 3:30 because the attending physician at the nursing home was the one who “called it”, and apparently he didn’t get to make that call until he answered his page and arrived in room 305, bed A, where she lay dead and that was at 3:30 p.m. on the 1st of september. warren didn’t understand why it mattered, as this piece of information was only for the death certificate.
but it mattered a lot to me.
it mattered because if she really had died 15 minutes later than she did, i am sure i would have acted differently at her passing. if there had been another 15minutes, i would have tossed off the awkward discomfort and terror of watching her die, and instead i would have leaned in said all the things i am thinking today, 2 years and 26 minutes to the moment she left.
we were a great team mom, you and me. quite misunderstood by the rest of the family but it hasn't mattered, has it, not in the four years since you moved from delaware to 8 miles from me. we understood each other most of the time, frustrated each other some of the time, and as hard as it has been to help you live, i am here to help you pass. i will love you always and please mom, don't ever leave me. love to dad, so much love to dad. have fun and promise to watch over me. i am sure there is pepsi in heaven.
i love you mom.
and off she went.
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