mourning

Today

I went here

and my head exploded at seeing the ride on mower in the quiet zone.

and my head exploded at seeing the mower in the quiet zone.

And I wore this

Turtle.

And I brought these

Green for turtles, green for mitochondrial disorders.

And then I did this

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When I arrived, there was a homeless man playing guitar next to the Imagine mosaic. There’s always someone there singing and or playing. But usually, they’re singing Imagine. Today, as I walked past, he was playing and singing Let It Be, the song Nerd Child played and sang at my mother’s funeral.

I did this in honor of an exceptionally brave little warrior. Friends across the country released balloons or planted bulbs to show support, respect, love, and mourn with a friend when we couldn’t be with her in person.

While I was in Strawberry Fields releasing balloons; a friend, along with her husband and her daughter, was laying her six year old son to rest many miles away. Too soon, too short, too heartbreaking. Mitochondrial disease is something that most people have never heard of, but those who know it, know it all too well. It’s an umbrella term, the name covering many sub-disorders, but all affect multiple systems of the body. The mitochondria are the powerhouses of the cells, bringing oxygen, converting food to fuel and energy. Some forms of mito disease are more aggressive than others, and different people are affected to varying degrees. There is no cure, not much in the way of treatment, and understanding of mito diseases is really in its infancy.

I’ve never met this friend in person, never met her son, but I know her, knew him, wept for every setback and cheered for every discharge from the hospital. I’ve already blogged about online friendships, how very real many of them are. But some have a depth I have no words for. Medical needs moms, special needs moms, the communities and friendships developed are invaluable and indescribable.

Mito sucks, epilepsy sucks, cystic fibrosis sucks, cancer sucks, neuro-transmitter disorders suck, von willebrand’s disease sucks, CDKL 5 sucks, all the assorted disorders rare and otherwise that most-people-can’t-even-name-the-color-of-the-ribbon suck. But the friendships, the support? Beautiful, pure, sometimes gut wrenching and always filled with love.

Rest in peace, sweet boy.

Someday

I can do a lot of dreaming looking at this photo, how about you? ~Mrs F

Late August. Time for the annual panic, “oh no, the school year’s about to start.” I’ve been walking around saying this summer has felt particularly odd because of the cool weather. Lies.

Summer is just never long enough for me. If it isn’t cool temps, it’s temps that are too hot, or too rainy, or too many obligations or too many deaths. Just not enough, which is an old and familiar song for me. The theme of much of my writing, the guilty chorus that whispers about my parenting, the peek at my word count at the end of each day’s writing session, the ever ready want of more.

The other day I went with Nerd Child and Flower Child to my godson’s Eagle Scout ceremony. Induction? I don’t know, scouts aren’t a big thing here in Manhattan. My suburban friends reassure me that scouting exists here in the city, but I’ve never met any beyond a small, half hearted cub scout group when Man Child was in 1st grade, disbanded by Christmas.

Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges (Photo credit: honus)

It was very sweet–though I know better than to use the word sweet in relation to an almost seventeen year old boy– and made me feel old and nostalgic. We took the train to Brooklyn and the Scout’s grandmother, where I sat with my kids on her couch in the living room I spent hours in as a teenager. Not too many people from my past have stayed in Brooklyn, let alone the same house, so it was very alternate reality feeling. We met up with a friend and traveled the rest of the way to Long Island. There I saw more friends, and watched my kids goof around with theirs, and felt the absence of a good friend’s son who passed away last summer.

Obviously more goes into the Eagle Scout thing than I understand, Godson and parents were very, very proud. Local politicians and reps attended and gave brief speeches and congratulations. A snapshot of a lovely moment.

I also missed Man Child. Between boarding school and college he’s been away a lot, and I did get to see him this summer, but he’s already back in the dorm. This is the first time he hasn’t come home to be “home” over a break, and it’s damned weird.

Kind of maudlin today, aren’t I? Did get to the beach with Flower Child yesterday, which felt good, but didn’t quite recharge me in the way I had hoped. A family of three, two parents and a little girl of about 4 years old settled next to us. I couldn’t believe the amount of shit they had with them for two hours at the beach. Six towels, two large shade umbrellas, three huge bags of toys, sunscreen, and snacks: three people. The little girl was covered neck to calves in one of those bathing suit/lycra sun coverall things. I swear Flower Child and I saw bathing suits that looked just like it in the museum last year, what women wore at the turn of the twentieth century. This was not a fair skinned family, but you would think they were albino (am I politically incorrect, is there a more current term?) with the amount of sunscreen they slathered on. I’m not going to mention their little disagreement with the lifeguards about the safety of their sweet pea, and the rule against life jackets/swimmies in the ocean. I know it seems counterintuitive to the Backyard Pool crowd, but really. Big waves, riptides, small children, you don’t want them at all out of reach and where they can’t safely stand.

I know we’re all so much safer than previous generations, fewer kids will find themselves in the dermatologist’s office with a skin cancer diagnosis, but widespread Vitamin D deficiencies weren’t a thing when I was using baby oil and iodine instead of SPF 8000, either.

Listened to Creedance Clearwater Revival on the way home, remembered when that was my favorite beach music. When I had to turn the tape over it was time to flip and freckle my other side. I used to work odd hours, at the time I lived in South Brooklyn and worked in either Manhattan or downtown Brooklyn. In the summer, if I was working overnights I’d leave work and head straight for the beach, get a few hours of sleep and sun before heading home to eat, nap, and go back to work. Swing shifts, I’d get up early, get on the train and go back to sleep on the beach, leaving just enough time to shower before work. Thinking a lot about those days as I work on Astonishing, tapping into those old work experiences and certainties that I would, when I was ready, be a published author.

It’s ok, you can laugh, there was no internet then to tell me that isn’t how it works.

Off With Her Head!

Queen of Hearts (Photo credit: Ana Kelston)

Please and thank you. If you aren’t in the US, or in the northeast of it, we’re gearing up for a blizzard. As of this moment, it’s a snow/sleet/rain mix here in the city, the blizzard conditions will start later this evening. Gross, but the bonus is that the jackhammers are quiet for today.

I had a meeting at Flower Child’s school this morning. It went very well, assistive technology has come through, thanks to her fabulous team this year. We needed this to go well on several levels, it’s been a rough week for her; her good streak ended. Good news though, right? I come home and think I still have plenty of time to write before it’s pickup time. In peace and quiet. Ahhh. For about a minute.

English: Hammer drill (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What’s this, you ask? Well, it’s the hammer drill being used right above my freakin head in the apartment above mine. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear my sobs providing the rhythm for the bass of the drill. The walls in my building are concrete. No, I’m not confused, I am referring to interior walls, so any holes need to be made with a serious, loud, powerful tool.

This week has been, well, life, I guess. My father in law passed away, which was expected, and I’m glad his pain is over, but still very sad. He was an absolutely lovely man who was well known and liked in the community and loved by his family. For the past few days I’ve been hearing his distinctive whistle in my head. When Nerd Child was a little guy, and my f-i-l was passing our building, he would stop and whistle up, “Coquito!” Nerd Child would stop whatever he was doing and run to the window, throwing whatever he had been holding down to the street. Those child safety bars only prevent an actual child from passing through them, not the paraphernalia that accompanies children. Good thing the man always wore a hat, or his head would surely have been dented by a lego more than once. He had a distinctive smile, the kind that let you know where the phrase “ear to ear grin” comes from. It’s a warm fuzzy to say Flower Child inherited his smile.

I did write this week, though nowhere near the word count I intended. It is what it is, maybe the coming week will be a bit more steady.

How was your week?

Moments: On Christmas, Mourning, and Family

Hark! My angel 🙂

Yesterday I went Christmas shopping and had Man Child, Nerd Child, and Flower Child decorate the tree. It all had to be done, and I just didn’t feel like it. I am rarely “on top of” the Christmas shopping. I always swear I will budget for it throughout the year, shop early, but usually, I’m scrambling, same as I’m doing now. I wondered why I do this at all, do Christmas presents even make any sense? This is the first year where I only have one child in school this week before Christmas, both boys are on break already. Great! Except it feels like the school knows this, and therefore ramped up the extras so I can still spend my week running on empty from obligation to obligation.

I’m feeling umm, off balance since the shooting in Newtown CT on Friday. I stand by my statement from my last post, it didn’t make any sense and it still doesn’t. If anything, I’m more confused than I was 4 days ago. What does this level of grief mean for our nation? How much is personal, for the families and immediate community, and how much is ours, as a society, to take on? Where’s the line between sharing the burden of grief and glamorizing a heinous act? People are talking, and I hope they continue to do so. Much of the talk is bluster and rhetoric, I can toe that crap to the side without a problem. But I’ve also seen the beginnings of thoughtful discourse, with points and possibilities that should be explored. I am not a historian, and don’t know what was intended by the 2nd Amendment, or the correct way to apply it, if at all, in today’s society.

We are a nation of freedoms. With freedom comes responsibility. Or in the plain English of Fringeland, the freedom to fuck up. This is what, in my opinion, we should be talking about. Personal responsibilities and how they apply to our families, our communities, our society. I think, long ago, this used to be called ethics. But no, I don’t have a romanticized vision of the way things “used to be.” The reality is there are other atrocities that no longer occur here, are no longer legal or acceptable, that once were.

I ran around yesterday, my very best chicken without a head routine. At the end of the day, I went to walk a dog. This dog’s owners have become friends, and are two people I respect and admire tremendously. Man Child came with me, and though I’ve known them a few years now, this was the first time they were meeting. A moment. In the midst of these days heavy with both bullshit and mourning, a moment of beauty. I like these friends very much, they live their lives with integrity, and embody lives well lived. Another, newer friend recently met Nerd Child. Another beautiful moment. I like my children, they are thoughtful human beings and define possibilities. One has a strong sense of duty, immediate responsibilities. One has a keen instinctive eye for looking at the greater good, seems to have been born with the scales of justice connecting the chambers of his heart. One has an exquisite sense of social justice, crying at the thought of anyone being hungry. They have their own thoughts and opinions, separate from mine, Husband’s, and each other.

I don’t think I’ve hit on the purpose or meaning of life, as a parent or otherwise. I hold no answers, and as I get older, find more questions. As a parent, I want my children to believe in themselves and strive for their dreams, achieving some. I want them to be responsible, contributing members of society. I want their dreams to include being responsible, contributing members of society. I want them to have their moments, hopefully more than I do, but still, moments when they can take a breath and say, “this is ok. I am ok.”

Personal moments aren’t enough to put aside the greater questions we need to examine and try to answer. They do not, can not, and should not negate loss, personal or public. Personal loss does not negate community or societal obligations. But if we value these moments, and recognize them because of their potential impact on others, they can matter.

lint (Photo credit: freebeets)

Thwoka thwoka thwoka

English: NYPD helicopter patrolling New York City. Photo taken from the Empire State Building Observatory. Deutsch: Ein Helikopter des NYPD patrolliert über New York City. Das Foto wurde von der Empire State Building Sternwarte aufgenommen. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I hate the sound of those blades beating the air. When I was younger, it was a sound I associated with wit and laughter, the opening credits of M*A*S*H.

Now? Forget it. When I hear a helicopter I look up to see where it is, and assess which direction will take me away from it. Leftover PTSD from 9/11, I suppose. But it seems as if it’s never neutral. I don’t live in a part of the city where tourists would be taking rides, and I’m not en route to the Hamptons. So a helicopter means something is happening; police searching for someone, news crew filming, either way, I don’t want to be out in it.

Yesterday evening I was out walking a dog in Central Park when I heard them. I felt that unwelcome pitch and roll in my stomach, and then realized the odds were excellent that the choppers were part of the Parks Dept, doing a recon mission to see what trees it would make sense to trim in case Hurricane Sandy does hit New York and have the impact they’re predicting. Does the Parks Dept have helicopters? I have no idea, but the thought worked for me. I reminded myself to buy a couple of gallons of water just in case, and kept walking.

After I was home, I found out why the helicopters were out. A mother’s nightmare, every mother’s nightmare. Two young children were stabbed to death in their apartment, allegedly by their nanny, who was also stabbed but not killed, while the mother was at swim lessons with the third child. The entire Upper West Side, a neighborhood is filled with families, dogs, and nannies. I don’t know the circumstances, don’t know the family, don’t know the nanny, but my heart breaks for their loss.

I heard the mom is a successful blogger, documenting her children and family life in the city. I can’t even imagine the push-pull that will take place for her, not wanting to see the documenting of a happy and complete family, and yet maybe she’ll be glad to have those moments enshrined in cyberspace.

I’m not sure why I feel especially captured by this tragedy. My youngest is considerably older than this mom’s oldest. I don’t live a similar lifestyle. This is, after all, New York. Things like this do not happen every day, but violence is a part of the city. This type of violence, or at least what it appears to be at this point, can and does happen everywhere, city, country, suburb; someone “snaps,” and there are victims: young, old, innocent.

As I am typing, I hear more of those evil blades. Please tell me the Parks Department does in fact have helicopters.

Prosopon

Comedy and tragedy masks (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

According to Wikipedia, prosopon is the ancient Greek word for mask, and ancient Greece is where you’ll find the origins of this ubiquitous symbol of theater. A lead-in for a rambling post about how we all wear masks. Except that isn’t where I’m headed. A friend sent me this quote yesterday morning–perfect.

“For those who feel, life is a tragedy
For those who think, life is a comedy”
(Horace Walpole, 1717)

I spend a lot of time feeling, but I prefer to think. So much is out of our control, from minor annoyances to full scale tragedies, but how we respond is our choice. What we take away from these experiences is who we are.

Sometimes when you’re in the muck laughter is out of the equation, as its been the last few days, but I’m not wailing and crying out to the heavens, either. Besides, crying is so unpleasant. I never identify when people say they feel better after a “good” cry. Really? I guess I’ve only had bad cries, because all I feel afterwards is a snotty nose, swollen eyes, a headache, and usually a heaping dose of embarrassment. Very attractive in a middle aged broad, oh yes, I see the appeal.

A newborn child crying. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I can be moved to tears, for lack of a better cliche, by a beautiful piece of music, poetry, lyrics, stellar prose, or an especially spiritual church. That’s different. Actually, I’m tempted to cry right now–I got up to pour a cup of coffee, and suddenly my font keeps changing, for no reason I can identify.

Laughter is better. No magical thinking, it doesn’t spray fairy dust along with spittle. It feels good, clears my mind and gives me perspective–even with my bad teeth, I look better with a residual smile than a residual sniffle. Tears feel isolating, but a joke, a smile, a chuckle; they connect me with others. The people in my life who become friends, who are there long enough and deep enough to become part of the weave of my fringe, are those who I can laugh with. People with their own dramas and traumas who recognize the need to find the humor, black though it sometimes is; at the same time recognizing the need to grieve what is, what was, what could have been.

I want to laugh. I like to have people in my life who make me laugh, who appreciate my oddball sense of humor–would ya believe not everyone does?

Life is a tragicomedy. It takes unexpected and sometimes unwanted turns. Now which way do we go?

Funny Signs (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Missing: My Lost Love, Fiction

The Missing Piece (book) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m not mourning this one. I refuse. She’ll come back, I’m sure of it. Have you seen her? She’s a master of disguise, sometimes wearing a ragged old jacket, pages so worn they’re soft and fuzzy, sometimes a sharp and spiffy hardcover, crackling when she flashes that first page. She has another angle I used to know well, flowing from half a thought in the shower out through my keyboard, gaining heft in pages each day. The perfect companion, able to reflect every mood, never moaning that I don’t accept her as is, sharper and stronger when I mark her with the pencil; cutting, editing, resculpting. The best part about her is the way she can be completely, totally yours, and still shared with countless others, solidifying the feeling that you aren’t alone, and have a place in the world.

Venetian courtesan (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Bah. I’d say that’s enough purple prose, don’t you think? I was always one of those; loved to read more than anything else, would skip meals, sleep, outings, just about anything to stay immersed as long as possible in a good book. As a kid I loved the typical girlie classics: Black Beauty, the Little House on the Prairie Series, Little Women. The first book I remember reading is The Lonely Doll, and I read it over and over. I found it again several years ago and purchased it, intending to read it to Flower Child. Ummm, no. I’m more than a bit horrified by how much I loved that book, there’s something dark, maybe even salacious in those pages. I promptly read a biography of the author, Dare Wright. The bio did much to explain the storybook, but again, I won’t be using it as a bedtime story.

The Lonely Doll (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

(Flower Child is sitting next to me, on seeing this ^pic, she said, “She can be my doll.” Have I mentioned no?)

I found Ordinary People in the library when I was ten or eleven, read it, loved it, wrote a book report about it, had my parents called and I was told to do a different report on a different book.

I also discovered category romance about the same time. An elderly neighbor (fabulously French, served fresh lemonade) of a relative who lived in California belonged to the Harlequin book club. After visiting, she shipped me four cartons of those books. I tore through them like a bag of chips, licking the salt off the foil at the end. Then came science fiction, fantasy, horror, and my forever love, Stephen King.

I found Margaret Atwood and Joyce Carol Oates and felt something I couldn’t define, something profound and spiritual, but at the same time they felt so real, so rooted in the collective consciousness it was my youthful vegetarian self tearing into a raw chunk of beef. Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, Truman Capote, the list goes on. The poetry years, ee cummings, Anne Sexton, Edna St Vincent Millay….

Bookshelf (Photo credit: heipei)

Throughout the reading was the writing. Mostly short stories, several years of angsty poetry, and later, full length manuscripts.

Broke or flush, content or heartbroken, writing or reading, fiction has been my lifelong companion. Different genres for different phases of life, different moods. I wouldn’t say I was indiscriminate, but rather, I’ve had broad tastes; seen value, worth, and beauty in the different styles. So what the heck? My purse is lighter, no novel shoved in there. My end tables are neater, no texts I’m using for research toppling over. Flashes of scenes that need to be written rinse away with the shampoo. I’m singing a torch song, looking for my love. And let me tell you, my off key warble is nothing you want to hear for long. Think Edith Bunker.

Smithsonian American History Museum (Photo credit: Steve Tatum)

Going To Hell with Gasoline Drawers On

Night Fires 3 (Photo credit: Jean-Michel Reed)

In keeping with my summer of death theme, I left my building yesterday morning to find a cluster of neighbors talking. A neighbor had died in his apartment, estimated three days earlier, and was found yesterday morning when others on his floor complained about the smell.

This was another fringe character, though not a friend. If not for the “low” rent apartment, I’m guessing he would have been homeless. This is purely conjecture, for all I know he had three million dollars in the bank. I don’t know his story, maybe he was a veteran, maybe he was sick, maybe he had been deserted by a cheating wife and ingrate children. He was a hard and serious drinker, who could be spotted regularly parked in one of three neighborhood restaurants, drinking for hours until his cash ran out or the manager of the restaurant got enough complaints from other customers.

Naturally, as I walked Big Senile Dog and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog, I was thinking about all of this. Now I may not be happy here in New York, may not want to live here anymore, but I am a New Yorker. Therefore, after tallying how many people I know who have died this summer, I had the traditional New York mourning thought.

Apartment for Rent on E 61st St, NYC (Photo credit: cathleenritt)

Really, it isn’t just something made up for a Seinfeld episode. Combing obituaries is a time honored way to find a rent controlled apartment. Much trickier than it used to be, as rent control laws have changed, but still valid.

I brought the dogs back and immediately stopped one of the workers in my building to ask him what size apartment the man had lived in. He laughed at me and told me I’m going to Hell with gasoline drawers on. I had never heard that saying before, but it’s now my new favorite.

And if you’re wondering, no. This didn’t turn out to be an opportunity for me and mine. His apartment is the same size as ours.

Seinfeld (Photo credit: T Hoffarth)

Also,

the rent is too damn high (Photo credit: CathrynDC)

The Crown Jewels

Sandy Hook, NJ

No, I’m not posting about the beach today, but I was there yesterday, so I thought I’d look at this photo while I wrote. Crazy wild waves that this photo doesn’t capture, but beautiful.

On to the subject at hand. As mentioned, I spent several days of the past week sorting and packing my mother’s apartment. Still a long way to go, but that is to be expected. What I didn’t expect was one spot where I was caught in memories, and was unable to pack away one thing.

When I was a girl, I loved to play with the contents of my mother’s jewelry box. There in my mother’s closet, was the ornately sculpted-to-look-like-a-miniature-armoire box, in all its pressboard glory. Over the years, the subject of playing with our mothers’ jewelry has come up with various female friends. Maybe it’s a girl thing, maybe it’s a Brooklyn thing–though Flower Child enjoys the same.

carved jewelry box (Photo credit: Serenae)

There is and never was anything of value in that box, different colored beaded necklaces and bracelets, clip on paste rhinestone earrings (why? her ears were pierced), an old skate key (whose?). And pins, lots of pins. For the younger generation who might be reading, women used to regularly wear pins (brooches) on their blouses and sweaters.

beads (Photo credit: moirabot)

I would ask, is this real? is this one real? My mother’s answer was always yes, though these things are all inexpensive costume pieces.

Really, my mother was not a woman who was “into” jewelry, costume or otherwise. She had a few things she liked and wore regularly, but she didn’t hesitate to leave those pins tucked away, much like girdles, as soon as they were out of fashion. What she loved throughout her life was her collection of Lenox. Accumulated over years, she’s got enough of those ivory colored pieces to fill two aisles in a Hallmark store.

Memories that I didn’t know I had zipped to the surface as I handled each pin. The oddly shaped gold pin with a cluster of “pearls,” firmly attached to a black nylon blouse. A beautiful silver oval with blue, green, and black stones, stabbed through a gray sweater. An elaborately wrought gold flower in a nest of something I still can’t identify, dragging the collar of my grandmother’s green wool coat.

I went through the box on Sunday afternoon, put everything back and closed it. Sunday night after dogwalking I went back to do some more packing with Husband. When we finished the kitchen, I went back to the jewelry box, and showed the pieces to him. Again, I put everything away as it had been, and tucked it back into the corner of the closet.

I’m not sure why I couldn’t pack it up, why this sliver of her life has me stuck, in a way her treasured collection of Lenox knick knacks doesn’t.

Brooch (Photo credit: hannah karina)

On the Downhill Side

Downhill (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This week I’ve been feeling as if I’m in a winding down phase. Summer isn’t over, but I know it will be soon enough. This makes me very sad, as it does every year. Kinda nutty, to live for three months a year, but I do.

The budget being what it is, we haven’t really done much with the kids. Add in time spent focused on unwell Flower Child and dying mother, and the past 7 weeks have been lost.

I’ve begun the process of cleaning out my mother’s apartment. It’s slow, she had an incredible amount of stuff packed into that tiny space. Strange, because she seemed to be the opposite of a hoarder. Why did a woman who never entertained and never cooked need enough china for 50? Also, I’m pretty sure the salt I found in the shakers belonging to that set was from 1961.

P1140885-1 (Photo credit: leechungyu)

I haven’t even begun the work of sorting through photographs. I know that will take forever. My parents weren’t big on pictures or photography, but still, it’s a lifetime. More than one, because I’m sure I’ll find the photos from my grandmother, and whatever my father had from his family. For all the purging she did, I never saw my mother throw a photo away. I get it, it feels wrong to do so, the guilt of a sin. When I first got a digital camera, the concept of the “delete” button for terrible photos took a while to sink in. Should I do it? Maybe I’m going to need four shaky, dark photos of that door knob. Is anyone looking? Yes, yes I can delete the fuzzy picture of the floor taken by one of the kids. Liberation of the digital age!

Can’t I just stay on the beach for the next three weeks? I know there are plenty of people around me who will. The problem is knowing that this gentle, mild-palpitation inducing slide downward will be full tilt careening within days. Three weeks, and I haven’t finished paperwork! Two weeks, the boys still need clothes! And shoes, and everything else. One week, where did the summer go, can’t we squeeze one fantastic splurge day out of the budget? Flower Child still hasn’t recovered from the last school year.

English: Kirnu, a steel roller coaster in Linnanmäki. Suomi: Kuva Kirnusta. Français : Les montagnes russes finlandaises Kirnu à Linnanmäki (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I don’t do roller coasters. Ever. But if all goes well, I’ll be on the beach later today.