**At the time that I wrote this we did not know that my mother was descending into dementia. But this piece, written in early 2017 and shared at the Madison, Wisconsin “Listen to Your Mother” production, now paints an accurate picture of what dementia looks like to our loved ones and to us, including mood changes, fears and frustrations. This is my first Mother’s Day without her. I am sharing in her memory.**
"...she always strove to repair the small tears in the fabric of society to make things better, to leave things better than when she found them."
When I was seven years old, I won an award at Girl Scout camp for fire building. We were, with fire pits all lined up in a row, supposed to build a fire that would catch quickly, (a one-match fire as the cool kids used to say), rise quickly, and burn through a length of rope that was suspended several feet above. Let me repeat — I was seven years old. Some people are naturals at downhill skiing or card games. I seem to have a natural ability in building fires. I found this recently, I don’t know the author:…
(This is also the transcript for the podcast Breathing Out Stars — Episode 31) There is a moon in the evening sky. Around it – many clouds. A storm has just passed. It is stunning. It is, in fact, the reflection of the moon on the clouds that makes it look thus. It was quite a storm. It was a few days before my first surgery that I happened to read that you don’t get the transformation unless you go into the Underworld. But we will talk more about that later. I beg your indulgence as I share this story.…
It was many years ago during a dermatological excision that we, in our family, learned that Nancy Sinatra could be associated with surgical procedures. At the time, the doctor, a 70-something eccentric, loved to listen to his music — loud — while holding a scalpel. So, “Summer Wine” and “These Boots were Made for Walkin”, previously favorite Nancy Sinatra songs from my childhood, took on new meaning, involving Tylenol, gauze, well – you can imagine. This association is so ridiculous — that we cannot hear these songs without glancing at each other and grimacing. It’s a type of pop-song-flavored PTSD. So…
The city is hot. We are on the numero 15 tram…stiamo andando in centro – we are going to the city center. Per the government order people are masked. But a few, purtroppo, no. We smell caffè, cigarette smoke. Through the open door we see a musician sitting, playing soprano saxophone. The air is still. The sound carries. C’e’ una ristorante di Pizza – a pizza restaurant, another, poi uno dopo un altro…then one after another. Empty. Tables set. At the ready for i turisti…tourists. And there are plenty of tourists. As many as I have ever seen, except at Natale. And it’s Wednesday. Fittingly,…
Challenges create opportunities for action. We are in a time now where there are opportunities for you to find faith – to reach for something greater than yourself.
(Episode 27, Breathing Out Stars Podcast) Before I begin I want to say a thing about carrying on. It is said that at the top of every mountain is the base of the next mountain. This is a super important lesson for us to get – that when we finish something, accomplish something, we are not done…it is just time to start the next thing. When I reached 25 episodes it was a lovely benchmark. A milestone. Not an easy thing in a difficult time. But rather than resting on my laurels I sat down immediately and began episode 26.…
“They were the same little people whose snowy socks went around and around my dryer...”
There once was a five-year old boy. It was summertime — and of course — there were fireflies. Many, many fireflies. This child, with his mommy and his daddy, spent one summer evening chasing those fireflies…and catching them…and putting them each, one by one, into a tall jar. Now…there is this jar….like a lantern….filled with maybe twenty or so fireflies. This classic childhood adventure was then followed by a bath — and bed — and the lantern of fireflies was put on his dresser. There was then a story, a kiss and the door was closed. It was perhaps thirty…
Months ago, before my surgery, we had dinner at an Asian restaurant with a Chinese friend, M. She ordered us a dish — a dish, she said, that she makes at home. “I can always tell how good a restaurant is by the quality of this dish”, she said. When the dish arrived it was white and opaque and long and lovely and sour and spicy. It was shredded potato. From that day on I have craved this dish. Two weeks passed and before I was admitted to the hospital I had to have this dish again. I went back,…
I have been asked to provide an update on my recovery: I knew that I was having major surgery — but I admit I didn’t really grasp the scope of the recovery — how long it would be, how slow it would be. Just — the whole of it. Which, I have to believe, was probably good. I realized, a couple of weeks before, while watching an episode of Westworld with R, upon seeing a bone saw, that this was probably the tool that would be used to cut off part of my femur to allow fitting of the new…
Will you need help down the stairs, ma’am?, the flight attendant asks. No, I am ok going down, I tell him. After the next helper (so kind, I am overwhelmed) and the taxi we are at our destination. We are greeted with weathered leather chairs, mutton pillows. Panne velvet in gold. Fireplaces and stacked wood. I am familiar with the vibe of the heat-challenged North, even in Summer. I am so tired that I don’t think that I ever can move again. But there is dinner to be had. We decide to eat downstairs. At least there is food. And…
I have given away our extra pantry items, our blender. We are down to the our tiniest bone of soap. Seven months. We had a text in the middle of the night. Someone we loved very much — gone. Reservations made. Ticketed. I am in the school office. Today is my last day, I tell them. But I have brought little cookies, biscottini, to my classmates and my teacher. I explain to them that I have had a death in my family. Oggi e’ il mio ultimo giorno, I say. Today is my last day. Tears are streaming down my…
We are on an island. A big one. A place where streets are broken and the trunks of olive tree trunks are, in some places, more than a meter in diameter. There are cows the color of coffee with milk and milk with coffee. In abandoned lots. They are stunning, queste mucche, attualmente. There are expanses of grasses. Of more abandoned buildings. You can tell the economy has not treated them kindly. The sky is large here. I have counted at least four colors of bouganville. And towering blooming prickly pears, way over our heads. And beautiful but molto pericoloso…