I took the path that lines the beach in Santa Monica. I ran slow at first then followed a runner with a good pace for about two miles. I felt good, strong. I felt purpose, inspiration, kinship, and closeness. I started to gain speed on his pace.
Then, he stopped when I was just a few feet behind him.
He turned around.
He was done.
He had enough.
He didn’t ask me.
He didn’t know me.
He was done.
And I was alone.
I didn’t even know him.
The sun hadn’t even set yet. There were more paths to follow. There were more miles to run.
But that was it.
He was done and didn’t ask me if it was ok. I was thoughtfully happy that I had the mile with him, but was sad that our journey was over.
And then I was alone.
With no one in front of me, I continued to run and listen to music I don’t remember.
I looked at the sun to my left. It was ready to call it a day and leave me. And I knew.
Loss.
This is what it feels like. Not potential loss and sadness. That’s what I’ve been preparing for since my dad fell ill.
Loss is what I feel now.
Why?
I don’t even know him. Not really. Not even in the slightest. And yet, the thoughts of him filled every ounce of my day today. Did he know? Did he even know what his life meant to so many people?
I think about how every day, I kill myself to be fit, thin, smart, witty, pretty and keep up. I work so hard to be the best daughter, sister, friend, teacher, lover, actor and writer.
How difficult it is to work so hard. How difficult it is to have friends and maintain them in this life now. How hard is it to just be, just exist and be ok with what we are, where we are, what we are and how we are living.
How much more difficult is it to let go?
To let it all go.
I woke up in sadness today. I went about my day. Why am I so sad? I’ve been questioning the idea of mortality since my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 metastasized lung cancer. Is he going to make it? Is my mom going to make it, supporting him? Should I go home and be with them now? Later? What happens when my mom gets sick? What happens when I get sick? We’re all going to die, someday?
How are we going to live now?
The day was cold. Today, LA was like New York with palm trees. I felt fuzzy, like I was on allergy medication. Not enough sleep? Maybe. Did I eat too much salt the day before or too much caffeine?
I met a friend for lunch. Nice. I ran some errands, did some work. Non-eventful.
I went for the run before sunset.
There it was.
I was late hearing the news.
I didn’t even know him.
And now he is gone.
I run here, alone and watch the sun as it sets and my eyes fill with tears. Did he get to see the sunset? If he saw it, would it change his mind? If I could just show him, perhaps he would know. Perhaps he would feel differently.
It didn’t happen.
The wind, I think. That is what is making my eyes water.
How could I feel for someone I don’t know?
Because.
Because there is a man out there that is no longer there.
I knew him by association. I knew him because the people I knew, knew him. I knew the work he did. I knew he was funny and talented. I knew he was nice. He was nice to me, but I didn’t know him. We were in the same circles of friends. Circles of friends that are now so broad for me, it would be strange to call them friends and yet…
I’m very angry. There is a man out there that isn’t…
For reasons I won’t know. There is a man that is no longer out there that is causing hurt and sadness for reasons they will never know.
Oprah has stories. The news has stories. How sad. But it never happens with people you know. It never happens.
It happens.
I tried to wrap my mind around his decision.
I’m sad.
Things suck right now. Dad is sick and I’m overdrawn in my account. I miss my family. I’m alone. No love. I’m lonely. I fail often. I am sad.
I can walk out in the middle of traffic. It’ll be quick. I’m clever. I can go home, find a rope, tie it around something and it’ll all be over. Does anyone feel this too?
I question why, often.
But, I can see the sunset everyday. I can run miles. I can tell jokes and make people laugh. I can teach classes and make people feel good. I can talk to my family and friends. I can try for things. I love my life.
I remember when I was young and two kids from my school got into accidents and lost their lives. I remember the mourning. I remember people who didn’t even know them, were sad and crying. I remember thinking, what is wrong with them? They didn’t even know them. What do they have to cry about? How shallow? And here I am. All I’m doing is thinking about a boy I don’t even know and I’m crippled with sadness.
What is wrong with me?
Nothing?
There is a man, I barely know but have on many occasions thought about. He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. We don’t know when someone is thinking about us. Perhaps we should tell them. Perhaps we should take extra seconds from our days and tell the people we think about, even if it’s for a moment, that we are thinking about them and hope they are well. Maybe, because of the birth of such things as facebook, that we waste numerous hours on, we should take a moment to share, not just our success with, but also our thoughts with.
‘Just thinking of you and that time we had together…”
‘Remember?’
‘I love you.’
‘I’m here for you.’
‘I know it’s been a while, but I’m thinking of you.’
I have over 500 friends on facebook.
Are they my friends, really?
Their lives matter to me. Their life matters to us, whatever they do.
This is my problem. My problem is that we ALL know so many people, especially with technology today. We can’t all be as present as we may like to be in everyone’s life, but we are.
I do not talk to many, not in the slightest bit, but I think about them. I do. You do. In a moment, you might have a memory or a story or a situation that might bring up an old friend. It might not even spur on the inspiration to contact that old friend, but you think about them. Don’t you?
I think about him. I’ve thought about him. We are not friends, but we are friends by association. He’s gone now and I feel his loss. I feel his loss because my friends feel his loss. Because there is one more of us ‘people’ who is gone. There is someone I know that has affected people in a positive way and has decided he doesn’t want to be here in this world anymore.
What were his thoughts before? How did he do it? Did it hurt? Did he know that he would affect so many people? Did he know that his passing would hurt people he didn’t even know?
Oh my god, were you in pain? How long did you have pain? Could we have just reached for you, held you and told you it would be ok or was it already too late? How could you? What could we have done?
I didn’t even know you and it has affected me. I’m angry that you were sad or lonely or desperate enough to take your life away.
You have left a hole. One that everyone close to you feels. And then there is me. I don’t even know you and I feel it. How many of us are out there that weren’t blessed to know you that you left a hole in. Your life left a hole in more people you will ever know. I’m devastated that someone couldn’t reach out to you to change your decision. I will never know you or your decision.
Consider life.
We might not all be present in each other’s lives but we are all important.
Consider life.
Our existence is absolutely necessary. It is necessary for us to exist, succeed, fail, get married, give birth, divorce, travel to distant lands and share stories with each other, together.
Consider life.
I need you. You need me. We need each other.
Consider life.
There is absolutely nothing that is that bad that we can’t be here for each other.
Consider life.
Your presence is felt. It is known.
Consider life.
Don’t disappear. It affects everyone. Absolutely everyone.
Consider life.
In all it’s pain, tragedy, horror.
Consider life.
In all it’s laughter, happiness and memories.
Consider life.
In gratitude to all of it.
Consider life.
All of our close friends, those in the circle and the circle outside of that circle and the one outside of that one, in youth and beyond.
Consider life.
You might be gone but you will always be a reminder of how important we all are to each other, near and far, known and known by association. Our existence affects more than just what and whom we know.
We are necessary.
I think about you. Be here. You are necessary.
Philip Newby. You were necessary.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sun and Snow, Ebb and flow
Yoga
The same old series of poses in a class can provide you with a different set of challenges each practice depending on where you are coming from in your day, your week, your month, your year and the cycles of the moon, the seasons, the sea and all that jazz. The poses get better, you get stronger and the perspective you get when conquering and flowing in and out of a pose depends on how you approached it the last time and the time before. If you approach a pose with frustration, tentativeness, fear, hurriedness or anger, it will never be achieved fully until you come from a place of clarity, pacing and taking the steps, one at a time to achieve the full expression of a posture.
Life
The same old series of challenges in life can surface and resurface and depending on the set of tools and experiences you’ve gathered in your ‘practice’ of life will depend on the lessons you’ve learned, if you learned them fully, in order to deal with them, make progress and achieve success.
Patterns
We all have them. They will keep coming back to challenge you until you exercise a practice of strength, clarity and calm to get through it.
Tests
After you breakthrough the barrier of one pose, challenge or pattern, you will be given more. It’s like building muscle. The process to build and hold it, never ends; it always grows, gets stronger and requires energy to sustain.
Breakthrough
Once you understand that all of life is a series of challenges, it becomes a lot easier to approach. It’s like standing at the foot of the sea. One wave crashes at your ankles and shocks you, even though you see it coming. Another one comes along and tests your balance. You fall. Maybe you laugh a little and hope no one saw. You pick yourself up again and wait for the next one, maybe bracing yourself and tensing your muscles. You fall again. Now you are soaking wet and don’t give a crap if someone saw you. You get up again, but this time, you soften. You don’t wait for the wave to approach you. You approach the wave and you do it with ease. You know what you’ve been through and you can stand tall and feel the salt and the sand beneath you, the sun on your skin. Your perspective changes and it’s no longer about preparing yourself for challenges, but taking them as they come, taking in the whole experience, not just the blow. You take it in just as you would take in a breath, eat a meal or enjoy a conversation with a friend.
~~~~~~
Recently, I was without a computer, between homes, family was not close by and my cell phone was dead but charging. I had no distractions, no web surfing or facebook, no craigslist or Westside rentals, no organizing of things as they were all packed away, no calls or blogging, just pen and paper.
I felt like I was in my own little countryside, even though I was sitting on the floor with no furniture and the echo of everything outside reverberating within the walls emphasizing it’s emptiness - perhaps, my emptiness. I took in a big breath and there it was. The earth beneath me shook. We were having another earthquake. It wasn’t a big one. In fact, a lot of people I know didn’t feel it at all. When we had one over the summer, I remember hyperventilating in fear. I have lived in LA for so long but had always been away for earthquakes. I felt this one. I freaked for a moment then realized I didn’t have to. I know what to do to feel safe. I’ve felt this before. I can feel afraid or move with it until it passes. Although I did pick up my charging phone to call my mom, I was relieved because I wasn’t nearly as afraid as I was the last time when I was alone, in fear of the unknown. The rest of my life had just changed dramatically so the earthquake was just the straw that broke the camels back. I hate clichés, but there you go.
When the earth shifted this time, I was still, right on top of it, sitting tall with my pen and paper.
Life is little earthquakes, every single day.
I felt alone, but not lonely, excited but not anxious, quiet but not calm.
I let go of ‘control’ as there was nothing left to try and figure out in my exact current circumstance. It was all ahead of me. The stress of moving, leaving my family while my dad was still ill, living in a place I questioned if I could afford in an economy that may or may not question my ‘job’ in life. I had to let go. There was nothing left to do.
Instead of agonizing over what ifs, I just let go. Even as a yogi, and a teacher, it is still my recurring pattern of a challenge to
Just
Let
Go.
Like being reminded to breathe. I always laugh a little when a student tells me they are glad I remind them to breathe because I often have to remind myself of the same thing.
It happens automatically in our systems in order to survive. However, breathing deeply in order to open up space and soothe our systems is altogether different. It’s something very conscious. It is a practice and it begs to be reminded on and off the yoga mat.
Over the last few months I’ve gone through Chrysalis. It’s one of my favorite words. I’m not saying I’m a bug or a perfect butterfly, but I’ve torn down and rebuilt my life going through some ugly f-ing stages that only look a lot better now that I’m through it. You can bore yourself with the details in other blogs.
As a country, we are about to do the same, with a new leader taking office tomorrow. In uncertain times, it will be a sweltering time before things cool off, our questions get answered and our fears allayed. The excitement is overwhelming, almost scary. But let’s be honest, the last eight years have been rather repulsive. We, as a country, can only look up and beyond, hopefully and joyfully.
As a family, we are doing the same.
My mother who was living fearfully as we all were, when we found out my dad had stage 4 metastasized lung cancer, had cried and freaked it all out of her system. I now talk to her and I see and hear that the same strength and clarity she had previously with the challenges of her job and daily life, she now has with the overwhelming challenge of caring for her sick husband. It’s like she’s put a system into play and she knows what to do. It’s like she is being lead. She is leading.
She says that she feels like a new mother again, checking to see if he’s breathing, washing him, feeding him, waking up in the middle of the night and not so much taking care of herself. And yet, she sounds better than she has in a long time.
She says it’s an honor and a privilege to take care of someone. She was chosen for that honor and she has accepted it as part of her fate. She is handling everything, beautifully and I admire her so much for that.
Taking care of myself has gone out the window!! She’ll say.
My dad says he could never repay her for all that she has given to him. He even says that he isn’t quite sure if he would do the same for her.
The snow has made things even more challenging. My dad, not working now, has cabin fever and has tried to escape and run mindless errands, but my mom’s silent alarm wakes her from sleep or her other duties and she reigns him back to reality, back to the living room or bedroom or den, where he watches HGTV, plays Scrabble with my mom or dozes off.
I don’t think there are any words left, my mom will say. On to gin rummy, they go.
I suggested Twister. Then I reneged that idea. Too much flexibility involved.
I try to bring him joy and have joy in my life. My mom says.
If my mom only knew, she is joy. She doesn’t have to try at all. It’s her gift.
My mom, who would normally dress in PJ’s all day if she had a choice, don’s jeans and a tee shirt, her new uniform as she cleans, prepares food, and makes her calls and emails for her job as a realtor. She’s upgraded but is looking forward to putting on makeup and some earrings to go and get her hair cut on inauguration day. She might even file and paint her nails. How she indulges!!
This is her new normal. We all look at Michelle Obama now like she’s the new Jackie O. My mom isn’t nearly as famous but ten times more fabulous.
She’s lost weight. She says it’s the new ‘Cancer’ diet. Everyone who knows someone with Cancer is on it. It’s all the rage.
How can she be so f-ing funny with all that is going on? She’s my mom!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I had a conversation with a dear friend the other day who works tirelessly and passionately, yet feels alone. I told him that work, however rewarding it might be, is not the same as loving and being there for others. My mom is my example. I see how that has changed how I look at my life, work, errands and the endless to dos.
Love, support, trust, it’s everything we need to be happy. Of course, an infinite supply of cash and unlimited health care would also be a bonus, but hey, I’m talkin’ reality here.
We’re not my mother. We’re not all dealing with caring for someone who is sick.
But, if I can use my mother as an example, if we put as much effort into loving each other, giving someone a free pass on the freeway for cutting you off, smiling at someone on the street or giving someone a compliment, getting our nails done so we feel better about ourselves and can walk taller, doing crow pose or headstand away from the wall in the yoga room, telling someone we know that we care about them, love them, or are just thinking about them. That’s really all that really matters at the end of the day.
We
Need
Each other.
Need, not want. It’s necessary. It’s part of life’s plan. It’s the test, challenge, accomplishment we are here for.
It’s the greatest gift and the greatest service.
We are the sum of our actions.
It’s not worth nothing.
Our challenges make us stronger so we can take on more.
We don’t ask for more. It’s just inevitable.
Our practice in yoga and in life tests us so that we can approach life in the fullest, clearest manner, so that the light within us can shine and reflect greatness on everything we encounter. We can assist people. We can help people. We can serve people. We can take all of our challenges, individual and collective and use our strength together to get through.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today I went for a run on the beach. My beach. Your beach.
I watched the sun set again, like I do almost every day, with gratitude and with hundreds of others lining the California incline.
The days are getting longer. Each day, each minute, the sun gives us a little more of its time.
I watched it go down. I was alone, with hundreds of others.
The sun went down.
That was a day, I said to myself.
I saw the dolphins dive up and down reflecting off the beautiful red and purple in the sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My dad doesn’t miss work. He doesn’t miss getting up at 4AM and fighting traffic in the cold snowy streets of Manhattan. But he also has Cancer, pain in his back and weakness as he walks.
I come home and put on HGTV. I know he’s watching it and it makes me feel closer to him.
I call my mom.
It’s snowing again.
Karin, my sister, brought in fresh dry wood from the cold outside. She hates talking on the phone, but I feel closer to her.
My mom tells me she just lit a roaring fire in the fireplace.
I feel closer to her.
I tell her about the sunset and she tells me about dad.
We share the challenges of our days but we revel in the fact that we had the sunset, the snow, a roaring fire and each other, close by and far away.
And at the end of the day, that’s all we needed to get through.
The same old series of poses in a class can provide you with a different set of challenges each practice depending on where you are coming from in your day, your week, your month, your year and the cycles of the moon, the seasons, the sea and all that jazz. The poses get better, you get stronger and the perspective you get when conquering and flowing in and out of a pose depends on how you approached it the last time and the time before. If you approach a pose with frustration, tentativeness, fear, hurriedness or anger, it will never be achieved fully until you come from a place of clarity, pacing and taking the steps, one at a time to achieve the full expression of a posture.
Life
The same old series of challenges in life can surface and resurface and depending on the set of tools and experiences you’ve gathered in your ‘practice’ of life will depend on the lessons you’ve learned, if you learned them fully, in order to deal with them, make progress and achieve success.
Patterns
We all have them. They will keep coming back to challenge you until you exercise a practice of strength, clarity and calm to get through it.
Tests
After you breakthrough the barrier of one pose, challenge or pattern, you will be given more. It’s like building muscle. The process to build and hold it, never ends; it always grows, gets stronger and requires energy to sustain.
Breakthrough
Once you understand that all of life is a series of challenges, it becomes a lot easier to approach. It’s like standing at the foot of the sea. One wave crashes at your ankles and shocks you, even though you see it coming. Another one comes along and tests your balance. You fall. Maybe you laugh a little and hope no one saw. You pick yourself up again and wait for the next one, maybe bracing yourself and tensing your muscles. You fall again. Now you are soaking wet and don’t give a crap if someone saw you. You get up again, but this time, you soften. You don’t wait for the wave to approach you. You approach the wave and you do it with ease. You know what you’ve been through and you can stand tall and feel the salt and the sand beneath you, the sun on your skin. Your perspective changes and it’s no longer about preparing yourself for challenges, but taking them as they come, taking in the whole experience, not just the blow. You take it in just as you would take in a breath, eat a meal or enjoy a conversation with a friend.
~~~~~~
Recently, I was without a computer, between homes, family was not close by and my cell phone was dead but charging. I had no distractions, no web surfing or facebook, no craigslist or Westside rentals, no organizing of things as they were all packed away, no calls or blogging, just pen and paper.
I felt like I was in my own little countryside, even though I was sitting on the floor with no furniture and the echo of everything outside reverberating within the walls emphasizing it’s emptiness - perhaps, my emptiness. I took in a big breath and there it was. The earth beneath me shook. We were having another earthquake. It wasn’t a big one. In fact, a lot of people I know didn’t feel it at all. When we had one over the summer, I remember hyperventilating in fear. I have lived in LA for so long but had always been away for earthquakes. I felt this one. I freaked for a moment then realized I didn’t have to. I know what to do to feel safe. I’ve felt this before. I can feel afraid or move with it until it passes. Although I did pick up my charging phone to call my mom, I was relieved because I wasn’t nearly as afraid as I was the last time when I was alone, in fear of the unknown. The rest of my life had just changed dramatically so the earthquake was just the straw that broke the camels back. I hate clichés, but there you go.
When the earth shifted this time, I was still, right on top of it, sitting tall with my pen and paper.
Life is little earthquakes, every single day.
I felt alone, but not lonely, excited but not anxious, quiet but not calm.
I let go of ‘control’ as there was nothing left to try and figure out in my exact current circumstance. It was all ahead of me. The stress of moving, leaving my family while my dad was still ill, living in a place I questioned if I could afford in an economy that may or may not question my ‘job’ in life. I had to let go. There was nothing left to do.
Instead of agonizing over what ifs, I just let go. Even as a yogi, and a teacher, it is still my recurring pattern of a challenge to
Just
Let
Go.
Like being reminded to breathe. I always laugh a little when a student tells me they are glad I remind them to breathe because I often have to remind myself of the same thing.
It happens automatically in our systems in order to survive. However, breathing deeply in order to open up space and soothe our systems is altogether different. It’s something very conscious. It is a practice and it begs to be reminded on and off the yoga mat.
Over the last few months I’ve gone through Chrysalis. It’s one of my favorite words. I’m not saying I’m a bug or a perfect butterfly, but I’ve torn down and rebuilt my life going through some ugly f-ing stages that only look a lot better now that I’m through it. You can bore yourself with the details in other blogs.
As a country, we are about to do the same, with a new leader taking office tomorrow. In uncertain times, it will be a sweltering time before things cool off, our questions get answered and our fears allayed. The excitement is overwhelming, almost scary. But let’s be honest, the last eight years have been rather repulsive. We, as a country, can only look up and beyond, hopefully and joyfully.
As a family, we are doing the same.
My mother who was living fearfully as we all were, when we found out my dad had stage 4 metastasized lung cancer, had cried and freaked it all out of her system. I now talk to her and I see and hear that the same strength and clarity she had previously with the challenges of her job and daily life, she now has with the overwhelming challenge of caring for her sick husband. It’s like she’s put a system into play and she knows what to do. It’s like she is being lead. She is leading.
She says that she feels like a new mother again, checking to see if he’s breathing, washing him, feeding him, waking up in the middle of the night and not so much taking care of herself. And yet, she sounds better than she has in a long time.
She says it’s an honor and a privilege to take care of someone. She was chosen for that honor and she has accepted it as part of her fate. She is handling everything, beautifully and I admire her so much for that.
Taking care of myself has gone out the window!! She’ll say.
My dad says he could never repay her for all that she has given to him. He even says that he isn’t quite sure if he would do the same for her.
The snow has made things even more challenging. My dad, not working now, has cabin fever and has tried to escape and run mindless errands, but my mom’s silent alarm wakes her from sleep or her other duties and she reigns him back to reality, back to the living room or bedroom or den, where he watches HGTV, plays Scrabble with my mom or dozes off.
I don’t think there are any words left, my mom will say. On to gin rummy, they go.
I suggested Twister. Then I reneged that idea. Too much flexibility involved.
I try to bring him joy and have joy in my life. My mom says.
If my mom only knew, she is joy. She doesn’t have to try at all. It’s her gift.
My mom, who would normally dress in PJ’s all day if she had a choice, don’s jeans and a tee shirt, her new uniform as she cleans, prepares food, and makes her calls and emails for her job as a realtor. She’s upgraded but is looking forward to putting on makeup and some earrings to go and get her hair cut on inauguration day. She might even file and paint her nails. How she indulges!!
This is her new normal. We all look at Michelle Obama now like she’s the new Jackie O. My mom isn’t nearly as famous but ten times more fabulous.
She’s lost weight. She says it’s the new ‘Cancer’ diet. Everyone who knows someone with Cancer is on it. It’s all the rage.
How can she be so f-ing funny with all that is going on? She’s my mom!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I had a conversation with a dear friend the other day who works tirelessly and passionately, yet feels alone. I told him that work, however rewarding it might be, is not the same as loving and being there for others. My mom is my example. I see how that has changed how I look at my life, work, errands and the endless to dos.
Love, support, trust, it’s everything we need to be happy. Of course, an infinite supply of cash and unlimited health care would also be a bonus, but hey, I’m talkin’ reality here.
We’re not my mother. We’re not all dealing with caring for someone who is sick.
But, if I can use my mother as an example, if we put as much effort into loving each other, giving someone a free pass on the freeway for cutting you off, smiling at someone on the street or giving someone a compliment, getting our nails done so we feel better about ourselves and can walk taller, doing crow pose or headstand away from the wall in the yoga room, telling someone we know that we care about them, love them, or are just thinking about them. That’s really all that really matters at the end of the day.
We
Need
Each other.
Need, not want. It’s necessary. It’s part of life’s plan. It’s the test, challenge, accomplishment we are here for.
It’s the greatest gift and the greatest service.
We are the sum of our actions.
It’s not worth nothing.
Our challenges make us stronger so we can take on more.
We don’t ask for more. It’s just inevitable.
Our practice in yoga and in life tests us so that we can approach life in the fullest, clearest manner, so that the light within us can shine and reflect greatness on everything we encounter. We can assist people. We can help people. We can serve people. We can take all of our challenges, individual and collective and use our strength together to get through.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today I went for a run on the beach. My beach. Your beach.
I watched the sun set again, like I do almost every day, with gratitude and with hundreds of others lining the California incline.
The days are getting longer. Each day, each minute, the sun gives us a little more of its time.
I watched it go down. I was alone, with hundreds of others.
The sun went down.
That was a day, I said to myself.
I saw the dolphins dive up and down reflecting off the beautiful red and purple in the sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My dad doesn’t miss work. He doesn’t miss getting up at 4AM and fighting traffic in the cold snowy streets of Manhattan. But he also has Cancer, pain in his back and weakness as he walks.
I come home and put on HGTV. I know he’s watching it and it makes me feel closer to him.
I call my mom.
It’s snowing again.
Karin, my sister, brought in fresh dry wood from the cold outside. She hates talking on the phone, but I feel closer to her.
My mom tells me she just lit a roaring fire in the fireplace.
I feel closer to her.
I tell her about the sunset and she tells me about dad.
We share the challenges of our days but we revel in the fact that we had the sunset, the snow, a roaring fire and each other, close by and far away.
And at the end of the day, that’s all we needed to get through.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
High Hopes...
“Beyond the horizon of the place we lived when we were young
In a world of magnets and miracles
Our thoughts strayed constantly and without boundary
The ringing of the division bell had begun
Looking beyond the embers of bridges glowing behind us
To a glimpse of how green it was on the other side
Steps taken forwards but sleepwalking back again
Dragged by the force of some inner tide
Encumbered forever by desire and ambition
There's a hunger still unsatisfied
Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon
Though down this road we've been so many times
The grass was greener
The light was brighter
The taste was sweeter
The nights of wonder
With friends surrounded
The dawn mist glowing
The water flowing
The endless river
Forever and ever”
I can say, unequivocally, that I would have never been an artist if it weren’t for Pink Floyd.
I would have never picked up charcoal or lead or ink or oil and canvas if I never heard that sacred music.
I can say, without a doubt, that I wouldn’t have followed down the path I was on in the past and the path I’m on now if it wasn’t for my dad.
He owned the film, “The Wall” by Pink Floyd. I remember watching it at 11 years old, alone, in the dark, in my childhood bedroom. I couldn’t watch the whole thing without picking up pad and pencil. I drew all night, rewinding, forwarding and pausing with unabashed wonder at it all. My mouth was agape and my eyes were wide open in the blue television reflection of beauty, horror, passion and fervor.
I totally got it and had no idea what it meant all at the same time.
The music and inspiration floored me and I knew I had a way to express myself that had nothing to do with the way I looked. I was a fat kid back then and the way I had to express myself was of the more silent contemplative nature.
I knew I had something to say, but couldn’t speak up.
My mom and dad were all but happy to provide me with endless music, exposure to Broadway plays, New York City, lots of paper and tools to use and put on that paper.
I had never known anything like watching, ‘The Wall”.
My whole portfolio when applying for College and art scholarships was inspired by walls, running and escaping to freedom.
Ironic.
Today, I am in my new place in Santa Monica. The place, I’ve longed to find for months. I had so many walls in my way to climb over and knock through in order to get it. I ran like hell all over the city to see my potential dream oasis of apartments, apply for, buy gifts for and bribe management companies, file the right paperwork, get the funds and get it done. I have it now. And, I have my freedom.
My first night in the new apartment…
I woke up three times drenched in sweat.
I woke up in the morning with a day filled with things to do. I felt disoriented and uneasy. Regular life went on like normal, clients to teach, mom to call and check in about how dad was feeling, groceries to buy, people to call, E-mails to send.
I went about my busy day and came home. Hung some stuff and put some more stuff away.
Clutter made it’s way to carpet, but it still didn’t feel like home. Nothing felt right.
After all the nails, packing tape and garbage was cleared out from under my feet, I put my I-tunes on shuffle.
I was surprised I owned so much crap and I was surprised I forgot about Dave Matthews and A Tribe Called Quest and all the music that made me who I am.
I danced around to the Xanadu soundtrack.
I made carpet angels on the floor to Paul Simon’s Rhythm Of The Saints.
I lie still on the floor.
My first ‘still’ in weeks.
I don’t feel here.
I don’t feel there.
I don’t feel anywhere.
I don’t feel.
I only hear what’s in my head and on my I-tunes as I listen to the next surprise, always something new and always a reminder of some memory that, even at it’s most painful, is still sweet.
“Some stories are magical, meant to be sung. When the world was young and all of these spirit voices rule the night.”
When I talk about my dad, I always say that I know him best by his right side. That is the side I would see when he was driving.
At home, he was always drowned out by the burgeoning personalities of the women in the house, from my mom and my sisters to the dog and the cat.
But, when my dad was driving, he was in his element.
He was the one in the driver’s seat of the path, the conversation and the memory that was to follow.
I have so many of them.
Many of which I have written about here. When he would pick me up from college, load the car up with my laundry for the holiday or dorm gear for the summer; we would always stop for McDonald’s breakfasts. I can’t imagine that now, but back then, those days were divine and sacred.
In those days, even after long months and years jam packed with life and experiences, I was more than happy to hand the mic over to my dad and listen to him talk.
“So you think you can tell. Heaven from hell, blue skies from pain. Do you think you can tell?”
Mostly, dad would play his music. Paul Simon, Paul McCartney, The Rolling Stones, Stevie Nicks, The Eagles and Pink Floyd. He would tell his stories - his college days, his life, and his dreams – he’d pause at a bridge or chorus and sing along in a wispy attempt of a tenor that would go in and out of his own speaking voice.
“Diamonds on the souls of her shoes. Diaaamonds, ooon the souls of her shoes.”
He’d pause and let us both listen to a scat.
He’d light up another Newport cigarette or throw some rubbish out the window.
That always made me cringe, but the rest, the rest, was just bliss.
I knew my dad then.
I owned him.
It was my time with him and no one could ever take that away from either one of us.
It would all be over in another hour or so, when the influx of the family dynamic would take over.
At streetlights, he would take his hands away from the wheel and pick at his cuticles.
I often catch myself coming off the 101 on Highland, getting to a light, taking my grasp off the wheel and picking my cuticles. When I catch myself, I don’t stop, I just feel closer to him.
Then I go home and get a manicure.
‘We’re just two lost souls swimmin’ in a fish bowl, year after year.”
It’s funny, when you get what it is that you want.
After the giddiness subsides you are left alone, in the quiet, with your thoughts.
Most people turn on the lights, music, television, invite over a pal, to prove that life exists where you are and that all is well.
I lie on the floor, finally cleared of packing tape and boxes.
There are no memories here.
“Comfortably Numb.”
I smile.
I stare at the ceiling.
Popcorn.
Vertical blinds.
There’s a creak in the floor over there.
There’s another one over here.
I didn’t notice them when I first saw the place.
There’s chipping paint in the corner.
It’s quiet.
It’s a new year and I live here.
I’ve built and rebuilt my life.
Reinvented myself.
My hair is shorter and no matter how many miles I run, my hips are rounder.
I’m new again.
I’m exactly the same.
I remember.
Big walls.
Running.
Freedom.
“Wish you were here.”
Had I known when I moved out here years ago, that I would eventually have to think about what role I’d play in caring for an ailing parent, I might have thought differently.
I live for my family.
"And still those voices are calling from far away..."
I live 3000 miles away from my family. From the flight screen on Virgin America Airlines, it says that I’m only 2874 miles away.
There seems like little hope on some days and a lot of hope on others.
“There may come a time that I will lose you, lose you as I lose my sight, days falling backward into velvet night. “
My dad is always alive, big, strong and well with me. He is not sick. He is sitting to the left of me talking about the weather and effortlessly stroking rubber to concrete along the FDR or West Side Highway. “Mom is making Chicken for dinner. It’s going to snow tonight.”
“Slip sliddin’ away. You know the near your destination, the more you’re slip sliddin’ away.”
I remember one time my dad picked me up from Boston University and played this song in the car. We sang and harmonized the whole song. That only happened once. I only remembered it a million times after.
I am in LA and getting the score from my mother daily, literally. I’m waiting by the phone as if I am waiting to hear if I got into Harvard, have Aids or that the Red Sox won the World Series.
I see myself pausing my own life, because I don’t know what’s next for us as a family.
I don’t know how to commit to anything here because I don’t know what will happen there.
I’m half and half.
The fat free kind.
And really yummy in coffee.
Some days my mother is manic, often just exhausted and out of sorts. She is trying to manage her job and taking care of my father full time.
"'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device."
She tells me to come home.
She tells me to stay and live my life.
She lives by the moment. I love that about her.
But these days, the moment can be of panic or drama, then release of emotion, despair and letting go.
I try to keep up with it all, not quite the drama queen, but more like a drama princess, understanding the gravity of the situation from what I hear but not being able to follow because I’m not there to see the changes.
“You are only coming through in waves. Your lips move, but I cannot hear what you are saying.”
I constantly search for my appropriate place between life here and there, the space between if you will. I consistently as a yoga teacher and student, look for balance in my life, how can I be, just be, enough here and enough there and be ok with just that.
One of the things I like to do whilst in traffic, especially after a long day or after something big happens, is call my mom.
Escape.
Talking to her always makes it better. It’s important to me that she knows what’s going on. Even if she can’t remember it all the next day, I know she’s listening in the moment and responsive. It’s enough that she knows. It makes it real.
Today, I returned from my busy day with things that happened and didn’t call her. I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell her what happened in my day. It was nothing compared to her day.
I felt lost.
“There may come a time when you’ll be tired as tired as a dream that wants to die. Further to fly, further to fly, further to fly.”
Someday it will happen with my mom too.
Not now, but it will, someday.
I visit that scary space.
Then…
I visit the space.
The space between my breath, the space between the calls, the space between the popcorn bumps on the ceiling, the space between the songs, the space between time that just happens between the memories being made and I decide.
It’s all enough.
Life is not easy.
It’s a series of running into walls in order to find freedom.
Life is pain in pleasure and they will all make for good stories and good memories and wild horses couldn’t drag me away from that.
I’ll take every bit of life I can get, good, bad, far away and close.
“I have my freedom but I don’t have much time. Faith has been broken, tears must be cried. Let’s do some living after we die. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away. Wild, wild horses, we’ll ride them some day.”
(Song Quotes from Paul Simon’s Further to Fly, Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes, Slip Slidin’ Away, Spirit Voices, Pink Floyd’s High Hopes, Comfortably Numb, Wish You Were Here, The Eagles, Hotel California, The Rolling Stones, Wild Horses)
In a world of magnets and miracles
Our thoughts strayed constantly and without boundary
The ringing of the division bell had begun
Looking beyond the embers of bridges glowing behind us
To a glimpse of how green it was on the other side
Steps taken forwards but sleepwalking back again
Dragged by the force of some inner tide
Encumbered forever by desire and ambition
There's a hunger still unsatisfied
Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon
Though down this road we've been so many times
The grass was greener
The light was brighter
The taste was sweeter
The nights of wonder
With friends surrounded
The dawn mist glowing
The water flowing
The endless river
Forever and ever”
I can say, unequivocally, that I would have never been an artist if it weren’t for Pink Floyd.
I would have never picked up charcoal or lead or ink or oil and canvas if I never heard that sacred music.
I can say, without a doubt, that I wouldn’t have followed down the path I was on in the past and the path I’m on now if it wasn’t for my dad.
He owned the film, “The Wall” by Pink Floyd. I remember watching it at 11 years old, alone, in the dark, in my childhood bedroom. I couldn’t watch the whole thing without picking up pad and pencil. I drew all night, rewinding, forwarding and pausing with unabashed wonder at it all. My mouth was agape and my eyes were wide open in the blue television reflection of beauty, horror, passion and fervor.
I totally got it and had no idea what it meant all at the same time.
The music and inspiration floored me and I knew I had a way to express myself that had nothing to do with the way I looked. I was a fat kid back then and the way I had to express myself was of the more silent contemplative nature.
I knew I had something to say, but couldn’t speak up.
My mom and dad were all but happy to provide me with endless music, exposure to Broadway plays, New York City, lots of paper and tools to use and put on that paper.
I had never known anything like watching, ‘The Wall”.
My whole portfolio when applying for College and art scholarships was inspired by walls, running and escaping to freedom.
Ironic.
Today, I am in my new place in Santa Monica. The place, I’ve longed to find for months. I had so many walls in my way to climb over and knock through in order to get it. I ran like hell all over the city to see my potential dream oasis of apartments, apply for, buy gifts for and bribe management companies, file the right paperwork, get the funds and get it done. I have it now. And, I have my freedom.
My first night in the new apartment…
I woke up three times drenched in sweat.
I woke up in the morning with a day filled with things to do. I felt disoriented and uneasy. Regular life went on like normal, clients to teach, mom to call and check in about how dad was feeling, groceries to buy, people to call, E-mails to send.
I went about my busy day and came home. Hung some stuff and put some more stuff away.
Clutter made it’s way to carpet, but it still didn’t feel like home. Nothing felt right.
After all the nails, packing tape and garbage was cleared out from under my feet, I put my I-tunes on shuffle.
I was surprised I owned so much crap and I was surprised I forgot about Dave Matthews and A Tribe Called Quest and all the music that made me who I am.
I danced around to the Xanadu soundtrack.
I made carpet angels on the floor to Paul Simon’s Rhythm Of The Saints.
I lie still on the floor.
My first ‘still’ in weeks.
I don’t feel here.
I don’t feel there.
I don’t feel anywhere.
I don’t feel.
I only hear what’s in my head and on my I-tunes as I listen to the next surprise, always something new and always a reminder of some memory that, even at it’s most painful, is still sweet.
“Some stories are magical, meant to be sung. When the world was young and all of these spirit voices rule the night.”
When I talk about my dad, I always say that I know him best by his right side. That is the side I would see when he was driving.
At home, he was always drowned out by the burgeoning personalities of the women in the house, from my mom and my sisters to the dog and the cat.
But, when my dad was driving, he was in his element.
He was the one in the driver’s seat of the path, the conversation and the memory that was to follow.
I have so many of them.
Many of which I have written about here. When he would pick me up from college, load the car up with my laundry for the holiday or dorm gear for the summer; we would always stop for McDonald’s breakfasts. I can’t imagine that now, but back then, those days were divine and sacred.
In those days, even after long months and years jam packed with life and experiences, I was more than happy to hand the mic over to my dad and listen to him talk.
“So you think you can tell. Heaven from hell, blue skies from pain. Do you think you can tell?”
Mostly, dad would play his music. Paul Simon, Paul McCartney, The Rolling Stones, Stevie Nicks, The Eagles and Pink Floyd. He would tell his stories - his college days, his life, and his dreams – he’d pause at a bridge or chorus and sing along in a wispy attempt of a tenor that would go in and out of his own speaking voice.
“Diamonds on the souls of her shoes. Diaaamonds, ooon the souls of her shoes.”
He’d pause and let us both listen to a scat.
He’d light up another Newport cigarette or throw some rubbish out the window.
That always made me cringe, but the rest, the rest, was just bliss.
I knew my dad then.
I owned him.
It was my time with him and no one could ever take that away from either one of us.
It would all be over in another hour or so, when the influx of the family dynamic would take over.
At streetlights, he would take his hands away from the wheel and pick at his cuticles.
I often catch myself coming off the 101 on Highland, getting to a light, taking my grasp off the wheel and picking my cuticles. When I catch myself, I don’t stop, I just feel closer to him.
Then I go home and get a manicure.
‘We’re just two lost souls swimmin’ in a fish bowl, year after year.”
It’s funny, when you get what it is that you want.
After the giddiness subsides you are left alone, in the quiet, with your thoughts.
Most people turn on the lights, music, television, invite over a pal, to prove that life exists where you are and that all is well.
I lie on the floor, finally cleared of packing tape and boxes.
There are no memories here.
“Comfortably Numb.”
I smile.
I stare at the ceiling.
Popcorn.
Vertical blinds.
There’s a creak in the floor over there.
There’s another one over here.
I didn’t notice them when I first saw the place.
There’s chipping paint in the corner.
It’s quiet.
It’s a new year and I live here.
I’ve built and rebuilt my life.
Reinvented myself.
My hair is shorter and no matter how many miles I run, my hips are rounder.
I’m new again.
I’m exactly the same.
I remember.
Big walls.
Running.
Freedom.
“Wish you were here.”
Had I known when I moved out here years ago, that I would eventually have to think about what role I’d play in caring for an ailing parent, I might have thought differently.
I live for my family.
"And still those voices are calling from far away..."
I live 3000 miles away from my family. From the flight screen on Virgin America Airlines, it says that I’m only 2874 miles away.
There seems like little hope on some days and a lot of hope on others.
“There may come a time that I will lose you, lose you as I lose my sight, days falling backward into velvet night. “
My dad is always alive, big, strong and well with me. He is not sick. He is sitting to the left of me talking about the weather and effortlessly stroking rubber to concrete along the FDR or West Side Highway. “Mom is making Chicken for dinner. It’s going to snow tonight.”
“Slip sliddin’ away. You know the near your destination, the more you’re slip sliddin’ away.”
I remember one time my dad picked me up from Boston University and played this song in the car. We sang and harmonized the whole song. That only happened once. I only remembered it a million times after.
I am in LA and getting the score from my mother daily, literally. I’m waiting by the phone as if I am waiting to hear if I got into Harvard, have Aids or that the Red Sox won the World Series.
I see myself pausing my own life, because I don’t know what’s next for us as a family.
I don’t know how to commit to anything here because I don’t know what will happen there.
I’m half and half.
The fat free kind.
And really yummy in coffee.
Some days my mother is manic, often just exhausted and out of sorts. She is trying to manage her job and taking care of my father full time.
"'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device."
She tells me to come home.
She tells me to stay and live my life.
She lives by the moment. I love that about her.
But these days, the moment can be of panic or drama, then release of emotion, despair and letting go.
I try to keep up with it all, not quite the drama queen, but more like a drama princess, understanding the gravity of the situation from what I hear but not being able to follow because I’m not there to see the changes.
“You are only coming through in waves. Your lips move, but I cannot hear what you are saying.”
I constantly search for my appropriate place between life here and there, the space between if you will. I consistently as a yoga teacher and student, look for balance in my life, how can I be, just be, enough here and enough there and be ok with just that.
One of the things I like to do whilst in traffic, especially after a long day or after something big happens, is call my mom.
Escape.
Talking to her always makes it better. It’s important to me that she knows what’s going on. Even if she can’t remember it all the next day, I know she’s listening in the moment and responsive. It’s enough that she knows. It makes it real.
Today, I returned from my busy day with things that happened and didn’t call her. I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell her what happened in my day. It was nothing compared to her day.
I felt lost.
“There may come a time when you’ll be tired as tired as a dream that wants to die. Further to fly, further to fly, further to fly.”
Someday it will happen with my mom too.
Not now, but it will, someday.
I visit that scary space.
Then…
I visit the space.
The space between my breath, the space between the calls, the space between the popcorn bumps on the ceiling, the space between the songs, the space between time that just happens between the memories being made and I decide.
It’s all enough.
Life is not easy.
It’s a series of running into walls in order to find freedom.
Life is pain in pleasure and they will all make for good stories and good memories and wild horses couldn’t drag me away from that.
I’ll take every bit of life I can get, good, bad, far away and close.
“I have my freedom but I don’t have much time. Faith has been broken, tears must be cried. Let’s do some living after we die. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away. Wild, wild horses, we’ll ride them some day.”
(Song Quotes from Paul Simon’s Further to Fly, Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes, Slip Slidin’ Away, Spirit Voices, Pink Floyd’s High Hopes, Comfortably Numb, Wish You Were Here, The Eagles, Hotel California, The Rolling Stones, Wild Horses)
Monday, January 12, 2009
The giggles....
There is something seriously wrong with me.
I've just moved to my new place in Santa Monica and can't stop giggling. I haven't spent more than an hour there since every last belonging was picked up and placed the four blocks away in my new place. I spent most of the weekend with my ex who graciously supported me and the movers with the heavy lifting. He noticed, and took it all too personally most of the time, that I couldn't stop giggling.
Happy to be in my new place? That must be it.
I got a little flu bug after two days of moving most of the boxes by myself to the tune of sympathetic stares and comments from my neighbors. I just wanted to get into my new place.
There were many glitches in the process. You know, you set up all the electricity, gas and stuff and it never works properly or comes on in time. I won't get gas for the next couple of days. Which I guess is a good thing for those around me.
Just kidding.
But no cooking.
So, I'm lifting and heaving and bending at both knees etc.
It burns calories and I'm gettin' my workout in.
I called my mom to vent. I realized that this can't really happen, like for a long time. What's the importance or severity of what I have to vent about when my mother is being a full time real estate agent and care-taker to my dad?
She told me that my dad had fainted twice and fallen to the point where he couldn't walk.
My sisters were both there in NY and rallied together to help.
I'm here in LA, moving closer to the beach.
I had left Bryan to sit in the car, waiting to go into Starbuck, order my coffee and kill time to avoid the movers with attitude and overcharging behavior. I heard what my mom had to say and couldn't say anything. I got off the phone with her and just started to giggle.
What am I doing?
I went to Bed Bath and Beyond with Bryan. Dishtowels, hand towels. And I just started to giggle.
I went to Osh hardware. Plants, hooks, saw. And I just started to giggle.
Something must be funny, Bryan would say, over and over again.
I told him that this is just me now. I cry for 30 seconds and giggle for 20 seconds.
I don't know when this extreme of emotion will die down.
I just don't know what I'm doing.
How can I move on with my life, trying to build it back up after a year that tore it down, only to have the most important people in my life, struggling with survival.
I'm selfish.
What am I doing?
When I came out to LA originally, it's not like I ever thought this far in advance to how my parents were going to get on and who would take care of them, should they get sick.
I called my sister. I asked her what I should do. She told me it would be a waste to come back to NY while both her and Kathy were still working so that I could just sit around, watching my dad snore to Oprah.
A client of mine told me that I would know when the right time would be for me to head back.
How do I, really?
I want to be there and I want to be here.
I don't feel strong in committing to anything or anyone. I feel torn between two lives and two coasts.
The biggest pain in my butt before I left for the holidays and before we even knew my dad was ill again, was finding a new place to live. After a huge struggle with that, I found my place and I don't feel I deserve to enjoy it because of everything happening at home.
And then I giggle.
Perhaps Im going insane.
I've just moved to my new place in Santa Monica and can't stop giggling. I haven't spent more than an hour there since every last belonging was picked up and placed the four blocks away in my new place. I spent most of the weekend with my ex who graciously supported me and the movers with the heavy lifting. He noticed, and took it all too personally most of the time, that I couldn't stop giggling.
Happy to be in my new place? That must be it.
I got a little flu bug after two days of moving most of the boxes by myself to the tune of sympathetic stares and comments from my neighbors. I just wanted to get into my new place.
There were many glitches in the process. You know, you set up all the electricity, gas and stuff and it never works properly or comes on in time. I won't get gas for the next couple of days. Which I guess is a good thing for those around me.
Just kidding.
But no cooking.
So, I'm lifting and heaving and bending at both knees etc.
It burns calories and I'm gettin' my workout in.
I called my mom to vent. I realized that this can't really happen, like for a long time. What's the importance or severity of what I have to vent about when my mother is being a full time real estate agent and care-taker to my dad?
She told me that my dad had fainted twice and fallen to the point where he couldn't walk.
My sisters were both there in NY and rallied together to help.
I'm here in LA, moving closer to the beach.
I had left Bryan to sit in the car, waiting to go into Starbuck, order my coffee and kill time to avoid the movers with attitude and overcharging behavior. I heard what my mom had to say and couldn't say anything. I got off the phone with her and just started to giggle.
What am I doing?
I went to Bed Bath and Beyond with Bryan. Dishtowels, hand towels. And I just started to giggle.
I went to Osh hardware. Plants, hooks, saw. And I just started to giggle.
Something must be funny, Bryan would say, over and over again.
I told him that this is just me now. I cry for 30 seconds and giggle for 20 seconds.
I don't know when this extreme of emotion will die down.
I just don't know what I'm doing.
How can I move on with my life, trying to build it back up after a year that tore it down, only to have the most important people in my life, struggling with survival.
I'm selfish.
What am I doing?
When I came out to LA originally, it's not like I ever thought this far in advance to how my parents were going to get on and who would take care of them, should they get sick.
I called my sister. I asked her what I should do. She told me it would be a waste to come back to NY while both her and Kathy were still working so that I could just sit around, watching my dad snore to Oprah.
A client of mine told me that I would know when the right time would be for me to head back.
How do I, really?
I want to be there and I want to be here.
I don't feel strong in committing to anything or anyone. I feel torn between two lives and two coasts.
The biggest pain in my butt before I left for the holidays and before we even knew my dad was ill again, was finding a new place to live. After a huge struggle with that, I found my place and I don't feel I deserve to enjoy it because of everything happening at home.
And then I giggle.
Perhaps Im going insane.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Withdrawl...
Withdrawl.
I’ve spent more time with my family the last two weeks than I have since I lived at home as a teenager.
The holiday, wrapped in fear, was also tied up with hysterical laughter, memories and joy. My father and his illness brought us together in unconditional love and support. We’ve never been stronger. I’m so proud to have come from my mother and father and have the friendship from my extraordinarily beautiful sisters. The dog and the cat also rock.
I’ve gotten sleep, gotten my accent back. Gotten a little rounder in the hips.
This has been the best Christmas ever.
I’ve spent more time with my family the last two weeks than I have since I lived at home as a teenager.
The holiday, wrapped in fear, was also tied up with hysterical laughter, memories and joy. My father and his illness brought us together in unconditional love and support. We’ve never been stronger. I’m so proud to have come from my mother and father and have the friendship from my extraordinarily beautiful sisters. The dog and the cat also rock.
I’ve gotten sleep, gotten my accent back. Gotten a little rounder in the hips.
This has been the best Christmas ever.
Where's Dad?
Mom is taking out the trash and organizing the cupboards.
Where's dad?
My sister has a tremendous cough that won't go away.
Where's dad?
I go out for a run in the cold. I don't have enough layers on.
Where's dad?
Kathy goes out to pick up groceries for dinner.
Where's dad?
Daisy, the dog, is waiting at the front door at 7PM.
Where's dad?
Chloe, the cat, is sitting at her dish waiting for her cluck a doodle do.
Where's dad?
Dads.
I don't know how it ends up being that they go from men to spouses to the silent film star in an action movie featuring all girls living in a bustling suburb of Manhattan.
I know that most dads’ end up being the quiet one, whether they have sons or daughters. They are the ones that answer the phone, exchange a few pleasantries then, 'put mom on the phone,' "Everything's good, good, I'll get mom."
My dad is like that in a sense. However, if you call home and he picks up the phone, even if you are busy with just a minute to talk, he will talk to you for 10 minutes without you getting a word in otherwise.
I've actually put the phone down, stirred soup, flossed my teeth, checked my e-mail and come back to the phone and he's still talking about the weather and driving and New York City.
My dad.
When he says he loves you, you never doubt it. Even if he disappears for hours or snaps at you for no reason.
My dad.
Didn't ask if I had enough clothes on when I went for a run in the bitter cold. Are you warm enough?
My dad.
Didn't ask if Karin needed medicine for her cough. Normally, he would go out and get every brand of cough and cold medicine whether you asked for it or not.
My dad.
Would never let the cupboards go bear or trash cans get full or cat dish get empty.
My dad.
Would always cause a stir with Daisy, every single time he would come back in from the outside, even if he were gone for 2 minutes to have a cigarette.
My mother.
When our family cat of 12 years, Barney, passed away, she learned that pets have a tendency to hide when they are ready to die.
My mother.
She sees my dad, hiding from us all, our conversations, our dinners, and our memories.
My family.
How do you do it?
How do you prepare?
When do you know?
What do you do?
My dad.
Slipping into a silence that doesn't even pick up the phone.
My dad.
Friends with the owner of every bodega on the east side of Manhattan.
My dad, who knows the name of every worker in the post office, dry cleaner and supermarket.
My dad, who has charmed every nurse, doctor, aid in every hospital and doctor's office in NYC.
My dad, who every night, even if he yells at the dog to get out of the way, Daisy follows him up stairs after he goes up to bed. My mom always asks, "Daisy, are you sure you wanna go upstairs? It's so much fun down here?" Daisy always turns to us then continues upstairs to be with his best friend. Unconditional love.
My dad, who is slowly slipping away. Into quiet.
I look at him.
I look inside him and try.
Try to see where he is.
I look at his face.
My face.
And I can't find him anywhere.
Where's dad?
My sister has a tremendous cough that won't go away.
Where's dad?
I go out for a run in the cold. I don't have enough layers on.
Where's dad?
Kathy goes out to pick up groceries for dinner.
Where's dad?
Daisy, the dog, is waiting at the front door at 7PM.
Where's dad?
Chloe, the cat, is sitting at her dish waiting for her cluck a doodle do.
Where's dad?
Dads.
I don't know how it ends up being that they go from men to spouses to the silent film star in an action movie featuring all girls living in a bustling suburb of Manhattan.
I know that most dads’ end up being the quiet one, whether they have sons or daughters. They are the ones that answer the phone, exchange a few pleasantries then, 'put mom on the phone,' "Everything's good, good, I'll get mom."
My dad is like that in a sense. However, if you call home and he picks up the phone, even if you are busy with just a minute to talk, he will talk to you for 10 minutes without you getting a word in otherwise.
I've actually put the phone down, stirred soup, flossed my teeth, checked my e-mail and come back to the phone and he's still talking about the weather and driving and New York City.
My dad.
When he says he loves you, you never doubt it. Even if he disappears for hours or snaps at you for no reason.
My dad.
Didn't ask if I had enough clothes on when I went for a run in the bitter cold. Are you warm enough?
My dad.
Didn't ask if Karin needed medicine for her cough. Normally, he would go out and get every brand of cough and cold medicine whether you asked for it or not.
My dad.
Would never let the cupboards go bear or trash cans get full or cat dish get empty.
My dad.
Would always cause a stir with Daisy, every single time he would come back in from the outside, even if he were gone for 2 minutes to have a cigarette.
My mother.
When our family cat of 12 years, Barney, passed away, she learned that pets have a tendency to hide when they are ready to die.
My mother.
She sees my dad, hiding from us all, our conversations, our dinners, and our memories.
My family.
How do you do it?
How do you prepare?
When do you know?
What do you do?
My dad.
Slipping into a silence that doesn't even pick up the phone.
My dad.
Friends with the owner of every bodega on the east side of Manhattan.
My dad, who knows the name of every worker in the post office, dry cleaner and supermarket.
My dad, who has charmed every nurse, doctor, aid in every hospital and doctor's office in NYC.
My dad, who every night, even if he yells at the dog to get out of the way, Daisy follows him up stairs after he goes up to bed. My mom always asks, "Daisy, are you sure you wanna go upstairs? It's so much fun down here?" Daisy always turns to us then continues upstairs to be with his best friend. Unconditional love.
My dad, who is slowly slipping away. Into quiet.
I look at him.
I look inside him and try.
Try to see where he is.
I look at his face.
My face.
And I can't find him anywhere.
Support
There's the support you ask for and the support you don't ask for. Then there's the support that just shows up.
I love that quote. It's from the Sex And The City episode where Miranda's mom passes away. Samantha let's go at the funeral in Philly and that moment in the church made me lose it. I don't know if I lost it when it originally aired but my mom lent me the whole catalog of the show for the flight home and such. She can quote every episode.
The day after New Year's is always the same, whether you are in LA or NY. It's like the whole city heaves a heavy sigh of relief. The wash of holiday haze has been lifted and it's back to business. The trees, still littered with glitter are hung-over on the city streets and we begin to resolve, take our vitamins, do a cleanse, clean our closets, fill in our new, clean and tidy daily planners and get back to reality.
Reality.
The day I left for LA, I felt uncertain. Sure, I was excited to start my new slightly old single life in a new pad just a block from the beach, see my students, hit the pavement and audition, write, shoot some more videos etc., but I was leaving home, to go back, well, home.
I love my life in this great city. But I love my life in that other great city. What's the right coast? If I lay down on the earth, the right coast would be LA. If I stood up with the sun to my left, NY would be the right coast.
I went for a bitterly cold run on my last day at home in NY. Besides my legs, everything ran, my nose, my eyes. I thought about my old high school friend, Christine. At the pure forecast of cold weather, her eyes would tear from the cold. It always made me laugh.
Like every year, it's like religion, I run on Christmas Eve and Christmas, New Years Eve and New Year's Day. Then I sign off and head back to my busy other life in LA. But this time, I know it's not my last winter run in New York.
I came home, showered and sat down for some soup. My flight is just hours away. Need to nourish.
My mom joined me and we tried to behave like it wasn't a big deal and that she would be ok and that my dad would get through and everything would be ok.
My dad had come into the kitchen. He stumbled around the dining table, and then stumbled back into the living room.
Crash.
My mom and I rush into the other room to see my dad doubled over onto the coffee table.
I grabbed him from behind to try and lift him. My mom hurried over and asked what happened. My dad, didn't snap, but told me that he needed to lie down on the floor before getting up to stand.
He was trying to clean up an accident he had. His muscles just couldn't support his fervor to carry it out.
This wasn't the first time.
They always say you never regret a workout. Well, maybe that's just what I say. As soon as you are out there, running, or taking a class or hitting the gym, the feeling you get was worth the struggle to get there if you are less than motivated one day or the other.
Three days prior, we had come back from dad's pet scan. My mom had some business so it was just my sisters, dad and I around the house.
I decided to go downstairs to work out in their basement gym. Within minutes, my sisters were scurrying around, to the laundry, outside to the porch.
My dad was locked out and couldn't get inside in time.
My sisters, in valiant form, hustled to get dad out of his clothes. They cleaned the outside, dropped his clothes in the laundry. I tried to help, even though I knew they were taking good care of the issue.
I couldn't help but think, how selfish, was I, to go downstairs and workout, when I knew my dad was upstairs and that my sisters had their own things to do. They dropped whatever it was that they were doing to help him.
I stood, sweating, scared and stoic. What could I do?
How can I expect that when I am home, it is enough? How can I expect that when I am in LA, it is enough, to talk to my mom and sisters? How can I expect that I serve any purpose of service? My life is service. I selected that life. I love that life. And the people that mean the most to me need service and here I am, standing, helpless.
When dad fell for the second time, I was there. Both of my sisters were out running errands for my mom and taking care of some of their business.
When they came home, I told them what happened. They were my relief. They were my saviors. We discussed the possibilities of hospice care or hospital care. We got a little riled up in our stereotypical fashions, Karin, quiet and calm, mom, emotional, Kathy, angry, defensive and emotional and me, trying to keep the peace between us all. Everyone was right in their emotions but with one hour before I was to be at the airport, I couldn't feel right about leaving to come back to LA with such scary and new things happening everyday with my family.
I feel like I miss so much. Sometimes I miss the really funny memories they all have at holidays and random visits I'm not home for. Sometimes I dodge bullets from experiences I'm grateful I missed. Mostly, I just miss them all always.
My dad's boss sent someone to pick up his car, my dad's livilihood and freedom.
He won't be working anymore.
We decided I should come back to LA, get myself moved and then come back to NY.
But....
For what?
I still question my role in all of this. Am I enough?
20 minutes before I leave or don't leave for LA, I lie down in bed with my dad. All you can see is his little head and his bulging rib cage underneath the heated blanket. I hold onto his arm, which feels more like holding onto the straps of a handbag. I look into his eyes, my eyes, not my mom's eyes, and I ask him, what he wants. He tells me that I have my whole life ahead of me, which sounds strange to hear at my age. He says that I have dreams and a life that I have made for myself in LA. He says that he would be happy if I stayed or went that it was my decision to make. He said that he always wished that I were here with them in NY, but that I had to follow my dreams.
I had asked him what he wanted.
I meant if he would fight or let go.
I told him that every dream had him in it. I would never have competitively swum if it weren’t for him and his love of swimming. I would have never played softball. I would have never gone to Boston University. I think deep down he knew that I would move from Art to Communications. He always encouraged me to write. I would never be writing if it weren't for him.
Every mile I drive in LA, I think of him and how he would handle the traffic or the nasty driver that flipped me off. I wouldn't be acting or teaching or fit or thin or active or breathing or eating or loving life or here in California if it weren't for him.
I love my dad. My dad has let me down more than anyone I know. My dad has been there for me more than anyone I know.
He used to call me at 7AM whether I was in college on the east coast or in California and ask what I was doing. It drove me up the wall. I barely sleep as it is!
He constantly sends me oversized t-shirts with cats doing yoga poses or New York Marathon memorabilia or kitschy bagel shops or coffee shops from 'ol New York.
He knows I'm a coffee snob but always knows where the best little coffee places are in NY that are NOT Starbucks and I am always amazed and hooked.
My dad is my dream. I am my dad.
So, what the fuck am I still doing here?
If these are my dad's last days or worst days, shouldn't I be there for support?
The phone calls to my mom and sisters keep me updated and allow me to be there for venting sessions on their end, but am I really there for them?
I guess that's the question.
And the answer.
Will my life be here for me when I return?
I love that quote. It's from the Sex And The City episode where Miranda's mom passes away. Samantha let's go at the funeral in Philly and that moment in the church made me lose it. I don't know if I lost it when it originally aired but my mom lent me the whole catalog of the show for the flight home and such. She can quote every episode.
The day after New Year's is always the same, whether you are in LA or NY. It's like the whole city heaves a heavy sigh of relief. The wash of holiday haze has been lifted and it's back to business. The trees, still littered with glitter are hung-over on the city streets and we begin to resolve, take our vitamins, do a cleanse, clean our closets, fill in our new, clean and tidy daily planners and get back to reality.
Reality.
The day I left for LA, I felt uncertain. Sure, I was excited to start my new slightly old single life in a new pad just a block from the beach, see my students, hit the pavement and audition, write, shoot some more videos etc., but I was leaving home, to go back, well, home.
I love my life in this great city. But I love my life in that other great city. What's the right coast? If I lay down on the earth, the right coast would be LA. If I stood up with the sun to my left, NY would be the right coast.
I went for a bitterly cold run on my last day at home in NY. Besides my legs, everything ran, my nose, my eyes. I thought about my old high school friend, Christine. At the pure forecast of cold weather, her eyes would tear from the cold. It always made me laugh.
Like every year, it's like religion, I run on Christmas Eve and Christmas, New Years Eve and New Year's Day. Then I sign off and head back to my busy other life in LA. But this time, I know it's not my last winter run in New York.
I came home, showered and sat down for some soup. My flight is just hours away. Need to nourish.
My mom joined me and we tried to behave like it wasn't a big deal and that she would be ok and that my dad would get through and everything would be ok.
My dad had come into the kitchen. He stumbled around the dining table, and then stumbled back into the living room.
Crash.
My mom and I rush into the other room to see my dad doubled over onto the coffee table.
I grabbed him from behind to try and lift him. My mom hurried over and asked what happened. My dad, didn't snap, but told me that he needed to lie down on the floor before getting up to stand.
He was trying to clean up an accident he had. His muscles just couldn't support his fervor to carry it out.
This wasn't the first time.
They always say you never regret a workout. Well, maybe that's just what I say. As soon as you are out there, running, or taking a class or hitting the gym, the feeling you get was worth the struggle to get there if you are less than motivated one day or the other.
Three days prior, we had come back from dad's pet scan. My mom had some business so it was just my sisters, dad and I around the house.
I decided to go downstairs to work out in their basement gym. Within minutes, my sisters were scurrying around, to the laundry, outside to the porch.
My dad was locked out and couldn't get inside in time.
My sisters, in valiant form, hustled to get dad out of his clothes. They cleaned the outside, dropped his clothes in the laundry. I tried to help, even though I knew they were taking good care of the issue.
I couldn't help but think, how selfish, was I, to go downstairs and workout, when I knew my dad was upstairs and that my sisters had their own things to do. They dropped whatever it was that they were doing to help him.
I stood, sweating, scared and stoic. What could I do?
How can I expect that when I am home, it is enough? How can I expect that when I am in LA, it is enough, to talk to my mom and sisters? How can I expect that I serve any purpose of service? My life is service. I selected that life. I love that life. And the people that mean the most to me need service and here I am, standing, helpless.
When dad fell for the second time, I was there. Both of my sisters were out running errands for my mom and taking care of some of their business.
When they came home, I told them what happened. They were my relief. They were my saviors. We discussed the possibilities of hospice care or hospital care. We got a little riled up in our stereotypical fashions, Karin, quiet and calm, mom, emotional, Kathy, angry, defensive and emotional and me, trying to keep the peace between us all. Everyone was right in their emotions but with one hour before I was to be at the airport, I couldn't feel right about leaving to come back to LA with such scary and new things happening everyday with my family.
I feel like I miss so much. Sometimes I miss the really funny memories they all have at holidays and random visits I'm not home for. Sometimes I dodge bullets from experiences I'm grateful I missed. Mostly, I just miss them all always.
My dad's boss sent someone to pick up his car, my dad's livilihood and freedom.
He won't be working anymore.
We decided I should come back to LA, get myself moved and then come back to NY.
But....
For what?
I still question my role in all of this. Am I enough?
20 minutes before I leave or don't leave for LA, I lie down in bed with my dad. All you can see is his little head and his bulging rib cage underneath the heated blanket. I hold onto his arm, which feels more like holding onto the straps of a handbag. I look into his eyes, my eyes, not my mom's eyes, and I ask him, what he wants. He tells me that I have my whole life ahead of me, which sounds strange to hear at my age. He says that I have dreams and a life that I have made for myself in LA. He says that he would be happy if I stayed or went that it was my decision to make. He said that he always wished that I were here with them in NY, but that I had to follow my dreams.
I had asked him what he wanted.
I meant if he would fight or let go.
I told him that every dream had him in it. I would never have competitively swum if it weren’t for him and his love of swimming. I would have never played softball. I would have never gone to Boston University. I think deep down he knew that I would move from Art to Communications. He always encouraged me to write. I would never be writing if it weren't for him.
Every mile I drive in LA, I think of him and how he would handle the traffic or the nasty driver that flipped me off. I wouldn't be acting or teaching or fit or thin or active or breathing or eating or loving life or here in California if it weren't for him.
I love my dad. My dad has let me down more than anyone I know. My dad has been there for me more than anyone I know.
He used to call me at 7AM whether I was in college on the east coast or in California and ask what I was doing. It drove me up the wall. I barely sleep as it is!
He constantly sends me oversized t-shirts with cats doing yoga poses or New York Marathon memorabilia or kitschy bagel shops or coffee shops from 'ol New York.
He knows I'm a coffee snob but always knows where the best little coffee places are in NY that are NOT Starbucks and I am always amazed and hooked.
My dad is my dream. I am my dad.
So, what the fuck am I still doing here?
If these are my dad's last days or worst days, shouldn't I be there for support?
The phone calls to my mom and sisters keep me updated and allow me to be there for venting sessions on their end, but am I really there for them?
I guess that's the question.
And the answer.
Will my life be here for me when I return?
Monday, January 5, 2009
Snowga- how to get the best/safest work-out from shoveling...
Shoveling snow. You have to do it.
Then when it all disappears, you think, all that work, melted eventually!!!
Then when it reappears, you think, more, again, really!?!?
So, get the most out of it folks.
If you are one of my blog readers where snow is applicable, take these tips and skip the gym. You're workin' out and getting fit and strong.
And when it's all done, warmth, soup and a cookie can be your reward.
The average person can burn 250-300 calories an hour shoveling snow.
First of all, before you hit the snow, its probably freekin’ cold.
If my muscles were sore after an hour of shoveling and I work out every day, do yourself a favor and stretch your muscles before you go out there.
Before throwing on the layers, stand up straight and take your arms up and over your head. Interlace the fingers and stretch the sides of the waist by reaching to the right and left laterally. Keep your hips square or facing forward.
Take the arms back behind you, interlace the fingers and stretch the front body.
Take a forward fold to stretch the hamstrings. If it's difficult for you to touch your toes, just take the hands on a table and walk your feet back to stretch the shoulders and low back.
Finally, give yourself a hug, the tightest squeeze you can to stretch the back body and especially the lats – they will really be worked in addition to your core when digging, lifting and tossing snow.
When you are out there, make sure to distribute your weight evenly on both feet, bend the knees when leaning in or down, keep the belly firm into the spine to keep the low back secure when the lift, toss happens.
Keep the shoulders as relaxed as possible and back, not rounded forward to keep the shoulders secure.
Bend the elbows when lifting the snow from the ground. This'll work the biceps. If you keep the arms straight, you'll overwork the joints and that just ain't right.
Breathe deeply. The cold air is good for you.
Do the same stretches when you are done and add one for the wrists.
That’s the part everyone forgets about.
Take your hands up against a wall or table edge with the inner wrists facing upwards.
See how close you can get the whole palm against the surface to stretch.
Add a thigh stretch. Sitting on the floor, tuck your feet under your bum and sit like that for a few moments to stretch the tops of the thighs.
Drink lots of water. Just cause its cold out, doesn’t meet you can lose fluids.
You will work just about every body part shoveling snow.
It's a workout with a purpose.
Allow yourself to be take in the beauty of the snow's coverage on all that's around you. It's a nuisance yes, but the initial quiet, peace and beauty of the snow, the way it hugs your surroundings, can be a staggering sight.
Enjoy the season!
Then when it all disappears, you think, all that work, melted eventually!!!
Then when it reappears, you think, more, again, really!?!?
So, get the most out of it folks.
If you are one of my blog readers where snow is applicable, take these tips and skip the gym. You're workin' out and getting fit and strong.
And when it's all done, warmth, soup and a cookie can be your reward.
The average person can burn 250-300 calories an hour shoveling snow.
First of all, before you hit the snow, its probably freekin’ cold.
If my muscles were sore after an hour of shoveling and I work out every day, do yourself a favor and stretch your muscles before you go out there.
Before throwing on the layers, stand up straight and take your arms up and over your head. Interlace the fingers and stretch the sides of the waist by reaching to the right and left laterally. Keep your hips square or facing forward.
Take the arms back behind you, interlace the fingers and stretch the front body.
Take a forward fold to stretch the hamstrings. If it's difficult for you to touch your toes, just take the hands on a table and walk your feet back to stretch the shoulders and low back.
Finally, give yourself a hug, the tightest squeeze you can to stretch the back body and especially the lats – they will really be worked in addition to your core when digging, lifting and tossing snow.
When you are out there, make sure to distribute your weight evenly on both feet, bend the knees when leaning in or down, keep the belly firm into the spine to keep the low back secure when the lift, toss happens.
Keep the shoulders as relaxed as possible and back, not rounded forward to keep the shoulders secure.
Bend the elbows when lifting the snow from the ground. This'll work the biceps. If you keep the arms straight, you'll overwork the joints and that just ain't right.
Breathe deeply. The cold air is good for you.
Do the same stretches when you are done and add one for the wrists.
That’s the part everyone forgets about.
Take your hands up against a wall or table edge with the inner wrists facing upwards.
See how close you can get the whole palm against the surface to stretch.
Add a thigh stretch. Sitting on the floor, tuck your feet under your bum and sit like that for a few moments to stretch the tops of the thighs.
Drink lots of water. Just cause its cold out, doesn’t meet you can lose fluids.
You will work just about every body part shoveling snow.
It's a workout with a purpose.
Allow yourself to be take in the beauty of the snow's coverage on all that's around you. It's a nuisance yes, but the initial quiet, peace and beauty of the snow, the way it hugs your surroundings, can be a staggering sight.
Enjoy the season!
Snowga
I missed winter last year.
I missed Christmas in NY for the first time in my life.
I arrived at the butt crack of Buddha, just hours before hundreds of people would not be able to arrive at all.
A major snowstorm was on its way.
It will be a white Christmas.
Welcome to NY.
~~
My dad is a creature of extreme habit - almost obsessively, compulsively so.
He buys things in ridiculous bulk and replaces every napkin and tissue box even before the box is empty. The gas tanks in the cars are always full. My sister and mom don’t even really know how to pump gas or what a gas-light looks like. He fills up ketchup bottles and dishwashing detergent as soon as there is any sign of slight usage. He buys enough bagels, donuts and croissants on a Sunday morning to feed all of Manhattan and the boroughs. They are never even eaten, not one, but because we, as individual family members, may have eaten one in the past, or commented that we liked a certain sesame or shmear, he continues to get them…en masse.
The cupboards, although not bear, resemble normal cupboards with one or two of the same cans of soup or squeeze bottles of mustard. But it is not normal for us.
The supplies are disappearing, and so is my dad.
He is weak. He can’t shovel or run the snow-blower. He can barely move from the chair to the couch. He sleeps all day and barely eats or drinks. He doesn’t sit at the dining room or kitchen table anymore for meals. He’s dehydrated -body, muscles and soul atrophied. You see him want, try to stick to any of his routines. One routine he’s still sticking too, smoking. Let him enjoy it if he must.
He goes outside to try and shovel but comes back in and sits. He resigns himself to have help. In quiet, angry epitaphs he whispers under his breath.
The things my dad used to do.
We see him let go, like sand between the small nooks between your fingers.
Now you see him. Then you don’t.
I see myself in him. I see all of us, so stubborn and uncomfortable in asking for help with anything.
I’m dreaming of a….
Everything looked so beautiful, but felt so sad.
~~
When I'm in LA, I talk to my mother everyday. I hear things. I know she is sad. She is scared.
But until you see it, you don’t ever really know.
Until you are there, you will never truly experience.
Cancer is a disease that eats away at the heart and soul of a family, not just the diagnosed.
I remember talking to my friends in LA after 9/11. I wondered what their experience could have possibly been 3000 miles away when I was working uptown, just a few miles away from the towers.
I picked up a Dunkin Donuts coffee, had a fight with my boyfriend, dashed to my long-term temp job at an investment bank, ordered breakfast for my boss, borrowed a nail file and filed my nails at my friend’s desk. I picked up breakfast from the lobby, jumped in the elevator just as a couple of bankers were talking about the first tower being hit with an airplane. Whatever, was what I thought. It didn’t even register in my head.
Minutiae.
We were released from our jobs. My secretary friend with the nail file and I, ran back to my apartment, the one I was sharing with my sister in Chelsea. My friend lived in Brooklyn and couldn’t get home. She wouldn’t get home to Brooklyn for hours. And even then she would have to walk part of the way.
The bright stainless blue sky and crisp ripening fall air became littered with dark plumes of smoke, fright, anger, tears, questions, shock.
My sister came home. My dad was driving uptown from the financial district. Wasn’t anywhere near. My mother and older sister were in Toronto for the film festival. They were fine and driving back from Canada. My friend who worked in tower b was late for work because there was a game on television the night before. He got drunk. Was hung over. He called me to apologize for not calling me on my birthday the week before. My boyfriend came home. We ate macaroni and cheese and watched the television. That night, we walked the streets. The sounds of that siren, never ending, always etched in my memory, still sounding. No one was out, the sky was red. Downtown was glowing.
Minutiae.
What were you doing?
I don’t mean to bring the vibe down even more. There is nothing like Cancer and 9/11 talk to really get a party started. And don’t get me started on the economy!
9/11 was a tragic example of something that happened to everyone. Some were closer than I. But the ripples of emotion moved throughout the world and through all of our own individual pairs of eyes, a different set of emotions existed within all of us, reacting to the collective event in our own personal and intimate ways.
We all have our own personal 9/11’s. For me and my family, it’s Cancer. The terrorists are still foreign, scary, uninvited and ruthless. And I know we’re not the only ones. Cancer affects hundreds of thousands of millions of people.
Crying, silence, anger, the list of possible emotions to attach are endless.
~~
My older sis, Karin and I, rallied. We layered - her, the way of a real New Yorker in winter, I the way of a person who forgot how fucking cold it can get on the east coast. I put garbage bags on my feet and stuck them in my waterproof boots with the hole at the base of the ankle. I threw on a wool sweater over my long-sleeve thermal over my t-shirt over my tank-top. I wore two pairs of pants, two pairs of gloves and a hat, a big, wool one with a little cotton ball at the top of it.
Karin wrestled with shoveling the back, side and front walkway.
I took on the behemoth of a drive-way after borrowing the neighbors shovel that looked like one Charlie Brown might have used to shovel his snow storms.
Where does the snow go? How did my dad do it all these years. Where are we supposed to put all this stuff?
We both wore our iPod shuffles and got to work before the snow froze.
Even at different ends of the house, I felt connected to my sister. I would look over to her, a little face peeking from beneath a blob of clothing floating amidst a white haze. She would shovel for a bit then fall back into the fluffy pile behind her and make a snow angel. She’d laugh. I love seeing her laugh. Mostly, she’s rather stoic and consistent with showing little emotion. But when she smiles, she beams. I see me in her.
I held the shovel over my head horizontally and danced around like I was at a club.
Karin and I sliced and devoured every flake that formed its way into 6-inch sheet cakes on our property. It took us hours, but we shoveled our way back into something real that we could see again, something that wasn’t erased into white. We dug to what was underneath, what we remembered.
I sweat a lot for those few hours and worked muscles I didn’t even know I had.
My dad did not have the strength.
I don’t ever remember feeling stronger…
And more scared.
I missed Christmas in NY for the first time in my life.
I arrived at the butt crack of Buddha, just hours before hundreds of people would not be able to arrive at all.
A major snowstorm was on its way.
It will be a white Christmas.
Welcome to NY.
~~
My dad is a creature of extreme habit - almost obsessively, compulsively so.
He buys things in ridiculous bulk and replaces every napkin and tissue box even before the box is empty. The gas tanks in the cars are always full. My sister and mom don’t even really know how to pump gas or what a gas-light looks like. He fills up ketchup bottles and dishwashing detergent as soon as there is any sign of slight usage. He buys enough bagels, donuts and croissants on a Sunday morning to feed all of Manhattan and the boroughs. They are never even eaten, not one, but because we, as individual family members, may have eaten one in the past, or commented that we liked a certain sesame or shmear, he continues to get them…en masse.
The cupboards, although not bear, resemble normal cupboards with one or two of the same cans of soup or squeeze bottles of mustard. But it is not normal for us.
The supplies are disappearing, and so is my dad.
He is weak. He can’t shovel or run the snow-blower. He can barely move from the chair to the couch. He sleeps all day and barely eats or drinks. He doesn’t sit at the dining room or kitchen table anymore for meals. He’s dehydrated -body, muscles and soul atrophied. You see him want, try to stick to any of his routines. One routine he’s still sticking too, smoking. Let him enjoy it if he must.
He goes outside to try and shovel but comes back in and sits. He resigns himself to have help. In quiet, angry epitaphs he whispers under his breath.
The things my dad used to do.
We see him let go, like sand between the small nooks between your fingers.
Now you see him. Then you don’t.
I see myself in him. I see all of us, so stubborn and uncomfortable in asking for help with anything.
I’m dreaming of a….
Everything looked so beautiful, but felt so sad.
~~
When I'm in LA, I talk to my mother everyday. I hear things. I know she is sad. She is scared.
But until you see it, you don’t ever really know.
Until you are there, you will never truly experience.
Cancer is a disease that eats away at the heart and soul of a family, not just the diagnosed.
I remember talking to my friends in LA after 9/11. I wondered what their experience could have possibly been 3000 miles away when I was working uptown, just a few miles away from the towers.
I picked up a Dunkin Donuts coffee, had a fight with my boyfriend, dashed to my long-term temp job at an investment bank, ordered breakfast for my boss, borrowed a nail file and filed my nails at my friend’s desk. I picked up breakfast from the lobby, jumped in the elevator just as a couple of bankers were talking about the first tower being hit with an airplane. Whatever, was what I thought. It didn’t even register in my head.
Minutiae.
We were released from our jobs. My secretary friend with the nail file and I, ran back to my apartment, the one I was sharing with my sister in Chelsea. My friend lived in Brooklyn and couldn’t get home. She wouldn’t get home to Brooklyn for hours. And even then she would have to walk part of the way.
The bright stainless blue sky and crisp ripening fall air became littered with dark plumes of smoke, fright, anger, tears, questions, shock.
My sister came home. My dad was driving uptown from the financial district. Wasn’t anywhere near. My mother and older sister were in Toronto for the film festival. They were fine and driving back from Canada. My friend who worked in tower b was late for work because there was a game on television the night before. He got drunk. Was hung over. He called me to apologize for not calling me on my birthday the week before. My boyfriend came home. We ate macaroni and cheese and watched the television. That night, we walked the streets. The sounds of that siren, never ending, always etched in my memory, still sounding. No one was out, the sky was red. Downtown was glowing.
Minutiae.
What were you doing?
I don’t mean to bring the vibe down even more. There is nothing like Cancer and 9/11 talk to really get a party started. And don’t get me started on the economy!
9/11 was a tragic example of something that happened to everyone. Some were closer than I. But the ripples of emotion moved throughout the world and through all of our own individual pairs of eyes, a different set of emotions existed within all of us, reacting to the collective event in our own personal and intimate ways.
We all have our own personal 9/11’s. For me and my family, it’s Cancer. The terrorists are still foreign, scary, uninvited and ruthless. And I know we’re not the only ones. Cancer affects hundreds of thousands of millions of people.
Crying, silence, anger, the list of possible emotions to attach are endless.
~~
My older sis, Karin and I, rallied. We layered - her, the way of a real New Yorker in winter, I the way of a person who forgot how fucking cold it can get on the east coast. I put garbage bags on my feet and stuck them in my waterproof boots with the hole at the base of the ankle. I threw on a wool sweater over my long-sleeve thermal over my t-shirt over my tank-top. I wore two pairs of pants, two pairs of gloves and a hat, a big, wool one with a little cotton ball at the top of it.
Karin wrestled with shoveling the back, side and front walkway.
I took on the behemoth of a drive-way after borrowing the neighbors shovel that looked like one Charlie Brown might have used to shovel his snow storms.
Where does the snow go? How did my dad do it all these years. Where are we supposed to put all this stuff?
We both wore our iPod shuffles and got to work before the snow froze.
Even at different ends of the house, I felt connected to my sister. I would look over to her, a little face peeking from beneath a blob of clothing floating amidst a white haze. She would shovel for a bit then fall back into the fluffy pile behind her and make a snow angel. She’d laugh. I love seeing her laugh. Mostly, she’s rather stoic and consistent with showing little emotion. But when she smiles, she beams. I see me in her.
I held the shovel over my head horizontally and danced around like I was at a club.
Karin and I sliced and devoured every flake that formed its way into 6-inch sheet cakes on our property. It took us hours, but we shoveled our way back into something real that we could see again, something that wasn’t erased into white. We dug to what was underneath, what we remembered.
I sweat a lot for those few hours and worked muscles I didn’t even know I had.
My dad did not have the strength.
I don’t ever remember feeling stronger…
And more scared.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Get high, it's a new year!!
I put on my dad’s sweater, his t-shirts.
One of my favorite things about being ill prepared for winter at home in NY is borrowing my dad’s clothes. They usually swim on me.
Now they actually fit.
I like them.
They are my daddy’s.
On Friday the 27th, we went to the city for dad’s pet scan. This will tell us if the cancer spread to more of his vital organs.
I drove the Searle mobile.
Dad snapped at me the whole time.
I would like to say it’s the cancer, but he just snaps. He gets angry, at my mom at me, at everything.
And I know he’s nervous.
So today, I will let it be the cancer talking and not take it personally.
I drive alone all day in LA.
My dad drives in NY all day. I would think we’d be a little more connected on this level, but alas, I have five lives in my hands, which are at 10 and 2, eyes on the road and not a moment do I reach for the coffee cooling at my side.
We sit in the waiting room for 15 hours which in real time is just two hours, playing hang man, mom reading the ‘Jon and Kate Plus Eight Book’ and Kathy texting away at the myriad of suitors she is currently balancing on her plate.
~~~
New Year’s eve.
Dad’s second chemo treatment.
I refused being separated for this treatment like we were on Christmas Eve.
We all went down together.
I drove.
Nice.
Still some snaps and I can’t remember the way down to the city again.
Nerves.
It starts to snow.
FDR, merging. At least New Yorkers use their blinkers, and then flip you off.
We drop my mom and dad off at Chemoland.
My sisters and I stay in the car. What do we do?
New Year’s Eve.
Yearly tradition, lobster and champagne.
I thought we threw traditions out the window this year?
Well, I guess not.
We have three hours.
Karin wanted to do the midnight run. I was prepared for that. I wasn’t properly dressed to be out walking casually and
especially out in the snow. No coat.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
We decide to walk 80 blocks to my sister’s apartment in Chelsea.
It was like Ferris Bueller’s day off. We wandered the streets. Shopped at novelty shops, picked up some clothes and make-up, took pictures in front of the Sanrio sculptures on the east side.
What are we doing?
Kathy insists we go look at the Rockefeller tree, visit St. Patrick’s Cathedral, light a candle and say a prayer.
In the church, we are the quietest we have been the last two weeks.
We light candles for dad and mom. We kneel and say prayers. We sit in the pews and look forward for what feels like an eternity.
Kathy, always making jokes to ease pain even if its uncomfortable, tells us that she loves us.
She says she loves me sometimes but today, I feel it.
We look at the St. Elizabeth Seton Shrine, a beautiful sculpture of a woman enveloping a child. I say to Karin, that’s mom!
I left all of my snacks with my mother. My family has this remarkable ability to not eat for hours on end. Not me.
I’m starving and am walking the streets of Manhattan on New Year’s Eve with no coat.
We get to Kathy’s apartment. She does some business, lends me a coat that when I button, puckers between each one making me look like a black down marshmallow or someone that just ate too much over the holidays. She’s a small girl.
We go to the fish market downtown and pick up some lobster and fish, take the subway back, buy coffee beans from my new favorite coffee place, Oren’s.
We get back to Chemoville and drive home.
My mom cracks open the wine and starts dinner.
She’s drunk before dinner is on the table. So am I for that matter. So is my sister.
Dinner is amazing. We all eat beyond our capacity.
My dad tries to stay up but can’t.
My mom gets whiney drunk and sad at 10.
Paul, my sister’s ex-boyfriend who’s still in the picture an almost adopted member of the family, shows up at 11. Surprise!
He suggests my mom smoke some pot. He lights a small cigarette.
She inhales. Hmmm.
She’s quite good at it. I’m impressed and disturbed at the same time.
She only takes two hits and insists she’s not high.
She giggles too much and I know she is.
Countdown.
It’s a new year.
I still feel the same.
We all do.
Except my mom is talking incessantly in nonsequiturs.
I like high mom.
I like new traditions.
Happy New Year!
One of my favorite things about being ill prepared for winter at home in NY is borrowing my dad’s clothes. They usually swim on me.
Now they actually fit.
I like them.
They are my daddy’s.
On Friday the 27th, we went to the city for dad’s pet scan. This will tell us if the cancer spread to more of his vital organs.
I drove the Searle mobile.
Dad snapped at me the whole time.
I would like to say it’s the cancer, but he just snaps. He gets angry, at my mom at me, at everything.
And I know he’s nervous.
So today, I will let it be the cancer talking and not take it personally.
I drive alone all day in LA.
My dad drives in NY all day. I would think we’d be a little more connected on this level, but alas, I have five lives in my hands, which are at 10 and 2, eyes on the road and not a moment do I reach for the coffee cooling at my side.
We sit in the waiting room for 15 hours which in real time is just two hours, playing hang man, mom reading the ‘Jon and Kate Plus Eight Book’ and Kathy texting away at the myriad of suitors she is currently balancing on her plate.
~~~
New Year’s eve.
Dad’s second chemo treatment.
I refused being separated for this treatment like we were on Christmas Eve.
We all went down together.
I drove.
Nice.
Still some snaps and I can’t remember the way down to the city again.
Nerves.
It starts to snow.
FDR, merging. At least New Yorkers use their blinkers, and then flip you off.
We drop my mom and dad off at Chemoland.
My sisters and I stay in the car. What do we do?
New Year’s Eve.
Yearly tradition, lobster and champagne.
I thought we threw traditions out the window this year?
Well, I guess not.
We have three hours.
Karin wanted to do the midnight run. I was prepared for that. I wasn’t properly dressed to be out walking casually and
especially out in the snow. No coat.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
We decide to walk 80 blocks to my sister’s apartment in Chelsea.
It was like Ferris Bueller’s day off. We wandered the streets. Shopped at novelty shops, picked up some clothes and make-up, took pictures in front of the Sanrio sculptures on the east side.
What are we doing?
Kathy insists we go look at the Rockefeller tree, visit St. Patrick’s Cathedral, light a candle and say a prayer.
In the church, we are the quietest we have been the last two weeks.
We light candles for dad and mom. We kneel and say prayers. We sit in the pews and look forward for what feels like an eternity.
Kathy, always making jokes to ease pain even if its uncomfortable, tells us that she loves us.
She says she loves me sometimes but today, I feel it.
We look at the St. Elizabeth Seton Shrine, a beautiful sculpture of a woman enveloping a child. I say to Karin, that’s mom!
I left all of my snacks with my mother. My family has this remarkable ability to not eat for hours on end. Not me.
I’m starving and am walking the streets of Manhattan on New Year’s Eve with no coat.
We get to Kathy’s apartment. She does some business, lends me a coat that when I button, puckers between each one making me look like a black down marshmallow or someone that just ate too much over the holidays. She’s a small girl.
We go to the fish market downtown and pick up some lobster and fish, take the subway back, buy coffee beans from my new favorite coffee place, Oren’s.
We get back to Chemoville and drive home.
My mom cracks open the wine and starts dinner.
She’s drunk before dinner is on the table. So am I for that matter. So is my sister.
Dinner is amazing. We all eat beyond our capacity.
My dad tries to stay up but can’t.
My mom gets whiney drunk and sad at 10.
Paul, my sister’s ex-boyfriend who’s still in the picture an almost adopted member of the family, shows up at 11. Surprise!
He suggests my mom smoke some pot. He lights a small cigarette.
She inhales. Hmmm.
She’s quite good at it. I’m impressed and disturbed at the same time.
She only takes two hits and insists she’s not high.
She giggles too much and I know she is.
Countdown.
It’s a new year.
I still feel the same.
We all do.
Except my mom is talking incessantly in nonsequiturs.
I like high mom.
I like new traditions.
Happy New Year!
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