Monday, September 22, 2008

Dearest Michael . . .

Today's the day you would have been born. The doctor scheduled your C-section for today, except that it didn't happen as we had all planned.

I miss you terribly. I wish we could have met today, and I could have held you in my arms and looked into your eyes as I did with your older brother and sister. Right after your brother and sister were born, after they calmed down a bit (because they cried when they were first born), there was a period of alertness, where they looked all around. We just stared into each other's eyes; I wanted that moment with you. I cried for you in the shower this morning, and I made sure to get your sister up early enough and ready for school so that we could make the 6:30 mass. I said prayers for you there, and I begged God to continue to hold you in his arms and to give me strength to make it through the day. I love that part in the mass, right before communion, where the priest is praying and he says, "Protect us from all anxiety and grant us peace in our day . . . " because that's what I want more than anything. I'm waiting for the grief to get less raw; it's slow going.

It comforts me greatly to know that you are there with Meema, and that she is there to take care of you for me until we meet again. I know she wasn't the Meema that liked to babysit, but I'm sure hangin' together in heaven is a lot different than babysitting down on Earth. 

I wonder what your personality would have been like, and how similar you would look to your brother and sister. Would you have been easy going, like your brother? Or, would you have been more spirited and sometimes stubborn, like your sister? Would you have been spoiled, being the baby of the family? Probably! You would have been Meema's 18th grandchild . . . well, you still were. You just got to meet her up there with God rather than down here with us. She's a lot of fun -- ask her to sing for you!

Dearest Michael, you are never far from me. My mind thinks about you constantly. When I put my earrings on in the morning, I do it in tribute to you. I make myself look as becoming as possible in tribute to you. I have more compassion for my fellow citizen now than I have ever had in my life, thanks to you. You have made me such a better person in a myriad of ways: a better mother, a better spouse, a more patient and understanding teacher; more genuine and honest with my friends, sibling, and parents. I am more apt to give the common person I encounter on the street the benefit of the doubt--what pain do they carry? What burden do they seek to hide from the world? Because, as I have found, everyone has something that grieves them. My grief is the loss of you. I'm a little bit lost right now. I'm not the same person, nor will I ever be again.

I heard said that the greatest loss an adult could face was the loss of a child. I used to think, "I can't imagine that." I would try to, try to wrap my head around that concept, and I would shudder at the thought, but I didn't really know how right they were until it happened to me. I think the brain subconsciously blocks the pain of the loss from one's mind, because the emotions are so damning and overwhelming that I would truly be engulfed in sadness and go mad should I have to experience the them in their full realization. 

I toasted you tonight. Daddy and I went out to dinner with Papa, since tonight is the night we would have had our usual Monday night dinner at Meema and Papa's. Uncle M is still staying with Papa, so we took him with us. As they were taking our drink orders, I asked for a diet Coke and two shots of tequila. Not a double, two separate shots. Papa laughed and wondered what got into me, but I knew what I had planned. When the drinks arrived, I toasted Meema, and then I toasted you. After downing both, I felt much better. But I was there to celebrate you and what you brought to all of our lives in the short time you were with us. I ordered dessert, and we all shared it. For once, we ate the entire Jumper's Mud Pie at Claim Jumper. We never do that. I know you were there with us. I know you were.

Michael, I love you. I miss you. I ache and grieve for you. I almost cannot find the words to express my loss adequately, as forcefully as I want to. Rest assured that you are with me always. Always. 

Love, Mommy


Friday, September 19, 2008

Another death, and a Memoriam

We experienced another loss in our family. 

My DH's mom passed away on Thursday, Sept. 11. It was rather sudden; it wasn't as if she was sick and had been lingering on with cancer, or had just gotten out of a stay in the hospital. But it wasn't as if she was exactly healthy either. She had the usual ailments that came with being nearly 77: achy bones and a back that went out every once in a while. Problems with diverticulitis. She was on medicines for her blood, and had problems with her eyes. These things were complicated by the fact that she smoked and drank. Although she had quit smoking at one point for nearly two years, she had recently began smoking in secret. Obviously it wasn't a total secret, because I know and I am writing about it here, but it was a secret from my father-in-law. She used to drink wine in the afternoons and evenings, and had in the past few months switched over to bourbon. Let's face it: It is rough (and sometimes depressing) getting old.

Everyone has their character defects, and my mother-in-law was no exception. What follows is a list of the best aspects of her character, a description of what I appreciate most about her: 
  1. She was fun. She smoked (Marlboro red box) and drank and danced and sang! She knew all the old tunes, which she would sing with her brother (who just passed away in June), or by herself as she was cooking, or with her "baby" brother if he happened to be out visiting. Recently she donned her old tap shoes to dance with one of her granddaughters, my niece. We didn't share the same taste in wine, and I don't drink bourbon, but we could enjoy a drink together. She always started, and often finished, the daily crosswords in the paper. And she loved Yahtzee.
  2. She arranged my wedding. Did I mention she gambled? She loved to gamble. Her game of choice was blackjack, and she also played the slots. I was in awe of her because she played dollar or even five-dollar slots, when I could hardly bear to part with a quarter or to even gamble at all. When DH and I were dating, Las Vegas was her destination of choice. As she got older, it was harder for her to get there, so she sometimes went to Stateline instead. Then, however, she began to opt for the Indian gaming casinos down in north San Diego County. But, she was more than willing to help arrange my wedding in Vegas, and it was an affair everyone enjoyed and still talks about. She had it all arranged within about three or four hours. She knew exactly who to call . . . I'm thankful.
  3. She was honest and upfront. Upon my marriage, over the kitchen table one night, she said to me, "You can call me (her name) or you can call me Mom, whichever you feel more comfortable with." She was honest about the fact that she didn't necessarily want to babysit our kids, because she had been there, done that. Our DS was her eleventh grandchild, and she had already raised eight children of her own (yes, eight!). But she loved our children and, as they got older and were not baby-babies, she would volunteer her and my father-in-law's time so that DH and I could go out for a Japanese dinner or two. She didn't lie about the fact that she hated to clean, and was completely honest when she said didn't care what people thought about her dusty house, either.
  4. She loved her children and family fiercely. She still attended her childrens' important functions, just as I attend the Christmas pageants and Back-to-School nights for mine. Grandma came to her grandchildren's dance recitals, soccer games, graduations, and class play performances. She indulged my children by making sure to keep their favorite flavors of ice cream (chocolate and vanilla) in the freezer, along with plenty of whipped cream and chocolate syrup in the fridge. She cooked my son's favorite meal for him nearly every Monday night, which we took to calling the "Monday Night Special." She remembered every birthday, and her refrigerator was plastered with pictures of all her seventeen grandchildren.
  5. She was a good cook. There's something, well, very comforting about basic meals consisting of the four food groups. Before the food pyramid, there were the four food groups, and that's what her meals were based upon. There was always a meat -- DH's favorite was her pork roast that she would season with garlic and salt, and sometimes tabasco. (I watched her do it the last time, so I can cook it that way now, also.) Then there was a vegetable and some kind of starch, like mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, or noodles. The mashed potatoes she hadn't been too successful with lately, but at least it provided all of us a good laugh at the dinner table. My children eat broccoli because of her and love it. She introduced me to gumbo, and the red beans and rice of New Orleans, the town where she was born and raised. When I took over cooking Thanksgiving dinner a few years ago, I got to learn how to cook her fabled turkey stuffing; it never has tasted quite like the way she made it--I remember the first time I tasted it--but pretty close, if I do say so myself. I would devour her southern style green beans, cooked with bacon and a bit of onion when she made them, which wasn't often lately. I never figured out how she perfectly seasoned her tomatoes and cucumbers with vinegar and oil, but I loved those, too.
  6. She was a great conversationalist. My DH, me, and his parents could sit for hours around the kitchen table talking about everything under the sun: old family stories, politics, work, movies or books, local news.
  7. She was supportive of our decision to terminate our pregnancy, and I did not feel judged in any way for having made that choice. She went to my first appointment with me at the clinic when my DH couldn't make it in time. She let me talk about Michael when I felt like bringing the subject up, and did not try to minimize my pain when my tears started to flow, telling me (like so many others) "that it would all be okay." She just let me cry and say what was on my mind, her quietness more a way of saying "I'm sorry," which I knew she was. She was accepting and validating, never trying to change the subject to something less emotional or safe. I love her for that.
  8. She played the violin . . . and, as her brother said at her vigil Monday night, "it is because of that violin that all of us are here." It is because of that violin, that I have the wonderful husband that I do. She taught herself how to play, and she became so proficient at it that she was offered a music scholarship at a university in Louisiana. It was there that she met my father-in-law, fell in love, and married him in 1953. They were married for 55 years. My husband was one of the wonderful products of that marriage, along with his siblings. Who knows the course life would have taken had she not determinedly decided to play, but I'm glad that she did. I now have two beautiful children of my own and an angel in heaven. In them, as well as in her own children and the other grandchildren, her legacy will live on.