5.07.2008
TRAMBLINGS...
Okay, I'm going to give this a try. We'll see what happens.
Thank you all for your kind emails. I tried to answer each and every one. If I missed you please don't hold it against me. My mind is scattered in a million pieces which is actually a natural stage of grief. In my case, anger (scorching hot lava type anger) and bewilderment are the most heavily rotated emotions. All normal from what I've heard but I'm working on it. I am managing to laugh here and there. The Crown Prince has turned into a stand-up comic and I appreciate that. Yesterday we had a belly laugh (that extended to my girlfriends via email) when we remembered an incident that occurred when we were "new to the city".
The two of us lived in a one bedroom apartment near the La Brea Tarpits when we first moved to Los Angeles. It was a four story building filled with all kinds of folks trying to "make it in L.A." One of them was a photographer named Burns. Odd cat. Seemed like a holdover from the seventies but nice enough. Well, C.P. was notorious in our building for leaving his clothes in the laundry room. One day we came home from a movie and Burns was standing out front dressed in C.P.'s clothes. He was all spit-shined and polished, looking good for a Big Date. I took one look at him and died laughing. It took C.P. a minute then he shouted out, "What the f*ck, Burns? Are those my clothes?" Burns had the good sense to be embarrassed but you could also tell that he was proud of the ensemble and didn't want to take it off. All he said was, "Come on, man, come on." He wore the clothes on his big date then returned them in a dry cleaning bag. I don't think C.P. ever wore the items again but they made me smile every time I saw them hanging in the closet. That happened over 10 years ago but we laughed like it was yesterday.
Laughing as usual helps. My sisters and I use it as a salve in our darkest moments. Not only did we lose our mother but we lost our best friend. I talked to my mom at least six times a day. At least. Sometimes it was a quick call, a fast question answered. Sometimes we'd chat for hours. And the cliche is true. I reach for the phone throughout the day to make a quick call. No one on the other end. My sisters did the same thing. So, now, we made a pact to call each other whenever we get the urge to call our mom. My phone rings in the middle of the night and I pick it up. Before all of this I would just let it ring to voicemail. Now I pick it up and if the caller says, "Tell me a funny story about mom. Quick." Then I know they are battling the same demon as me. The one that wants to replace the beautiful images we've had all our lives with the heart-stopping ones from the hospital. Well, that demon can kiss "my natural ass" (which is a mom expression). F*ck him. Seriously. And I'm assuming he's a guy but I could be wrong. Judy Coleman left too much love and happiness and funny stories for the ugliness and pain of it all to prevail.
Last week I remembered when she pulled into a gas station riding on empty. She asked for five dollars worth of gas. (I know I've told this story before but hang in there with me). The attendant threw off a little attitude and said, "That's not enough gas." She snapped back. "It's enough to get me to a cheaper gas station." So funny that lady.
And when humor doesn't help there's always music. I ended the service with Stevie Wonder's "AS" which is usually a wedding song but those lyrics... ("Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky -- Loving you. Until the ocean covers every mountain high -- Loving you. Until the dolphin flies and parrots live at sea -- Loving you. Until we dream of life and life becomes a dream -- Loving you. Until the day is night and night becomes the day -- Loving you. Until the trees and seas up, up and fly away -- Loving you.")... Well, you get the picture.
I made a mix that I've been playing a lot. It's random as usual but it makes me think of her. Songs she liked, songs I liked. It's playing now. Actually, "As" played three times in a row even though the IPOD is on shuffle. Hmmm.
The Songs
When the Saints Go Marching In, Helen Hume (the Louisiana influence)
As, Stevie Wonder
Free Bird (Slow Bird), Arnold McCuller (slow version of Free Bird that will give you chills)
To My Father's House, Edwin Hawkins Singers (this one makes me feel so good. By the time the tamborines come in, I am DONE. DONE. DONE. I'm right there.)
I Shall Believe, Sheryl Crow
If You're Ready, The Staple Singers
Do Watcha Wanna, Rebirth Brass Band (Louisiana again)
Joy & Pain, Maze (my daddy's favorite group)
Gravity, John Mayer
One of These Mornings, Moby
Long Road, Eddie Vedder
Tennessee Waltz, Sam Cooke
Angel From Montgomery, Bonnie Riatt
Until next time...
Okay, I'm going to give this a try. We'll see what happens.
Thank you all for your kind emails. I tried to answer each and every one. If I missed you please don't hold it against me. My mind is scattered in a million pieces which is actually a natural stage of grief. In my case, anger (scorching hot lava type anger) and bewilderment are the most heavily rotated emotions. All normal from what I've heard but I'm working on it. I am managing to laugh here and there. The Crown Prince has turned into a stand-up comic and I appreciate that. Yesterday we had a belly laugh (that extended to my girlfriends via email) when we remembered an incident that occurred when we were "new to the city".
The two of us lived in a one bedroom apartment near the La Brea Tarpits when we first moved to Los Angeles. It was a four story building filled with all kinds of folks trying to "make it in L.A." One of them was a photographer named Burns. Odd cat. Seemed like a holdover from the seventies but nice enough. Well, C.P. was notorious in our building for leaving his clothes in the laundry room. One day we came home from a movie and Burns was standing out front dressed in C.P.'s clothes. He was all spit-shined and polished, looking good for a Big Date. I took one look at him and died laughing. It took C.P. a minute then he shouted out, "What the f*ck, Burns? Are those my clothes?" Burns had the good sense to be embarrassed but you could also tell that he was proud of the ensemble and didn't want to take it off. All he said was, "Come on, man, come on." He wore the clothes on his big date then returned them in a dry cleaning bag. I don't think C.P. ever wore the items again but they made me smile every time I saw them hanging in the closet. That happened over 10 years ago but we laughed like it was yesterday.
Laughing as usual helps. My sisters and I use it as a salve in our darkest moments. Not only did we lose our mother but we lost our best friend. I talked to my mom at least six times a day. At least. Sometimes it was a quick call, a fast question answered. Sometimes we'd chat for hours. And the cliche is true. I reach for the phone throughout the day to make a quick call. No one on the other end. My sisters did the same thing. So, now, we made a pact to call each other whenever we get the urge to call our mom. My phone rings in the middle of the night and I pick it up. Before all of this I would just let it ring to voicemail. Now I pick it up and if the caller says, "Tell me a funny story about mom. Quick." Then I know they are battling the same demon as me. The one that wants to replace the beautiful images we've had all our lives with the heart-stopping ones from the hospital. Well, that demon can kiss "my natural ass" (which is a mom expression). F*ck him. Seriously. And I'm assuming he's a guy but I could be wrong. Judy Coleman left too much love and happiness and funny stories for the ugliness and pain of it all to prevail.
Last week I remembered when she pulled into a gas station riding on empty. She asked for five dollars worth of gas. (I know I've told this story before but hang in there with me). The attendant threw off a little attitude and said, "That's not enough gas." She snapped back. "It's enough to get me to a cheaper gas station." So funny that lady.
And when humor doesn't help there's always music. I ended the service with Stevie Wonder's "AS" which is usually a wedding song but those lyrics... ("Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky -- Loving you. Until the ocean covers every mountain high -- Loving you. Until the dolphin flies and parrots live at sea -- Loving you. Until we dream of life and life becomes a dream -- Loving you. Until the day is night and night becomes the day -- Loving you. Until the trees and seas up, up and fly away -- Loving you.")... Well, you get the picture.
I made a mix that I've been playing a lot. It's random as usual but it makes me think of her. Songs she liked, songs I liked. It's playing now. Actually, "As" played three times in a row even though the IPOD is on shuffle. Hmmm.
The Songs
When the Saints Go Marching In, Helen Hume (the Louisiana influence)
As, Stevie Wonder
Free Bird (Slow Bird), Arnold McCuller (slow version of Free Bird that will give you chills)
To My Father's House, Edwin Hawkins Singers (this one makes me feel so good. By the time the tamborines come in, I am DONE. DONE. DONE. I'm right there.)
I Shall Believe, Sheryl Crow
If You're Ready, The Staple Singers
Do Watcha Wanna, Rebirth Brass Band (Louisiana again)
Joy & Pain, Maze (my daddy's favorite group)
Gravity, John Mayer
One of These Mornings, Moby
Long Road, Eddie Vedder
Tennessee Waltz, Sam Cooke
Angel From Montgomery, Bonnie Riatt
Until next time...
4.24.2008
TRAMBLINGS...
Still feel like I am walking on quicksand and a pile of tears but slowly getting my footing back. Will post more soon.
Until next time...
Still feel like I am walking on quicksand and a pile of tears but slowly getting my footing back. Will post more soon.
Until next time...
4.14.2008
This is the tribute I read for my mother last week at the funeral...
When I sat down to write this tribute my mind became overwhelmed with memories. I let myself become frantic with worry that I'd leave something out, that I wouldn't quite capture who my mother was to me and my sisters, and to each one of you here today. I wanted to find a way to illustrate just how wickedly funny she could be, how her commentary about life, about people, was often dead-on and eerily accurate. I wanted to let you all know just how much my sisters and I loved her, how much she meant to her grandchildren, to her partner, Lawrence, my granddaddy, her brothers, sister and friends, and just how much we would all miss her.
I woke up with stories, went to bed with stories, walked around thinking of stories, I'd chose one, discard another, but within all this shifting and changing one thing remained consistent. Ten years ago, my sisters and I buried our father. Today is infinitely harder than that. Not because we loved our father any less but because after his death we came to understand the true meaning of loss.
My sisters and I will have to figure out how to move forward from here, without our mother. When our father died, we had her by our side to help us navigate the murky waters of grief, we still have her - we understand that - in the lessons she taught us, in the examples she set, but just last week we also had her touch, the sound of her voice, her smile, her laugh.
This week we inherited the words "never again". Never again will we get to spend an entire weekend "tripping in and out of stores" as she called it, buying things we didn't need but enjoyed anyway, never again will we be able to call her with an exciting piece of news, or a story that makes her laugh, never again will we be able to walk through her front door and cry on her shoulder until whatever weight we carried became light enough so that we could walk back out into the world again.
The other day I woke up in a panic when I couldn't recall her voice. Then I spent the afternoon with Simone, her oldest granddaughter, and as she told me a story and I listened, I thought, "Oh, there it is. There’s her voice". That revelation allowed me to open my eyes and remember that Samariah has her sense of humor and that same ability to size people up in an instant. And Santana has my mother's big, generous heart and her healing hugs. Sweet Lisa, my sister, inherited her compassion and the same intangible gift of making you feel better just by being in her presence. Nichelia looks like my mother, and my grandmother, more so than any of us, and she's also an amazingly, present, and natural mother. And you can look right at Nichelin, to see, my mother's smile. It lives right there on her face whenever any of us need to see it, and she - like my mother - can always make a new friend.
And each of you here today has her story. We all have her stories. Some of you have shared them this week through phone calls and letters. We appreciate every one of them. Some we'd heard before, some we hadn't, some made us laugh, some made us cry, but they all brought her full force back into the room, made her breath again for the space of time it took for the story to be told.
I've made my living as a writer and now my most important job is to keep her story alive. These won't be the tales that pay my bills and support my family, these will be the ones that keep all of our hearts wide open, put smiles on our faces, and keep her here with us until the very end. These will be the most important stories I ever tell so that my mother walks out of here with you today, and continues to march at the side of each one of us.
A good friend once heard someone say that losing a mother was like an astronaut being cut lose from the mothership, floating in space without an anchor, weightless, tied to nothing. Lost. I am going to try and fight that. We’re all going to fight that by remaining just as important to each other as we were when she was alive. My sisters and I will be anchors for one another. That's how she'll remain alive for us, that's how we'll face life without her here in the way we've grown to know, that's how we'll honor her, when we continue to love each other the way she loved each one of us.
I started out this week focusing on everything that we'd lost, on the pain, the incredible breathtaking grief, and if I'm honest - the profound anger - and then I remembered something that happened when this illness first took hold. Lisa was sitting alone with my mother at the hospital when she woke up suddenly from a sound sleep. She was half-conscious when she began to look around the room for something that she wanted. She found them there in mid-air. A pair of scissors, a tool of the trade that had sustained her throughout life. Lisa watched as she began to hum to herself, and cut an imaginary pattern out of thin air. My sweet sister had the presence of mind to allow the scene to play out without interference. My mother continued sewing, running the fabric through the machine, taking out a stitch, looking it over until finally she seemed satisfied with her creation. Lisa asked her softly, "What you doing, mama?” and she answered "making something". Lisa asked her what she was sewing and she responded, "something for my heart. It's broken."
Well, so is ours. My beautiful mama is gone.
You'll hear a lot of stories this afternoon, some true, some embellished for dramatic effect but if you hear nothing else today, hear this, this woman, Judy Tramble, was the absolute love of our lives. We will miss her every moment that we breath, but we will make sure with your help that she continues to live. Forever.
Thank you for coming.
When I sat down to write this tribute my mind became overwhelmed with memories. I let myself become frantic with worry that I'd leave something out, that I wouldn't quite capture who my mother was to me and my sisters, and to each one of you here today. I wanted to find a way to illustrate just how wickedly funny she could be, how her commentary about life, about people, was often dead-on and eerily accurate. I wanted to let you all know just how much my sisters and I loved her, how much she meant to her grandchildren, to her partner, Lawrence, my granddaddy, her brothers, sister and friends, and just how much we would all miss her.
I woke up with stories, went to bed with stories, walked around thinking of stories, I'd chose one, discard another, but within all this shifting and changing one thing remained consistent. Ten years ago, my sisters and I buried our father. Today is infinitely harder than that. Not because we loved our father any less but because after his death we came to understand the true meaning of loss.
My sisters and I will have to figure out how to move forward from here, without our mother. When our father died, we had her by our side to help us navigate the murky waters of grief, we still have her - we understand that - in the lessons she taught us, in the examples she set, but just last week we also had her touch, the sound of her voice, her smile, her laugh.
This week we inherited the words "never again". Never again will we get to spend an entire weekend "tripping in and out of stores" as she called it, buying things we didn't need but enjoyed anyway, never again will we be able to call her with an exciting piece of news, or a story that makes her laugh, never again will we be able to walk through her front door and cry on her shoulder until whatever weight we carried became light enough so that we could walk back out into the world again.
The other day I woke up in a panic when I couldn't recall her voice. Then I spent the afternoon with Simone, her oldest granddaughter, and as she told me a story and I listened, I thought, "Oh, there it is. There’s her voice". That revelation allowed me to open my eyes and remember that Samariah has her sense of humor and that same ability to size people up in an instant. And Santana has my mother's big, generous heart and her healing hugs. Sweet Lisa, my sister, inherited her compassion and the same intangible gift of making you feel better just by being in her presence. Nichelia looks like my mother, and my grandmother, more so than any of us, and she's also an amazingly, present, and natural mother. And you can look right at Nichelin, to see, my mother's smile. It lives right there on her face whenever any of us need to see it, and she - like my mother - can always make a new friend.
And each of you here today has her story. We all have her stories. Some of you have shared them this week through phone calls and letters. We appreciate every one of them. Some we'd heard before, some we hadn't, some made us laugh, some made us cry, but they all brought her full force back into the room, made her breath again for the space of time it took for the story to be told.
I've made my living as a writer and now my most important job is to keep her story alive. These won't be the tales that pay my bills and support my family, these will be the ones that keep all of our hearts wide open, put smiles on our faces, and keep her here with us until the very end. These will be the most important stories I ever tell so that my mother walks out of here with you today, and continues to march at the side of each one of us.
A good friend once heard someone say that losing a mother was like an astronaut being cut lose from the mothership, floating in space without an anchor, weightless, tied to nothing. Lost. I am going to try and fight that. We’re all going to fight that by remaining just as important to each other as we were when she was alive. My sisters and I will be anchors for one another. That's how she'll remain alive for us, that's how we'll face life without her here in the way we've grown to know, that's how we'll honor her, when we continue to love each other the way she loved each one of us.
I started out this week focusing on everything that we'd lost, on the pain, the incredible breathtaking grief, and if I'm honest - the profound anger - and then I remembered something that happened when this illness first took hold. Lisa was sitting alone with my mother at the hospital when she woke up suddenly from a sound sleep. She was half-conscious when she began to look around the room for something that she wanted. She found them there in mid-air. A pair of scissors, a tool of the trade that had sustained her throughout life. Lisa watched as she began to hum to herself, and cut an imaginary pattern out of thin air. My sweet sister had the presence of mind to allow the scene to play out without interference. My mother continued sewing, running the fabric through the machine, taking out a stitch, looking it over until finally she seemed satisfied with her creation. Lisa asked her softly, "What you doing, mama?” and she answered "making something". Lisa asked her what she was sewing and she responded, "something for my heart. It's broken."
Well, so is ours. My beautiful mama is gone.
You'll hear a lot of stories this afternoon, some true, some embellished for dramatic effect but if you hear nothing else today, hear this, this woman, Judy Tramble, was the absolute love of our lives. We will miss her every moment that we breath, but we will make sure with your help that she continues to live. Forever.
Thank you for coming.
Labels: Family, My Mother, Tributes
4.07.2008
TRAMBLINGS
Rest in Peace, my beautiful mother.
Rest in Peace, my beautiful mother.
3.17.2008
TRAMBLINGS...
Mom made it through the second surgery but post-op has not been a walk in the park. My sisters and I continue to try to keep it in perspective. Laughter helps. Yesterday, on my way back to the airport, I stopped by the hospital for a quick visit. Mom was in and out, clearer than she has been but still a little woozy. Our conversations reflect that.
Here's the one from yesterday.
MOM: Can you get that pony out of here?
ME: Sure. Just let me fix your blankets.
She falls asleep and when she wakes up.
MOM: Is that pony gone?
ME: Yep, I got him out of here awhile ago.
MOM: Did he give you any trouble?
ME: He wasn't any trouble at all. He listened really well. Like Kobe.
MOM: What did he say when you told him he had to go?
ME: Not much.
MOM: Good. Make sure he doesn't come back.
But, honestly, my favorite moment of drugged communication was a couple weeks ago when she woke up long enough to order my sister and I to, "Call Sprint and tell them to bring me my bed pan." My sister, the most even-tempered woman on the planet responded (without missing a beat) "I already called. They're on their way."
Why Sprint? Why not AT&T or Verizon? She doesn't even use Sprint.
Comedy in the middle of the horror. Every time I think of that sleepy demand it makes me laugh. When we told her about it later she shared a good laugh with us after searching our faces to see if we were pulling her leg. We weren't but once in awhile I wonder if she's pulling ours.
Until next time...
Mom made it through the second surgery but post-op has not been a walk in the park. My sisters and I continue to try to keep it in perspective. Laughter helps. Yesterday, on my way back to the airport, I stopped by the hospital for a quick visit. Mom was in and out, clearer than she has been but still a little woozy. Our conversations reflect that.
Here's the one from yesterday.
MOM: Can you get that pony out of here?
ME: Sure. Just let me fix your blankets.
She falls asleep and when she wakes up.
MOM: Is that pony gone?
ME: Yep, I got him out of here awhile ago.
MOM: Did he give you any trouble?
ME: He wasn't any trouble at all. He listened really well. Like Kobe.
MOM: What did he say when you told him he had to go?
ME: Not much.
MOM: Good. Make sure he doesn't come back.
But, honestly, my favorite moment of drugged communication was a couple weeks ago when she woke up long enough to order my sister and I to, "Call Sprint and tell them to bring me my bed pan." My sister, the most even-tempered woman on the planet responded (without missing a beat) "I already called. They're on their way."
Why Sprint? Why not AT&T or Verizon? She doesn't even use Sprint.
Comedy in the middle of the horror. Every time I think of that sleepy demand it makes me laugh. When we told her about it later she shared a good laugh with us after searching our faces to see if we were pulling her leg. We weren't but once in awhile I wonder if she's pulling ours.
Until next time...
Labels: Family
3.05.2008
TRAMBLINGS...
The surgery went well. Now we're gearing up for the second one which will happen tomorrow. I admit to being a raw nerve on Monday operating on some insane form of auto-pilot. Whatever works. Your emails had me weepy all day. I appreciate the kindness in every one of them.
While going to and from the hospital and to and from L.A., I've picked up books here and there but nothing has caught my interest. Since December (when this kicked off in full force) I've started at least fifteen books and I haven't gotten to the end of anything but I AM LEGEND, which was a novella so it kinda doesn't count (excuse the messiness of that sentence but I'm fried). I think I found a solution. Years ago I read...
(BACKROADS by Tawni O'Dell)
...and loved every page of it. When COAL RUN came out I passed it up because of the setting. I usually like small town stories but the coal mine element turned me away. I was wrong and I admit it. I should have trusted this author.
In the random moments when I actually have free time I rush to this book. The next two, well, you'll understand why I have them...
SOUTHERN WEDDINGS
FETE
Anyway, if you have any book recommendations please send them my way.
Until next time...
The surgery went well. Now we're gearing up for the second one which will happen tomorrow. I admit to being a raw nerve on Monday operating on some insane form of auto-pilot. Whatever works. Your emails had me weepy all day. I appreciate the kindness in every one of them.
While going to and from the hospital and to and from L.A., I've picked up books here and there but nothing has caught my interest. Since December (when this kicked off in full force) I've started at least fifteen books and I haven't gotten to the end of anything but I AM LEGEND, which was a novella so it kinda doesn't count (excuse the messiness of that sentence but I'm fried). I think I found a solution. Years ago I read...
(BACKROADS by Tawni O'Dell)
...and loved every page of it. When COAL RUN came out I passed it up because of the setting. I usually like small town stories but the coal mine element turned me away. I was wrong and I admit it. I should have trusted this author.
In the random moments when I actually have free time I rush to this book. The next two, well, you'll understand why I have them...
SOUTHERN WEDDINGS
FETE
Anyway, if you have any book recommendations please send them my way.
Until next time...
3.03.2008
TRAMBLINGS...
My mother's very intense (very long 6-hour surgery) started twenty five minutes ago. My sisters and I all called each other to say a prayer. THE FINISH PARTY is sending positive, healing thoughts her way as are my girlfriends and family members. And for some reason, though none of you knew the schedule, I got a ton of emails last night and this morning asking about her and telling me that she's in your hearts and minds. Some of you I haven't heard from in months. Isn't that something? Your prayers, positive thoughts, and sincere interest have helped at every step of this maddening journey. I cannot thank you enough.
I am in Los Angeles but I saw her this weekend before the surgery. My sisters and I laughed with her, treated her to a little mini-spa and showered her with kisses. She asked to see my wedding dress so I took it to her hospital room. It got the big thumbs up and a "that's perfect, Chelle." I've postponed the ceremony until September in order to give her some rally time but I also recognize that most things are out of my hands these days and will change as change happens.
We all are learning what we're made of as we face one crisis after another. Some days it takes all I have not to scream and not stop for 24 hours. At least on the outside. Inside I am howling like a beast. Last week, after my second day back at WMC, I felt my chest and throat starting to close up from the pressure, and stress, of being so far away from her. I was in the writer's room when the worst of it hit but I kept looking at another writer in the room who has generously and compassionately shared her own experience. She gave me a smile not knowing that I needed it so bad at that moment. My cell rang soon afterwards. I am notorious for not turning on my phone, leaving it in drawers or letting the battery run out. Not these days. The phone rang and I recognized the number of the hospital. It was a nurse telling me that my mother wanted to speak to me.
They put her on the phone and she started to chit-chat as if nothing was wrong. Small talk in the middle of my work day which would've annoyed me in other times. I kept the conversation going and then she said out of the blue, "Don't feel guilty, baby. You need to be where you are. You need to maintain your life, continue following your dream. I am fine. It makes me stronger to know that you're out in the world doing what's important to you. I know you're with me, I feel it all the time."
How did she know that at just that moment I saw myself on a plane headed back to the Bay Area? How did she know to call me at exactly that moment? How did she fight her way to be clear enough to express all those things in the midst of her pain?
When I saw her this weekend she had absolutely no recollection of the phone call or our conversation.
This is why, for my entire life, I have always believed in the things that can't be explained. Life has never been black or white but various shades of gray. The same can be said for love. How else would she know just what her daughter needed, at the moment she needed it, when it had never been expressed? How did she know that she had to fight her way out of a drug haze to reach out to me? How did you all know, today of all days, that I needed your emails?
I can't explain it and I don't want to. I just want to say thank you.
UPDATE: In response to this blog post I got this wonderful message from a friend. "It does seem like in moments of extremity there is often this very real sense the rules of place and time start to break down and we know and feel things that we shouldn't be able to know or feel."
That's what I was trying to say.
SECOND UPDATE: This one from one of my best girlfriends, a true-life Steel Magnolia who nicknamed my mother Mama T. "You go to breaking down, letting those super-human muscles of yours wain, it's selfish right now. You gotta maintain it, girl. Chin fucking up. Bed made and red lipstick on. If you can't do that for the people around you right now, you gotta at least do it for your mama. You're her daughter; the one she looks to in order to gage the world around her. You fake it til she makes it."
Until next time...
My mother's very intense (very long 6-hour surgery) started twenty five minutes ago. My sisters and I all called each other to say a prayer. THE FINISH PARTY is sending positive, healing thoughts her way as are my girlfriends and family members. And for some reason, though none of you knew the schedule, I got a ton of emails last night and this morning asking about her and telling me that she's in your hearts and minds. Some of you I haven't heard from in months. Isn't that something? Your prayers, positive thoughts, and sincere interest have helped at every step of this maddening journey. I cannot thank you enough.
I am in Los Angeles but I saw her this weekend before the surgery. My sisters and I laughed with her, treated her to a little mini-spa and showered her with kisses. She asked to see my wedding dress so I took it to her hospital room. It got the big thumbs up and a "that's perfect, Chelle." I've postponed the ceremony until September in order to give her some rally time but I also recognize that most things are out of my hands these days and will change as change happens.
We all are learning what we're made of as we face one crisis after another. Some days it takes all I have not to scream and not stop for 24 hours. At least on the outside. Inside I am howling like a beast. Last week, after my second day back at WMC, I felt my chest and throat starting to close up from the pressure, and stress, of being so far away from her. I was in the writer's room when the worst of it hit but I kept looking at another writer in the room who has generously and compassionately shared her own experience. She gave me a smile not knowing that I needed it so bad at that moment. My cell rang soon afterwards. I am notorious for not turning on my phone, leaving it in drawers or letting the battery run out. Not these days. The phone rang and I recognized the number of the hospital. It was a nurse telling me that my mother wanted to speak to me.
They put her on the phone and she started to chit-chat as if nothing was wrong. Small talk in the middle of my work day which would've annoyed me in other times. I kept the conversation going and then she said out of the blue, "Don't feel guilty, baby. You need to be where you are. You need to maintain your life, continue following your dream. I am fine. It makes me stronger to know that you're out in the world doing what's important to you. I know you're with me, I feel it all the time."
How did she know that at just that moment I saw myself on a plane headed back to the Bay Area? How did she know to call me at exactly that moment? How did she fight her way to be clear enough to express all those things in the midst of her pain?
When I saw her this weekend she had absolutely no recollection of the phone call or our conversation.
This is why, for my entire life, I have always believed in the things that can't be explained. Life has never been black or white but various shades of gray. The same can be said for love. How else would she know just what her daughter needed, at the moment she needed it, when it had never been expressed? How did she know that she had to fight her way out of a drug haze to reach out to me? How did you all know, today of all days, that I needed your emails?
I can't explain it and I don't want to. I just want to say thank you.
UPDATE: In response to this blog post I got this wonderful message from a friend. "It does seem like in moments of extremity there is often this very real sense the rules of place and time start to break down and we know and feel things that we shouldn't be able to know or feel."
That's what I was trying to say.
SECOND UPDATE: This one from one of my best girlfriends, a true-life Steel Magnolia who nicknamed my mother Mama T. "You go to breaking down, letting those super-human muscles of yours wain, it's selfish right now. You gotta maintain it, girl. Chin fucking up. Bed made and red lipstick on. If you can't do that for the people around you right now, you gotta at least do it for your mama. You're her daughter; the one she looks to in order to gage the world around her. You fake it til she makes it."
Until next time...
Labels: Family
