Nine years ago this month, my step-mother died, quite suddenly, of a massive, fatal heart attack at the age of 73, while doing some rather vigorous yardwork. That same day, my dad asked for a sign that my step-mom was in heaven. Now, you have to understand that my parents are Catholic, very Catholic, as in go-to-church and say-the-rosary every day Catholic. As in volunteer-every-day-for-some-worthwhile-cause Catholic.
At my mother's wake, hundreds of people lined up to give their condolences to our family. These people were individuals that we, the family, had never met before, people who my step-mother had helped in some way or another in one of her many volunteer roles. According to these strangers-to-us, my step-mother was already a saint-on-earth.
So, the night she died, my dad asked my step-mother to give him a sign, a specific sign, that she was in heaven. According to my dad, he asked her to send him a white rose.
The day after she died, before the wake, a nun from the convent a few miles up the road, where my mother sometimes volunteered, knocked on my dad's door. He opened the door. Standing in front of him was a nun from the convent. She simply said "This is for you" and then handed him....a white rose.
Had my parents pre-arranged this? My father claims that they did not, and that the nun says she simply received a "message" from my step-mother, requesting that she deliver a white rose to my father's doorstep.
I myself remain skeptical, but I know my father to be a truthful man. Coincidence? Who knows. I only know that I cannot judge the experiences of others as to whether or not contact is possible with those who have left this earthly world.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Anniversaries
Today would have been Tim's 50th birthday. Would have been, if he had not dropped dead of heart failure exactly four months ago. His friends and family will gather to celebrate and remember him, honoring a man who meant so much to so many.
I want to say "Happy Birthday, Tim", but its not the same without his actually being here. If he were here, there would be a party with good friends in attendance at the local Mexican restaurant, margaritas all around, Tim's cheeks dimpled and eyes twinkling. Now I will be bringing a photo of Tim instead to place at a chair in the middle of the table. Its just not quite the same.
When Sean's 18th birthday rolled around, three months after he had died, I invited some of Sean's friends to a (Mexican) restaurant to celebrate and honor their friend's memory. I invited Tim to join us. I remember Tim trying to cheer up one of Sean's best friends by doing silly things with her long blonde hair. Janny came to the gathering to remember Sean, but she was downright sad that Sean was not there to celebrate with his friends.
I feel the same way about Tim. He should be here with us, on his 50th.
I want to say "Happy Birthday, Tim", but its not the same without his actually being here. If he were here, there would be a party with good friends in attendance at the local Mexican restaurant, margaritas all around, Tim's cheeks dimpled and eyes twinkling. Now I will be bringing a photo of Tim instead to place at a chair in the middle of the table. Its just not quite the same.
When Sean's 18th birthday rolled around, three months after he had died, I invited some of Sean's friends to a (Mexican) restaurant to celebrate and honor their friend's memory. I invited Tim to join us. I remember Tim trying to cheer up one of Sean's best friends by doing silly things with her long blonde hair. Janny came to the gathering to remember Sean, but she was downright sad that Sean was not there to celebrate with his friends.
I feel the same way about Tim. He should be here with us, on his 50th.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The Need to Know
Tim would have been the first to tell me to "drop it". I am referring to my obsessive need to know "why". Like most men, when a relationship ended, Tim moved on, seemingly easily in my opinion. I, like most women, wanted to analyze my relationships - what went wrong, what could I have done differently, did my ex still care for me, etc. I think its in my DNA, always analyzing the details, ad infinitum.
But I have to admit, after Sean died, Tim sat patiently with me in the auditorium, several times, as we discussed why teenagers take risks, and could Sean have possibly commmitted suicide, and could I, as his parent, have prevented the accident that took my son's life. It took me a long time to accept the untimely death of my 17 year old son. I spoke with the coroner, with the Amtrak officer who was first on the scene of the accident, and reviewed the Caltrain engineer's report of what had happened, trying to piece together how my very smart teenage son could have been accidentally been hit by a train. I had to have explanations first, in order for acceptance to follow.
My approach is no different in the case of the untimely death of my friend Tim, at age 49. Yes, he was a little bit overweight, but so are many of us over the age of 40. Yes, he had a family history of heart disease, but none of his relatives had died before the age of 65. Yes, he had high cholesterol, but so do many people and yet they don't die before reaching the age of 50.
Friday, August 6th, would have been Tim's 50th birthday, had he not dropped dead exactly four months before. It still does not seem possible to me that Tim won't show up at Aqui, the local Mexican restaurant where some of his friends will gather on Friday evening to celebrate the 50th anniversary of his birth. And I still have a hard time imagining that Tim won't show up, late as usual, with a wide grin on his face, his blue eyes twinkling.
The other day I walked past Tim's tidy grey house, just a few blocks from my own. His aqua van was no longer parked in the driveway, a "For Rent" sign leaned against the side of the house, his familiar white wicker porch chairs were gone, the house empty of furniture, the familiar bark of his old dog absent. When September rolls around, when I inevitably stop by Fremont High School, the high school my son attended under Tim's gentle tutelage, there will be a different Drama teacher in Tim's office, and that person won't be Tim Shannon. I know that I will feel like I am in an episode of "The Twilight Zone".
So yesterday, over-analyzer that I am, I stopped by the coroner's office to pick up a copy of the autopsy report on Tim's body. I have no background in medical lingo, but I was able to generate a rough translation of the cause of death thanks to Google's internet search engine. Evidence of cause of death (in layman's lingo): Tim's heart stopped, as evidenced by dead tissue in his heart and lungs. Cause of death: moderate to marked coronary artery disease. "Moderate" as in 40% blockage of coronary arteries; "marked" as in 65% narrowing of small coronary arterial branches.
The report does not indicate any significant clot or blockage of a main artery which might have caused a "heart attack". What it does suggest instead is that, a slightly overweight middle-aged man with high cholesterol and "moderate to marked" coronary artery disease", can die suddenly of heart failure, with no prior warning signs.
Life, so unpredictable, and sometimes, so totally unfair.
But I have to admit, after Sean died, Tim sat patiently with me in the auditorium, several times, as we discussed why teenagers take risks, and could Sean have possibly commmitted suicide, and could I, as his parent, have prevented the accident that took my son's life. It took me a long time to accept the untimely death of my 17 year old son. I spoke with the coroner, with the Amtrak officer who was first on the scene of the accident, and reviewed the Caltrain engineer's report of what had happened, trying to piece together how my very smart teenage son could have been accidentally been hit by a train. I had to have explanations first, in order for acceptance to follow.
My approach is no different in the case of the untimely death of my friend Tim, at age 49. Yes, he was a little bit overweight, but so are many of us over the age of 40. Yes, he had a family history of heart disease, but none of his relatives had died before the age of 65. Yes, he had high cholesterol, but so do many people and yet they don't die before reaching the age of 50.
Friday, August 6th, would have been Tim's 50th birthday, had he not dropped dead exactly four months before. It still does not seem possible to me that Tim won't show up at Aqui, the local Mexican restaurant where some of his friends will gather on Friday evening to celebrate the 50th anniversary of his birth. And I still have a hard time imagining that Tim won't show up, late as usual, with a wide grin on his face, his blue eyes twinkling.
The other day I walked past Tim's tidy grey house, just a few blocks from my own. His aqua van was no longer parked in the driveway, a "For Rent" sign leaned against the side of the house, his familiar white wicker porch chairs were gone, the house empty of furniture, the familiar bark of his old dog absent. When September rolls around, when I inevitably stop by Fremont High School, the high school my son attended under Tim's gentle tutelage, there will be a different Drama teacher in Tim's office, and that person won't be Tim Shannon. I know that I will feel like I am in an episode of "The Twilight Zone".
So yesterday, over-analyzer that I am, I stopped by the coroner's office to pick up a copy of the autopsy report on Tim's body. I have no background in medical lingo, but I was able to generate a rough translation of the cause of death thanks to Google's internet search engine. Evidence of cause of death (in layman's lingo): Tim's heart stopped, as evidenced by dead tissue in his heart and lungs. Cause of death: moderate to marked coronary artery disease. "Moderate" as in 40% blockage of coronary arteries; "marked" as in 65% narrowing of small coronary arterial branches.
The report does not indicate any significant clot or blockage of a main artery which might have caused a "heart attack". What it does suggest instead is that, a slightly overweight middle-aged man with high cholesterol and "moderate to marked" coronary artery disease", can die suddenly of heart failure, with no prior warning signs.
Life, so unpredictable, and sometimes, so totally unfair.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Shit Happens
Just as sure as that little gray cloud is still following me around, shit happens, sometimes when you least expect it.
I was walking down the streets of San Francisco, toward the bay, on a gorgeous sunny day (which doesn't always happen in SF) after a typical foggy summer morning, just enjoying the rays and being in the city. Walking down a clean sidewalk toward the bay, surrounded by many other people taking a walk during their lunch hour. All of a sudden, water gushes up through four pencil sized holes in a small square metal plate in the street, splashing liquid all over me. At least I first I thought it was water, but quickly realized that it smelled a bit more fragrant than plain water.
My shirt was liberally sprinkled with what had to have been sewage. I smelled worse than a homeless person and my first thought was how could I ride the train home smelling like a baby's dirty diaper. Fortunately, I found a friendly Starbucks nearby with an unlocked bathroom so I could at least scrub my hands and face.
This mini-geyser happened in a split second and I was the ONLY one who got wet. I go to San Francisco two or three times a year. Why was I the lucky one?
I was walking down the streets of San Francisco, toward the bay, on a gorgeous sunny day (which doesn't always happen in SF) after a typical foggy summer morning, just enjoying the rays and being in the city. Walking down a clean sidewalk toward the bay, surrounded by many other people taking a walk during their lunch hour. All of a sudden, water gushes up through four pencil sized holes in a small square metal plate in the street, splashing liquid all over me. At least I first I thought it was water, but quickly realized that it smelled a bit more fragrant than plain water.
My shirt was liberally sprinkled with what had to have been sewage. I smelled worse than a homeless person and my first thought was how could I ride the train home smelling like a baby's dirty diaper. Fortunately, I found a friendly Starbucks nearby with an unlocked bathroom so I could at least scrub my hands and face.
This mini-geyser happened in a split second and I was the ONLY one who got wet. I go to San Francisco two or three times a year. Why was I the lucky one?
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Grey Cloud
That grey cloud is still following me around, hovering just behind my head, waiting for the chance to ruin my day. I was hoping that I had left my bad luck in Europe, where it started several weeks ago. I had not been in Paris for even two whole days when I was pick-pocketed while exiting the stairs of the Metro. (Wallet, cell phone and camera just vanished into thin air.) And just a day before I left for New York, I ripped my big toenail off on the corner of my runaway suitcase. I was hoping that I was leaving my bad luck in Europe along with it. (Said bad luck in Europe includes breaking a tooth in a Paris restaurant, tucking it into the presumed safety of my wallet, and then having the wallet stolen two hours later, among other exciting adventures.)
Once back in California and only a mile from the Pacific Ocean, my still black and blue toe did not keep me from walking the sandy beaches near the Santa Monica pier. I was not even sorry later that evening as my toe throbbed from too much walking in the soft shifting sand. However, I did find it annoying to discover an itchy rash on both ankles a few hours after wading in the summer warmed waves of the Pacific.
I think that little grey cloud follows me still.
Once back in California and only a mile from the Pacific Ocean, my still black and blue toe did not keep me from walking the sandy beaches near the Santa Monica pier. I was not even sorry later that evening as my toe throbbed from too much walking in the soft shifting sand. However, I did find it annoying to discover an itchy rash on both ankles a few hours after wading in the summer warmed waves of the Pacific.
I think that little grey cloud follows me still.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Hallmark Family
There is a Hallmark Family living in my dad's computer. None of us know for sure how just they got there. Like ghosts that invade your living space, one day this family just appeared on his screen saver. Yes, the photos that my step-mom put on the screen saver are there - colorful flowers, saintly pictures, my step-mother's beloved dog, and photos taken at family gatherings. OUR family gatherings, taken at my parent's house in Connecticut or my sister's house in New York.
And now? Interspersed between the familiar photos are other photos - of places none of us have ever been (a moose in Alaska, a rock in the desert, steep walled canyons of Arizona, a country farmhouse in Europe) and people we have never seen (a young girl with a soccer ball, children we don't know scrambling over bright orange pumpkins or dressed in Easter finery). Who are these people and how did they sneak into my dad's computer?
We have a theory, although my sister pleads ignorance, and in fact blames her teenage daughter, who is currently at camp and not able to defend herself. My sister, some months ago at my request, uploaded some photos from my son's high school years -- photos of his high school, his drama teacher, backstage photos, the old auditorium. And oddly enough, around the same time that the Hallmark Family made its appearance on my dad's screen saver, so did my son's high school photos and the photos of places we had never been. Coindidence? I think not, although my sister claims she did nothing but scan in the high school photos and email them to me.
Methinks it was the bored teenager in the bedrooom with the screen saver software that is the cause of the haunting by the Hallmark Family. But sometimes I like to believe that they just appeared by themselves, the software ghosts of a picture perfect family, come to give us pause for thought about the mysteries of life.
And now? Interspersed between the familiar photos are other photos - of places none of us have ever been (a moose in Alaska, a rock in the desert, steep walled canyons of Arizona, a country farmhouse in Europe) and people we have never seen (a young girl with a soccer ball, children we don't know scrambling over bright orange pumpkins or dressed in Easter finery). Who are these people and how did they sneak into my dad's computer?
We have a theory, although my sister pleads ignorance, and in fact blames her teenage daughter, who is currently at camp and not able to defend herself. My sister, some months ago at my request, uploaded some photos from my son's high school years -- photos of his high school, his drama teacher, backstage photos, the old auditorium. And oddly enough, around the same time that the Hallmark Family made its appearance on my dad's screen saver, so did my son's high school photos and the photos of places we had never been. Coindidence? I think not, although my sister claims she did nothing but scan in the high school photos and email them to me.
Methinks it was the bored teenager in the bedrooom with the screen saver software that is the cause of the haunting by the Hallmark Family. But sometimes I like to believe that they just appeared by themselves, the software ghosts of a picture perfect family, come to give us pause for thought about the mysteries of life.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Ambidexterous
I think you have to be, when you are a mom. Ambidexterous, I mean. I have heard of stories of a certain breast feeding mom "zipping up" with one hand, to chase after a run away two year old in the local bookstore in LA, picking up the contents of her purse while in hot pursuit. (That would be TheCrazyBabyMama.)
On my return trip to the US, in a restroom in the airport at Dulles International, I was witness to another ambidexterous feat of motherhood. This was perhaps not quite as public an event as the CrazyBabyMama in the LA bookstore, but still, it was definitely testimony to the physical feats of motherhood, feats that often go unrecognized.
Holding a chubby squirming five month old firmly in one arm, and with a curious four year old at her side, a young mother calmly answered question after question from the four year old, while she washed her baby's butt in the sink with her free hand, dried him off under the hand dryer without burning him, shook out a disposable diaper (which she seemingly produced from thin air) and then quickly and deftly wrapped the disposable diaper around the squirming baby's butt with one hand while she held him with the other, still calmly answering questions from the four year old. That baby never touched a single germy surface of that public restroom, nor was he burned under the hand dryer, nor was he dripping wet when she put the diaper on. Then she just as calmly walked out of the public restroom, toting the now freshly cleaned and diapered cherub, still calmly answering the continuous repetitive questions from the inquisitive four year old.
If it had been me, even the me of 30 years ago, the kid would have left the restroom either dripping wet or with a third degree burn, while the four year old would have been whining half way through the baby-washing-act due to my lack of patience with continuous, repetitive questions. And the one-handed diaper act in mid-air? Not a chance.
On my return trip to the US, in a restroom in the airport at Dulles International, I was witness to another ambidexterous feat of motherhood. This was perhaps not quite as public an event as the CrazyBabyMama in the LA bookstore, but still, it was definitely testimony to the physical feats of motherhood, feats that often go unrecognized.
Holding a chubby squirming five month old firmly in one arm, and with a curious four year old at her side, a young mother calmly answered question after question from the four year old, while she washed her baby's butt in the sink with her free hand, dried him off under the hand dryer without burning him, shook out a disposable diaper (which she seemingly produced from thin air) and then quickly and deftly wrapped the disposable diaper around the squirming baby's butt with one hand while she held him with the other, still calmly answering questions from the four year old. That baby never touched a single germy surface of that public restroom, nor was he burned under the hand dryer, nor was he dripping wet when she put the diaper on. Then she just as calmly walked out of the public restroom, toting the now freshly cleaned and diapered cherub, still calmly answering the continuous repetitive questions from the inquisitive four year old.
If it had been me, even the me of 30 years ago, the kid would have left the restroom either dripping wet or with a third degree burn, while the four year old would have been whining half way through the baby-washing-act due to my lack of patience with continuous, repetitive questions. And the one-handed diaper act in mid-air? Not a chance.
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