Category: love

I Won’t Apologize

I will never apologize for what I haven’t done,

Even if it would give your mind ease, to think you are right and justify how you treat me.

Accuse me and blame me without evidence all that you want,

But still, I won’t apologize for what I haven’t done.

Dislike me, or hate me at whatever level of intensity pleases you. it matters not to me,

I won’t apologize for what I haven’t done, just to see you satisfied.

Tell lies about me. Tell lies about my life. Try as you will to hurt me,

Still, I won’t apologize for what I haven’t done.

Do your best to destroy my relationships with others with your tall tales, your tales of victimhood.

But still I won’t apologize to try to save
my love, not even their love for me.

And rest assured I will not use what I know about you to hurt you or to shame you or to justify my means.

I will stand in my defenselessness. I don’t need to prove my innocence, not to you nor to anyone.

I stand here accused and judged by you, ” the blameless saint”, and by the jury. I have stood before you claiming my innocence.

Yet not one word out of my mouth is believed. Why should I speak? My guilt is already determined.

I am not imprisoned by your words of judgment, nor by the sentence you will try to enforce.

My innocence will stand against your hatred. It stands against the venom that spews from your mouth, the darkness on your face, your gestures, the fire of hell and brimstone in your eyes.

Your judgment and hatred has in actuality been your prison for all these years.  Your suffering has been and is self inflicted, while I have walked free.

I will not apologize for what I haven’t done.

From what I can see, you have sentenced yourself to a lifetime of imprisonment. And though I have offered you clemency, you have refused.

Though you did, and still label our old love, “a neurotic attachment”, that is not how I see it. But my words will not convince. I will no longer try for peace.

Though I have forgiven you a thousand times in a thousand ways, I will not ever again stand in harm’s way… And:

I swear to you, and it is a promise to myself, that I will not ever, ever, apologize for what I have not done.

Things he said to me

Some things he said to me left deep footprints in the mud part of my mind.

This is not love. It’s a neurotic attachment

You’re more stupid than my mother

You are stupid, shallow and ridiculous

You’re cold

And why did he say those things?

Was it revenge? A payback for hurting him?

He hated my fat and insulted me in front of friends, family and visitors.

He even ḥit me a few times and pushed me and then wanted me to make love.

I couldn’t, though I loved him and I tried but I drew back,  repulsed, not by him but in defense, I suppose,  I really don’t know.

Hope blooms eternal in the hearts of the young…

Bleeding hearts

And my heart breaks that they, the young, will have to have their hearts smashed and crushed. And because of hope, they will go down there again and again.

Learn not to hope, learn not to believe. Turn down the flickering, weak lights of love.  Turn them down. Love has no strength. Like a flower that opens in the Sun, it turns to dust in the cold, cruel darkness of night.

Reality then comes in like harsh light. Too strong for love. Love runs. It disappears, it seems, as soon as it appears and then vanishes.

You’ll find that I’m right. I will be there to take you in my arms while you cry bitter tears. But only time will teach you what I already know.

So I cry for you, as you hope for what can never be.

To Remember

Many, many years ago

I talked to Jack for a long time today. What I love about still being able to be close to him is that our memories are the same and that we share those memories.

My dad, in jest, used to call himself “dirty dog Anderson,” and my brother Steve, when he was in high school, called himself, “Beatleman”. If you saw how he dressed, you would know why.

There’s no one else on earth that would know those things. We have laughed about them now for 60 years. I don’t know if you can possibly know how precious this is to me. If Jack and I were completely estranged, which for a while, I thought we would always be, we wouldn’t be able to share these memories.

My family loved our dog Gypsy so much that when we would see home movies of her, the entire family would be in tears. I found Gypsy, a small, tan, beagle type dog lost in front of our house. Jack and I share this memory. His memory is so sharp that he remembers things in such clear detail that he can fill in areas that I no longer can remember.

He remembered today, exactly the little secondhand shop where he bought me an authentic Navajo ring of carved silver set with a deeply orange/red carnelian stone. I’ve been remembering how much of myself was formed as a young girl from 16 through our entire relationship because of things that Jack said and did. I remember the things that he bought me. He encouraged me to learn and to stay curious.

He bought me art supplies and paid for art classes. He introduced me to music and artists, and literature that I may not have run into on my own so early in life.

He bought me clothes and artwork of all kinds and taught me the value of handmade everything. We shared foreign films on days when we didn’t feel like going to school. Instead, we would spend time in the art museum, in galleries, in cinema houses and the library. We lived in houses with character and historical value. I could go on and on, but I don’t know where we went off the rails.

But off the rails, we did go… some 30 years after we started. We used terrible words with each other, though we knew so many beautiful words. We hurt one another, and yet we held it together for so many years. I’m not sure that we could have salvaged our relationship. I don’t think I could stand it if I thought we could have saved it. It’s easier and less painful for me to think that our parting was necessary for our growth. Just as a plant needs pruning to continue to grow and produce flowers and fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, those plants need to move away from one another and give each more room to grow.

Regardless, I treasure the times now when we do talk, and when we remember. It’s good to know people who have known you through the journey.

And now, as far as my immediate family, there’s just Steve who knew me back when. Maybe it’s our ages, but with these two, Jack and Steve, my life has contiguous meaning.

Random Hugs When You Need Them

Sometimes, when I feel lonesome, not just alone, but actually lonesome, something special happens. This week:

The mailman stops for a minute to chat and hugs me.

The neighbor across the street stops and chats for a minute and reaches out, and hugs me.

A woman in the pool during class says, “I love you,” and hugs me.

A man in the herb store walks up ever so slowly and hugs me and tells me, “You love me, you thank me.”

I say, yes, to each of them. “I love you, thank you.”

I needed that. Real hugs. Not a side hug. Full on body hugs.  How did they know?

Unsolved Mystery of the Heart

Just recently, I found the answer to a mystery  I had given up on resolving many years before. I mostly didn’t even know that I was still looking, but the search was hidden away in my heart to emerge only occasionally.  

There were few things of value that I even cared about because Mom left so little behind. But there were a few of precious value to the heart only. Nothing she ever owned was embued with monetary value.

But there was one mystery to solve, known only to me as, “The  Missing Heart.” I would have found the answer if I had known to ask the right people. Why did the loss of this small charm occur to me again? Oh, yes, I remember! My niece, Sharon, was going through her mother’s (my sister’s) jewelry and came upon a bracelet she didn’t recognize, and neither did I.

I asked if among her things, had she come upon a small silver and marcasite heart with a mother of pearl inset? At first, I couldn’t remember the stones, so it was hard to describe. Her first answer was, “No”,  she said,  but she would keep an eye out for it.

I looked online to see if I could at least find something similar to help her identify it. Why did I even care, you might ask. Because, as a small child,  like all curious children will,  I loved to look in my mother’s jewelry boxes and in her top drawer to see her linen hankies and soft gloves of silk, cotton and leather, small veils of soft netting, hat pins, hair barretts and other small pieces and mementos.

On top of her dresser, among the crystal bowls, was her hair brush, a handheld mirror, and containers of face and body powder and fancy glass bottles of perfume and fragrant lotions.

There, also sat my favorite music box. It was a small wooden piano with just enough room to hold a few small pieces of jewelry.

The music box

Mom’s dresser was always dusty with the powders she used liberally. Her favorite perfume was Tweed. The fragrance is strong, with the tiniest bit of floral notes to keep it feminine, but mostly, it is dark, moody and earthy, woody, and resinous. Perfect for Mom, but not for a small child or even a teenager. I was never tempted to use it, but it smelled spectacular on my loving yet stoic mother.

But, back to the heart.

I sent my nephews and neices online images of similar items. Sharon said she would continue to look.  She said she would also ask the other girls. My sister had three girls and four boys that she left behind way too early. She also said that there was a story that went with that heart, if the one I was looking for was one that she remembered. I didn’t remember any such story.

Not long after, another of Kristi’s three daughters, Shauna, sent a message with a photo of the heart. “Is this the one you’ve been looking for, Auntie?” she wrote. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

There it was! She explained that her mother had given it to her, before she passed away, to wear at her wedding. Sarah, one of the three daughters, now had it to wear at her upcoming wedding.

She went on to explain the story behind the heart, a story I had never heard: It was a gift from Mom’s first love. If that’s true, why hadn’t I heard it?

I should have been happy just to know that it was still in the family… but. I wasn’t. I was hurt, confused, and frustrated. When did Mom give that to Kristi? Not known to lie nor even to be secretive, could Kristi and Mom have  kept this gift giving a secret? When did this even take place?

I couldn’t be upset with the girls, and of what use is it now for me to be angry with Mom  and Kristi, now that they passed on years ago. I decided to sit with the feeling. I couldn’t shake it anyway.

Now, after a couple of weeks, I guess I’m happy that the heart is in safe and loving hands. Somethings I’ll never know, like when or why Mom decided to give the heart to Kristi. We were and are a close and loving family. I know also that Mom and Kristi hadn’t between them, an ounce of secretive intent.

Each of the girls wore the necklace at their wedding, and if I had it, it would have been enjoyed and cherished by only me.

“I beg you to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

–Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (1929)

A Cat to Accompany Death

Mom and I had moved 3 times between the years 2002 and 2010.

Our first move was moving her out of senior housing into a house with me. She was 81 and in good health but not eating as well as she should (too many Hungryman dinners) and it was getting harder for her to clean the floors.

I had just returned from Santa Monica, California to take up a permanent position. It was perfect timing for Mom to live with me. However, this wasn’t the first time, as she had lived with me, my husband and children for a decade already.

But changes in our lives had necessitated Mom moving into senior housing for a time. Jack and I moved into a tiny duplex on our own while our children transitioned out of the house.

As soon as I moved from California back to Oregon, I moved Mom in with me. In the first house that we moved into, we had abundant gardens, which we took full advantage of. We spent every day that wasn’t stormy or too cold, out in the yard. Mom had been skillfully using a walker for a few years at this point, and managed quite easily.

However, there were steps going up to the path to the front steps of the porch. There were steps going down from the back door into the back garden. There were steps going down into the basement. Mom loved to do the laundry and so it was necessary for her to descend those dark stairs. I soon decided that I would take over the laundry chores. I couldn’t though deny Mom the privilege of going in and out of the house at will, though it was a constant worry.

It was in this house that Mom saw me through surgery and eight months of chemotherapy. She took over all of the household chores and my care. I was supposed to die but I didn’t. We lived on together.

Five years later we moved into a beautiful little 3 bedroom ranch and again, with large gardens and beautiful plantings front and back. Thankfully, this had absolutely no stairs for her to climb or descend. But, in two years it was necessary for us to move once again.

Fortunately, I found a house with an identical lay out without stairs so that Mom could spend her time out in the yard tending to the plants and just enjoying the outdoors. We had a large outdoor patio where I hung fushias and begonias from the rafters and filled the space with hostas and ferns. I bought a large Asian pot and filled it with water and goldfish and lotus.

We were happy in this house and I hoped we wouldn’t have to move again. Mom was quite near her church and the bus came directly to our door to pick her up to take her anywhere she wanted to go. We lived in the neighborhood where she had raised us. We were home.

One day, shortly after we moved in, a beautiful and talkative mixed breed cat that looked much like a siamese, came strolling up the street and walked straight into the house, just as though she’d been there before. I think she had found home.

She found it comfortable, sleeping on the corner of Mom’s bed in Mom’s bedroom or sitting at her feet or walking back and forth so that Mom could pet her and gently pull her tail. Mom would give her food and water and they would spend the day together as I worked. I knew they were close but at that time I didn’t realize just how close they had become.

The cat we called Mama, as I did for many of the cats that I had in my life. If Mom were gone and it was just me at home, Mama didn’t pay much attention to me except to lay close if I were sitting on the couch or in a chair. She might follow me outside to sit on the patio furniture if I happened to sit for a while.

I could tell that the cat was only trying to figure out where Mom had gone. One day, Mom went to the hospital where she stayed for two weeks. When she came home, it was to wait for the inevitable.

We situated the hospital bed in front of the large window where Mom could see the goings on in the neighborhood. She, and her constant companion, watched for the mailman, the newspaper delivery, and the many visitors who came with cookies, cakes and kisses.

Mama sat with Mom day in and day out and reluctantly jumped off the bed only when we changed the bedding. Then came the day when Mom cut the cord that tied her to this world. Family and friends came to say their last goodbyes. I didn’t notice if Mama was around or hiding safely but out of sight.

When everyone was gone, my sister, my daughter and I (and Mama) were the only ones in the house with Mom as she took her last breath. Mama sat quietly on the hospital bed, against the window beside the front door, as Mom’s body was carried out into the wee hours of the night.

Just two days after Mom’s passing, the hospital bed had been removed by the hospice folks. Later in the day, I saw Mama in Mom’s bedroom, laying on the end of her bed. I hadn’t been paying much attention to her as I had much to attend to. I laid my hand on her soft body expecting a reaction but she was cold and stiff. Mama had died.

I think Mama had come to accompany Mom on her journey out of this world. Now her work was over and it was time for her to rest, as well. You were never my cat, Mama, but I loved you, too. Thank you for walking with Mom as she passed on. We won’t ever forget you for accompaning life and then death.

The Beginning of the End ~ A Nurse to the End

It was January 21, 2010. I woke at 4:34 AM thinking that it’s still too early to get up for work. But then I realized that Mom was calling me. She tells me that she can’t breathe and can no longer function. I knew this day was coming but I wasn’t ready for her to go yet.

She tells me to call the Portland Clinic, and I do. Her long time physician, Dr. Craven, is not on call. The doctor on-call calls back after 20 minutes.

When I explained what is happening and I tell him that she wants to go to the hospital in an ambulance. He says to call 911. I do.

I sit beside Mom, holding her hand, helpless. In the meantime, I call Kristi and Steve to tell them what is happening.

First, a fire truck arrives, lights flashing, lighting up our small street. Four large men, dressed in blue, crowded into Mom’s bedroom with their cases of equipment and tools hanging from their belts. I stand aside.

Mom had advanced directives not to code but in violation of her own predetermined decisions, she tells them she wants help breathing. She tells them in full sentences, everything they need to know while she’s struggling to breathe. They take her vitals. I stand silent knowing instinctively who’s in charge.

Then, the ambulance arrives. More men squeeze into Mom’s, what seems now to be a, very tiny bedroom, each carrying more equipment. Mom reiterates everything to the EMTs that she just told the other guys.

Quickly, they wrap her up in her blankets like a sausage and two guys grab handfuls of the blankets from the top and carry her into the living room where they put her on a gurney. Then they wheeled her out to the ambulance.

Two guys are in back with Mom and I climb in front with the driver. Mom continues to tell them what they need to know. She struggles to breathe until they use a c-pap to blow large quantities of oxygen into her lungs. She can no longer talk. I can’t believe she’s been talking through this whole ordeal.

After the EMTs get an IV started, we take off across the St. Johns bridge. Once we get across and onto Hwy. 30, the lights and sirens are turned on, as Matt tells the driver to step on it. I can’t see Mom and I can’t hear her. This is not how I want it to end.

In the emergency room, the nurses and doctors get to work putting who knows what in the IV.

Before looking, the doctor shows me the chest x-ray along with an old x-ray from 2005. Her lungs are hazy and her heart is large. There is fluid around the lungs, a sign of congestive heart failure. It’s something she’s had for 10 years. He says she probably won’t live long.

Mom is breathing with the help of oxygen and the doctor wants to keep her in the hospital. When she’s stable they move her to a private room. Here she stays for a couple of weeks.

Mom was in her element. This very hospital is where she spent 40 years as a career nurse. She seemed to have recovered from the emergency. For those two weeks, I visit her daily while friends and family stream in and out. Many visitors were physicians and co-workers who stopped to tell stories of working with her, or under her supervision and nurses who were once students who she had mentored.

I learned more about her professional life in those weeks than I ever knew before. I knew she was a VIP, but I didn’t know how respected and loved she was.

Mom talked about going into a home when she leaves the hospital. She swore up and down that she wanted to. We had already gone over and over this. I didn’t believe her. “No! Mom. Absolutely not. You can stay home, this is where you’ll stay.”

Kristi and I decided to acquiesce and went to look at a few small care homes just to satisfy Mom. Though Mom and I had lived together for nearly 20 years, she kept insisting that she did not want to burden me. After visiting, we were more convinced than ever that she wasn’t going into a home.

How would we manage to go to see her if she weren’t at home with me? It was enough just to go to work and back again, run errands, cook dinner, shop, etc., without having to drive across town to visit Mom. And I knew Mom didn’t really want that, she just didn’t want to put me out.

For the next four months, Mom sits or lies in a hospital bed situated in the living room directly in front of the windows. From here she can see what passes in front of the house. She can also see her many visitors arriving.

I took family medical leave until hospice care came in to relieve me five days a week so that I could return to work. And Kristi drove hundreds of miles every weekend to help out.

Mom lost all strength in her legs but every other function worked perfectly well. That meant that she needed assistance to maintain her hygiene. Though these were not chores I relished, I did them with love. Unlike Mom, I had no inclination to nurse but I would not abandon her. She had seen me through polio and cancer. This was the least I could do.

Mom and I had dinner together every evening and she filled me in on her day with the caretakers. Apparently, she enjoyed their companionship and had many stories to tell.

Just as any good nurse would, she was keeping her own chart: recorded type and time of medication administration, size and frequency of BMs and urine output, blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, etc.

I served Mom in bed, while I sat not far away at the dining room table. Soon after finishing her dinner each evening, she was ready for dessert, which I was to bring, post haste. Eventually, I had to gently tell her that I wasn’t her nurse’s aid and that once I had finished my dinner, I would bring dessert. She understood immediately and was quite apologetic.

Though I helped her with her toilet each evening, I also had to tell her that I wasn’t going to estimate her output in size and quantity. She was sorely disappointed but did not utter one disgruntled word. Eventually, I also asked her to either give up charting or trust me to bring her meds on time. It was annoying to be reminded constantly that in 20 minutes it would be time for such and such. She got it. She kept her chart, but kept silent about it.

If one didn’t know why she was in bed, one wouldn’t know that this beautiful lady was just months, then weeks, then days away from death. Nightly, I would mix a dry, dirty martini, Beefeater Gin only please, with 3 green olives or 3 cocktail onions for her and something wonderful for me. Then we would chat and watch Jeapardy and Wheel of Fortune and whatever else was on that we wanted to watch. Mom was a very sociable and gracious companion.

Mostly during the day, while I was at work, Mom would entertain friends or family who came to visit. I don’t believe she had one boring day. If she had a quiet day, Mom would read, do crossword puzzles, read the newspapers and watch the news. The living room filled with cards and flowers.

As we knew would happen, the day came for her passing. She called me in the early morning hours. It was May but not yet light out. I turned on a dim light and I sat with her on her bed and took her soft hand, as she asked me to help her “get off of this”, as she motioned with her hand, touching her chest from where her heart was, out into the air. I asked her what she meant but she would just make the same hand gesture and repeat the same words. I offered suggestions such as, a road, a path, or a trail. But with each suggestion she would say, “no smaller”.

Mom was very calm. I so wanted to understand what it was that she wanted me to do. How can I help her to “get off of this” if I don’t know what “this” is? I knew she was ready to die because we had talked about this at infinitium. But she was worried about leaving me alone. She wanted me to be loved by someone and to be cared for.

I finally remembered something I had learned many years before. It was that our soul is connected to eternity with a golden thread. When I said, Mom, is it a thread?” She suddenly relaxed. I told her that I couldn’t cut it for her but that she was free to go, that I would be fine, and that I loved her more than she would ever know and I knew how much she loved me. I have no idea if she understood when I said a thread, except that it seemed to satisfy her. Maybe I had finally mentioned something that was actually small enough.

We sat there until the sun came up. This morning there were no ablutions, no coffee, no breakfast. She really didn’t want anything. I don’t even remember what we said to one another but I know we spoke soft words.

Mom had everything in order and didn’t need to ask me for anything. Besides the family and close friends I knew who to call. Family began to show up as did her friends to say goodbye. For a good part of the day she would speak to people as they would come and go. But as the day wore on she spoke less and began to spend her time, her final hours, with her eyes closed. When one would speak to her she would make a soft sound as if to say I know you’re there.

Slowly people went away having said their goodbyes. This left Hannah, Kristi and I alone with her to accompany her as she passed away. The hospice nurse that showed up towards the end of the day, stayed to pronounce her death and to sign the appropriate papers. She melted into the background and was hardly noticeable. She told us that as a person dies their last sense to go is their hearing and encouraged us speak to her.

We sat on her bed, touching her. We told her that we loved her and that we would miss her but that it was also okay for her to go, she didn’t need to hold on. She was so relaxed and her face softened with a pink glow and her wrinkles seemed to disappear. Soon we had no more words and all we could do was hum and sing without words. Mom almost imperceptibly took her last breath. It took us some time before we could move away from her. By this time, it was nearing midnight.

Mom had donated her body to the OHSU Body Donation Program. While we waited for them to come for her, we sat talking and looking at this beautiful body that had belonged to someone that had served so many and would be remembered for her love, intelligence and so much more.

But right up until her dying day, Mom was in charge. Two things that I will always remember is hearing Dad say, “Norma, you’re not in charge here at home.” Second, was numerous people saying they’d never heard her say a bad word about anyone. Now that’s a legacy!

What’s in a Dream? Messages of explanation?

Remember that I told you that Dhillon suddenly stopped calling altogether, I mean really sudden? It’s just not like him because never has a month gone by since 2002 that I haven’t heard from him.

That’s 20 years, over 20 years. Mostly, even if I wouldn’t pick up the phone, he tried to call me every week. If he was anything, he was persistent.

Anyway, last night I dreamt that I went to my grandmother’s house and Dhillon’s whole family was there. What I didn’t know was that we were all gathered there for Dhillon to tell me that he had a baby with a woman named Lois. I asked him if he had gotten her pregnant while we were still together and he said yes. I sensed that there was someone in the bedroom and felt it was Lois and maybe his baby.

He had aways raised my suspicion. I had no reason ever to trust him. And here was the proof. My thought was that he had cheated on me and so sadly and somewhat distraught, I tried to leave. But before I could leave,  everyone, but his Indian ex-wife, hugged me and had tears in their eyes which, never would have happened. Not one person in his family ever liked me in the least, not as his girlfriend and not even as his friend nor even as a person who helped him as a secretary.

I dated Dhillon for 8 years and still, he did not ever say to them what I was to him. Dhillon tried to talk to me but I turned and walked away and closed the door behind me as he was moving towards me. I had no reason to want to talk to him.

Strangely, Tony, an old friend, was sitting in a chair by the dining room table against the wall. It appeared that she was a friend of the family. She did not get up. I looked at her and asked if she knew about all this and she nodded her head. I told her she was no longer my friend and I didn’t want to ever hear from her again. That did not seem to phase her.

I then drove to a small apartment downtown where more of Dhillon’s family (maybe cousins) were living. They were in the tiny kitchen and the stove was pulled out from the wall at an odd angle stretching the gas line. It worried me. They told me it was because their dad had told them it had to be that way even though I was trying to shove it back into place. So, I pulled it back out to where they had it initially.

I asked them about Dhillon and they weren’t really interested in talking to me about him. There was another close friend of mine with dark hair, I can’t remember exactly who it was, standing in the kitchen. I asked her if she knew about Dhillon having had a baby with this woman named Lois, and she said yes. I also told her that I never wanted to speak to her again and that she was not my friend. Just like Tony, it didn’t phase her that I was hurt and wanted to never see her again. She also seemed to be very close to Dhillon’s family.

I went down onto the street and some children, who were also Dhillon’s family, were standing across the street waiting for Dhillon. I looked to see that he was walking up the street towards us. I could see him at least two blocks away coming from the direction of his first restaurant. I wanted to see him and yet I didn’t want to see him. When he got close, I turned to walk away and he wanted to walk with me and talk to me but I rejected him, telling him to go away.

I awoke remembering the tiniest, what seemed to be,  insignificant details.

I thought the answer to why he had disappeared from my life, so suddenly and curiously,  could be in this dream. I had conjectured that he couldn’t contact me because of family but I couldn’t know for sure. Since I rarely remember a dream, I believe the answer is somewhere in there, perhaps only in the symbols.