Tyro

    I love the French language, and have always dreamed of becoming fluent in it. Why? Why not? Why do we uniquely favor one thing over something else? We’re all wired differently, that’s why. We like what we like, when we like it.

     I also have a thing for Mardi Gras harlequin dolls, and bistro art deco, too.  And I happen to know I’m not the only one that likes that sort of thing. But it wasn't always that way.

     But, back to le française. Learning a second language in my formative years—a time when it’s regarded by society as the best time to embed bilingual skills—would've been weighed as a waste of time by my parents. Also, there were too many factors that conspired against me. The closest my parents had come to speaking a second language was my mother's month-long Spanish lessons, and my father’s high school French classes. (So, no growing up in a bilingual household)  Another is that we were a single income household, with my father, the Reverend, as the breadwinner. 

     However, I also suspect that it would have been difficult for me to sit still long enough to learn French at that age.  Yes, my parents were blessed with a first-child that would have them weeping with joy when their next child was the complete opposite of me. 
     A first-child is scary enough for new parents. But one that’s also been diagnosed with auditory complications due to tonsils, with the added bonus of ‘Hyperactivity and Attention issues’, (no joke—that’s how it’s written in my 1974 medical records) can be difficult-on-caffeine.

     So, much as I've loved the French language as an adult, I likely would have put it in the same category most young kids put piano lessons: Torture. Something to be endured.
     I've made an attempt in my later years to go for it; to try and learn it. I got right up to my first year in it, (nine months of college classes) before the bottom dropped out beneath me; no more moolah for school. 
     But hey, I’m only 45. I've got time.

     No, no…don’t give me that ‘How do you know you have time?’ or, ‘You’re too old.’ or ‘It’d be best if you lived where it’s spoken all the time. Otherwise you’ll never get the hang of it.’

     Geminis won’t listen to toxic bullshit. Mind you, we don’t stick our heads in the sands of denial. But if something sounds like a put-down, we shed the toxicity faster than you can say “Quoi?”

     And we learn what we learn, when we want to learn it. In other words, we can’t be pushed or ordered to do anything. So, maybe if I saw French lessons the same way kids see that dreaded piano lesson, I'd've rebelled then, too. 
     I've only absorbed in the last twenty-or-so years how auditorily-pleasing French is to my improved senses. That tagline for the film ‘Le Divorce’ says it all: ‘Everything sounds sexier in French’.
     I've learned I can’t be afraid of failure. On the other hand, difficulties in learning anything can truly suck.  What I wouldn't give to easily absorb French. And, who hasn't wished they could do the cartoonish thing of flipping open their cranium like a box-lid, and throw in a complete textbook—and dictionary—of whatever language, or topic, they've wanted to be fluent, or knowledgeable in.
     But, we humans are meant to learn the way our Higher Power intended—the hard way. If we want something bad enough, we’ll work at it.  And after nine months of college classes, I’m somewhere between a novice,  and an amateur translator of first-year French for my mom, who’ll see a French word in any book she’s reading, and assume I know what it means—completely ignoring the three-pound French/English dictionary she has next to her on the coffee table.

     Parlez-vous française?  Je parle un peu française, mais, je ne parle pas bien française.

     Sigh…I’ll get there!

Identity Crisis

Yah, this title is the word I came up with on the third try of a dictionary-flip word-prompt. The first two tries were adjectives, so I discounted them as ‘Word-a-day’ prompts. And ya gotta have a great prompt. 

My Webster’s New World dictionary defines identity crisis as ‘the state of being uncertain about oneself regarding character, goals, etc….’

So I guess that means I have an identity crisis every day. Except that I’m pretty sure about my character. My goals? Oh, too many to reveal in here to complete strangers, other than what I’ve already disclosed. (That’s just how Geminis are—we’re selective about what we divulge) 

Perhaps I’d be more goal-oriented if I had an employment-prompt. Sigh. 

In the meantime, my identity is fully intact. I’d find it impossible to have an identity crisis when I know exactly who I am, to so many people:  

To my mom, I’m the one she shares stash with, (our code-word for chocolate) and her deepest secrets; secrets my brothers aren’t supposed to know about until she’s six-feet-under. (You’ll also notice she made top-billing in my novel-ish ‘acknowledgements’)

To my dad, I’m the one who knows all about geriatric-healthcare, so I can ‘take care of him’ when he’s old. Unfortunately, he’s failed to digest that he’s spent years self-righteously chipping away any warm-n-fuzzy feelings I could possibly have for him.

To my brothers, I’m the free-spirited, childfree, older sister. One lil' bro is more accepting than the other, which will leave a gap one day that I’m not sure how I’d fill.

To my nieces and nephew, I’m the easy-going Auntie Writer, who’ll be there on their 18^th birthday, ready to pay for their first tattoo. (If they choose)     

To my friends across the pond, I’m ‘Helene Hanff’; someone who wants very badly to visit the lily-pad of English literature, and chat for days over a pint.

To the staff at Powell’s New & Used Books, I’m the one that sits in the back, or to the side, during the book-readings, when I’m not spending hours in the stacks, determining which used and cheap paperbacks to toss into my plastic shopping cart.

To my favorite authors, I’m the one that leaves an occasional comment on their Facebook page, while either reading voraciously, or turning up a nose at a particular volume of their work. (I’ve always believed one didn’t have to like a writer’s/musician’s/artist’s entire body of work. Sometimes one just likes some things, and not all things. Or, is that just us Geminis?)

No, none of this sounds like an identity crisis. Sounds more like I’m just self-aware, and dealing with it humorously. Now, a mid-life crisis? That’ll be interesting. I’m about that age for one. Only I haven’t any baggage that usually comes with one. 

Perhaps that will be my identity crisis.

Résumé

It’s been suggested to me—by those left unidentified—that Geminis are haywire, peculiar, eccentric, unconventional, wacky, pluralists, half-cracked, odd, birdy...basically everything under the ‘flaky’ category in my thesaurus.

I’ll concede to mild eccentricity for some. Unconventional, however, is my favorite word. I AM unconventional.

Another favorite word is progressive. Geminis are a progressive sort. Need more? How about dynamic, modern, tolerant, lenient, enlightened, advancing, revolutionary, enterprising, broad-minded, moving, flowing, effective, alive....

‘Alright, already! We get it!’ you’re likely thinking. Hey, cut me some slack. I’m a writer. Dictionaries and Thesauruses are my two BFF's in the whole world. (But don’t tell my bestie, Mai, that!)

The reason ‘progress’ is at the forefront of my gray matter, is because I now feel (medically) recovered enough to try and crash through that invisible ceiling that feels like a hiring-freeze. If you’ve read my old blog entries, you’ll remember that I patronized an (unnamed) employment-help facility.

Well, it’s been almost a year, and despite the number of workshops and hiring events that I’ve attended, I can’t help feeling like I’ve been hitting my head against an immovable wall. And it seems they’re not one to promote many resources outside of themselves. IOW, if they can’t help you, then it’s YOUR problem.

So, progressive-thinker that I am, I’m ‘taking my business elsewhere.’ In a sense, anyway. I attended an orientation yesterday for optional employment service opportunities. I find it difficult to do anything while ‘keeping fingers crossed’, so I’ll simply think ‘cautious optimism’, and leave it at that.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and someone there will see my unconventionalism as a plus, and steer me towards a writing job in which I can sit around a boardroom table most of the day, drinking Starbucks, and offering eccentric ideas as to what a literary magazine cover should look like, and what kind of content should be involved.

An extra plus would be a roomful of Geminis, chanting our mantra: Embrace Pluralism.

Word-A-Day

    For about sixty seconds, the idea of a writing exercize using a single word seemed absurd to me. But I thought, what the hell. So, I closed my eyes, and flipped through my Oxford English dictionary like one of those motion-picture books with a moving cartoon in the corner of a page. I stopped, slammed it on my desk, and stabbed my finger to a page I had yet to see. When I opened my eyes, I saw I’d pointed between 'olive', and 'olivine'. Since I know nothing about magnesium iron silicate, I figured I'd be better off with 'olive'.

     The most I've ever thought of the word 'olive' (other than it's what Hawkeye always liked in his 'very dry martini', on the T.V. show, 'M*A*S*H') was the Olive Garden restaurant. I'll readily admit I've liked that restaurant for a long time. It's been a favorite of my family's for many reasons. I do love Italian food, though for all I know, Italians may think of a franchise such as that as bourgeois; such a mass-produced cuisine may be an insult to their sense of taste.

     But I try not to think of such middle-class-conventionality, when enjoying Portobello Ravioli. Or, as I couldn't resist referring to it one evening, at a table of friends and their teen daughters, as the 'Bella Swan Special', to the waitress. It takes no time at all to conjure the image of eight pairs of eyes looking at me in shock, before menus that were previously closed were suddenly ripped open again as their eyes scanned the contents once more, wondering how they could've missed such an item.

     "Where did you see that?" More than one voice whispered, before they find it under 'Antipasta', and decide to change their orders. I cringed a little at what I'd just done--I've caused the poor waitress to have to scrawl out the previously, and carefully written orders, to write a whole new order-ticket. Eight orders of Portobello Ravioli. But it's also funny to discover who's the closeted 'Twi-junkie' in this lot. It's obvious in the 'under twenty-five' age-group, but harder to discern if someone remains tightly ensconced in their 'Edward' or 'Jacob' closet. (Me? I'm right out there---I ordered the 'Mushroom Ravioli' in the first place, after all.) No really, I do love mushrooms on just about everything; with my salad, with my pasta, with my sauteed shrimp, and mozzarella. Everywhere but my tiramisu---that would just be weird.   

     Olive Garden evokes much. It's where my Da like his Father's Day meal, and my Mah likes her birthdays. I like it on an occasional Sunday. Not too often, as I don't wanna get sick of the place. But the atmosphere is fun: sometimes formal, sometimes casual. That's just one of the reasons I like it; its flexibility. You can go 'dressed to the nines', or like you're an extra in an episode of 'Magnum P.I.'. The food is tasty, the drinks are fruity, and the prices are reasonable.

     It's where my father wanted to announce my Sis-in-law’s pregnancy to a roomful of family and friends. My Mah and I quite literally brow-beat him into silence beforehand, though, as it wasn’t our place to announce something so important…and so precarious; she had lost a pregnancy of twins the year before. Olive is also the shade of green that covers their resting place.
     My baby bro, Jim, (Jimbo to his two elder siblings) likes the Garden, too. He's familiar with the concept of 'olive' as well. It's the shade of green he's been required to wear for fifteen years now; an 'olive-drab', as I call it, when he's awakened at 4:30 a.m. for reveille. It's what he wore in Afghanistan, in Iran, in Iraq, and Korea. It's what he wore when he climbed Mount Sinai with a group of his friends. ('Dogs', they're called)

     My Da went to church the next Sunday, and proudly announced to all in the congregation that 'Jimbo' had supposedly stepped on the same ground Moses had. Did I mention that my Da is a retired Baptist minister? He still likes to tell that story.

     Though Jimbo can appreciate that experience, he'll show more enthusiasm when he tells you about scuba-diving down to a sunken military-transport ship that still had jeeps and motorcycles stowed away within it from sixty years earlier.

     "Wouldn't it be a blast if we could raise some of them, work on them a bit, and get them working again?" he once asked.

     Right, sure. Like that’ll happen.

     He shrugged. "Stranger shit has happened," he said.

     He's right, of course. Like, a woman who wins a 'Progressive Jackpot' on a slot-machine in a nearly-empty room, on a Tuesday morning, (3:17a.m. exactly) at a casino I was employed at long ago. She'd barely played $7.00 worth of quarters at a 'Wheel Of Fortune' game. Anyone in the U.S. could have won the $653,782. The machine made its 'ding-ding-ding' sound just as I was passing her by.

     Oh yeah, she was having a martini with an olive in it, too. Just like Jimbo said; strange shit.

     Olive is the color my brother proudly wears, while protecting me from another attack on our piece of the Earth. He's one of many whose life-risking choice to serve his fellow man allows me the freedom to go back to school, and aim for my dreams of becoming a published writer. Olive Garden is his favorite indulgence when he’s home on American Soil. And we readily indulge him, because it's where our family celebrates life.

    Whodathunk I would've written so much, and evoked such memories, over a single word.

45

I’m pretty sure I’m one of the few people you’ll meet that’s absolutely honest about their age, especially as I have a birthday coming up.

Why the honesty? Because, quoting Rhett Butler, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn."

However, I tend to ask those who don’t know any better how old they think I am. You’d be surprised how often I’m surveyed as being younger than my years. A couple of years ago, while at school, I asked some of my classmates to guess my age. 

“Mmm…you can’t possibly be over…33. Nah, 32.”

No joke. That is a direct quote. As soon as it was said, I wrote it down in my comp-notebook, word-for-word. (That’s what writers do—we write stuff down so we don’t forget)

I could say something enterprising or eloquent, such as “It’s the water in Portland,”…but then, Oregonians would say that’s the wrong environmental element to give credit to. 

True, I don’t spend a whole lot of time absorbing Vitamin D, the way I did as a kid growing up in California, when no one knew shit about skin cancer. But then, it’s also not because I can't reveal to the world that I sparkle. (Cue eye-roll here) As I’m too broke to afford those pricey ‘youth-enhancing’ miracle creams in those darling jewel-like jars, I rely on my lifestyle.

Though, not everyone’s willing to give up having youth, in order to have youthfulness. What the hell am I talking about? You’re new to this blog, aren’t you?

Once upon a Gen-X time, I used to put a lot of pressure on myself to live exactly the way society—and an overbearing relative—defined as ‘the right way’ to live. And, if I’d lived by those made-up standards, I would’ve felt like a miserable failure. 

However, the Gemini in me soon detected the bullshit that came with others perceptions of rightness. And over time, I’ve discovered my lifestyle has served me well. Of course, like any life-choices, it has its ups and downs. 

Downside? Being perceived as unlucky because I chose not to marry or procreate.

Upside? Being perceived as lucky because I chose not to marry or procreate.

Yah, the spectrum varies, depending on whom you’re talking to, and when. Such as, having to come up with funds to send your brood to college, as opposed to sending yourself to college. 
If you’re sending yourself, you can be pretty sure you won’t be dropping out of classes, and hiding the fact from your parents. 

So, back to ‘I’m knockin’ on forty-five, but look early-thirties’. I think by now, even I’d admit I look more mid-to-late-thirties. Lately I’ve been gaining some gray hair that I’m able to mask with L'Oréal. And a certain amount of pudginess has “smoothed out any wrinkles,” as wise ol’ Mom has suggested. 

In my not-the-least-bit-humble opinion, I've learned a lot from having the time to be introspective. And here's the key:

Your 20s are for discovering true independence…and being stupidly arrogant.

Your 30s are for living the lessons you gained in your 20s…remembering how stupidly arrogant you were.

And your 40s are for laughing at the 20 y/o’s.

It's my tumor, and I'll blog if I want to...

Don't have a strong stomach? Then what the hell are you doin' in here?? Everything can be looked up on the internet, so how d'you think I knew what my own benign fibroid tumor may look like? I Googled it, after all. Wikipedia doesn't always get info wrong.

My surgeon finally came through with the 'sliced-n-scooped-out' pics. My tumor turned out to be way bigger than any grapefruit. This is what 6.7lbs. looks like. (I was told there was a collective gasp in the operating room. I aim to impress...even under anesthesia) Looks like one of those personal basketballs you can get at your fave team's souvenir stores.

Ladies: I only discovered a couple of months ago that I had this, because I thought it was time to go for a full physical exam; being sure everything was okay 'inside'. Imagine my surprise. :O

So, stay attuned to your physical health. :)

                                                                  

But, talk about "Damn!" 

ACHOO...OW!! ACHOO...OW!!

“SIX POUNDS, SEVEN OUNCES! Congratulations!! It’s a benign uterine fibroid tumor! You must be so proud!”

My last conscious memory on Tuesday morning was getting wheeled down the hallway on a gurney, and reminding my mom to wake me up in time for the season finale of 'GRIMM'. As soon as I turned a corner, that’s all she wrote, folks, as the phrase goes. Lights out. So I didn’t have a clue what was going on around me for the next eight hours. George Clooney could’ve been reprising his E.R. role as Dr. Doug Ross, and I still would’ve been in anesthesia La-La-Land.

I had some groggy moments later; flashes of a room of gurney’d folks...medical staff sporting blue scrubs, with faces lit up by computer screens suggested I’d made it through the procedure.

So, I guess having stayed up til nearly 3 a.m., making out my ‘Last Will & Statements’ was moot. But, ya never know. Better safe than sorry. 

After gaining full consciousness, I was pretty much in the moment: tender in the middle of myself, and not feeling quite as ‘scooped out’ as I thought I would be, but knowing I was. The morphine definitely took the edge off, and I liked it up til the point it made me nauseous, thirteen hours later. (And, boy! Does it come on fast!) Also, one doesn't appreciate that incision pain until you have to sneeze. Talk about "Ouch!" :(

The nurses that looked after me were a great bunch. (Mary, Gayle, Bridget, Tamara, Iris, and Katie) And—I beg you to believe me that I’m not 'tooting-my-own-horn' about this—apparently, I was a dream-patient. I wasn’t one of those ‘Call-button-divas’ they dread. (“Bring me more drugs, dammit! I’m in pain!!” “Where’s my Jell-O?!” “Why haven’t I seen my doctor? She said she’d be here!”)  I can only assume that my caregiver background made for a more empathetic and humored approach regarding the staff. IOW, I was able to ‘talk-the-medico-talk’.

And, when it came to my surgeon’s interns needing to do a wound-check of my incision, I was as courteous as one could be toward one of the opposite sex. I’ve always preferred female physicians; regarding my lady-parts, one of my medical-professional requirements is that one must also have lady-parts. So, I dipped into my Downton Abbey lady-like self, and asked the male intern who showed up if he wouldn’t mind “stepping out with my Mom for a moment so that I could consult with the ladies.” 

He got the message. No hard feelings.

I thought I’d be able to go home the next day, but even the hospital has its requirements before you can say Au revoir…and it involves more than just holding down food. But I’ll spare you the graphic details. So, I wrote, read, and watched T.V. with a Zen-like affirmation that any accidental bun-in-the-ovens were a thing of the past.

Where were my visitors though, you ask? There were none, as I was keeping this procedure on the Q.T.  As I said a couple of entries ago, it’s nobody’s damn business by my own. (And what I choose to share in here, of course) Some of my family members tend to be a little too melodramatic about such experiences. (Code for ‘blabber-mouths’)

The after-care instructions are gonna kill me though; no driving for two weeks! Now, how the hell am I gonna get my Starbucks??

Is that Aqua Net I smell?

I wish a tummy-tuck came with a hysterectomy. Then all I'd have is some booty. (And if Sir Mix-a-lot is to be believed, then my self-confidence just sky-rocketed)

I wonder if I'll feel like a Baskin Robbins ice cream bucket after tomorrow? (IOW, scooped out) Come Wednesday, I'll either be back on my laptop and getting spoiled with great coffee and bakery-goodies, or preparing to be cremated. (I gotta remind my family that I'm an organ donor...and I should clear my laptop's browser history!)

I'm told this procedure is so common, that the only real complication would be I've somehow become allergic to anesthesia, which my five-year-old self once identified as hairspray. And, as I've not been under any 'knife' since a tonsillectomy in 1973, it could go either way. (For those of you that find it impossible to believe, a pediatric-tonsillectomy required an overnight stay in the early 70s. Ice cream, and learning how to ride a skateboard in the children's ward soon followed)

I've also learned that, though the physical issue we ladies endure for the sake of procreation will no longer be the monkey on my back, the emotional symptoms of that joyful 'time-of-the-month' will linger; apparently, I still get to have P.M.S. 

Fun.

On the off-chance I end up in Limbo--and not the good kind--I hope my Grandma will forgive me for misplacing her Girl Scouts bracelet, (made of tin-like material, and over 100 years old) that Uncle Rabbie won't shake his head at me for choosing to write borderline-erotica--rather than 'drunken-Scot' odes to roses, and that Grandpa won't be embarrassed that I once found his original copy of 'Joy Of Sex' in the bottom drawer of his bureau.

Of course, this last paragraph will be edited...should I be allowed to keep on NOT procreating....

I'm gonna love the morphine...

I don’t talk to anyone about it. If I could’ve gotten away with keeping it secret, I’d’ve just said I was going to the coast for a couple days. But I don’t live alone, and a medical transport vehicle outside my home wouldn’t go unnoticed. It’s nobody’s damn business, of course. So why do I share it in a blog? Because it’s a place few of my family members know about. Besides, a hysterectomy is so common, and shared by so many, that hiding it will just turn it into a thing. 

I’ve got a great surgeon who’s done a number of them. So, no biggie. The incredible part is, I wouldn’t have known that I needed to have it done.  A 44 y/o, single-n-childfree woman doesn’t get as hounded about her health, apparently. So yah, I came up with the ‘time-to-go-see-your-Doc’ idea all by myself—for the probing, mashing, squashing, “Do you have any questions?” appointment we ladies all keep.

I thought the mildly blundered Pap smear was because I tensed up. (I’d had a venti mocha Frappuccino earlier that day, and it occurred to me while I was in the stirrups that my bladder may fail me at an inconvenient moment)

But when your Doc expresses concern, you do what she says. So, you go to a referred specialist, where things can be made much clearer. And, there’s no room for mystery when I’m told that I’ve been carrying around a uterine fibroid tumor the size of honeydew melon, and that a sub-total hysterectomy will cure my ills.

So, why don’t I want to tell people who are supposed to know me best? Because, much as I love them, I’ll still roll my eyes when they’ll comment on the one thing they knew I never cared about for the past 20+ years.

“You do know, if you have that done, you won’t be able to have kids, right?” 

If I have it done? As if it’s as elective as a boob-job. And, by the way, medical science has taught us that for every year after the age of 35, a woman’s chances of giving birth to a child with special needs is far greater. The crazy part is, I still hear of women my age having babies.

So, though I’ll sound loony, my opinion of well-meaning peoples comments of my impending barrenness is, if you don’t know what to say, get creative. I’d prefer comedy over condolences. Tell me that having a hysterectomy will up my keyboarding speed. (Then, maybe I’ll have a shot at that office-job)

So far, only one kindred-spirit I’ve told has joked with me about it; she's had the same procedure, so she strongly suggested I ask my surgeon to weigh the tumor, once it’s removed.

“Then you’ll know instantly how much weight you lost. That’s a great recovery attitude.”  She laughed. Apparently, her tumor’s size was similar to how mine is now. She lost 3.7 lbs.

Recovery at home will be fun; I’ve already been promised that no bullshit will cross my path. And I’ve assured the few people who’re in-the-know that my demeanor will be far merrier, should I be plied with bakery-goods and great coffee.

Uncle Rabbie

Humid seal of soft affections,
Tend'rest pledge of future bliss,
Dearest tie of young connections,
Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss.

Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Passion's birth, and infants' play,
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day.

Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,
Ling'ring lips, -- no more to join!
What words can ever speak affection
Thrilling and sincere as thine!

~ Robert Burns, 'To A Kiss'

Saguaro

In temperatures drier than dry,

cracked earth surrounded you

when I first approached.

You were painful to the unguarded touch.

And yet, ugly, circling fowl have perched themselves,

unhindered, on your tower.

Mountains of dusty rock in the distance

seem unreal to my vision.

A miraged reality.

How did you evolve in this sunburnt land?

You absorb soil that renders no life,

but what was created by evolution.

You’re thinned body holds its arms out

in comical fashions.

And yet, there’s no one else for miles

to see you miming man-kind.

So you stand there, waiting for the seasons to change.

Waiting for the life-giving nutrients that always come,

just when you feel you’re at an end. 

The skies turn.

Gray, and natural.

The burning yellow light is replaced

with flashes of white fire, and echoed cacophony.

Wet patter sounds at your base,

and soon you’ll evolve, too.

You’ll grow fat and thick

from trickles of moisture.

And when the land is blanketed

thin with icy white,

you’ll drink that in, too.

Gorging yourself on what won’t return,

until you are once again at your thirstiest. 

Unnaturally natural blooms emerged from you,

when the sun came out.

Opening their petals to the light, absorbing its power,

and dressed you in an Easter fashion.

But when twilight’s brilliant firmament hung from the heavens,

your decoration huddled closed, saying goodnight, and goodbye.

Refusing to reveal itself again until a year had passed,

leaving you alone and naked once more,

to the morning sun’s heat.

Small, colorful raptors flew for miles,

stopping to suckle your fattened body.

They drank their fill, caring not for your own survival,

before resuming their journeys.

You are their rest-stop in this barren land.

But you don’t complain,

because you continue to exist.

Even after the sun melts you,

and rots your decoration.

It’s nature at its recycled finest.

Gram

     It's human nature to feel pissed off, or hurt, to think we may have been dismissed or forgotten by those we love. It takes a strong character, and an understanding nature, to know, deep down, that the neglect may come from displaced sadness.

     My grandmother's memory was not up to par in the last years of her life. When her grandchildren were small, she knew them. She knew their birthdays. She knew they would visit three times a week for lemonade, and special-recipe chocolate-chip cookies, on a balmy, southern day. She knew she would see them in Sunday school. The grandchildren knew she could be found sitting in her La-Z-boy chair, working her puzzle-books in her air-conditioned home. Gram's sweet smile would appear on sight, recognizing her grandchildren.

     When the day came that Gram began to look at them with confusion, they no longer knew her. I didn’t need to remind myself that, though she no longer remembered me, she still loved me. She still loved all her family. However, being asked “Now, who are you?” was a blow to my younger cousins hearts. They felt forgotten and dismissed, and so in turn, chose to forget and dismiss. But I would be a bridge between my grandmother and her grandchildren. I made them swallow their pain.

     "She may not recognize you, but she knows you." I told them. I always tripped up the ones that had escape in their eyes. "Just remember that Karma can be a bitch. If you run from her, you'll also be run from when it's your turn to become forgetful." 

     Of the outings we'd take, there was always one important day a month in which I got Gram out of the house, and out for a drive. To see the world beyond her television, her picture-books, and the four brick walls of her comfy home. A visit to the doctor's office. Gram doesn't remember who the woman in the spanking white lab coat is. But as I'm with her, and she's greeted with a smile, then all’s right with the world.

     When we leave, I see the looks on others faces in the doctor's office waiting room. I can read in their eyes that they admire my caring for my grandmother, and it's nice to be acknowledged. But I discovered long ago that the only affirmations I sought were Gram's 'thank-you's'.

     As cushy as my car-seats are, it's my opinion that her years have earned her the right to a soft pillow for her backside. And though she doesn't comprehend a McDonald's drive-thru window, the supplying of a fruit juice cup with a straw brings a grin.

     When we arrive at my uncle's garage business to visit, he jogs out to greet us. Even 'Old Uncle Willie', a seventy-year-old black man that's been in business with my uncle since the 1960's.

     I'm perceptive enough to know that I'm years ahead in acquiring the title of 'salty ol` dame' in my extended family's opinions. My younger cousins, who work for their dad during the summer, are pretending to be blind to our visit. They don't really want me to take away their blindfolds. But they know I will.

     With a high-pitched whistle that would put a construction worker to shame, I rally my cousins to drop what they're doing and visit the national monument that is their one-hundred-year-old relative. They can cringe all they want about greeting someone that doesn't remember them. But experience has already taught me what they'll soon learn; moments like this will come to an end, and they'll be left with a heart full of 'I should'ves'. On the heels of Uncle Willie's hug, they follow in turn to reach into the air-conditioned car and give Gram a sweaty embrace.

     "Hey Gramma! It's good to see you again," my cousin says, and wiped the sweat from her brow.

     Gram may not remember her name, but I know the hug felt wonderful to her. She presumes they're related. "Oh...it's good seeing you, too. Oh my! It's very warm today, isn't it? You must be working very hard." 

     "Yeah, yeah I am. Maybe I should come over later and get some of that lemonade you always make." 

     "Oh yes." Gram says, and smiles at the presumption that it was something she did just that morning.

     I don't know whether to just smile right through the whole farce, and simply file it away with Gram's short-term memory, or give my cousin a swift kick in the ass for playing the lemonade-memory card. I know she won't come by later, and she knows that I know. For a brief second, I feel that sting of being shrugged off; that my cousin never has to worry about Gram. Gram is cared for, and lives in her own world. She doesn't remember to feel hurt at not having visitors. But what my cousin forgets, is that I don't forget. Where are my visitors? 

     As quickly as the moment comes, I make it disappear. It's one thing to build up an immunity to a person suffering from a legit disease. But it's another to be forgotten by those in their right mind. I know in my heart I'm stronger than my cousins. I've never taken it personally that Gram constantly forgets who I am, and how I'm related to her, despite being with her everyday.

     Anyway, this visit wasn't for my sake. (Although, some intelligent chatting is greatly appreciated) It was for Gram, and for my family. If Mohammed won't come to the mountain, the mountain comes to them.

     Back at home, I settle her in for a nap, allowing me a couple of hours to run over to the Winn-Dixie. Steaks are on sale. I always buy a small cut and cook it up for us and my uncle on the weekend, who hangs out on the couch and leafs through the Real Estate section of the bloated Sunday newspaper.

     Drifting down the baking goods aisle, I’m scanning the shelves for the red velvet cake mix that I’ve got a coupon for, when I feel a gentle smack on the back of my arm. I look over to see my second-cousin, Sara, with her two babies. Real toe-heads, the three of them. 

     "S`up Cuz?" I ask, and grin.

     "Not my tits, that's for sure,” she snort-laughs.

     I laugh with her, but her self-deprecating remark is why I chose never to get knocked up. Her mom let it spill that Sara's pregnant, again.

     "Yeah, you can say farewell to them ever bein’ perky again." 

     "How's Gramma?" She shifts Brant, her two-year-old, from one hip to the other. 

     "She's good. How ‘bout you? Married life still blissful?" 

     "So long as I'm poppin’ out sons," she replied, followed by a smirk.

     I expressed a sympathetic eye-roll, because we both know she’s right; Southern men pride themselves on producing male offspring. Brant begins to give a bored whine. His six-month-old baby brother, Dylan, in the shopping-cart carrier, starts to follow suit.

     "O-kay, okay. We'll get home soon," she croons to them, before turning back to me with that expression that says she craves just as much adult-time as I do. It occurred to me awhile back that only a 22-year-old mother of two, with another on the way, would understand my plight. A quick hug, and she's off to the 'no-candy' cashier lane.

     Despite being my grandmother's primary caregiver, with few opportunities to leave the house on a whim, Sara suddenly makes me feel much freer, and I allow myself ten extra minutes to scan the books and magazines display, passing up 'vanilla-reading' book-covers. One book's description promises me a whole new take on vampires, so I drop it in my shopping cart.

      As soon as I walk through the carport-door, my Chihuahua, Taco, is scrambling about my feet, greeting me with that “Feed me, Seymour,” look in her big, brown eyes. After a quick peek on Gram, I 'guess-timate' I've got another twenty minutes to myself before she'll wake up. That is, so long as Taco's fed. Her whining for Beggin` Strips begins the moment I take the package out of the cupboard. 

     "Chut! Taisez-vous!" I whispered. It made my uncle laugh the first time he ever heard me scold her in French. But funny enough, she gets the disciplining cues. She sits on her haunches and licks her lips. She's earned two Beggin` Strips. 

     "Hoo-hoo," I hear from down the hall. Guess I don't have the twenty minutes after all. But I soon find out why. "I...I think...I've had an..." 

     Gram can't bring herself to say she had an accident. But I just smile at her. "No worries, Gram. I'll get you into a bath, then I'll make you a hot dinner." It comforts her mind that I don't treat her incontinence as a crisis. Taco dislikes being alone, so she hangs out with us in the bathroom while I bathe and dress Gram in fresh clothes. 

     In the middle of dinner, my Da calls from Portland. I put Gram on the line because I know their chat will be short—like her memory for who she's supposed to be talking to. Needless to say, she's thrilled to hear her son's voice. 

     He's aware of how her evening ends; tucked into bed with her puzzle-books and Bible. We've turned bed-time into a game.

     "Gram, do you remember who I am?"  

     "Well, no. Are we related?"  

     "Yes. I'm Norm's daughter." 

     "Oh, really?" 

     "Do you remember my name?"

     "Well..." 

     "It's Jenn-" 

     "Lawson!" she would say hastily, and smile. Her short-term memory challenging her long-term memory, but remembering just enough.   

     "That's right. And your prize will be sliced strawberries on your cereal tomorrow." 

     "Oh, that would be good. Perhaps some toast?"  

     "And coffee?" 

     She looks at me with confusion again, but it's not due to her memory-loss. It's due to mine. 

     "Sorry...I meant tea." 

     She grins. "Good."