My Flight Log - A Little Late

As I sit in my window seat on a flight to London for one of my dearest friends weddings, I start to see the sun rise on the horizon. I was hoping the sun would be up so I could see Ireland as we flee over, but no such luck this time. Yesterday was St. Patricks Day, a day that was sacred in our house growing up. Although most people wouldn't have guessed it right off the bat my mom was 100% Irish. I think her grandmother came over during the famine. In hindsight, I wish I had named my dughter McKenna, after my great-grandmother. I love that name and I think it would suit my crazy little lady.

I had talked about making his trip for months before my mom died or before we knew she was even sick, so I hope hat where ever she is she knows I'm going. This trip is serving more than just one purpose. I get to see one of my best friends marry a man that makes her so happy ands that gives me so much joy it's hard to put into words. But this time also gives me a chance to be alone. This is be first time I'm away from my daughter since she was born. It's been a very long two years. And since my mom died I've been so focused on everything else around me - my dad, my sister, my job, my daughter - that I will finally be distraction free and a fable to grieve as much or as little as it want to.

I brought with me the pictures I gave the funeral home for her wake; they did this wonderful video of all the pictures we found. She looked so happy in pretty much all of them; one of my favorites was her with her friends back in the 50s in Coney Island. She had a drink in her hand. That was my mom.  I brought them because I haven't been able to get myself to look at them since and I think I need to. I tried once. That ended with me in tears after one or two pictures. I think looking at them, remembering her face ands some do the good times will be a catharsis for me, at least on some level. I need to remember her face, I can't forget what she looked like. When I got married in 1999, when my sister got married in 1998, when my daughter was born - these were all happy events and I want to remember her happy. I don't want to always remember how sick she was and her voice when she told he oncologist in the ER that she was afraid to be sick because she had a grand daughter that she had to be well for. That's not a memory I want in he forefront t of my brain anymore.

Home Away From Home is Just a Meal Away

This morning, I am having a late breakfast in Notting Hill. It's a nice, neighborhood place full of locals. It's 11:25 but the place is packed; I was lucky to get a seat. I came here specifically for the ricotta hotcakes and I am hopeful that they will live up to their internet-based reputation.

A place like this, that is full of families, couples and friends makes me long for the company of mine. I would love to sit here with my girls, my "wimmens" as we call each other. We could occupy one of the larger tables by the front window for hours, drinking coffee, bloody Mary's, wine, and eating everything we could get our hands on between laughs and outbursts that would be hard to blend into the rumble of other conversations and may disturb every diner around us. It wouldn't be the first time we did that. In college, we scared away many people that sat adjacent to our table. We were often so loud that the tales of our miscellaneous shenanigans could be heard on the other side of the dining hall; we had some juicy and some silly shenanigans to share those days. These days it's tales of children's schools and report cards, our jobs, our relationships, our divorces, deaths, illnesses.  Gone are the days of drunken nights with boys that gave out free beer at the bar where the boy that we had a crush on was playing with his band. Man were those great days.

(Just a side-note: as I typed "great"in the last sentence, I had a typo that caused the word to auto correct to the name "Greg". That wasn't the name of the boy in the band, but he was a part of many a tale that haunt me still....I will always wonder what happened to that beautiful blue-eyed boy.)

So many people would hate a place like this. The noise, the annoyingly sweet couple sitting directly in front of me holding hands and talking closely as they lean towards each other over their plates of food, the obnoxious and pretentious woman next to me that insisted on plugging in her iPhone so she could get phone calls about reserving a villa somewhere fabulous because she just doesn't travel enough.  But I love it. I love the noise and sharing the personal experience of a meal. Sitting alone in a room like this isn't lonely at all. Here, I am part of the larger group.  A part of the crowd that has gathered here to share a meal, share stories and experiences; the highs ands lows of their days. Here feels like home.

Alone in the Dark

Today, I am in London on vacation all by myself. It's an odd feeling. I'm alone for the first time in two years. There are moments, like when I saw the family with the little girl at Hampton Court, when I just miss the hell out of my family so much that it brings me to tears. And there are also moments, like when I was able to sleep until almost 9am, when I have been grateful for the solitude.

I spent a lot of time walking the grounds at Hampton Court today. It truly is one of the most beautiful and serene places I have ever been to. In one of the gardens, not the formal ones, there were a number of magnolia trees. We had one in our yard when I was growing up; as far as I know it's still there. My mother loved that tree & wanted to take it with her when they moved. I took a number of pictures today of those trees, just for her. I know she would have enjoyed the pictures of the gardens and of the palace.  As much as she hated the English - she was very Irish - she loved their history. She would have loved this trip. She wouldn't have been able to come, her legs weren't in the best shape even before the cancer, but she would have enjoyed my stories. It sucks that I have to tell them to a ghost now.

Tonight I saw Wicked, which was brilliant. I've always wanted to see it and seeing it here in the West End was actually cheaper than Broadway. I had forgotten about this song, a song that is sung between the two main characters - the good and bad witches - and it's about being a better person having known one another. At first, I thought of my best friend from college. She died almost five years ago in a car accident. I am a better person because of her. I don't know if I had ever laughed that hard before I knew her, or if I had truly trusted and leaned on anyone before her. Not a day goes by that I don't miss her and wish I could see her one more time. She was funny, a brilliant singer - although flat a lot (unlike her chest...those were big boobs), she was kind and thoughtful and the day she died I found out what it felt like to loose a sister. That song also made me think of my mom. I am a better person because I knew her, as well. I wouldn't be this person good or bad, if it hadn't been for her - good or bad. I wouldn't have this grey streak in my hair and I wouldn't be as independent and strong if it wasn't for her. Not a day has gone by that I haven't missed her and wished for just one more day, one more phone call, just one more chance so I could tell her I love her.

As they sang that song, I sat there and cried in the dark. I cried because I miss them both so very much. I know that no amount of tears will bring either of them back. But for tonight, and for that song, it brought me some comfort to let the sadness out. All alone, in a darkened theater, where no one knew me or the reason for my tears. Sometimes, comfort isn't found with those you know. Sometimes, you need to sit with strangers so you can comfort yourself.

Known Only as His Wife

My mom always hated that she was referred to as “Angelo’s wife”.  There were many instances when that’s how she was introduced; there were times when she wasn’t even given a first name.  Plenty of people in the parish and around town only knew her by that moniker.  And she hated it.  I think every year it got a little bit more painful for her because she complained more and more about it.  She thought it would be gone, for the most part, when they moved away but that didn’t last very long. As my dad became involved in his new parish and in his new community, it came back.  And then, she died.  And on the homepage of our home parish was the announcement of her funeral mass – “Eileen O., wife of Angelo”.

My dad was quite the presence at that church, and is one in his new parish.  Everyone knew my dad at the old parish and because of that, everyone knew us.  I still remember when the boy I was kind of dating in high school, who knew my dad for many years because he was an alter server and worked in the parish office, found out that was my father.  We had been dropped off at church after a youth group activity and he saw my dad; I remember saying “oh, there’s my dad now” and his face went white.  He was a very tall, very Italian boy so for him to go white was pretty impressive.  The sound of his voice when he said, “THAT’S your DAD?” was something that remains with me still, and it still makes me giggle like the 15 or 16 year old girl I was then.  I was his daughter, she was his wife, that’s just how we were known.  But she never liked it.  My mom was very independent, which was a rarity for women her age, and I think that’s what caused some of her struggles.  She wanted to go to college, but couldn’t.  She wanted to have a job, but couldn’t.  She wanted a lot more out of her life than what was allowed because of the time that she was born in.  And that’s a shame.  I hope that legacy is one that never gets revived; much like bell bottom jeans, it belongs in the past or in the bottom of someone’s closet collecting dust. 

I hope that she knew, or knows, that she was never just Angelo’s wife to us.  As my  mom, well, she was my mom.   She wasn’t the typical or TV mom that everyone wishes they had.  We never had a heart-to-heart conversation, she never sat with me as I cried over a broken heart.   Hell she didn’t even tell me about the birds and the bees; she asked I had learned about it at school but that’s as far as that conversation went.  But she was there with shock and amazement when I told her I was pregnant, she was there with the phone next to the bed every night as my due date approached and she was there to listen when I called to tell her and my dad that my best friend from college was killed in a car accident along with her mom and her aunt.  She was there as best she could be; I wonder now if she had ever really wanted to be a mom.  She wasn’t the most maternal woman in the world.  When I sit on the couch in the morning with my daughter, enjoying the quiet snuggles that we share, I can’t imagine her doing that with any of us.  Maybe my brother because he was the first, but I wonder if she only wanted children because that’s what everyone wanted and did back then.  Everyone got married young, had a family, the woman stayed home and the man worked.  That’s just what you did.  I hope that my daughter never feels like she has to conform to some social norm like my mom did.  I have to wonder if my mom would have turned out to be a different person, a happier person, had she followed her dreams instead of expectations.

A sign is sometimes just a sign

Every morning I drive past at least two or three signs for the hospital that is around the corner and down the street from both my office and Emily’s daycare.  It is the hospital that my sister and I decided my mom should be admitted into; they are affiliated with, and have in-house, a very well rated Oncology program.  We thought it was the best place for her so we could get her connected to a good Oncologist right off the bat (she did see one in the ER and he was wonderful).  In hindsight, I realize that it didn’t matter what hospital she was admitted into. I think somehow her body knew that it was okay to let go once she was admitted; she could easily have gone into respiratory failure at home. But that would have meant a traumatic (well, more traumatic) experience for my dad which I think she didn’t want.  She might have died had it happened at home, especially if it was that night since it snowed and the roads weren’t plowed until the next morning.

Driving past those signs every day used to be routine; occasionally I would wonder what it was like for people who had loved ones there, or had loved ones that passed away there.  And now, I know.  It’s hard some days, seeing those blue and white signs pointing me to the last place I saw my mom alive and happy.  She had a good, although sometimes not so nice, sense of humor and it was good to see her laugh that night before she went into respiratory failure.  She was in a good mood, actually ate her dinner and actually wanted to eat dinner which was a first in a long time.  I also saw some joy on her face that Saturday, when she was lucid enough to look at pictures of my daughter.  Those memories are happy ones and I hope that they pop up along with those hospital signs more often than the other memories I have of our time there.

The memories that pop up when I see that hospital sign tend to be some of the more mundane ones.  Standing at the window by the snack machines in the waiting room for ICU, just waiting for someone else to come up or waiting there so my dad could have some time alone with her.  Standing at that window, watching the snow or rain fall, talking on the phone to my best friend as he did what he could to make me laugh – we joked a lot about the quality of snacks there in the waiting room.  Personally I am a strong believer in high quality beverages and snacks in the ICU waiting room but it would seem that hospitals don’t agree with me.  I remember weird stuff like that, along with all of the other stuff that I do my best to not remember.  Being the first one at the hospital after she was put on the respirator, being the one there to talk to the doctor about her condition and lack of improvement, watching my dad sit by her bedside day after day hoping for a miracle, all the stuff that you really don’t want to remember but your body forces you to in order to grieve and move on.  I know that I’ll always remember those days but I hope they become hazy after a while.  They’re pretty bright and clear right now, much like those hospital signs I pass daily, and I’d like them all to fade out so they are a fuzzy blue blob behind me.

Mantra'ing

Today will be a good day…..today will be a good day……today WILL be a good day….

That was my mantra until about 8:35am.

Then, Come on Eileen came on the radio as soon as I dropped off Emily at daycare.  She HATED that song with such passion, it’s hard to describe.  Her name was Eileen (it’s hard to say “was” instead of “is” in that sentence; to me, that’s still her name and it always will be but I guess the right verb to use is past-tense instead of present at this point)  and when a song finally came out with her name in it, I think her words were – “A song with my name finally comes out after all these years and it’s trash” or something along those lines.  Knowing my mother she probably used a more colorful word than “trash”; I am pretty sure she used to snarl when it came on the radio, that’s how much she hated it.  Hearing it was hard. My first reaction was to turn it off, just ignore it, but I left it on.  Listened to the whole thing with a pit in my stomach.  And then, a song by the Electric Light Orchestra – ELO – came on.  ELO happens to be my daughter’s initials.  I think it’s just coincidence, I don’t think this was my mom coming through to me via the 80s station on my satellite radio. But it still made me sad.  Not regular sad…..just blah kind of sad.  It’s that feeling that something sucks really badly, but there is nothing you can do about it so you’re just gonna deal with being sad, maybe cry a little bit (with your head down, in your car, sitting in the parking lot outside of your office, just for example), and then move past it.  And that’s what I’m trying to do now, at 9:39am at my desk.  Move past it and return to my mantra (with a slight change) – the REST of the day will be a good day…the REST of the day will be a good day.

And overall it wasn't too bad. I got some work done, I picked up my daughter and happily brought her home and had a nice family dinner with her and Rob. It might not have been a happy or "good" day, but it certainly wasn't bad or evil  I'll take it. 

Long Day - Is My Brain on Vaca Without Me??

This morning started at around 4:15, with Emily whining and asking for both of us…”dada…..daaaaada….mom…..mooooma….mom….dad…..”.  Hearing that in the darkness is not a welcoming sound, even when she sounds happy and giggles between the different requests.  She drifted in and out of sleep, and me along with her, until about 5:45 at which time I got up to get her. She sat in the middle of her crib, and giggled when I walked in as if to say “haha woman, I win!”.  She’s lucky she’s so stinking cute on days like this or she would have been sold to the Amish a very long time ago.

I cried in the shower this morning, good and hard.  I think it was a combination of things – exhaustion, feeling like I had to be everything to everyone (mommy and caregiver, partner (and caregiver), dedicated employee that would be on the top of her game and present to an important audience today on only a few hours of sleep) and thoughts from the prior day.  I know that I shouldn’t get fixated on Easter, her birthday, my birthday but damn it is hard not to.  The past few days have just been consuming with thoughts of that empty chair at the dining room table and the lack of my annual birthday phone call.  I know I shouldn’t let it take over my brain; no good ever comes of it but I do it anyway.  Kind of like when you were a freshmen in college and you knew you shouldn’t hang out with the guy that’s walking around giving out free beers, but you do it anyway and when you wake up the next morning sick as a dog and unable to remember your own name.  You knew it was a bad idea, you knew what the next day would bring, but you did it because you were there (and hey, what freshmen is gonna pass up free beer???).

I’m not trying to insinuate that I’m a glutton for punishment; although there are days that make me wonder if that’s my problem.  I dwell and dwell and can’t let go of something until it’s driven me to the point of uncontrollable sobbing.  I try to let go and get passed certain things – like remembering her waiting for us every Thursday and how she couldn’t wait to see Emily, remembering what she looked like that day at the doctor’s when I knew it was bad and what it felt like in that moment to know that she was on borrowed time – but there are things, new things, all the time and that’s tough to deal with some days.  Almost every day I think of something she will miss, or I remember something that makes me miss her more, and that’s hard.  I get beat up day after day by my own mind and my own emotions and I can only get hit so many times before I start to hit back, and those are my bad days. 

I am doing my best to find joy where ever I can.  My daughter, thankfully, is a big goofball and keeps me laughing.  Just last night, she figured out how to tumble (I think my mom would have called it “ass over tea-kettle” – which I just remembered she used to say) and that had me in stitches.  I was so proud,  you would think she had just won a gold medal at the Olympics.  She’s funny and smart and absolutely beautiful and she is my joy (just as she was my mom’s).  I try to find joy in sitting on the couch with Rob at the end of the day, quietly watching some stupid TV show together.  I try to even find joy while I’m at work – even if it means the only joy is the music that’s popping up on my iphone (one of my favorites – Marry Me by Train is on right now).  I miss just being happy because I’m naturally happy in my life; happiness shouldn’t be this hard to find.  Sometimes I don’t find it at all and those are my most miserable days; thankfully I haven’t had one of those in a bit.  But still, I don’t expect them to be gone.  It’s been two months today and yet, it feels as if it hasn’t even happened yet.  Today, it just doesn’t feel real but also feels all too real at the same time.  When I talk about my parents, I sometimes have to correct myself and say “my dad” instead of “my parents” because I don’t have two of them anymore.  And even as I write those words, there is still this part of my brain that’s saying “WHAT?? What do you mean you don’t have two of them anymore????” as if that part of my brain was in the Caribbean on a beach somewhere (being fanned by a hot pool boy) for those two weeks.  If a part of my brain was on a beach with  a hot pool boy and it left the rest of me here, man, I am going to put that brain part on punishment pronto.