Quiet please!
A family friend forwarded an e-mail recently following the release of Time Magazine's "Are you mom enough" cover photo of a mother breast feeding a toddler. The e-mail this educated, worldly, and successful business executive sent contained a parody of the Time cover showing President Obama suckling on George Clooney with some commentary on the fundraising event Clooney held for the president's reelection campaign. It was a sophomoric joke at best which I could have deleted and forgotten knowing that the sender and I are simply of different political persuations. However, it is not the politics I object to as much as the mean spirit behind the jokes and the assumption that I would automatically agree with the content. I realize the irony of my indignation given my appreciation for a good Governor Palin joke or President Bush quote; "I've been misunderestimated" is one of my favorites. In this instance I opted for a polite and matter of fact reply to the sender requesting that he not forward any more e-mails of this nature for the simple reason that no response would indicate implicit agreement with the content and/or the context.
Yesterday a neighbor had their first pool party of the season. This neighbor's property is adjacent to our development and therefore not subject to the HOA. Their parties are dreaded events for those of us in the vicinity. Ordinarily I really don't care about my neighbors musical preferences, but when the walls in our home vibrate from the bass and the kids can clearly make out Snoop Dog's lyrics from inside the house, I get upset. So we do what all the neighbors do every year and call the cops who patiently explain that there is nothing they can do until 10:00 PM; and even then, all they can do is ask these folks to turn the music down. I tried a different angle this time and asked if we had any recourse given the profanity but all we can do is press charges which comes at a high, high cost. I'm all for free speech, but I feel very strongly about the kids being exposed to mysoginistic and belligerant garbage in our home. Nothing can be done through official channels and even if there was, the neighbors are politically connected. The kids were surprised when we called the police; they were shocked that nothing could be done. In this case, I could not reply to sender with a polite note. It is getting more and more difficult to disconnect from the noise pollution influx of angry, racist, sexist and hateful speech. The officer we spoke with explained that profanity is subjective; Larry Flynt would be very proud. Really, some of the lyrics contained words my kids have not heard me utter even in the heaviest of traffic...
Yesterday morning our church held a lovely Pentecost service complete with baptisms and confirmations. We came home once again refreshed and in awe of all the good we are blessed to witness. As our day came to a close Jake and I were literally red with anger and had a discussion about how is it even possible to love the unlovable neighbors. We also spoke about our social responsibility in terms of the noise. I refuse to accept that there is no recourse; how is it possible that it is acceptable to expose kids to pornographic material in audible form, in their home, and despite the objections of their parents? It will take some time to research, but I will find out.
Ⓒ 2012 Patricia Vivó-Aucoin
525,600 Minutes
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Tomorrow marks a year since mom's death. The journey of grief never ends, but there comes a time where the pain and longing begin to balance out with thankfulness and good memories. I'm not sure when that moment will come, but the good memories are replacing those of her slow demise.
In my mind's eye, when I think of mom, I remember her with a wide smile and open arms waiting to receive Jacob and Grace into her arms- kind of like the iconic picture of Princess Diana a moment before embracing her young boys. In my heart, I feel her joy and her loving arms around me just like in the photo above. Dad gave this framed picture to Grace a few weeks back when we last met. He asked that she always keeps it. He sees some of me in her now, and I sure hope to reflect some of mom. Just a glimmer of her faithfulness and joy would be enough.
She made the dress I am wearing in the pictures and I remember it vividly: red and white flowers against a navy blue background with lace down the front and a red band around the waist. This was sometime circa "Little House on the Prairie" when friends and I traded Holly Hobbie and Love Is stickers. We could not quite get the hair right, but by golly, she sure tried by putting my hair in pink foam rollers. It is these memories of the extraordinary ordinary times that keep me company now and I can't help but feel gratitude and warmth.
After the death of his wife Helen, C.S. Lewis wrote in A Grief Observed "Do I hope that if feeling disguises itself as thought I shall feel less? Aren't all these notes the senseless writhings of a man who won't accept the fact that there is nothing we can do with suffering except to suffer it? Who still thinks there is some device (if only he could find it) which will make pain not to be pain. It doesn't really matter whether you grip the arms of the dentist's chair or let your hands lie in your lap. The drill drills on." Thankfully, the drill goes on only for a season and gives way to the love and laughter that always remain.
I hope there is a big celebration in Heaven tomorrow to mark her homecoming.
Te adoro Ma.
Rebecca
It has been so long since I posted that I've lost the link/password/archive or whatever it was that I did to get on this thing in the first place. However it seems appropriate to post something today, and somehow I managed to recover the blog. It is mom's birthday today, the first since her death. Dad spent the day undergoing medical testing after a scare; and we both sit in remembrance, sadness and concern half a continent away from each other.
Only six months have passed since mom died; and some days it feels like a lifetime ago, but most of the time her absence slaps me in the face when I automatically reach for the phone to share something the kids said or did or just to catch up. I miss her voice, her hugs, her loving presence. I miss seeing my kids through her eyes; God, she loved them so. They miss her, of course, but I think they are more baffled by the whole process of grieving than by the process of dying.
Grace told me that we should be happy for her because she is with God, even if it is sad for us. Simple, concise and true. Jacob does not know what to do when he sees me cry and upset because I miss her so. No stiff upper lip for me, thank you. I refuse to hide the tears and the pain from the children or anyone who is uncomfortable (read chicken) to see what grief looks like up close. We also share in the joy and laughter that inevitably comes from living with children. Hopefully the kids will learn that there are times in life that are painful, when it is acceptable to cry, laugh and verbalize one's feelings. The important lesson is to continue to get up each morning and greet each new day for the gift that it is and roll with the contradictions.
Recently we traveled to Mexico for mom's memorial mass and my father's birthday. Ten long years had passed since my last visit, and this last one was tough. It is interesting to listen to the kids speak of the place I once called home. Home... To those of us who were born in one place, raised in another, and moved around to a half dozen cities, home really is wherever you happen to be at the time. Home for me is our bitty town; one part Peyton Place and one part Mayberry. What is interesting about this to me is how one place can be two things at the same time, the same it seems, is true of people.
There was a woman who was in the same nursing home as mom who haunts my memories of that time. She was beautiful still, always dressed neatly with her hair neatly pulled back in an elegant chignon. She was very polite and pleasant during the day. At night however, her ghosts came out and she would scream incessantly for hours. She carried so much pain inside that I suppose it had to come out somehow. Of her two daughters, one would come occasionally on the weekends tired and weary and listen to the complaints from the nurses. Word on the floor was that the other daughter would not visit her mother. Some unforgivable offense stood in her way. I think of Rebecca and her daughters often. Not so much because of the disturbing memories of her and the sad circumstances, but because my mom would ask me to go and help that poor woman. Unfortunately there was little I could do other than pray and harass the hell out of the nursing staff to do something for her. Even in the haze of her own pain and disease, mom's heart and spirit were strong enough to beseech aid for another.
Happy birthday mom, I remember.
Ⓒ 2012 Patricia Vivó-Aucoin
Only six months have passed since mom died; and some days it feels like a lifetime ago, but most of the time her absence slaps me in the face when I automatically reach for the phone to share something the kids said or did or just to catch up. I miss her voice, her hugs, her loving presence. I miss seeing my kids through her eyes; God, she loved them so. They miss her, of course, but I think they are more baffled by the whole process of grieving than by the process of dying.
Grace told me that we should be happy for her because she is with God, even if it is sad for us. Simple, concise and true. Jacob does not know what to do when he sees me cry and upset because I miss her so. No stiff upper lip for me, thank you. I refuse to hide the tears and the pain from the children or anyone who is uncomfortable (read chicken) to see what grief looks like up close. We also share in the joy and laughter that inevitably comes from living with children. Hopefully the kids will learn that there are times in life that are painful, when it is acceptable to cry, laugh and verbalize one's feelings. The important lesson is to continue to get up each morning and greet each new day for the gift that it is and roll with the contradictions.
Recently we traveled to Mexico for mom's memorial mass and my father's birthday. Ten long years had passed since my last visit, and this last one was tough. It is interesting to listen to the kids speak of the place I once called home. Home... To those of us who were born in one place, raised in another, and moved around to a half dozen cities, home really is wherever you happen to be at the time. Home for me is our bitty town; one part Peyton Place and one part Mayberry. What is interesting about this to me is how one place can be two things at the same time, the same it seems, is true of people.
There was a woman who was in the same nursing home as mom who haunts my memories of that time. She was beautiful still, always dressed neatly with her hair neatly pulled back in an elegant chignon. She was very polite and pleasant during the day. At night however, her ghosts came out and she would scream incessantly for hours. She carried so much pain inside that I suppose it had to come out somehow. Of her two daughters, one would come occasionally on the weekends tired and weary and listen to the complaints from the nurses. Word on the floor was that the other daughter would not visit her mother. Some unforgivable offense stood in her way. I think of Rebecca and her daughters often. Not so much because of the disturbing memories of her and the sad circumstances, but because my mom would ask me to go and help that poor woman. Unfortunately there was little I could do other than pray and harass the hell out of the nursing staff to do something for her. Even in the haze of her own pain and disease, mom's heart and spirit were strong enough to beseech aid for another.
Happy birthday mom, I remember.
Advent
The stresses on our family are heavy now. But every day we get up and put one foot in front of the other and keep going. Today at church we celebrated Christ the King Sunday as we prepare for the beginning of Advent. Two babies were baptized and my son was presented with his Bible. It was an uplifting service and I was happy to be there; no longer feeling afraid to go to church with a sometimes heavy heart and tears brimming in my eyes. Once in the Sanctuary, I am focused on worship and giving thanks, not so much on the illness and death surrounding my loved ones. I know this peace is God's doing and not my own.
Last Sunday on my drive home I was enveloped in heavy fog. The roads were not lit and the high beams and fog lights provided scant visibility. I turned on the hazard lights in case another driver came up suddenly behind me and kept my eyes focused on the white lines delineating the lanes on the road. Looking into the rearview mirror all I saw was solid darkness. Looking ahead, there was only fog. But I had the trusty lines on the road guiding me home.
I trust that God's Word will guide me in His ways during these times of grief and challenge. My friends and family see the red flashing hazard lights and approach with love and care. Despite all the sadness I am immensely grateful for the love and light that surrounds me.
The Gospel lesson in today's service was from the first chapter of Luke, and concluded with these words: "By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace."
To Zion
A few weeks back we sang one of my favorite hymns at church and I was quite taken aback during my last visit to my mom at the Jewish nursing home when I overheard the hymn, my hymn, playing over the loudspeakers in the garden overlooked by her room. That day was Yom Kippur and the place was busy with preparations for a celebratory dinner to break the fast on this high holiday of atonement. My befuddlement continued when “Great is thy Faithfulness” was next on the playlist. This last one was a favorite of the children when they were younger. I could not help but wonder how the hell the Jews had gotten hold of the Methodist Hymnal…? And then I remembered; we are after all the children of Abraham. So I wonder what He thinks when he looks down upon the mess we’ve made of things and sees our Muslim, Jewish, and every permutation of Christian brothers and sisters spewing hatred and ignorance amongst and between each other. Does Abraham go bat-shit crazy too when he hears his children fight- to the death?
Election time is always an interesting time for me. I love the political stuff and now that I am working in state government in civil service I feel that at last I am finally home. My bias and love for the US of A is unabashed. I love Mexico where I was raised and Cuba from where my parents hail. But our country is like no other and I fear for our future. A good friend from high school, and possibly one of the greatest minds of our generation, posted a Lewis Sinclair quote on Facebook today that reads: “When fascism comes to America it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.” As a Christian and a patriot (NOT of the Beck & Palin variety) this really frightens me. I pray, hope and volunteer with the Democratic party hoping that cooler heads will prevail.
My fear is also tempered by faith in the community of saints that surrounds us all. I long ago renounced the Catholic faith in which I was raised but am happy to see that the community of saints is everywhere and not exclusive to the Papists. One of my dearest friends is an agnostic, cultural Jew. She has a soul that would make Teresa of Avila green with envy, and her actions are guided by one of the purest hearts I’ve ever loved. Another dear friend is getting ready to bury her mother. She has a brilliant mind, a soulful heart and routinely saves and improves lives with a ten blade. She often “does the right thing” simply because she explains “it is just what you do.” If only it were that easy for the rest of us mere mortals. I hope they both feel love coming their way every moment of every day.
Zion is commonly referred to as Jerusalem, the land of Israel and the Promised Land in the Jewish and Christian traditions. For Muslims it is also a significant holy city. For American slaves, Zion was the utopic home of freedom they so longed for. A more current meaning for Zion is an idyllic, heavenly, or spiritual place where peace of mind reigns despite life’s circumstances.
As I write this tonight, one of our family members has spent the last week helping to care for my mom and dad. If it is true that friends are the family we chose for our selves, then she and her entire family are our closest relatives. Our fathers worked together at the beginning of their careers and now almost 50 years later they are still BFFs. She and I grew up together and I always looked up to her; her company and friendship were formative influences for me. Throughout the years she, her brother and parents have been a constant beacon of light and love for our family. She has spent the last week caring for my mom: rubbing lotion on her feet, changing diapers, running errands for my dad and keeping him company for dinner. Despite our long history together I can’t gather the gumption to call her up and thank her. Because a phone call is just not enough. How can I appropriately thank someone for their love, compassion, sacrifice and dedication to those I hold most dear? I can only say, I love you too, Norma. Thank you for walking this road with us. For being a sister to me, a daughter to my mom and dad and a fellow companion Marching to Zion. We are blessed to count you as an important part of the community of saints that helps to hold us up and I hope you are blessed in return with a peaceful heart. The best thank you I can give you is to put it here, out there, so whoever happens to read these words will know of your greatness too.
Marching to Zion (lyrics)
Come, we that love the Lord,
and let our joys be known;
join in a song with sweet accord,
join in a song with sweet accord
and thus surround the throne,
and thus surround the throne.
We're marching to Zion,
beautiful, beautiful Zion;
we're marching upward to Zion,
the beautiful city of God.
Let those refuse to sing
who never knew our God;
but children of the heavenly King,
but children of the heavenly King
may speak their joys abroad,
may speak their joys abroad.
The hill of Zion yields
a thousand sacred sweets
before we reach the heavenly fields,
before we reach the heavenly fields,
or walk the golden streets,
or walk the golden streets.
Then let our songs abound,
and every tear be dry;
we're marching through Emmanuel's ground,
we're marching through Emmanuel's ground,
to fairer worlds on high,
to fairer worlds on high.
We're marching to Zion,
beautiful, beautiful Zion;
we're marching upward to Zion,
the beautiful city of God.
Rememberance
Earlier in the day, the children and I stopped at the Army/Navy Store, located next to a shop called 69 Flavors with an ever changing window display showing the latest “fashions.” Our trips to the Army-Navy Store feed my children’s imagination and provide great material for discussion. Topics of conversation in the car range from: “mama, you should have bought us that missile, it wasn’t even ARMED you know” and “wow you could see right through that red bikini in the window, why does it have all those straps across the belly anyway?.” Today we were there to buy my son’s Cub Scout paraphernalia for this year. He’s set with a new cap, belt, handbook and neckerchief. We did not buy the laser flashlight or spent missiles or brass knuckles; maybe next year.The cashier presented our receipt for signature then paused and said: “wow, the time on your receipt is 11:11 and today is 9/11” we looked at each other and shared a small moment of stunned silence.
Later in the afternoon I tried hard to keep a straight face as I chaperoned my daughter's Daisy Troop's field trip to pick apples at a local orchard. The weather was gorgeous and the girls were happy. In the midst of our idyllic moment my cell phone rang to the tune of "Guantanamera" meaning Dad was calling from Miami. The news were not good. "Remember girls; you can only pick 6 apples and you can choose between Red Delicious and Golden Delicious! So Dad, she had some kind of convulsion, has fluid in her lungs and an unknown infection and this is all NORMAL and I shouldn't worry?" Right. The contrasts between emotions, setting and life's turns was so absurd I wondered who the hell had dropped me in the middle of a Fellini movie. By the way, come Oscar time, I deserve an honorable mention. The field trip was a blast and no one was the wiser of the crushing pain in my heart..
Once home for the day I vacillate between numbness and hysterical sobs. So to continue with a Fellini theme I decide to iron clothes. I don't iron, ever. Our daughter received a kitchen set a few years back that for some reason has an ironing board adjacent to the stove. The set came with a play iron along with the usual assortment of pots, pans and plastic food. Our little girl didn't know what to make of the iron, she'd never seen one before. Nevertheless today I remembered many a time when my mom would come to visit and spend days on end going through our closets and lovingly iron all our shirts, blouses, and slacks. I had hoped to feel some sort of closeness to my mom as I engaged in this loathed domestic task. Instead, my mind wandered to the many people we met during her initial hospitalization and felt a bit of comfort knowing these people are in the same building as she is. There is the Filipino nurse in Intensive Care who moved to the U.S. five years ago with his wife after their worker visas to Saudi Arabia expired and they decided it was not the place for them. He is blessed with a gentle soul and lovingly taught me how to take care of my mom. He spoke gently with her in perfect Spanish peppered with Cuban slang and a heavy Cubanaso-off-the-boat accent. His stories of integrating into American society tell more about our country than his resilience or judgement. He regularly patrols his neighborhood on trash day and has amassed a large collection of furniture, electronics, exercise and computer equipment. He sells some of it on Craig's List at a hefty profit and sends the rest home to the Philippines where he is regarded as the rich relative who gives away computers and flat screen televisions. His family back home does not believe that all their treasures were once in the trash pile. He shared with us that he was at work on September 11, 2001 in Saudi Arabia where hospital staff brought champagne to work to celebrate.
Another of my favorites in the ICU is a flamboyant gay male Cuban nurse. He sashayed through the stroke unit in white clogs and lotsa 'tude. We talked about books and travel and our common interest in history. When a new patient was moved to the bed next to Mom's he let out a loud gasp from the other side of the curtain. "Oh. My. God. Patty, darling you HAVE to come over here and look at this. It is HISTORIC." I approached the bed tentatively and saw a thin elderly woman with an oxygen mask and the most beautiful clear eyes I have ever seen. He took her left arm from under the sheet and showed me the inside of her forearm. A tattoo of a series of numbers marked her soft and translucent skin. My heart raced as she looked at us examining her arm. I asked her name as I took her hand in mine but she could not speak. Pola looked into my eyes and I looked back into hers, simply bearing witness. Her son and daughter- in-law arrived later that day and quickly began making arrangements to transfer her to hospice. This dear lady had lived 98 years, the last 5 on her own and in her own terms. Pola survived a concentration camp, the loss of her entire family, built a new family and thrived in our country. All her papers were in order; DNR & DNI were in place per her wishes. That Friday afternoon her family called in an Orthodox Rabbi who did a beautiful bedside service for the family before facing the crazy Miami traffic and the beginning of Shabbat. Dad, Mom and I listened from the other side of the curtain. This Rabbi had never met Pola or her family, but his words were a soothing balm for all of us who listened.
Admittance into a hospital seems like such a dehumanizing process. Your clothes are replaced with flimsy gowns and your undergarments taken away. If you are lucky you get a diaper, if not, a catheter. Personal possessions are stripped away. The diamond ring Dad gave Mom many years after their marriage when he could afford the stone is now stored in a safe. Mom's bracelets, necklace and earrings keep her ring company in the darkened box. This woman who brushed her hair and put lipstick on before cooking dinner started to look like some one else- not even a version of herself. I was instructed to trim her long and beautifully lacquered nails because of the risk of infection. She took it well but I put it off for days not wanting to remove another layer. We painted her fingernails and toenails a muted pink and even touched up her roots on the sly. What is left of my mom is her good heart, her sense of humour, the love she has for so many people and her true essence. In removing the window dressing, we see her brilliance shine. She is no longer dehumanized, but distilled.
The kind Rabbi closed his prayers telling Pola the tattoo on her arm gave him strength and inspiration. He spoke of the strength of the human spirit and brotherhood. As I look back today on that September morning nine years ago and the events of today, I try to remember the words of Mother Teresa: " If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other."
Allergic Epiphany
It all started long ago, but culminated while on an appointment with the allergist/immunologist. After suffering through three ear infections in the past year and coughing like TB patient for weeks, a kind soul at work gave me the name of her doctor. While being poked and pinched for exposure to indoor allergens, the nurse put on a video to educate me about prevention and avoidance. The video was clearly a paid advertisement for sellers of mattress covers, air filters, vacuum cleaners, and hard flooring. A medical eminence consulted on the video and spoke about the effects on the immune system of constant exposure to irritants and harmful substances. Turns out that your immune system system is on "high alert" all the time, becoming less effective at fighting other intruders and miscreant cells. After having copious amounts of decongestant and a scope up my nose I was given steroids and sent on my way. I am allergic to mold and dust mite poop. The video of the resident evil, the tiny mites, who thrive in carpeting, bedding, and pillows and leave behind their irritating waste was horrifying. We have a basement and a high water table so I can't escape the mold either. I left the doctor's office itchy and indignant after having yet one more orifice explored and agitated from the decongestant. The steroids did little to improve the situation. Heart pounding and ears swishing with the sound of blood pumping through my head I returned to work only to be sent home. I felt horrible and scared.
For a long time my readiness state has wavered between DEFCON 2 and 1. The stress of a decade of loss, grief, pain and illness has had me at a point of surrender many, many times. In some situations neither fight nor flight seem like good options but the adrenaline flows nonetheless. Perhaps to my detriment, I have not learned yet to give up. The blame falls neatly at my parents' feet; they failed to teach me to bow down, submit or surrender. My dad once told me that when life knocks you down; you get up, breathe in and out, put one foot in front of the other and keep going. I was in high school at the time, and remember that moment vividly. My mom didn't quite verbalize the sentiment, instead, she lived it. She still does.
Even while I wallow in shit, from dust mites and my lot in life, I take comfort in the example of my parents and in Scripture.
But now, this is what the LORD says—
he who created you, Jacob,
he who formed you, Israel:
“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name; you are mine.
When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the LORD your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior;"
~Isaiah 43:1-3
And, yes, I know that "shit" and "Scripture" don't look pretty in the same sentence. But I can't get through one without the other.
For a long time my readiness state has wavered between DEFCON 2 and 1. The stress of a decade of loss, grief, pain and illness has had me at a point of surrender many, many times. In some situations neither fight nor flight seem like good options but the adrenaline flows nonetheless. Perhaps to my detriment, I have not learned yet to give up. The blame falls neatly at my parents' feet; they failed to teach me to bow down, submit or surrender. My dad once told me that when life knocks you down; you get up, breathe in and out, put one foot in front of the other and keep going. I was in high school at the time, and remember that moment vividly. My mom didn't quite verbalize the sentiment, instead, she lived it. She still does.
Even while I wallow in shit, from dust mites and my lot in life, I take comfort in the example of my parents and in Scripture.
But now, this is what the LORD says—
he who created you, Jacob,
he who formed you, Israel:
“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name; you are mine.
When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the LORD your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior;"
~Isaiah 43:1-3
And, yes, I know that "shit" and "Scripture" don't look pretty in the same sentence. But I can't get through one without the other.
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