Grandparents, that is. Maggie & Sadie now have more living great-grandparents than grandparents. Tom’s daddy died at 10pm on Thursday, Dec 10th. Bobby, Daddy & I flew up to Ohio on Friday, the visitation (or “calling hours,” as it’s called in the North) was Sunday, and the Mass was Monday. Tom, Jennifer, & the girls were booking it for South Carolina by Monday night. They were gone for a total of 13 days & 12 nights, which in baby-world, is an eternity.

It feels very surreal, this parentloss. Aren’t we a little young to be doing this? Aren’t you supposed to make it to your 40’s or 50’s before your parents die? We can’t seem to make it to 30 in our family.

Things feel a little more normal less traumatic now that we’re home again. We’re all back to work (well, those of us who have jobs) & determinedly embracing the Christmas spirit. Listen to some Christmas carols, damn it. Pass the effing eggnog.

The sheer chaos of the last week did bring about a breakthrough on a personal level for Jen, Sue & me. Ya’ll may recall that I was raised in a somewhat cultish conservative religious environment, and one of the biggest deals is women wearing pants (fondly referred to as devil britches). Like, it’s a BIG DEAL — bigger than wearing makeup or cutting your hair or painting your fingernails.  As of last week, my sisters and I, ages 31, 26, and 22, had never ever wore pants in front of either of our parents. We’ve grown up, gotten married, bought houses, & birthed children (one of us, anyway), and we have never been caught without PAC, which is sister-speak for “Parent-Approved Clothing.” I have actually seen my father’s vehicle in my own driveway and driven away from my own house and hidden in a nearby parking lot until he left. Yes, I have.

Then there was the time just a few months ago that Sue & I were having dinner with Bobby, his mom, & his sister, and our internal PAC radar started beeping as Daddy drove by. And without an explanation, Sue and I get up from the dinner table and run, literally RUN, to our bedrooms to change into skirts. Bobby’s mom and sister were confused. I can’t imagine why.

Anyway, back to last week. Tom & Jennifer are calling with updates on his daddy, Bobby’s grandfather is in the hospital ICU again, Sue’s in the midst of her final exams, I’m freaking out at work waiting for “the” call from Ohio, and then Bobby falls down the stairs. He calls me gasping for air and I freak out (some more) and race home to find him lying in the kitchen floor with the dogs sniffing his face & his butt concernedly. He’s completely convinced that he’s punctured a lung because he spit up blood after he fell. Because a punctured lung is all we need right now.

So I get him off the floor & into the car & take him to the hospital, where his mom (who happens to be working) is worried that he’s cracked a rib or two (turns out his just pulled some muscles, but it hurt like a bitch. Oh, and the spitting up blood thing? He bit his damn tongue when he fell. Drama queen.). So I’m sitting there pulling our insurance information (because that’s when we still HAD medical insurance) & trying to help Bobby & answering inquiries from work about when I’ll be back & then Daddy calls & announces that he’ll be there in two-point-five minutes.

And suddenly, my focus shifts from my job and Bobby and Tom’s dad to “Holy shit. I have on pants. And my father is coming here.”  Commence the mother of all freakouts. I actually seriously considered leaving Bobby at the hospital and going home to change. I berated myself for not carrying a spare skirt in my car. I tried to talk to Bobby about it, and he just moaned in pain and cussed and was no help at all. So I just sat there. I mean, what’s a girl to do? And for the first time in almost 32 years, I wore pants in front of my father. And ya’ll know what?!? He didn’t even blink. What the hell is that about?!

Then Jennifer wore pants in front of him in Ohio, and he didn’t blink. And then I wore pants in front of him yesterday, and he didn’t blink. Jennifer finally asked him what the deal was — like, what the hell, dude, we race around like idiots for 31, 26, & 22 yrs respectively and you’re not even reacting? And he told us that it was “between us and our husbands” and it was none of his business as long as we still respected him by not wearing pants in HIS house.

And then Bobby & Tom, who are both fine with their wives wearing pants, laughed their asses off. I swear to God, I was born into a family of freakin’ crazies.

Tom’s dad is dying. I haven’t written about this for a couple of reasons — first, there was such hope by so many that he would pull through, and second, I just didn’t want to think about it because it’s too familiar, too real, and it makes me remember things that I’ve been working really hard to forget.

In June, Tom’s dad, who lives in Ohio, was diagnosed with AML (acute myelogenous leukemia). This is a perfectly healthy 50-something-yr-old man who has a nagging cold that he can’t shake. Finally goes to the doctor, and it’s leukemia.

It’s now December 9th, and he’s actively dying. Yes, there’s an actual “active phase of dying.” I was blissfully unaware of this fact before September 2007. He hasn’t eaten in days, and has a steady drip of morphine running into his body. His breathing is shallow and sporadic. He’s slipping in and out. He’s ready to leave, and he’s just waiting for it to happen. They’re all waiting. Waiting for the waiting to stop.

Cancer has done it again — reduced a healthy, brawny, 250-lb carpenter to an emaciated shadow, a distorted monstrous version of the person he used to be.

Jennifer, Tom, Sadie, & Maggie drove up to Ohio last Thursday with an open-ended agenda — to stay until it’s time to come home. Approximately 36 hrs ago, his breathing changed. I got Jennifer’s text message, and felt my stomach clench. I remember when the breathing changes. I remember Mama’s chest rattling and each breath seeming like the last one. I hope that Tom’s dad won’t have seizures. Please don’t let him have seizures. The only thing worse than your beloved parent looking a corpse is your beloved parent looking like a corpse and having a violent, horrific seizure.

My heart hurts for Tom, as he sits and watches and waits and tries to remember how to feel normal. His family is in that place — that frantic, irrational, insulated place, where the world is still turning while you sit and watch and wait and bustle and chatter and cry only sometimes and say things you won’t remember saying later. Every occurrence is either really irrationally funny or really irrationally sad — there are only extremes with nothing in between. Every hour is spent revolving around the minutia of death, and it’s hard to believe that outside, the world is still living like nothing has changed. While I’m thinking about money and Christmas and gifts, there’s a tick-tocking in the back of my head… “Tom’s daddy is dying, Tom’s daddy is dying, Tom’s daddy is dying.”  In Jennifer’s voice, I can hear that she looks at Tom’s father and sees our mother.

Last night, I went to their little house, and Jennifer instructed me on which clothes to pack for the funeral. Tom was ordained just a few months ago and is preaching his own father’s service. And then one of the most difficult things I’ve done to date — I read Tom’s notes to him on the phone, notes that he made last week for his father. There were stories of his childhood, of what makes his father special, of why his daddy is irreplaceable. As I read them aloud, I sobbed… even though I knew that my emotions weren’t making things any easier for Tom, I simply couldn’t stop. He cried, and I cried, and we made it through four pages of notes. And my heart broke again for children who lose their parents too young. Tom is 29, the age I was when Mama died. Jennifer is 27. They aren’t even 30 years old, and they’ve lost two parents.

It’s so hateful and barbaric and primitive, this dying process. With all the improvements and research dollars and technological discoveries, the dying process is still the basic leaving of life — the slowing breath, the dimming pallor, the cold hands, the failing body.

It’s just so damn ugly.

*Scroll down for Part 1 of 3.

It’s a weird place in which I find myself these days. I’m relieved, but worried, but not too worried about our financial well-being. I’m missing my mother (always), but I find myself enjoying Christmas for the first time in three years. I actually went Christmas shopping. Yep, the Grinch came out of her cave and walked into an actual store & purchased actual Christmas gifts. Without snarling or cursing even one time.  The Christmas shit everywhere isn’t making me angry & bitter this year…. Bobby and I put up a tree, and I’ve decorated our mantel & dining room table, and am typing right this minute by the light of our lovely Christmas tree.

Why the change, you (& Bobby) ask? When Sue was home for Thanksgiving, she said something that pierced my little Grinchy heart — that one of the things she hates most about Christmas is going to her friends’ houses, where there are lots of gifts under the tree and she’s reminded of how much our family has lost/is losing. As obvious as it may seem, I suddenly realized that Sue is still a child in lots of ways. While I genuinely don’t miss the Christmas gifts, she DOES. Light-bulb moment. So this year, Sue’s gonna have gifts under the tree. Not expensive gifts, or big, earth-shattering gifts, but she’s going to have presents to open on Christmas morning. Cancer has taken enough of her childhood — it’s not going to continue to make trips to her “normal” friends’ houses more painful than they have to be.

Generally speaking, the holidays make me feel even less normal than usual. The commercials, the cheeriness, the happy family talk… there’s an implied pressure to feel & act a certain way. It’s easy to see why people become (more) depressed during the holiday season. Which is why I openly declared my Grinchiness during Christmas 2007 (much to the dismay of my then-coworkers). Sometimes it just takes too much effort to pretend.

I was in a very dark place this time two years ago (click here for post). A very, very dark place. If nothing else, this blog has helped document the fact that I am indeed improving.

And although I’m noticeably less bitter this year, it’s still hard. I don’t think Christmas will ever not be hard. Yesterday, I subbed with a lady who’s about Mama’s age. She was chattering about her children, her new grandbaby that’s on the way, shopping for their gifts, going to the Christmas parade, how much she’s looking forward to having them all at her house on Christmas Eve. It’s hard, ya’ll. It’s hard to listen with a neutral, interested expression on my face, and act like her words aren’t causing me pain. Listening to her talk is a glimpse into what would have been, and I find myself shying away from letting my brain go down that path. There’s no point in even thinking about how it would have been. There’s no point. So I smile & nod & try not to let her words go beyond my ears into my brain.

I can say that from where I am this very minute, Christmas Present resembles what the “new normal” will be more closely than 2006, 07, or 08 did. Finding a new normal isn’t something that happens in one year or even two years… I remember people talking about “the new normal” like it’s a destination to be reached, which is completely misleading. It’s year three, and I’m just now beginning to see a glimpse of Christmas Future.

**I found that I couldn’t combine all topics into one post. Thus the numbering system. Stay tuned.

Bobby is officially no longer a partner of his company. The contract has been signed, the buy-out check as been cashed, and the handshakes have been shook. The word “relief” doesn’t even begin to describe it. I am plumb damn giddy.

The change in him as been amazing, truly. He’s sleeping better. He’s not constantly obsessing about the same situations over and over. And over. He’s buzzing around like a little happy worker bee, cleaning house & doing laundry & cooking dinner, all with an earbud in his ear, trying to work a deal. It’s actually a bit comical — the domestic business Bobby.

The buy-out money pushed our “in the red” date back to March 15th. And because of this, I’M sleeping better. We’re still keeping the whiteboard out, though… the one with a big, red OH-SHIT date circled. Our health insurance is still lapsing as of next week, which is pretty scary to me. The “what if” monsters have lots to say about that — what if we have a wreck? what if we somehow end up in the emergency room with 1000’s of dollars in medical bills? what if I get pregnant & can’t afford the high-risk regimen & lose another baby because we’re uninsured?

And then I tell myself that yeah, all of that would really suck. So let’s worry about it if/when it happens.

Oh, and in case anyone’s keeping up with these things, the November cycle didn’t work. I’m very unpregnant. Still. And you know what? I don’t even care that much. We’ll try again in December. If it doesn’t work in December, though, I’ll probably care. My 32nd birthday is coming & my eggs are rotting.

Good god, I can’t believe I’m almost 32 and still haven’t managed to successfully birth a child. I’m know I’m not alone in bloggy-world, but in my real, everyday life, I feel like the Lone Effing Ranger.

Setting: Thanksgiving day, late in the evening.

Me: So Daddy, Bobby & I haven’t seen you much lately.
My father: I’ve been busy.
Me: But you find the time to go to Jennifer’s? [who lives 0.5 miles from me]
My father: She has babies.

After taking a moment to collect myself, I told him that if he had really put some thought into coming up with the absolute WORST thing to say to me, that would be it.

Dear God,
I was wondering if it would be possible for me to exchange one father (specifically Marty) for one mother (specifically Denise). I know that this is probably a policy violation, but was hoping that You could manage to make an exception just this once. I feel that Marty could really liven up the streets of gold with his dry wit and expertly timed verbal daggers, while Denise’s cheerful laugh and expert mothering/grandmothering skills would greatly improve things down here. I feel that if You would be willing to make this trade, You and I both would be quite pleased with the results.
Just think about it and let me know.
Thanks,
Sarah

I am requesting that my mailing address and all other information  be removed from your mailing list. My mailing address is ——-. I vehemently disagree with the monetizing of a killing disease, and I feel that the Komen organization has played a primary role is the “pink-washing” of our retail markets. This month marks the 26th month since my mother died of metastatic breast cancer, and I don’t need to give money to your marketing and fundraising efforts in order to remember her. I remember her minute of every day without the help of your mailings that state “Because every holiday is precious…” Trust me, I’m fully aware that every holiday is precious, and that my mother will not be here for any of them for the rest of my life.
Thank you for immediately removing me from your database.
Sarah

P.S. Fuck Komen and your little cutesy pink ribbon holiday labels.

[And no, I didn't add the PS to my email to Komen... I saved that just for my blog. You're welcome. I hate those pink fuckers. Especially this time of year.]

Thanksgiving without my mother is different. Really, really different. Dinner’s at my house instead of Mama & Daddy’s. I’m making the grocery list & cooking instead of arriving just in time to help. We’re using a sweet potato souffle recipe written in Mama’s small, neat handwriting, and trying not to think too much about it because tears in the sweet potato souffle just don’t work.

We have Thanksgiving Past on video. Everyone laughing in my parents’ kitchen. Mama fixing the turkey and laughing about it being on videotape, because it’s just one of those things that seems too insignificant to record at the time. She looks at the camera with her big smile, and says “Yep, you can watch this when I’m dead and gone.” and breaks into her signature laugh. It would be funny if it weren’t just a little too true.

I have things to be thankful for, I do. I’m thankful that Sue’s coming home tonight. I’m thankful for my & Bobby’s marriage — that we’ve been able to sit down and begin to figure out this unemployment thing together. I’m thankful for my lovely house.. it IS my happy place, and not a day goes by that I don’t actively love it. I’m thankful for my sisters — it’s hard to imagine how this motherless Thanksgiving would be without them. I’m thankful for my two beautiful nieces, because their mere existence makes every occasion happier and more entertaining and more family-centered. No matter how distant our islands become — mine, Sue’s, Jennifer’s, & Daddy’s — we have our love for Maggie & Sadie as a common thread. I’m thankful for those home videos of Thanksgiving Past — the word “priceless” doesn’t even begin to describe their value. I’m thankful for my mother — she’s not here now, but I had 29 years with her, and for that I’m thankful.

I miss her, I do. Her absence is in everything — every plan, every menu, every moment has an empty, aching hole that she left. If someone had told me that you can still feel the urge to call someone two years & two months after you last talked to them, I’m not sure I would have believed them. But it’s very, regrettably true.

So off I go to do Thanksgiving Present in a new and motherless way. As strange as it sounds, it’s sometimes still so difficult to believe that this is real. It feels like 50 years since I’ve called her & heard her voice say “hello” on the other end, but it also feels like only maybe a week or so. There’s a new sense of time when you’ve lost someone who was a part of your everyday life — days can feel like weeks or minutes. Confusing, but also comforting… I’ll bet that’s what heaven’s like, but without the pain of missing.

Good things:

• Bobby sold a portion of his equipment, which covers our expenses until January 5th. WOOT!
• I’m officially starting as an almost-full-time (as in 33.5 hrs per week) employee at the little daycare in 2 wks. WOOT!
• We keep our house like a meat locker during the winter… our choice, not because of money. Just got a refund from the natural gas company due to them overcharging us with levelized billing — $400 arrived today like a little Christmas present. WOOT!
• Bobby’s mom wrote us an unsolicited check for 5 months of mortgage payments… she insisted that we cash in and put it in savings for emergencies. We’re not using it and are planning to refund her after Bobby gets a job, but it’s really freakin’ nice to have a safety net. WOOT!

And it’s not money, but still makes me super-excited… if Boston College loses today or if Clemson wins today, Clemson has a shot of being the ACC Champion for the first time since 1991. WOOT!

In response to my money stressing, someone admonished me to “remember what Matthew 6 says about worrying.”

Gee, thanks for the tip. I’ll pass that bible reference on to my mortgage company… I’m sure they won’t have a problem taking that in lieu of payment.

And yes, I’m being a testy smartass. In case you’re wondering.

Have to say that I am loving the comments that you folks are leaving… thanks for sharing and letting me know that we’re not the only one in the “oh shit, sell everything, make minimum pymts on your baby for 100 years” boat.

I think that Bobby may have a buyer for some of his video equipment — if it works out, we’ll have Dec covered financially. Which means we won’t be going negative until Jan 5th, when our Jan mortgage pymt drafts. Of course, that’s assuming that we do absolutely NO. THING. for Christmas as far as gifts are concerned. Which sucks. It’s not a big deal with the adults because we kinda quit doing Christmas when Mama left… but for Maggie & Sadie, I really want/NEED to do gifts.

Ugh. This blows.

Oh wait. I’m not worrying about this. I almost forgot.

The ladies at my little job promised to put me at the top of subbing list, and have scheduled me for 4 mornings in the next two weeks. And there’s a little potential morning position opening up in Dec that may work out, which combined with my afternoons in the two-year-old room, would make the job almost full-time. Fingers crossed.

I just noticed how many “if’s” and “maybe’s” there are in the preceding paragraphs. Blarg.