Begonias before Sunset

(written May 10^th, 2009)

The brilliance of Mother’s Day is that it happens every year with such predictability that you can prepare for it – send that card well in advance, design an extra special tribute to the woman who gave you life. Instead, you find yourself lost in a card isle searching for the perfect card among what remains, and convincing yourself that the generic card you’re now clutching and that massage gift certificate you’ve yet to purchase will suffice. I’m sure this scenario resonates with many. I wish I could say I was more punctual and more creative. I wish I did so much more in hindsight.

This year, I found myself lost in the card aisle staring at Mother’s Day cards the moment they were made available – months in advance. I stood frozen, slowly taking in the cards I would not send, the event I’ll miss this year and all years to come. It was as if someone took a board to my gut. Those gestures I once took for granted, seemingly common and often last minute, seemed personal and unique almost like an epitaph on a grave. I spent time in that aisle thumbing through cards, wishing I had the opportunity to send a cheesy cellophane wrapped card to Mom. Tears welled as I allowed myself to envision what I would write, what I would do, and what she would say when she would receive it. A lifetime of this is a long, long time and part of me wanted to tell passersby to "make it count" before the opportunity passes and you’re found crying in an aisle clutching a card your mom will never read.

Despite hoping that milestones like Mother’s Day are skipped over, they somehow stand proudly from the crowd and deliver with maddening punctuality. Last month, Mother’s Day was merely a spoken placeholder for a hard day to come – another anticipated milestone to wade through in the grieving process. As days ticked off, that distant ship light on the horizon drew painful distinction. Mother’s day commercials replaced regular advertisement with startling speed; watching testimonials and gift ideas for that special mother was nothing short of agony. To imagine a life time of not being able to participate, to actively celebrate Mom and tell her how much she means to me takes the breath from my lungs. Though I can tell her now in the breeze and the trees, it’s not the same and it’s a painful permanence that is rubbed in every time there’s a commercial break.

Yesterday, as I was standing in line to pay for next week’s groceries, I spotted the familiar green packaging of Trident gum and instinctively grabbed a pack and placed it between my bell peppers and strawberries. Back in the car, I clutched the package hoping the taste hadn’t changed with the packaging. I closed my eyes and popped a piece. It was the same and just like that I could see Mom in real time rifling through her purse for a short stack of Trident gum; she’d offer a piece to us before selecting one for herself. For years, Trident was the only gum Mom would chew and would inevitably pull a piece while waiting for Dr. Hollingsworth (our pediatrician) or any other appointment dotting the years. She’d pop her gum without ever really blowing a bubble. I remember her teaching me how to catch air by rolling the gum – thank god I never learned! It’s ironic that I sought out that memory when it sometimes was an irritant. Annoyances today, treasured moments tomorrow. What I’d give to hear her pop her gum.

So began my tributes to Mom, evoking any and all memories to bring her close to me. It would be our day – mom and mine – even if in memory. As difficult as it was anticipating what Mother’s Day might be like, when the ship docked, I boarded. I awoke today after dreaming of mom. We were in a frenzy to reach an unknown destination and even rode dolphins (stay with me here) to get there on time. There was a familiar sense of desperation to reach “base” but this time we wouldn’t yell olly olly oxen free; I think my subconscious wouldn’t allow her to reach it.

Once awake, I decided to pot mom’s favorite flowers in planters on my balcony (“favorite” meaning the flowers she would always plant). I soon realized she chose the begonias, pansies and daffodils not for their extraordinary grace and distinctive color but because they are low maintenance. Atta girl! She was with me with each handful of potting soil. I could recall her taking us to Quality Plants to pick out the perennials and annuals; I could remember her teaching me how to garden, how to tap the sides of the containers to loosen the roots before pulling them out. I could hear her compliment me on my green thumb just as she did when I was in college.

After “giving the flowers a good soak” as she would say, I sat with mom on the balcony as the sun grew soft before changing and leaving for the next tribute. I took myself out to the last restaurant Mom and I went to in DC – a Spanish tapas place she loved. We talked and laughed for hours over small plates and decent drinks. Tonight, I ordered a light wine for her as a placeholder and could see her sitting across from me just as clear as that night. She was dressed in all black with turquoise jewelry, and was absolutely beautiful. I ate in silence, however, sniffling back the tears as I welcomed the memories. I hope the memories are as vivid next year as they were tonight.

As a last tribute, I re-read the cellophane wrapped Mother’s Day card I purchased for her, though did not send. The message is just as poignant for her in life and now in memory; buying it brought her close to me.

The cover reads, “Mom, you leave a little bit of wonderful everywhere you go…”

~E

I know you, I've walked with you once upon a dream

...I know you. The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam...

I'm sure Sleeping Beauty had something else in mind when she sang that sweet melody. For my family, it carries a different meaning with a Prince whose gleam is more a permanent glower and whose name does start with "C" but rhymes with "answer" and is always the wrong one.

Dad called today, which is not out of the ordinary. He's leaving on his first vacation sans family this Saturday when he accompanies a geology group from OSU for a 2.5 week stint in Morocco. Just one thing... A few weeks ago, he noticed a few sun spots on his forehead and went in to have them checked. Last year, at around this time, he was the third Lawler to undergo chemo treatment and applied a topical chemo to combat pre-cancer cells on his face. It was a miserable couple of weeks for him as his skin blistered and pealed. In the end, he had to endure TWO rounds of topical chemo due to the pre-cancer cell persistence.

After cooling the breeze with idle chatter, he said the familiar phrase, "I don't want to worry you but I have some bad news." His biopsy results came back and he has cancer.

Yep. That's half of our family now, if we're keeping count. Yayyy for our family health legacy! Needless to say, my sisters and I are feeling the warm and fuzzies for a lifetime of health and happiness. ;) Fortunately, he caught the cancer at "baby cancer stage" rather than "6-12 months to live" stage, so we'll take it! We're not sure why the pre-cancer chemo treatment failed to work but not really surprised (we are Lawlers, after all). If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. (Cancer hasn't caught on that it doesn't apply to him). And, just so we're all paying attention, Dad's due to discuss and start treatment just two weeks prior to the first year anniversary of our Mom's passing. Awesome.

Our Dad is 70 and has had "interesting" medical issues in the past months from his gall bladder to now baby cancer. I think a part of my sisters and I can't help but feel like we've pulled a bit from the shore again with his health and find ourselves swimming among little sharks that nip at the feet but are otherwise harmless --"just be aware". Here's to hoping that great white doesn't rear its ugly head again and take something more.

I told him if there's a cancer to get, I suppose this is it and said I don't think we could take another "you have 6-12 months to live" diagnosis. That statement may just read like a sentence and nothing more, but really, I don't know of three more protective daughters of their dad than my sisters and I...for his own benefit and ours.

We have two loved ones to walk with in dreams; we're not about to lose him too.

~E

Crossing the river, by feeling the stones

"To My Mother on Her Special Day." That was the title of my Mother's Day post, written just one year ago. I remember that day so well.  Mom was wearing her blue nightgown, and her hair was a bit spiky from a recent hair cut at La Ritz. Dad bought Mom several books-on-tape for Mother’s Day. I remember how small she looked peering over the two large bags full of books. She let out her tell-tale ‘ohhh’ as she assessed her stash.  Dad also bought her a Hallmark card, which included a personal voice message: “kick up your heels and dance the watoosie.’ The card quickly became a Mary Lawler tracking device. We could tell her location in the house just by virtue of that stinking jingle. She had a habit of fidgeting with items once in hand. The card was a perfect sensory item for her. She spent half the day opening and closing, opening and closing the card. Half-way through a movie, we'd hear ‘kick up your heels and dance the watoosie.’ On the phone with Alison, and then ‘kick up your heels and dance the watoosie.’ Heading to the bathroom, 'kick up your heels and dance the watoosie.’ By the end of the day, we were all giving Dad the stink eye. ;) But it was great. Mom loved it. We loved it. The card was a fitting tribute to what we were feeling at the time. I remember reflecting on whether Mom would be alive for another Mother’s Day. Though I had a sense that she wouldn’t, I remember consciously trying to ‘kick up my heels’ and enjoy the moment with her. 

That morning, I read out loud my Mother’s Day note to her. She cried, and so did I. Through the tears, she said that she wasn’t going anywhere, and for that day, she wasn’t. She was as present as her body would allow. After a nice morning and afternoon together, we drove to Tulsa for dinner at Los Cabos – Mom’s favorite restaurant. We had a helluva time getting a table, and an even more ghastly time trying to get Mom in and out of the toilet. By then, she was starting to lose her ability to stand, and required fairly constant assistance. We had a difficult time maneuvering in the Los Crapos non-handicapped friendly bathrooms. Bathroom drama and all, we still had a nice time and it was good to leave Stillwater, even just for an evening. We had a nice laugh on the way home once we realized that we had driven off with the restaurant beeper used for seating. Take that, Crapos! 

I remember the car ride home. Mom and I were sitting in the back seat and I was sitting close to her side to help prop her up.  At one point, Mom started buzzing my hand. God, I can remember how that felt and how I tried desperately to hide my tears. I can remember staring out the window and thinking how unfair it all was. How absolutely unfair. Later that evening, we Skyped with Craig and Erin in Denver, and gave Mom the rest of her presents,which included new outfits.

Fast forward a year and here we are, welcoming the first Mother’s Day without Mom. Erin, Diane and I have been reflecting on this day and what it means. For me, though Mom is no longer with us, I still feel compelled to celebrate as if she were. This was her special day: no reason the festivities should stop simply because she's gone. She would want us to be happy and to try to move forward from this grief. And I am, though slowly.

I spent this Mother’s Day weekend at the beach with friends. In some way, I felt like I was doing her memory justice by doing something joyful and less lonesome and sentimental. She would want us to continue on with life, while also finding moments to reflect on what a life without her means. So far, it means a weird mixture of emptiness and longing, pride and strength. While I feel numb and hollow, and it's hard for me to think of Mom and all she endured, I also feel proud, and as if I’m doing her memory justice. Nothing is as sad as losing yourself. So far, I feel that I have done my best to keep true to who I was and who I am. For all that we’ve gone through, we’re still here. We're still a family.

I think Mom would be proud. I miss her. I wish life was different and that she was still here. I wish I was back in that car, holding her hand, telling her that I loved her. Like the milestones before it, Mother’s Day is hard. Life without her is hard. It’s a deep pain that is shared by Diane, Erin and Dad. We’re just taking it one day at a time, slowly crossing the river by feeling the stones. That's all we can do.

--J