Socks and Hangers
I remember the first time I saw Jerry Seinfeld. One of my best friends had a crush on this “cute” Jewish comedienne and she said we had to go see him at Zanies Comedy Club. So we went. We were sitting about 2 feet from the stage when he came out. He was the quintessential nice looking Jewish Boy like so many of the ones we grew up around. He was funny and did some long story about socks getting lost in the dryer. “Where do they go?” He wondered in his nasal New York Jewish kind of way. Years later he became the King of the Sitcom World and I always thought of him as that Jewish guy Ilene thought was so cute. Ilene and I found our own Jewish guys, neither one nearly as funny as Jerry, but funny enough to marry. All I took away from the evening was the schtick about the socks. I did not remember any of his other jokes. Although I am sure they were observational and amusing as is most of his material.
Now that I am a married mother of two my husband has a different sock complaint. He claims I am unable to match his socks up properly when they come out of the laundry. He dresses in the dark, unlike Bruce who Dances in the Dark, so as not to wake me from my much needed beauty sleep. He claims when he gets to work he notices he is wearing two different socks. I fold them in pairs and put them in the drawer. They were matching when I put them in so why there is some sort of magical sock swapping (think wife swapping) going on in that closed dresser drawer is a mystery I will never solve.
I have moved on to a far greater concern. I think our hangers are having sex. I spent this morning trying to clean out the house and get some sort of order into our humble abode. It seems I am part of some weird science fiction film. Our house is slowly being filled with more and more and more hangers. Where are they all coming from? I don’t know. I think they are mating. It is the only explanation. I know I have bought some because I thought I needed a specific kind to keep the clothes looking good, but suddenly I have a wide variety and a huge amount of clothing hangers. I wonder what Jerry Seinfeld would think of that???
Friday, March 26, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
271 Days Until the Big Five-0
The Third Person
My cousin Sheldon who is mentally challenged talks to people using their name when he should be saying “you.” It is rather annoying.
He will call me up and say:
“How is Benita doing?”
I will sarcastically answer:
“I don’t know, hold on and I will go ask her.”
He quickly chuckles and then corrects himself. He knows how to speak properly, but he has this strange unbreakable habit of constantly using the third person in almost every situation. He can be with my entire family, and look directly at me and ask if “Marc likes to watch baseball?” I look at him and say “I don’t know, ask him, he is standing right there!” Then I angrily point at my husband who is less than two feet away from me as if it is his fault my cousin is getting on my nerves. Sometimes I can laugh it off, but usually it just makes me nuts. It is difficult to be around him for very long periods of time. I should feel guilty about this, but I don’t anymore. I have spent a huge amount of time and energy helping my two special needs cousins (brothers who are only 11 months apart in age). I have a soft spot for them in my heart because I loved their father, my Uncle Mikey. He was an amazing man and looking back, he probably had some “special needs” as well but I was too young to understand. Maybe it was a combination of a lack of education and other life circumstances that limited my Uncle Mikey’s ability to make a living in any way other than as a janitor or a bartender.
Sheldon’s younger brother Bobby was born with cerebral palsy but that is the least of his problems. Many people don’t realize that when an individual has a condition like Cerebral Palsy, it is often accompanied by other problems, emotional and psychological issues. About twenty years ago Bobby was hit by a car while crossing the street one morning. He survived but was in a Rehabilitation Facility for one year. Both legs were badly broken and he also had a major head trauma. He now lives a life in intense pain and heavy medication. He has seizures and always seems one step away from a trip to the emergency room. Bobby talks over other people constantly. He is always trying to finish everyone else’s sentences. It is as irritating as his brother’s constant misuse of nouns and pronouns.
When my Uncle Mikey died in the 1980’s Sheldon and Bobby adopted my mother. They needed someone to guide them and watch over them. Sheldon began calling my mother 3 or 4 times a day. He would ask her questions about absolutely everything you can imagine from what kind of paper towels to buy to how he should talk to a co-worker who is being rude to him, to what kind of gift to give someone for their birthday. He and Bobby became Becky’s children. Sheldon often slipped and instead of calling her Aunt Becky, he would refer to her as “mother” (in the third person of course).
Now my mother Becky is actually being haunted by my cousins. Her infection and medications leave her in a state of confusion and having hallucinations. My mother has not gone senile. She has gone somewhere else. She knows who I am and her personality is still intact complete with a good sense of humor, a hearty appetite, and a strong desire to play bingo and kalookie. Yet, she is constantly yelling at Bobby and Sheldon. She thinks they are behind her at all times. She is telling them to shut up. It is this bizarre turn of events that has me so perplexed. She will tell me stories of how Sheldon arrived at 8 a.m. and has not left her alone for one minute. She does not want him there. Then she yells at Bobby for finishing all her sentences.
Sheldon and Bobby’s annoying mannerisms and habits are flooding my mother’s mind. I wish I could rescue her from this maddening sea she finds herself afloat in, but instead I find myself wanting to run away from Bobby and Sheldon and all their neediness. Am I going to burn in Hell one day for having these feelings? What does this say about me? I have a limited amount of compassion and patience and I don’t want to waste it on my cousins. I want to hoard it and use it all up on Becky. It is the least I can do for the woman who brought me into this world.
Perhaps I was never fully “born”, delivered by a doctor and cut from the umbilical cord. Perhaps I was brought forth but not completely away from Becky.
My cousin Sheldon who is mentally challenged talks to people using their name when he should be saying “you.” It is rather annoying.
He will call me up and say:
“How is Benita doing?”
I will sarcastically answer:
“I don’t know, hold on and I will go ask her.”
He quickly chuckles and then corrects himself. He knows how to speak properly, but he has this strange unbreakable habit of constantly using the third person in almost every situation. He can be with my entire family, and look directly at me and ask if “Marc likes to watch baseball?” I look at him and say “I don’t know, ask him, he is standing right there!” Then I angrily point at my husband who is less than two feet away from me as if it is his fault my cousin is getting on my nerves. Sometimes I can laugh it off, but usually it just makes me nuts. It is difficult to be around him for very long periods of time. I should feel guilty about this, but I don’t anymore. I have spent a huge amount of time and energy helping my two special needs cousins (brothers who are only 11 months apart in age). I have a soft spot for them in my heart because I loved their father, my Uncle Mikey. He was an amazing man and looking back, he probably had some “special needs” as well but I was too young to understand. Maybe it was a combination of a lack of education and other life circumstances that limited my Uncle Mikey’s ability to make a living in any way other than as a janitor or a bartender.
Sheldon’s younger brother Bobby was born with cerebral palsy but that is the least of his problems. Many people don’t realize that when an individual has a condition like Cerebral Palsy, it is often accompanied by other problems, emotional and psychological issues. About twenty years ago Bobby was hit by a car while crossing the street one morning. He survived but was in a Rehabilitation Facility for one year. Both legs were badly broken and he also had a major head trauma. He now lives a life in intense pain and heavy medication. He has seizures and always seems one step away from a trip to the emergency room. Bobby talks over other people constantly. He is always trying to finish everyone else’s sentences. It is as irritating as his brother’s constant misuse of nouns and pronouns.
When my Uncle Mikey died in the 1980’s Sheldon and Bobby adopted my mother. They needed someone to guide them and watch over them. Sheldon began calling my mother 3 or 4 times a day. He would ask her questions about absolutely everything you can imagine from what kind of paper towels to buy to how he should talk to a co-worker who is being rude to him, to what kind of gift to give someone for their birthday. He and Bobby became Becky’s children. Sheldon often slipped and instead of calling her Aunt Becky, he would refer to her as “mother” (in the third person of course).
Now my mother Becky is actually being haunted by my cousins. Her infection and medications leave her in a state of confusion and having hallucinations. My mother has not gone senile. She has gone somewhere else. She knows who I am and her personality is still intact complete with a good sense of humor, a hearty appetite, and a strong desire to play bingo and kalookie. Yet, she is constantly yelling at Bobby and Sheldon. She thinks they are behind her at all times. She is telling them to shut up. It is this bizarre turn of events that has me so perplexed. She will tell me stories of how Sheldon arrived at 8 a.m. and has not left her alone for one minute. She does not want him there. Then she yells at Bobby for finishing all her sentences.
Sheldon and Bobby’s annoying mannerisms and habits are flooding my mother’s mind. I wish I could rescue her from this maddening sea she finds herself afloat in, but instead I find myself wanting to run away from Bobby and Sheldon and all their neediness. Am I going to burn in Hell one day for having these feelings? What does this say about me? I have a limited amount of compassion and patience and I don’t want to waste it on my cousins. I want to hoard it and use it all up on Becky. It is the least I can do for the woman who brought me into this world.
Perhaps I was never fully “born”, delivered by a doctor and cut from the umbilical cord. Perhaps I was brought forth but not completely away from Becky.
272 Days Until the Big Five-0
They scream, I cry
I made a promise to myself not to “involve” my kids on this blog. I know how kids hate when their parents talk about them. I hated it when I was growing up. Yet, tonight was another example of why I don’t have the writing output I should have. I guess I will have to write during the day when they are gone, but I have a lot of other things to do and get done during business hours so I often find myself wanting to put off the writing until later in the day. This is obviously a big mistake. I am not sure why, but when my kids start acting up and bickering with each other, I cannot tolerate it. It drives me crazy. I hate yelling and bickering. I don’t do it and I don’t want it done by others around me. I cannot explain how incredibly draining it feels after I try to make them stop. I start yelling and muttering really bad swear words under my breath to relieve the tension I am feeling. I wish it did not affect me like this. I wish I could just let it go in one ear and out the other. But no, it infuriates me and then makes me want to crawl into bed, and go to sleep so I can literally turn them off. Yet, I grew up in an apartment where bickering and fighting was an on-going way of communication. You would think I would be immune, instead I find it left me with the opposite condition from immunity whatever that may be.
So, one day when my kids read this (I hope) they will know why I was hiding upstairs when they were fighting. Perhaps this will help them when they go into therapy to unravel the mess known as childhood that we all need to clean up as adults.
I made a promise to myself not to “involve” my kids on this blog. I know how kids hate when their parents talk about them. I hated it when I was growing up. Yet, tonight was another example of why I don’t have the writing output I should have. I guess I will have to write during the day when they are gone, but I have a lot of other things to do and get done during business hours so I often find myself wanting to put off the writing until later in the day. This is obviously a big mistake. I am not sure why, but when my kids start acting up and bickering with each other, I cannot tolerate it. It drives me crazy. I hate yelling and bickering. I don’t do it and I don’t want it done by others around me. I cannot explain how incredibly draining it feels after I try to make them stop. I start yelling and muttering really bad swear words under my breath to relieve the tension I am feeling. I wish it did not affect me like this. I wish I could just let it go in one ear and out the other. But no, it infuriates me and then makes me want to crawl into bed, and go to sleep so I can literally turn them off. Yet, I grew up in an apartment where bickering and fighting was an on-going way of communication. You would think I would be immune, instead I find it left me with the opposite condition from immunity whatever that may be.
So, one day when my kids read this (I hope) they will know why I was hiding upstairs when they were fighting. Perhaps this will help them when they go into therapy to unravel the mess known as childhood that we all need to clean up as adults.
Friday, March 19, 2010
273 Days Left Until the Big Five-0
Sandy
Sandra Bullock must be devastated. How weird is it to be a “celebrity”. We don’t’ know them and yet we know their personal travails. Meanwhile the throngs of displaced and desperate Haitans or victims of Katrina remain faceless and nameless. Their personal stories lost in the floods and in between the layers of cracked earth. Yet, I know and you know dozens of women whose husbands’ betrayals shoved their identity into the abyss – no longer talented actresses, political powerhouses, mothers, daughters or even wives. They become the scorned woman, a pathetic victim looking like a foolish fawn caught in the headlights’ glare where trust is exploding into a thousand sparks flying into the air and returning to earth as disintegrating black embers.
Trust becomes ashes. How do you rebuild something, a life, a marriage, a promise, out of ashes? They fall apart as your hands reach down to keep them from being scattered in the wind and all you are left with are hands blackened and a bruised soul. What is it like? That feeling that you were not even cared enough about to suppress some basic human urge by someone who you thought was your true love, soul mate, the one “who had your back” as Sandra said in her interview with Barbara Walters. If the hormone high from lusty sex overrides the emotional high from knowing the nest you built for your family is so strong even violent winds of sexual desire cannot shake it from the branches then I guess your soul is left lying on street waiting to get washed away with all the other refuse into the sewers…
Sandra Bullock must be devastated. How weird is it to be a “celebrity”. We don’t’ know them and yet we know their personal travails. Meanwhile the throngs of displaced and desperate Haitans or victims of Katrina remain faceless and nameless. Their personal stories lost in the floods and in between the layers of cracked earth. Yet, I know and you know dozens of women whose husbands’ betrayals shoved their identity into the abyss – no longer talented actresses, political powerhouses, mothers, daughters or even wives. They become the scorned woman, a pathetic victim looking like a foolish fawn caught in the headlights’ glare where trust is exploding into a thousand sparks flying into the air and returning to earth as disintegrating black embers.
Trust becomes ashes. How do you rebuild something, a life, a marriage, a promise, out of ashes? They fall apart as your hands reach down to keep them from being scattered in the wind and all you are left with are hands blackened and a bruised soul. What is it like? That feeling that you were not even cared enough about to suppress some basic human urge by someone who you thought was your true love, soul mate, the one “who had your back” as Sandra said in her interview with Barbara Walters. If the hormone high from lusty sex overrides the emotional high from knowing the nest you built for your family is so strong even violent winds of sexual desire cannot shake it from the branches then I guess your soul is left lying on street waiting to get washed away with all the other refuse into the sewers…
Friday, March 12, 2010
274 Days Until the Big Five-0
More Mental Masturbation
I am not sure why, but I like to go back and read my own entries. Am I self absorbed? Oh, who gives a shit if I am, I am probably the only one reading this blog at this point.
I must say, after reading certain sentences I often think:
I should be a poet. I heard there is a lot of money in that! Hahahah But the truth is the only writing that would result in providing me with a means of making a living, even a measly one, holds no interest for me, and more importantly, I am not a polished writer. My grammar and punctuation skills leave a great deal to be desired.
I am not sure why, but I like to go back and read my own entries. Am I self absorbed? Oh, who gives a shit if I am, I am probably the only one reading this blog at this point.
I must say, after reading certain sentences I often think:
I should be a poet. I heard there is a lot of money in that! Hahahah But the truth is the only writing that would result in providing me with a means of making a living, even a measly one, holds no interest for me, and more importantly, I am not a polished writer. My grammar and punctuation skills leave a great deal to be desired.
27Five Days Until the Big Five-O
I could get hit by a bus….
Actually, I had a cousin who was killed by a bus while crossing the street. I think it was a bus but it might have been a car. You know how stories change over time and facts get lost in space. I remember the story this way:
My mother’s favorite Uncle, Hymie, had a son, Meyer, who served in the military. It must have been WWII. Shortly after returning home from his tour of duty, he was married and his wife was pregnant. He was killed by a bus while crossing the street. How does that happen? It seems almost impossible that a grown man crossing the street could die this way. Did he forget to look both ways, an error only a child would make? Did he suffer from post traumatic stress and a car horn frightened him into harms way accidentally? Why would someone who returned from war unscathed die in some freak accident?
I find myself struggling emotionally and then feeling I have no “right” to feel this way. My mother is 90. She has been in a lot of pain for a long time. She had a sore on her toe and she complained about how painful it was. I keep retracing my steps to see if I could have altered the situation I now find my mother in, battling gangrene and an infection in her bone. What if I would have paid more attention when she complained about her toe and what if I would have called her doctor or done research and realized my mother’s diabetes was at the root of the problem? If I had been more “on top” of the situation, more conscious of what can go wrong with a 90 year old woman with diabetes, and more proactive and made sure a culture was taken on the wound while it was still wet so the infectious disease doctor would have targeted the bacteria with the best possible antibiotics instead of having to just blast her with some generic antibiotic hoping it would do the trick? Then would my mother still be happily eating dinner each night with her friends in Lincolnwood Place? Did I let her down? Even worse, did I let myself down?
What can we control in life? How aware do we have to be at all times, and is it even possible to be focused on each and every thing that can go wrong from the moment we wake up to the time we go back to sleep. Or is daily life more like plugging a hole in a damn only to find another leak has sprung from a different crevice? I guess I will have to soothe myself with the thought that if it had not been this problem, something else could have or would have happened to rob my mother of her mental acuity and seemingly indestructible physical being. If I don’t convince myself of this, I may drive myself crazy.
Acceptance of undesirable situations is the most difficult challenge for most of us. This explains why Denial is so prevalent in our society. Mishap, accident, oversight, does it really matter HOW we arrive at a moment in time that changes everything in our world? Whether it was a car accident, a tumor undiagnosed, a dive into a sand bank or walking home just as a murderer is looking for his next victim, the end result is often the same, lives turned upside down. Control vs. Fate. I keep thinking about my mother’s many clever sayings and how she peppered my childhood with words of wisdom hidden inside cheesy clichés.
She always said when it is “your time to go” nothing can change that as if she truly believed what they tell us on Rosh Shoshana and Yom Kippur. When we are born and when we die are things that have been decided long before they ever occur. So should I go searching in the reservoirs of religion hoping to find peace and strength? And if I do, what will I really find? I know a journey with one goal in mind always results in finding things we never planned on looking for to begin with.
I am standing on the cliff, poised, preparing for the moment when a strong wind at my back blows me over into the empty space before me….
Actually, I had a cousin who was killed by a bus while crossing the street. I think it was a bus but it might have been a car. You know how stories change over time and facts get lost in space. I remember the story this way:
My mother’s favorite Uncle, Hymie, had a son, Meyer, who served in the military. It must have been WWII. Shortly after returning home from his tour of duty, he was married and his wife was pregnant. He was killed by a bus while crossing the street. How does that happen? It seems almost impossible that a grown man crossing the street could die this way. Did he forget to look both ways, an error only a child would make? Did he suffer from post traumatic stress and a car horn frightened him into harms way accidentally? Why would someone who returned from war unscathed die in some freak accident?
I find myself struggling emotionally and then feeling I have no “right” to feel this way. My mother is 90. She has been in a lot of pain for a long time. She had a sore on her toe and she complained about how painful it was. I keep retracing my steps to see if I could have altered the situation I now find my mother in, battling gangrene and an infection in her bone. What if I would have paid more attention when she complained about her toe and what if I would have called her doctor or done research and realized my mother’s diabetes was at the root of the problem? If I had been more “on top” of the situation, more conscious of what can go wrong with a 90 year old woman with diabetes, and more proactive and made sure a culture was taken on the wound while it was still wet so the infectious disease doctor would have targeted the bacteria with the best possible antibiotics instead of having to just blast her with some generic antibiotic hoping it would do the trick? Then would my mother still be happily eating dinner each night with her friends in Lincolnwood Place? Did I let her down? Even worse, did I let myself down?
What can we control in life? How aware do we have to be at all times, and is it even possible to be focused on each and every thing that can go wrong from the moment we wake up to the time we go back to sleep. Or is daily life more like plugging a hole in a damn only to find another leak has sprung from a different crevice? I guess I will have to soothe myself with the thought that if it had not been this problem, something else could have or would have happened to rob my mother of her mental acuity and seemingly indestructible physical being. If I don’t convince myself of this, I may drive myself crazy.
Acceptance of undesirable situations is the most difficult challenge for most of us. This explains why Denial is so prevalent in our society. Mishap, accident, oversight, does it really matter HOW we arrive at a moment in time that changes everything in our world? Whether it was a car accident, a tumor undiagnosed, a dive into a sand bank or walking home just as a murderer is looking for his next victim, the end result is often the same, lives turned upside down. Control vs. Fate. I keep thinking about my mother’s many clever sayings and how she peppered my childhood with words of wisdom hidden inside cheesy clichés.
She always said when it is “your time to go” nothing can change that as if she truly believed what they tell us on Rosh Shoshana and Yom Kippur. When we are born and when we die are things that have been decided long before they ever occur. So should I go searching in the reservoirs of religion hoping to find peace and strength? And if I do, what will I really find? I know a journey with one goal in mind always results in finding things we never planned on looking for to begin with.
I am standing on the cliff, poised, preparing for the moment when a strong wind at my back blows me over into the empty space before me….
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
276 Days Until the Big Five-0
Reading between the lines… or How did I get so lucky to have the most insightful Best Friend in the Universe.
Anyone who knows me for more than 4 minutes usually gets all the necessary information. I hold nothing back. I read like an open book, or should I say trashy magazine to be more accurate. Within minutes of meeting me, most people know the following:
I am Jewish.
I got married late in Life (34)
My father died when I was 9.
My father was a Holocaust Survivor.
I am in an enmeshed relationship with my mother, Becky, who I call my oldest child.
I met my best friend Roberta, when I was 5 on my way to kindergarten. She is more than a best friend, and more than a sister. It is impossible to describe our relationship.
After getting what I consider to be all the necessary information about myself out of the way in order to demonstrate I am someone you can trust and be completely open with, I ever so smoothly make the transition to move the conversation into the direction of where I really want it to go…
Enough about me, what about you?
I then dive into my research mode as to who YOU are. I have a deep curiosity and interest in other people’s lives. I am a life story detective. I want to know everything about your life. Then I want to analyze it. What could possibly be more fascinating than someone’s personal journey through the Universe? This is why I quickly share so much up front. I want to make you comfortable. If I show you mine, then I am hoping you will show me yours. I need to know, and I want the details. Are your parents happily married? Were you ever abused as a child? Where did you grow up? Do you have a sibling with whom you never speak? Are you happily married? What do you do for a living? What does your spouse do? The questions are endless and I have no boundaries or inhibitions. It is this quest for knowledge and understanding of others that often binds Roberta and me. When we are together we make Woodward and Bernstein look like amateurs. We are a dynamic duo with radar that is so sophisticated; technology has not caught up yet. We need to start an advice column since not only do we love to explore the emotional and psychological landscape of everyone’s lives, we love to come up with brilliant insights unraveling mysteries that have puzzled people because they were just “too close” to the situation to really break it down scientifically and understand the cause and effect.
Did I mention Roberta is a chemist? A real scientist at heart and a scientist of the heart, the emotional pretty shaped one you see on Valentine’s Day cards as well as the physical one pounding in your chest. She can unravel medical mysteries as well as solve complex psychological puzzles plaguing ones development and ability to move forward. Sometimes I think Roberta has some rare super power allowing her to approach every internal war on two fronts, getting to the root causes of both psychological and physical issues. I cannot count the number of times she has provided me with just the right questions to ask in order to clear up medical problems for me, my mom, my kids, my husband and other friends.
Some people are more defined by their relationships than by what they do for a living, what they own, or accomplishments. I could never be an Olympian because those people need to be dedicated to achieving a personal goal demanding an inordinate amount of time focused on training their bodies. I spend my time thinking about relationships. I spend more time thinking about the relationships I have with people than I do with the actual people themselves. What sport is that, Psychology, Sociology, Anthropology, or Laziness? It does not really produce anything of substance or use unless you are willing to count “epiphanies.” Roberta and I produce epiphanies like McDonald’s makes hamburgers. We really should be writing them down somewhere, keeping a log so at least we will have something to show for all our hard work. They could sit ready in the warmers just like those little burgers, waiting until someone comes up and orders one.
I know I am the luckiest person in the world. I really do because I have Roberta always ready to analyze and make sense of the world with me and often for me.
With all the unfulfilled dreams and fantasies running rampant around my mischievous mind I often miss understanding what is really important. This is where Roberta comes in to rescue me from my own nearsightedness. In a previous Blog Post I wrote about having to share my soul with my mother. I looked at it as if it made my life more complicated and worst in that it prevented me from accomplishing some greater purpose for which I was born. Roberta read it. She had an entirely different perspective. She sent me an email and gave me permission to use part of it on this Posting: This is what Roberta said:
“I read your blog. Yeah, you "coulda been a contender". We all could have. Everyone regrets the path not followed because we fantasize the outcome. There really is no way of knowing how good things could have been if you had, for example, become a lawyer, but one thing is probably certain: you would have had less time to spend with your mother while she was healthy and especially now while she isn't. Your relationship would have less dimension and quality. What seems like more for you is almost always less for others, and that fact alone can often mean less for you.
Much of what your mother repeated regularly, from the aphorisms to the complaints, held a deeper truth or attempted to conceal one that could only be revealed at a safer time. When she regretted her lack of schooling, she drummed into you and your brothers how important education was. It wasn't about you feeling bad that she didn't have something, but that you should go out and get it. That was about your own identity, not hers, about you leaving and becoming your own person, not staying and mirroring her life. You may have physically stuck around, but you were always encouraged to develop a soaring spirit, something that has no boundaries. 6242 was not a cage, but a nest.”
I cried after reading what Roberta wrote. She is a more beautiful writer than I will ever be. She remains the smartest person I know. I have written about “the building” aka 6242 a lot over the years and shared much of it with Roberta. Relationships are complicated and fascinating whether they are between two people, or one person and a place. I think of Scarlet O’Hara and Tara, or Dorothy and Oz, Alice and the Wonderland, or Wendy and Neverland whenever I think of my Family and 6242. The building was our livelihood, it was a safe harbor for so many of the tenants who came and went, it was a museum holding artifacts from our families history, it was an anchor that tied me to one place, it was a ventilator that I needed in order to exist, and in the end it was the golden ticket for my mother and answered the question hounding her for 8 decades:
“What will become of me?” The answer: You will be able to live in dignity, amongst familiar faces in a warm beautiful apartment, no cockroaches, no chicken coops, and no hunger pains gnawing at your 9 year old stomach. I did not do that for Becky. She did that herself. She took care of the building and of her children the best she could and it turned out pretty well. I think what Roberta was trying to tell me was how important I was to enabling my mom to accomplish so much. And that is something I can be proud of, just as proud as anyone who owns a big home on the lake, or is appearing on Broadway tonight.
I love the idea of a “nest”. It is so Roberta. She is so much more grounded and practical than I am. I would have compared the building to a “launching pad” so I could think of myself as a rocket soaring into the sky, but that would have just been another escape fantasy like the ones I had walking to grammar school where in my head Scotty was already read to “beam me up.” Roberta is more maternal and caring herself. While I pretend I want to run free, she understands and respects the Universe and its gravitational forces. It must be why she is a master gardener and someone who loves birds. Roberta believes in the need to always return to the earth in both body and mind. I am the one with her head in the clouds while she is swooping down and building the nest, a soft place to land when my imaginary wings fail to move me across the sky.
Anyone who knows me for more than 4 minutes usually gets all the necessary information. I hold nothing back. I read like an open book, or should I say trashy magazine to be more accurate. Within minutes of meeting me, most people know the following:
I am Jewish.
I got married late in Life (34)
My father died when I was 9.
My father was a Holocaust Survivor.
I am in an enmeshed relationship with my mother, Becky, who I call my oldest child.
I met my best friend Roberta, when I was 5 on my way to kindergarten. She is more than a best friend, and more than a sister. It is impossible to describe our relationship.
After getting what I consider to be all the necessary information about myself out of the way in order to demonstrate I am someone you can trust and be completely open with, I ever so smoothly make the transition to move the conversation into the direction of where I really want it to go…
Enough about me, what about you?
I then dive into my research mode as to who YOU are. I have a deep curiosity and interest in other people’s lives. I am a life story detective. I want to know everything about your life. Then I want to analyze it. What could possibly be more fascinating than someone’s personal journey through the Universe? This is why I quickly share so much up front. I want to make you comfortable. If I show you mine, then I am hoping you will show me yours. I need to know, and I want the details. Are your parents happily married? Were you ever abused as a child? Where did you grow up? Do you have a sibling with whom you never speak? Are you happily married? What do you do for a living? What does your spouse do? The questions are endless and I have no boundaries or inhibitions. It is this quest for knowledge and understanding of others that often binds Roberta and me. When we are together we make Woodward and Bernstein look like amateurs. We are a dynamic duo with radar that is so sophisticated; technology has not caught up yet. We need to start an advice column since not only do we love to explore the emotional and psychological landscape of everyone’s lives, we love to come up with brilliant insights unraveling mysteries that have puzzled people because they were just “too close” to the situation to really break it down scientifically and understand the cause and effect.
Did I mention Roberta is a chemist? A real scientist at heart and a scientist of the heart, the emotional pretty shaped one you see on Valentine’s Day cards as well as the physical one pounding in your chest. She can unravel medical mysteries as well as solve complex psychological puzzles plaguing ones development and ability to move forward. Sometimes I think Roberta has some rare super power allowing her to approach every internal war on two fronts, getting to the root causes of both psychological and physical issues. I cannot count the number of times she has provided me with just the right questions to ask in order to clear up medical problems for me, my mom, my kids, my husband and other friends.
Some people are more defined by their relationships than by what they do for a living, what they own, or accomplishments. I could never be an Olympian because those people need to be dedicated to achieving a personal goal demanding an inordinate amount of time focused on training their bodies. I spend my time thinking about relationships. I spend more time thinking about the relationships I have with people than I do with the actual people themselves. What sport is that, Psychology, Sociology, Anthropology, or Laziness? It does not really produce anything of substance or use unless you are willing to count “epiphanies.” Roberta and I produce epiphanies like McDonald’s makes hamburgers. We really should be writing them down somewhere, keeping a log so at least we will have something to show for all our hard work. They could sit ready in the warmers just like those little burgers, waiting until someone comes up and orders one.
I know I am the luckiest person in the world. I really do because I have Roberta always ready to analyze and make sense of the world with me and often for me.
With all the unfulfilled dreams and fantasies running rampant around my mischievous mind I often miss understanding what is really important. This is where Roberta comes in to rescue me from my own nearsightedness. In a previous Blog Post I wrote about having to share my soul with my mother. I looked at it as if it made my life more complicated and worst in that it prevented me from accomplishing some greater purpose for which I was born. Roberta read it. She had an entirely different perspective. She sent me an email and gave me permission to use part of it on this Posting: This is what Roberta said:
“I read your blog. Yeah, you "coulda been a contender". We all could have. Everyone regrets the path not followed because we fantasize the outcome. There really is no way of knowing how good things could have been if you had, for example, become a lawyer, but one thing is probably certain: you would have had less time to spend with your mother while she was healthy and especially now while she isn't. Your relationship would have less dimension and quality. What seems like more for you is almost always less for others, and that fact alone can often mean less for you.
Much of what your mother repeated regularly, from the aphorisms to the complaints, held a deeper truth or attempted to conceal one that could only be revealed at a safer time. When she regretted her lack of schooling, she drummed into you and your brothers how important education was. It wasn't about you feeling bad that she didn't have something, but that you should go out and get it. That was about your own identity, not hers, about you leaving and becoming your own person, not staying and mirroring her life. You may have physically stuck around, but you were always encouraged to develop a soaring spirit, something that has no boundaries. 6242 was not a cage, but a nest.”
I cried after reading what Roberta wrote. She is a more beautiful writer than I will ever be. She remains the smartest person I know. I have written about “the building” aka 6242 a lot over the years and shared much of it with Roberta. Relationships are complicated and fascinating whether they are between two people, or one person and a place. I think of Scarlet O’Hara and Tara, or Dorothy and Oz, Alice and the Wonderland, or Wendy and Neverland whenever I think of my Family and 6242. The building was our livelihood, it was a safe harbor for so many of the tenants who came and went, it was a museum holding artifacts from our families history, it was an anchor that tied me to one place, it was a ventilator that I needed in order to exist, and in the end it was the golden ticket for my mother and answered the question hounding her for 8 decades:
“What will become of me?” The answer: You will be able to live in dignity, amongst familiar faces in a warm beautiful apartment, no cockroaches, no chicken coops, and no hunger pains gnawing at your 9 year old stomach. I did not do that for Becky. She did that herself. She took care of the building and of her children the best she could and it turned out pretty well. I think what Roberta was trying to tell me was how important I was to enabling my mom to accomplish so much. And that is something I can be proud of, just as proud as anyone who owns a big home on the lake, or is appearing on Broadway tonight.
I love the idea of a “nest”. It is so Roberta. She is so much more grounded and practical than I am. I would have compared the building to a “launching pad” so I could think of myself as a rocket soaring into the sky, but that would have just been another escape fantasy like the ones I had walking to grammar school where in my head Scotty was already read to “beam me up.” Roberta is more maternal and caring herself. While I pretend I want to run free, she understands and respects the Universe and its gravitational forces. It must be why she is a master gardener and someone who loves birds. Roberta believes in the need to always return to the earth in both body and mind. I am the one with her head in the clouds while she is swooping down and building the nest, a soft place to land when my imaginary wings fail to move me across the sky.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
277 Days Until the Big Five-O
What am I doing here??
Was I born solely for the purpose of making up for my mother’s bad childhood? And if so, then mission accomplished. What more is there for me to do? I have fulfilled my main purpose in life, and this answers that eternal puzzle we all strive to solve: Why was I born, for what reason, for what purpose? Oh well, now that I figured that one out I feel so purposeless…
My mother is a very strong woman. My mother resents her own strength. These two sentences are both absolutely true and often the source of quite a dilemma for her. And like so many other traits I have absorbed, both sentences are true of me as well. So, I will try my best to sort it all out and see what I have learned over the years in an effort to embrace and cherish my own strength instead of being afraid of it and running away.
My mother wants to be rescued and when that does not happen, she fights on. This has happened often in her life. It began when her parents moved her to Winnimac Indiana with them to live on a farm during the Great Depression, which turned out to be one of the most tragic turn of events in her life. The farm was supposed to be a co-op of sorts, something similar to a Kibbutz and her father was to be in charge while the other owners remained in Chicago. He would work the farm with his sons and his youngest daughter who was only about 9 at the time. Well, the area they chose to live in was infested with anti-semites. My mother was bullied and beaten on her way to and from school so she had to stop going. Then one weekend someone burnt their home down to the ground. My grandparents were forced to clean out a chicken coop and live in it. At that point my grandmother made the colossal mistake of sending my mother to live with an Aunt who already had 8 kids of her own. My mother was sleeping on a floor in the back of her Aunt’s little grocery store, all alone, except for the cockroaches. The other kids all shared one room up stairs and there was no space left for Becky. And this is where I learned the first lesson my mother taught me without knowing it. Never ever separate from your young child. My mother would have been better off sleeping in the chicken coop with her own mother. Poor Becky was a lonely little girl who missed her parents terribly and soon had to go to work since there was no one else to provide for her. Yet, I am convinced she lay on that floor dreading the nasty noisy bugs and praying someone, her mother, her father, anyone, would come and take her away. .
I have to believe in the mind of every little girl in a bad situation, that fantasy, that dream of being rescued keeps them going. It is an illusion, but a necessary one if tomorrow is going to come, and it always does. And it did for Becky. I can only assume she wanted to be rescued again when she realized the man she married was nothing like the man she had been dating. She had probably resigned herself to a life as an old maid living with her parents and oldest sister when World War II ended and immigrants slowly sailed across the Atlantic to their new beginnings in America. The elegant, intelligent European man who once held doors open for her turned into a controlling and violent enemy and yet her new life was signed and sealed in a Marriage License. His volatility probably did not become completely apparent until after Becky had her first child and by then it was too late, she could not afford to support herself and a baby. She was probably too embarrassed to tell her family what she was enduring at home. After years of hearing the stories, I realized she had taught me yet another lesson. Never allow a man to insult, intimidate, or threaten you in any way for any reason. Becky endured and she even multiplied twice more which is how it is I have arrived at this spot on the page.
I remember when she had open heart surgery in 1994. After the rehab and coming home I hired a caregiver to sleep in the extra bedroom since I had moved all the way upstairs (wow what a risk taker I was) into my own apartment on the third floor. Of course I paid rent, my mom was a business woman first and foremost and the building was her livelihood. She knew she was responsible for her own financial well being, the archetypical widow, a woman with more strength than an army. She was always in charge of her own destiny. She just didn’t trust Destiny. She constantly voiced her fears, “what will become of me?” as if she were that little girl on the floor, or that woman in an abusive marriage unable to figure a way out. The caregiver got tired of my mother’s complaining and told her not to worry and that “she was plenty strong. The caregiver was right, but it made my mother really angry. I realized then, she wrestled emotionally with her ability to endure physical hardship and her desire to be rescued so she could escape from it.
One of my mother’s favorite quotes when I was growing up was: “We make plans and G-d laughs” to show how futile it was to try and exert control over one’s life. I cannot help but think that while random tragedies happen it is dangerous to live as if we have no say in the course our lives take? Besides that, my mother was living proof that indeed, even after tragedy strikes, we can once again regain control over our lives and choose the direction in which we wish to travel. Destiny is more flexible than we realize.
My mother has lived her entire life convinced the rug would be pulled out from under her heavy legs at any moment. And this is how her childhood affected her, and me. It may have had a different impact on someone else. I think about that a lot. I am sure there are numerous anecdotal instances that would illustrate taking 2 or 10 or 20 different people and giving them all the same experience and seeing each one cope differently resulting in a wide variety of long term effects on their development. I take this as proof positive of the existence of individual Personalities being present at birth. I don’t really want to write a story about my mother with a beginning, middle and an end, instead I prefer to sit and wrestle with the words as a way to explore and philosophize. The Tao of Becky…figuring out my mother, her many contradictions and what they can teach me about how the world works. Who knows maybe there is still enough time left in my life for me to move Destiny in another direction.
Was I born solely for the purpose of making up for my mother’s bad childhood? And if so, then mission accomplished. What more is there for me to do? I have fulfilled my main purpose in life, and this answers that eternal puzzle we all strive to solve: Why was I born, for what reason, for what purpose? Oh well, now that I figured that one out I feel so purposeless…
My mother is a very strong woman. My mother resents her own strength. These two sentences are both absolutely true and often the source of quite a dilemma for her. And like so many other traits I have absorbed, both sentences are true of me as well. So, I will try my best to sort it all out and see what I have learned over the years in an effort to embrace and cherish my own strength instead of being afraid of it and running away.
My mother wants to be rescued and when that does not happen, she fights on. This has happened often in her life. It began when her parents moved her to Winnimac Indiana with them to live on a farm during the Great Depression, which turned out to be one of the most tragic turn of events in her life. The farm was supposed to be a co-op of sorts, something similar to a Kibbutz and her father was to be in charge while the other owners remained in Chicago. He would work the farm with his sons and his youngest daughter who was only about 9 at the time. Well, the area they chose to live in was infested with anti-semites. My mother was bullied and beaten on her way to and from school so she had to stop going. Then one weekend someone burnt their home down to the ground. My grandparents were forced to clean out a chicken coop and live in it. At that point my grandmother made the colossal mistake of sending my mother to live with an Aunt who already had 8 kids of her own. My mother was sleeping on a floor in the back of her Aunt’s little grocery store, all alone, except for the cockroaches. The other kids all shared one room up stairs and there was no space left for Becky. And this is where I learned the first lesson my mother taught me without knowing it. Never ever separate from your young child. My mother would have been better off sleeping in the chicken coop with her own mother. Poor Becky was a lonely little girl who missed her parents terribly and soon had to go to work since there was no one else to provide for her. Yet, I am convinced she lay on that floor dreading the nasty noisy bugs and praying someone, her mother, her father, anyone, would come and take her away. .
I have to believe in the mind of every little girl in a bad situation, that fantasy, that dream of being rescued keeps them going. It is an illusion, but a necessary one if tomorrow is going to come, and it always does. And it did for Becky. I can only assume she wanted to be rescued again when she realized the man she married was nothing like the man she had been dating. She had probably resigned herself to a life as an old maid living with her parents and oldest sister when World War II ended and immigrants slowly sailed across the Atlantic to their new beginnings in America. The elegant, intelligent European man who once held doors open for her turned into a controlling and violent enemy and yet her new life was signed and sealed in a Marriage License. His volatility probably did not become completely apparent until after Becky had her first child and by then it was too late, she could not afford to support herself and a baby. She was probably too embarrassed to tell her family what she was enduring at home. After years of hearing the stories, I realized she had taught me yet another lesson. Never allow a man to insult, intimidate, or threaten you in any way for any reason. Becky endured and she even multiplied twice more which is how it is I have arrived at this spot on the page.
I remember when she had open heart surgery in 1994. After the rehab and coming home I hired a caregiver to sleep in the extra bedroom since I had moved all the way upstairs (wow what a risk taker I was) into my own apartment on the third floor. Of course I paid rent, my mom was a business woman first and foremost and the building was her livelihood. She knew she was responsible for her own financial well being, the archetypical widow, a woman with more strength than an army. She was always in charge of her own destiny. She just didn’t trust Destiny. She constantly voiced her fears, “what will become of me?” as if she were that little girl on the floor, or that woman in an abusive marriage unable to figure a way out. The caregiver got tired of my mother’s complaining and told her not to worry and that “she was plenty strong. The caregiver was right, but it made my mother really angry. I realized then, she wrestled emotionally with her ability to endure physical hardship and her desire to be rescued so she could escape from it.
One of my mother’s favorite quotes when I was growing up was: “We make plans and G-d laughs” to show how futile it was to try and exert control over one’s life. I cannot help but think that while random tragedies happen it is dangerous to live as if we have no say in the course our lives take? Besides that, my mother was living proof that indeed, even after tragedy strikes, we can once again regain control over our lives and choose the direction in which we wish to travel. Destiny is more flexible than we realize.
My mother has lived her entire life convinced the rug would be pulled out from under her heavy legs at any moment. And this is how her childhood affected her, and me. It may have had a different impact on someone else. I think about that a lot. I am sure there are numerous anecdotal instances that would illustrate taking 2 or 10 or 20 different people and giving them all the same experience and seeing each one cope differently resulting in a wide variety of long term effects on their development. I take this as proof positive of the existence of individual Personalities being present at birth. I don’t really want to write a story about my mother with a beginning, middle and an end, instead I prefer to sit and wrestle with the words as a way to explore and philosophize. The Tao of Becky…figuring out my mother, her many contradictions and what they can teach me about how the world works. Who knows maybe there is still enough time left in my life for me to move Destiny in another direction.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
278 Days Until the Big Five-0
Pouring my heart out…
My mother loves life, every single simple little moment. Today she played Bingo. She was truly happy. She always is when she is surrounded by people. That was really all she ever needed, a social environment. She knew how to make herself popular wherever she went in life, the synagogue, senior citizen summer camp, the retirement community, the local Bingo hall. She is always funny and friendly.
My mother managed to hang on to a single regret which defined her entire existence. “I never finished High School or went to College.” In her mind, it made her inherently unworthy. It also made her wildly insecure. So she made it her life’s goal to make sure her children would never ever have the same regret. She made sure we each finished High School, and College. If we had not, then once again she would be proven to be unworthy. She looked in the mirror and not only saw her own reflection, but mine as well. In her mind, we were one person sharing two bodies. Splitting our soul into two lives left me in a constant state of confusion. I did not trust myself because I had no self. However, it gave her the sense of security she longed for all her life ever since being abandoned as a young child.
I love my mother. I see her everyday because I know she will not be here forever. Today I watched her play Bingo and tried to light up the room with my ever present smiling bubbly personality so she could bask in the light of my love, and so all the other patients who rarely have visitors could marvel and compliment her on how lucky she is to have this kind of devotion and attention. I have become the Nursing Home Mascot, pushing other resident’s wheelchairs and getting them sodas and ice creams and I know my mother is watching me be the helpful “little girl” and she is so proud. She never fails to let people know how she raised me all by herself and how she made sure I went to college. My “polished” presence provides her with so much joy. There is no doubt as to “our” shared worthiness.
The Bingo caller turns the cage filled with balls and the rumbling drives me a little nuts. My mother makes me play my own Bingo Card even though only residents are allowed to “win”. I dutifully place the blue chips and never call out even when I have 5 in a row. I know I am not supposed to win. And my mind wanders over our lives as the balls tumble down the short shoot out of the cage. What my mother never realized is we all earn our own regrets. We cannot erase our own regrets by having our children accomplish what we did not. So now I sit here with my regrets, feeling my own sense of worthlessness, a life unfulfilled. I am playing a game I am not allowed to win. No wonder I love the movie Cinema Paradiso so much. It is the scene when the old man whispers into the young ones ear, “leave, leave and never come back.” He is not just giving him permission to leave, he is demanding it. The wise old man is telling his young “son” there is a whole world out there just waiting for you and you can see it and taste it and travel it and it will enrich your very soul. It makes my heart pound just thinking about it.
I never left 6242 North Rockwell, because I never left my mother. The only thing I left was a basket full of my dreams in the back of my own mind. I let the fear imprison me in this reflection my mother saw. Her fears became my fears and insecurities. Never tell a child you feel worthless, if you are the fruit from which their seed is sewn. I know my mother could never have realized her constant self-doubt was seeping its way down into the earth where I was planted. Yet, now when I look in the mirror it is empty. I never tried to become a writer, a comedienne, an attorney, a world traveler. Or at least I did not try hard enough, or I would not be sitting here typing these worthless words. I hope my children never see this. I don’t want it to make them feel bad about themselves. I never let them know how bad I feel about myself for that very reason.
I tell my children, yes you will go away to college, but that is only the beginning. It is a means to an end, and not an end in of itself. Try things, pursue things, find things you love to do and what you want to be. I will give you the necessary tools but you have to build your own dream ship. You don’t have to be good at it, you just have to love it. I so want to break the cycle, give them their very own lives. Encourage them to explore the unknown. Leave me alone one day, I don’t care. I want you to. My joy will come from seeing you find your own joy.
I am not angry at my mother. I love her with all my heart. We all play the hand we are dealt. My mother and I play kalookie everyday. I love life too. I still appreciate the flowers, the movies, dinners with friends, lord knows I love to laugh. I know I have to find joy wherever I am, even if it is always in the same place, right here….I am not feeling sorry for myself, just a little disappointed thinking there was so much more I never got to see and when my mother passes, part of me is passing as well and I am not sure how I can reconcile the regrets, hers and mine.
My mother loves life, every single simple little moment. Today she played Bingo. She was truly happy. She always is when she is surrounded by people. That was really all she ever needed, a social environment. She knew how to make herself popular wherever she went in life, the synagogue, senior citizen summer camp, the retirement community, the local Bingo hall. She is always funny and friendly.
My mother managed to hang on to a single regret which defined her entire existence. “I never finished High School or went to College.” In her mind, it made her inherently unworthy. It also made her wildly insecure. So she made it her life’s goal to make sure her children would never ever have the same regret. She made sure we each finished High School, and College. If we had not, then once again she would be proven to be unworthy. She looked in the mirror and not only saw her own reflection, but mine as well. In her mind, we were one person sharing two bodies. Splitting our soul into two lives left me in a constant state of confusion. I did not trust myself because I had no self. However, it gave her the sense of security she longed for all her life ever since being abandoned as a young child.
I love my mother. I see her everyday because I know she will not be here forever. Today I watched her play Bingo and tried to light up the room with my ever present smiling bubbly personality so she could bask in the light of my love, and so all the other patients who rarely have visitors could marvel and compliment her on how lucky she is to have this kind of devotion and attention. I have become the Nursing Home Mascot, pushing other resident’s wheelchairs and getting them sodas and ice creams and I know my mother is watching me be the helpful “little girl” and she is so proud. She never fails to let people know how she raised me all by herself and how she made sure I went to college. My “polished” presence provides her with so much joy. There is no doubt as to “our” shared worthiness.
The Bingo caller turns the cage filled with balls and the rumbling drives me a little nuts. My mother makes me play my own Bingo Card even though only residents are allowed to “win”. I dutifully place the blue chips and never call out even when I have 5 in a row. I know I am not supposed to win. And my mind wanders over our lives as the balls tumble down the short shoot out of the cage. What my mother never realized is we all earn our own regrets. We cannot erase our own regrets by having our children accomplish what we did not. So now I sit here with my regrets, feeling my own sense of worthlessness, a life unfulfilled. I am playing a game I am not allowed to win. No wonder I love the movie Cinema Paradiso so much. It is the scene when the old man whispers into the young ones ear, “leave, leave and never come back.” He is not just giving him permission to leave, he is demanding it. The wise old man is telling his young “son” there is a whole world out there just waiting for you and you can see it and taste it and travel it and it will enrich your very soul. It makes my heart pound just thinking about it.
I never left 6242 North Rockwell, because I never left my mother. The only thing I left was a basket full of my dreams in the back of my own mind. I let the fear imprison me in this reflection my mother saw. Her fears became my fears and insecurities. Never tell a child you feel worthless, if you are the fruit from which their seed is sewn. I know my mother could never have realized her constant self-doubt was seeping its way down into the earth where I was planted. Yet, now when I look in the mirror it is empty. I never tried to become a writer, a comedienne, an attorney, a world traveler. Or at least I did not try hard enough, or I would not be sitting here typing these worthless words. I hope my children never see this. I don’t want it to make them feel bad about themselves. I never let them know how bad I feel about myself for that very reason.
I tell my children, yes you will go away to college, but that is only the beginning. It is a means to an end, and not an end in of itself. Try things, pursue things, find things you love to do and what you want to be. I will give you the necessary tools but you have to build your own dream ship. You don’t have to be good at it, you just have to love it. I so want to break the cycle, give them their very own lives. Encourage them to explore the unknown. Leave me alone one day, I don’t care. I want you to. My joy will come from seeing you find your own joy.
I am not angry at my mother. I love her with all my heart. We all play the hand we are dealt. My mother and I play kalookie everyday. I love life too. I still appreciate the flowers, the movies, dinners with friends, lord knows I love to laugh. I know I have to find joy wherever I am, even if it is always in the same place, right here….I am not feeling sorry for myself, just a little disappointed thinking there was so much more I never got to see and when my mother passes, part of me is passing as well and I am not sure how I can reconcile the regrets, hers and mine.
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