To know her was to love her

Mom and her brother, Walter, November 2012

My mother was one of those special people, beloved by nearly everyone she met.

She had a warmth, a natural curiosity about people. Spend five minutes with her and she'd know your life story, the names of your children and where your ancestors came from.

She was also genuinely gracious, sincerely grateful to everyone for everything done for her.

In the hospital, in her very last days, she even whispered a "Thank you" to the nurse giving her a shot of vitamin K. The nurse turned to me, her face alight, and told me she had never been thanked before for giving a patient an injection.

That was Mom.

Mom & me, Mothers Day 2012

The staff at the nursing home were shocked when I called to give them the news. "Oh, no! Not our DDF!" they all cried.

That was her particular nomenclature: I have been her D.D.D. for years - Dear, Darling Daughter  - (and she my D.D.M.). And the women who looked after her at the home had become her D.D.F. -  Dear, Darling Friends.

My father, as much as he loved his family, was defined by his life's work: his photography.

My mother, like so many women (especially of her generation), was defined by her relationships, the people she loved and who loved her. And at this she excelled, oh so well.

Mom and her Grandson, Simon, November 2012

Granddaughter Rachel visiting with Mom, February, 2012

Mom found so much joy in parenthood, and found that joy doubled as a grandmother, seeing her feelings replicated in me. She loved watching me revel in my own children, yet another bond between us: we were both mothers.

Mom and Jake, August 2012

Mom & Ethan, on her 89th birthday, September, 2011

Mom made friends everywhere she went. At Carnegie East House, the assisted living community she had moved into with my father, and where she continued to live as a widow until her disastrous, hip-breaking fall last May, she had two close friends of a similar temperament: smart, funny, artistic, literate, left-leaning and bohemian. Not your typical "little old ladies" by any stretch of the imagination.

They called themselves "The 3 Musketeers" and took every opportunity to laugh at the foibles of old age and their situation, vowing not to become like some of the farbissinas* at the joint.

Mom and her friends at Carnegie East, 2011

The reason I chose the specific facility I did for mom's rehab stint (which then became her permanent nursing home) was that at the time, my Aunt Eva, her sister-in-law, was herself rehabbing there, as it was less than a mile from her Port Washington home.

Mom & Eva at the nursing home, June 2012

Even after Eva returned home, being so close to mom's brother Walter meant that he visited often, allowing them to spend much time in the last few months of her life. Also my cousins and their kids got to stop by and visit with my mom - their dear Aunt Sylvia - whenever they came to town.

Mom & niece Annette, July 2012

Mom & grand-niece Greta, July, 2012

Mom & Walter, October 2012

Mom so appreciated Walter's visits, always showing off the flowers he had brought (as he always did), marveling at how nice it was to have fresh flowers in her room.

Mom & niece Jessie, November 2011

Mom & grand-niece Ilana, November 2011

My mom: making friends everywhere she went...

Mom & Santa, December 2010

...to know her was to love her.

I certainly did.


* Yiddish for embittered sourpusses.

Alternate Side

A detail of my car's dashboard. Very 90s.

We have a car in Manhattan and we park it on the streets.

And that's every bit as insane as it sounds, but we have our reasons. ($400 a month garage fees being chief among the street-park decision.)

I never set out to be an auto-bearing Manhattanite, but rather had this thrust upon me when my very elderly parents moved back to New York and under my care about seven years ago, and their car came up from Florida with them.

It was full of dings and scratches, patches of other car colors that had been acquired by... violent proximity. Apparently at the end of his driving years, nearly every time he took the car out, my father would return with dents of unknown origin.

If my parents had just moved to Manhattan, I would have sold their car and been done with it. But no, they chose a senior residence in the northern reaches of Riverdale. (Technically in Yonkers even, though literally it was just a toehold over the line, on the north side of the dotted-line dividing street, rather than the south.)

I was their chauffeur, ferrying them to doctor appointments, shopping trips, Dad's one-man show at the Yonkers Library (his last big professional hurrah).

Now, other than weekend road trips and family vacations, I mostly drive Ethan to school on alternate side parking days, when the car must be ritually moved and re-parked.* Twice a week. More if we've used it and been unlucky in our parking choices upon return.

And after dropping Ethan off, I have about an hour to kill before it's time to re-park. The perfect excuse for morning coffee with the mom-friends.

This morning our conversation spanned hysterectomies, Gay Day at the Mall of America, rating of local pediatricians, concern for a friend having a hospitalization-worthy manic episode, homework, Sacha Baron Cohen, Simon Baron Cohen, the horrors of the middle school application process, Freddy Mercury, a theatrical parent's reaction to numerous boyfriends over the years until her loudly sung declaration of the husband to be: "Keeeeeeper!"

Once again I was filled with that warm snugly feeling that I have the best friends in the world.

A particularly supportive non-judgmental group; when I hear of women complaining about the competitiveness, vindictiveness and shallowness of women's relationships I can't help but think: "Who the Hell are YOU befriending?" because that so does not describe anyone I know or choose to spend time with. Then again we're not the "perfect" moms in designer clothes (unless they came from Filene's or Loehmann's) with the "perfect" children. Far from it.

Giving a friend a ride home after coffee today, she hopped into the passenger seat and seemed delighted to find I had a cassette deck in my dashboard, with actual cassettes in the cubby. (I did mention it's a 1997 sedan that had been previously owned by old people - i.e. my parents -  right?)

She grabbed Special Beat Service and popped it in and we started loudly caterwauling together, singing along to "Sugar and Stress" as we barreled up Amsterdam Avenue.

By the time I dropped her at her door "End of the Party" was playing. A hauntingly beautiful song. We had spent much of the car ride talking about how important music has been to us at various times in our lives.

I mentioned how one of my blog friends had included a song in her post that sent me on a wild nostalgia ride: Kate Bush singing "This Woman's Work."

And then, a few moments later, just as I'd found a parking spot, the heavens opened up and a torrential downpour ensued, the kind that laughs at your puny little umbrellas as it soaks you with sideways rain and from the ground up in great splashing puddles.

There was thunder and lightning involved, and the blaring of alarms, as cars close to the strikes rocked in the violence of the electrically discharging blasts.

Me? I sat toasty in my bubble, listening to my old music on the cassette deck; enjoying the spectacle outside my windows.

Windows, from a rainy window

Trees above, through windshield raindrops

So I will leave you with a few words from and a video of this English Beat song I Confess: "I know I'm shouting, I like to shout!" Enjoy:

*Note: this is a post from my "Zombie Files" - written months ago, and just finished up and posted today (being reminded of it by the rain). Right NOW I am actually using the car a LOT driving back and forth to Long Island where my mother is in a nursing home.

My Tribe

I am particularly squashed right now.

My mother can no longer walk, so she can't go home to the lovely assisted living community she has been a part of for over two years now. They cannot handle the level of care she now needs.

I am in the midst of transitioning her into a nursing home now (and it is breaking my heart).

So I need to dissolve all but about two suitcases of her entire life. All while my children have a MONTH left until school starts up again, with only a week of non-mom supervision scheduled.

I have so much I want to say here, but no time to write, even though the words are bubbling up inside me, yearning to break free.

I am sure some night soon I will be up way too late, writing anyway, as the bottled up words just cannot stand.

But until then?

I do not want my blog to suffer, lonely and forlorn waiting for my attention. So I have made the decision to bring some of my guest posts back home, especially posts you may have not read, that seem relevant to current circumstances.

As I have just come back from this year's BlogHer conference, I thought I would start with this post, about finding my tribe of bloggers.

And in case any of you are in doubt, this weekend confirmed ever more than before for me: Blog friends ARE real friends, indeed.

<> <> <>

Tribes
 
I am of an age. Older than many other mothers of nine-year-old boys.

I have belonged to many tribes in my 51 years of life on this planet.

In the beginning, obviously, there were the tribes I was born into, happenstance of ancestry and geography: Jews, native New Yorkers.

Then other, subtler tribes, born of the choices my parents made: the tribe of only (sometimes lonely) children, the tribe of Bohemian artists, which I must say was much larger when we lived in Manhattan, shrank to the miniscule when my family moved to the flatlands of Long Island.

Then there are tribes of circumstance and identity that coalesce among school-age children. Mine were of the bookish variety, including the Educated Apes & Pigs – the name the “regular” kids coined for those of us in the Enriched & Accelerated Program, or EAP classes in my elementary school.

We didn’t care what they called us. A group of too-smart-for-their-own-good kids together? Is a very good thing. For two years we with our own, exclusively, and could relax for once. It was glorious.

Then through the tumbled, tumultuous years of adolescence and teenagery, like so many others, I stepped into and out of tribes, trying on and shedding groups and identities; seeking the true and the comfortable, shedding old and too tight skins.

Choir nerd / theater nerd / tech squad / artist / vegetarian / hippie / feminist / punk

Then more of the same in college. But fine tuning it, getting closer to the core, to ones that stuck around for a while:

For a long time I was a radical lesbian-feminist, a member very insular and exclusive group. There was a tremendous sense of identity there, a fierce belonging, a complete subculture and I was one of the tribe, lavender-dipped down to my skin.

And then?

I changed.

It was hard to leave such a tight, interconnected tribe, to step out into the world as just me.

But the inside was evolving and no longer matched the outside. Another skin to shed.

Moving back to New York in my mid-twenties in the mid-eighties, the world was wide. I spun through single gal – married woman – divorcee – married again.

For a while I was in the tribe of the infertile. That one was hard. Rock and a hard place hard.

And then, most transformatively of all, I joyfully, and with many tears, joined the Mom tribe, frequently anointed in pee and poo and leaky breastmilk.

My life, before, ever expanding, contracted for a time into that fiercely insular world of infant parenting: a few blocks bounded by the parks, the nearby stores that sell diapers, teething toys and baby tylenol, the pediatrician’s office, the kid friendly cafes.

I left my square mile infrequently. But within were many other members of my weary tribes: older new mothers and mothers of twins.

In the past few years I have, unfortunately been inducted into tribes not of my own choosing.

Although I have embraced it whole-heartedly and learned of its gifts, joining the tribe of Autism Mothers was quite a shock. Unwelcome at first, to say the least.

And then there’s the Dead Dads Club whose membership card comes, eventually, to all who enter the tribal cave of the elder-care-givers. Once again this was thrust upon me. But it is a weight I bear with love, my 89-year-young mother still my charge.

Which brings me to this, the tribe I find myself among today: the tribe of bloggers, we of the writing kind.

I did not know I had not yet found my people. I sat in the middle of so many belongings, I felt so connected. How could I have suspected there was more?

But then one day I transformed my words into little packets of ones and zeroes and pinned them on a virtual page I called my own.

I had no idea what I was doing.

I just needed to shout into the wilderness, to hear my own voice amidst the cacophony of special needs children and dying parents.

I wrote and wrote.

And then I began to read.

And then I joined a blogging community. Or two. A group blog. A conference.

And one day I realized: my ghostly, virtual friends were as real and important as my flesh and blood friends.

And that I was Blogger.

That this was my true tribe.

And that it took me fifty years, but I had found my people, oversharers all, and come home.

<> <> <>

 To read my post as it appeared initially in October 2011, go here to my friend Katie's blog Sluiter Nation.

Lost Stories of BlogHer11: Rooming with Royalty and a TV Star

Me with my BlogHer11 Roomies: Alexandra & Shari

Well, it's the DAY BEFORE BlogHer12 begins, and I have just realized that I have an unpublished post from last summer's BlogHer11 still sitting in my "zombie files" - where posts that I began and never finished, but to which I'm too attached to just leave for dead, sit and wait for resurrection...

OK, don't laugh, here it is: my final BlogHer11 wrap-up post. And only 364 days after the actual event.

Once again, I’m late to the party; very, very late. Everyone put up their “seriously folks, this is my very last post about BlogHer11” post in late August, about the time I put up my FIRST one. But here's my little secret: if you're late enough you can be early.

So really, this isn't a ridiculously late BH11 post, it's another pre-BH12 post. Voila!

Part of it is that I’m just not a quick digester, I like to ruminate (sorry about the visceral image that metaphor may conjure up). And then there’s, you know, my crazy life. Oh, and did I mention I have ADD. Bad. Yeah, that might be part of it too.

Because I STARTED writing this post on the plane home from BlogHer11 in early August. Last August.

And now I'm finishing it the night before BlogHer 12 kicks off here in my own New York City. One whole year later. (Note to self: work on this ADD thing, OK? Sheesh!)

So....

First of all, I was THERE, at BlogHer11. (And at first I typo-ed that as “BlogHer111” and amused myself by thinking while fixing it, “no that’s not for another 100 years yet.” Now wouldn’t it be something if it were still going on then? Although what that would look like? What media will exist in 2111? I have no idea. So exponential is the rate of technological evolution and advancement at this point, it renders this inquiry mind-bogglingly unimaginable.)

Yes, I actually flew across the country and was immersed up to my elbows in all things Bloggy, at the biggest women’s blogging convention EVER. But, oddly enough, without either the physical or mental capacity to write anything. Oh, I made sure my SN Sibling Saturdays guest post went up (by putting in significant 2 AM time at the hotel’s rent-a-computers center). But other than that? Nada.

And then I came home to the then nine year-old twins, 24/7. And the Autism. And the ADD. And two weeks worth of everyone’s laundry. And I could go on, but I'll spare you.

So I went to BlogHer11, and yes it was terrific, in oh so many ways. I had many tales I could tell, especially about being STYLED by some wonderful ladies. Did I overindulge a bit, were those three days a little over-stuffed? Yes, you might say. But also deeply satisfying.  

And, as always it seems, some of the best parts were unplanned, the result of serendipity or gifts of circumstance; seemingly forced upon me by necessity, but bearing wonderful fruit.

Most importantly, if I could have afforded it, if I hadn’t been doing it on the way-cheap, on a budget of nearly nothing - early bird conference rate, frequent flyer miles airfare, all but one meal free, ridiculously cheap ride to/from airport, etc. etc.? I probably would have stayed in a room alone (a room to myself being a rare-to-never luxury in my life these days). And that would have been a tragedy of epic proportions.

Because, I? Ended up rooming with Royalty and a red-headed TV Star. Oh, yes.

I had booked my room way early FOR ONCE, instead of scrambling at the last minute (usual M.O.) and so I had a much desirable room at the actual conference hotel. I then, eventually (you didn't think I did EVERYTHING on time did you?) set about conjuring up a roommate.

And I got two: the Empress Alexandra of the blog Good Day Regular People, and the lovely Shari, she of the blog: Earth Mother Just Means I'm Dusty. Two very funny women.

Now, pretty much everyone seems to know that Alexandra is also known as "The Empress" due to the royal names of her children and her regal, generous personalty. Alexandra is a blogger much beloved on the internet, and was being wined and dined by many in San Diego, as she was a Voice of the Year speaker.

But did you also know that Shari, the amazing "Dusty" (aka her blog name) is also a reality TV star? Yes, beautiful and funny - what a combo - she recently had her kitchen done over for a reality TV show - and here's her v-log post about it. 

So a merrier band has ne’er been seen in all the world. Truly. We got along famously, like a house on fire. It was like the best parts of being college roommates (heart–to-heart discussions in PJs, honest & hilarious clothing & make-up consultations) without all the other crap (being 18 again and confused & insecure - shudder, shudder).

I had known Shari already in real life, both of us being local members of the sadly defunct Silicon Valley Moms Group Blog. We had bonded over being older moms together, and our love of all things New York City.

Alexandra I had known only online, and I was prepared for a connection, as we had been leaving insightful supportive comments on each others' posts, and tweeting away together for at least a year. But I had no idea how much it would be love at first sight. It was like we had been friends forever.

And she brought me & Shari each this wonderful pendant, just because we let her room with us:

On the back: Super Mom, Super Busy, Super Tired

They were the best roommates EVER. And did not hate me when my husband rang my cell phone at 3 AM local time, waking EVERYONE up, to ask where our son's lunch box might be. (Guess who usually does mornings with the boys?)
 
Last year, Alexandra was a VOTY reader and this year, Shari and I BOTH are. I think maybe some of Alexandra's sparkly magic, filled the room and cast its glow upon on us while we all slept.

I so look forward to seeing them both again this year, hugging them and riding off into the sunset together... or maybe just cruising the Expo hall in search of Dove bars and a good laugh.

A Full Moon for Susan

photo by @Mammaloves aka Amie Adams

Sunday evening, walking out the front doors of the Museum of Natural History as it closed down for the night and they shooed us out of the halls of planetary and earth sciences, as we tore ourselves away from the looming bones of ancient giant lizards, a big, beautiful, near-full moon held court in the deepening blue sky, a gleaming white marble suspended over Central Park.

I stood at the top of the stairs, arrested by its majesty, and refused to walk down the steps until both my sons had stopped and paid homage to its luminous presence.

And I thought of my amazing astrophysicist blog-friend, Susan, of how she has always encouraged us to share the night skies’ magic with our children. And I thought again of HER courage, grace and luminosity as she was currently facing the very endgame of her long battle with metastatic inflammatory breast cancer.

Susan Niebur AKA @WhyMommy

Then last night, with my children eagerly tucking into their supper, I stole a moment at the computer to try to write a post for my 2 year Blogaversary, but instead my eye was caught by something at the top of my sidebar blog-roll: a new post from Toddler Planet titled, simply “Goodbye.”

A lead weight crashed into my heart. “Nooooooooo!” I howled in my mind as I fearfully clicked over and saw that Susan was indeed gone.  I burst into tears, had to calm frightened children and explain.

In that post, her husband, Curt shared the devastating news with the same grace, love, honesty and generosity with which Susan had lived her life; faced her impending death.

The saying "to know her is to love her" is oft used. But I can think of no one that applies to more aptly than to Susan Niebur.

Susan's battle with Inflammatory Breast Cancer, a little known form of the disease that presents without a lump and is often mistaken for mastitis, went on, with ups and downs, for 5 years.  It was very public as she blogged, wrote, and spoke about it; worked with foundations and organizations to  spread awareness and encourage research.

She created Mothers with Cancer to support other mothers with cancer, and also, very practically, she helped to get compression sleeves to women in need, who, like herself, had arm swelling problems since the removal of their vital lymph nodes.

Susan pushed and rallied herself, set aside self pity and made Every. Moment. Count. in a way I had no idea was possible outside fairy-tales. She was no saint, she was a feisty, full of life, flesh and blood woman. And while others would have been consumed by rage about dying young, her attitude was "I don't have time for anger."

She endured the excruciating pain of her disease and its treatments with something that was not stoicism, but rather a fully emotionally present acceptance. She willed herself to push past the pain and exhaustion because every moment that could be salvaged and spent with her children was a moment to be cherished.

She loved her children fiercely, and tenderly. She had, in Curt, a partner who loved and supported her with amazing strength and resilience and patience and fortitude. She had an incredible support system of family and in-laws and friends upon friends who rallied around her. Team WhyMommy stepped in and stepped up.

When it became clear that the battle was lost and nearly over, that it was just the end game to be played out, she faced that too with astounding grace and compassion. COMPASSION as she lay dying, I sincerely doubt I would or could be capable of that. And yet it was just who Susan was.

She was, quite honestly, one of the bravest and most admirable women I have ever had the fortune to know.

And on top of everything else? Susan was an astrophysicist. She was a connector in a field where there is often isolation, awkwardness, the very nerdy field of Astronomy. But even more than that she was a champion of women in the planetary sciences, an encourager of girls to go into science, a wonderful role model.

Most people don't know this about me, but I almost became an astronomer. I loved the courses I took in college, and my teachers there were very encouraging, told me I had "the gift" of understanding astrophysical models. I had loved the stars and astronomy as a child, dragging my mother through the halls of the Hayden Planetarium numerous times. sitting rapt and breathless, quivering with excitement during the planetarium star shows while my Mom took an expensive nap.  But I ended up making other choices. One of the factors driving me from it was the isolation factor.

So Susan was living my discarded dream, joyfully, and I loved and admired her for this, too.

I will think of Susan every time I look into the night sky,

And I am mad, mad, mad that the demon cancer took her. Took her away from her husband and young sons. Too soon, my god, too soon.

We had only met in person once, in the summer of 2010 at the BlogHer conference here in NYC.  At the time I was a blogging newbie, 6 months in and still green behind the ears. Somehow I had a huge group of bloggy connections in the DC moms, and they had come up in en mass, in large part to support Susan who was a BlogHer Voice of the Year keynote speaker that year, as well as my friend Stimey who was on the amazing "Blogging Autism" panel.

Susan in hotel room at BlogHer1o (photo via TeachMama)

I was going out to an event with a member of the DC cadre and we'd had to pop up to her room for something. Susan was there, resting on the bed, slowly getting ready for the evening. She sparkled. We hugged; very carefully, very gently. And there was more overflowing love in that hug than in any 10 full-on bear hugs I have had before or since.

Susan BlogHer10 VOTY Keynote address (photo via TeachMama)

I am eternally grateful we had that moment. I ran into her again and again over the course of the next few days, heard her amazing VOTY address.

Last night I spent the hours after I'd put the boys to bed hunkered down by my computer, refreshing my twitter feed, tuned to the search word: WhyMommy. I read and read and read all the words that were flowing out into the cyberverse from the people whose lives she had touched: from the dear friends in her "real" life in DC, to her close blog friends she would meet up with at conferences, to the thousands who knew her only through reading her blog, but never before commented or exchanged words.

We are a community of mourners. But also a community whose lives are full of more light because she walked among us and spread her light, inspired us in everything she did. 

Please harken to the words of her husband, Curt in his farewell post:

"Please consider furthering Susan’s legacy through a contribution to the Inflammatory Breast Cancer Research Foundation.  Or please choose to make a difference somewhere, anywhere, to anyone."

Also, hug your children tightly, play with them, listen to them with more patience tonight. And know that in doing so you are honoring Susan's legacy, too.

The internet is now FULL of tributes to this amazing woman. Go, read them all, know more about her and how she touched each and every one of us to the core no matter how essentially or tangentially she was actually in our lives.

Tonight, the moon is full at 4:53 PM East Coast time, and I am sad that it shines down upon a world without Susan in it.

I am not ready to say goodbye to her. None of us are. And yet here it is. Time.

I will always remember the love that radiated from her as we hugged hello, and the light that shined from her eyes, always. The honesty and emotion that suffused her words, how she gave of herself fully, every day of her way-too-short life.

Susan thought long and hard as she knew her days were coming to an end, and distilled her philosophy down to these words:

“All that survives after our death are publications and people. So look carefully after the words you write, the thoughts and publications you create, and how you love others. For these are the only things that will remain.”

She is now up there in the firmament, among her beloved stars. And remembered with love here on earth, by a multitude, forever.

Goodbye, Susan, goodbye.

Star trails above Australia (via time-lapse photography), in purple for Susan

Photo credits: Spiral Galaxy by Calar Alto Observatory via NASA, Star Trails by Lincoln Harrison via Pinterest


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I'm Saying Things Over There

Today? I'm not here. This is an illusion of a post, a mere wisp, designed to send you elsewhere...


Today I'm guesting over at Shell's place, Things I Can’t Say, with a post about bloggy friendship and how important the blogging community is to me.

Which is so fitting as Shell is a wonderful community-building sort of blogger.

So come read me over there, with my post:  Dear Friends I've Never Met

And if you're here for the first time, coming to visit from over there...

Welcome! Nice to meet you. Please make yourself at home, poke around, stay awhile.

Don't know where to start? Want a little Squashed Mom road map? Click the links below for a nice assortment of my posts; a Bologna smorgasbord, if you will...

I'm an older mom, with nine year-old twin boys and an 89-year old mother in my care. I recently lost my 92 year old father and 93 year-old mother-in-law. I'm the squashed meat in the middle of the sandwich.

I write about birth and death, about being a mom and being a daughter.

I write about Autism in general, and my autistic son Jacob in particular.

I write about how adding in my and Ethan's ADD makes us a very neurodiverse family.

Sometimes I try to make you laugh.

And sometimes I try to make you cry. 

Sometimes I tell stories from my childhood, and my family history.

And I once let Ethan take over my blog and tell his own story.

I also write every month for Hopeful Parents.

And sometimes I link up on Mondays with Be. Enough. Me.

Also? Ethan and Jacob do not get along well, so I started a guest post series to talk about sibling relationships in families with special needs kids, called Special Needs Sibling Saturdays.

I hope you like what you've seen, and that you'll come back to visit soon.

Finally, thanks so much to Shell for inviting me to her place today. It's an honor.

And for those of you celebrating Hanukkah, like we are: Happy Fourth Night (we're halfway there)!



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On being a daughter

Note: I initially wrote this post two weeks ago, the day my mother came home from her hospitalization, then promptly forgot about it, caught back up in the whirlwind of my busy life. I just re-discovered it, while searching for something else in my blog's draft hopper, and so having given it a polish, I send it out into the world today:

My 88 year-old mother came home from the hospital today, after a four day, probably-not-necessary-but-that-can-only-be-known-in-hindsight sojourn there.

I was with her for much of this time, only returning to my home for brief shifts of not-anywhere-near-enough sleep, and to reassure my children that I still existed and cared for and about them. (And to do Jacob's extensive vitamin/medicine pours.)

By the end of this journey, I have realized that I was in no way prepared for this. Throughout all my father's many hospitalizations in the last few years of his life, I had my mother to share the burden of the care and time with. And also, often, a third party, their very caring aide Mina.

This time? There was just... me.

And there is just not enough of me to go around.

But go I must.

After remaining awake for 99% of her 30 hours in the ER before being finally admitted into a real hospital room, my mother spent much of her remaining hospitalization sleeping.

And I, equally exhausted, dozed on and off in the chair beside her, keeping a lazy vigil made possible by the excellent care I knew she was receiving.

The thousand tests they performed have shown that all the scary things we worried might have been going on were not: no stroke, no heart attack, no bisected arteries, no clogged carotids, no normal pressure hydrocephalus, no heart failure, no silent pneumonia.

The vascular specialists, the neurologists  have walked away satisfied. But oh, yes, my mother was still deeply dizzy, the condition that had led her to call the nurse where she lives and begin this whole chain of events on Monday afternoon.

After hours and hours of wait, wait, wait, there is suddenly rush, rush, rush. My mother must arrive back home to her assisted living community by 6 pm or they cannot accept her (rules, rules, rules).  So once the green light had been given, her wristbands cut off in both a functional and a symbolic gesture, a surgical rupture of the umbilicus of her care there, I am left to dress my mother.

Ever attempting to be helpful, they sent the nurse's aide to assist; however, I know this is my task, and shoo him (him!) away.

My mother had been hooked up to all sorts of machines and monitors, which means she had a lot of... things... stuck all over her body. And so after removing her hospital gown, it was time to de-tag her.

My father used to hate help with dressing, even when he could clearly no longer function on his own, a man deeply fond of his dignity. So we would often find those little EEG tags, or, stranger still, full monitor buttons, like extra nipples stuck onto his body in odd places, weeks (weeks!) after a hospitalization.

When I would attempt to remove them he would become upset.  In his mind, the doctor didn't tell him specifically to take them off, therefore they should remain attached. Likewise those little cotton balls band-aided to blood draw points designed to apply pressure briefly after the event, to help prevent hematomas from developing.

My parents have been known to wear them for days after a doctor visit, having never heard, absorbed or remembered the instructions: "Keep this on a few minutes, maybe an hour,  to make sure the bleeding has stopped."

My mother's skin has gone all crepey, nearly translucent, in spite of its always olive tint; it stretches tremendously, so as I pull at the tags I am begging the glue to yield before I cause her any pain.

As a mother, I think about how my mother must have painstakingly cared for my physical needs when I was a baby. And now here I am, full circle, caring for my mom.

When the technicians had asked her to move into positions that caused her pain, I would rub her back, hold her hand; simple reassurances, but making all the difference in the world.

And then, at the very last, a pair of eager ENTs came down, fresh faced residents full of cheer. They put my mother through some moves -- lie down, turn her head, turn her whole body, sit up this way and not that -- to help re-set the gyroscope of her inner ear.

"Watch us!" they'd said, "This should help, but it often needs more than one session.  You can do this with her at home until she's all better, or if it happens again." Their enthusiasm was infectious. I learned the moves.

We made it back before six. They let us in, welcomed her home. Willie, poor ancient cat, was beside himself with joy to see her.

And then, miraculously, after days of somnolence in a hospital bed, Mom was eager to go down to the dining room, to take back up the reins of her social life: dinner and a (closed-captioned) movie with the other two feisty old broads who call my mother friend.

They are the three musketeers, the nonconformists of the bunch, aware of life's absurdities, always peeking behind the curtain, looking askance at the dour little-old-lady types who populate much of the elder brood.

And thus I leave her, at the dinner table with her friends. Laughing.

And so I can leave with a lightened heart, as they lighten hers; for with them she once again laughs. Oh, how they laugh.

Mom and her friends

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You Gotta Have Friends at Hopeful Parents Today

It's still the 10th of the month, for a little bit longer, and I got my Hopeful Parents post done today by the skin of my teeth.

I am talking about Jake and friends, or rather, his lack thereof, in my post: You Gotta Have Friends

And while I bemoan the fact that Jake still doesn't have a much desired close friend, I also find some things to celebrate, reasons for hope.

Once again, I'm keeping it short and sweet here, just popping in to throw to my post over there.

Because my two and a half day vacation, while restful? Over at 7 pm on Sunday eve. So I'm tired again. (Will I ever make enough deposits into the sleep bank to make up for the years of 4 hour nights?)

So go read me at Hopeful Parents, then come back tomorrow for more bologna.



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Cheryl

Asked to write about Kindergarten, my usual free-flowing memory fails me.

I spent just one year in that school. (We moved the summer after.)

And of that year? Nothing remains.

The memory box is empty.

Of the building that I entered daily? There is nothing, less than nothing, not even a shadowy pseudo-memory, mocking me with its vagueness. Just... a blank, a black hole.

Of the classroom where many hours were surely logged, I get... nothing. Almost nothing. A feeling that the walls might have been green. The smell of thick paste and finger paint.

I think my teacher's name began with an "F."  Mrs. F... nothing.  I have been told that I loved her, that I looked forward to school each day.

This is inconceivable.

I am someone who has memories of laying in her crib. I have sketched the layout of the city apartment my family inhabited from my birth to age three and a half, accurate to the utter astonishment of my parents.

I remember elevator rides from a two year old's perspective, buttons frustratingly, impossibly high, mockingly out of reach. The shock of a Central Park orange creamsicle to my toddler mouth on a summer day.

I remember. Everything.

But that whole year of my life?

Astonishingly. Nothing.

Except this: a person.

One girl.

A friend.

Brown pigtails. Blue dress. Brown eyes. Brown skin.

Big smile, just for me.

A friend.

A best friend.

Cheryl.

Inseparable.

Until we moved, that afterward summer, to the other side of town. Across the divide: Old Country Road.

A different school, a different, "better" school district. Decidedly paler.

Separated.

Somehow, improbably, our friendship remained intact, though we became occasional friends, different than schoolmates.

Of Cheryl, much remains.

Games of hide and seek with her older brothers Darrell and Victor that always involved basements and crawl spaces, delicious in their slight danger.

The sulfur smell of cap guns mingling with burning leaves on crisp autumn days.

Watching "The Birds" on the little TV in her bedroom and scaring ourselves silly.

The smile that broke across her handsome, dignified, Doctor father's face in the presence of his children.

Her southern raised mother, calling me "Sugar" and melting my heart.

Her mother's home cooking attempting to put some meat on my then skinny bones.

A love pervading that house that was ceaselessly demanding yet unconditional. A rare combination. The sense, always, of high expectations for those children, including the brother with Cerebral Palsy. An example set, which I have never forgotten.

Sleepovers.

Late night whisperings, gigglings. Eventual sleep.

Riding home from a sleepover in her father's strange, wonderful car. The intoxicating smell of sun warmed leather rising up from the seats.

Our neighbors wondering who the hell we knew who drove a Rolls.


This post was inspired by a prompt at The Red Dress Club. This week's RemembeRED assignment was to write a memoir piece about kindergarten.

Please click on the button above, go to the link-up and read the other wonderful posts you'll find there.
 


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Snow Day: Perfect for Two-Timing

There are actually two blog posts I really wanted to write for today.

One is supposed to be a short introduction to me and my blog for Household6Diva's Blizzard Bloghop:

And the other?  I wanted to share the lovely sweetness of yesterday's no-school Snow Day in photos and words.

As I was trying to decide which way to go, I thought: "why not have it both ways?" and thus this double purposed post was born.

{NOTE: If you are already familiar with me and my blog, don't need no stinkin' introduction, and just want the Snow Day news, simply skip down to the snow photo below for part two.}

First, The Squashed Bologna in a nutshell (perfect metaphor there, folks, think about it):

In February of 2010 my nearly 93 year-old father was actively dying, fast.  To avoid becoming completely squashed flat between caring for him, taking care of my soon-to-be-widowed mother, and taking care of my then 7 year-old twin boys with special needs (one of them is on the Autism Spectrum and the other has some ADD/anxiety) I began this blog.

Pouring out all my thoughts and feelings onto the page, finding my words instead of just howling helped me to sort things out, allowed me to plumb the depths without being torn apart by the pressure down there.

I found that I loved writing as much as I had when I was a girl, a young woman who had thought she might some day become a writer.

I write about the familiar: my family.  I write a lot about Death and Autism because these things press up against me every day.  I write about ADD because not only does my son have a brain that tends that way, but so do I, so you get to come along for the wild ride.

I write about love and thankfulness because that is what underlies all the other stuff, keeps it from descending into sadness and madness.

I write about friendship because without my friends I wouldn't be here, and I appreciate them with every fiber of my being.

I don't write much about my husband because he is a private man and the story of our marriage is half his, not really mine to tell.  (But he does come up from time to time.)

I also sometimes lighten things up, share delightful stories about my sons, Ethan and Jacob, now eight and a half.  Because I really am a funny, light-hearted person, most of the time (when no one is in the middle of dying that is).

Over the course of the past year I have gone from being an occasional writer to a steady, nearly every day one.  I am coming up on my "Blogaversary" and looking forward to seeing where this second year of blogging my life will take me, what 2011 has in store for us.

Now, 2010 was a fairly crap year: My father died, my Mother-in-law died, my gall bladder punked out on me.

But some mighty good things happened, too:

I started this blog and found a whole new amazing online community of bloggers, especially the Special Needs parenting bloggers.  And the Hopeful Parents site asked me to become one of their regular monthly writers.

We found a wonderful new school for Jacob that just "gets it," and where he is thriving.

Ethan started to fall in love with reading and books.

But, most importantly, we didn't let our losses drive us apart, but rather bind us tighter together as a family; sad but solid.

And that's us.  These nuts in this nutshell.

If, you've got a short attention span (no judgement here) and, curiosity satisfied, you're ready to move on, you can stop reading here, continue hopping with the hop.  If, however, you want to hear how the Squashed family rolls on a snow day and see some incredibly cute pictures of my sons and our snowman?  Read on for a bit.  It's short and sweet today.

(Well, what passes for short and sweet around here.  I didn't develop my frequently used blog tag: "Ruminating Rambles" and earn my title: "Queen of the Run-On Sentence {with parenthetical clauses}" for nothing you know)

Wednesday afternoon: snow coming down on Riverside Drive

And now the magnificence of our Snow Day:

Well, we, of course, had an official Snow Day yesterday, here in New York City, with an unexpected 19 fresh inches of the fluffy white stuff coming our way Wednesday into Thursday morning.

(Only the 9th time they have closed NYC public schools for a Snow Day since 1978.  I told you, we are NOT wimps about snow here in New York)

Our apartment building is right next to one of the best sledding hills in Riverside Park, so our apartment becomes "sledding central" on Snow Days.

Which means that yesterday we had a gaggle of 8 year-old boys (and a younger sibling) over both before and after the big outdoor sledding / snowman building / snowball fighting event.

Here is what it looked like out in the glorious snow:

Jake

This year's snowman: kind of wistful face, no?

Ethan

Our sledding hill: "Suicide Hill" Riverside Park at 90th Street

Jakey talks to the snowman

Ethan contemplates his next snowball fight target

Ethan and friend Sage defend their home turf

I loved the moody sky

An hour and a half in the snow and we were done. We retreated back to our apartment, peeled off sodden outer layers, hung them to drip into the tub, dry on the radiators.  Fresh dry socks from our excessed sock bin were distributed all around.

Lego towers were created and destroyed.  Apple slices and goldfish crackers were munched and crunched.  Vats of hot cocoa were guzzled (mocha coffee for the moms).  Mmmmm.  Snow Day.

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Award Season

For some reason this week a couple of bloggers have decided to bestow upon me some blogosphere bling.  These are awards that each blogger has either created or been given and asked to pass on to another writer who she thinks deserves it.

Some come with specific instructions, others are just given for the giving.  I just got one of each.

First, from Adrienne of No Points for Style:

This is what Adrienne says about her award: "The No Points for Style Bad Ass Blogger Award is given for just one thing: bloggish bad-assery. If you read my blog, you know how highly I value honesty – the kind where a blogger spills her or his guts in such a way that we all remember that we’re never, ever alone in the world. This award is for bloggers who write posts that cut right to the heart of the human experience. It doesn’t have to be tragic or devastating or earth-shattering (though it may be); it just has to be real."

Wow.  I couldn't possibly me more honored than to receive this award.   Adrienne is one of the bravest writers I know, and also one of my blogging mentors.  These are the writers I read every day (or as often as they post) and whose own blogs have given me the courage to experiment, to try new things, who I have looked to to see what I can get away with here in the blogosphere.

Can I go from gut wrenching sad to goofily funny on my one same blog?  From one day to the next?  How about inside one post?  Why the hell not.  As long as it's real and in my voice.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Adrienne.  And if you don't already read her blog "No Points for Style"?  Go.  Read.  Because I said so.  You're welcome.

Then (ahem) there is this next award:

And what can I say about THIS lovely piece of, um, art?  This was bestowed upon me by Cheryl of Little Bit Quirky.  I *might* have replied to the comment in which she let me know about this with the words: "Um, Cheryl, you do know you will burn in hell for this, right?"

But I was just kidding.  You know that, right Cheryl?  (And go read her, too, because she's one smart, funny cookie!)

Actually I'm thrilled and flattered to be chosen for this one, too.  Because I know I can get (more than) a little heavy here at The Squashed Bologna, what with mainly trafficking in Autism and Death and all, being handed a silly meme award with its attendant demand for lighthearted response is kinda awesome.

To have my potential for humor acknowledged is no small thing for me, so thank you, Cheryl.

And now the meme...

Jill at Yeah. Good Times actually developed this award (she gave one to Jennie B. over at Anybody Want a Peanut, who passed it on to Cheryl).  And here is what she says about it:

"I present to you all: The Memetastic Award! Named as such because these things are memes and its purpose is solely to celebrate the memeness of the award giving process. Let's rejoice in our memeocity by passing this award on to other people! It will be memelicious! (BTW, that's pronounced meem-tastic. I didn't want you pronouncing it wrong in your head. How embarrassing....)"

Here are the rules (according to Jill):

1. You must proudly display the absolutely disgusting graphic that I have created for these purposes (put it in your post, you don't have to put it in your sidebar, I think that would seriously be asking too much). It's so bad that not only did I use COMIC SANS, but there's even a little fucking jumping, celebrating kitten down there at the bottom. It's horrifying! But its presence in your award celebration is crucial to the memetastic process we're creating here.

2. You must list 5 things about yourself, and 4 of them must be bold-faced lies. Just make some shit up, we'll never know; one of them has to be true, though. Of course, nobody will ever know the difference, so we're just on the honor system here. I trust you. Except for the 4 that you lied about, you lying bastards! But don't go crazy trying to think of stuff, we're not really interested in quality here.

3. You must pass this award on to 5 bloggers that you either like or don't like or don't really have much of an opinion about. I don't care who you pick, and nobody needs to know why.

4. If you fail to follow any of the above rules, I will fucking hunt your ass down and harass you incessantly until you either block me on Twitter or ban my IP address from visiting your blog. I'm serious. I'm going to do these things.  NOTE: This is JILL speaking, I on the other hand am a really nice person and would never hunt down ANYBODY. (Well, except for a psycho ex-babysitter who was my personal troll for a while, but that's another story for another time.)

OK, now it's my turn!

Here's 5 things about me, Varda the Squashed Mom, 1 of which is actually true:

1.  I am actually an heiress, but gave away my entire trust fund to noble causes in my anti-capitalist early 20's.

2.  I was born with webbed toes, but had an operation as a child to make my feet "normal."

3.  I have been arrested multiple times in my youth, on purpose, for anti-nuclear activism.

4.  I have never been in love with a woman.

5.  I was a child actor, seen in many TV commercials of the 1960s.

And now I will pass this award on to the following "lucky" recipients*:

1.  Sandra of It's Always An Adventure

2.  Jen of The King and Eye

3.  Jean/Stimey of Stimeyland 

4.  Aunt Becky of Mommy Wants Vodka 

5.  The Empress Alexandra of Good Day, Regular People

Go to town, girls!

Finally, it's interesting to note that both of these award-bestowing bloggers are also special needs parents, which makes them my uber-peeps in so many ways.  Thanks again, Adrienne and Cheryl.

And Cheryl?  You know I WILL get you back for this some day.  Just when you least suspect it... Boo!  Count on it. 

* Please don't hate me, please don't hate me, please don't hate me.

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Alright? Alright!

Well, no time for the niceties, I have to get back to my nap.  But I just wanted to let everyone know that I am alright.

Waiting in the prep room. Thanks for keeping me laughing, husband!

The surgery went well, as expected; routine; a big yawn for the surgical team; just as we wanted it to go.

I got home the same day, in the evening (just in time to kiss Jake before he went to bed) and have been mostly unconscious ever since.  My husband has been taking on a lot more kid duty than usual; he is wiped out, appreciating more than ever all that I do.

Every day, dude, I do this EVERY FREAKING DAY.  If it weren't for the pain?  This would feel like a mini-vacation.

Pain killers are a beautiful thing, but also?  Crappy.  I hate feeling so fuzzy.  I get really nauseated.  So I will be stepping down on them shortly.

It's sort of a "which-way-do-I-want-to-feel-crappy?" equation. Less pain = more nausea, less nausea = more pain.  Trying to find just the right middle ground is not much fun.

I will write more in a few days.  A few pre-written posts will pop up in the interim.

I want to shout out a big thanks to all my friends, real world and virtual, who have shown me their concern and support.  It is much appreciated.

Knowing that I was traveling to the hospital with so many well-wishes wrapped around me, that I had a community standing by to step in if things had gone poorly and their help was needed?  Beyond priceless.  I am truly amazed at my good fortune.

Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous. 

And now?  Zzzzzzzzz


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