Tears from the Past... part 3

Here are parts 1 and 2.....

To this day, I cannot walk through a hospital without being drawn back to those hazy memories of being 8 and 9... I instantly feel a sense of something I should remember, but can't quite grasp completely. Flashes of sitting quietly on padded waiting room chairs. The aromas of a hospital cafeteria (which smells like no other place on Earth) immediately bring visions of a small girl being brought to a Chicago hospital's cafeteria as a diversionary tactic. A place away from a grandmother who could no longer talk after her surgery. A place where sisters could be away from wondering what was REALLY going on...And always, without fail, I attempt to make my brain go there. To go back to being that child, seeing what I saw and hearing what was said. Sadly, my subconscious is still protecting me, and I cannot force new memories to the surface. They remain cold and quiet at the bottom of my brain's pool...

What would I remember, if only I could? Would my childish eyes have registered what my woman's heart wants to know? And what is it, exactly, that I DO want to know? Do I really want to see the pain in my father's face? The grief in my mother's eyes as she watched her husband fight a battle her own beloved mother had recently lost? The stress that must have encompassed the house? The fear?

To say that we were lucky that my dad beat cancer is almost laughable. Lucky... yes. That 3 girls got to know and love their daddy is lucky. That a family wasn't prematurely broken by death is lucky. That my children know their Papa is lucky, indeed.

Not everyone is lucky. Not every cancer can be beaten. Not every family gets to grow old together... To say that this is unfair is like saying the sky is blue. As every mother throughout eternity has declared to her whining children, "Life isn't fair. Whoever told you that Life was Fair?"

Every experience presents opportunities for growth. I believe my early exposure to the fragility of life started me on this journey of accepting my own mortality, and that of those I love beyond the capabilities of my expressions on this blog. I pride myself on the fact that I never take things for granted. When I find myself feeling content and bored, even, I remember to take a deep breath of gratitude.

This Christmas, I am grateful for the crooked tree with a CAT train running beneath its branches. I am grateful for the squeals of joy my children emit, watching the engine pull their Papa's train. No phrase could possibly capture the humble gratitude I feel for my family, my memories, and our good fortune. I pray that I retain this ability to be Present in each moment, regardless of the bumps and detours Life unfailingly provides...

Tears from the past... Part 2

Part 1 is here...


The mobile home that my grandparents lived in wasn't very big. But to me and my sisters, it had hiding spots and hidden nooks. That day, that awful day after Grandma passed away, we spent it in hushed voices, in that tiny mobile home.

Grandma's room was at the back of the house. She and Papa had separate rooms as he, apparently, snored. His room was plain and masculine. Hers had plastic flowers in vases from vacations to Reno and Vegas. She had a big bin of shiny beads and sequins with which she crafted Christmas ornaments. My sisters, cousin and I would spend hours sorting through the "jewels" and dividing up the booty... The day of her wake, I drew a picture of an angel, my grandma, flying up to heaven and placed it in her dresser drawer. I thought that somehow, she would find it there. That maybe it would change God's mind and she could come back...

Grandma had a small statue upon her dresser from a long-ago visit to Boys Town in Nebraska. I had always admired the man with long robes, holding a baby. Never allowed to touch it, I had thought of it as a valuable treasure. After Grandma died, I gathered up the courage to ask to have it. It still sits upon my dresser in my room... Nothing more than a trinket, really. But it is a constant reminder of her love, and I feel closer to a grandmother I never really got to know.

Life continued on. A much sadder Christmas came and went. And each birthday was a bit grim, knowing that she wasn't there, and that Papa had to attend alone. He always seemed to be missing an important appendage after that...

And then? When spring had warmed the air and life was beginning to look up?

My dad began to feel... off.

I can't say that I remember the tests he went through. I was, after all, only in 3rd grade. How much did an 8 year old need to know about blood tests and strange symptoms?

But I will forever remember the phone call that changed it all.

I can place almost everyone in exactly the right spots:

Papa was visiting. He was sitting at the kitchen table. I was standing in the long galley section of our 1980's orange and yellow plaid kitchen. My mom stood at the wall, holding the mustard yellow phone with the excessively lengthy cord.

And the words. Oh the words that she sobbed when she heard the news...

"Oh my God, Dad... Dave's got Cancer!"

She crumpled.

Papa sobbed.

I ran to my room and knew, just knew, that my daddy was going to die...

Just months after losing our grandmother, my father was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Disease. 3 young girls. A stay at home wife. Responsibilities that must have terrified him. As an adult, I can only imagine the fear they both must have felt. But as a child? A child who just lost her grandma to the same word that her daddy now had? Terror. Sheer and utter terror.

That year was... difficult. To be honest, I have very few memories. In fourth grade, you would have thought that the memories would come flooding back to me. My younger sister was in second grade and she has piles of memories from that year. She recalls having stomachaches every other day and spending more time in the nurse's office than the classroom. But my own brain's coping mechanism seems to have blocked out most of my fourth grade year. I do have some memories, though...

I can recall my cousin's wedding. My dad's hair was frightfully thin from the chemo, making him appear decades older than his 30-odd years. I remember focusing my attention on my new pink and white polka-dotted dress that stood straight out when I spun around...

I remember my dad's cathedar in his chest for medications. I have visions of the iodine, brown and blood-like, smeared all over his chest by my mom. The boxes of medical supplies in the closet that I would sneak peeks at when no one was looking. Syringes, prescription bottles, alcohol preps... Scary stuff. Everything I equated with hospitals and death, right there in my linen closet...

I remember Dad being tired, and unable to play with us. More and more time was spent in our basement playroom so that he could rest.

I remember vividly, feeling no joy at the special privilege we "got to" have by spending a school night at my neighbor's house. No joy, as it meant my dad must have been in the hospital, or too sick for us to be around. We watched Labrynth and slept on their family room floor. We were allowed to have special caramels and played past bedtime...

A general feeling of unrest and desperate hope hung over the house...

Tears from the past... Part 1

I was reading Laskigal's post today, and was struck by how it brought up so many memories of my own...

We all have our stories of hardships from our youth. Memories that range from less than idyllic to downright tragic.

My personal experiences shaped me into who I am today, of that I have no doubt.

The details are extremely sharp and yet strangely strung together. In my mind, I recall a summer of joy. A summer of vacationing in Florida. Our FIRST family vacation! We had never done anything but camp before and this was a big deal. Putting my feet into the ocean for the first time. Finding real seashells! Disney World and Bush Gardens! That perfect, wonderful trip....

That following fall, life changed. My mom's mother was diagnosed with cancer.

My grandma, the sweetest person, really... The woman who always brought extra presents for us on birthdays, so we wouldn't feel left out. I remember her washing my long hair in the kitchen sink... I can remember how she would sit patiently and let me and my sisters comb out her freshly set from the salon hairdo, giving her an afro not common in elderly Italian women... We would play pranks on her by moving her bookmark from one page to another and ask her, giggling behind our hands, if she wanted to read her romance novel. She always acted surprised and pretended to be angry... These are the simple memories I have. Not many. Just a handful, really.

I was, after all, only 8 when she lost her battle with cancer.

It is crystal clear in my mind. My dad picked me and my younger sister up at school that day. Highly unusual, as we were walkers, through and through. The excitement we felt over such a special treat was squashed by the look on his face, though he explained nothing. When I heard that we were going to Papa and Grandma's house that night, a SCHOOL night, I figured it out...

My own mother was only a few years older than I am today. Her children were only 2 years older than my own are.... That single comparison makes it impossible for me to write any more...