When I was an adolescent, Mac, along with my other peers, called me the “Bag Lady.” I don’t blame them. My purse always looked like a carry-on piece of luggage. I could have easily stuffed a 20-pound turkey and a few bags of stuffing inside, with room to spare.
I was never able to get away with slipping into the classroom at middle school — and later high school — late. As I precariously balanced my purses, the silver bracelets that looped up to my elbows, transforming my arms into two gleaming pipes, jangled and clanged incessantly. In an attempt to muffle the jarring symphony, I shuffled my feet and swayed my hips, but I always found myself teetering on the brink of toppling over.
I know getting detention for tardiness is not ideal, but it was worth it to me. My bags bulged with hardcover journals, precious cargo I clutched close to my heart. Pages upon pages overflowed with my innermost thoughts and feelings: poems, doodles, to-do lists, secrets, deep thoughts, quotes. Every inch of space was filled, a testament to my teenage angst and yearning for self-expression.
In middle school and high school, my journal was my sanctuary, a place where I documented every triumph and heartbreak, all my fleeting thoughts and deep-seated emotions. Each page was a snapshot of my life, a personal drama that unfolded before my eyes. Even my to-do lists were epic sagas, with tasks labeled “MUST DO!!” and “VIP!!!” in fiery red ink. I was the heroine, the only one who could save the day (or at least finish my homework).
With each pen stroke, I became the director of my own life, crafting a story that was uniquely mine. My journal was my canvas, and my pen was my brush.
Mac would sometimes ask me for my purse. Naive as I was, I’d hand it over without hesitation. He’d hold it up like a prize at auction, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“A bowling ball!” he’d exclaim, his voice laced with mock surprise. “It must weigh a ton.” He’d heft my purse in the air, his arms straining under the weight. Then he’d hand it back to me with a chuckle, and we’d move on to another topic without further drama.
I clutched my big bag as if it were a third hand, no matter where I went: to school, to work, or on my frequent trips to Florida. Everything inside felt as permanent and essential as fingernails. As I grew older, my time was consumed with raising a young family. My journals disappeared, replaced by small notebooks filled with inspirational quotes. But my bags remained oversized, bulging with a wallet, coupons, comb, brush, blush, and more.
Then, about seven months ago, something strange happened. Without making a conscious effort, I switched to small crossbody bags. My big, bad bags became a relic of the past.
In the wake of my trauma, I realize that my love of carrying big, bad bags was a metaphor for my fear of letting go. I was terrified of losing control, of not being enough, and of missing out. But four years ago, my life was turned upside down. I lost my son, and the future I had envisioned for myself, for us, was shattered.
I still live in a haze, waiting for Marshall to pop out of the corner. On my daughter’s recent birthday, I realized that she is now older than her older brother, who was buried with his wisdom teeth intact. She will soon be getting her wisdom teeth removed.
Compared to that loss, do I really need an extra tube of lipstick? I’ve realized that the more possessions I cling to, the heavier my burden becomes.
After experiencing a crash course in letting go, all that’s left is to trust. As unwilling as I was, I’ve retired my hero cape. I’m not anyone’s savior, not even my own. My director role has also taken a hit, falling into obscurity. I may have a unique voice, but I don’t set the stage.
I’m learning to let go and trust that certain things are beyond my control. I’m learning that I don’t need to be defined as a victim. I’m learning that pity isn’t what I want. I’m learning to trust myself and make decisions on my own, because I am a competent adult. My newfound trust stems from finally accepting this simple fact: I am enough, just as I am. Without faith in myself, who can I put it in?
As I trudge into year five without my son unexpectedly emerging from a hidden corner, I’ve learned that the things I really need can’t be carried in a bag. They are carried in my heart and soul.
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Disclaimer: This blog post contains sensitive content that may be a trigger for some readers. Please read at your own discretion.
Orange and brown leaves danced and twirled across the brittle grass, driven by a gust of cool air outside my window. Inside, the warm and safe air was filled with the scent of my pumpkin spice candle. Last week when Halloween finally arrived, I rejoiced in the ghost town appearance of our cul-de-sac, where not a single trick-or-treater dared to venture.
It brought to mind a member of our suicide loss survivors support group on Facebook who had posted how young kids ran in front of her house and screamed, “Hanging! Hanging! That’s where the hanging was! Bad luck! Bad luck! The house is bad luck!”
The recipient of this horror was a mom whose adolescent son died by suicide in his bedroom. Surprisingly, the mom paid little attention to the comments. She told the group that the bullies were simply kids who didn’t know any better and were doing their best to process the information that adults had presented to them.
Remembering this vulnerable mom in our facebook group brought a chill that ran down my spine. Was that what the local families thought? Was that why no one had come to our door?
I realized that I wasn’t going crazy. I was crazy. The emotional rollercoaster was relentless, a ticket to the unthinkable place that became my everyday endurance. I summoned my rational mind and washed away the wave of trepidation that engulfed me, leaving me empty. Past Halloweens with my young children filled the blankness. I envisioned my ex-husband’s expert pumpkin carvings, smiley symbols of hope and abundance for the future.
Remembering only propelled me into the vastness of despair. Again, I reined in my emotions, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness. I hadn’t bought any candy to give out, which was what I had wanted, but now I felt a pang of regret.
At that moment, my phone rang and I answered it. It was my dear friend, another bereaved mom.
“Anybody on your street? Did you get any trick-or-treaters?”
“Nope. Did you?”
“Seems quiet.”
We started talking about our plans for the upcoming week and other trivial things, but then about 10 minutes later, she suddenly remarked, “It sucks.”
My heart sank. We paused for a moment, our silence speaking volumes. I felt my friend’s grief through the phone line, and it mirrored my own.
But then something unexpected happened. I sensed a surge of love for my friend. It was a deep, intimate love, born of shared pain and understanding. It was the kind of love that helps us get through and paints a sign of five letters: FAITH.
“It does suck,” I said, my voice breaking.
We didn’t need to say anything else. We simply sat there on the phone, holding each other close in spirit. It was a moment of profound connection, and it was exactly what I needed to wind down and get back to breathing a bit.
After I got off the phone, I crept to my bedroom and collapsed into bed, grateful for the fresh, clean sheets, the warm heat, my good friends, and the infinite book selection on my Kindle that stretched before me like a starlit night sky.
All at once I realized that I had forgotten to extinguish the candle. I bolted out of bed and into the hallway, and as I blew out the candle on the mantle, I felt a warm glow in my heart.
For a moment, I was transported back to pumpkin patches and hay rides from long ago, when nutmeg pierced the air and squirrels zipped through carpets of fallen leaves, stashing their acorns for the upcoming winter. I heard the laughter once again of our young family, the joy on their faces as we picked out their perfect pumpkin to be carved.
And in that moment, I realized that even in all the sorrow and all the sewage, the love you once had for the season can still reawaken. Even if it was only for a second, it was love, still.
And it was enough.
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Disclaimer: This blog post contains sensitive content that may be a trigger for some readers. Please read at your own discretion.
Halloween can be a time for celebration, but it can also be a difficult holiday for trauma survivors who are sensitive to images of death and violence. As a World War II survivor, Fourth of July was the most triggering holiday for my mom. Whenever fireworks exploded, she would shield her head with her arms, transported back to her youth and the war she had to live through. She felt safer during Halloween, when the night skies were filled with the laughter and scurrying feet of children, and when gory images were less common.
After experiencing our own family tragedy, I can now look back with empathy at the memory of my mother trembling, huddled under her arms during our backyard firework shows, amidst our laughter and glee. I have come to terms with many harsh realities. The result is a sense of solidarity with trauma survivors.
With trauma victims in mind, I worry about the increasing popularity of gory Halloween decorations that promote violence and death. I’ll never again have the boundless glee of yesteryear, when I was naive and removed from personal horror. Tragedy, grief, and loss stretch you to a breaking point, like the very difficult Tripod Headstand with Lotus Pose in yoga.
To protect my mental health, I am learning to avoid areas with heavily concentrated Halloween decorations that trigger painful memories and images. If you have ever had to sever the rope of a hanging loved one, seeing decorations of hung skeletons and witches can be anything but funny. Imagine also a grieving mother facing the just-for-fun skeletons, coping with the image of her young child’s skeleton buried in the grave—a child who, perhaps, once dressed up in a skeleton costume for Halloween.
Some of our neighbors have even roped off parts of their yards with crime scene tape that says “DO NOT CROSS.” I can imagine that for anyone who has had to come home and find their family members murdered, this is not a fun reminder.
If you are part of the minority who finds Halloween difficult, please know that you are not alone. I hope you have a therapist, empathetic friend, faith-based community or support group to help you cope. Remember, too, that you don’t have to force yourself to participate in the festivities if you’re not feeling up to it. It’s okay to tell people you’re not feeling well. I, for one, plan to start my morning as I do every morning, keeping in mind those who have to sever the cord of their loved one on this day. Later, I will keep my house dark and won’t give out candy tonight. I think my mom would understand; she stopped accepting trick-or-treaters in her later years, and now I have age on my side and a perfect excuse to do the same.
To my mom: I know you really got a hoot seeing the joy in your grandchildren in Halloween costumes. I wish we could go back 30 or so years and experience just five minutes of that bliss, and oh, those delicious sugar highs!
I’m so grateful for your strength and resilience, and I love you more than words can say.
To all who celebrate, Happy Halloween! May your holiday be safe and enjoyable. To those who don’t celebrate, I wish you a peaceful and restful evening with a beautiful eruption of crisp stars in a quiet, dark night sky.
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If I wake up each morning reminding myself that I am not the creator of the world, I will have the balance I need to meet any circumstance, no matter how far the forces beyond my control tip the scale of my life.
This Sunday, October 29, marks 39 years since I began learning this simple truth through a 12-step program, which I believe is the greatest healer of modern times. As a 20-something-year-old with a big ego, I embarked on a humbling journey. As I approach the final chapter of my life, things did not turn out as planned, but the upshot is I am grateful for the opportunity to be a small part of a much larger universe, over which I have little control. As others have shown me by example, we can learn to appreciate the miraculous gift of embracing our limited human powers.
Cornelia is an example of one of the mentors who taught me how humility and empowerment coexist. I met her when she was in her late 60s or early 70s, and she lived into her mid-80s. Let me put it this way: when she walked into my brother’s wake as the first guest, the trembling floor beneath me turned to steel.
If it wasn’t a solemn occasion, Cornelia wore bold colors that didn’t blind you, but kidded you into believing you had a jolt of caffeine. High heels, tights, plaid skirts and crisply ironed tops, she dressed up, without fail, as if she were a presiding member on a garden club committee.
Cornelia was an expert on turning a frown into a smile. She had a compassion and love for others that was truly inspiring. This woman embraced everyone and never allowed her tragic circumstances to turn her into a victim. After losing her husband, she became a young widow. Her first son died in a freak car crash, and her second and only son, a pilot, perished in a plane crash caused by mechanical failure. These were just two of the many trials she faced throughout her life. Despite it all, she spent her final years volunteering at a local bereavement and critical illness support community center.
Don’t mistake being humble, loving, and compassionate for being a pushover. Cornelia fought for justice in her life and rarely failed to obtain it when it was due.
Cornelia’s example taught me to stand tall. After one of her endless pep talks, I approached my nemesis head-on, armed with her grace, dignity, humility, and an unbreakable sense of empowerment.
“Hold your head up. Always. Carry the program with you,” she said. To this day, I align myself with her advice, for that is the legacy of love she left me.
I remember the last time we went out for dinner. The sun was setting, and the sky was ablaze with color. We reached out and held hands, and we reveled in the silence of the miraculous creation around us. I felt her steel side holding me up, as it still does when I need it the most.
You can’t possibly spend nearly two decades with someone like Cornelia and not grow small in a miraculous way. Recently, my watching a sunset brought her back to me. The sky radiant with the colors she wore to celebrate life, even when she was maneuvering through a personal swamp of grief and loss.
I took a breath and closed my eyes. Recalling the warmth of Cornelia’s palm in mine, I felt peace envelop me. I opened my eyes and looked around. The trees were tall and majestic, and the sunny-side up marigolds were still in full bloom, past the halfway mark of October.
I reminded myself that I was a part of all this wonder. I was a part of nature. I was a part of the universe. I shrank in size. My problems and my concerns were not the most important things in the world. But I also felt connected. I felt loved, humbled by it all. Empowered to know that it is possible to find gratitude in the rubble, and all I had to do to gain this great insight was to step outside, stop and settle down long enough to take it all in.
Just before indigo bled into the the sky’s mighty pageantry, I heard Cornelia’s final earthly words to me that help me keep the faith:
You are loved. You are worthy. You are enough.
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My mother was a constant traveler, but not in the traditional sense. All day long, she traveled from her stove to her refrigerator to her sink, and then back again.
“Stove-refrigerator-sink,” she once described her three-step life to me matter-of-factly. She loved the normalcy, the predictability and the routine — most of the time. But sometimes, when she was irritated with her children, her husband, or a church parishioner, she would break her sour mood and look afar, her eyes penetrating the kitchen walls. Her longing gaze belonged to someone standing on a community theater stage, hungry for a Carnegie Hall audience.
I didn’t pay much attention, if any at all, because her expression was too painful. The reality of her life washed out any grandeur dreams she had, such as crunching numbers in an accountant firm, one of her long-standing dreams.
That was the thing with my mom: her frustrations, disappointments and inner pain often led her to be emotionally wound up, but if you could step back and let her unravel, she would eventually find her equilibrium. It took me a long time to figure out her usual modus operandi, but when I finally did, I was able to love her fully.
Before I gained a wider, wiser perspective, adolescence was particularly rough. I had yearned for a different mother, one who wore dainty tennis skirts and crisp white sneakers, and who had a feminine sway in her hips. A mother who would come to pick me up from middle school in her shiny Ford Mustang, instead of the one kid whose mother was never there.
My mom (or dad) never stepped inside my middle school until my graduation day. (Grammar school was another matter, but that’s another story.) When I saw them, I hid behind a corner in the hallway, trying to catch my breath outside the suffocating layers of shame that had been dumped on me like stinky sludge.
Even though my dad blended in with the crowd, all I could see from my vantage point was my mom, standing there in her multi-colored dress, a tent-like garb that concealed her petite body and was as baggy as a beekeeper’s protective suit.
Her kitty heels, straight out of a 50s black-and-white TV show, clicked on the tiled floor as she paced nervously back and forth.
A hairnet captured her dark, old-fashioned ringlets, like bait worms. Her face was an expressionless doll with vacant eyes.
“Is your family here?”
“No.”
“Without family,” I felt different growing up. But I learned that while Hollywood love may be custom-made, ordinary love is not.
As I mentioned earlier, my love for my mother matured with me — especially after my young children taught me how genuinely unique and fun she was. It was then that I also fully understood why my mom rarely spoke to “Americans,” silenced by the embarrassment of her own foreign accent and awkwardness.
The upshot of the realization was that I walked tall next to her, my head held high, despite her size 4 Barbie body hidden in size 12 dresses, the unconcealed sheets of tissues lining her shoes, and the stale bread slices stashed in her purse’s side pockets (in case the food chain failed!).
My bulletproof mother didn’t believe in illness, and her passing from a stroke on December 29, 2015, showed me the perfect irony of life: we’re not in control after all.
When my mom fell ill in the spring and early summer of 2015, I felt bewildered and flummoxed (love that word!). In the process of her deterioration, I did the “next right thing,” as my program had taught me to do many years prior. Her gradual decline was a roller coaster that I became so used to and for nearly seven months, it felt like tying my shoe in the morning. But the exhaustion was unlike anything I had ever experienced, even when I got eight or ten hours of sleep. I was groggy, walking a foot behind everything that moved in my world.
When my mom landed in a nursing home, a feeding tube had been inserted into her, and it was clear she would never return to her three-step appliance shuffle, but the regular rhythms of our lives, like playing rock-paper-scissors, remained in my memory, like the whiff of Pond’s cream on her face that warmed my childhood particularly on bitter cold evenings. She had taught me well, and I went on with my old life, with familiar music playing in the background.
Three weeks before Christmas, my own “rock-paper-scissors” household routine escalated. I was a single mom and had to work, write and send holiday cards, purchase and package holiday gifts, not to mention cook and clean. I rationalized that since she was semi-conscious, she wouldn’t notice the stretch of time since I had last seen her. I certainly planned to visit after the holiday. Of course, after the holidays seemed just as frantic too, and I was driving my daughter to Massachusetts to visit a prospective graduate school. I figured once we accomplished our mission, I’d definitely see Mom again, the first week of the new year.
Unfortunately, Mom never lived to see 2016. But on December 28, in Massachusetts, my daughter and I had a terrible time finding appropriate lodging, since the first hotel room we had reserved was a dump. Luckily, we found mediocre accommodations just in time, because a terrible ice storm had made the outdoors look frozen in time.
That night, two weary travelers collapsed into bed and slumber found us easily. I opened my eyes at 5 a.m. to see the digital clock glowing in the dark room. I also knew without doubt: Mom had passed.
Her presence filled the room, every bit of her, including her lingering scent of Ponds face cream. I realized that instead of my visiting her, she had come to visit us one last time to let us know that she was okay.
Sure enough, I woke up to hear the news over the phone.
“What time did they record the time of death?”
“Five a.m.”
Thank you, Mom. I love you more than words can say. You taught me about faith, love, and even the power of love to transcend time and space. I’m grateful for the gift of your life.
My mom spent decades reading the obituaries, and the memoriam section, in the local daily newspaper with a keen eye, curious about what made each person unique and how their story was woven together. It were as if she tried to make sense of the world by connecting the dots between people’s lives.
My mom alerted me to anything she found interesting in that particular newspaper section, and we would end up discussing the deceased stranger and how, for example, she had outlived three deceased husbands. Or, as another example, how another deceased stranger traveled to every continent three times. Every time we reflected on these strangers, it felt like delicious gossip. Through these obituaries, and the occasional memoriam, we were able to appreciate the stories of strangers who had passed away and reflect on our own lives in the process. Paradoxically, reading and sharing our insights about the deceased kept mom and me alive!
While some may find delving into obituaries morbid and sad, in my solitude, I find it an opportunity to examine a few dozen strangers’ lives while I reunite with my mom, sync with her vibrant emotional range, and inhale her Pond’s facial cream, which she wore every night of her life. The memoriam to Mary Jane that I read earlier this year would have really lit up her world.
MARY JANE. MEMORIAM To Mary Jane It was late in the morning, It was early in spring, When I took that picture, Of you on the swing. It was so long ago, It was just yesterday, The years go so quickly, The time slips away. We should have returned, At least once a year, But we never came back, Now alone I stand here. The swing is long gone, From the top of this hill, But that doesn’t matter, For I see it still. I still hear your laughter, Feel the touch of your hand, And although that is true, Where ever I am. It was here at that time, In this place that we knew, What we had was forever, It was true then, it is still true. Rest in peace my love. Ed
One reader’s response to the memoriam, stated, “So very sweet and heartfelt. I do not know Mary Jane or Ed … but that was beautiful and I’m sure Mary Jane is pleased.”
Yes, I agreed fully. I could easily picture Mary Jane swinging in heaven somewhere on her swing, carefree and forever young and in love.
Memories can be a balm for grief. We hear the laughter, the excitement, and feel the fluid joints and hefty muscles of youth. Ponds-scented memories are like a warm blanket that wraps us up and protects us from the cold world, whispering, “Have faith. You are safe. Alone, but safe.”
They are reunion celebrations where love and faith reign supreme. Faith that we are never truly alone. Faith that there is more to life than what meets the eye.
Mary Jane is pleased. And if Mom gets to share her swing, she will be pleased too.
For years, my mom and I had a daily telephone ritual. When she called, her words, “How are you?” would slam me right through the phone like a bowling ball hitting a strike.
“Fine!” I would reply.
Things were never fine with my mom. Never. And, sooner or later, she’d push, and I’d be cornered into telling her the truth about what was really going on in our household, whether it involved the car breaking down or my kids losing their lunch money. Interestingly, I felt better after unloading the daily grievances.
Then my mom would often complain about the behavior of a few people — sometimes including me. She had her favorite targets, and I would sometimes find her complaints humorous, while other times I found them downright mean. But I always listened, because it would eventually turn out that she was right. At least 99% of the time.
It was as if she had a special lens that detected everyone’s flaws. She didn’t hold back; she was always honest, even if it was painful to hear. Admittedly, I spent years trying to hush her up, soften and polish her, but she continued to speak her mind. Period.
Finally, after I had children of my own, I eased up on my mom and gave her the space she needed to be herself. In fact, I owe a great debt to my children, because they were the ones who taught me just how endearing my mom was despite all her imperfections. Once I could step back from my own expectations and give her the space, I saw her humor, her creativity, and her incredible insights and sparks — many, many sparks! I was able to change my behavior toward her by asking myself the question, “Who was I to kill her spirit?”
Over the years, as I experienced betrayal and deception from others in my life, I appreciated my mom even more. She was my anchor, because I always knew where I stood with her.
As I backed off and eased up on my judgments of her, she learned the importance of tact and discretion on her own. She learned that sometimes, it’s better to say nothing at all. And this resulted from my not intervening and trying to mold her character in my image!
What I appreciate most about my mom is that she taught me the importance of having a voice by her own example. She was who she was, flaws and all.
I reflected a lot on my mom last week after I heard that Sinéad O’Connor had passed away. You wouldn’t think that the two women had much in common, but they shared a solidarity of pain and a few other things that connected them.
Anyway, I heard the news on the radio while I was driving in the car. “We have some sad news. The great Irish singer, Sinéad O’Connor, has passed away,” the news anchor announced. “She was 56 years old.”
My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as I listened to the report. A wave of shock and sadness washed over me. I pulled over to the side of the road and started crying. As much as I couldn’t believe it, it was something I had worried about after the talented woman’s son, Shane, had died by suicide a year ago.
I felt as if I had lost yet another partner in our solidarity in pain. I sat there for a few minutes, just crying and listening to her music that the station started to play in a tribute to the late singer. No denying, she was a spitfire, but she was so much more.
Often when people hurt and grieve, they fall deeply inward. What never ceased to amaze me was how during her grief journey, Sinéad did not forget about other mothers who were in her position. She may have suffered from grief and mental illnesses, but she made room to remember others who hurt.
If you could look past her infamous moments, many of which were misunderstood and none of which she regretted, Sinéad O’Connor was a lifelong advocate for the vulnerable and, in essence, gave so many people faith and hope. In fact, during one of her interviews, she said she wanted her concerts to represent a church for some audience members, a place where they could find faith and hope.
I thought about how many people she had helped over the years. She had given them a voice, a platform, and a sense of community. She had shown them that they were not alone, and that they were worthy of love and respect.
Our society often encourages people to have diverse voices, stands and opinions. However, it is also true that people who speak out against the status quo, especially against the principles of the norm, often face backlash. Sinéad, like my mom, spoke their truth, even in the face of opposition. My dear friend Kit always reminded me that it’s easy to blend in with the crowd, but it takes real courage to be the lone voice of dissent.
Taking a deep breath, I started the car. I would go home and listen to Sinéad’s music some more. I would cry some more, but I would also remember the times when I was young and single, feeling as if I were the only person on Earth. But when I turned on the radio and heard Sinéad’s voice, I found the strength to not only keep moving, but to even kick up my heels and dance.
I imagined Sinéad, hopefully, finally at peace alongside her beloved son. I saw her calling it the way she saw it, in the company of my mom, their spitfire spirits floating around, sparking their own brand of music, driving everybody batty but never backing down.
I knew that the two spitfire figures would continue to inspire me, even in death. They had taught me the importance of speaking my truth, even when it was difficult. They taught me that it was okay to be different and that it was possible to find strength in your pain.
The chilly fall air nipped at my cheeks as I rolled the garbage receptacle down the driveway to the street for the next day’s pickup.
“Meow! Meow!”
I scanned the landscape, looking for the source of the sound that had strummed my heartstrings. There, in the bushes, was a partially white, tiger-faced kitten. She was small and fluffy, but appeared well fed and reminded me of a powder puff. Next thing you know, she vanished and in case she had not a home, I left a dish of cat food for her across the way. Over the course of the following months, I assumed someone owned her since I only saw her a couple times more.
Fast forward to about a month ago, and I officially discovered “Tuna’s” story shortly after she reappeared at my house. Her feral mom had birthed Tuna, along with her four brothers and sisters under my neighbor’s shed. A few compassionate neighbors cared for the cat and her litter while a cat rescue charity had become involved trying to trap, spay, neuter and place the kitties for adoption.
Gazing into Tuna’s eyes, I felt crushed. I could tell that she was familiar with hunger, homelessness and fear. She had to hide from the pack of blood-thirsty coyotes that prowled around at night. She had never known what a human touch felt like, or a warm bed and blanket. She had only slept on hard, mud-packed ground infested with bugs. I wondered if she even knew how to purr. If I got too close, her meows would turn into low, threatening hisses.
I couldn’t help but wonder why some animals and people are born into such difficult circumstances, while others are born into privilege. The question weighed on me like an indigestible lump of sausage in my stomach. Needless to say, I became attached to Tuna and her family and tried to help as best as I could by doing things like checking to see if any of the felines were captured in the cage that had been set by the rescue group.
After I got involved, three weeks later, Tuna and her family disappeared. Our neighborhood cat watch party feared the worst. We searched for them everywhere, but we couldn’t find them.
Another week went by, and we received some good news. The feline family had relocated to a different area of the neighborhood, where they took shelter under another neighbor’s shed. I haven’t seen them myself, but I’ve been assured that they’re doing well. The rescue group is still trying to trap and rescue them, and I’m hopeful that they’ll be able to do so soon.
I was glad that Tuna and her family were safe, but I couldn’t help but think about all the other animals and people who were living in difficult circumstances.The question was one I didn’t have the answer to, but the mere thought of it triggered a flood of memories deep inside.
It all started when I got into my car in the parking lot after a rather extensive grocery shopping trip, feeling particularly exhausted.
When I started it up, a familiar song, “Fast Car,” on a random top-hits radio station caught my attention. It was Luke Combs’ remake of Tracy Chapman’s iconic 1988 hit “Fast Car.” Combs’ version had just hit the top of Billboard’s Country Airplay chart a few weeks ago, but I hadn’t paid close attention to it. I had listened to Tracy’s version countless times back in the ’80s, though.
Combs’ version is a faithful cover of the original, but he brings his own unique style to it. His voice is deeper and more soulful than Chapman’s, and he adds a bit of a country twang. The result is a powerful and emotional rendition of the song.
The lyrics of the song caught me off guard that day. Instead of bolting out of the parking lot, I sank into the driver’s seat, wet from nostalgic tears. I recalled someone, around 15, with dirty blonde, long, wavy hair, flying like a bed sheet drying on a clothesline, outside of an oversized, open 1956 Ford Crown Victoria window.
“Lucy” was what Mac called me back then (and “Lug Nuts,” but that’s another story). He was the one piloting the Crown Vic. Probably one of my only true friends in high school, he sat grinning at my antics, his smile as bright as the perfectly white steering wheel of the car he had lovingly restored. We roared down the road, singing along to the radio as it blasted.
Our favorite song was Rufus & Chaka Khan’s “Tell Me Something Good.” So picture this: Mac would slow the car and pull over to an innocent pedestrian, and I would stretch my body like a piece of taffy and rocket out of the Crown Vic, belting the lyrics at the top of my lungs.
“Your problem is you ain’t been loved like you should What I got to give will sure ‘nough do you good Tell me something good (Tell me, tell me, tell me) Tell me that you love me, yeah”
Luckily, no one took offense or took us seriously, regardless of their gender or age. (I think I really gave a much-needed adrenaline rush to some of the older guys’ egos, though!)
I had often thought back to those cruising days with Mac, but I never truly understood their poignant meaning until I broke down in tears while listening to Combs’ lyrics. For the first time ever, I had an epiphany: Mac had a fast car and I felt like I belonged! We also crossed the invisible line that separated our suburban neighborhood from the city (“Won’t have to drive too far, Just across the border and into the city.”)
Here are the lyrics that transported me back to those many afternoons spent in Mac’s Crown Vic, a visceral realm where I could relive the memories of those days and understand why they mattered so much:
So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder And I, I, had a feeling that I belonged I, I, had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
I do believe that these two words are some of the most powerful words in human history: I belonged.
Listening to the song’s lyrics about poverty and hardship resonated with me in that moment.
That being said, I was the kid who got kicked out of sixth grade for asking too many questions, but over the years I knew him, I only asked Mac once about his estranged dad.
You see, Mac’s mom was a single mother of five other children. Only one sister was his biological sister; the rest were half-siblings from his mom’s other relationships. They lived in a dangerous, impoverished neighborhood of the city that we loved to cruise through, naïve as we were.
“I don’t know him.” Mac said, his voice flat and emotionless when I had asked him about his father. But the deep-rooted pain in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. It was the kind of pain you can detect in a feral cat’s eyes. The kind I detected in Tuna. Decades ago, like Tuna, I too wondered why Mac’s mom was forced to live in a ransacked two-room apartment with her children.
Once, in fact, Mac and I had just pulled up to visit his mom and siblings when a white van pulled in. There he was, Jack or John (Mack whispered his inaudible name under his breath) as he hopped out onto the asphalt, his face hidden under dark sunglasses and wearing an inconspicuous pair of jeans and t-shirt, pounding the pavement in a pair of new work boots.
Mac and I sat in the Crown Vic like two upright light bulbs without a fixture. Once Jack or John disappeared into the ransacked apartment building, we drove away. I did not ask questions.The only question that mattered to me was, “How much more hurt could Mac take?”
As it stood, Mac lived with his aunt, who had escaped poverty against all odds to live in suburbia. She managed to just get by on government assistance along with wages from odd jobs. The single mom and her six children lived in a small, rundown house that was once a meat store. She may have narrowly escaped poverty, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not escape the judgment of the “Fat Cats” of our town, who frowned upon the welfare-enabled “feral cats.”
Mac was the eighth resident in the tiny place. He was happy to pay rent, even though he had to sleep on a five-foot slab cot on the floor. He did it to go to our high school, where I had met him. Apparently, it was a lot better than getting bullied and beaten up at his previous high school in the city where he grew up.
From the moment I met him, the student who had been held back three times in school would proudly proclaim, “I’m a grease monkey!” and emphasize the point by bouncing in his chunky, five-inch, shiny black platform shoes down the hallways of our high school.
The second the final school bell rang, he whipped out of school in his Crown Vic in order to get to the service station where he worked as a self-taught mechanic. Although he paid rent to his aunt, whether out of guilt for abandoning his family or out of simple necessity, Mac gave most of his money to his mother. Between Mac’s money and her work as a caterer, his mother managed to obtain her nursing degree, and it looked like the cycle of poverty was about to be broken. It did, for a while.
Going into her second year of nursing, his mother was diagnosed with a rare cancer and died within three months. The other fathers of her children stepped up and took on their responsibilities. There was no room on Mac’s cot, and his sister was left to fend for herself and moved in with a friend. Mac grieved, and he did it over beers at a club in his native city that was notorious for allowing minors to drink alcohol. Then one day, one of the fat cat bullies lit his pants on fire. Fortunately, he was able to extinguish the flames, but he drank alone after that incident.
So there I sat in the grocery store’s parking lot, feeling the wind embrace me once again as I remembered how I nearly tumbled out of Mac’s Crown Victoria as I serenaded my audience in a notoriously unsavory neighborhood. As day turned into night, I would slide down the seat and snuggle up to Mac. He ignited my fire, and he never extinguished it—most of the world had done that at the time, kicking off the lifelong theme of my life.
So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder And I, I, had a feeling that I belonged I, I, had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
I was no longer too fat, too thin, too zany, too quiet, too foreign, too dumb, too smart, or too much — I simply belonged in our own private classic-car world like a well-worn robe that had lost half of its original weight.
After we graduated from high school, our Crown Vic cruises became a thing of the past. I would see him sporadically, but he was a recluse. Although he did show up for our 20th high school reunion, he ended up holing himself up in a cheap hotel instead of coming to the party, despite my pleas.
Years later, after fighting his own demons, it seemed he had turned a corner. He had married, had children, and became a successful business owner. It was the life he deserved. But then things turned again. At 45 years old, he finally came out, claiming his true authenticity. I was devastated to learn, he died two years later from AIDS complications. I felt a deep sense of grief, because I had lost a dear friend and a part of my own history.
Wiping the last of my tears, I finally pulled out of the parking lot. I couldn’t help but ponder on the bad luck and bad fate that seemed to follow people like Mac, like feral cats in a world of fat cats.
Throughout my life, I have been passionate about animal rescue. My friends know that they will never win an argument with me about buying bred pets, and I have opened my heart and home to numerous rescue cats and one dog, Crouton. On the other hand, I don’t know what kind of influence I had on Mac, but I know he rescued me in ways I can’t even explain. He certainly gave me faith when I had none.
Decades later, sometimes when the days feel long and dark and static, I remember Mac’s indigo tiny slits of eyes lighting up like fireflies. Like the headlights of a classic Crown Vic, they illuminate the path, guiding me through the darkness.
Enduring divorce and a host of other hardships and tragedies, I can’t seem to stop opening Pandora’s Box. The only consolation is that I am at the sunset of my life. As I mentioned in last week’s blog post, I spend most of my days in insolation (detachment) rather than isolation (seclusion). I also try to remind myself that I cannot understand certain things, such as the apathy of certain ill-wishers in my life.
In my previous blog post, I also wrote about “a symbolic nemesis that had infiltrated my world.”
This week, I’m lifting the lid on a real-life nemesis who has been a source of friction in my life like a thigh-sized bur since I was 14. I try to understand that she is struggling with her own issues, and that she is simply incapable of showing love and compassion. In addition, the woman’s continuous erratic behavior suggests that she may have dissociative identity disorder (DID).
I need to remember that I am not responsible for her traumatic childhood or her behavior, no matter what the reason. I can only control my own actions and reactions.
Fortunately, I don’t struggle to keep the faith when I am able to believe that things are the way they are meant to be. This belief takes the pressure off me, and I can leave the rest to the great creator, God, all there is, Greater Good, or whatever he or she or it may be. As long as my ego doesn’t get enmeshed into things out of my hands, it’s going to be a good day.
I also know that I am worthy of love and respect. I am a valuable person, and I deserve to be treated with kindness and compassion. The real-life nemesis in my life, most times, quite frankly, I wish she would simply disappear. But I remember back in the 80s when a few of my mentors advised me that she was here to teach me valuable lessons.
What these lessons are, I don’t know. I do know, in retrospect, that at the lowest points of my life, she tried to beat me even lower. Did her acts of cruelty make me a better person? No, I can’t say they did. Hurt supersedes all the memories of her in my life. Typically, my only desire is to shovel my hurt on her until she seeps into it like quicksand.
I suppose, though, one thing I’ve learned from her is how to bar out the negative thoughts and erase a real-life nemesis from my mind. Release her back to her own creator and go about my life, channeling whatever positive energy is left. That’s what it’s about.
“Don’t give up. It may take time to heal from the pain of indifference and deep wounds, but it’s important to remember that you can get through the pain. Don’t give up on yourself or on your faith.”
That’s the message I find without my having to consult any particular guru, because the inner voice is divine, and I don’t mess with divinity.
June kicks off the official start of summertime. The end of school. Vacations. Weddings. Graduations. Father’s Day. Surf and sun. But for those of us who have experienced loss or who live with a serious illness, it can be a season of reminders. A season of triggers that ignite a range of feelings from sadness to anger to guilt.
It’s natural to feel these emotions as a response to loss or illness, which are painful experiences. But it’s important to remember that we’re not alone going through devastating experiences. Others have also walked these paths before us. There, too, are people who will soon be forced to meet a life-threatening illness head on, as well as others who will soon cross the “Welcome to Grieve-ville” line.
When we experience crossing over these life-changing lines, it can be difficult to maintain our sense of hope and faith.
It’s as if our vibrant June-summertime-celebration canvas of life is suddenly stained with black ink, leaving us feeling helpless and lost. Weightless, dripping, dissolving in tears; questions pelting down on us.
“Why did this happen to me?” or “What’s the point of going on?” or “How will I ever get through this?”
It’s okay to ask these questions. In fact, it’s important to do so because it addresses how we honestly feel. But it’s also important to remember that we don’t have all the answers. Sometimes, we just have to trust that there is a greater purpose, even when we don’t understand the logic behind it.
While it may seem like the end of the world (and, maybe, in some ways it is), one way to gain strength to carry on is to realize that we are not alone in this journey. For instance, currently about 12 million people in the United States live with PTSD (Posttraumatic Stress Disorder).
Twelve million people. That’s no small potatoes when you consider the numbers!
There is power in numbers. Interestingly, when I looked up the significance of the month of June, I not only discovered that it is Alzheimer’s & Brain Awareness Month, but it also serves as a reminder for the following themes:
Obviously, these important themes can inspire some heavy-duty conversations and help create positive change in our society. It makes me call to mind how we are connected through our vulnerability — and make no mistake about it — we are all vulnerable because we are human. We are all capable of experiencing pain, both physical and emotional. We are all susceptible to illness and injury. We are all subject to the whims of fate.
Likewise, June is a month of change. In June, as in life, nothing remains the same. The days are long and warm, and the sun sets later in the evening. Given this, we have a longer time period to schedule a few minutes of awe, watching the golden summer sun dip below the frothy, creamy horizon. It is a good time, too, to take stock of our collective strength and resilience and stay focused on how precious our time really is — encompassing joy, pain and sorrow all at once. In this way, our lives become a poignant concerto of experiences and memories that fall nothing short of a symphony. We all have the power to create our own grand finale one day. Whether it’s through our words, actions, or simply our presence, we can strive for a legacy that deserves nothing less than a standing ovation and, perhaps, a sweet rainbow-colored sprinkle of “BRAVO!”