She's Not There

For those who don't know, I left town on July 15th to attend the Sewanee Writers' Conference in Sewanee, TN. (www.sewaneewriters.org) The trip was a big deal to me, and I figured I'd be blogging all about it by now, but other matters have eclipsed the conference.

Within a day or two of my arrival on the Sewanee campus, my husband reported that my mother had left a completely unintelligible message on our home phone. He and my daughter had each listened to it several times and still had no idea what she was saying. I called my mom's house but although it was 10 PM or so (Eastern time--I was on Central), nobody answered. Fearing the worst, I called the hospital and learned she had been admitted.

Just before I left for TN, Mama had come down with shingles. (www.shinglesinfo.com) I understood that this wasn't a pleasant condition to be in, but it hardly seemed critical so I left for my trip as planned. But when I located her at the hospital, I learned she had fallen and broken her foot as well. Nobody realized at first that it was actually broken, but my stepfather observed that Mama got increasingly disoriented over the next few days and he decided she should go to the hospital. By then she couldn't make it to the car so he called an ambulance.

Again, the condition didn't sound life-threatening. Worrisome, maybe, but I was calling from TN every day, and nobody ever said, "You ought to come home." Doctors said my mother's confusion and disorientation was due to some swelling of the brain membrane, brought on by the shingles, but it'd soon be back to normal. I talked to her, sometimes, and sometimes to other family members who kept me updated. Sewanee is a long conference, and as I overheard one participant saying, "It's a tough conference. Not for the faint of heart." Still, I tried to hang in there. But when I got the news on Friday the 25th that Mama was being moved to a nursing home--and especially, when I spoke to her and she was childlike and sobbing and asking when I would be back--I went to my dorm and started packing.

Before Sewanee, I had called on the phone and said Bye, see ya later, to my Mama--the same mama I'd always known. I returned less than two weeks later to a sick, injured, terrified woman huddled in a nursing home bed, a woman who cried and couldn't understand how I had known where to find her, when she herself did not know where she was.

She's still in the nursing home, and we--that is, my stepfather and I, not the medical staff--are still working on the mystery of what has happened to her mind. A stroke? Head injury? Problematic medicine for the shingles? Is the nursing home now keeping her doped up so she'll be less trouble to them? That would be another story in itself, and it's not the one I'm writing tonight.

I really said all of the above just to tell you this: I miss my mother. I've lost count of the times that it has run through my mind to give her a call at home and see what she's up to. She'd tell me what she was cooking for supper and whether her Braves were winning. She'd tell me all the news of her friends and neighbors that, by and large, I've never even met. She'd ask what her "babies" were doing.

I prefer to keep in touch with most people by email, but Mama is the one person I frequently call. Nowadays, even though I may have just left the nursing home, I find I still have that same impulse to call Mama... my regular old Mama... but she's not there.

No Title for this One

Yesterday I had to mail a large envelope and also buy some stamps. I stood in line at the post office, idly observing the clothes and shoes and mannerisms of all the other people who were waiting, when I happened to notice a man whose arm was in a sling. It brought back a memory that, within thirty seconds, had me close to tears, sternly telling myself to get a grip before my turn at the window came.

What I had thought of was this: in 1990, during my first pregnancy, I had a job that required me to go to the post office daily and handle the company's mail. Every day I stood in line, and when my turn came, I exchanged pleasantries with a friendly, kind-faced man named Gary. He never knew my name, but we always chatted a bit. Towards the end of my nine months, the conversation centered around my due date and how I was looking and feeling. Whether I was tired. Whether I was ready.

There came a day when I didn't show up at the post office, and I guess, if I crossed Gary's mind at all, he would have assumed I was on maternity leave. But then after several weeks I appeared again, with a non-pregnant belly and my arm in a cast and a sling. Gary, bless him forever, was cautious in his friendliness. "What in the world happened to you?" he asked.

"Car accident," I whispered.

His face was concerned. I knew he was wondering about the baby, but I could tell he wanted to phrase it carefully. "Everybody all right?" he asked.

My eyes got wet, and I could only shake my head. No.

"I'm sorry," he said. And then he took care of my mail.

I remember, too, a lady who had owned the convenience store nearest to my home in 1990. Sometime shortly after the accident, I ran into her in the back corner of a grocery store. She was Asian and her English was poor, but she asked me excitedly, "Where your baby?"

Euphemisms don't always translate well, I didn't know whether she would understand me if I said that we lost him, or he passed away. I had to stand in the grocery store and try to explain that he had died, and then the lady and I just looked at each other, neither one having the vocabulary to continue.

There's no moral or tidy ending here. Except maybe I should say thank you to Gary for not needing the details, and thank you to the convenience store lady for caring, and thanks to all the other random people like Sherry the hairdresser who put their arms around me and said, "I'm sorry about your baby," when there was nothing else to say. Eighteen years now, and I haven't forgotten any of you.


****AMAZING UPDATE TO THIS POST: I'M WRITING THIS ON JUNE 9TH. JUST HAD TO SHARE WITH ANYBODY READING THE ABOVE POST THAT YESTERDAY, OUTSIDE OF TARGET, WHO SHOULD I RUN INTO BUT GARY FROM THE POST OFFICE!!! AFTER 18 YEARS OF NEVER SEEING HIM, THERE HE WAS. NOW I HAVE CHANGED A LOT BETWEEN THE AGES OF 25 AND 43 BUT HE INSTANTLY RECOGNIZED ME AND SPOKE. I TOLD HIM WHAT A COINCIDENCE IT WAS THAT I HAD JUST HAD HIM ON MY MIND RECENTLY, AND I REMINDED HIM OF MY STORY (THOUGH I NEARLY BAWLED DOING IT) BECAUSE ALTHOUGH I COULD SEE HE RECOGNIZED MY FACE, I DIDN'T KNOW IF HE'D REMEMBER THE REST. BUT HE DID REMEMBER, AND SO DID HIS WIFE WHO WAS WITH HIM. HE HAD GONE HOME AND TOLD HER ABOUT ME, AND PRAYED FOR ME, HE SAID. I THANKED HIM IN PERSON FOR PUTTING KINDNESS AND COMPASSION AHEAD OF HIS OWN CURIOSITY. I TOLD HIM I HAD TWO CHILDREN NOW AND ALL WAS WELL, AND HE GAVE ME A HUG. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT??!!

Global Warming--SOLVED!

I've been meaning to tell y'all this for a while... I actually solved the mysteries of global warming a month or two ago and I know it seems like this is an important discovery that I should've gone public with right away, but what can I say. I'm a busy person. Idol is on at least twice a week.

Anyway, as you all know, it's only too clear to people my age and older that global warming is a real phenomenon, in spite of what some stubborn scientists claim. We know it's real because we distinctly remember that when we were younger, it was MUCH colder than it is now! Just stop for a moment, and I'll bet several examples pop into your mind. Personally, I always remember the early November day in 1982 when I was riding around with my new boyfriendish-type-person, freezing to death in my oxford shirt until he detoured by his home and presented me with his letter jacket.

But in that very story lies a clue to the mystery I have unlocked. Are you ready?? Here it is: It seemed colder when we were younger because we were too stupid to wear a coat! If you have children, the truth of my discovery will have you smacking your forehead right now. "You need a heavier coat," I tell my kids. "I don't wanna carry it," they whine. "It won't fit in my bookbag. It makes me too fat for the carseat." And so forth. "Okay," I shrug. "Be cold, then." And lo, THEY ARE COLD.

When I was 19 years old I bought a car with a non-working heater, and all that winter I drove to work--fifteen miles or so--shivering, with a blanket across my lap. I did wear a coat, at least, but the blanket was necessary because every morning, like an idiot, I got up and put on a DRESS, PANTYHOSE, and PUMPS. I look back now and wonder what kind of a fool would not put on some nice warm pants, comfortable socks, and a pair of boots. A YOUNG fool, that's who. Look around and you will see it--grown people dress for the weather and kids don't. That's all it is. Scientists, you can pack up your gear and go home now.

Next month, stayed tuned for my enlightening explanation of why it is that "most car accidents occur within two miles of home." If I'm feeling really crazy I'll also tell you why "most shark attacks occur in less than four feet of water." That's a joke. You DO know why these are true, don't you? Please tell me you do.

What I Didn't Have for Supper Last Night

When I started this blog, my aim was to update it once a month with something similar to what might appear in a newspaper column, if I had one. What I vowed not to do was blab about the boring details of what I had for supper last night, as so many bloggers seem to do. (Geez, I never knew that even FAMOUS people in whom I'm reasonably interested could be so mundane.) However, December is slipping by and I haven't been struck with a great literary inspiration, so I'm afraid we'll just have to make do.

So, umm... guess what? If my mother reads this, she'll drop dead on the spot, but it seems I have become a vegetarian.

Over the last several years, I have enjoyed meat less and less. Granted I've gobbled many a delicious entree... a steak from Ruth's Chris Steakhouse springs to mind especially... but any form of fast food was grossing me out. Hamburgers? Yuck. My formerly beloved Chik-Fil-A sandwiches? Long since deserted. The last time I ordered a roast beef sandwich from Subway, I wound up removing the roast beef because it just looked too shiny, the way meat does when it's been in the fridge too long. In short, I was constantly so worried about meat containing streaks of fat, gristle or other undesirable components, or I was afraid it had been handled in some way that rendered it unfit to eat, that I basically had to choke it down it real fast before I had time to think about it much.

Now that's stupid.

Luckily, in Target one night I just happened to flip through the pages of a book entitled Skinny Bitch, by Kim Barnouin and Rory Freedman. (check out www.skinnybitch.net) I'm sure that on any of a thousand days in my past I would have opened the book, caught the general idea of it, and scoffed, "Ha! Not for me." But somehow, the information imparted in this book came to me at just the moment I was ready to hear it.

If I thought I had been grossed out by finding fat or gristle in my meat, I believe I have now been sufficiently revolted by what happens to even a "good" piece of meat before it reaches my plate to swear it off for life. I have never been a bleeding- heart type of person, about animal rights or anything else. My previous opinion would have been along the lines of, "What else does a cow have to do with its life besides make my milk or become my steak?" It ain't like a cow is going to run for President. However, if I had taken much time to really examine this vague notion, I would have realized I assumed that they and other farm animals and fowl were at least living a reasonably happy life, cared for by dear old Farmer Brown, until that day came.

I have learned that this is FAR from the truth. Turns out, they generally live torturous lives in sort of concentration-camp conditions (except that instead of being starved, they're given growth hormones and overfed until sometimes their under-muscled, non-exercised legs won't even support them). Some animals never take a breath of fresh air or feel grass under their feet in their whole miserable lives. And if you still don't care about animals' FEELINGS, then consider this: under those conditions, animals are nasty, and they are sick. We've all heard about antibiotics in meat--now why do you suppose animals are given antibiotics? Hmm, well when do YOU take antibiotics? They are given antibiotics to keep them ALIVE long enough to slaughter them. Yum, yum--eat up, y'all. And if you think conditions are disappointing at Old McDonald's Farm, you oughta do a little research into how the fine professionals at the slaughterhouse are handling your future meal. Linda McCartney is credited with saying, "If slaughterhouses had glass walls, we'd all be vegetarians." I now agree. Of course, nobody thinks the process of slaughtering animals is pretty, but I suppose we all hope it's halfway sanitary. Well, think again.

I could go on and give you many more graphic examples, but I suggest you read the book, or for a shorter and equally convincing introduction to this topic, go to www.goveg.org and watch a shocking video entitled "Meet Your Meat." You may find it life-changing.