Narration. Sorry about the two random dings somewhere in the middle.
March 16, 2020: Monday – 8:36 a.m.: Thoughts:
I’ve never seen such a beautiful sunrise over superstructure horizon. The view from the 21st floor of the Lyric, overlooking the heart of Philadelphia during the golden hours, takes my breath away. There is a brief moment of magic on the cusp of daybreak before the city's skyline dims when Heaven’s masterpiece melts into a collaboration between the Creator and man’s delusive efforts not to be outshone.
When I look outside, I can see across to the building where my Mom is staying for the procedure and part of her recovery. Her window stands out, 5th trio from the right—the distinct outline of her transplant calendar framed evenly by the middle pane of glass. Sometimes I can even see her silhouette peeking out through the left of the nurses’ schedule (from my perspective, that is). There aren’t any windows above hers—although there is at least one more floor… a helipad appears to float, centered above her room, tethered to steel pillars invisible to the naked eye. I like to watch the helicopters in flight, maneuvering through the sky as they land, and whisper anonymous prayers for everyone inside.
It’s 10:17 a.m., 43 degrees Fahrenheit, and I miss her.
We video chat sometimes—when she remembers to activate the WiFi on her phone; I jotted a reminder on her wall before we left on Friday night when Covid-19 precautions ‘kicked us out’ of the hospital. Dad is low-key driving me crazy, but I love him anyway. He’s just not used to being away from Mom for any extended period of time—they’ve been together over 40 years and I don’t think they’ve ever even been separated this long throughout their entire relationship. It’s sweet, but also sad. He doesn’t seem to know what to do in her absence…and she’s only 3 blocks away.
I’m fairly certain that he’s already tweaked and fixed anything and everything in the mini-suite that needed fixing or tweaking…a squeaky door hinge, wonky shower curtains, a bent mirror shelf, etc…but that’s how it works, isn’t it? When we can’t fix what matters the most, we go around adjusting the things we can so that we don’t feel as helpless as we really are.
People keep telling me I’m brave. They say that what I’m doing for my Mom is a selfless act, when in all reality, it might be the single most selfish thing I’ve ever done. It didn’t take bravery; it took obstinance.
The truth is, I’m just not ready or willing to imagine my life without her in it.
Others have been far more courageous with far less at stake. I’m doing this because I don’t want my children to lose their grandmother, my father to lose his wife, my sisters and I to lose our mother, or for her to lose all of us.
I’m selfish.
I have more memories to collect, more hugs to share, more wisdom to hear, more smiles to see, more laughter to feel, and more adventures to plan with her. My mother plays one of the absolute most important roles in my autobiography—and we’re just about to get to the really good parts—the chapters where perseverance through hellfire and tribulation unfolds into the beginning of “happily ever after”.
I want her to see that the prayers she cried through clenched fists and tear-stained eyes over the years…prayers for my life… weren’t uttered in vain… and for her to be standing next to me when the knot is finally tied in the right place. She’s got more grandchildren to have, more giggles to enjoy, and so many more stories to tell—many of which have yet to be written…including this one.
So no, this isn’t selfless and it doesn’t make me brave—not from where I stand. I look in the mirror and see a little girl who still isn’t ready to let go of her mother’s hand to face a scary world alone…and I am so darn lucky that this is all it takes from me to keep her.
She always confused this band with Hootie and the Blowfish.
Narration. (Sorry about the planes in the background towards the middle/end)
Transplant Procedure Update #1: Day 1: [Un-revised Mind-Rambles]
This morning, my parents made the 3-hour(ish) trek to Philadelphia to start the journey toward my Mom's healing/recovery. As I’m writing this, she’s enduring her first round of radiation… and for those of you who know its process, you understand what it means…”enduring”. For this procedure, it’s needed. Before they left (around 2:30-3:00 a.m.), I gave her the biggest but most gentle hug I’ve ever given in my life and reminded her, “don’t forget to cast your cares”. Hopefully, I’ll get to see her on Wednesday when I join her at the hospital (from my understanding, we will be in different places throughout the entire week—so I don’t even know if I’ll get to actually be with her at any point during my part of the transplant) but if not, I know that heartfelt hug will carry us through the days ahead.
To be honest, I felt a bit empowered yesterday—being the only one really able to embrace her since she’s going to be sharing my blood soon enough anyway. I had to forcefully tug my ego down a notch. (just kidding). [Humor has always been my default ‘defense’ mechanism of sorts when I have something serious to say; those of you who know me, or who have been following my quirkily-eccentric life adventures over the years, can probably already identify the pattern in the way that I write.] It’s time to be serious now, though. [I wrote the first part for her birthday, but didn’t get a chance to finish it until today when it sort of took off in its own direction.]
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What more can I say to honor a woman who already speaks for herself through the selfless way she lives?—the very same woman who had been cultivating within me the meaning of sacrifice since the day her piercing gaze locked onto the blue of my father's eyes and she proclaimed that if it ever came down to the wire and a choice needed to be made between her or me during childbirth, she would choose me in a heartbeat and he must too. We were both nearly lost in the process of my delivery; I firmly believe that my parents' unwavering faith and the inconceivable strength of my mother's love saved our lives that day.
As an infant, there were times when she wasn’t around as often as I’d have liked. I have traces of memories from the early years on Liberty Street [don’t worry, it’s not the answer to any of my security questions…but it might be my sister’s!]—missing the warmth of her voice when she left to work nights to help make ends meet for our family.
One of the biggest sacrifices a parent can make is to have to spend time away from their child(ren) in order to offer them their best chance at life. I can’t even imagine the number of times she laced up her shoes and kissed me goodnight with tears in her eyes before walking through the door to head off to the Manor to clock in. Or how many soiled bed sheets she changed while watching the clock and praying time would go by faster so she could get off her feet and wrap her arms around her husband and children instead of an IV pole that needed to be wheeled down the hall to room 13. She must’ve been worn out by the time she returned through the doorway to the apartment… top floor, I believe. My sisters would know; they were older. [It was the ground floor; I stand corrected.]
Through her, I learned what sacrifice means—the way she never spent a cent on herself when it was needed for her children. The times we’ve all fallen ill—including/especially her—and she kept going… steadying herself, as frail as she was, against the counter top just to make soup for us or measure out our antibiotics. She was always there with a warm cup of tea, a splash of milk and two sugars—she still is. “Nonnie tea,” Aria calls it.
And for as much as she talks and opinionates (she’s Slovak, it’s expected), she also listens. I honestly don’t know how I’d have gotten through the past year had it not been for her shoulder to lean on when the rest of my life felt like it was crumbling right from under me.
Don’t get me wrong though… we didn’t always get along so well.
One time during high school when I was sitting on my bed (it was arranged in the room differently than it is now—parallel to the door instead of perpendicular, against the wall) and we were having a discussion—I don’t quite remember now if she went to grab something from me, or what the context was… but she ended up accidentally leaning forward too far too quickly and smacking her face on the doorknob. She had a bruised eye for quite a few weeks from that. I remember going to church that month and feeling bad when my Dad was getting the side-eye from some of the other congregation members—as if he were the one responsible for it when really it was indirectly my fault. My Dad has put up with a lot over the years… he’s a champ too. The angriest I’ve ever seen him towards my Mom resulted in him setting a remote controller down on the table slightly louder than usual. That’s it. He has always set a fine example of unconditional love and respect in his relationship with my Mom. Her being sick has been very hard on him too… maybe even especially him in ways… but I’m digressing—as I usually do when jotting my thoughts down in a candid series… you can see the way the gears twist and concepts connect from one to the other to create the big picture as a whole… fragments coming together.
Speaking of the big picture… I haven’t even started packing yet. Am I scared? Parts of me are… like my stomach that finds itself in tangles thinking about what she must be going through right now. How humbling (for a delicate choice of verbiage) it must be to have to sit vulnerably and uncomfortably-positioned in a cold room with cold air in a cold chair surrounded by unfamiliar machinery—left with nothing except for maybe a 1-ply dollhouse-ratio napkin to cover the essentials and unbridled thoughts bouncing around in a frenzy… flesh invaded by dangerous particles making a war zone out of you. “Don’t move.” Stillness in body, synapses transmitting a billion miles a minute.
My mother’s tenacity is contagious. I learned the true meaning of strength the night we almost lost my older sister, Tristina, when a tumor inside of her burst. My parents sped to Lebanon, PA in the middle of the night as she was rushed in for emergency surgery. This isn’t the first time mom’s had to fight it… cancer… the first time was for her child. She’ll win again. We all will. There has to be a reason for it all. And I’m going to keep searching until I find out what it is.
She doesn’t expect this to be easy…the procedure…but there isn’t a bone in her body that has ever been spoiled with the overuse of the definition of that word. “Easy.” She’s tough.
So, what more can I say to honor a woman who already speaks for herself through the selfless way she lives?—the very same woman who had been cultivating within me the meaning of sacrifice since the day her piercing gaze locked onto the blue of my father's eyes and she proclaimed that if it ever came down to the wire and a choice needed to be made between her or me, she would choose me in a heartbeat and he must too... this time, years later, the decision is non-negotiable... "Both."
We’ll get through this the same way we’ve conquered all of the other trials in the history of our family… unwavering faith [yours too] and the inconceivable strength of a mother's love.
When I was 10 months old, I had a hernia operation. The hairline scar grew with me throughout adolescence--and so has my love for giraffes.
Let me explain. It was during that hospital stay when my parents presented me with a tiny little plush giraffe--one that looks almost like it was crafted in the style of a Precious Moments character and was probably almost as tall as I was at that age. I was fascinated. As soon as I was able to form words on my own, I called him "Joshy".
Fast-forward through various holidays, birthdays, and souvenir-shop endeavors... from family members, friends, and even acquaintances... I was surrounded by giraffes. Drawings, figurines, stuffed animals, bedspreads (ironically enough, I don't actually particularly fancy animal print patterns), I amassed quite an inadvertent collection.
I even remember the best Christmas gift my parents had ever gotten for me. I don't remember exactly how old I was though-- nine? We were walking through a local warehouse-turned-flea-market... and in one of the stands in a display case (it's funny how I can still picture it in my mind so many years later)... on the top glass shelf on the left-hand side, behind a folded pocket knife that was meant to look like it was decorated by a mosaic of ebony/ivory... a forest scene, perhaps (it's neat how as you grow and learn more, your mind is able to fill in the gaps of childhood memories), rested the most beautiful snow globe I had ever seen in my life.
The base was etched with jungle foliage--deep shades of green; it reminded me of the movie "Jumanji". Underneath the dome stood an acacia tree (I was a giraffe "know it all" and decided that it just HAD to be an acacia tree since that's their favorite snack) beside a mother giraffe and her calf. The thin filaments of confetti in the water gave off an aura of enchantment. But there was more. When the silver oblong crank on the bottom of the base was twisted (my parents had the man behind the counter try it out), the song "Close to You" by The Carpenters chimed out in a lilting fashion (depending on how many times the gear triggers were raveled). That was the first time I witnessed real magic.
We left without it, though. I was crushed. I remember moping the entire way back home in the car--sandwiched between my older sisters in the back seat--probably playing a not-so-endearing 'game' of elbow wars and "she's taking up too much room and squishing me!". Forlorn and grumpier than ever.
When we went back some time later--it was already gone. My heart shattered.
After a while, I forgot about it--at least in the foreground of my mind. Months went by and winter came around. That Christmas--after all of the other gifts were unwrapped--there was one more with my name on it. "Pookie" [stop laughing; it's what my whole family called/calls me and I still don't quite understand why]. It was the snow globe. My parents were the ones who bought it from the vendor--they just held onto it all that time--letting me think it was gone forever.
The giraffes always symbolized my Mom and I... and "Close to You" became our song. I've moved around quite a bit since then... even across the country for a while... still, that snow globe stays with me.
But this story isn't about the globe.
It's about a different journey... one that has been in the works for over a year now. I was waiting for it to sink in. And by all other facets of realization--it should have by now. But it hasn't. Not yet.
My Mom--the same woman I've inherited my overabundant love of sentimentality from--the one who could turn a few dollars into a most cherished treasure just by putting some extra special touches to it... like a handwritten note or a stuffed-animal introduction and full imaginative backstory (yes, Mom, I'm talking about "Millie Ford" the giraffe)--she needs me now. After all of the hell I put her through growing up... even as far back as her high risk and complication-filled pregnancy with me... I finally have a chance to say 'thank you' and 'I love you' in a way that I never thought would be possible. I'm lucky.
In just a few weeks, I'm going to be the bone marrow transplant donor of the woman who battled through all of the worries, fears, emergencies, hospital stays, and obstacles just to bring me into this world. Her blood cells are going to essentially become replications of mine--we'll be sharing DNA on a whole different level. I hadn't realized that our song, "Close to You" would foreshadow an eventual symbiosis--it's even more perfect now.
The other day, while I was sitting downstairs at the kitchen table, my parents walked up to me with a small box--my Mom with a knowing smirk on her face. There might have even been the hint of a tear forming in the corner of her eye--the one she can't quite wink properly... I looked at her, not sure of the occasion, and lifted the lid. Inside was a delicately formed gold necklace... two giraffes... a mother and her baby... their heads nestled together to form a heart.
She said that she wanted to find a small way to show me how much it means to her that I was a match for the transplant and willing to go through with it [as if I ever wouldn't have]. My sister, Tristina (the same one I was undoubtedly elbowing in the back seat of the station wagon on the melancholy drive home from the flea market that one afternoon when I was nine years old) helped her find just the thing. A forever reminder of our Mother/Daughter journeys throughout the years and all of the adventures we have yet to look forward to together. I started to cry. It's perfect.
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Why do birds suddenly appearEvery time you are near?
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you
Why do stars fall down from the sky
Every time you walk by?
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you
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I love you, Mom.
I love you, Dad.
[I even love you, Jenny and Trissy.]
We're going to get through this.
Kaleidoscopic Grace 