Opa!

"Have you ever been to a Greek wedding?" he asked.

And suddenly I was not in a crowded restaurant, on the eve of December, struggling to find my Christmas Spirit.

I was in Wyoming, a family wedding. We were dancing in lines, kicking out our legs, throwing up our hands. Opa!

Standing in circles, and passing opened bottles of ouzo, drinking in swallows, puffing on cigars and cigarettes. Bright and noisy tents, with the music of our teenage years echoing in our ears and pulsing in our bodies, sharing drags of cigarettes and swigging beer from bottles. The cry rose up, we joined in, hoisting our bottles, waving our cigarettes, Opa!

Laughing, shouting, hooting and hollering with delight, our hearts full of joy and the luxury of satisfaction. The gate to Yellowstone, the feet of nature, stars all around, stars above, in our eyes and minds, out of us, unbidden, Opa!

Two families, two clans, coming together and each proud to have the other. We were young and smart and joyful, we all felt cool and we all fitted in and we shouted Opa!

It is years ago, I say, looking back from my early thirties to my later twenties. It is years, decades, eons really. I am not that woman, we are not those people. Carrie, radiant in short hair, grown in from chemo, brilliant as the mother of the bride, is gone and in the ground these last 3 years.

The summer is over, the stars are dim, and I have not tasted ouzo since.

But, yes. I have been to a Greek wedding.

My Mother's Rules

I have long maintained that no one needs to know Pythagorean Theorem. I was *that* kid, in the back of the class, who put up her hand, and lazily asked the teacher not why we needed to learn this crap, but asked exactly when he had used it in his own life. Generally speaking, it makes sense to memorize things you are going to use. Thus, I will always remember things like 2.2 KM to a Mile and the books of the bible in order. I will allow a certain amount of slippage, things that you needed to know once, but now don't, and probably make you a more rounded person anyway- the date of publication of the Durham Report, and the names of all the monarch's of England, in order.

And then there's the really dumb stuff, like Pythagorean theorem. Sure, it's a nifty bit of math, and it's dead easy (unlike conics, which may be nifty, but is hell to actually calculate). But really? No one ever uses it, and there A squared + B squared = C squared is nothing but clutter. Keeping me from remembering to pick up my laundry off the floor and making your name slip my mind.

And I get it, I get it. We aren't teaching children to use Pythagorean theorem, we are totally teaching them to think another way. We are stretching their little brains, so that they grow up to be smart, articulate human beings, who can all get jobs, and pay their Canada Pension Plan Premiums, so that I can retire at 65. I get it. I get that learning is at least in part about learning how to think, instead of just facts.

But. . .

I got to thinking a while ago, about the lessons we learn as women. Most of the things, particularly those my mother taught me, were lessons taught "because women need to know this stuff." I know how to curtsy, how to seat people at a dinner party, what wine to serve with what, and how to make a centerpiece.

So, I was talking today about women's stuff. Actually, we were talking about women's humour and if it exsisted, and so forth. But, it made me think about the stuff my mother made me learn. And I have to confess, to you at least, if not my mother, that given the odds, I've seated more people at a dinner party, done more centrepieces, and yes I have curtsied. I still haven't used pythagorean theorum.

There's Still a Reason

The good news is that my maternal unit does not have a kidney stone and probably not a bladder infection.

And we convinced the doctor to re-test in a few days, since an IV course of Cipro seemed excessive for the situation. (my mother having "issues" with antibiotics)

The bad news is that it's likely a bursa in her hip socket. Also, she has a cyst on her kidney, but that's probably not causing the pain. They'll check it again in a few months.

And the neurologist, cardiologist and orthopedic surgeon have to get onside to figure out about replacing her knee and hip. Also, her daughter thinks they should get a consult from the infectious disease specialist, you know because of the bone eating disease she has (osteomylitis).

Organizing specialists for someone with all my mother's problems is like herding cats.

So. . . More tests. And some morphine. And Dramamine. And another trip to the ER.

Sigh.

That Reminds Me

Susan's post about seeing her husband, but not really, reminded me of how my father and my uncle met.

Years and years ago, long before I was even a twinkle of a twinkle in my father's eye, my father went up to Yellowknife to work. The thing you really need to know about Yellowknife is that it's a small town. (Also, that an ice road connects it to the mainland, because of the whole Slave Lake thing, and that food is actually cheaper in the winter as a result of the road. Also, yes, it really is light for 24 hours on the 21st of June, and more or less dark for 24 hours on the 21st of December. And, also, the northern lights are more amazing than you can ever imagine.)

But, back to the point. The Yellowknife of circa 1965 is tiny. It's the major city in the North West Territories, and it's population is about 4,000. No, really, I'm not kidding. It's that small.

And so, my father arrives, to work on something or other, and people on the street, in the store, in the bar, start asking how Faith is? and the kids? And my father stares blankly at them. Very blankly. And he insists that his name is Howard, he's not married, has never been married, much less to anyone named Faith, and he doesn't have any kids. None. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Not a one.

And the people in the bars and the stores on the street actually get mad at him. Really mad. "No", they insist. "Stop the stupid games. Who is this Howard? You are Ken, and you are married to Faith, and you have two children."

And finally they met, this Howard, and this Ken. They were and are brothers, full brothers.

My father says that he knew this man, this person named Ken, husband of Faith, and father of a son and daughter was his brother, when he unthinkingly opened the cupboard, and the bottle of Tabasco sauce was in the cupboard. There was no need to explain what happened to their mother, how she fled, and wound up in Yellowknife. The bottle of Tabasco was proof in a way that blood tests and genealogy could never be.

30 years later, I was in Yellowknife for a wedding, my father had passed away on the first of May that year. I had not found out until the end of July, only 3 weeks before. Now, my father had not really been a part of my life in years, but I was struggling. It's not that I hadn't been fatherless - I had, for 10 years, but now I was an orphan, and that was a different thing entirely.

And one morning, I was laying in the place between asleep and awake, and my uncle's voice came down the hall, so like my father's.

And like my father, I knew that this was family.

Nanny's Reply

I sent my mom an email copy of the blog from Tuesday.

********

Oh my ! What a wonderful way of describing the joy of awaiting being a Nanny, the pain and suffering of meeting our Gabriel, knowing he could only stay with us a short time and so much to tell him. It was hard to carry our Gabriel, wrapped in his blanket to the morgue, but so there were so many things I had to tell him as we walked together that last time. He needed to know that he would always be my first grandson and that he would forever have a special corner in my heart. Gabriel needed to know he was now part of a big family that were waiting for his return to heaven and that they would tell him stories about his Nanny and Mom and Dad. One day we would be together again and I would help you and Mr. Spit as you grieved his loss and began to celebrate this little baby we knew as Our Gabriel.

Taking a Toll

There is, to put baldly, a ranking of grief when your baby dies. People assume that mum feels it the most, then dad, and then others. If the others get any attention at all, it's of a scant nature. Frankly, by the time most people have enquired after mum, they forget anyone else who might have been involved in this life. Everyone else is peripheral.

My mother was, to put it mildly, tickled pink to be a nanny. The day I phoned to tell her I was pregnant, "Good Morning Nanny", that was the day she put the sign on her office door:

"I'm not allowed to tell you that my daughter is pregnant, so I'll tell you that I'm going to be a grandma!".

When I got pregnant, well, when I was about 20 weeks pregnant, my mother announced her intention to join GANG. It's an initiative from the Stephen Lewis foundation, helping grandmothers in Africa, who, as a result of the scourge that is HIV/AIDS, are raising their grandchildren. Like all Anglican women, they run garage sales and pasta suppers and concerts to help the foundation. I've been eaten the spaghetti, I've been to the concerts, and I own a variety of useless kitchen implements, as a result of the garage sale.

It's funny, but I could tell you all the many things I've missed out on as Gabe's mum. I can tell you the little losses that quickly add up into big ones. I can tell you the things I looked forward to, and the pain that was mother's day. I can enumerate all the loss from the death of your baby. Perhaps, I think actually, almost certainly, grief has blinders. We are so wrapped up in our terrible pain, we forget that others lost something.

Last night we were at HomeSense. Looking around, poking. Nothing in particular. Debating the merits of an armchair - she thought it was comfortable, I thought it was horrible. We both liked the fabric.

And for just a moment, I followed her eyes. To the little boy things. To the furniture and bedding and toys. I watched her look. And look away. A lifetime of competing moments passed through her eyes, as I watched.

My mother did indeed join GANG. A kind and compassionate woman called my mother this time last year, and merely asked what job she wanted in planning the garage sale. No question of the semantics of joining, no question if this was appropriate, simply a request. "What do you want to do to help?" A question, that after the pain of grief, my mother found easy to answer.

And suddenly in HomeSense, I saw the terrible cost to a grandma. I could see my mother, as women crowded around, sharing pictures and stories, moving away to organize things. I could see her working quietly in the corner, moving away, leaving the conversation. My mother, for all her voice and strength, she wouldn't advocate. She wouldn't tell you that she's a grandma, unless you asked.

And what stories does she have to tell? While other women tell of presents, does my mother tell them of the blanket she bought? A first and last gift? When they tell the story of rescuing their daughters, of giving them a break, does she tell the story of taking a cab to the hospital, because she was too upset to drive? When they say that their daughters are exhausted from child rearing, does she say that her daughter is exhausted from grief and trying to get pregnant again?

My mother calls my son "our baby". He was born to not just Mr. Spit and I, but into a family. With a history and traditions and values, and now a future doesn't include him, and I'm not the only one who grieves. His tree is surrounded by 4 roses, and a set of tulip bulbs, called Wendy Love. She planted them with care last fall.

Perhaps it is enough to say that grief can take a terrible toll. And it is not specific about whom it hurts or when. Simply because no one realizes the toll, does not mean it is not there. Our baby. Our past. Our future. Our sorrow.

Eating With My Father

I made dinner on Sunday night (which isn't all that remarkable, really).

But that's not where the story starts. It started at Christmas, when I realized that the day passed without me thinking much of it, without it really registering. And it's been running through my head ever since.

My Father's birthday. I used to mark the day. For a long time, I would go to a friend's grave, and leave some flowers. There really is nowhere to mark dad, I don't know what arrangements my step-mother made. But, I would mark the day, if only to make a point to listen to our song. And to be honest, I didn't really have to make a point to listen to it. It seems that I hear it, without trying to make it happen. On my birthday, on my wedding day, the day that Gabriel was born, and always on my father's birthday. On every day when I wish he was here. Especially on the day when our furnace died, and I would have given anything to be able to phone him and tell him to come and fix it. I will turn on the radio, flip on my ipod, walk into a store, and there I will hear it.

Fishing in the Dark. My mother swore she was going to first break the record, and then when the record wore out, or we finally upgraded to a cassette player, I can't remember which, she was right there threatening to pull out the magnetic tape. My young voice, his old, singing away. I don't think I really knew what the song was about, but I sure did like it.

I've stopped typing to queue up the song in iTunes. I can hear the start. And I go back. I can see myself in the passenger seat of his truck, I can see both of us singing our hearts out. I can see. I can go back.

On Sunday I cooked 'our' meal. Well, almost. The creamed corn was great, but I burnt the fried potatoes, and we didn't cook the pork chops in mushroom soup. But our meal. When my mother was gone. It was what he cooked. All the time. I suspect, I suspect if I could ask him, well, probably he would tell me it was the only thing he could cook.

He has been gone 10 years in May. And really, many more than that. He has been gone, probably more than half my life. A few visits in between, but gone. I got a dollar from his estate. I remember, because I remember the letter. Registered mail. It seemed so silly that they would spend $20 to register $1. And then I had to cash it. I remember my mother's white hot anger, she wanted more. She wanted me to have more. Mostly I think she just wanted more.

And what did I want of his money? What did I want of dollars? I had enough. Fishing in the dark, park hunting, 2 bits for a Popsicle, riding the LRT, fridge soup, pork chops, creamed corn, and fried potatoes.

When I think about it, I'm pretty sure he burnt them too.

Why I Want More than One Child

My hairdresser tells one of those stories that are hysterically funny with the gift of time. She calls it "The peeing night" story. You can imagine why. As said hairdresser was about to completely lose any grasp on her sanity, child-the-older daughter looked at her and said "Mummy, why did you have child-the-younger." I suspect that my hairdresser was wondering why she had *any* children, but her immediate thought was "Because I didn't want you to be alone when mummy died". She didn't answer with this.

I went to my mother's to feed her cat on Sunday. Not speaking to her aside, I'm the only child, and the cat has to be fed. It's tricky. Don't ask too many questions. I'm surviving with this strategy.

And I went into mum's apartment, and I walked into the kitchen, and all the cupboards were open. And thought I: "Wow, she must have been in a hurry to leave". Then I walked into the dinning room, and the buffet drawers were open, and yes, that was when the penny dropped. The house had been tossed and robbed. So, I phoned the police. And waited for the forensic team. Who agreed to meet me at 12:30 am. I remembered my hairdresser's story.

And as I was waiting in the rain in the middle of the night, I thought, "I am going to have more than one child." Because, more than anything, I wanted a sibling to call and say: "I slept at the hospital last year, when she had the heart issue. You know, the one where she collapsed at my favourite restaurant and then woke up and puked on their floor. You know, the one I have never been back to?". And I drove her around and worked from her house when she had the stroke two years ago. I got four cups of coffee in 30 minutes, when her hand couldn't grasp them, and she kept dropping them, and my pride for her lost and wounded soul wouldn't let me get her a cup with a lid. I held her hand and dried her frustrated and frightened tears, and told her that we would get through this too."

And more than anything, I wanted to say:

"I don't mind, I am her daughter, and I will do this, and it's my job, and I will spend three hours cleaning up, in the middle of the night, and then I will take all her unmentionables home and wash them, and I will call in sick to work tomorrow to be with her, so that when she comes home, she doesn't go into a house alone, even though I have completely cleaned it all up, and you would never know it had been broken into. I will do these things, because it is my job, and it is bad enough to have your sanctuary invaded without cleaning finger print powder off your empty jewelery box, and thinking of Nana's jewelery that wasn't worth much, but was precious anyway. And I am this family, and I am hers, and she is mine". But more than anything, just because I was weary, I wanted to say:

"Sibling mine, it's your turn now."

And there is no sibling. It's just me. It's always been me.

And more than anything, I don't want that for my children. I pray there will come a time that an older child asks why the younger child had to be born, and I will think:

"I had another child, so that when I am 90, and stark naked on the roof of this house, for the fourth time in a month, and you cannot convince me that there are no aliens, and they are not going to take me home, and I can get off the roof now. . . "

Then you have someone to call, and say:

"It's your turn now."

Because, children of mine, you will not be alone. There will be no only, no last. You will not be the last of a long line of women who take control of an impossible situation, you will not be the only person that understands how to correctly set a table and seat the Queen at a dinner party. You will not be the last to use your great-grandmother's china, that came from a Boston Ship Captain, sent to a young woman, so many years ago, that he was not allowed to marry.

Because you will not be the only person to weed a flower garden, grown for the express purpose of flowers for the Altar on Sunday. And you will grow those flowers for the altar, because you will be in Altar Guild, just like the rest of our family, and you will know the flowers that your great grandmother liked, and you will not be the only person to plant iris's for your Nana, because they bloom for her birthday, and you will not be the only person to plant lilies for your mother.

You will not be the only person to toast the Queen on her Birthday. You will not be the only person eating Colette's Tourtiere on Christmas Eve. And I will tell you the story of Aunty Gen, and her mother Colette, whom I call every year to get the instructions about what to with the potato; because I never remember, and it wouldn't be Christmas without calling Colette and Gen. And you will remember them too. You will not be the only woman to bake Yorkshire pudding in a 400 degree oven, in the heat of summer, because that's what you have with a proper roast of beef. You will not be the last to hold up a baby's finger, to check for the crook in the left ring finger, that we all have.

You will not be the last, my children.
And when I am gone from this world,
you will not be alone.

Sad

Thinking of another baby Spit (not mine) who went to join its 3 siblings in heaven on Monday.

For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd;

he will lead them to springs of living water.

And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.

Revelation 7:17

The Language of Families

Mr. Spit and I went to the 9:00 service at church yesterday, to avoid the 7(!) shiny, brand new babies that are in our church. We are struggling with children right now, and plan on banning Mother's day and Father's day from our sight.

In a triumph of God's sense of humor, a good friend showed up with her 14 month old wee one, who just loves Mr. Spit. Mr. Spit wrote, elegantly, about this. It's a good post, and it's not what I'm writing about.

Every family has their own language. They have their own rhythm's, their own cadence. And it isn't until we come into contact with others, that we begin to realize what isn't particularly normal about ours.

Perhaps what was most important about having children, to Mr. Spit and I, was the chance to do things better. To communicate better, to be unfailingly honest, to love each other, to stay married. To do better at being married, at being a family. To be emotionally healthy. Above all, to treat each other with respect, with care, to cherish our love.

And let me be clear - there are days when we fail. Days when we are less than kind to each other, and days when we are wrapped up in our own worlds, and in our own grief. We are nowhere near the perfect married couple. But we try: to treat each other with respect, to speak well of each other, to meet each other's needs. Our intents are true.

Having children for Mr. Spit and I was about having hope for the future, about passing on not just our genetic material, but about redeeming our own brokenness, about redeeming the brokenness of our families. We could consciously choose to do better. To tell our children, every day, that they were loved. To teach them to treat each other kindly, with respect. To create a family legacy that was so powerful that our children would never know that Mr. Spit and I came from broken homes, homes that were full of unhealthy behaviour.

But, hope for the future doesn't change what is. It doesn't change coming from homes that are not healthy, and it doesn't change the behaviour of our families. I have realized that I can't change my family. I can do better, I can set limits, I can allow myself to be me, but I can't change their behaviour. I can change the way they act, but I can't change how they treat me. I can stand up for my rights, to be treated with kindness, respect, dignity, but I can't make them treat me this way.

I have found women who could teach me. Strong women who taught me to fight for right, to stand up for myself, to make myself pliable enough to have a relationship. Who taught me what emotionally healthy means. Who cheer on my successes, and who sit with me in my failures. Who teach me to pick myself up, to dust myself off, and to try again. And they have tried to teach me when to stop fighting. When to say enough.

I'm a try-er. When something isn't working, I try harder, I work harder, I investigate more options, I assume it's my fault. But, sometimes, you have to call uncle. Sometimes you accept, however tragic life is, that things will never get better with a person, and you can't live with the way they treat you, and as sad and awful as it is, you can live without them.

It's hard at first, I imagine. I imagine the temptation to pick up the phone is enormous. You want to call them, not because they are supportive, or they are kind, or helpful, but because they are predictable, you know how they work, and if I am terribly honest, you know what buttons to push. I imagine the conversation of "this just isn't working, and it's not healthy" is going to be tough.

But I've learned a lot about tough things. And stuff that is hard is so often good for you. And so, I'm writing about when you break up with your family. Because I hung up on someone Saturday night. And with the click of a phone call, the relationship ended.

I could tell you why, but really, it's private, and I could tell you what she said, but really, there's no point. Yes, it was awful. She was deliberately cruel. She wanted to hurt me. She knew what buttons to push. She would know, she gave me life.

And now, I'm walking out of hers. And today, I'm sad. I am feeling a bit adrift, without anyone in my family to anchor me. I'm feeling a bit lost today, like the true, good and healthy language of a family will ever escape me.