Fear, No Pictures.

Posted on November 18, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I wanted to write a happy post today. I really did. I have procrastinated all morning. Watching old recordings on my DVR, bringing my free space to a respectable number again… trying to think of topics that work. However, the topic at hand has pursued me all week. Relentlessly. My guess is that all that therapeutic work is at play here: I am trying to avoid the inevitable, and it can’t be done. I’m scared, and there’s no getting around it. So, might as well write it out.

As a child, I spent years terrified of becoming an orphan. After my father’s death in a car crash, when I was ten, I was convinced that my mother was next. Every time she was late, every time she went on a trip, every time I didn’t know where she was… my mind took over and created scenarios that left me alone. Alone. It terrified me and probably contributed to lots of issues that came later. For years I thought that if I kept a close enough eye on things, Mom would be ok and we’d all be fine. That was my job as her oldest child: keep everything fine.

And now, here I am all these years later scared still, but none of those crazy fears came true. It was that monster none of us saw coming that came in and shook it all up. I’ve talked enough about Huntington’s and no doubt these blogs have become a downer for some, but this is where I work it out, it’s where I digest and regress through stuff, so might as well get on with it. My mother is 68 years old and she is dying of Huntington’s, not some disaster or unforeseen trick. She’s dying in her bed, with me and my sister, and those who love her, watching.

I got a call Wednesday that my Mom has been approved for Hospice House and that if I wanted, she could be moved there. Oh, what a decision. I totally expected that she’d be rejected and that these final weeks, days, who knows how long would be spent at Shuksan Healthcare, where she has been for three years. She liked it there, has chosen not to move elsewhere in the past, and the staff really care about her. They love her in fact. Frankly, the staff there has spent far more time with my mother over the last three years than any of her family has. There was no other way, and I don’t feel badly about that, but it is a striking reality of her final years.  So the option to move her was not actually black and white. I recently shared that one week ago I spent an hour and half lying in bed with Mom… walking in her shoes so to speak. In that time, it became really clear to me that where she is now is not the peaceful, calm setting I want her to have as her life ends.

Shuksan is such an alive place, a place for the living. They have pets and plants and endless activities, all designed to help residents feel independent, respected and active. My Mom is now past some of that. Respected is still key, but she has little independence (here I am, deciding where she will die! How’s that for loss of independence?); she has not left her bed in nearly a week and she is not really eating. She is dying. The thing I most feared all my life, is here and it is not at all what I anticipated. After years of fearing the bogey man, she’s dying in bed of an illness I can’t do a damned thing to prevent.  And while it’s been years of seeing her decline, now it all seems to be happening too fast for me and I don’t really now how to keep up.

I’m scared all over, but  the fear is real and the picture is clear now and I’m just working on getting through it in the best way for my Mom. I tried asking her if she wanted to move to Hospice. I explained that it was beautiful (it is) and that it was really peaceful and lovely (it is) and that she will go there to die. Yes, I told her that part too. Then I asked her how she would feel about that. She replied simply, “I don’t really know how I feel about that actually.”  Well damn. Neither do I.  The staff at Shuksan were really sad and asked me to reconsider: that they’d give Mom a private room. They want to be there at the end for her, as they have been for these previous three years. They understand why I decided to do it differently. It’s not about them. It’s about Mom, and my family… it’s about us feeling like she is in the most peaceful place she can be when she finally stops fighting this battle of a life she’s lived.

The real bitch is that despite all my training, and despite the therapy and the support and all the discussions, I’m just terrified. I’m scared to move her today. I’m scared that she’ll be afraid in the new place. I’m afraid of what happens to her when she dies. (What do I believe in? I really don’t know.) I’m scared to take all the photos and pictures down from her room in Shuksan and see it empty. I’m afraid to sort through her clothes, which I know she’ll never wear again… even though she and I just went shopping and bought them together only two months ago. TWO MONTHS AGO. I just ironed all those labels on them.  We were shopping in Fred Meyers and I was complaining about how difficult it was to shop. Now, I have to pack up those same clothes and move her to a place where I KNOW she will die. Now I know she won’t wear any of the things we bought.

I’m pretty sure I’ve never typed so fast.  This is what they call a stream of consciousness. I will not edit this one, I will not add photos to make it look better. This is what fear looks like on the page.  This is typing through tears. It is me stalling as I prepare to go over there and see her at Shuksan one more time. It’s me afraid to look in the eyes of the wonderful nurses who have taken such loving care of her. It’s me stalling because I keep trying to imagine where I’ll hang those pictures at Hospice. Where will I put her plants that she was watering herself and taking care of, until just two months ago. It’s me putting off canceling her follow-up appointment with her orthopedic surgeon, because I ran into him last night and we both agreed there was no point in making her come to that appointment. She’s not going to heal.

I am just finding ways to keep her comfortable (thanks to much help) and make her ending as kind as it can be. Yesterday, I poured her a Coke (a real one, not the fake Shasta she’d resigned herself to) and she told me she would “kill for a cigarette.”  I have refused to buy her cigarettes for thirty years now. Refused. I have driven her to the store, but have not gone in and bought them. Now, I’m thinking of buying a pack of Marlboros and giving her this stupid thing she wants, with her Coke. Does it serve me, or does it serve her to see her die a non-smoker?

All of this scares me and I don’t know how to move outside my house today.  I’m scared of how I am going to heal. I’m scare of how this will all happen. I’ve actually said aloud, more than once and on these pages, that I wanted this to be over. I do. But that doesn’t mean I want to lose my mother. I didn’t want to lose her from the day I heard she had Huntington’s. I didn’t want to lose her from the day she told me my father was dead. It’s what I’ve feared for thirty-eight years and now it’s here. I’m going to have to face this and just get through it like lots of you have. I have gotten your notes and messages and I know I’m not the first person to do this. That does help. Thank you for reaching out and sharing those stories.

But right now, I know I can’t put it off any longer. Writing a blog post is not going to make that moment when she is gone any less real. I know that I need to go over to see her now and tell her that an ambulance is coming to move her. I need to collect her things and move them to Hospice with her.  I need to face my fears. This post is my fear, with no pictures. No distractions. This is what is real today.

Posted in Beauty, Death, Musings, My world, Parenting, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

The Middle… Words of Gratitude

Posted on November 16, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Recently I’ve found myself powerfully tuned in  to the world around me. Colors are brighter (the foliage blows my mind daily!); music moves me more than usual; I notice people around me and see them with fresh eyes. There are lots of reasons, no doubt, but the experience does not need defining. So, for this week’s Middle I just want to say thank you for the things that I am fortunate to have.  I just want to be in this moment and express some words of Gratitude.

I am grateful for the meaningful moments I have shared with my mother lately. Amidst all the gray and pain, those fleeting minutes have been sublime.

I am grateful for three healthy, intelligent, amazing kids, who I love more than anything. They make me lucky, even at the worst times… some of which they bring about… and shine in the best times, some of which they bring about.  : )

I am grateful for two more kids who have brought a lot of smiles to our home in three months. China and Denmark were a smart decision.

I’m grateful for my husband. I am not easy to live with. I guess I’m not easy to live without either. Either way, he’s stuck around for twenty-nine years.

I am grateful for my writing. When I’m writing, I feel a sense of purpose and excitement that is outside my role as caregiver, mother, wife… and that, is a true wonder. It is just mine.

I’m so grateful I finished my manuscript two weeks early and am finally doing something with it!

I am grateful to those of you who have stuck by me when I wasn’t sure about a lot of things. You have held me up and I love you for it. Thanks for not letting me fall too far, and being there when I stood back up. This has been the hardest year of my life and I could not have done it without some special friends and family who have supported me.

I am grateful for hot Tamales, Cheez Its, frozen Reeses, and Ritz with peanut butter, which are my snacks of choice when I’m not eating well.

I am grateful for Kool Koffee Creams, which I get each week.

I am so grateful for the wonderful food and treats that some of you have brought. Though I say “no, we’re fine,” thank you DM for not listening and calling multiple times. You know a faker when you see one.

I am grateful for the laughs. Thank you friends who have made me laugh. Thank you for those who have not expected me to make you laugh (lately). Thank for lots of laughs last Saturday night MBT.

I am grateful for the most beautiful fall I’ve seen in years. Truly. The colors have been electric! Each day as I go about my day (even when I don’t leave the house), the leaves grab me and remind me of how much I love these days. While this fall has felt symbolic of watching my mother change and leave me, I am that much more grateful for both this year.

I am grateful to my sweet dog Luke, who greets me each morning with a Downward Facing Dog.

I am grateful for EF who is a rock and who I trust more than almost anyone else. I’m grateful to have that in my life.

I am so grateful to my friends. Many of you have called me regularly and dragged me out of my self-imposed reclusiveness. To be clear here, the writing was the main reason for it, but I can’t deny that facing each day with my Mom’s situation right now, makes me feel vulnerable and raw. Some days, as I drive away from my house I feel naked and want to run home. Anxiety rises as I reach the Middle School and consider turning back, again. I am grateful to my friends who have dragged, called and hugged me, on a regular basis.

I am grateful that I live in the most beautiful place I know. I am grateful for that each and every day.

I am grateful for Hospice and for the incredible nurses at Shuksan Healthcare, who have loved my Mom and cared so well for her. I am lucky to have that support and back up.

I am grateful for Amy Robbinson at 3 Oms Yoga. She is an adventurous, playful soul who has my back, literally and figuratively. I am grateful that when she comes to put her hands on me, I feel complete trust and love. I feel supported and nurtured. I don’t feel that I have to give anything in return, but she gives anyway. I am so grateful for the beautiful space that she and Melissa have created and I am grateful to see her each week that I go there.

I am grateful to my grandmother who taught me to make pumpkin chiffon pie and showed me that women can be strong outside their roles as mothers and wives.

I am grateful that my mother is pain free. Even if she is drifting in and out of awareness, she is not suffering and that means the world. I’m grateful for the good and the hard that we share.

I am grateful of the moments when my Mom is lucid and says things I need to hear. It is so meaningful that she has been able to share her thoughts, even if it’s been brief and rare. I am grateful for the moments when we can see that she is still in there.

I grateful for honesty.

I am grateful for Eddie Vedder; Peter Gabriel, Adele, Kansas, Fleetwood Mac, Crowded House, Arcade Fire, Eddie Vedder (again and again), Radiohead, The Talking Heads, and so many others. My days would be harder without my music. Any day.

I am grateful to the many people who have been reading this blog and have shared their thoughts, complimented the writing, encouraged me to keep doing it, who have gotten something from it.

I am grateful.

Posted in Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Musings, My world, Parenting, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Puddles

Posted on November 11, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

<– Mom, just three months ago, with her frozen stare.

Last night I went to visit my Mom. It had been nearly a week because I was in Chicago through the weekend and this week she has been resting each time I’ve gone by or called. So Thursday night I decided to over around 4:45 and wake her if she was resting. Dinner is at 6:00 so I figured it would be the best option.  When I arrived her side of the room was dark. I turned on the light over her bed and her eyes sprang open. “Oh, hi!” She said softly. Her eyes smiled, but her face changed little. Honestly, it was a shock for me. She has lost so much weight in just a week, her cheeks hollow, her body sunken, that I was taken aback.

I knew that she has been refusing food, sometimes for days, other times eating only very small portions. The nurses have tried to encourage her to take something in, offering ice-cream floats, things she likes, but my mother has turned most of it away. I sat on the edge of the bed and  she said very quietly, “I’m glad you’re here.”  I had to lean in and have her repeat it, her voice was so frail. I tried talking to her, asking her questions about her arm (the cast just came off) and how she’s doing but she only stared at me, nodding occasionally.

<– My sister, my mother and I on Mother’s Day, two years ago.

My Mom has always taken pride in having manicured nails, since she stopped biting them (to absolute nubs!) when I was in high school. I have taken her for a manicure/pedicure every 4-6 wks for the past three years now. The lovely woman who does them for her actually called last week to ask where she’s been. When I told her Mom is in hospice and nearing the end, she offered to come to the nursing home and do them there. Such kindness is so meaningful. Yesterday, as I held her hands I noticed that her fingernails have gotten very long and were dirty. I got out her nail kit and clipped them all down low. She watched me as I filed them all smooth and then rubbed lotion on her hands. She dosed as I worked, or watched me and worried (no doubt) that I would cut her, as I have in the past. My sister is much better at nails and Mom and I both know that.

When her nails were cut and filed I sat next to her for a few minutes. I took a photo off the wall that I framed for her two years ago. It is a picture of her with four of her seven grandchildren, at Little Man’s Bar Mitzvah two and a half years ago. Mom is standing down at Marine park, her face frozen in the strained smile she had then. My niece C is holding Grammie’s arm tightly and the others surround her lovingly.  She looks so happy on that sunny day. She attended the event with no walker and while she had problems with managing the day, she was able to be there.  I held up a photo of  my grandmother (her Mom who also died of Huntington’s) and grandfather. “I love this picture of Grandma” I said. “Me too,” she added.  I then brought over a photo of her beloved dog Mea, from the window sill and she reached out and stroked the image. “You remember Mea, don’t you Mom?” Without hesitation, she responded “I sure do.” I left both photos on her nightstand so she can see them better.  (Waiting for a ^^ manicure before my sister’s wedding)

This was the first visit I’ve had with her where she did not get up at all. Her bed is now at its lowest position to avoid falls, with a matt on the floor. It is hard to sit and visit.  After several minutes of just balancing on the edge of the bed, I crawled carefully over Mom and cuddled up next to her in bed. Mom moved her good arm up and pulled me in close, holding me like I held my own kids when they were little and needed a good cuddle. I needed that cuddle and she needed to give it. We lay there for more than an hour just holding each other and listening to the sounds of the nursing home, the sound of her oxygen machine and the TV.

<–  (At Principessa’s h.s graduation, 2008)

Mom’s roommate watches endless hours of The Waltons and Little House on the Prairie on the Hallmark channel. The Waltons is often on when I’m there and has become the background to most of our visits. When I was a kid my family watched the show each Thursday night. (I may be wrong here, but I would put money on the fact that it aired on Thursdays.) I am certain that I’ve seen every episode of The Waltons at least once, and yes, I’m bragging about that.  I still love to call out to my family the iconic “Goodnight MaryEllen; Goodnight Jim Bob; Goodnight Daddy; Goodnight Grandad… Goodnight John Boy;” though my kids have never seen a single episode. So lying there with Mom it was somehow even more comforting to hear John Boy and the voices of Mama and Daddy last night.  Growing up, their home seemed so warm and safe and last night the Waltons soothed me as I lay on my mother’s chest and listened to her labored breathing.

Before I left, Mom turned down dinner, refused all food again. The Aid brought her the iced coke she requested and I held it for her. When I said, “Here, I’ll hold it. You can’t really hold your cup anymore,”  Mom took the plastic cup from me and balanced it precariously on her chest, taking tenuous sips from the straw. She was putting me in my place, letting me know that she’s not gone yet. She isn’t gone yet. She is trapped in there, slowly leaving me. Each time I visit her now I struggle with the knowledge that she is in fact leaving. I’ve said so many times that this is endless, that it would be a blessing to not see her suffer anymore, but still I dread that day and what I will feel. What I will do.  For so long I have been clinical about all of this and managed my feelings; I’ve held them at bay. Now, they overwhelm me and I it’s hard to be there and not just cry puddles.    (On our deck, with her grandson J a couple of summers ago  ^^)

<— (Halloween with Principess, Middle Man and Little Man, 1998, before it all changed.)

The nurses know that it’s coming too. They talk to me more tenderly, they check in on our visits. “Do you need anything Dawn? Carole?”   When it’s time to leave, I try to get out quickly. I dash past the nurses desk before they can ask, “How did it go?”  I can’t answer them; I avoid their eyes. The minute I try to speak I choke and dissolve in the tears I’ve held back. I can see their surprise (she’s the composed one, the one in charge), their compassion, and it makes me cry even more… More puddles.

Driving home last night, I could not stop the tears. They overwhelmed me and I had to pull over for a moment, afraid I might make a mistake driving, but desperate to get home. Each song that came up on my iPod seemed to bring new waves of loss. These aren’t just soppy songs either: The Cranberries’ Zombie, The Fray, Eddie Vedder. When I pulled into my driveway, Dust in the Wind by Kansas came on (I kid you not) and I turned off the car and cried until I couldn’t any more. It was random, but some days the Universe and iPod have you by the balls. (Symbolically of course.) I sat in my car, a safe and comforting place, by the glow of a beautiful fool moon and I cried more than I’ve cried in a very, very long time.  It seems to be happening a lot more often lately, when I’m with my Mom, or after I leave her… as I say this very long goodbye to my mother. “I close my eyes, only for a moment and the moment’s gone.”

I don’t want to talk about it; it’s just too hard.  So I write it here. I write it so that I can move through it. I write it and don’t think about who will read it or what they will think. I write is so I am not alone in it. I write it so I won’t have to say it aloud and risk the mess, the puddles that follow me right now. “Just a drop of water in an endless sea… Dust in the Wind.”  I deflect people’s questions, their good intentions, my friends’ empathy; I pull it together by day and lose it with Mom and The Waltons. (<– A favorite from three summers ago. Setting sun, on our deck and Mom’s smile.)

Reminder:  If you enjoyed this post, please hit LIKE; it helps me build the blog. Use the SHARE button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest entries, SUBSCRIBE and you will get an email each time I write a new post. You won’t get any other spam mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the ARCHIVE button.Thanks for helping me make this blog successful!

Posted in Daily Observations, Death, Honest observations on many things, Mothers, My world, Parenting, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 22 Comments

The Middle… Light at the End of the Tunnel

Posted on November 9, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

<– My current work space. Always a mess with chapters I’m editing, note cards for organizing the chapters, notes to keep all the details straight and whatever I’m snacking on…

I have been spending an awful lot of time alone lately. I wake at 6:45 AM; I’m working by 7 and I am often typing until dinner. Each day is different depending on the other things that need to get done on a given day. But every day, I am writing for at least some part of the day.  Last week, I actually had a day where I was so completely absorbed in my work that I only got up once to go to the bathroom, and forgot all about breakfast and lunch. Not really healthy, for sure, but man did I feel gooood!

The history:  Six years ago I wrote a novel. It took me about three months start to finish and I believed it was done. I let two people read the whole thing and got good feedback, so I also figured that the only thing left to do was send it to publishers and wait for the rejection letters. I may have been passionate, but I am also very realistic and the chances of getting a book published are very, very slim. In today’s book market those chances just get slimmer all the time. So while I wrote it, I didn’t have high expectations for seeing it published. That said, that is of course my goal: seeing the book published. I have avoided self-publishing from the start.

However my book didn’t sit on my desk for six years because of publishers, it sat there because I was too afraid to follow through. I found a million excuses, and as the mother of kids who were 15, 13 and 9, at the time, the excuses weren’t hard to find. I was very busy doing PTSA stuff;  I was busy driving kids to soccer/dances/school things/all the places that so many of us drive to. I was making wonderful meals and trying to be Martha. I was in book group, reading other people’s books. I was busy… and I was scared. Unconsciously, I think I just didn’t want to face the reality that the novel wouldn’t go anywhere and I’d be really disappointed. And so, the manuscript sat on my desk and went nowhere.  That manuscript ^^sat for six years… often buried under lots of  other stuff.

Middle Man used it as a battering ram. When he wanted to push my buttons, it always worked to say “So Mom, when are you going to do something with your book?”  There was also “So Mom, when are you going to buy that scooter?”  Or any one of the other things I said I wanted but didn’t go after. (Of note, he never asked: Mom, why haven’t you run away with Johnny Depp yet?) Perhaps I had him all wrong and he was really pushing me outside my own prison walls, encouraging me to do something he thought I could, but I doubted? In fairness, that is possible. Of course, I read his comments as challenges and thought he was taunting me for not following through. Pointing out that I wasn’t really doing the things I might, outside our home. He would have been right, either way perhaps.

So, two years ago I took a writing class with author Laura Kalpakian, a very successful Bellingham author.  It was a Memoir class (not what I was writing) but I figured it would be someplace to start. I met some really talented other writers and when the class ended I suggested a writing group. The idea being that we would submit whatever we were working on to each other and then edit each other’s work. The agreement up front was total honesty. In the nearly three years we’ve been meeting, I have gotten that and so much more. I’ve gotten friendship, encouragement, total honesty about and commitment to me and my journey, and the support of four other passionate women who are excited about writing too. I’ve gotten my butt kicked and had a fire lit under me; I am eternally grateful.

At first it was hard. I was lazy and just submitted chapters as is. I figured it was done, right? I got some nice feedback, but I also got a reality check: Hey Dawn, please check for typos, do some editing before you waste our time. Oops. Ok, so I did spell check. The story was done already, right? Next they started pointing out consistent evidence that suggested that my story was in fact not done. It was a really good outline. It was bones. But it was not done. Ouch. In fact, my first thoughts were: they just don’t get it. They’re missing the point. However, after a few more go rounds, I finally got it and everything fell into place. I got what they were saying all along and I started really writing my book. I fleshed out the story; I gave my characters dialogue and wider dimension; wrote a real story. And once I found that groove, I dug in and have been working on it since, with the idea that maybe in 2012 I’d find an agent and finally do something with this manuscript.

Recently I found out about an opportunity to submit the novel to a publisher with no agent, the deadline being December 31st. This is a very rare thing in the book industry and I decided to make it my personal challenge to do this. Let me be clear here: this is a huge effort. It involves editing thirty chapters (or implementing the feedback and edits that group has given me); I’m writing new chapters; I need to restructure the original storyline to make things flow better; and I find the editing process to be the clichéd process that it always has been: endless. There is always something I read and want to rewrite.

The book is deeply personal, including things from my own life and much that is out of my realm. The characters live in my head and some nights as the story writes itself, I cant sleep and I have to fight the urge to get up and write some more. I spend much of my time working on the book or taking care of my mom. When I’m doing one, I feel like I’m neglecting the other. When I’m not writing, I feel edgy and anxious to get back to it. I spend long hours in silence and I like that. I’m in the groove and I don’t want to leave it. It’s electric; it’s fulfilling; it’s a huge personal challenge.  As fall come sot a close and I watch the leaves fall, I can feel that deadline looming. And I plan to meet it. Middle Man will not be asking me what I’m doing; it will be done. There is light at the end of this tunnel… sink or swim, I will be done with this in seven weeks. Or, this part. Shine little light, shine.

Reminder:  If you enjoyed this post, please hit LIKE; it helps me build the blog. Use the SHARE button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest entries, SUBSCRIBE and you will get an email each time I write a new post. You won’t get any other spam mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the ARCHIVE button.Thanks for helping me make this blog successful!

Posted in Parenting | 2 Comments

Big Town, Little Food. Chicago.

Posted on November 6, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

We are visiting Chicago, my favorite city in the US.  I really enjoy New York City; San Francisco is beautiful; Boston is home and special for all sorts of reasons, but I love Chicago. We lived here for seven years in the 90’s as my husband did his training. Both Principessa and Middle Man were born here, at Prentice Hospital, and this city holds  a world of memories for me. However, it is not just the emotional link to place that makes it my favorite; I think this is one of the most visually beautiful, culturally dynamic and fun cities anywhere. It is by far, one of my favorite places to visit.

This weekend I experienced an entirely different part of Chicago, that I haven’t explored all that much before… the world of small dining. We came for this three day weekend because Hubby had a conference and I wanted to see one of my closest friends. Perfect set up. We have been friends with this couple for twenty-two years now, before we had children. Actually, we met when they needed a babysitter; I had Principessa a year later. We try to see each other once a year, and visiting the city is a nice way to do two things we love. They live in the Northern suburbs but have a family condo in Lakeshore East, the kind of place I never imagined staying back when we lived downtown. Now, we come to the city and stay in the most amazing condo, on the 75th floor, overlooking this city I love so much. My heart swells just typing that!

For this visit, we decided to all stay in the city for two nights and then drive to the Burbs for Saturday and fly out late Sunday from O’Hare. As we’ve all been dining fiends for as along as we’ve known each other (even if early dining involved Potbelly Grinders and Foodlife, because we couldn’t afford anything more), we all love to explore the restaurants that we read about in travel journals and foodie reviews. This weekend it was Ria and Graham Elliot. Both were incredible experiences but for my money, Ria rocked the weekend.

Thursday was an interesting day all around. I woke up in Bellingham; got the kids off to school and then made a mad dash for the airport. Our little airport was once so easy that you could practically arrive minutes before your flight and walk through security no problem. Instead, I got there an hour early and could not for the life of me find a parking spot! Panic set in as I watched the clock tick away and had to drive back to the overflow. When the shuttle driver insisted on waiting for each person that was parking their car (something I’d normally cheer), I decided that I would definitely miss my flight. I lost thirty minutes to parking and figured it was pretty likely I’d be driving to Seattle to try and make my connection. When I walked into the terminal, the lines went all the way back to luggage (for those of you who live in Bellingham, yes, that bad!). I decided that my only hope was to be really ballsy and jump to the front. I went to the front of the line and asked if anyone was trying to make the 9 AM to Seattle (in 30 minutes) and it turned out that the first twenty or so on line were part of a hockey team. They were delightful and shot me right to the counter, when I told them I was a goalie (hey, I was making that flight!). I did the same in security and when I got to the TSA agent, he checked my stuff and told me I could officially relax, I would make my flight. He had been watching my antics and thankfully was amused.  Ahhh.

By then I was pretty sweaty and stressed and it took a while to come down and accept that I would indeed make it to Chicago after all. Though I’ve heard it before (and our son in fact missed his flight in August for similar reasons), I will now allow an hour and a half from our tiny airport .  The situation upon arrival in Chicago was worse. We had a 6:30 dinner reservation at Ria and my flight pulled up to O’Hare at 5:20.  I had carry on and our friends were right there to pick me up, but we then hit the worst traffic I’ve seen in ages. We sat, or rolled at walking speed, for so much of the ride that we all figured we would be eating elsewhere. I had to change into nicer clothes and figure that more than one commuter got an entertaining view as they sat beside us. While most of us women pride ourselves on pulling off a Flashdance bra change, it does not work when the collar, waist and sleeves of your silk blouse are elastic. I did not manage with any stealth and had to laugh that we were going to one of the nicer restaurants in the city and I had put on make-up without a mirror and dressed in the back of my friends’ Tahoe.Another close call, but we pulled up to the restaurant just minutes after our reservation, with me dressed though a bit flustered.

Located in the beautiful Elysian Hotel, downtown, everything about our dining experience at Ria was fantastic. The staff was fun and attentive, without being annoying. Each course was delivered on elegant, white dishes with domed tops with tiny silver knobs, so that when it was time the waiters could simultaneously lift each and we all could behold our food together. It was one spectacular surprise after another! I had to hold my sarcastic tongue when the the “Bubbly Cart” was brought, at the start of the meal and they described one of the champagnes as “biodynamic, and gives back to Mother Earth,” but we had a few laughs about that one over and over all weekend. Biodynamic!?

We all did the Chef’s tasting, allowing the Chef to choose each course for us and promising a seletion of all the best options.  We were not disappointed.  The food was clever and elegant, using all the things that make me smile and gain weight: foie gras, caviar, lobster, cream, Waygu beef (the absolute best entry of the evening!), Dover sole, duck and more. Each course was perfectly sized to allow an incredible taste, but we didn’t leave overwhelmed. On any other day, I would have called it mini-food, but it works when you’re eating so many great things at once!  My favorite was the beef and I would have sacrificed dessert for more. At the end, I asked if the Chef might come out and as we were putting on our jackets, he did. Danny Grant is only 29 (I asked) and was completely charming and humble as he asked us about our experience. I told him that the lobster needed one minute more (I know my lobster) and the duck was definitely undercooked, but still delicious. I also told him that I’d probably sell my soul for more of the beef and that pretty much everything else was beyond brilliant. He was was lovely about it and we shared a laugh and some short, friendly chat. We left with a pretty bag that contained two beautiful hot chocolates (add warm milk) and a copy of the menu. What a night!

  

  

  Tasting at Ria

<– View from our balcony, looking at Trump building.

Back at the condo, we were greeted by a Disney sky and the most amazing view of Chicago at night! Our friend’s father is the developer of Lakeshore East and the new Radisson Blu hotel, and seeing what he’s built and staying in this incredible condo were absolute highlights of this weekend. Years ago, he told us that he was building a town inside the city and I had my doubts. Having lived just blocks from there for years, I couldn’t imagine it ever feeling like a small community. Wrong! As we explored the area on Saturday, I was blown away by the townhouses, the beautiful little park for kids and others to enjoy, the grocery store that I would kill for at home, and the small community feel. Bravo Mr. C!  We were treated to a full tour of the new hotel that had just opened days before, by our friend’s dad and those who run it. It was amazing. The architecture of the building we stayed in is one of the most spectacular high rises I’ve ever seen. The balconies bend and twist, creating a sense of movement to the building that is stunning. It changes as you move around it.  It was such a treat to enjoy the pleasure of staying in such a beautiful place while visiting my city.

  

  Amazing building, looking up it bends and twists organically.

My friend and I visited Millennium Park, as we headed out on Saturday. I hadn’t been yet, as we’re always in the city for a quick visit and running around, and we had the perfect day. Blue, blue skies, warmer than it might be for Chicago in November, and gorgeous foliage. From there, we walked down Michigan Ave, with me snapping photos and looking like the tourists I once had disdain for, when I called this area home. So many memories. Each block brings thoughts of Middle Man and Principessa as we took our strollers to Wednesday Park days, the Disney Store for days when it was too cold to play outside, but we needed a break, or just the fact that I used these streets every day, to get out of my 800 square foot apartment, where I was raising two very active kids.  My friend and I recounted these memories over lunch at Joe’s Stone Crab, our new tradition and a day of walking and talking. We had our babies together in this city; we built a lifelong friendship, that has sustained me for twenty-two years now; and we have had more good times in this city than seems possible. As I walk these streets, I can practically hear my children’s little voices, smell their yummy smells, and I wish to go back and spend one day with them in the park across the street from our old apartment on Chicago Ave, which is no longer there. The building was torn down to build the new Children’s Hospital. Spending another day together with my friend,  here was so sweet.

  

  

  Scenes from the city, including the Walgreens where we once spent all our free time… because we could walk there easily and it was out on the town, on our budget.

Our 2nd dinner was at Graham Elliot. He has gained fame on TV and in the world of molecular gastronomy, or: very small, very strange food. In the past, I’ve had meals in this genre that truly make me feel as if I’m in Willy Wonka’s factory, though this was a tad more traditional. In contrast to Ria, this was a much louder, hipper place. We found the music to our liking, but too loud at times, and that took away from the dining for me. The atmosphere, while equally professional, just wasn’t as friendly either. The food however, was amazing. While I would still pick Ria over Graham E’s, both were a night of amazing dining. Many of the dishes here were similar in ingredients, but very different in preparation and presentation. One of the most unique servings of the entire weekend was a Foie Gras lollipop. I was so amazed that I forgot to take a photo. It was  round ball of Foie Gras, on a stick and rolled in watermelon pop-rocks. Yes, your read that right, watermelon pop-rocks!  The flavor was amazing and the obvious aftertaste of little explosions in your mouth was like nothing I’ve ever tasted. (Most surprising to the rest of our group, was that I’d never tasted pop-rocks).

Most notably, tiny ruled. No doubt, the various tastings seemed even smaller because they were served on the biggest plates possible. At one point, when they served a 1″x 2″ course on a 14+” plate, one of our friends said to the server, “Could I have a bigger plate please.”  One of the courses, was a small teacup full of a rich Chinese tea, with shaved mushrooms on top. I hated it! Hated. It smelled so much like Delhi, India to me, I just could not bring myself to drink it. The smoky flavor was clearly orchestrated to impact your experience when tasting the next course, a “hen,” but I was not having it. The hen though was delicious. When we finally finished and left, I was full… very full. Now, in fairness, at ten courses, even with tiny food, you’re bound to be full.

  

  

      Graham Elliot tasting minus one  dessert. The 2nd one on top, was the most amazing caesar salad I’ve ever eaten!

It was two nights of kick ass, amazing food and a mellow day spent enjoying my favorite city. We laughed and took our time; I didn’t feel the need to hit every store, or visit all the places I might if I were just another tourist. This will always be my other, other home. It changes each time I come, and I find myself feeling lost in places that I once knew so well, but the people I love are still here and there is always a new adventure.  We are fortunate, our life is very good, and I know it. I am very grateful to have had such a special weekend.

On our way out of town, we stopped at the Original Potbellys and I got my very favorite sub/grinder, bar none, anywhere (sorry Scituate friends, better than even Marias).  As we stood in line Hubby and I remembered all the times we ate here when he was on call at Children’s Hospital. We spent our meal trying to keep our two small children from burning themselves on the potbelly stove (now closed off) and it was a splurge, because we had no money for eating out. I ate it in the car, driving North to our friend’s home in Lake Bluff. That sandwich was sublime, smaller than it used to be, but delicious. This morning, to end my weekend of amazing food, my good–> friend “A” made me her yummy Greek eggs. Tomorrow, back to Bellingham and a week of dieting to make up for all the small food I ate this weekend. Big city, small food, huge times.

Reminder:  If you enjoyed this post, please hit LIKE; it helps me build the blog. Use the SHARE button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest entries, SUBSCRIBE and you will get an email each time I write a new post. You won’t get any other spam mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the ARCHIVE button.Thanks for helping me make this blog successful!

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The Middle… Don’t call me Martha.

Posted on November 2, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Today I ran into The Gap to quickly return something. One of the girls who works there, who I’ve gotten to know (yes, that often), and I were talking about some of the left over Halloween decorations in the store. They had these cool, mini pumpkins. I commented that they almost looked real and she told me that one on of her co-workers carved them and then sprayed something on them to make them last longer.  We were both impressed with her creativity and she commented, “Yeah, I had no idea she was so talented. We’ve been calling her Martha all week.”  She thought this was a compliment. I get it; I’ve used the same joke a million times; but this time, without pausing I said, “Don’t call her that. In the end we Marthas just get sick of keeping up the standards. We end up burned out and sick of the name. Frankly, I bet Martha herself is sick of her name. Instead, call her by her name and tell her how talented she is.”  She looked at me seriously and replied, “Wow, you’re right. I never thought about it that way.”  Of course you haven’t, sweet, thin, YOUNG thing.

I hadn’t thought about it that way before either, though the feeling has been simmering for some time. I’ve been looking a lot closer at my life and one of the things that strikes me is the Martha syndrome. I did it for years: homemade salad dressings and marinades; homemade everything; entertaining; joining all the things my kids should join and driving them there; all of it. I think on some level, I believed that if I could make it all look really good, it would make up for all the things I didn’t really know how to do as a mother: consistency; patience; selfless nurturing, all of it.

I just knew that I wanted to do it better than my mom had.  At the time, while I knew the phrase “she did the best she could,” (with what she had…) I didn’t really understand how true it was.  I too, have done the best I can, with what I have.  I intended to give my children more patience than my mom had. I wanted to be consistent, but I didn’t know what it looked like. I wanted to always be there and nurture them, in ways I wasn’t and wished for. However, in the end, like my mother… I fell short in lots of places. I also did pretty well in others. Now I know that my mom loved us, but could only do her best, not necessarily the best that I wanted.  I love my kids, and am doing my best, not necessarily the best they have wanted.  I have three great kids who know they’re loved. I may have wanted it all to look a lot differently, be a lot better, but we all do the best we can.

Later in the day, thinking about all of this, I ran into an acquaintance in the grocery store. This person is a man, a father who has stayed home. For years, our paths have crossed mostly at the market, occasionally at the pool or some other odd places that we were with our children. When I run into him or his wife, who has worked outside the home for the past few years, we always enjoy chatting about our kids, about the state of the world, our community, all kinds of things. However, for the past many years, I would also feel a little like hiding whenever I saw either of them coming. My kids are 4-10 years older than theirs, and that makes all the difference.

Frankly, as much as I enjoyed talking each time I ran into either of these parents, I often left feeling like a frazzled, frustrated, bitchy, loser. They are both very intellectual people, who always seemed to have their act together, to my crazy, living-with-teens meltdowns. We would get talking about kids and I felt as if I could practically see their eyes glaze over. They’d say: “Oh please don’t tell me,” or  “I can’t wait!”  I knew they really meant “Please, don’t tell us!”

I couldn’t blame them. Their kids were well-behaved; they were never in trouble; while mine were pushing limits and making me crazy. Their two children always seemed happy to play together, while mine were constantly fighting. While Principessa and Little Man represented the average workload, I had Middle Man to turn my hairs gray and challenge all my preconceived notions of myself as a parent. I knew I sounded all negative; all the time, and after a while, I just didn’t want to have those moments. I was comparing myself to too many other “better than me” parents and their families; I just wanted to avoid a few others.

Today was totally different. Dad and I ran into each other and I was tired, but feeling pretty ok. He on the other hand was in meltdown mode: the very same one I’ve been in countless other times!  As I stood there, he shared how frustrating and exhausting it is to raise two teens. He pointed out that he always feels stupid, out of touch, disrespected, unattractive, old, clueless… like he wants to flee. Hello!  I laughed as I shared with him just how many times the tables have been reversed and I felt this way around him.  I told him that it will probably get a little worse before it gets better (his are 14, 12), but it will get better. I told him that I totally understand his feelings, and that he isn’t losing his mind, or, at least not clinically. He’s normal, like me.  Whatyaknow!

<— In the Produce department, with other like minded parents. He showed me that his effort at not trying so hard is to buy boxed cereal, instead of the incredible breakfasts he’s made for his kids all these years. “They don’t really appreciate what I do, so it’s cereal.” We shared a laugh and we had a race to see who could make it to the check out faster (I won. I’m older and wiser, and I forgot the cold cuts). Standing there, he thanked me. He told me that he’d come in feeling really miserable, and now he felt like he wasn’t alone and that there was some humor in it all. We agreed that maybe one day we can all go out for dinner and drinks and talk like adults. I doubt it will happen, but I didn’t say it.  It was an interesting day to see the message from so many diverse angles.  I know longer want to be all the things I wanted to be when I started out. I’m still evolving.  So don’t call me Martha; call me Dawn and know that I’m doing the best I can, and I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.

Reminder:  If you enjoyed this post, please hit LIKE; it helps me build the blog. Use the SHARE button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest entries, SUBSCRIBE and you will get an email each time I write a new post. You won’t get any other spam mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the ARCHIVE button.Thanks for helping me make this blog successful!

Posted in Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Mothers, Musings, Parenting, Teens, Women's issues | Tagged , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Boo-yah!

Posted on November 1, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:  Sorry, I’m late posting this, because I have been writing ALL day… just not writing my blog!  I also wanted to do something for Halloween, so it had to wait until the late hours of the 31st.

Well it’s official. Gone are the days of cute little people, in my home,  dressing up and going out to collect pillow cases worth of candy.  My kids are all grown up!  This was our first year with no Trick-or-Treaters, on all fronts. No one came to our door; alas, all that candy is still in the bowl; and this was the first year ever, that none of our kids were going out, dressed up. Admittedly, we’ve been begging our fifteen year old to discontinue this for three years, but somehow when he finally did, I wanted to make him dress up and go out for one more year. I tried the “our foreign exchange students have never done this” approach, but Denmark looked at me like I was crazy, and China looked at me like he had no idea what I was talking about. Either way, I am the only one who dressed up. (Look at these cuties!  ^^ In 1998, we had a pirate (Middle Man); A lion, who was scared to actually go up to the doors (Little Man) and a Principessa Amidala (star wars), with Grammy.   In 1997, ^^ we had a Mummy and Hippy.)

Of course I did not go Trick-or-Treating, but I did take all three of my teens, and two others, (yep that’s 5 teens!) downtown to see the Thriller Dancers. They perform each year in Maritime Park, with zombies, Michael Jackson impersonators, and performers that dance to mostly Michael Jackson, but also do some other songs. This year, Beyonce’s All the Single Ladies (if you don’t already know it, you probably do in fact live under a rock) had the crowd bobbing too. It is an amazing night and while they said this was the last year, I am hoping that someone revives it again next year. Our town is full of characters anyway, but on Halloween they all feel entitled to be out there dancing in public; and it is out of this world fantastic!

Every year I go over to a friend’s who lives in one of those neighborhoods that I always wished I’d grown up in. The one where all the kids live, the houses are close together and at Halloween the candy is really good! Each year, I make Mummy wrapped hot dogs for dinner; I wear the same skeleton earrings that a little boy named Tommy Gianaris gave me, 23 years ago (!); I roast our pumpkin seeds; and then I head over to my friends, to share one cocktail and scare her trick-or-treaters. I love to swing the door open and scream really loud. It gets the middle schoolers every year. After scaring one little guy a couple of yeas ago, I am now careful to check to see that I can see the tops of their heads through the door’s glass, before I yell. Each year I bring my friend one Mummy hotdog and she shares whatever she made. This year it was yummy pulled pork.

One of the reasons we started this tradition was because Little Man and his friends wanted to trick-or-treat in the “good neighborhoods.”  We tried several over the years, but found my friend’s to be pretty good. The bonus was that I could hang out at her house; eat candy and whatever she cooked, and then take my kids home when it was over. This year, no one wanted to go door to door. So, I put on my Amy Winehouse get up, packed up a Mummy dog and went over alone.

(<–Moammar Gadhafi and Amy Winehouse) I got to wear the Amy get up to the most amazing Halloween party on Saturday night. A good friend hosts it in a fantastic barn, out in the county. This year they had a haunted house as well. They have a giant mermaid/pheonix suspended from the rafters; huge spider webs everywhere; a live band that does karaoke;  and costumes that knock your socks off. We had WAY too much fun, and I can tell you no more. What happens out in barns in the county, stays in the barn. Hubby and I went as Moammar Gadhafi and Amy Winehouse. Hubby was too damned good at Moammar!  Next time I say that he’s a dictator, you may not laugh.  Amy might have looked like this, if she’d lived another twenty years and put on some weight. I figure you can only milk it for so long, and I paid for the black wig, so I wore the Amy get up twice this year. This year it was edgy, next year it will be passé. My fifteen year old,  thought it was in terribly poor taste. “She was a very talented, young person, who just died Mom!”  Ahhh, darling Little Man. It is a story as old as time, and that is how edgy Halloween costumes keep coming around.  (Oh please, stop now. Don’t bother with any how can you be so insensitive comments. Don’t do it!  I am kidding people!  Sort of.)

<– (One Asian Pumpkin)   This was the first year that China and Denmark got to celebrate an American Halloween, so I bought them both pumpkins to carve. It was not Denmark’s thing (boo, hiss) but China really got in to it. I have to say that his pumpkin did look a tad Asian. He also carved CHINA on the back side. We all found it very amusing. Then, we headed downtown and we all danced at the Thriller scene. Amy got asked to dance with an adorable Max from the Wild Things, not adorable child, adorable late 20’s just 30′ something. Who knows now a days, they all look like kids to me!  We danced for about five minutes, and then I told him I had to take my teens home. Hey, it’s Halloween!   (One good, old vomiting American pumpkin. And Little Man says I have poor taste!?) —>

For years I told my kids about my childhood Halloweens in Scituate. It was almost always cold, but it was a crime to have to cover your costume with a warm coat, so we tried to work out costumes that could be layered. When I thought it was sexy (like 10 year old sexy, in the 70’s; minds out of the gutters folks!) to go as a gypsy, with a silky white top, I froze my patooties off!  We walked until our feet bled, really. There was no way any self-respecting Trick-or-treater went home with less than one very full pillow case. If you were really tough (or greedy), you filled one; brought it home to dump out, and then went to hit a few more houses. We had to be pulled off the streets when all the houses were finally black, sometime WAY past the eight o’clock curfew that my kids grew up with. I went with Little Man one year and actually found lights going off at 7:30 in one neighborhood, feh!  Ten was not unusual in my day. (And we walked five miles in the snow, uphill, both ways!)  My brother and sister and I would then stay up in our rooms, and trade candy by flashlight. For the record, my little sister stole my candy every year!  It took ages for me to finally prove it, when her bed began to crackle, from all the wrappers hidden in her sheets. She grew up to be a fine mommy herself, but I wanted that out there, officially for once!

(<– Dressing up is way too fun. I refuse to quit, just because my kids did!  Oscars 2008)Anyway, I figure it’s now time for my own kids to start creating their Halloween stories. Now that they have all officially retired from the business of Trick-or-Treating (though I have little doubt Middle Man is at a wild costume party, as I type!); they will figure out what to tell their own kids one day. I hope to continue finding reasons to dress up, just because I love to. The Oscars are always perfect for that, but Halloween is extra special. This year, as we say back East, was a wicked fun night!

Images from the Thriller dance performance. Cell phone pics (dancing) and yes I got permission:

  

 

Reminder:  If you enjoyed this post, please hit LIKE; it helps me build the blog. Use the SHARE button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest entries, SUBSCRIBE and you will get an email each time I write a new post. You won’t get any other spam mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the ARCHIVE button.Thanks for helping me make this blog successful!

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Bite Me, Universe!

Posted on October 28, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:   This is the only pictures for this one. When you’re totally in the moment, you don’t think to take photos. You don’t document each scene; it’s all there in your mind. Use your imagination to come along this time.  I have included some interesting links, so check them out.  Finally, I can also promise that despite the bleak start, there is a happy ending to this one. Read on!

Yesterday was one of those days when you’re pretty sure that the Universe is plotting against you! One of my  favorite bloggers doesn’t believe that the Universe pays attention to us (though it seems to just have a translation issues in her case, read the hilarious link), but I can’t deny that some days it really feels to me that there is a greater force battering me over the head with “lessons!”  Yesterday, was one of those days.

One of the things that got added to my already full plate, at about 11 AM –after already taking a kid to an early Dr.’s appointment, delivering forgotten paperwork to the high school for another kid, and dealing with a furnace cleaning– was that the nursing home called to say that my mom was “very agitated” and was trying to stand up. Her legs have become very rigid and hard to use, so standing up is extremely risky for her. Standing up spontaneously, with no one assisting, is “terrifying for others,” as Anna, her nurse explained.  Anna also shared that mom was very talkative again. In a previous post, I shared that she had had a few very lucid days. Those have been followed by endless days of nothing. There has been no communication and little acknowledgement that we’re there, when we visit. I admit, it’s been very disappointing after having that wonderful few days with her. Now she was talking again and my day was full.

Rewind:  Last week, I had a particularly difficult day with mom. I went over to visit her in the afternoon one day. I knew as I drove over that I was feeling a little more emotional than I usually am lately. Frankly, to get through all of this I’ve been fairly cut off from my feelings. I don’t cry often; I don’t allow myself to start missing her or wishing for something different; I deal with the day to day crises and know that this is only going downhill. For weeks on end things had been so traumatic, with mom falling at least twice a week and other times more. These falls involved broken ribs, head lacerations, bruises and lots of anxiety, all of it culminating in the big fall a few weeks ago, that led to surgery on her elbow and mom finally going

into Hospice. She is now on “Comfort Care” at the same nursing home where she has lived for three years, after she fell and broke her hip. Week to week, day to day, I didn’t know what was coming. Every day there were updates and overwhelming information. The injuries sustained became routine for me, for us, and left me exhausted and shut down. You can’t cope if you are feeling each blow, so I didn’t.

So last week it was actually an unusual thing to feel something, to feel sad about my mom. When I arrived, she was totally not present it seemed. No acknowledgment of me being there, no responses at all. I couldn’t even get her to use the one word comments I’ve grown accustomed to. It was bleak and awful, because I really missed her. I felt lost and sad, and I wanted to talk with my mom.  I tried talking to her, tried sharing that her brother had written her a letter and wanted me to read it to her. She hasn’t heard anything from her brother in 12 years, so I was anxious about reading the letter to her. She had long given up on any contact there and I wasn’t sure how it might effect her, even if she is trapped in her silence.

I sat there growing more upset, waiting for some kind of response, until I found myself crying. I mean really crying. The “ugly cry” where your nose is running and you can’t really catch your breath and you know that the nurses who come in to see what’s happening and then leave silently are feeling bad for you.  I could not stop. I was talking to her, telling her how much I miss her and how much I wanted to talk to her. I was curled up on her bed, just wailing up against her, while my mom just sat there kicking one foot and moving her lips involuntarily.  You probably don’t need a photo to imagine this scene, it was raw and awful.

After about thirty minutes, I pulled myself together. I got some tissue and then washed my face. I looked like hell, but no one was watching, not even mom. I went back over to her, kissed the top of her head and said “well mom, I’m going to head out now. Love you.” As I turned to go, her hand shot out and grabbed mine and she said “Please don’t leave me. Stay.” It’s probably needless to say, but the water works started all over again. When this damn breaks, it floods the whole world. She said, “Are you crying because of me?”  I explained that I just miss her, and wish she didn’t have Huntington’s, and that she could just talk with me.  I felt like a little girl, who just wanted her mommy. So, she kicked her foot, moved her lips involuntarily, stared straight ahead, and she took my hand and held it while I cried some more.

Back to yesterday… when I heard that she was “agitated,” I got it in my head that maybe I could take her out to see the foliage. My sister had shared a haunting dream with me two days earlier, in which she took my mom to Astoria, OR and mom told her that she’d rather stay there alone, then return to the nursing home, before she dies. This was bothering me and I’d been thinking that it was a “sign”  that getting mom out might be warranted.  I believe in signs. The sun was bright and it seemed like a perfect day, aside from the crazy list of things the kids would be needing from about 5-7, and my writing group.

Mom has always loved trees, as a girl she painted, and that was her favorite subject, and going to see the foliage in New England was her favorite thing in the Fall, something I share with her. She hasn’t been out since her surgery, so I called to make sure this was even possible. When I arrived, she was still in a pajama top and hooked up to oxygen and all kinds of other things. It was daunting at the least. As I passed her (“Hi mom”) to go get her jacket, she stated clear as can be “Hi Dawn.”  What! I came back and looked at her and she looked likes she often does: not really there. “Hey mom, how would you like to run away for a little while?” She smiled, “Let’s run away.”

After a trying effort to get her in the car, we were soon driving along Lakeway toward Lake Whatcom. The trees along there were spectacular!  She can’t turn her head easily, but as I pointed out the the bright colors, she was happy. When we reached the lake, I turned up a winding road that leads out to Sudden Valley, through the woods. I had only been up the road once, myself. Suddenly, mom started talking but it sounded like complete gibberish. I felt a jolt of alarm, sure that she had finally become incoherent. “What mom?” She repeated the long string of tangled sounds. I told her that I couldn’t understand her and she replied, very clearly: “I’m talking about the lake Dawn. It’s on the right, it’s on the left, it’s on the right again. The road twists and turns, and there it is again.”  I felt like Luke with Yoda; the road twists and turns and there it is again.

We drove out to Sudden Valley, another place I’ve never been (for the record, very strange place). I had quiet music playing, the kind mom likes. When Anoushka Shankar came on, she closed her eyes and said “I like this.” As we followed the road, we found a beautiful, little lake tucked in the trees. I pulled the car over and turned off the engine. Peter, Paul and Mary’s September came on. It is a beautiful song about measuring the years in Septembers; mom’s birthday is September 16th. I couldn’t help but tear up, as their beautiful harmonies sang and the wind rippled the water, sitting alone in the woods with my mother. She turned her head and just stared at the water for so long that I thought maybe she was just zoned out again. I finally said, “what are you thinking mom?” She turned to me and answered “I’m thinking how beautiful this is. I’m glad we ran away.” And then she turned back to watch the water.

As we drove home we stopped once along a busy stretch of Lake Whatcom, where three deer were grazing in a yard. I pulled over as much as I could, but knew that other drivers were annoyed. Mom was so happy to see the deer that I just signaled them to pass, and ignored their impatient glares. If they saw the old woman with the oxygen on, maybe they got it, if not: too bad. When the Mama and the Papa’s California Dreamin’ came on, I pulled over so that we could watch the empty lake. It was once one of mom’s favorite songs, still one of mine. I asked if she remembered this song; she nodded yes. I sang out loud while she silently moved her lips and we sat watching the low sun on the water until the song was over.

When we returned to the nursing home, she could not move her legs to get out of the car. I had to lift her and carry her to the waiting wheel chair. When we came in, I was saying out loud to her that the foliage had been very nice and I was glad we went. A few nurses and aids passed and asked “did you have fun?” When I replied that we’d gone to see the foliage, several said “Oh, how nice.”  Admittedly, their enthusiasm seemed subdued. As I pushed mom down the hall, she said to me: “I don’t think they’re very impressed.” The sarcastic tone, the biting directness:  there was my mom!       “Well, I don’t give a damned what they think, mom; did you have a good time?”       “I did.”        “Then that’s all I care about.”

When I had her back in her special chair, fresh socks on, oxygen attached, wrapped with a blanket, I kissed her head and said “I love you mom.”    She looked up and said “I love you too.”   This may have been the last time my mom goes to see the foliage, but mom loved every minute, and that kicked ass.  Bite me Universe!

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Posted in Car trips, Daily Observations, Death, Honest observations on many things, Mothers, Musings, Natural beauty, Nature, Parenting, road trip, Women's issues | Tagged , , , , , , | 20 Comments

The Middle… Queen Bee, at last.

Posted on October 26, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Warning:  Graphic material, not suitable for all readers. Sexually explicit, murder and cannibalism. This could get ugly.  Also, please note:  For the sake of this piece, I will occasionally refer to yellow jackets as bees. I am not referring to honey bees, but their nasty cousins that give painful stings and make outdoor dining impossible.

                      

(The beloved ^^Honey Bee and the dreaded ^^ Yellow Jacket)

Strange happenings at our house. Way too late this year, I went out and bought one of those yellow jacket traps, because we could no longer eat on our deck without being driven away by aggressive yellow jackets. I purchased the variety that uses a yellow jacket pheromone; they’re highly effective. The pheromone attracts the bees; they crawl into the trap, all horny and anxious to see what the Queen’s up to, and then they can’t get out.  If they ingest the pheromone material, which the greedy guys generally do, they die. It’s like that whole Roman orgy thing where all these guys (and they are all males) show up to have sex, get wildly intoxicated and then pass out, inside this yellow, cone shaped, bee love shack. You may doubt me, but there is amazing research about the sexual habits of yellow jackets: multiple partners, frenzied orgies, the works. I kid you not. Either way, they crawl in and  they can’t get back out, so they ultimately die in there.

(<– Note, early morning, they all look dead.)

Admittedly, I’ve had mixed feeling about my role in all this killing. For years, following the Dalai Llama‘s lead , I would carefully carry bugs, spiders, moths, etc out of our house and release them. I try not to actively kill living things. I make one big exception: slugs, which I am willing to kill en masse.  When I first put the trap up, about two and a half months ago, it filled immediately. It was amazing how many bees flew in the very first two days! I had to empty it twice the first week and put new pheromone in. They warn you to be very careful and not get any on you. The visualization of what might happen drives me to paranoid levels when emptying and then refilling the damned thing. Anyway, the trap worked.

About three weeks ago there were fewer and fewer bees flying in. As the temperatures dropped. I figured the yellow jackets were all going wherever they go for the winter and we were done for the season. But, alas, we had a wonderful warm spell last week and sunny days since. Suddenly, there were more bees flying in again and some days, lots of them. I would look out my window in the morning and see what looked like a pile of dead yellow jackets and then late afternoon, it would be swarming with them again. The trap would be filled and the guys were just flying around like crazy. I thought our trap was just incredible, catching so many each day.

(<– Waking up)    Then something occurred to me. Perhaps the ones that looked dead in the morning, were just cold and sleeping, and the ones in the afternoon were the same bees: wide awake, pissed off and sexed up again. So today, I went out there in the morning and got up close to the trap. Sure enough, there was an entire trap full of bees slowly moving their wings and antennae, but otherwise perfectly still. Two larger ones were up in the top cone area, slightly more active. It was clear that they sleep in the cold of night and early day and then wake up in the “warmth” and go crazy again.

(<– The small white spots are larvae)      As I looked carefully, studying them, I realized that there were bee parts everywhere! Partially digested, small yellow jacket heads, wings, limbs… a yellow jacket killing field. Oh the horror! I was transfixed.  Then, as I stood realizing that all of this violence and sex was happening just outside my window day after day, I also noticed that there were larvae in the trap! That’s right these lascivious little cannibals have built a nest in the trap!  They are reproducing in there.  It was unreal. Of course, I am now officially a baby killer as well, because those little baby yellow jackets are not coming out alive, if I can help it.

I stared at them for long minutes and then realized that they seemed to sense that I was there. I had only briefly moved the trap, but they all gravitated to the side where I stood watching and then continued moving their wings and antennae amidst the body parts and larvae.  I was their Queen! It makes perfect sense: I built the nest (or bought it at Fred Meyers and hung it out there); I put the pheromone in there ; and so the nest is mine.  Hence, I am the Queen!            (Somebody’s Watching Me  ^)

When the kids got home from school, I excitedly told them what I had figured out and showed them “my” colony.  Little Man looked at me skeptically and said, “At best mom, I think you’re a Bee keeper.”  Feh. I refuse to accept that. They recognized me as their leader. I am sticking with that theory. I may not be able to get three teenagers to eat what I cook for dinner; or have as much control over my environment as I’d like, but out on my deck, for a few more weeks, I am the Queen Bee at last!  (Note:  Click on photos to see more detail and check out the links.)

 <— My boys are awake and going crazy!

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Posted in Daily Observations, Death, Humor, Musings, Nature, Parenting | 4 Comments

Fall on Me.

Posted on October 24, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I grew up in a small New England town, south of Boston. Growing up, I didn’t give any deep thought to it, but the seasons played a major roll in my life. There is nothing mellow about the seasons back East. Each one: Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall packed its own punch and made itself felt, and our lives calibrated to those changes. As I got older and went off to college in Boston, Graduate school in Connecticut, got married, and had children, the seasons began to register more deeply with me. My life took on meaning that was intertwined with the changing seasons. I was married in the bitter cold of a Hartford winter. I was pregnant with Little Man in the blistering heat of a Michigan summer. But, as a child, the seasons were not tied to emotional things, they meant concrete changes in the rhythm of our lives.

(<– My favorite place, back home)

Growing up, Winters were harsh. The Atlantic ocean helped spawn monster storms, where school was cancelled for weeks and the National Guard descended. In normal years, Winter heralded the arrival of bitter cold and months of snow and more snow that needed shoveling, a job shared by my brother and I.  We ice skated on ponds in the woods behind our house. I would glide along the small streams that fed the pond until the branches and narrowing paths became too much to navigate and then I’d return to compete for space with the boys who were always playing hockey.  We walked to school, pounding each other with snow balls and didn’t expect a ride.

Spring brough the melting of months of cold and snow. The uncovered smells that had been buried in white and then dirty white, burst forth and competed with the intensity of the lilacs, tulips, magnolias, hyacinth and daffodils. A palette of pastels ruled and the world seems fresh and new again. We were always happy to be able to play outside more and began to anticipate the end of school and the coming of Summer.

Summers growing up, were hot and hotter. Humidity pushed numbers up past the actual thermometer readings with heat indexes, and my friends and I made sure that we were on the beach every day possible. We grew up swimming in frigid waters and played on rocky beaches, and you couldn’t pay me to replay it anywhere else. Our mothers brought coolers down in the morning with bologna sandwiches, kool-aid for us, and grown up juice for them. We wore no sun screen and we left when the sun was low and our skin was red. As I got older, I hung out at the beach and drank blue slushies and ate bags of Doritos while I pretended to be cooler than I was.                                                                (Minot Beach, The beach where I played ^^)

(<— Bellingham field)        It is hard to say which of the seasons held more meaning then, they all were special for the rituals and magic each brought. However, I have always been partial to Fall, and as I get older it seems to hold more and more meaning for me. In my youth, Fall heralded the start of new things: new school year, new friends, new cloths, change. The foliage in New England is a religious experience and people travel from all over the world to share in the wonder of the colors. Even as a kid it was hard to argue with the spectacle! The colors of  Oaks, Ash, Birch and the awe inspiring Maples was enough to stop you in your tracks. Piles of leaves to jump in and colors raining down on us. It was beauty that could not be man made. Magic. The smell of rotting leaves and the natural world settling down for hibernation told us that Halloween was coming and that winter was not far away. The football games in high school and hanging out with our friends in the days cooled, was all part of my Fall experience.

Later, it was the season when my own children jumped in the piled leaves, planned their Halloween costumes and came home with runny noses. It was a season when we all played together and they were sweet and excited for the season. (Years ago, –> when they were sweet and played in the leaves. Only Middle Man looked up and saw mom with her camera.)

(<– One of my favorite places here)  Living in the Pacific Northwest for ten years now, the seasons have become much less dramatic. Spring is most noticeable for the tulips that abound in Skagit Valley, twenty minutes from here. The days get longer and warmer, but there is no great melting and rebirth, as we rarely have snow here. The mountains are where we go for winter. We have a few weeks of cold, and then it’s gone and we have damp colder temperatures for months. There is little snow to contend with and the fact that things are still always blooming here is a constant reminder that we live in a mild climate.

Summer, well, don’t get any of us started after the summer of 2011 that never was. Summers here are brief and spectacular because the water and islands that surround us shimmer and shine and hypnotize us all in to believing it’s summer. It is rarely hot, no real humidity to speak of, and it is not the pounding season that I had for most of my life.

Fall. Fall is the the only season that really demands our attention here. It makes its presence known; it grabs us by the collar and says notice me! It is bold and brazen, and I love it for that.

  

  

As a red head, the season has always seemed to blanket me in the colors that I liked best: oranges and reds, vibrant yellows. Long before you could have your “colors done” I knew I was a Fall.  Aside from blue, give me a red or orange any day! Fall is when the whole world reflects my preference and serves up a daily dose of splendor that still makes me stop to gaze. It seizes something old and special within me.  I think of my childhood and miss my friends and family; I want to play in the leaves. Gone are the days when my children visited pumpkin patches and we decorated our house, but I stop to look at other houses and I am charmed to see little guys walking around in Princess, Dragon and Superhero costumes weeks before they are meant to wear them. I still buy that supersize bag of candy, for the 6 trick-or-treaters we will get; it’s Fall.

This year, I find myself watching the leaves fall and things in my yard die back, daylight growing shorter, shadows growing longer, and can’t help but think of my mom, knowing she is doing the same. Parts of her falling away as her body fades. My sister and I both brought her sun flowers, something she loves and we love, for their bright hopeful blooms. They come in the Fall but remind us of the waning summer months. My mother, who has always loved getting flowers, is quiet now and says little about the bouquets I leave. I am hoping to take her for a drive this week, to show her the foliage. She always loved trees and Fall. I don’t know if she can really handle a drive, but I am coming to accept that this is likely her last fall and I want her to enjoy it, as much as she can.

    

(^  As the colors change, some trees hold out and colors come in slowly. While, in the forest, the shadows grow longer the low sun brings shadows through the woods)

For the past four years I’ve told Little Man that he can not Trick-or-Treat anymore. “You’re too old,” I began telling him when he started Middle School. He and his best friend manage to convince us otherwise each year. Last year, at 14, I told him: “THIS is really it; enjoy it.”  Now we have two exchange students who have never experienced Halloween and the temptation is there to make this the really, really last year. Instead, I will probably take them to the Michael Jackson Thriller flash mob that we went to last year, Downtown. I took Little Man, his Best Buddy M and a friend from Germany. They were all in costumes and a good friend of mine was going to be dancing as one of the zombies. I’d never been and was excited to see her, but had subdued expectations. Instead, it was an amazing event that we all enjoyed far more than any one of us anticipated. The dancers were great, the college students rocked the costume scene as Jelly fish, characters from movies and literature, zombies galore, and creative twists that left my jaw agape. As we all danced, a light rain began to fall, and the high beam lights used to light the square made the falling rain feel like a special effect. It only fueled our revelry. On the way home the boys told me it was “the best night of their lives,” and while I knew that other things would come along and replace that notion, it will always be one of my fondest memories with my youngest son. (Photo of Red/orange of my finger over the lens, in the sunshine ->)

So while Fall brings a myriad of experiential memories, moods, hopes, etc for me, I embrace this season and am grateful for these past few sunny days with the sun shining. The air is just cool enough to warrant my favorite sweaters but not so cold that I’m wishing for Spring. I have been bringing my camera with me when I go out and taking more time to stop and celebrate the beauty around me. I am eating crisp apples and thinking about roasted pumpkin seeds. I know that the holidays will be upon us soon and the leaves will all have fallen. We will take out our skis and get ready for the fun that comes in Winter, then head for the mountains. Today, I am letting the color and meaning of this season fall on me, and I am happy to rest in its warm glow, its dazzling color,  for a while.  (If you click on the photos you can see them enlarged. Try the links as well.)

Reminder:  If you enjoyed this post, please hit Like; it helps me build the blog. Use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest entries, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I write a new post. You won’t get any other spam mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.Thanks for helping me make this blog successful.

Posted in Beauty, Daily Observations, Musings, My world, Natural beauty, Nature, Parenting, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 7 Comments