4.5 stars. So, so beautifully written. Especially the first and the last essays. I am impressed.
Excerpts:
Where is your dad, honey? Has he already checked in?“
I find out at this point that it’s the more Innocuous questions in life that will make me cry. Hard questions, In a difficult situation, will act as an alloy. They’ll make me stronger. It’s the soft questions that have no heat behind them, they are the ones that will be my undoing, particularly in public.
This punishment of mine is becoming multi faceted. I sign the bill with another laborious signature, shrug off what I don’t realize is shame, then head for the pool.
The question arises: what are you supposed to do in a collective when you are alone?
Women sit on the edge with their legs dangling in the water while their children scream mom! Watch this! and then proceed to perform no particular feat beyond splashing around, illustrating some thing I have always known which is that 90% of good parenting is bearing witness.
I feel a rising anger that there is yet another byproduct of this punishment: making the familiar unfamiliar. Making it unsafe. Could all the good things in my life with the removal of a few key elements all become ghosts?
What was bad I thought was the appearance of this line that would always be there. I could choose to cross or not cross but either action will have practical and moral consequences. you speak up, No one hires you. you don’t speak up, you actually feel the good part of you begin to erode.
It was unkind to want her to wake up to my gloom but unfortunately it was written into the contract between sisters that if at any time one party has grown too far apart from the other in terms of outlook balance must be re-dressed by the happier one getting yelled at. I don’t make the rules.
Kafka number four:
She wakes up from the procedure thinking she is dead. It is frightening and surprising. It is frightening and surprising when she realizes she isn’t dead. I sit by her bed holding her hand and she tells me the story. I remember the times that she had done this for me when i was a child, how she had listened. Soon, when a hard story has been fully told, it’s sadness/pain/horror exorcised, its ghost ready to rest, it will start to go in circles if you keep on telling it. Mom‘s voice gets higher as she grips my hand and relives the same awful details again and again. I do what she would’ve done back when I was small and outraged, red faced with some unfairness or pain, caught in the eddy of my story. “Sssshhhhh, sshhh it’s done, it’s done. We are here. You’re all right. Breathe. I know it was terrible. I am here.” Pieces of parenting she gifted me without knowing are pieces of her. Now they are me. Maybe it’s not roles being reversed but rather a relay race that goes round like a story, a happier story.
All we have wanted is to have her home. Home, which is no synonym for sickness. Home, where safety and strength and protection rule. Our army is the comfort of the familiar and this is how we will fight the approaching battle.
I’m dying and I want my breakfast.
Well, I can do something about one of those things.
Can I pick which one, she says, holding my hand tightly.
Yes.
Make the bacon nice and crispy.
We make a menu from all the places we have best loved the food including toast from everywhere. …
All night as she leaves in and out of sleep and deep pain, We talk about food. The nursery food of her childhood, learning to love the disgusting when everything good was rationed during the war, her lifelong love of butter and how bread was good but really just a butter vessel.
We stay encircled by each other’s arms, a closed loop of comfort. No one tells you how birth and death are so closely aligned. Here, lying in the dark, I see it. Pain, a journey that goes towards only one thing, and the deep need to have someone with you to hold onto.
Humans fret about and question what happens beyond the end, Never about what came before our beginning. Closed loops, infinite human experience of beginning and ending so deeply connected, Only one instilling fear. I’m not frightened anymore. We are on an adventure. And this is not some 11th hour reach to spin death into a more palatable destination. We are together, this person who was my portal into life. This rare, funny, independent creature who would do the same for me, walk with me as far as she could, and then wave me off with love, safe in the knowledge that life had equipped me with everything I needed to meet death as the newest of my many experiences.
That night after all the vodka and morphine, as mom slips into and out of consciousness, I lie next to her trying to help as she rides the waves of pain like contractions. “I’ve had such a butterfly life, Min, beautiful, transient.” Suddenly I’m shocked at the sound of her using the past tense to describe her life. Are we already in this place where life has passed and the future is right there, It has nothing in it that we have known. I do not want to let her go.
I feel this as clearly and viscerally as I have ever felt anything. I think again of that thing no one tells you about birth, that as your body offers up your child to the outside world, your very first job as a mother is to let go. I really never thought about the fact that that gift, if you’re lucky, needs to be returned in kind.
Everybody wants it to be more than it just being a journey, Min, But that’s what it is. Death. Life. That’s the meaning of life, it’s a journey.
…. Soft scrambled eggs in the middle of the night. We feed her and standby like sentries in this backwards nursery. Except it’s not backwards. It’s forward moving; it always was. It’s only now, though, that I see the relay race that we were running is up to speed. That, at some point which sprinted by unheralded, she passed on to us in a fluid motion that must’ve taken her over her own particular finish line, The role of protector and caregiver. The role of vibrant, vital woman.
It has only taken the very weakest light of dawn to vanquish the dark.
The solution to a problem is never commensurate with the size of the problem. She told me that… When I was facing some impossible thing that was, of course, ultimately possible because here I am. Here I am, loving her, thanking her for everything. Being glad that she never minded repeating the solution to a lesson I couldn’t seem to learn, never minded my determination to get her to agree with my failure, swatted it away with love and told me with her giant smile that I was terrible and perfect like everybody else.
Until we dream of life and life becomes a dream. Always.
Until the day is night and night becomes the day. Always.
Until the day that is the day that are no more. Always.
I will not say goodbye. Always