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Browsing Tag: mom

This is the Closest I Get to Writing a Condensed Version

You guys, it’s been one roller coaster of a few days concerning my mom. (As of this writing, it’s all good–or as good as it can get outside of the brain cancer thing–so please don’t worry.) I have no idea how to break the week down simply, so would you like to start with me at the beginning? Here we go. Last Wednesday: the night of my monthly book club meeting. I’d been looking forward to seeing my friends, but that day, I was exhausted and down and didn’t want to be a drag. David gently pushed me out the door, and I’m glad he did. We talked about the Kobe tragedy and the month’s book selection and a lot of other stuff. I stayed up too late. (I worried about staying up too late.) I had two glasses of wine. (I did not worry about having two glasses of wine.) I wondered if I talked too much. (I always worry about talking too much.) Last Thursday: I dragged myself out of bed in the morning (this is usual). Got the kids…

Definitely Not How We Wanted It to Go

“Well, this isn’t how I thought it was going to go.” Cian said this to me the week before last. He was lying in bed beside me, and the clock said it was about four a.m. He’d been up since the middle of the night with what I thought was the stomach flu. See, Quinlan had started a barfing marathon a few nights before, then it fell on David, Saoirse, and me simultaneously like an avalanche of awful a couple of nights later (because like all things evil in the storybooks, the stomach flu descends during the night). So when a poop bomb went off in Cian’s room at one a.m., and continued to go off for the next three days (it turns out it was the actual flu this time. Silly us!), well. We were used to digestive grossness by then. Cian, though? Well, our poor buddy was in shock. And so it became the theme of our January: this isn’t how we thought it was going to go. My mom had her brain MRI last week, with a much different follow-up than usual with her…

Knowing the Way

A few weeks ago I dreamt my mom and I were sitting down to dinner in a lovely, cavernous restaurant. Our table was a two-top beside a far wall. The room was decorated in a mustard-beige hue, and there seemed to be an auditorium stage on the opposite side from us. The wall I faced, across the expanse of the restaurant, was not a wall at all, but made up of huge, large-paned glass windows that gave us a view of the dark world outside. I can’t tell you what was behind me, the space that my mom faced: in my memory, it was just gray, blank–a vacuum. I do remember rising from my seat to wave at a family I knew from school as they entered the room and sat down. They didn’t see me, though. The diners, including my mom and me, were very quiet, subdued. We were in a room full of people but it felt like we were wearing noise-cancelling headphones. Mom that night looked like the Suzie most of you know: blonde bob, bright blue eyes, wearing blue jeans with blue shoes and a top bursting…