My Father’s Gift

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When my father called to tell me he was having major surgery to remove a malignant mass from his chest, I didn’t hesitate to buy a plane ticket.

“The doctors have to break open my rib cage to get the whole thing out. Safest way to keep it from spreading,” he explained.

“How long’s the recovery?” I asked.

“Six weeks.”

“I want to come down and see you.”

“Okay.” His voice cracked through the line. Then my father, who under reacts in times of crisis and barely smiles for a camera began to cry.

I did my best to console his fears and hold back tears. I failed. We exchanged I love yous and hung up the phone.

Twelve years ago, had someone told me I would be speaking to my father let alone making time to be by his bedside, I would have thought they were nuts.

Divorced from my mother when I was three, my parents managed feelings about their contentious relationship and bitter divorce by throwing me in the middle even long after each remarried and had new families of their own. On our scheduled visits, which lasted well into high school, I figured my father to be a stubborn workaholic. Time at his house was spent getting to know my step-mother. In between those visits, my mother shared more disgust for and information about her ex-husband than a daughter needed to know. As such, I can’t remember a single birthday or holiday spent with my dad. I assumed he was too busy or lived too far away; but it’s likely he was never extended an invitation.

Whether my parent’s choices were driven by self-interest, youthful inexperience or something more, I’ll never know. At that moment in their lives, healthy co-parenting was not an option. To add to the dysfunction was the abuse I simultaneously experienced at the hands of my step-father.

By age 17, my entire being was a giant, rage infested mess masked by sarcasm, perfectionism and dramatic flair. Needing to simplify the noise to ensure survival, I thrust myself into the middle of my parent’s fight de jour over college selection and payment and cut ties with my father.

But skeletons and wounds weigh on one’s spirit. Fifteen years later, I was knee deep in therapy trying to make sense of our relationship. My therapist recommended I write my dad a letter. I was to consider it a cathartic exercise or an attempt to communicate. Sending was optional.

With the pressure off, I put everything out there; the anger and hurt, grievances and resentment, his emotional distance, my abusive childhood and our lengthy estrangement.

Afterward, I thought about my unborn son and what I might say if he one day asked, “Who’s my grandfather?”

Then I dug up my father’s address and dropped the letter in the mail.

He wasted little time. What followed was a blur of email exchanges followed by a planned call. I barely said hello when the words came out.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My point of view doesn’t matter. You’re the child. I’m the parent and I take full responsibility for everything that’s happened.”

During a time when I was trying to piece together my self-worth, build a meaningful relationship with my spouse and prepare for motherhood, my father’s words were the light in my darkness and the greatest gift.

Whoever my father was or how I perceived him to be when I was young no longer mattered. His ability to take ownership without caveat or blame and express himself with vulnerability and honesty showed me who he was at present. I knew the least I could do was begin to forgive the man and let him in.

A dozen years travel fast. While I’m grateful for this second chance, it’s not nearly enough. Those tears shed over his operation were not about any cancer, but my fear of losing a father I’ve only recently learned to love.

Thankfully, he’s made a full recovery. The doctors cut out the stage one growth and replaced it with a 12 inch scar. We can only hope health and time are on his side.

During our visit, my dad was feeling energized so we took a walk around the neighborhood; no grandkids, spouses or pets. Just us. We kibitzed about his upcoming retirement, the politics of the day and puppies. Being able to experience such a simple pleasure felt, as he likes to say whenever presented with good eats, “pretty damn good.”

Occasional strolls and weekly phone conversations won’t replace the birthday parties missed, lost Christmas Eves or the father-daughter wedding dance we never had, but it gives me great comfort knowing we will mourn those losses and create new memories – together.

DONNA GWINNELL LAMBO-WEIDNER SAID WHAT?…Once the Light is Out

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A beautiful tribute to a beloved pet.

Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner

jazzface
I miss you already.

Once the light is out and the room is silent,
I will miss you even more.

“Remember the time…” fills the house already.

Once the light is out and the house is silent
I will remember you even more…

Like how you taught me to pause, take a deep breath, and jump to find my joy

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RED’S WRAP SAID WHAT?…Blindsided

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Jan Wilberg, another “Red” and fellow 2015 BlogHer Voice of the Year was awarded for this piece about strength in the face of adversity. I had the opportunity to meet Jan at the BlogHer reception. She is lovely, as is her blog. Enjoy!

Red's Wrap

I wasn’t prepared for this. No one told me how to take my personality, my intelligence, my accomplishments, my ambition, my ego and put them all behind a gauzy thick wall that mutes most voices and distorts the sounds of everyday life. The siren could be a whistle or a baby screaming or someone’s worn out rear brakes, I won’t know until the ambulance crosses the street in front of me.

I wasn’t prepared for this. No one told me how to stop the waves of self-pity, the dejectedness I feel when I realize that once again I have missed the point of an important conversation or become the target of loved ones’ exasperation with my having heard them wrong one time too many today. Until death do us part skipped the part about the burden of a disability suffered by the partner who doesn’t have it.

I wasn’t prepared for this. No one told me…

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One, Lucky Granddaughter

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I wrote “One, Lucky Granddaughter” days after my grandmother’s death so I’d have her lessons all in one place. Thank you to Brain,Child Magazine for publishing a piece near and dear to my heart. Wonderful way to start 2015.

http://www.brainchildmag.com/2015/01/one-lucky-granddaughter/

Red Said What?

Gram and me as a baby

As seen in Brain, Child Magazine

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Two weeks ago, I lost my grandmother to cancer.  The disease engulfed Dot’s body almost as quickly as she learned the diagnosis.

When the doctors assured she still had a few weeks, I returned home, gathered my notebook, and made big plans to capture my grandmother’s talkative mood.

My mind raced with possibility; perhaps, as Jewish tradition teaches, Dot could fulfill the 613thmitzvah and write a Torah, a personal 10 commandments thus sealing her life scroll or perhaps, as a member of her church’s quilting guild she could share patch ideas for a memory quilt.

But by the time I got back to my grandmother’s bedside, she was already in a final sleep.  Weeks whittled to hours.  Before sunrise, she was gone.

Dot’s death was beautiful; swift, pain free, and at home surrounded by loved ones.  Her last days, passing, and funeral…

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One, Lucky Granddaughter

Gram and me as a baby

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Mothering Mag logo

Two weeks ago, I lost my grandmother to cancer.  The disease engulfed Dot’s body almost as quickly as she learned the diagnosis.

When the doctors assured she still had a few weeks, I returned home, gathered my notebook, and made big plans to capture my grandmother’s talkative mood.

My mind raced with possibility; perhaps, as Jewish tradition teaches, Dot could fulfill the 613th mitzvah and write a Torah, a personal 10 commandments thus sealing her life scroll or perhaps, as a member of her church’s quilting guild she could share patch ideas for a memory quilt.

But by the time I got back to my grandmother’s bedside, she was already in a final sleep.  Weeks whittled to hours.  Before sunrise, she was gone.

Dot’s death was beautiful; swift, pain free, and at home surrounded by loved ones.  Her last days, passing, and funeral were a fluid waltz.  Everything fell into place as if she was the choreographer.

Without her words, I stretched my accordion memory file in search of tucked away treasures.  Two stepped forward; Sweet 16 and Oh Definitely.

Each birthday, my grandmother would caw over her candles, “I’m sweet sixteen and never been kissed.”  Sixteen was her forever age; the age at which she liked to see herself.

Pic of Gram sweet 16

Any time Dot emphatically agreed with a point, she broke her silence with a high pitched, “Oh, definitely!”

More memories began to surface.  My notebook soon filled to form Dot’s Sweet 16 of Definite-lys.

Definitely…

1.     Listen for understanding.  When conversing with others, don’t uh-huh, right, or yes them.  Take it all in.  Dot was everyone’s ear; mine included.

2.     Visit the sick.  My grandmother was not afraid to go into the fray.  She recognized that one’s comfort was more important than personal or situational anxiety.  The key to helping those failing feel alive, she recently told me, was to talk about old times.  Present day connections are less meaningful to a lost mind.

3.     Create a warm and inviting home.  Dot raised three daughters on the second floor of a modest, two-family house.  Even as the family grew, her apartment was the place to be; men congregated in the living room, ladies packed around the dining table.  A full home filled my grandmother’s heart.

4.     Keep an open door policy.  Dot always left an empty plate on the table.  Crowds of cousins, neighbors, and friends traipsed through the door in search of company and my grandmother’s eggplant parm, kielbasa, spareribs, and peanut brittle.  No appointment needed.  Guests knew when Dot’s Westminster doorbell chimed, she would welcome them.

5.     Talk to everyone and do it with respect and genuine interest.  My grandmother was well versed in the art of chit-chatting and boy, could she work a room.  From store clerks to politicians, children to commuters, she never categorized or judged.  In recent years, however, she became increasingly disillusioned with technology.  “No one stops to talk anymore,” she said.  It made her sad.

6.     Be a good time Charlie.  Cut a rug, laugh, quip, banter, sing.  Dot loved to tell tales of old boyfriends and reminisce about her young and single watering hole shenanigans.

Gram in curlers

7.     Send cards.  I’m convinced Dot single-handedly bankrolled Hallmark.  My grandmother sent a card to every grandchild, great-grandchild, in-law, daughter and cousin regardless of age for every birthday and holiday, Jewish, Christian, secular or otherwise.  Enclosed was always a personal check and for the little ones, an additional side of cash.  Relatives can’t help but smile when they talk about Dot’s cards.

8.     Watch your television stories, but limit the news; it is depressing and redundant.  When my grandmother told Mac she had to check into a quiet hospital room to escape Fox News, ISIS, and Ebola, he couldn’t help but laugh.

9.     Take advantage of an opportunity but own up to its responsibility.  My grandmother didn’t get her driver’s license until she was a mother of three in her thirties.  She loved to drive.  With a dashboard pat for luck and a tank that never fell below the half way mark, Dot was always on the go.  As her housemate until age five, I don’t remember ever being home before supper.  But when her eyes weakened a dozen years ago, she didn’t hesitate and returned the keys.

10.   Forge ahead.  My grandmother’s limited eyesight was exacerbated by arthritic knees, a temperamental heart, weekly doctor visits, and piles of medication.  Not once did she complain.

11.   Volunteer in your community, house of worship, schools or wherever floats your boat.  My grandmother’s obituary noted her occupation as Homemaker.  More so, she was a chauffeur, troop leader, lunchroom aide, caregiver, church elder, and neighborhood sentinel.  You name it, she did it because for her, the making of homes took a vested village.

12.    Say “I love you.”  Dot had a hard time doing this; showing love was easier.  The last time my grandmother heard me say I love you, she still flicked her wrist and squawked, “I know, I know,” trying desperately to fight the tears.

13.    Avoid self pity.  Dot was a Depression kid from a broken home who left school in the 10th grade.  These experiences never stopped her from embracing life.

14.    Communicate.  My grandmother didn’t speak to her sister for thirty years and regretted the lost time.  “Put all the cards on the table now,” she advised.  “Grudges are worthless.  Life is too short.”

15.    Keep the faith.  Dot had an unwavering commitment to prayer and church; attending and sharing a pew with the same senior ladies each Sunday, often offering the young ministers words of kindness and encouragement.  She held fast to what spoke to her in this universe and at the end, wasn’t afraid to let go.

16.    Love well.  During my grandmother’s final hours, her apartment was filled with family giving to her and my grandfather what she had always given to us: attention, care, support, strength, and comfort.  At her funeral, it was no surprise to hear that strangers approached my grandfather saying, “You don’t know me, but I knew Dot.  She was a special lady.”  My grandmother left an imprint on the hearts of many because above all things, she valued love.

Three days before Dot’s death, The Skootch said goodbye to his great-grandmother.

He stood at the base of the hospice bed and said, “I love you, G.G.”

“You do?” she replied.

“I will miss you when God comes.”

God came; all too soon and all too suddenly it seems and I miss her.

People speak of rocks; Dot was mine.  My grandmother was an exceptional lady who, during the era of her teenage crush, Frank Sinatra but long before Derek Jeter did things her way.

This way, her spirit, and legacy fill me today and always.

I am one, lucky granddaughter.

Most definitely.

Gram and me wedding picture

The Loss of a Therapist

I used to tell people I would never see a therapist.  Then my young marriage to Mac began to crumble.

Having spent a lifetime immersed in family dysfunction, crumbling traveled with me; gaps in the sidewalk were the norm and I was a comfortable expert at skirting them.  It was only when Mac and I tried and failed to get pregnant, and the reality of possibly never adding Mother to my resume sank in that my feet got caught up in the cracks.

Still, I refused therapy.  “We don’t need a shrink,” I told my husband.  “We can deal with problems on our own.  It’s not anyone else’s business.”

Frustrated and tired, Mac took himself to see Amy; a well regarded and highly recommended social worker who conveniently had a home office across town.

“She wants to meet both of us,” he said afterward.  “You need to go to a session so Amy can understand how to help.”

We’d been down the counseling road before, but this was the first time Mac actually met with a person. His suggestion was Amy’s request and there was no talking my way out of it.  With her involved, ignoring Mac’s plea translated into losing him, our marriage, and the prospect of starting a family.  Backed into a corner, I made the appointment.

Amy’s home office was on the second floor of her well kept Tudor style home.  Up a small set of stairs adjacent to the living room, it was a guest bedroom, library, TV room and therapy space rolled into one.  One wall was filled with a pale, but inviting sofa adorned with embroidered pillows partnered with a cubed pouf.  I shoved myself into its corner, scratching my back against the pillow stitching.  The balls of my feet pressed against the base of the cube.  There I sat, stiff with pride ready to convince her that I didn’t need help from any therapist.

Amy settled into an over-sized swivel chair across the room, slid off her flats, and rested a tiny pair of feet on a nearby stool.  Behind her sat a narrow desk flanked by impressively organized wall length shelves.  Magazines, photographs, Judaica, and a sculpture of a molar gave me a glimpse into her private life.   I stared beyond the chair hoping my fascination with the decor might deflect attention from me.  But to no avail; there she sat, petite, blonde, plump, suntanned, manicured and ready to listen.

“Why don’t you tell me about your background; your upbringing,” Amy suggested.

That’s all it took.  As a logical thinker, model student and frugal realist, I knew on some level it made sense to embrace this chance and bank on Amy’s expertise.  The clock was ticking, the check was written, so it was time.  Out it came; the family secret I had harbored for twenty-five years.  When the session was over I knew it was going to be the first of many.  That conversation commenced our eight year relationship.

Whenever we met, Amy escorted me from the front door to the office where I took the customary position.

Because she worked from home, she made it a point to conduct our sessions with arm’s-length professionalism.  Still, Amy managed to convey a maternal sensibility rooted in spirituality and common sense.  I quickly learned that she was a little lady with a powerful presence, a strong sense of justice and an unwavering conviction to improve the lives of others.

Amy always said the right words, gave effective homework, and provided the necessary tools to help me treat wounds, shed skin, and grow up.  Some weeks her office was a welcomed respite; other times a dreaded box.  Regardless, I always felt safe.  Over time, I joined the sofa’s center and let my heels crawl up the back of the ottoman.  Together we worked through my list:

Childhood trauma, abandonment, reconciliation…

Self worth, family, love, intimacy, marriage, faith

Career, pregnancy, birth, motherhood, betrayal …

Initially once a week, then every other; sometimes with Mac, sometimes alone that office, the list, and Amy’s guidance during those first years were a constant.  Inside that space, the only variable was the magazine covers.  Consequently, on the outside I got healthier, my marriage began to mend, and our family grew.

Needless to say, Amy and I had a good thing going.

During year five, things changed.

At the end of one session Amy casually announced, “Tomorrow I’m having a medical procedure.  I will not be working for awhile.”  She confidently handed over contact information for her back up therapist and reassured me she’d return.

Several weeks later, Amy and I reconvened.  I immediately noticed a shift in the tenor of our conversations.  Her approach, albeit professional was more direct.  She also began to sprinkle my therapy with an occasional personal anecdote.

Treatments followed the medical procedure.  Amy shared very little information; only that as a result, she might need to change our schedule.

For months, I sat on the couch and watched her deteriorate; plump shrunk to thin, her blonde hair faded, and the suntanned skin grayed.  Amy seemed tired but determined to live her life.

When her color came back and hair grew thick, Mac and I breathed a sigh of relief.  She shared that whatever growth she had was smaller, but required ongoing medication.  Amy sounded stronger and had a renewed outlook.

Two years and she never used the word cancer, but Mac and I knew.

Then Amy took a downturn; more treatments, more medication.  Each time I saw her, it felt as if she was fighting less for normalcy and more for life.  But because I was her client, our time together was focused on me.  She wanted it that way.  I was deeply concerned about her health but I let her do her job.  Amy wasn’t giving up on me, so I refused to give up on her.

One evening session, her office phone rang several times.  Amy uncharacteristically picked it up.  I noticed her elevated legs were bloated and swollen.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I thought it was the doctor’s office.  Let’s continue…”

When time was up, Amy paused for a moment; long enough for me to believe she was debating her thoughts.  Then she asked the usual question, “Do you want to schedule an appointment now?”

“No, I’m going on vacation,” I reminded her.  “I’ll call you when I get back.”

She walked me down the stairs to the door.  “So we’ll plan to meet in two weeks?”

“Yes.”  Then I said something I got used to not saying, “Thank you, Amy.”

Two weeks later, I went back to her house.  This time, I let myself in; I didn’t go upstairs.  Instead, I joined a group of familiar faces on low, hard, black leather chairs.  I kept my feet firmly planted on the living room rug, hands clasped in my lap.  The faces were Amy’s family.  I was paying a Shiva call.

I listened to her adoring husband share his memories, watched her devoted son, daughter, and pregnant daughter-in-law keep busy, and smiled at her spirited grandchildren as they played on the stairs, disappearing into the office.  These people were no longer the characters in Amy’s anecdotes, the aging images in her photographs, and the fairies that left toy remnants on the rug.  They were real people who lost a cherished loved and I felt sad for their devastating loss.

But it was my loss too.  I was there to pay condolences, but needed some of my own.  Yes, my relationship with Amy was professional; it was also intimate and sacred.  Even though I needed to mourn the loss of my therapist, I resisted the urge.  “Amy was not family or friend,” I thought, “It’s not my place to grieve this woman.”  Surrounded by those closest to her, I felt guilty and unworthy of sympathy.

I soon realized that it was okay to grieve, just not right then.  I spent close to a decade healing in that house but now Amy’s home was no longer my therapy place, and her husband and children were not the ones to console me.  It was again time; to turn inward to my tools and outward to my loved ones.  My work with Amy was done.  I was ready.

As I left, Amy’s husband and I exchanged a knowing glance, smiled and said, “Stay well.”

It has been years since Amy passed away.  Larry and I sometimes talk about her when we have an issue, need to reflect, or feel sad she’s not here.

Recently, we were recalling Amy’s modestly attended funeral.  She was our rock star.  Her work changed my life and saved our marriage.  It will have an impact on us, our children, and family for generations.

“Why wasn’t there a line of mourners spilling from the sanctuary?” I asked.  “Where were all her other fans that day?”

Then Larry reminded me, “Amy was an ordinary lady who happened to do extraordinary work.  She was the best kind of person.”

He was right.  For that, I am grateful.