My heart hurts. Physically hurts.

I feel like I’m watching my thoughts; my brain is sitting in a plastic chair in front of a laundromat clear door dryer, watching the different colors and textures tumbling about together.

I’m in Michigan at my step-grandparents’ house. Hunky and Company stayed home and I rode in with the sibs.

My step-grampa has had esophageal cancer for awhile, but the treatments he was getting seemed to be keeping him with us just fine. However, he was checked into the hospital Monday, and my step-mom called all the sibs and informed us now would be a very good time to go visit Grampa in the hospital. No one has said this out loud, but we’re here to say goodbye to Grampa.

I’ve only known Grampa for 15 years. I met him when I was 20 at my father’s wedding. Now wait a minute. I see “only” and “15 years” and it seems like they don’t go together. Throw in “Grampa”, and you have puzzle pieces that don’t together just right. Grampas are someone who knew you before you knew you, and tell you silly stories about yourself that exist before your brain started collecting memories. Other times, (at the risk of getting all Dinosaurs Divorce on you) you meet an old man, and as you’re shaking hands, someone says, “And this is your new Grandfather!” And you mold a relationship from a completely blank slate, one that is missing the sweet foundation of a familiar bond. You are starting with a brand new, unsupple, solid color comforter instead of a heavy, handstitched, sweetly sun-dried scented, love-worn quilt.

I’m at a loss as to how I deal with this grief. When my (blood) Gramma died in 2004, Alzheimer’s had stolen her memory and she didn’t know who anyone was. She was alone and scared in an unfamiliar world, and I imagine death was an appreciated release. I was melancholy and wrapped our memories around me; memories of her rocking me as I laid on her chest and listened to her heartbeat, memories of her teaching me to cook, memories that gave me a sense of peace and belonging that were too few and far between. On the other hand, my step-grampa is being taken away by a cruel disease that robs him too soon of his rosy-cheeked good health. A grampa I have known since I was already an adult, and wasn’t as close to as my other grandparents. So I’m feeling sad, but also a little guilty that I don’t have the same amount of grief as I did with my Gramma. I’m wondering if it’s perhaps because of a lack of memories, or is it that I have a deep-seated notion that I don’t have a right to the same amount of grief?

Anyway, that’s not what is causing my contemplation this evening.

When we arrived, we went to the hospital right away to see him. He can no longer speak because he’s had a series of TIAs (you’ll have to google that later, and so will I). But he wants a hug and kiss from everyone and holds the good arm up around your neck and draws you in tight, communicating more than mere words can convey.

But that’s not really what is getting to me.

Gramma sat on the bed beside him and as he drifted in and out of sleep. As he moved restlessly, he caught her hand and intertwined their hands together and pulled them close, kissing each of her knuckles. Then he’d drift off and let go. Then the next time he roused, before he even opened his eyes, his hand was seeking hers and he raised his arm to pull her close for a hug. He did this often the whole time we were talking to Gramma, getting her caught up on the mundane news of our lives. And as she talked with us, her hands lit on him here and there like a butterfly; caressing his shoulder, adjusting his sheets to keep him covered up, stroking his cheek, rubbing his arms. And every once in a while she would whisper something secret to him, sweet nothings gently imparted, bringing peace and a pause to his restlessness.

And it washed over me like a cold wave crashing on the beach. I wanted my husband. I wanted to squeeze him tight and kiss the end of his nose and his earlobe. I wanted to bury my face in the hollow under his jaw and smell his ahhh, I’m home scent and try to radiate my love to him in a way that passed understanding. And I briefly tried to imagine what it would be like when Hunky and I are old and gray.

And that’s why my heart hurts. Physically hurts. And now my empty arms ache too.

So… I thought, what we need is a Holiday Family Quality Time Activity. I decided that we could make a double batch of Chex Mix together. Afterward, I thought, what I really needed is A Healthy Dose Of Reality. Because for a minute I forgot that we’re completely incapable of making poignant holiday Kodak moments. Oh, well. Witness the festive dysfunction.

Let me start out by saying, my point-and-shoot takes really fantastic pics. If by fantastic, you mean, taking pictures that look either like they were inside a deep bat infested cave or on the surface of the sun. Photoshop is my BFF. I don’t get out much. That said, let’s proceed with the merriment.

It all starts out very bright and shiny.
The table is clean, the boys are on their very best mediocre behavior,
and I haven’t cried or done any shots. Yet.
“Cheeeeeeeese!”

Let’s start out by putting the dry ingredients together.
Within one minute, Dino wandered off.
“Mom, why are we measuring? Why can’t we just dump it all into one big bowl?”
“Because… because I said so. Where did your brother go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dino, get back in here, dammit!”

The battles begin.
“I want to put in the Chex.” “No, I want to put in the Chex!”
“No fair!” “Shut up!”
“I am going to take this box of Chex and
cram it right up your dookyhole
if you don’t quit fighting.”

Hunky reminds me that this is supposed to be fun and
we are making Wonderful Christmas Memories.
I clench my teeth behind the “smile”.
“Yeah, yeah; sure, sure; just take the friggin’ picture already.”

I blow my referee whistle and remind them that there is still time
to take all the presents back to the store.
The sudden quiet allows me to lay down the law.
“Ok, you can put in that Chex, and you can put in that Chex,
and you can put in the pretzels, and you can put in the nuts.”

The kitchen buzzes with activity. The war is in a temporary truce.
I inhale and exhale for the first time since we started.
“I’m trying to make Wonderful Christmas Memories for you here.
Let’s try to get along so we can make some
damn Wonderful Christmas Memories!”

I doggedly plod on and start putting the butter and spices together.
[buzz of busy activity]

I ask Hunky to shake it (the dry mix, not his pockets) like a
poloroid picture while I slowly pour the wet stuff in.
Hunky wisely wastes no time in obeying my every whim.
Rocky snatches up the abandoned camera and
captures the edge-of-your-seat action.
“Pour it slower.”
“Shake it faster.”
[Barry White voice] “Slower, baby.”
“I want you so much right now.”

I’ve poured the evidence of our weird family dynamics (i.e. the first batch)
into the pans and started on the second batch. Notice the natives have deserted.
[humming] “Gramma got run over by a reindeer…”

Oh, God help me, they’re back. And wired for sound. Notice Dino’s eyes.
That amount of energy in one child is quite the spectacle to behold.
[electrical buzzing of energy]

They start running around the house trying to test their theory
that if they run fast enough, the camera can’t catch them. True story.
[click]
“Was I a blur then?” “Can I see the picture?”
“Dang it, we have to try it again faster!”

This time I move fast enough the camera can’t catch me.
I go the cupboard for alcohol.
[racetrack sound fx]

I breathe for the second time since we started, in anticipation
of the holiday joy that is Eggnog with a Double Shot of Kahlua.
The boys continue to test their theory.
I stand oblivious; I’m gettin’ my holiday drink on, baby.
[zoooom... brakes screech]
“Was I a blur then?” “Can I see the picture?”
“Dang it, we have to try it again faster!”

Rocky buzzes with energy. He looks like he may be close to exploding, does he not?
I contemplate beaning him with the bottle, but that would be alcohol abuse.
“Don’t test me, boy. I can make another one just like you.”

Finally. It’s just me and my creamy, nutmeg-y, alcoholic friend.
[twisting cap breaks safety seal]

Dino continues the research for the “faster than the camera” theory.
“Back off, kid; Mom’s busy. Oh, yeah. Come to mama.”

Hunky enjoys eggnog sans Kahlua.
I’m having a difficult time fathoming the point of Kahlua-less eggnog.
“No, I will not smile. I’m very gruff and rugged and manly.”

Hunky gets Rocky to try eggnog. Will he like it?
[audience holds collective breath]

I think that’s a no.
“BLEK!”

Hunky breaks gruff and rugged and manly character.
“Now that’s funny, I don’t care who ya are!”

Now Hunky says Dino has to try eggnog.
He reassures him it is quite tasty; Dino remains a skeptic.
“Awwww, do I hafta?” “Yes, you certainly do.”

Dino employs an oft-attempted stalling tactic. It goes over like a fart in church.

“Yes. Down the hatch.”
“But this is my new Bionicle and his name is…”
“NOW.”

Dino sees the futility of the maneuver and reluctantly complies.
[audience holds collective breath]

Dino dittos Rocky’s vote. Hunky empathizes.
Final Tally: Boys, 2; Eggnog, 0.
“YUCK!” “Yuck.”

H: We should do it.
D: We don’t have time to do it.
H: Why not?
D: We’ve gotta get in and out of the shower, get kids in and out of the shower, and find clothes for the kids.
H: I thought you were gonna do that last night.
D: Yeah, well, that didn’t go quite as well as I would’ve hoped.
H: Why, what happened?
D: I had 102 unread items in Google Reader, and they weren’t just going to read themselves now, were they?
H: *puts his index finger one inch from my right nostril*
D: What the hell are you doing?
H: What do you think I’m doing?
D: Are you almost sticking your finger up my nose?
H: I am indeed. *finger hasn’t moved*
D: What if I exhaled strongly and snotted on you?
H: Do you really want to know what I’d do if you exhaled strongly and snotted on me?
D: You’d stick your snotty finger in my mouth, wouldn’t you?
H: Damn skippy. *finally removes finger*

It’s like a diamond commercial. Kinda makes ya cry, doesn’t it?

No? Yeah.

But I’d totally marry him all over again. Goof ball.

Pray for us, genuflect, burp the rosary, bite off some chicken feet and swirl in Lourdes water, light a goat with a snake around his neck on fire, dip your voodoo doll in koolaid or whatever it is you crazy kids do. We have to go to a funeral today, and I’m seriously hoping not to generate any new embarrassing family anecdotes that tend to be retold repeatedly. Like at my gramma’s funeral when Rocky was 2 and after the Pastor finished the final prayer, Rocky stated loudly, “Good Job!” and started clapping.

Ok, my boy? It’s like he’s on an double-expresso, Vivarin, and methamphetamine cocktail. With a Red Bull chaser.

Ok, duct tape? Getting more tempting by the minute.

For example… at this very minute, and for the last half hour, instead of walking wherever he needs to go, he’s somersaulting backwards. All over the house. And talking. Nonstop. The Jack Russell Terrier of the house has told him ok, enough already, back off. Emphatically. People… he’s worn out a Jack Russell Terrier. And I’m trying to just let him be and run damage control.

But it does get better.

The School Nurse contacted me today, and the relay service didn’t start the call with Have you used relay before? to offer potential explanation to newbies. He just dumped her in the deep end. I actually had to explain to her quickly what the operator was there for. So the poor woman was so confused. And for that, i711 is going to be getting a bomb threat… strongly worded email. I gave her my address so she could end the call and take a quick time out to put a hit on operator… email me. She asked permission to contact Hawk-i and put the smackdown… light a fire under their asses… courteously request the process be expedited so Rocky can get the exorcism… his meds quicker and back to “normal”, and I use that term as loose as a two-dollar whore… a Mexican tourist’s bowel movement… Clinton’s definition of sex.

I said, “Sic ‘em, girl”… “Yes, please. Thank you.”

But it gets better.

I went in around lunchtime to give him another little threat of no driver license until he’s 18… pep talk. I told him that he really needed to try hard to get a grip and that I believed in him and I knew that he could do it. And put my hand on his head and said a very quick fervent prayer. I opened my eyes, and I watched my boy take a deep breath, and I saw him visibly calm for a moment.

My mission partially accomplished, I went down to Dino’s room while the kids were at recess to give his teacher a little heads-up on the spring program fiasco earlier this year. Long story short… Teacher and Sp Ed Teacher thought it would go fine, Dino seemed completely psyched for it, he froze at the door, wouldn’t go in, *big inhale* meltdown complete with terrified sobbing, school counselor comforted me as I sobbed, “I’m so tired; why can’t I just have a normal kiiiid?” *big exhale* Oy. Wasn’t pretty. Anyway. Ok, pep talk for Rocky, check; warning the other teacher of potential meltdown, check; my work here was done.

But it gets better.

Received a little later from Wfgt today…

———-
RE: Rocky
From: Wfgt
Sent: Thu 12/06/07 1:51 PM
To: Dory

I really hope that you didn’t feel bombarded by all the emails/calls. Hopefully things are getting worked out and will smooth out soon enough.

The following is meant only as a tool we can use to gauge Rocky’s days…on a 1-5 scale (1 being productive/5 being duct tape). Yesterday Rocky shouted “fart” a few times during a lesson, I spoke with him about it so instead of saying it…he wrote fart many, many times [did I mention this woman is a genius? I never would've thought of that] to cover a piece of paper. (Much less distracting, if we are looking for positives). The good news is that Rocky did have a better day today with no “fart” outbursts. I attribute that to your pep talk, so THANKS! Yesterday was a 4 fart day, today was about a 2.5.

I just wanted your input b/c I really could go both ways on this. I CAN send Rocky’s work home with him but I truly don’t want to “punish” him for something that he can not control. [my love for this woman, albeit a non-lesbian sort, could potentially consume me] He did complete a few assignments today (better than yesterday) and the ones he did not, are not vital. He catches on so quickly to things that it wouldn’t be a major set back for him to have a few unproductive days. However, if you think that it would be best to keep him accountable, I can see that side too. I will do whatever you think is best. Me, I am crossing my fingers for a snow day….

Let me know what you think! Thanks again for the support and talk with Rocky!

Wfgt
———-

I.
Love.
Her.

But wait, it gets better.

Ok, what I’m about to tell you next, they don’t make a big enough thesaurus for all the words needed to adequately express my thanks. When I got home, I had an incredibly unexpected surprise. One of you amazing Intarwebb-Compadres was an answer to prayer today. One of you lovely Internets PayPal’d me $150 to get Rocky’s meds. And you don’t even know… I can’t even… I wish I could… yeah. Ok, imagine today is opposite day, and the most sparse, simple statement is actually the most elaborate, lavish, exquisitely perfect profession of gratefulness. Ok? Ready?

Thank you.

It. Gets. Better.

When we went to pick up the boys today, we went into the school so we could profess my undying adoration thanks to Wfgt and the amazing news that he would be coming to school medicated in the morning courtesy of the Angelic Tubes of the Internets. We thanked Wfgt for being straight-up and not pussyfooting or beating around the bush about the troubles. And for her incredible sense of humor. And her seemingly unending supply of kind patience with our boy. And just being awesomely cool in general. Wfgt thanked us for all our cooperation. (Um, we’re the parents, isn’t that our job?) And for our sense of humor. And for not going berzerk on her, psycho-parent style. It was a nauseatingly disgusting bloodbath of mutual syrupy admiration. I’m so thankful for a teacher that understands that you can either cry about it or laugh about it; it’s your choice.

HunkyDory’s official partyline is that yes, the meds help, but Rocky has to work hard to overcome the ADHD/Asperger’s Syndrome; pills aren’t magic or even a valid excuse to completely blow off responsibility. I have ADD and take meds too so I have that to share with him; I can tell him that Mom works hard to overcome and he can too. Some people have to work a little harder at life, and sure, that’s not fair, but life’s not fair so you might as well get used to it. He can probably recite that little lecture of mine along with me by now. So he’s going to do all the assignments he missed, but I will wait until he’s medicated to have him do it.

And now, Mitsy… The Weather.

And we’re having quite the snowstorm here. The City of Cedar Rapids has declared snow emergency, which sounds kind of scary but it just means that no one can park in the street so the plows can get through. Everybody in Cedar Rapids is closed down or canceled including both colleges. But let’s not postpone the Holiday Program! I do have to give them kudos on the whole Holiday/Christmas issue; like many other schools, they had a program about learning about many other kinds of celebrations. I’m sure you’re familiar with this, but let me just tell you something that made me raise my eyebrows. The gist of it is the children are painting all the windows of the shops downtown. Guess what shop wants the kids to paint their windows with a pretty “Closed for Ramadan” motif?

The Snack Shack.

Yikes.

But I’m oh so pleased to report that The Dinosaur did not freak out. He participated (for the most part; I’ll take what I can get) by doing the same moves that the other kids did to the music. He sang with the other kids (a little bit; again with the taking, getting). And as if that wasn’t enough, he marched (literally) up the microphone, delivered a line of the program perfectly, and marched smartly (again, literally) back to his place.

You guys, this is big. It was a good day.

Just when I think I can’t hack it anymore; when I think that just can’t take another step; when the black hole seems altogether too enticing; when I lose sight of the light at the end of the tunnel… God steps in and uses astonishingly empathetic Internets (you are my peeeepuuuull) and a super-cool teacher; He unbinds my mind so my words they flow like cleansing, cool spring water; and He softly puts his hands on each of my boys’ heads… and my eyes are stinging? And the tears aren’t sad? What is this?

Is this what happy feels like? I kind of forgot. I like it.

God bless you, my friends; He’s sure blessed me.

My first memory…

We had a Doberman named Bud who was the best bodyguard in the world. Dad loves to talk about how when I was a baby, they would put me down to play on my blanket. If I started to venture off the blanket, Bud would just lay his massive self down in front of me and block that path.

Mom made me a hobby horse. He was cream canvas with a black yarn mane and forelock, and eyes with lashes embroidered with black floss. It was springtime, and I was playing outside the house on Croton Road. Bud and I were just wandering around outside and I was riding my Hobby Horse. His canvas head was still crisply new; the scent of the new material strong and almost intoxicating. His mane and forelock were untangled and the brand new yarn was so black it was almost shiny. I decided that he was thirsty and dunked his muzzle in the horse’s water trough. I remember looking around me. In front of me is the horse pasture, and the top row of wire is barbed and hot. The sky was a light powder blue with wispy clouds. I hear birds calling to each other, chattering furiously. Farther back I can barely see the pine tree forest where we chop down our Christmas tree. To my left is the barn, it is just weathered wood, with barely any paint on it. A little farther left is another horse pasture, separate from the one in front of me. A sorrel mare is grazing, twitching her hide to shoo the flies off her sides and swishing flies with her tail. Her colt is playing around in the grass, feeling all fruity and bucking just for the joy of it. Behind me is our house; my parents bought it as a fixer-upper and it is in progress with fresh plywood and black tar paper here and there. Farther back is the road, and a U-shaped gravel driveway around the house. Bud hears Mom calling before I do, and he nudges me toward the house. I lift Hobby Horse up out of the water trough, water with green slimies streaming from Hobby Horse’s soaked muzzle. I turn and head towards the house, trailing and flinging water as I make him canter. But Mom’s irritated because I dunked Hobby Horse into the trough. Her eyebrows furrow and her lips purse; now he’s going to have to come off the broomstick and go in the washer. Puzzled, I think, how else was I supposed to water him?

Hey, I said “My first memory” not “My first interesting memory.”

*sticks out tongue atcha*

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude.