Grandma.

Steve,

I need to know if you got the books at the beginning of your school term.  If you did not I
need to tell the credit card company to take them off of our bill.

Grandma (Momz)

P.S.

I am going to change my computer name to Grandma because that is what the kids I
teach call me. 

---

For a little while, Mom started signing her e-mails "Grandma". She said it was because some students she taught called her that, but I think it was also because she really wanted to be a grandma. One morning when Mom dropped me off at elementary school, a teacher told me to wave goodbye to my grandmother. That must have hurt to hear, though she still joked about it from time to time. By the time her students were calling her grandma though, she seemed to really like the idea of having a grandbaby. 

Thinking about how excited Mom was at the thought of being a grandmother, I feel really awful that I couldn't make that happen for her. 

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

On the day of Mom's funeral, we gathered at the cemetery around Mom's casket, family in the front row. The pastor said a few words, but I don't recall a single one. Afterwards, Dad, my wife, my uncle and I walked past Mom's coffin, putting our hand on it as we passed. 

After the people who had come to pay their respects said a few words to Dad and me and got in their cars to drive to the wake, the funeral home director asked if we would like to see Mom lowered into the ground.  I felt I had to be present for it. There was an awkward period where it was unclear when that process would begin, and it turned out the grounds workers  were waiting for us to indicate we were ready. As they began to lower the coffin, a small dog appeared and began to happily run around us and the coffin. When the coffin had been fully lowered, everyone seemed to feel we were done. But not me. I wanted to grab a handful of dirt, and drop it over Mom's coffin. 

Where did this inclination come from for me? I suppose, for me, it starts with show business. A couple examples of this tradition being shown on television come to mind, but there are many other. A warning: a few minor spoilers for Friday Night Lights and Six Feet Under follow.

First, a scene that isn't quite on point, but stuck we me anyhow. This is from one of my favorite shows of all time, Friday Night Lights (Season 4, Episode 5, The Son). A little background to help explain the scene. Matt Saracen is at his father's funeral. He had always had a troubled relationship with his father, and has mixed emotions about his death. 

And then there is the clip below from Six Feet Under (Season 1, Episode 1). The scene is more or less self-explanatory, but it shows how two brothers and a mother confront the death of their father and husband, respectively.    

The internet, in its infinite wisdom, has some explanations for this tradition. According to Catherine Irving (a freelance writer with a bachelor's in Film and a minor in English; http://www.ehow.com/info_10006819_symbolism-throwing-dirt-coffin.html), the Christian observance of this tradition draws its roots back to ancient Egypt. Catherine is not the only person on the internet to give this explanation, but it unclear what they base their conclusions on. While the dirt is dropped, it is common to recite the words "ashes to ashes and dust to dust", which come from the Book of Common Prayer (not the bible, though they have roots in the bible).

After Mom's casket had been lowered, I looked around the cemetery for loose dirt, but there was none to be found. When I asked the funeral director, he looked around in confusion, but had no answer. Finally one of the grounds keepers got down on his belly next to the burial site, extended his arm deep down inside it, and grabbed a hunk of brown, wet earth from the side of the hole. He held it out in his hand, and I took it in my own. It felt heavy and cold. I stood looking down at Mom's final resting place and paused for a moment before dropping the dirt. It landed with a heavy and hollow thud against the steel frame of the casket. My hand was completely covered with mud, and I rubbed my hands together so the large globs of wet mud would fall off leaving only a dusty residue behind. It felt dirty, and that felt good. 

So what did it mean to me? It is an act of acceptance, and it is an act of honoring. I will drop the first dirt onto her casket because I know that she is gone. I will get my hands dirty to solidify the memory of her passing.

Reminders.

The other day, I was walking from work to meet my wife and her friend for dinner. I had Rob Lowe's latest book, Love Life, playing on Audible on my iPhone, and he started telling the story of the night his wife's father died. In one part, Rob describes how a doctor blocked Rob and his wife from entering the emergency room where doctors were doing everything they could to save the father's life. 

Hearing the story transported me in an instant to the memory of Dad and I dashing down the hospital hallway to the room where Mom was living her last moments. At first, a doctor had asked us to step out of the room. Seeing us craning our necks to see through a set of windows with the blinds partly closed, a nurse asked us if we would like to be with Mom. When we nodded yes, she cleared a path for us through a flock of doctors.

As I walked down 6th Avenue, I felt as present in that room with Mom as I had when I had lived it. I began to walk more slowly. How odd, I thought, at the realization that I was headed to dinner with one of Annie's friends who had been the most supportive when Mom died. So often I feel that things connect to a memory of Mom. When she died, the axis of the planet changed for me forever. It makes sense though, because she was always a pillar my life had been built upon. Life trudges on though, and so I snapped back to 6th Avenue and headed to dinner.      

Heading Home - Chapter 2

Seeing Mom like that instantly brought me back to a long faded memory. I was eight years old, and I came downstairs early one morning to find Mom curled into a ball on the couch. Her body was twisted in a way that made it seem impossible for her to be comfortable, but when I looked at her face she seemed to be totally at ease. At that instant, I had the distinct feeling that I was seeing Mom as she had looked as a teenager, napping away an afternoon without any thought about what she might do after she awoke. It was so captivating that several minutes passed before I noticed the two wicker baskets on the kitchen table.  They were each filled with long green strands of plastic grass and surrounded by a mix of chocolates, peeps and toys that I had at some time or another pleaded for my parents to buy for me. I looked back and forth between my sleeping mother and the baskets on the table, not consciously accepting what I knew in the back of my mind.  

At last, I let out a gasp. Mom sat up with a jolt. She suddenly looked exhausted. As I look back on the memory, I came to appreciate what she had done for me. She must have worked the midnight shift at the hospital where she worked as a pharmacist. Then, after a long drive home across a dark highway, instead of heeding the cries of her body and crawling into bed, she had begun to assemble and then hide my Easter baskets so I would not be disappointed when I woke up and began searching the house. At the time though, all I felt was a disorienting feeling of shock tinged with a vague bitterness at having been deceived for so long. The Easter Bunny was actually my mom. She must be Santa Claus too. And the tooth fairy. All of the mystical creatures that never really made much sense - it had all been Mom.  

If I had more time to reflect as that memory came back, I would have felt a swelling pride and debt for the efforts Mom's put into making my Easter special despite being so exhausted. But at the moment, there was no time. 

"I'm.... stuck." 

If you've never been in a situation before where you find your recently deceased mother on the floor of your bathroom in need of help - and I strongly suspect that you haven't - it is difficult to know how to react. I'm not terribly pleased with my reaction.

"Are you real?" I asked in a small voice. 

Mom didn't respond, but instead she rolled onto her other side and tried unsuccessfully to push herself into a kneeling position. I wasn't sure, but it seemed like she was ever so slightly shrinking in size too. After a few moments of trying, she collapsed back onto her side and let out a heavy but healthy sounding sigh. I crouched down next to her and hugged my knees against my chest. I felt an urge to be as close as possible to her, but I deliberately avoided touching her. I couldn't shake the thought, screaming through my head, that if I touched her she might vanish. She moaned slightly. 

"Steven, I need help." Mom didn't seem to want to look at me, as if she were ashamed that she couldn't find a way to get up on her own. She frowned, and adjusted herself on the floor, acting as if she meant to be lying exactly where she was. Still uncertain of what to do, I rubbed the palms of my hands against my forehead, trying to squeeze an answer out of my brain.

"What if you disappear when I touch you Mom?" 

Mom shook her head with mild exasperation. "You're talking like a crazy person. Help me up and we'll talk about that some more. I know a thing or two about crazy people."

I thought about the situation some more, and I concluded that I definitely couldn't leave Mom there without even trying to help her. With no other option, I slowly reached out my hand. I was moving slowly enough for Mom to glance at my hand twice, with the second glance accompanied by a subtle shake of her head. Just before my hand made contact with her, I lunged forward and grabbed hold of her arm, as if trying to grab her before she could dissipate. 

"Okay then? Now help me up. My neck is not in a good position." I grabbed hold of Mom by the hip and helped pull her into a kneeling position. Without letting go of her arm, I stepped around behind her and we counted to three together as I helped lift her until she could stand up on her own. Finally back on her feet, Mom swayed in place a bit before she steadied herself.

"What happened Mom?"

"I got some water on the floor while I was brushing my teeth and my feet flipped right out from under me. I thought I was going to die!"

The words hit me like a bucket of ice being dumped over my head. You did die, I thought to myself. There was something horrible about this living version of my mom panicking about her fear of dying. I gripped onto her arm harder.

"You can let go now," Mom said. Maybe I was holding a little too tight. I relaxed a bit, but still didn't release. Just then, I noticed a small trickle of blood snaking its way through Mom's hair. I touched it with my pointer finger, and it came away crimson. 

"I think you hit your head when you feel," I said with alarm. 

"You think I'm acting funny because I bumped my head don't you?" Mom seemed to be trying to evaluate the situation and process my reaction at the same time. Her tone was mostly bland, but I could detect a note of dismay too.

"I didn't say you were acting funny Mom.  But I think we need to take you to the hospital. You might need stitches. And you should get checked for a concussion."

"No, I'm done with hospitals!"

"Done with hospitals?"

"I'm not going back to the hospital unless my life depends on it," Mom said defiantly.

I shook my head. "It might Mom."

"I'm not going and that's final Steven!" Mom swung her arms forward and back, almost shaking me off of her, but I held on, barely.

"Okay fine!" I relented. Mom stopped trying to throw me off. The effort seemed to have tired her and her shoulders slumped down.

"I need to go to bed," Mom said. As usually, she knew what was best.  

I shifted my grip on Mom's arm from one hand to the other so that we could link arms as we walked over to her bed. We shuffled over slowly, without paying much mind to the passing of time. I could feel Mom's steady pulse in her arm. Mom sat down on the couch and began the process of changing into her pajamas. I pulled off her socks and then helped her to get her sweatshirt over her head. I looked at the pile of cloths next to the couch and picked out a pajama top that had a puppy pattern on it. It had been one of her favorites.

 "You would be a good nurse you know," Mom said as she poked her head through the neck hole of her pajama top.  

"I don't have the training for it," I replied.  

"The most important part is your personality. You care about people. And you're patient." 

"I think the medical part of the job is important too Mom," I said, as I helped her stand up and we walked over to her bed. As Mom climbed in, the bed let out a satisfying creak. It had been a while since anyone had laid on it, and it seemed to welcome the return of its familiar occupant.  Mom shifted a bit. 

"Are you comfortable?" I asked. "I really want to make sure you find a comfortable position tonight." 

Mom looked at me, and said, "You know that having you was the best thing that ever happened to me, don't you Steven?" She had said the same thing to me nearly every night that I helped her to bed. It was such a familiar script, and I had my line too. I certainly wasn't going to miss it if this was our last reading.

"It was the best thing that ever happened to me too," I said.  I couldn't muster my usual sense of playfulness, and the words dropped from my mouth like heavy sandbags. Mom seemed disappointed, but she motioned for me to lean in for a good night kiss on the cheek. 

"I love you honey," Mom said. "You get some sleep now." I nodded softly and she rolled away to face the wall. I saw that she had left a bit of red blood on the pillow where her head had been resting. After a while, her breathing became slow and heavy. Her face took on a grimace, as if sleep no longer brought her peace. It had been years since I had seen her sleeping as peacefully as the morning I discovered she was the Easter Bunny. I stayed with her, holding onto her arm the entire while. I lost sense of time passing. Was it minutes? Hours? I had no idea. My eyelids felt heavy, but I wouldn't allow them to close. Somehow I had been given the gift of this visit from Mom, and I refused to let it end. There was no way to know if Mom would be there when I woke up. As my head began to bob, I began to chew on my cheeks fighting against fatigue. The last thing I remember was nuzzling my head against Mom's hand. It was warm and familiar.  

Gordon Ramsey's Scrambled Eggs.

About four years ago, I discovered a youtube video where Gordon Ramsey frantically prepares a batch of scrambled eggs, served over a piece of toast, with pan fried tomatoes as a side. I tried the recipe and it turned out fantastic. I've made it several times for my wife, and I had long wanted to prepare it for my parents some time. For whatever reason, truly no good reason, I never got around to making it for them. I'll never get to do it for Mom now. 

Heading Home - A Story.

The television faded to black, and I looked over at the dog, Mei Tai Zi. He looked perfectly content to sleep the night away on the living room floor, but I needed a bed. Grabbing the side of the couch, I pulled myself to a standing position and surveyed the living room. Rather than chasing away the shadows, the moonlight streaming in gave the room a haunted feeling. It felt like I was seeing a vision of the house from the future, where it stood abandoned and worn down. It was painful to think of my childhood home in that state. I shuffled off towards the stairs and my bedroom.   

I paused at the bottom of the staircase and looked at Mom's bed. She had slept downstairs for a few months before she died. The stairs were simply too exhausting - and therefore risky - to end the day with. Before, I would have been helping her to change into her pajamas and climb into bed. As slow as that process was, I never wanted to rush it. Most days sprint along, leaving me feeling like I'm constantly falling farther and farther behind. But while I helped Mom go to bed, I was at peace in the moment. I hadn't been able to find another way to connect with that feeling. Mom's bed was neatly made, and showed no signs that anyone had slept in it for a while. I put my hand on the matress and lightly pressed down, then headed upstairs to my bedroom.

I hadn't been sleeping enough, and the complaints from my body and brain were now incessant. I must have fallen asleep the moment I closed my eyes, but I couldn't remember it happening. I couldn't have slept long, though, before I woke up with a jolt. The air in my room had chilled during the night, and it seemed to squeeze at my lungs with each breath. I scanned the room for some hint at what had made the noise, but everything seemed in order.  Perhaps the sound was a part of a dream.

I had already put my head back down to sleep when I noticed it. A thin sliver of light slashing across my floor. It had slid in under the crack beneath my door, and now shone plainly, as if it had been there all along. Had I turned off all of the lights on my way up? I couldn't remember doing so, but I had always been careful to do so in the past. 

I crept to the door and looked underneath it. The sliver of light betrayed no sign of its origin. Softly, I open the door of my bedroom and stepped out into the hallway. My father's soft snores floated through the air. I saw clearly now that the light was from Mom's room downstairs. Had I left a light on down there? I couldn't have. I clearly remembered it being dark as I headed up the stairs. I listened intently, but there were no unusual sounds present. I felt somehow frozen as I stood there looking down. There could be something dangerous downstairs - someone who broke into our home looking to steal some electronics.

Or it could be that Mom had come back. In the back of my mind, I knew that there was some logical explanation for how the light had been turned on, but as long as I stayed upstairs, I could preserve the possibility that Mom was downstairs in her bed, still alive. Or at least, I could delay a tussle with a burglar.  

Finally I convinced myself to investigate, and I began my descent. With each step lower, I grew more anxious at what I might find. I should have found some sort of weapon, I chided myself. As I reached the landing, I could see Mom's bed clearly. It was empty as I had left it. I scanned the room for some sign of disturbance, but everything seemed to be in order. I walked over to the small lamp that was on to examine it, and noticed it was plugged into a timer. My dad must have the light set to go on at a certain time every night. I grunted to myself, disappointed at the explanation and feeling the mystery drain out of the evening. I turned around and looked back at Mom's empty bed. The house seemed somehow more silent than before.

"I need help!" 

The cry came from somewhere else. It seemed like it was in another room around the corner. To my surprise, I found myself moving briskly towards the sounds. The urgency in the voice I heard seemed to have overwhelmed my prudence.  

"Help, please!" The voice was coming from the bathroom. I tried the door, and the handle turned easily. Finally my sense caught up with me. Should I really be barging into a bathroom when there is no reason for anyone to be in there? How could anyone have gotten into the house? Why would they be using the bathroom? Why would they be calling for help? It didn't add up.

"Help!" I couldn't stop myself now. I recognized the voice and the desperation behind it. As I opened the door, I could already see her on the ground, lying on her side. It was Mom. 

Buns of Steel.

Before I ever started working out, I witnessed my mom catch a bit of the 80s fitness craze. She bought a handful of workout videos, and would work up a sweat in our living room while I watch (or, more likely, went off to play in another room). We still have the videos in our basement, along with all of our other VHS tapes. The one that sticks out in my mind the most is Buns of Steel. 

Lately, my wife has wanted to get into a more regular exercise routine. She had an idea that it would be fun if we did something a little older, like Buns of Steel.  We could tell people that we were doing the Buns of Steel workouts, and all laugh about it. 

A quick youtube search turns up all the old classics, so we gave it a try. Buns of Steel is quirky, casual and accessible. The workouts are not terribly challenging, but they're also enough to feel like you're getting a good burn in.  Each time we turn on the video, I think back to the days when I would watch Mom put on her workout gear and start bouncing around in the living room. I wonder if she struggled with the same parts of the video that I did. I wonder what her reactions were to the funny little comments Greg Smithey makes. 

It feels good to be connecting with another part of Mom's memory. To know that, so many years ago, she was doing the same workout that I'm doing now.