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Someday, Someday
By Stephanie Kemp
Someday, Someday
By Stephanie Kemp
I wish this Tuesday morning was a Friday (sense memory of teenaged freedom).
I wish this 7:25 am was 5:00am (only moments of current daily peace and possibility).
I wish the woods weren’t turning back into a city tomorrow (no space and worries about Kim Jong-Un).
Is this the day it is going to be?
I wish so many things:
That summer wasn’t over (I think I wish this…..I usually do, and completely mean it).
That I had somehow finished the middle school film we shot all spring and promised to have on the first day back.
Fuck.
That I wrote more than just today’s entry this summer.
That I had figured out how to monetize the work I (mostly? sometimes?) love.
That I had been:
… more supportive of (and nicer to) my husband.
…patient with my kids.
…present for my writing partner.
…disciplined in (protective of?) getting my own shit done.
That I wasn’t on fire from the inside.
That the first two weeks of summer hadn’t had to be spent writing letters to the school district and attending meetings to save our elementary school principal’s job. That I hadn’t received a cease and desist letter from my very good friends about showing our school fundraising film that had a shot of their kids in it.
That that fucking kid Ned didn’t call anyone the N word. That no one ever called anyone the N word.
That my mom wasn’t dying. Or living. Like this.
That I knew how this would end for her.
That it wouldn’t be brutal.
That she wouldn’t run out of lung capacity.
Or money.
That it might even - somehow - be lovely.
Can it?
Even in little bits of lovely?
And I need to find room inside of me again. To breathe. To have thoughts. To sit still. Be nice. Release my fists.
This will be a morning that I will write about my mom. 50 years and 11 days in, maybe it’s time.
To at least start.
And then I will write about the amazing day that was my 50th birthday party non-party. A simple one night stay at a local hotel turned into 60 friends showing up on a sunny Saturday for a dip in the pool, plus a beer and/or burger. I was happy for 48 hours straight. Without a thought of the summer that had come before it or a worry about the fall that will follow it. My husband pulled a fast one. And pulled off the impossible. As my daughter said as she was leaving the hotel the next day to go to Raging Waters without me: “Now you have a birthday you will remember, Mom! I have the sunblock. Bye!”
But I digress.
My mom is 75.
If you met her you would love her.
Her warmth.
Her smile.
Her cookies.
Her commitment to her Canadian Club at 5:00 and her cocktail party ability to make the end of every day fun.
You would think she is beautiful.
You would be taken aback by her mottled and purple and bruised paper skin.
You would have to settle into your discomfort with her lung cracking, mucus filled cough.
You wouldn’t want her to kiss you.
Or use her towels too far into the week.
You would think she is a spry 90.
As she is mostly at home at night now (can’t drive past sunset - macular degeneration), you would likely be with her at home. You would see pictures of her family - daughters, grandkids, late husband, step kids and grandkids, parents, siblings, friends - everywhere. And she would tell you about everyone, somehow covering up the extra beat it might take to register who each person is, what the story behind the picture was. She would have to make sure she had one of the magnifying glasses with the built in light source so she could see the pictures. There is one school picture of a boy in the place of honor above the sink. She might currently not be able to tell you who he is. She would laugh at that in the moment but it would scare her. And then she would tell you in the morning (if you had been invited to sleepover in the princess room and wake up to barnyard animal waffles) that he is the son of one of her beloved cleaning girls.
They are the sole reason she has been able to live on her own in the 2 years since her husband (separate essay - see Tracy Letts) died. She loves these young women. They come on Monday and Friday. They sort out her pills each week. 12 a day. Morning and night. They make sure she does her breathing treatments. They set her phone to go off at 7pm so she doesn’t forget her nighttime meds. She remembers most of the time.
And then takes them, because she loves these girls who love her back.
They check on her even during their off days.
They call us when they are worried.
They share in the collective hope that she doesn’t fall down those fucking stairs.
That she won’t crash the car.
That she won’t burn the house down.
That she could somehow quit smoking.
That she won’t die.
Or at least be alone when she does.
Or scared.
They will take her to her biopsy on Friday.
More digression.
Because “It will be the COPD that gets her.”
If you were in the kitchen (you would be), she would make sure you didn’t see her Benson & Hedges hidden in the utensil drawer.
You would be offered shrimp cocktail and raspberry brie puffs.
There would be wine offered, but you might want to bring your own.
There would be butter.
You would wonder why she has to keep getting things from the garage but returns empty handed.
But then you would breathe through your nose and stop wondering.
You would want to leave the house often to go for walks out the back door. Alone. And be relieved when it was bedtime. Hopefully before a third cocktail was poured. Until a few years ago, a third cocktail was nothing. Possibly even less than standard. But at 100 pounds now, it is a different story.
Every day.
She is fine unless she collapses at the knees like a discarded marionette and/or you have to catch her head like a melon before it hits the wall and smashes like a melon.
This can happen even when there are no cocktails.
I am not being flip.
I am heartbroken.
And furious.
I wish I could give her my oxygen.
Decisions have been made this summer and the fall will be filled with moving her to an independent living facility 5 minutes form my sister’s house in Chicago. We are pretending she will be independent. We are hoping she doesn’t run out of money. This doesn’t mean for any second, in any world, that we want her to die.
She thinks she is excited. It has gone well so far. She has told her friends that she can’t wait for them to come visit.
There is a gourmet market next door!
I am heartbroken.
Only heartbroken.
My sisters and I have officially become the parents. And not the kind of parenting that starts with excitement and a new baby in your arms. A baby with wide eyes and clear lungs, God willing.
She would hate this. It is going to be brutal in one way if she realizes what is happening and brutal in another other if she doesn’t.
I can’t find the good thing to wish for.
How can she live in a place where she will get kicked out for smoking?
What if she lives longer than her money lasts?
Shouldn’t we at least check into having someone move in with her at home?
What if she fucking hates it and we have sold her house?
Why didn’t she want to live near me in California?
Ah.
There it is.
I lost the battle(s).
I have to accept that and figure out a way to let it go. Find a way to be present for my own family.
I can’t save her.
And I can never blow up like that again at my sisters (separate essay, but has to do with a boat).
_________
Here’s the part where I:
Remember to “choose my lens.”
Remember to “define my cup.”
Remember that “anything can be a gift.”
Cliches are cliches for a reason, my mom would say (and I believe her), so…….
Reframe:
It is a sunny summer morning and I am in the mountains. My girls are downstairs drawing and listening to Dear Theodosia. It makes me weep every time. Happy tears. Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton are making me think it will be alright. You just can’t skip to the end. I am going to feed and hug my girls. Then go for a walk with (only) my husband.
Half full:
At least she wasn’t hospitalized this summer like she has been the past two. At least she didn’t have to be in the ICU on a ventilator while I was saying goodbye, Ginny was emailing her medical directive and Tracy was in the car heading through the middle of the night to get to us.
No witnessing the horrors of the intensive care delirium aftermath through violent tobacco and (possibly) alcohol withdrawals in addition to everything else.
No explaining that those weren’t her sunglasses inside of her, it was a catheter that won’t be there forever.
Obama is the president.
This is not your living room.
I love her.
I am furious.
I am heartbroken.
Scared.
Tired.
Sad.
It is so fucking confusing.
Gift:
At least we saved the principal.
And the gourmet market is walking distance and has a bar.
I am (still) my mother’s daughter.
I wish this 7:25 am was 5:00am (only moments of current daily peace and possibility).
I wish the woods weren’t turning back into a city tomorrow (no space and worries about Kim Jong-Un).
Is this the day it is going to be?
I wish so many things:
That summer wasn’t over (I think I wish this…..I usually do, and completely mean it).
That I had somehow finished the middle school film we shot all spring and promised to have on the first day back.
Fuck.
That I wrote more than just today’s entry this summer.
That I had figured out how to monetize the work I (mostly? sometimes?) love.
That I had been:
… more supportive of (and nicer to) my husband.
…patient with my kids.
…present for my writing partner.
…disciplined in (protective of?) getting my own shit done.
That I wasn’t on fire from the inside.
That the first two weeks of summer hadn’t had to be spent writing letters to the school district and attending meetings to save our elementary school principal’s job. That I hadn’t received a cease and desist letter from my very good friends about showing our school fundraising film that had a shot of their kids in it.
That that fucking kid Ned didn’t call anyone the N word. That no one ever called anyone the N word.
That my mom wasn’t dying. Or living. Like this.
That I knew how this would end for her.
That it wouldn’t be brutal.
That she wouldn’t run out of lung capacity.
Or money.
That it might even - somehow - be lovely.
Can it?
Even in little bits of lovely?
And I need to find room inside of me again. To breathe. To have thoughts. To sit still. Be nice. Release my fists.
This will be a morning that I will write about my mom. 50 years and 11 days in, maybe it’s time.
To at least start.
And then I will write about the amazing day that was my 50th birthday party non-party. A simple one night stay at a local hotel turned into 60 friends showing up on a sunny Saturday for a dip in the pool, plus a beer and/or burger. I was happy for 48 hours straight. Without a thought of the summer that had come before it or a worry about the fall that will follow it. My husband pulled a fast one. And pulled off the impossible. As my daughter said as she was leaving the hotel the next day to go to Raging Waters without me: “Now you have a birthday you will remember, Mom! I have the sunblock. Bye!”
But I digress.
My mom is 75.
If you met her you would love her.
Her warmth.
Her smile.
Her cookies.
Her commitment to her Canadian Club at 5:00 and her cocktail party ability to make the end of every day fun.
You would think she is beautiful.
You would be taken aback by her mottled and purple and bruised paper skin.
You would have to settle into your discomfort with her lung cracking, mucus filled cough.
You wouldn’t want her to kiss you.
Or use her towels too far into the week.
You would think she is a spry 90.
As she is mostly at home at night now (can’t drive past sunset - macular degeneration), you would likely be with her at home. You would see pictures of her family - daughters, grandkids, late husband, step kids and grandkids, parents, siblings, friends - everywhere. And she would tell you about everyone, somehow covering up the extra beat it might take to register who each person is, what the story behind the picture was. She would have to make sure she had one of the magnifying glasses with the built in light source so she could see the pictures. There is one school picture of a boy in the place of honor above the sink. She might currently not be able to tell you who he is. She would laugh at that in the moment but it would scare her. And then she would tell you in the morning (if you had been invited to sleepover in the princess room and wake up to barnyard animal waffles) that he is the son of one of her beloved cleaning girls.
They are the sole reason she has been able to live on her own in the 2 years since her husband (separate essay - see Tracy Letts) died. She loves these young women. They come on Monday and Friday. They sort out her pills each week. 12 a day. Morning and night. They make sure she does her breathing treatments. They set her phone to go off at 7pm so she doesn’t forget her nighttime meds. She remembers most of the time.
And then takes them, because she loves these girls who love her back.
They check on her even during their off days.
They call us when they are worried.
They share in the collective hope that she doesn’t fall down those fucking stairs.
That she won’t crash the car.
That she won’t burn the house down.
That she could somehow quit smoking.
That she won’t die.
Or at least be alone when she does.
Or scared.
They will take her to her biopsy on Friday.
More digression.
Because “It will be the COPD that gets her.”
If you were in the kitchen (you would be), she would make sure you didn’t see her Benson & Hedges hidden in the utensil drawer.
You would be offered shrimp cocktail and raspberry brie puffs.
There would be wine offered, but you might want to bring your own.
There would be butter.
You would wonder why she has to keep getting things from the garage but returns empty handed.
But then you would breathe through your nose and stop wondering.
You would want to leave the house often to go for walks out the back door. Alone. And be relieved when it was bedtime. Hopefully before a third cocktail was poured. Until a few years ago, a third cocktail was nothing. Possibly even less than standard. But at 100 pounds now, it is a different story.
Every day.
She is fine unless she collapses at the knees like a discarded marionette and/or you have to catch her head like a melon before it hits the wall and smashes like a melon.
This can happen even when there are no cocktails.
I am not being flip.
I am heartbroken.
And furious.
I wish I could give her my oxygen.
Decisions have been made this summer and the fall will be filled with moving her to an independent living facility 5 minutes form my sister’s house in Chicago. We are pretending she will be independent. We are hoping she doesn’t run out of money. This doesn’t mean for any second, in any world, that we want her to die.
She thinks she is excited. It has gone well so far. She has told her friends that she can’t wait for them to come visit.
There is a gourmet market next door!
I am heartbroken.
Only heartbroken.
My sisters and I have officially become the parents. And not the kind of parenting that starts with excitement and a new baby in your arms. A baby with wide eyes and clear lungs, God willing.
She would hate this. It is going to be brutal in one way if she realizes what is happening and brutal in another other if she doesn’t.
I can’t find the good thing to wish for.
How can she live in a place where she will get kicked out for smoking?
What if she lives longer than her money lasts?
Shouldn’t we at least check into having someone move in with her at home?
What if she fucking hates it and we have sold her house?
Why didn’t she want to live near me in California?
Ah.
There it is.
I lost the battle(s).
I have to accept that and figure out a way to let it go. Find a way to be present for my own family.
I can’t save her.
And I can never blow up like that again at my sisters (separate essay, but has to do with a boat).
_________
Here’s the part where I:
Remember to “choose my lens.”
Remember to “define my cup.”
Remember that “anything can be a gift.”
Cliches are cliches for a reason, my mom would say (and I believe her), so…….
Reframe:
It is a sunny summer morning and I am in the mountains. My girls are downstairs drawing and listening to Dear Theodosia. It makes me weep every time. Happy tears. Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton are making me think it will be alright. You just can’t skip to the end. I am going to feed and hug my girls. Then go for a walk with (only) my husband.
Half full:
At least she wasn’t hospitalized this summer like she has been the past two. At least she didn’t have to be in the ICU on a ventilator while I was saying goodbye, Ginny was emailing her medical directive and Tracy was in the car heading through the middle of the night to get to us.
No witnessing the horrors of the intensive care delirium aftermath through violent tobacco and (possibly) alcohol withdrawals in addition to everything else.
No explaining that those weren’t her sunglasses inside of her, it was a catheter that won’t be there forever.
Obama is the president.
This is not your living room.
I love her.
I am furious.
I am heartbroken.
Scared.
Tired.
Sad.
It is so fucking confusing.
Gift:
At least we saved the principal.
And the gourmet market is walking distance and has a bar.
I am (still) my mother’s daughter.