Okay, so the last time I stopped at a fast food joint since before this summer was 1991, so I’m a bit out of the loop. But geez–it’s been forever since you can type a cent sign off a standard keyboard! I wonder what they would have said if I tried to pay with a credit card.

I did question the sanity of refilling 32 ounces of soda, and how often it’s done by the general public. I drank 64 ounces yesterday, and boy, did it feel like it. Crackling headache through the night, restless sleep and waking up periodically feeling paranoid, yet also a sense of extreme exhaustion. The stuff is addictive, though. I forgot how good it is, even though there is absolutely nothing natural in it. If this is what people’s tastes are used to, it’s no wonder why things like real juices are doctored up with flavorings and more sugar. And if people are ingesting 64 ounces a day, no wonder this country is so stressed.

But I have to say, it did make the drive more tolerable. Or, I’m getting used to the long journey up to the res. It was a quick visit for me this time, just a couple of short visits with my friend in the hospital. Love that man. Need to figure out how to make this work without driving myself nuts. And going broke.

I left the hospital much later than I expected, partly to avoid an incoming storm and partly so I wouldn’t have to drive at night for too long. I forgot the time change added an hour of darkness to my trip. Some day, I will drive through the Medicine Bow area when I can actually see it. For now, for some reason, that part of the road in the dark reminds me of Hawaii, of all places. Just as you start going up the hill going East.

Last night I took I80 to I25 because on the way up I got a ticket on 287 just south of Laramie and didn’t want to drive 65 mph on that road to make amends. Had to laugh at that, because when I hit 25, between the wind and the unfamiliar rutted road, I had to slow down, anyway. My air pressure light keeps coming on and I wasn’t 100% sure if there were high winds causing me to veer or if the roads were bad, or if a tire was going flat. It was too dark to pull over and so I basically zenned out with the feel of my car on the road for twenty miles until I got to the first gas station. It would have been a stupid decision if I did have tire issues, but luckily, I didn’t.

Then there was a bunch of construction on I25. It wasn’t going to start until I was long off the road, but all the warning signs were set up for 55 mph anyway. If I drive 80 mph, the drive takes me about 5 hours. At 65 mph most of the way, it takes 6.

The cop tried to tell me speeding wouldn’t make much a difference in time. Wait until his wife has a baby. And his argument about safety is phooey. Doing 75 on 287 feels much safer than doing it on I25, which is much more crowded and uneven.

Sorry for what I think is another boring blog, but with all the drama in my life, boring is feeling rather nice.

I was at the gym, and called him back just before I was about to ride home. I sat on the curb next to my bicycle and listened, tears streaming down my cheeks. People, strangers, walked by. I don’t know if they noticed. I didn’t care, I was so focussed on the words, “Probably two weeks, maybe a month. Can you close up your home and come back?”

Hollow and alone, I sat on the curb for a little while after I hung up with my brother. Of course, I’d go back to be with Mom. For as long as it took.

My workout buddy, who had never in more than a year missed a swim, wasn’t at the gym that day. Nor did he answer his phone. He’d pretty much disappeared, whether by intent or because it was the time of year when I perceived he usually cleaned house of friendships/girlfriends. Later, my mother’s death would provide the perfect out for him. It was ultimately a relief because he really was no friend, but at the time, it added to the pain.

“As long as it took”  turned out to be less than a week. But I didn’t know that  and packed as if I was leaving for months. I cancelled all my clients and told them I didn’t know when I’d be back. I didn’t pack any clothes appropriate for a funeral. I had to hope. Miracles happen.

I closed down my house in hours. I gave away all my perishable food and put all my grains in the refrigerator. I didn’t want mice. Mom had mice and from her experience I knew I didn’t want them. (She had really strong mice, I’d later find out.) I bought two pounds of organic Costa Rican coffee to take back with me. I cleaned my bathrooms and arranged for my neighbors to pick up the mail. I told them not to water my yard. I figured what survived needed to be there.

I don’t remember how I got to the airport. My closest friends were working or out of town or not responding to my voice mails. Whether a friend drove me, I don’t remember. It didn’t matter, I suppose; I felt that alone, anyway. If someone did drive me, of course, I am grateful. I simply have no recollection.

I do know that when I came back, no one picked me up. I had to hire a driver. That just about killed me it hurt so much, but I was unable to reach out to a wider circle of friends. I felt too vulnerable to get close to someone new. I kept wondering, why was I so stubborn about staying in Boulder when I really have no one here? I do remember on that ride home calling a guy I’d met once before, who visited me in Boulder the weekend I put my cat down. A virtual stranger who happened to stand by me through two life altering events. He was a lifesaver. I felt embarrassed and eventually way too dependent on him, which scared me, so I let him go before I got ignored during ski season.

Mom seemed tiny in the hospital bed. She didn’t want to be looked at. She didn’t want to talk–couldn’t talk. Her lung had collapsed from the tumor and even though they’d drained it and she felt better, it was painful to breathe, harder to talk. It was no Hollywood grand scenario of saying good-bye and making peace. No, it was fighting with the hospital to release her and avoiding the topic of death. It was arriving late and going out for food when another visitor arrived because Mom was a private person or we couldn’t handle the silence. She shared a room with another woman. Both faced the hallway and tv instead of looking out the window, which was behind them. There was no intimacy. Just the sound of her labored breathing. Her pain.

I’d sat with her before in hospitals, and we’d been close. But this was different. This was the end. And we didn’t talk about it.

Obama had emailed the country that week and asked Americans for their opinions about health care reform. Or maybe he’d emailed months earlier. During the hours in the hospital, I kept thinking, “Just let them go. For god’s sake, let them go.”

Where Hospice was in all this I have no idea. I blame the hospital for taking five days, FIVE of her LAST days, to release her. Five days of extra suffering. Five days of avoiding the peace of being at home with family. Five days, they took. And they had the gall to bill her for that time.

Bastards.

I haven’t thought this through in months. But today, now, this moment, it’s all before me, but as a sketch. I no  longer remember the details. I have to look up dates, except I can’t find last year’s day timer.

It’d rained back east for something like forty days last year. Mom died, finally at home, at sunrise.  A clear, sunny sunrise. She later came to me in a dream, wearing a nightgown and looking twenty years younger. She sat down next to me on the steps leading down into the den, and said in a playful, youthful sing-song, “I don’t want to die on a rainy day. I want to die on a sunny day.” She spoke as if to a little girl. Me. Her youngest.

Mom. She often spun things to see the bright side, to ease somebody’s pain. Her last words were in a dream, and they came with peace. Gave me peace. For a moment.

I think I’ve already shared all this on my blog. I am grateful for the space. I feel a burden to friends repeating myself so much. I see their attention drifting, or their discomfort, so I just shut up. Speaking out to cyberspace has been a lifeline. And so I will add the following onto this already too-long entry. I feel like a child writing to Santa Claus–maybe Mom will hear.

Things I would have shared/talked about with Mom if she’d been here this year, in no particular order. Some things she would have annoyed me with her response. I’ve marked those with an “*.” I miss her anyway.

• The process of redoing my bathrooms–color, products, procedures, outcome.
• Chocolate
• My new roof and she was right that I should have replaced it years ago.
• Selling my car (I really missed calling her about that. It caught me off guard, I guess).
• This new chocolate bar (85% cocoa)/coconut bar combination I’ve been mixing.
• Whether I should eat the cantaloupe whose skin turned blue because I left it in the plastic bag.
• That I did eat it after chopping away most of it–and it was supremely delicious, as she would have suspected.
• My sadness.
• The sinful peppermint brownies my sister made for Christmas.
• How alone I’ve felt.
• How much I miss my cats.
• How much I miss her.
• My birthday (though I did listen to the voicemail message she sent me last year. It’s why I can’t cancel my land line, even though I have a recording of it elsewhere).
• Her birthday.
• The holidays.
• Florida.
• My trip to Yellowstone.*
• Planning for my bike tour.*
• Those yummy chocolates the Touring Store guy sent me with my purchase.
• My novel.*
• Joining Costco.
• Buying a car.
• My trip out to my sister’s.
• Really bad Boulder cupcakes.
• How grateful I am that she’s my Mom.
• My friends’ wedding.
• Pictures.
• Getting back in touch with childhood friends.
• What I ate–for lunch, at various schmoozes, potlucks and dinners out.
• Tru pickles–a recent, awesome find!
• How expensive it is to eat organic.
• That I had to get my MacBook fixed–again.
• That Target expanded its food section.
• Finding a good upholstery steam cleaner.
• Considerations about getting my floor refinished now that my cats are gone and getting a new kitchen floor.
• Trek v. wood for my deck.
• Water issues in the park where I live.
• That I can’t go back to where she and I hiked.
• The mpg on my car.
• Milk-milk v. soy milk.
• Coffee.
• Pancakes.
• Love.
• My dream about her.
• That fabric softener dilutes the effectiveness of sports clothing, which makes me split my laundry into more loads so that at least some of them will be scented and remind me of her.
• That I started to use a detergent with fabric softener after she died because it reminded me of her.
• That my editor seems to like my book.
• That I may have killed a favorite, lush plant by repotting it.

Mom was someone who I could call and if she wasn’t there, she’d get back with me in a day (unless she was traveling).

Who replaces that? Who cares what I eat, cook, find on sale? Who else?

Miss you, Mom. I know you’re at peace. I’m grateful for that.

And then my neighbor goes outside for a smoke.

Ten acres. Ten acres and a yurt. Ten acres, a yurt, and a working washer and dryer.

That’s all I need.

Every morning, I wonder why I spend it enjoying the trees and sun from inside my home. Then the cigarette smoke wafts through the swamp cooler, and I remember.

Ten acres, a yurt, a working washer and dryer, and a herd of merino wool sheep. And a herding dog.

Now, don’t laugh. I am literally the runt in a family of giants. My brothers loom over six-feet (one reaches 6’6″ and has a son who is an inch or two taller) and my sister is a good three to four inches taller than me. I am not only the shortest in my family, but the youngest, and when visiting, am reminded of this every day, be it with references to being a “little” sister or with a sore back that comes

from having to crane my neck to see everyone.

As a child, on the way to school (a two-mile walk), I took three steps for everyone one of theirs. My sister’s hand-me-downs were always too tight and too long. I thought it was her height that helped her be so skinny and wished I could be taller if just to be thin. I still remember that I so much wanted my knees to be able to bend at the end of the couch. That didn’t happen until I was much older than my sister was when this picture was taken. I wanted to be tall. I wanted to be equal.

When I moved to Colorado, SUVs were given an emissions break that just about had me foaming at the mouth. I even refer to it in my first novel. And, of course, their mpg ratings were horrendous. Truth is, I was so busy being politically correct, I didn’t notice that on the street in my Honda Accord, I felt like a shrimp. Especially in this state, where everyone and their mother seems to drive a truck, SUV or, now, crossover.

I’d finally moved away from the giants at home and I still felt short. It was horrible.  Left-hand turns were impossible if an SUV pulled opposite me because I couldn’t see around them. In stop-and-go traffic, forget about estimating how far it extended if I had one of those behemoths in front of me. Granted, I used to take the truck lane whenever I drove the NJ Turnpike and suffered the same fate, but that was by choice; truckers were professional drivers and probably safer than your average driver. Or so I was told.

Yet now, here I am, driving a crossover. Granted, its gas mileage is as good as some other cars out there (including my beloved Accord–what have they done to a once-32 mpg car?), but still, I feel guilty liking it as much as I do. Yet it’s so comfortable to drive. I find I don’t crane my neck–ever. I can sit up straight for miles without later finding myself slouching. I can see around other trucks and no longer swear at anyone for being in my way. All in all, driving is much more pleasant. I am much more pleasant. And even better–I feel taller after I get out of the car and walk.

Maybe I’ve finally grown up. Or maybe I’ve finally given something to myself that isn’t a compromise. I don’t know. But I am liking standing tall.

“But you’re too cold,” I said, flattered. I imagined myself splashing into the shallow lake, my hands scraping the bottom as I did the crawl.

“But isn’t that what you want? To immerse yourself into your Beloved, no matter the cost to you? Isn’t that how you define Love?”

Is it?–I wondered, shivering. “No,” I called out to the lake. “But I will behold you from here, enjoy your shimmering play of light that must come from within because the moon hasn’t risen yet.”

“Exactly,” the Lake called back. “Now remember the lesson.”

“Thank you,” I said, drinking in the beauty. “Thank you.”

I’ve come to equate plumbing problems with my emotional state (according to many esoteric beliefs, water is equated with the emotions). For example, the master toilet became even more sluggish after Mom died and the water heater conked out after a breakup. I happen to have those crappy, illegal polybutelyne pipes, so plumbing issues have not been few or far between. (Nor, unfortunately, have emotional issues.) I have had to replace all pipes and shutoff valves down to the floor since moving in, plus add a water pressure calibrator and change out the main shutoff valve. (Yes, I could have replaced all the pipes for what I’ve invested in dribs and drabs, but, alas, never had the money to take care of it all at once.) In all, my plumbing has consistently and accurately reminded me of my stuck, seeping or surging emotions, all of which I’d rather ignore.

So, what does a flooded toilet in the guest bath mean? Is it a hint that my grieving, antisocial tendencies have held me back emotionally for too long? Or is it a hint that I am overloading myself with unattainable goals and need to slow down and address things such as grieving and house maintenance, the latter which I’ve neglected for some time now? Maybe, I just need to change out the toilet.

But, I’m a writer. I can’t just leave it at that. It’s too mundane. I need symbolism. Especially for something that is going to take me away from my novel for days. Days! And, possibly screw up my bike tour. No. This is about more than the inconvenience of plumbing.

I wasn’t consciously aware of it at the time, but as I lifted the 94 pound toilet out of the back of my car a couple of days ago, I felt Mom’s presence quite strongly. I haven’t felt her much, which has puzzled me. But when I didn’t heed the warnings printed all over the box that two people are needed to lift it, I did heard her words, ”Watch it, watch it, watch it!” She had back problems since I can remember and always scolded or reminded us to be careful. As annoyed as I’d get about her constant reminders, I think they’ve served me well.

“Don’t lift that. Watch your back.” She’d intake a sharp breath and then spit, “Oh, Debra.”

I am sure she was there the other day, hovering, telling me I shouldn’t do that by myself. I did look around for someone to help me, but, as usual, there was no one. But, I was very careful. Very. Who knows–maybe Mom was helping me; I have no idea how I lifted that thing by myself and carried it into the house.

I remember helping her clean up the patio at the Florida condo. I was already well used to doing such things on my own, but Mom was a team player. As she supervised my progress with taking apart the rusty grill, I focused on my breath between innocuous outbursts from both of us about the “right way” to disassemble it. Finally, when it was done, it was time to negotiate it through the fence and out to the dumpster. It was a tight fit and difficult, but a job that was much easier to do alone. She insisted it wasn’t. I could have just picked the thing up and carried it, but she wanted to roll it and help me to push it. Her way was incredibly noisy and inefficient and we argued. Then she threw her trump card: “You’re so selfish,” she spat.

I felt like I’d been hit from the side. What? Selfish? For not wanting to bother her with an awkward, noisy task? I don’t know why I let her get to me like that, but I did. She accused me of being selfish a lot, and I never understood why. My therapists have always told me I needed to be more selfish, to stand up for myself, ask for my needs.

But that day, together, we pushed that old metal contraption out to the dumpster, me fuming, she beaming. I was so mad. And yet now I am realizing that perhaps this word she used on me all the time had a completely different meaning to her.

Today, I laugh, because on some level, we probably had the same conversation all over again around my lifting the toilet. I’m hearing, how selfish of me, to want to fix up my bathroom so that my guests don’t feel like a burden. How selfish of me to lift a heavy load by myself, to invest in my home so that guests can be comfortable. Meanwhile, she’s telling me that not asking for help is selfish.

I do think humans like to be useful. We feel good when we have a positive effect on another. What we think is a burden to others might actually give them a sense of meaning. It’s hard for me, though, to not think of myself as a burden. I like being invisible. It’s safe and comfortable.

I will contemplate all of this as I paint, refloor and replace the toilet in my bathroom. I chose blue for the walls (the color of the throat chakra–speaking out) and the floor is slate and red, which I’ll interpret as grounded passion. Perhaps this incident is pushing me to finish up with the emotional wreckage of trauma that has held me back so long, or showing me that I am managing it better than I have in the past and no longer need to be overwhelmed by it.

I smile at my choices, that I don’t allow colors to just be colors or a broken toilet to be just that. I like that I find meaning in my bathroom and Mom in my heart. I can’t imagine living any other way.

In ordering my gear, I did the unusual for me: I ordered some of the best and got Ortlieb panniers and Tubus racks. Someone said I’ll be riding a Lexus of bikes. Being that I don’t know cars, I’ll assume that’s a good thing, though I think I myself will run more like a Prius–you know, stopping completely at lights. When it comes to intersections, I’m more of a couch potato. I figure even at a long light, my muscles won’t freeze up on the coldest of days, and take advantage of the rest, unlike those people who jog in place or balance on their bikes at stops. Yeah, there’s definitely no race horse coursing through these veins.

Though, wouldn’t it be cool if I were to run like the Priuses did before the recall? That be awesome, to find myself actually accelerating uphill. It’s a fantasy that plays in my mind, though in reality, I’ll be chugging up slower than a fully-loaded jalopy. But that’s okay. I don’t mind being the little engine that could.

I took my Fargo for a spin the other day in thirty degree weather and had a blast, though I didn’t do any dirt trails because I don’t have my fenders on yet. It was fun tooling around on what to me feels like a light bike; my Dew is weighted down with panniers, a rack and fenders. Next time I go out on the Fargo, I’ll have my front rack on, too. Others have claimed the bike handles better loaded down–I can’t wait to see how it feels.

I’m getting further along mapping out my route and writing up my packing list. Now, if only the snow would melt so I could get out there some more before my tour . . .

The thing about grief is that for me it isn’t just about losing Mom and my cat. It’s about losing my family and support system. The two sources that were always there for me are now gone. Friends are great, but lives are busy. And it isn’t talk that I need as much as simply time. Time to hang around. To not be alone. I probably spend 98% of my time alone. I often like that. But these last few months, 50% would have been too much. Yet, I am to blame. Like my mother, I push people away.

One of Mom’s bridge buddies wrote a poem about her after she died. For someone who claims to have not known her well, I think it truly captures her essence. I’ve posted it here.

A painful realization I’ve had over the last few years is how much like Mom I am in my aloneness. And how much I hated her for being that way.

I felt like I had to take care of her. Since childhood. I remember going on a girlscout trip  to Washington, D.C. in the fourth grade and feeling burdened because Mom didn’t hang out with the other moms, but stuck to herself. I felt it was my job to keep her company, even though I wanted to be with the other girls. I felt a passive-aggressiveness in her stoic “I’m okay, don’t take care of me,” attitude. I would question my siblings about it, but as far as I could tell, I was the only one who noticed the pull to fill her loneliness, her need. Maybe it was my own that I felt. But when I went along with the others, I felt bad for leaving Mom behind. I think that’s why her death is a relief for me. I no longer have to take care of her.

And, she’s not here to take care of me.

I’m feeling a maturity, late blooming, I admit, that I’ve never experienced. I feel like I have only myself to watch over me now. Of course, there is the great spirit out there, too, but I feel that most of it is up to me. I don’t have Mom to fall back on. And I’m noticing I’m more up to the task, that it’s happening naturally.

Last night as I fell apart driving home from the meeting, I pulled over and called a friend, someone who I thought could meet me, even if he didn’t understand. It was a risk, a frightening one for me. I have a pattern of reaching out into nothing, or choosing people incapable of supporting another. But last night I chose well. And I chose to call a man–not the sex I normally reach out to for help. I got his voicemail and ended my message with “I’ll talk to you soon.” Immediately, I questioned whether I believed he would call back. Of course he will, I told myself. Then I did the miraculous. I let it go. It didn’t matter. I had done what I needed to do to take care of myself. I didn’t need him to call back. What I had needed was to reach out, then let go of the outcome. And I did. And, he did call back, which the tiny voice had said would happen.

I told one of the counselors last night that one of the hardest things for me about blogging about grieving Mom is my feeling that I am betraying her because she kept to herself. I forget that I am no longer tethered to her needs, that I need to take care of myself. As I always have. But now I have the freedom to really blossom with that.

Yet I still question myself.