I wanted to talk about my mother in law today, who is nearing the end of her life. She suffered a stroke three years ago and another, more serious one, about a month and a half ago. As bad as the first was, the second left her paralyzed, unable to speak, and according to her doctors, it will soon take her life.
Kathie and I didn't like each other in the beginning. She was polite to me, and I was polite in return. But there was no instant feeling of warmth and fuzziness upon our meeting, nor anytime after that. In fact, it took an earthquake, an act of God, to bring us together in friendship.
I don't think there was one particular thing that made us become friends, but the earthquake put us in a position of mutual respect, somehow. We saw each other in a different light suddenly. I had always thought she was spoiled and placated, and I know she thought I was a bit lazy and, of course, maybe not good enough for her oldest son.
But we did become friends. We enjoyed each other's company and had a lot of laughs together. We'd go out to dinner and shopping when we all lived in California. I was very protective of her when we went out. I don't think she knew that.
Kathie suffered all her life from morbid obesity. People would often stare at her when we went to the mall or into a restaurant to eat. She knew it too, but pretended not to notice. If I caught someone looking at her, I would stare straight at them until they looked away in embarrassment. She once told me that a child asked her if she had a baby in her belly, and that child's parent make the child apologize. She'd made a joke of it, of course, but I knew she was sad over it.
I always felt that her weight would be the death of her, by heart attack or diabetes, or even maybe from a car accident (she fell asleep at the wheel several times). But I never thought it would be a stroke. I don't know why.
I remember the day she had the first stroke clearly. They had just moved from San Diego to Las Vegas and she wasn't thrilled about it. But she was in a great mood when she called, because her husband had just accidentally fallen into the pool, completely dressed, and came out sopping wet. She was laughing and I could see her in my mind. She loved to laugh.
We got a call that evening from my father in law, saying that she was sitting on the bed, and he heard her say she didn't feel right. He said he saw her slip down off the side of the bed onto the floor.
She'd been bedridden for the better part of three years since then. But she could speak, and she could move. And she was working on standing with the help of some contraption that had rehab set up in the house. She'd call us now and then just to cry and tell us how much she loved us.
Her laugh is gone now. She's trapped in a broken shell of a body that no longer responds to her. She's in pain all the time, I'm told, although I don't know how one would be able to tell that. I hope God takes her home soon.
I'll miss my friend.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
The dream and the lion
I've decided I absolutely must start keeping a dream journal. I've said it a hundred times, but it always seemed like just another thing to keep track of. So I keep putting it off. But then there are times, like in the early hours of this morning, that I dream so vividly, it leaves me feeling as though someone is giving me these little gifts.
I almost always have incredibly real dreams if I eat just before I go to bed. Some are good, some not so much. Last night, I had a huge bowl of ice cream before turning in. Yes, I know, unhealthy on so many levels. LOL And this morning (I knew it was morning because I awoke before 3:30 to use the bathroom) I dreamed with so much detail that it stayed with me all day.
In the dream, I slayed a lion. We were at a sort of safari park, the kind you can drive through, like the one at Six Flags in New Jersey. In the park, there was a huge playhouse that kids could go into and climb through and then exit by sliding down a slide on the side of it. I watched kids coming down the slide, when I saw a full-grown male lion approach the slide, where the kids were exiting.
I screamed, over and over, but as in many dreams we have, no one could hear me except me. The lion approached one brown-haired girl, who froze in terror. I could see tears fall down her cheeks, but in her state of fear, not a sound came from her mouth. There was something wrong with the lion too. His face was white. I knew there was something wrong with him. He was sick. (I have no idea how I knew this.) And I knew he would slaughter this child if no one did anything.
The girl then turned toward me and the other parents and then the lion did as well. And then I moved. I grabbed a steel pole from somewhere and sprinted toward the lion, like a pole jumper. The lion ran toward me, roaring as he came. I was afraid, but not enough to freeze up. I knew he would kill me in a heartbeat.
****Just a small warning here that this part is a bit graphic. But this is how it happened in the dream.****
The lion was about 10 feet from me when he leapt at me, roaring, and I shoved the pole into his mouth and as deep into him as I could make it go. It was about 6 feet long, and it went in up to about five feet. (Yes, impossible, but it was a dream.) He fell instantly to the ground. But he didn't die right away. Someone handed me another pole, and as the lion started to rise up again from the ground, making gurgling noises this time, I slammed the pole down into it's side, killing it. There was no blood at all. And in the dream, I was glad I was able to save these kids.
When I woke up, I was shaking. I'm still not sure what to feel about it. But it was so clear. I have to start writing all of these down, because I've had some whoppers.
I almost always have incredibly real dreams if I eat just before I go to bed. Some are good, some not so much. Last night, I had a huge bowl of ice cream before turning in. Yes, I know, unhealthy on so many levels. LOL And this morning (I knew it was morning because I awoke before 3:30 to use the bathroom) I dreamed with so much detail that it stayed with me all day.
In the dream, I slayed a lion. We were at a sort of safari park, the kind you can drive through, like the one at Six Flags in New Jersey. In the park, there was a huge playhouse that kids could go into and climb through and then exit by sliding down a slide on the side of it. I watched kids coming down the slide, when I saw a full-grown male lion approach the slide, where the kids were exiting.
I screamed, over and over, but as in many dreams we have, no one could hear me except me. The lion approached one brown-haired girl, who froze in terror. I could see tears fall down her cheeks, but in her state of fear, not a sound came from her mouth. There was something wrong with the lion too. His face was white. I knew there was something wrong with him. He was sick. (I have no idea how I knew this.) And I knew he would slaughter this child if no one did anything.
The girl then turned toward me and the other parents and then the lion did as well. And then I moved. I grabbed a steel pole from somewhere and sprinted toward the lion, like a pole jumper. The lion ran toward me, roaring as he came. I was afraid, but not enough to freeze up. I knew he would kill me in a heartbeat.
****Just a small warning here that this part is a bit graphic. But this is how it happened in the dream.****
The lion was about 10 feet from me when he leapt at me, roaring, and I shoved the pole into his mouth and as deep into him as I could make it go. It was about 6 feet long, and it went in up to about five feet. (Yes, impossible, but it was a dream.) He fell instantly to the ground. But he didn't die right away. Someone handed me another pole, and as the lion started to rise up again from the ground, making gurgling noises this time, I slammed the pole down into it's side, killing it. There was no blood at all. And in the dream, I was glad I was able to save these kids.
When I woke up, I was shaking. I'm still not sure what to feel about it. But it was so clear. I have to start writing all of these down, because I've had some whoppers.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Why? Just because!
Someone once asked me why I write so much in the Messages to Gerry section over on .Net. I got very defensive at the time she asked, because I felt as though she was trying to make me feel as if I were doing something wrong. I was writing to another man, after all. But it's not that at all. In fact, I don't believe I ever looked at it that way, even from the beginning.
I started writing there because I wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed his movie. It was the first one of his movies I'd ever seen, and it brought me to .Net. I wanted to let him know I enjoyed his work, etc. etc. and the usual gushy, thankful stuff. I told him how much my kids loved it, too.
But I kept writing, adding to the number of messages I had posted. Not because I expected any kind of reply, or was looking for any, or thought for even a moment that The Man Himself would even give anything I wrote a second thought (if he even gave them a first), but simply because it was practice. I could write as though I was writing to someone I knew, telling them about my weekend, describing events in my life, things I saw, things I experienced, putting as much detail into it as possible. And I also know no one would be able to comment on it, as it is a no-comment section.
That was what I wanted. I wanted to practice writing, giving as much detail and description as I possibly could, let people be able to read it (as it is a public forum) and no one could tell me, "That sucked, Ann." LOL But also, on the slightest offchance that he actually did read them, I wanted to write something that he would find entertaining, or moving, or funny, or something that would make him think, or imagine, or feel something. I wanted to write something that he, and anyone else reading it, would think at the end, "That was cool."
But then something happened that was totally unexpected. People began to write to me, telling me how much they enjoyed what I said, that they felt as if they were actually there, in the moment, seeing what I was seeing, because of the way I described it. And for me, THAT was cool.
And each time I write in the messages section, I tell myself, this will be the last time. I tell myself, this is foolish. Why bother? He doesn't care. He'll never see it. He'll never tell you he read it and enjoyed it, so what's the point? Why do I continue to work so hard to create something that someone will like, when the person that it's written to will never reply? Why still do it if I'll never know if he's even glanced at them?
The answer is...because someone reads them. And someone likes them. And maybe someday, if I ever meet him, maybe he'll tell me that he's enjoyed every single one of them.
If not, at least I know someone has.
I started writing there because I wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed his movie. It was the first one of his movies I'd ever seen, and it brought me to .Net. I wanted to let him know I enjoyed his work, etc. etc. and the usual gushy, thankful stuff. I told him how much my kids loved it, too.
But I kept writing, adding to the number of messages I had posted. Not because I expected any kind of reply, or was looking for any, or thought for even a moment that The Man Himself would even give anything I wrote a second thought (if he even gave them a first), but simply because it was practice. I could write as though I was writing to someone I knew, telling them about my weekend, describing events in my life, things I saw, things I experienced, putting as much detail into it as possible. And I also know no one would be able to comment on it, as it is a no-comment section.
That was what I wanted. I wanted to practice writing, giving as much detail and description as I possibly could, let people be able to read it (as it is a public forum) and no one could tell me, "That sucked, Ann." LOL But also, on the slightest offchance that he actually did read them, I wanted to write something that he would find entertaining, or moving, or funny, or something that would make him think, or imagine, or feel something. I wanted to write something that he, and anyone else reading it, would think at the end, "That was cool."
But then something happened that was totally unexpected. People began to write to me, telling me how much they enjoyed what I said, that they felt as if they were actually there, in the moment, seeing what I was seeing, because of the way I described it. And for me, THAT was cool.
And each time I write in the messages section, I tell myself, this will be the last time. I tell myself, this is foolish. Why bother? He doesn't care. He'll never see it. He'll never tell you he read it and enjoyed it, so what's the point? Why do I continue to work so hard to create something that someone will like, when the person that it's written to will never reply? Why still do it if I'll never know if he's even glanced at them?
The answer is...because someone reads them. And someone likes them. And maybe someday, if I ever meet him, maybe he'll tell me that he's enjoyed every single one of them.
If not, at least I know someone has.
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