The Bond That Never Was (Part One)

As children, Matt and I rarely saw the world in a similar vein.   We shared many things in life, our parents and younger brother, Tim, being primary, of course. We both attended grade school at Holy Trinity and high school at Aquinas.  We hung out with many of the same neighborhood kids, although rarely together.  We would spend hours and hours, creating our Lego masterpieces as well as collecting Match Box cars. As we got older, we developed a renewed interest in music, developing a passion for the post modern sounds of Morrissey and The Smiths, Depeche Mode, and Joy Division.  Our worlds were in so many ways the same.  Yet, fundamentally, our worlds could not have been more different.

I regret that Matt and I really never truly bonded with each other.  As a child, this conclusion was not readily apparent to me.  After all, siblings are presumed to love and adore each other. It is unrealistic to imagine siblings who always appreciate the quirks and idiosyncrasies of one another.  Without question, there are times when brothers and sisters fight, be it over a toy or the TV watching schedule.  And, there are those times of jealousy and resentment over the distribution of parental time and affection.  Despite it all, siblings usually regroup and move on from these childhood transgressions.  The bond between siblings is protective. We forgive and hopefully, forget.  We move on because that is what siblings do.  Or, so I thought.  Or, so I hoped.  Or, so I desperately wanted.

Very honestly, our relationship did not flourish for lack of trying.  I remember lying on the brown carpeting of our dining room floor, my hands propping up my face, a sea of Matchbox cars in front of me.  Matt, would lie in similar position, although I remember that it was very difficult for him to stay in one position for any length of time as he always appeared as if he had "ants in his pants."  We would create an inventory of our respective car stock, sometimes trading a race car for an ambulance.  We would line our cars in our "parking lot," manipulating them in the manner we wanted them displayed.  We would "chase" each others' vehicle though imaginary terrain and unanticipated hazards.  These brief moments of enjoyment were fleeting, as invariably, Matt wanted the cars to smash into one another.  He would fling cars throughout the room.  Wheels would fall off, windows would break, and a few cars invariably, destroyed. Matt reveled in these violent displays of car crashes, especially those in which the car occupants would suffer horrendous fates.  I did not really understand this need for intensity and wanted less violence.  I bristled at the thoughts that cars would smash and explode.  In retrospective, without much surprise, very few of our infrequent play sessions ended well.  The resulting frustration and anger lingered into the next foray until no more attempts were made to play with our cars together.  It became that we no longer played together at all as we so seldom saw eye to eye.

Why were Tim and I able to bond when Matt I couldn't?  I have always felt such an intense connection with Tim, yet only superficiality with Matt.  Why were we unable to develop  a minimal affinity with one another during our early childhood years?  This realization is the mourning of an unfulfilled dream.  Matt is my brother, yet I share no emotional connection with him.  This is not how sibling relationships are *supposed* to be.

Amidst a bond that never solidified is a regret that only deepens.  

Twenty Years

Twenty years ago, I first wandered the halls of Pioneer Hall.  I had met Nancy, a fellow student and Pioneer Hall resident, in an algebra class, during my first quarter.  She invited me to meet her roommate and House 6 neighbors, as I had moved into the dorm a few weeks into the quarter and had not yet met many people.   Nancy introduced me to Beth, who lived directly across the hall.  Beth was gregarious and friendly, asking me early this initial meeting, "What's wrong with being stranded?"  I was initially confused by this question and curious why someone would ask this.  Shortly thereafter, I was to learn  that "Strand" is Beth's surname.  I was intrigued and amused by Beth's quick wit and razor sharp observations.

Beth and I became friends throughout our Freshman year.  We would chat for hours and hours (and hours) in her dorm room, surrounded by the black and white, post modern posters of New Order, Joy Division, and Depeche Mode.  We often discussed our future academic and career aspirations.  Beth had "officially" declared her major as pre-med while I was "officially" undecided, learning toward a Psychology major, or possibly French, while also considering Political Science.  (What can I say, the world was our oyster and full of endless possibilities!) 

Not particularly surprising, we were irreverent and silly, enjoying the "off the wall." We delighted in Delilah, a creation of a discarded witch pinata head, crumpled up newspaper, and Beth's gold lame pantsuit, a high school 4H entry.  With Delilah in the background, propped up in Beth's desk chair with a Donald Duck pipe in "her" mouth, Beth and I spent hours discussing our new found Pioneer Hall friends, upcoming social gatherings, and occasionally our current course load, among other things (We were in college to learn, after all).  ;)    One bitterly cold winter afternoon, we walked across campus to two drug stores seeking out boxes of the same red hair color (the first drug store had only one box), wondering to each other  if "anyone would notice" our new hair dye experiment. We designated  "Pastel Day" (a day in which we would only wear pastel, as compared to our usual much darker tones...I made it through mid afternoon and then changed clothes.) We laughed when dorm resident, Pietro, would shout across the Pioneer courtyard, "I am not wearing any pants" on a weekly basis.  (We were 18 years old and thus, easily amused, it would seem).

The Pioneer Hall days are long behind us and Beth and I have since settled into our "adult" lives (whatever than means). Hopefully, we have moved beyond matching hair color, pastel attire, and sophomoric comments (admittedly, the last assertion is a stretch but one can always hope). We have forged ahead in our schooling and careers (Beth more so than me at this juncture, it would seem) . We have become Mamas to children whom we love, adore, and hug more than they would like, at times. We have experienced the joyous "peaks" and painful "valleys" of romantic and platonic relationships.  We have held several jobs and lived in different locales.  We have also experienced unimaginable loss in the deaths of our parents and grandparents. Through success and failure, happiness and sorrow, Beth and I have remained friends during these twenty years.  

On Friday evening, I drove to Beth's home while our children were spending some quality time with their dads.  It was a very, very rare circumstance, indeed.  No kids.  No dogs. No work.  No tasks.  Just two old friends hanging out.

We kicked back, checked out the local bar and grill, and toured the town.  We enjoyed Beth's Christmas tree and fireplace while we talked throughout the evening.  We listened to the alternative music channel and chatted about the past, the present, and our futures.  We could let our hair down. No worries.  No pretense.  As Beth suggested, "we can be ourselves with each other and neither one of us judges."  

In this season of resolutions and promises, goals and hopes are often lost in the shuffle as the year progresses.  I have resolved to take more stock in the many blessings that I have in my life. One of these many blessings is my friendship with Beth.  I am grateful for all that she does and most importantly, all that she is.  

General silliness

Today, Eamon, Emma, and I were getting ready to attend a birthday party.  Eamon, fresh from a trip to Kids Hair, made a simple request I could not possibly refuse, "Mom, can I bring my new hair cut to the party?" 

Catch Up

When I created this blog, I had promised myself that I would make sincere attempts to write everyday, or perhaps, every other day. Perhaps, a few times per week would suffice. Unfortunately, I did not anticipate an autumn replete with cold virus after cold virus after sinus infection after additional cold virus for all of the members of our family, canine members excluded.  I also found myself living and breathing the University of Minnesota, in two very time consuming courses. 

Well, the semester has ended.  Whew!  The children are presently asleep.  Bernard is "suggesting" (read: yelling at the TV) game strategy for 'Deal or No Deal' contestants, and the dogs lay at my feet. Let the blog catch up begin!  (At least until a child awakens or a canine needs a potty break which, according to my calculations, will occur in approximately ten minutes...give or take a minute, of course).

The Fury of Rainstorms

I have become more and more interested in poetry over the years.  I came across this poem last night and found it interesting and well written, albeit quite dark.  My very wonderful friend and neighbor contacted me this afternoon after reading this post, inquiring as to my interest, and perhaps reasoning to include this particular poem in my blog.   Perhaps I need to seek out some poetry that is less brooding and depressive, especially during the holiday season!    Or, perhaps, all of the studying this semester has caused me to have questionable taste in poetry  ;)

The Fury of Rainstorms by Anne Sexton

The rain drums down like red ants,

each bouncing off my window.

The ants are in great pain

and they cry out as they hit

as if their little legs were only

stitched on and their head pasted,

and oh they bring to mind the grave,

so humble, so willing to be beat upon

with its awful lettering and

the body lying underneath

without an umbrella.

Depression is boring, I think

and I would do better to make

some soup and light up the cave.

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

(Post revised on 30 November 2008)

Today is the anniversary of my Dad's passing.  Shortly after he died, I stubbled across this poem, copied it, and attached it to the bulletin board in the kitchen of our family home.  I read it often, with the faint hope that it would provide some solace and peace during some of the darkest days and months of my life.  

The years have passed and normalcy has long since been redefined by the loss of my father (and later my mother).  Regardless, my love for my dad is forever strong.  

I miss you Dad.  I think I always will.

Do Not Stand by My Grave and Weep by Mary E. Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there.  I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the sweet uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there.  I did not die.

Madeline

Last year, we determined that our golden retriever, Madeline, had Glaucoma.  Our family veterinarian, Dr. K, suggested this diagnosis as a possibility but encouraged us to seek the opinion of a veterinary opthalmologist.  The specialist, Dr. O., confirmed our fears regarding Madeline's eye and a medication regimen ensued.  The medications appeared to control the pressure in her right eye for a while but eventually the eye was lost due to an uncontrolled pressure spike.  I began to refer to Madeline as "One Eyed Jack" and we worked to keep her remaining eye healthy.  We have now determined that her former "good eye" has now received the infamous Glaucoma diagnosis accompanied by an increase in medications to prevent pain and blindness.  We emerged into a fairly stable medication routine with our one eyed canine and resumed with life's busy schedule.

Last Monday, I awakened very early.  Well, 6:15 AM is really not all that early when one has children, I have learned.  I stubbled out of bed and found Madeline sitting in the living room, the right side of her eye area covered in blood.  It appeared as if she had been very bothered (Yes, I am the master of the obvious) in the area where her right eye once was.  She seemed restless and uncomfortable, which was apparent given she had been scratching her face with such voracity throughout the night.  Dr. K. was not in the clinic, so Madeline met with one of the other doctors at his practice.  He suggested that her prosthetic eye (a ball placed in the socket of her skull) had migrated thus, the discomfort and her aforementioned scratching routine. He placed a call to Dr. O. for further consultation.  Perhaps, the prothesis can simply be removed and all will be well, with regard to Madeline's health, we hoped.  We scheduled an appointment with Dr. O for later in the morning.  Madeline seemed a bit less bothered by it all and I felt a bit more relieved.  

I had a special event at Eamon's school and so Bernard took Madeline to meet with Dr. O.  He had his own hypotheses as to the reason for Madeline's discomfort and pain but his hypotheses did not include the prothesis as the culprit with regard to Madeline's discomfort.  We decided to allow a biopsy to establish if there was indeed an infection or something more serious.  We were hoping for infection and antibiotic treatment.  On the way home from school, I received a call from Dr. O while he was in the operating room with Madeline.  He discovered that the prosthetic had not migrated and there was no infection.  However, there was something I did not necessarily anticipate when I discovered my bleeding dog this morning: Cancer.  Madeline has a new diagnosis to add to her chart, Neural Sheath Tumor, a type of sarcoma.  Dr. O removed the tumor and reported that this type of tumor tends to be slow growing and localized.  Dr. K. called the next day to reiterate this diagnosis which, in his experience, tends to reoccur locally but generally does not metastaticize.  The etiology is unknown, as with most cancer diagnoses.

Madeline seems to be handling all of this in stride.  She returned home from surgery on Monday afternoon scrounging for treats and looking for crumbs of food that may have fallen under the dining room table.  She has received an increased amount of hugs and ear rubs this past week.  We wonder how long we can prevent the Glaucoma from causing irreparable damage to her remaining eye.  We wonder if "The Cancer" will reoccur and when. 

This experience has been another reminder of the fragility of life.   Life changes without a moment's notice. I sometimes struggle with living in the moment.  I worry about the issues with which I have little or no control.  I concern myself with the "what ifs" of the future.  I worry.  I perseverate.  This "Manic Monday" has clued me, yet again, to the importance of true appreciation for the blessings of the present.  One of my life's many blessings is a dog named Madeline.

The Brother and Sister

Eamon and Emma,

I know there will be times when you do not always agree with each other.  You will sometimes question your sibling's desire to play with a toy longer than you would like or question their choice of a movie selection, among other things.

No matter what, I hope you will always love each other as I love you.  

Time for a Change

Obama-Biden 2008

(Need I say more?)

Overheard at The Ranch

Often times, the funniest moments occur in the most mundane circumstances.  I truly treasure these moments when I find myself breaking out in laughter.  Out of the mouths of babes, as they say...

Bernard:  "Emma, Daddy can't color right now as I am on the toilet."  (When you want to break out the crayons with your Daddy, is location really all that important?)  ;)

Eamon:  "Daddy, your baby smells again."  (Emma is Mommy's baby when she has a clean diaper and Daddy's baby when she doesn't.  I like Eamon's line of thinking on this one.)

Eamon:  "Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you?  We need some work to do now."  (Close enough, but really, we don''t need more work to do now.  We have enough now, thanks, at least Mommy does).

Emma:  "I Love you, Mama."  (Emma, Mommy loves you with all of her heart!!!)

Eamon: "I'm a rhinestone cowboy, da da Da!"  (That boy needs to try karaoke).