Papa and Ann

ODE TO PAPA

By Sara L. Broers Brown

July 2, 2009

Papa, Papa,
Your garden keep
Irises, roses, veggies
Let’s eat!

Rows of strawberries
Garden snakes keep.
Papa, Papa,
Teach me garden’s keep.

Build a birdhouse,
And oil my car.
Run a business,
And, antique cars.

Swing your lady,
On Fourth of July.
Do -see- do,
Stepping high.
To my Papa

I hear you now,
Call me soon,
Heaven’s phone.

“No tears my child,
I am calm.
I will greet you,
When you come.

And, find me sittin’

Here at my home.

I love my children,
All as one.”

Amen, my Papa
Amen and peace.
See you later,
And rest in peace.

I wrote this poem after my grandfather died last year.  It was easy as I sat on my porch in a chemo-induced stooper.  The drugs of the therapy left my body weak and my mind often confused.  But, my brain had wonderful room to create as I often sat in silence, too weak to do anything else.
  After my grandmother died last week, I tried to find my silent moments to write a poem for her.  But, my head was clouded.  The over-cast skies only allowed me to see an image of large white snow flakes failing up around irises.  My grandmother came to me in a vision but did not speak a voice.
  She has risen on to what is next.  My grandfather spoke to me these past 15 months.  I heard his voice as I wrote this poem, as I sat at home thinking about my family who attended the memorial and funeral, and when I felt afraid I would die too soon.  He spoke to me and sat as I made my achy chemo-heavy bones walk up the road to see the summer sun set over Long's Peak.  He spoke to his wife too, and he waited.
  When she was ready.  Well, maybe not totally ready, but her body was done, she left our Earthly beings holding hands with her husband.  She left.  She did not linger.  So she showed me a vision.
  I tried to write a poem for the funeral today.  But, there weren't words.  So I thought all night last night about what I remember about this woman I called Grandma and who called me her little doll baby.

Vanilla and 7-up floats in pewter mugs with glass bottoms.
Love in the Pan and when she mailed me the recipe when I was in my first apartment so I could make it on my own.
Green bean casserole with those crisp onion things on top.
Turkey and those candied yams I thought looked totally gross with the marshmallows on them.
Dinner at 2 pm with everyone including any "lost sheep" looking for a place to eat.
Two or three card tables stuck on the end of the dining table and stretching out through the living room so we could all eat at the same table.
Leftovers, even if it was just one bite left, it was put in a bowl with Saran wrap over it.
Waffles with honey and cheese toast.
Cleaning up after every meal.
Deciding we were all done cleaning up for the night and sitting at the bar to watch Ann continue to scrub the counters and floor for another good two hours before she decided she was done.
She was always the last to go to bed wrapping her hair in toilet paper.  I never did quite understand what the toilet paper was all about.  I think it was to keep her curls from being crushed.
She got her hair done once a week.
J.C.Penny's.  If you didn't like your Christmas present, we knew she got it from Penny's because she worked there many, many years and got a discount.
Pink.  She loved pink, and she loved buying her doll babies pink.  I hated pink when I was little...little rebel.
Pearls.  She always bought my sister and I jewelry with pearls, from Penny's.
Cushions in the driver's seat because she was only 4' 9".  They had the Oldsmobile with a bench front seat.  I always thought it was so funny that the driver's side half was pulled forward more then the rest of the seat.  It was navy blue.
Square dancing.  I loved her fluffy skirts and watching her and Papa turn on the floor.
PCA picnic.  What does that stand for again, Dad?  Carnival rides, cotton candy, square dancing, battle of the bands, and getting to stay up extra late.
Houseplants and gardens.  They were always growing stuff.
Sledding down the deep back hill and ending up in the creek (said with a Kansan short e, of course.)
Dressing up in the hundreds of my aunts' dance costumes and making up plays with the cousins in the basement.  Putting on the Nativity for Christmas for the parents.  I was always Mary.
Grandma giving us girls a bath and getting mad when the boy cousins were teasing us.
Hummels, coins, miniature iron figurines in a shadow box, photographs of the grand kids, birds, bird feeders, olive green, bright yellow, cream, and his and her chairs.

When she was excited, she jumped up and down. And, when she had a good hand of cards or rack of dominoes, she wiggled in her seat. But, her 'tell' wasn't a handicap as she almost always had the winning hand.

Ann cried all the time because she was happy, sad, frustrated, or mad.  I do that too.  She cried the moment she saw us pull in the drive way.  And, she cried as we pulled away to go home.

I could go on and on.  Yes, there were many memories at the Broers' in Eudora, Kansas.  I only hope that my own nephews and my own kiddos develop such fond memories of their Broers grandparents.

Speaking of the Dahli Lama

So I am on the plane flying out to Kansas from Colorado and decide to plug in to the Dali Lama.  I slip off my worn-out black Dansko clogs and pull my sock feet up into a half lotus. I am thankful to be short and that the middle seat is empty.  Ping.  Ping.  Ping, I shuffle through to Playlists, Books on Tape, The Meaning of Life.  Close my eyes.  I am flying to be with me family for my grandmother's funeral.  My mind is easily distracted, but I pull it back to the monotonous tone of the voice with strength of meditation.  A wheel, ignorance, a monkey eating the tail of a pig, and something about a man in a boat representing the name and the form.
  Form.  Our body in this life.  The voice speaks of a room full of copulating couples.  The soul walks among them and lays in the womb of a chosen mother.  This is conception.  Your form is a mass of jelly-like cells. We move on to this and that thorough life, age, and sickness.  What caught my interest here is the analgesic reference to letting go of the form in death. 
   Imagine one dying, she is scared of that which is unknown.  The person becomes more scared as his family weeps over stories of what has been. She resists the fading of the body form as it fades back into the jelly mass-form of conception.  Imagine, explains the Dali Lama, if those close to the dying said instead: You had a wonderful form in this Earth.  Now you will let this life go and move on to great things.  Thank you for sharing your form with me.  Or something like that.
  Both of my father's parents have now died.  My grandfather died in the summer of 2009.  I was in the middle of my chemotherapy so was unable to fly and attend the memorial.  I wasn't there when my grandfather died.  My dad was.  Dad told me that Papa explained, before he closed his eyes for the last time, that he was tired, it was time, and he was ready.  I feel he left in peace.  His spirit was beautiful.  As a spirit, the man whole was bent over at nearly a 90 degree angle was standing tall and could dance a jig.  I say "was" because his spirit is no longer here.  He waited for his wife and now they have gone to another existence may it be called Heaven, Utpopia, or Shamiyam.
  My grandmother's presence felt more conflicted then my grandfather's sense of peace.  She missed her husband of over 60 years.  His spirit waited for her.  And now they both have risen to what may come next.  I suppose my cousin would have more insight in how she felt her last few weeks as he sat with her quite a bit.
   At any rate, death is on my mind.  I find myself with the reality that I will die.  Before cancer I was ignorant giving me the bliss of mental immortality.  I moved in and out of my life never thinking forward to my death.  Never.  Not once.  Okay, maybe a minute when I slammed my brakes on in the car nearly ending up in a six car pile up on the Diagonal. 
    I will die.  I know this now.  I have to fight every day with my form and name to stay in this body long enough to raise my two beautiful humans and whatever else is written in my script.  When my sickness overcomes this body, I pray that it is beautiful.  I pray to be released with ease.  I pray for this in part because I want you, all of you that I will leave, to know that it is okay.  I lived a good life.  I over come much and laughed a lot.  I leave you and release you to live your beautiful lives with zest and love.  For if I loved you today, I will love you again.  Oh, and wear purple to my memorial.  Play your melodic songs you need to fill your heart.  But then, please, kick off your shoes, turner up the stereo and JUST DANCE.  Celebrate me and let me go.  Yes, for my funeral, wear purple and dance.

Too many cards

Recently, I have heard a couple people say something along the line of, "Boy, you sure have been dealt a lot to deal with lately."  So I was just pondering, is this not how everyone else's life is like?  Okay, take big-C out of the picture.  Doesn't everyone deal with all these things going on, falling apart, needing to be done, sleepless nights of trying to organize the next day, and dreaming of time to just do what one wants (I did get to paint for six hours today...it's been months since I have had a block of time like that to myself.  Happy dance!)  As I procrastinate typing up the detailed spread sheet that is supposed to clearly define my routine as a mother and housewife for my father-in-law to follow as I fly out to be with my family for my grandmother's memorial, I am overwhelmed into a headache.  And on top of all this, I am supposed to be working on training my son to sleep dry.  Is this what all mothers are doing?  Surely they are. 

Feel it Again

There is a strange moment I encountered today at a counter (teehee...playing with my Dr. Suess words.)  We were out at Cold Stone getting ice cream and sorbet after an afternoon of soccer game, Nutcracker ballet practice, and art class* at the Old Firehouse Art Center when Jack accidentally turned his head right into my lower tummy and incisions.  I instinctively winced and doubled over holding my tummy.  It was firm and round in my hand.  The clerk asked if I was okay.  Yielding a deep breath, I answered, "Yes, he just hit my stitches."
  The odd thought came later as I preceded to monitor the area around my tummy.  Later, it came as I arched my back and held my bloated tummy as I rose from sitting on the floor reading the kids bedtimes stories.  I felt pregnant.  Like a wave, the memory of the joyous and cautious protective gestures I took to my tummy when I was not pregnant enough for anyone to notice but enough to start wearing the "big pants."  There was an oxymoron of joy and grief.  A feeling I never thought I would feel again in my life.  Never really wanted it.  A brief joy in the memory.  And, a brief sadness that the nurturing gestures to my abdomen were not due a little life swelling in there.  A passing train of thought.

* The art class drew amazing fruit still lifes today.  But, we are bummed the teacher said she decided to up the age to 6, Jack is sad.  He said it is hard when he is tired from soccer but wanted to go when the season was over.  Maybe she will make an exception.  The other teacher was a sub and had no problem adapting to work with my young Rembrandts.  I hope we can talk this teacher in letting him attend maybe 30 minutes of the class or something.  I love to see him applying himself like he is.

Best Kiddos

In all the slum, glum, and pep talk, I forget to share my joy.  I am joyful for my two pretty great kiddos.  Today, they came home after being gone nearly a week at their grandparents to create fair homes.  Cardboard boxes, tape, markers and great ideas Scott and I helped with the architecture.  The plan is to pull out the hot glue gun and glue leaves and branches all over the homes so that real fairies will want to stay in them if we place them outside.  I am blessed with their creative minds, and they are blessed with an environment ripe for growing.  Symbiotic.

Oh, and I love how they dance and sing to the music as they create their masterpieces.  True right brainers.

Knowing Too Much

I lay awake.  Eyes closed.  Awake.  I allowed my Vicodin to wear off to just check in with my body and see where it was on the fantasy road of recovery.  I had been feeling pretty good, stiff but good, exhausted but good.  I needed to know if the narcotic was masking pain or creating exhaustion.  So I let it wear off.
   And, I lay here with stabbing pain in my belly.  I take another Vicodin so I can sleep in peace.  My mind races.  Knowing too much.  My mom said that a couple of people told her lately that they were sad for me because I have to know so much for my age. 
   The thirties.  I set out in my thirties thinking it would be pretty terrific.  I had suffered a date rape and two miscarriages in my twenties so the thirties were going to be fabulous.  I had two healthy babies, a family, a home, and a promising art career.  My body had a good decade before it was scheduled to start aching and falling apart.  Or, so I thought.
   And here I am contemplating all that I know about narcotic medications and how to effectively use them to balance pain control without the risk of addiction and side effects.  I take a bite of banana and sip of water to avoid nausea.  I have dealt with a mild pain sensation that, sure, would not exist if I upped my dose or took the Percasat or even the Oxycontin.  Alas, I know that the stronger opiates make my mind crazy and tummy do somersaults  if the pain is not severe enough.  I know that the Oxycontin and morphine are effective pain killers for extreme situations.  But, once the pain receptors begin to calm a bit, they start attacking the brain or something, and I begin to trip.  I remember when the pain started to reduce with my mastectomy.  I woke in the middle of the night with this horrible dream so bad that I won't detail its graphics other then it had to do with millions of flies.  My mother called the on-call nurse who told her it was time to step down to the next, lesser, rung of pain medicine.
   This surgery, I left the hospital with this knowledge but not because I was instructed by the nurses of this procedure.  No, I didn't even have a prescription.  I had told them I had left over pain pills and would like to use those first.  But, I mused for a moment to the fact that I knew too much.  What if I didn't know anything about pain control?  What if I was up all night with a stabbing pain, no three stabbing pains, and no idea how to soften the blow to get some sleep and heal?  Or what if quite the other side, and I took too much or too strong a medicine and started to freak out?
  Really?  Is this what a thirty-five year old is supposed to be up at night worrying about?  I know too much.  Maybe other thirty-somethings know too much.  But, why is it that way?  Didn't I earn a break, a time of my life?  Maybe that is yet to come.  Maybe I will have the freedom of forty.  Because, heck, my body has already fallen apart.  Thinking I should schedule to have my tonsils out, ovaries removed, and...is there another useless organ I can dispose of before I am forty?  Then maybe I can walk around in a bikini with all my scars and show off my wonderfully still alive forty year old body.

PS  I can tell you all kinds of things about how the reproductive system works, temperatures, when to conceive, and how I can have a pretty good idea if you are carrying a boy or a girl by how high your belly is on your frame.  Maybe I need to go into the medical field; a midwife, maybe.  Now, if you know me at all you would be chuckling and thinking: well, dear, I guess that Vicodin you took ten minutes ago is starting to work.

Surgery 101

Here is what I know about surgery:
-Your mother knows best.  At least my mother does so you can borrow her if you need some good advise and hugs.
-A clean bathroom and bedsheets are essential, but the dusting can wait.
-Stock up on BRATS.  That is the BRAT diet of apple sauce, mild soups and juices.
-Stock up on movies you don't have to think too hard to watch.  And, skip ones that make you laugh too hard if you are having abdominal surgery.  Ouch.
-Shave your legs with a nice new razor in your shower just before you go into the hospital.
-Paint your toes a cool color. If anything, it gives you something to talk about with the nurses when they are putting on your surgical stockings.
-Have friends on the nursing staff looking out for your best interest. (You rock, Allison)
-Be totally cool when you are getting checked in so the nurses want to give you extra help.  Sort of like you don't want to be mean to your waiter at a restaurant or they might spit in your ice tea.  I wonder what nurses spit in when they have nasty patients.
-Don't be afraid to elevate yourself to movie star status with the nurses with your cool survival story.
-Don't forget to gossip about Dr. Heartthrob with the staff...get them laughing.
-Thank the check-in nurse for asking the question: "Do you feel safe at home?"  This is very important.  A lot of times a person doesn't feel safe.  And, this is the first time they were ever asked and will begin to get help.  So it is a great question to be asked.
-Don't always trust the Marine field medic gone nurse when all the other nurses keep popping in to see if he is doing alright.  He might have a nice smile, but the IV stick is another story.
-Tears are good if it hurts; gets you some sympathy.
-Don't forget your birthday.
-Don't forget what surgery you will have and make sure to ask the staff if they don't ask you over and over.
-Make a list of all allergies and memorize it so you can repeat it over and over.
-Get pictures of your insides so you can post them on Facebook and gross out your friends.
-Have someone with a good memory present when the surgeon comes to tell you how the surgery went because either he talks really fast or you listen very slowly.
-Don't get in the car to go home until you are sure you will not throw up.
-Pillows!
-Cozy blankie.
-Stool softener.
-Crackers and water.
-Dairy free smoothies rock.
-Kleenex and barf bag...just in case.
-Lotion for feet and hands.
-You won't be able to talk clearly for a couple of days.
-NeilMeds Sinus Wash helps with the bruised throat from the tube so you can talk because we know you are dying to chat.
-Warm tea.
-Lay elevated because it is easier to sit up.
-When sitting up, bend your knees into you chest and use the weight of your legs to rock yourself up instead of engaging your solar plex muscles which hurt.
-Keep expensive pain meds until they expire in case you can use them again.  Then dispose of them at your hospital for safe handling.  Apparently, raccoons go through the dump and think they are food.  We don't our rascals trippin' on Oxycontin, now do we?
-The pain of passing the gas they blew up your tummy with is more painful then the stab wounds you know yield.
-Bed-side prenatal stretching and hip openers can help to relieve said gas issue and lower back discomfort from laying in bed.  Go bedside down dog and supta konasana!
-Watch temperature and for red/rash skin.
-Know it will get a bit worse before it gets better.  But, it will get better.
-Sleep!

Nesting

    When I was pregnant with my first child, I attended a prenatal class with my husband at the hospital.  Kim, the nurse educator and later friend, began to explain the signs for the husband to watch to predict an impending labor.  She explained that the soon-to-be-mom will begin to nest.  She will clean the tile with a toothbrush, fold baby clothes and sort them by color, and other orderly activities in preparation for the baby's arrival. 
  My hubby raised his hand and honestly asked, "What if our wife already does those things on a regular basis?"  In the end, Scott didn't need to watch for warning signs as my delivery arrived five weeks early when my water broke expectantly.
   As I prepare for yet another surgery, I nest.  Yes, I have had enough surgery in the past 18 months that I skipped the dusting coining it good enough to last two weeks.  But, yes, I vacuumed and mopped.  I will not be able to do these things for a month so I had to do them well enough to last.  Of course, the irony always lies in the fact that my dear son is always first to soil a fleshly mopped floor.  Like a good boy, he removed his shoes when coming inside from the backyard and the floor was still wet.  Yes, he tip-toed across to the bathroom in his bare feet, very dirty, wore sandals all day, bare feet.  And, the funny thing is that I left these little muddy prints on my kitchen floor.  They make me smile.  Maybe this slightly OC housewife is growing up a bit.
  So here we are on the night before my laparoscopic appendectomy.  My house is cleaned and mostly organized, the bags are packed, the scheduled outlined, and the magazines set out by the couch.  I think I am ready.  My colon is all clean, and I have new blade in my razor for a fresh shave in the am.  I will sip one more Vitamin Water and take my regular morning pills before the mid-night absolute fast, not even water.  And, the last thing I have to do, as it has become a ritual, is to paint my toes with a fresh lacquer of pearly lavender.  Hey, if I am going to lay in my birthday suite, at least I have something on my toes.
   Yes, I nest.  There is something quite sane about order.  There is a distraction in the action and comfort in the clean.  Good night as I rush out as I just remembered I forgot to pack my advanced directive and charge my i-pod.