Damn Old Lady Skin

As I mentioned on Facebook today, for 35 years I have not given a crap about my skin.  I never wash it before bed, I'm always picking at it and I'm not even close to drinking enough water a day.  Its my own fault I have lines around my eyes and that horrible wrinkle in between my eyes.  I'm lucky I don't smoke or I would really be in trouble.

When I was a teenager my mom seemed to notice that I frowned all the time, thus making a little crinkle in between my eyes.  She'd say, "You should stop frowning or you're going to get a deep wrinkle between your eyes."  I would nod and then stick my tongue out at her when she turned around.  At the time my mom didn't know anything, she certainly did not know when or where I would wrinkle.

Well it turns out she was right about the "little crinkle" and just about everything else.  I hate her.

I was getting my Slutty Vixen on last week with Salon Sara and she told me about this new cream she has started using.  Its called Nerium and is apparently the equivalent of little magic elves in a bottle turning back the hands of time.  She showed me all these fabulous before and after pictures which, of course, I was incredibly skeptical about.  Then she started telling me about the difference she has seen in her skin in just a couple of weeks of use.  Smaller pores, help with uneven coloring, lines becoming thinner, etc etc.  She gave me a bottle and asked me to use it for 10-12 days.  I'm in.

I had to take a before picture which turned out to be tricky because you're not supposed to photo shop the before picture.  I had to take like 14 pictures before I got the right angle so it doesn't look like I have 6 chins.  I don't believe Nerium takes care of your multiple chin problems so why advertise it, right?

I've decided that if Nerium truly works I will start slatthering my whole body with it in hopes that it will tighten my ass, flatten my tummy, lift my boobs and make me less bitchy in the mornings. 

As my church prepares for Holy Week they have asked a group of writers to come up first person narratives from 6 different events of Jesus' life.  The one I wrote was called The Jesus Who Transforms and it was to be about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead.  When my Mom read it, like any good mother, she oohed and aahed over it and asked if I would publish it here on the blog.  Of course, I always oblige Della!  :)

Here you go...

The air was sticky with grief. Lazarus died four days ago but his scent lingers still. Lazarus always had a woody smell about him and when he would hug me I could always detect a faint mixture of mint and jasmine as well. When my sister Mary and I prepared his body for burial we used these same scents to wrap him. Mint, jasmine, lavender, clove... I wondered now as I pulled a steaming loaf from the hot coals if I would ever be able to smell aloe and myrrh again without thinking of Lazarus' lifeless body cold in a tomb. I shook the image from my mind and began mixing berries and roots for a jam.

I could hear Mary in the other room with the mourners who had come. They had been pouring in by the handfuls since news of my brother's death had spread. Covered faces of wailing women now sat with her and she graciously accepted their condolences and kind words. I left all of this to Mary...I had no desire to sit with these people who had turned their water works on for tradition's sake. They didn't know my brother, my Lazarus. They had never sat beside a rolling stream with him, listening to his jokes, his stories. They had no idea that even the birds would stop to listen as he would sing. These mourners knew nothing of his playful pats, his toothy grin, his throaty laugh when he would read something that tickled him. I knew also that if I lingered too long in that room the finality of death's grip may settle deep in my heart and I may begin to weep and wail with them and never be able to stop.

Sobs began to rack my shoulders anyway. I needed fresh air. I wiped the salty tears from my face and grabbed the water bucket, making my way to the well. Even this held its memories of Lazarus. I remember the day he and and our friend Jesus had first pulled water out of its deep, earthy grasp. Their worn skin glistened from sweat; they had worked all morning in the relentless sun yet they looked like giddy school boys as they pulled up the first bucket, the cool water sloshing over onto their dusty sandals. They laughed and slapped each others' backs at their accomplishment.

Jesus.

Lazarus' dearest friend. Where was he now, now that his brother was gone from this world? No breath in his body, no color in his cheeks...we had sent word for him but he never came. For days Mary and I had held Lazarus' weak hand, slowly watching the life seep from him. We tried all of the herbal medicines and techniques our mother had taught us but we couldn't bring him back to us. Our hopes were high when we heard that word had reached Jesus and we clung to it until we saw the last breath escape our brother's cracked lips. He was gone. Jesus had not come.

Anger reddened my cheeks. I had seen with my own eyes the miracles Jesus could perform. He and his Twelve had eaten in my home and shared the stories of lepers healed, blind now seeing, of lame now walking. His name had been whispered in corners of my home as my brother laid suffering. Where was he now? Why had he let Lazarus die? I knew when I saw him I would ask; I would ask boldly and loudly and he would know he had failed me.

It almost seemed like a mirage. For as soon as I had thought the words I saw him walking down the short road to my home. I dropped the pail and ran until I found myself looking into his face, "If you had been here, my brother would not have died." I heard the accusation in my tone, suprised at my own charge I looked away. Moments passed before I had the courage to look into his eyes again but when I did I immediately recognized what was in them: sorrow. Jesus, my Lord, was carrying his own heavy sadness for my brother. How could I have been so wrong?

As we spoke, Mary came running to us and I saw Jesus tremble at the sight of her tears, "Where have you laid him?", he simply asked her.

The band of mourners from our home followed silently as Mary and I led Jesus to the tomb. When we arrived there, breathless from our quickened paces, Jesus stood at the tomb door. He raised his hand and touched the door gently, sadly. He stood there motionless for a few minutes before I noticed the tears falling from his cheeks, spilling onto the dry ground where we stood. Unsure of what to do, of how to comfort him, I began to look away when I heard him command, "Take away the stone."

I wanted to object, to scream in protest at the obscene thought of it but my heart reminded me this man was the Son of God. I had doubted him once today and I would not do it again.

"Lazarus, come out." The words boomed as they ricocheted off the stone. Mary fell to her knees and I felt the arms of one of the Twelve brace me as my own legs began to give out. I struggled for air as my brother stepped forward, still wrapped in the linen I had shrouded him in only days earlier.

It was in that very moment I understood. In this very moment when my brother's still heart began beating I began to put the pieces together. Dozens of dinners when Jesus had spoken of his own death filled my memory and I felt dizzy with realization. At once I understood, death had no victory. Death held no permanent sting. The voice that brought warmth and blood to my brother's corpse would boom again and there will be no more death.

With three words Jesus had transformed everything. Transformed death into life. Transformed doubt into faith. Transformed grief into hope.

At once, I did the only thing I could do. I fell at The Christ's feet and worshiped.

I think the key to getting back to blogging is to just write.  I hear writers talk about this all the time; the simple practice of writing is bound to produce something.

When I first started writing I only pictured my Mom in Montana as my audience; I couldn't have imagined anyone but her ever finding what I had to say about my day to day life of any interest.  That got me thinking that maybe I just need to simplify it.  Perhaps my goal of trying to "wow" all of you (all 3 of you) is too daunting.  Maybe I just need to start out simple; just get back in the habit of writing and not try to blow you away with my wit and or wisdom.

I used to journal every day.  When I was in high school and college I filled pages and pages and pages with stories of stupid boys who either loved me too much or not enough.  I would copy down the lyrics to love songs and cut out articles from "Glamour."  I always pictured my someday children finding my boxes of journals after I had long died and thoroughly enjoying themselves as they poured over my wise writings and lost loves.  I saw myself as a real life "Francesca" from Bridges of Madison County who had lived this secret, romantic life that her children never knew about.

I stopped journaling sometime around 1999 and sometime around 2004 I found all of them and spent a whole Saturday reading them.  I was horrified at my melodrama and threw all of them out except for the 2 I kept while in India and the one I kept in Alaska when I met Hot Jeff.

Speaking of Bridges of Madison County, I know everyone hated that book but I loved it.  Still love it.  The other book of his, Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend is so underlined and dog eared I would never dream of loaning it out to someone in fear of what they might find out about me from the underlined passages.  I should re-read those books as an adult; I wonder if I would still love them.  As a twenty something who had her heart broken I found them so wonderfully romantic and tawdry I couldn't help but read them over and over.  I think I'll re-read them.  I might make my book club read them too; just to torture them.  Ha!

Aren't the words "Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend" just about the most lyrical, poetic words ever?  It just begs to be read in a big, red chair with and equally big, red glass of wine.  I don't think I was a legal drinking age last time I read that book.  So now I'll have age and liquor as an influence.  I'm getting so excited I'm going to go start right now.  10:21pm and I'm going and digging it up.  I don't even think its on the book shelf; it may be in a box in storage.  Hmm.

Ok, who is going to read it with me?

My sweet friend Christene sent me a note (actual paper, actual postage) telling me she was anxious to hear the rest of my story regarding saying goodbye to Gigi.  I feel like I owe that to you, to her, because you faithfully read this blog, faithfully visit it even though there are no new words to entertain you.  And you have been on this journey with me and you want to know how it ended but I will be honest, I don't want to write about it anymore.  I will try to fit in its conclusion somewhere and somehow but to just sit down and relive it now that I'm starting to heal seems counter productive.  Or maybe just sad.  Maybe next month when I'm PMSing and feeling like I want to cry and eat pumpkin pie and listen to soft rock I will finish it up but for now, sorry.

Another friend, Christy, had a kidney stone earlier in the week and read my old blog post about one of my many kidney stones.  That idea intrigued me and so I decided to read it.  Wow, that girl is funny.  She writes so easily; she can really tell a story.  Hmm, where did she go?  Where did her passion for telling a story go?

My sweet "other mother" Lori sent this to me this morning, it is an exceprt from a blog she was reading but I swear I could have written the words myself had I known how.   I was sure my creative days were over and any chance of me ever having anything worth saying again was not only lost but killed flat dead on the ground, limp and lifeless and puny. You know how that goes. When you long for time to write or create, you have exactly 47 billion things to say. And then when the time finally comes, you sit and push out all distractions and you got…nothing.

I've made promises to you in the past that I would get back to this wonderful process of writing.  That I would take full advantage of someone, anyone, taking pleasure in my ramblings and stories and musings and I have failed.  Failed miserably.  I get so busy with kids and laundry and Facebook (Facebook really takes blogging and shrinks it down to 2 or 3 sentences and instant gratification.  Hmm, this isn't the first time this week I've thought I heard God nudging me to take a break from Facebook.)  Anyway, no promises this time.  I'm just going to try and write.  Write anything.  If it doesn't have a title or a moral or joke, I'm just gonna write anyway.  Read, don't read.  Comment, don't comment.

Oh I hope I can do this.

I See the Moon and the Moon Sees Me

There's a gorgeous full moon out tonight and since Grama has died I feel close to her when I look up in that big sky and see that bright moon.  About a week after I got home from Montana and her funeral I was putting Casey out and saw that moon shining down and I knew, just knew, she was in a better place.

Although my three weeks with her were labored with questions and wondering why God had brought me to Montana and it appeared she wasn't going to die, the time together was precious.  Sacred.

One day, one that I spoke of in her eulogy, was particularly sweet.  I was sitting there holding her hand and offered to paint her nails.  They were brittle and peeling; she wasn't getting nearly the nutrition she needed to sustain them and I thought a little polish would be cheerful.

She agreed and I ran to the drugstore down the street and picked out a few colors.  When I returned I laid them out in front of her.  Without hesitation she quickly chose the brightest and perkiest pink of the bunch.  I polished her nails and toes and when she fell asleep and scuffed her thumbs I polished them again.

After she had fallen asleep I went into her bathroom to put the polish, remover and q-tips away.  Before putting it in the cabinet I looked at the name on the polish and it was "Rosy Future."  I just loved that.  Her future was indeed "rosy" as she prepared to meet her Savior face to face.

For the first week and half our days were filled of drinking milk shakes together and having candid talks about death and Heaven.  She wasn't afraid.  She didn't want to die but she certainly wasn't afraid.  We told each other a thousand "I love you's" and kisses.  As the days went on it got to the point where I couldn't bring my kids anymore but in the first week she had some special time with those great grandbabies who had come up with the name, "Gigi."

This picture just busts me up; here are my two Emily's sleeping in a little twin hospital bed.  It just cracks me up that Gigi's teeth have fallen out and are under Emily's arm.

Late in to the second week Grama's rally began to decline.  She stopped eating the few bites of 3 square meals and was sleeping almost all the time.  She was still able to swallow water and so we didn't have to give her her medicine through a syringe yet and that was a blessing.

At times she would seem to be hallucinating; she would look at me and her eyes were bright and voice clear but she would call me "Mama."  Towards the last week she called me Mama more than she did Jenny.  It didn't hurt me, in fact, I thought it was tender and precious.  I felt honored.  I also thought it was precious that in the end, no matter how old we are, we all want our mothers.

After we stopped going home at night and started staying with her around the clock I was on the night shift, sleeping in the recliner adjacent from her bed.  I heard her cry out, "Mama, Mama."  I sat up and saw her sitting up, wide awake.  "Grama, what do you need?  I'm here.  What do you need?"  "Whose cat is that?" she asked.  She was looking at the foot of her bed where there was no cat.  I got up and walked over to her bed.  "I don't know whose cat that is.  Is it yours?"  She nodded yes and smiled.  "What's your kitty's name?" I asked.  She looked at me like I was crazy and said in a know it all voice, "Kitty Cat."  Duh.

I asked her if she was thirsty and she said yes so I gave her a sip of water and she made a spitting sound over and over and then said, "Don't give that to Kitty Cat."  With that she laid down and went to sleep.

Thanks for letting me process through this bag of sorrow I'm dragging around.  It isn't much fun but as I cried and smiled while I wrote this I know its necessary.

One last picture.  I love this one; I loved her hands.  Even as a little girl I just loved how soft they always were.  This picture is special because we're holding hands and you can clearly see her two rings: her mother's ring and the ring my Mom bought herself, Grama and me.  We buried her with her mother's ring and the other one rests in a box waiting for little Emily to be old enough to wear and cherish.

What Did You Expect?

It was exactly 23 hours from the time I got the phone call from Hospice to come to the time I was walked in to Grama's room at Autumn Springs. I held my breath and walked in...

She was sitting on the foot of her bed. Dressed. Talking to my Uncle Gene. Waiting for dinner. She squealed and held out her arms when she saw me.

To say I was surprised at her perky condition is the greatest of all understatements. I had read and re-read Hospice's booklet on what the last days of life looked like, you know the ones where they call family all the way from Oregon to come because they are the LAST FREAKING DAYS OF LIFE, and this picture of sass was not it.

Seeing that Gigi wasn't gasping for her last breaths, I ushered in Deb and the kids. My Mom arrived shortly after and we both just shrugged our shoulders. This wasn't the first time we had thought Grama was dying.

Later that evening Deb and the midgets went home with my Mom and I stayed with Grama. She was lying in her bed and smiling up at me. I told her how good she looked and that I was actually surprised to see her doing so well. She smirked and said, "What did you expect? This?" and with that she closed her eyes and folder her hands on her chest as if she were lying in a casket. I nearly choked with laughter and said "yes."

I told her Hospice had called me and that's when she got serious and said that the last few days had been very rough and that she didn't remember much. I asked her if she had remembered telling me to come. She said no. I asked her if she remembered not getting out of bed for the last week? She said no. I didn't get into the hallucinations and the other end of life signs she had shown; I just held her hand and told her that I was glad she was having a good day.

On my drive home I began the defeating questions that would plague me for the next 3 weeks. They would rob me of my joy, my faith, and my confidence. I would become so blinded by my own petulant selfishness that I would nearly miss the sacred joy of being with my Grama in her last weeks of life and the fulfillment of God's promises that He would never leave me nor forsake me.