On Grandma Eleanor's "Joie De Vivre"

My mother taught me many things.

Among them:

1. Try to take a walk every day. The fresh air does your mind and body good.

2. Sometimes the best meals come out of what you happen to have on hand in the cupboard or refrigerator.

3. It's never too late (she remarried at 46 and went to Europe for the first time when she was 47).

4. Life can be short (sometimes, heartbreakingly so). It should be enjoyed, whenever possible.

The last lesson was inadvertent--she probably never realized she would teach me that one. But watching your forty-nine-year old mother take her last breaths has a way of putting things in perspective.

***

For a long time, I denied myself. Subscribed to nonsensical rules like If I don't eat breakfast, then I can eat dinner. During high school I managed to spend an entire summer vacation working in a cookie shop and never once ate a cookie (I was afraid once I started I would never stop). For years, I spent too much time standing sideways, not liking what I saw, squinting angrily at my reflection and adding up numbers in my head, of calories and scale digits. It was exhausting. Who knows why all those years I didn't think I deserved certain things: Breakfast. Chocolate chip cookies. Love.

My mid-twenties were a particularly disastrous time, as they are for so many. I suffered through a series of brief, painful romantic relationships (one so ridiculous it ended via email, on New Year's Eve, to boot--I cringe just thinking about that). My dear mother seemed to make it her pet project to see me through this time. She was particularly concerned about me on the weekends and would start calling me early Saturday morning to make a plan. Did I want to meet at the mall? She would take me to lunch and surely there was something I needed at Meier & Frank.

If we didn't meet during the day and I had no other plans, she'd insist on taking me to dinner. Though it was a little humiliating to be several years out of college and spending Saturday night with my mother, I told myself as long as I didn't run into any of my friends (unlikely at the finer restaurants she and my step father  frequented) it would be OK.

Some days I would hardly eat anything all day, knowing my dinner that evening, with my mom and stepdad would include things like fresh roma tomatoes and buffallo mozzarella; handmade mushroom gnocchi and red wine. Plenty of red wine. And of course, dessert.

One Saturday night dinner in particular stands out in my mind. It was Valentine's Day, and I must have been about twenty-five. Valentine's Day dinner with your mother, how pathetic could a person get, right? But with the help of two glasses of merlot, I was soon laughing about my predicament. "Every pot has a lid," my mother would remind me. "When the time is right, it will happen, Sweetie." And of course, she was right.

That meal--homemade ravioli, if I recall correctly--concluded with something so decadent, so incredibly wonderful and delicious, no one at the table could contain themselves. Chocolate fondue, served with fresh fruit and pound cake. I know. Eating it bordered on what I can only describe, as a religious experience. I'm not sure I've tasted a desert this delicious since and I'm pretty sure I closed my eyes while eating the fondue. It was that good.

It was a meal--a dessert--we would recall for years. Well, a few years, anyway. My mother died about two years after that incredible chocolate fondue. But I still remember that night and that food, and how good it made me feel. Safe. Warm. Happy. And oh so full of joy.

***

The day after my mother's death, my stepfather gave me a letter my mother had written to me. It was dated February, 2000, three months before she died. She wrote it before the big surgery that would determine if her colon cancer was treatable (it was very much not). She wrote the letter in case she never got to see me again.

That letter said many things, and it is something I will always, always cherish (I sometimes think I should put it in a deposit box or something to keep it safe--do they even have those anymore?). But one thing stands out in particular: She said that she delighted upon my "joie de vivre" (French, for "cheerful joyfulness of living), that she took great pleasure in watching me enjoy a good meal or glass of wine. I wouldn't be surprised if she was thinking about that infamous Valentine's Day fondue meal when she wrote the that.

This is funny to me, because I feel like I fought that kind of enjoyment for so long, not feeling myself worthy, or some such adolescent nonsense. But reading that letter, I was so glad my mother had seen it in me, however briefly. And I was certainly not going to waste any time in making sure that I embraced joy (and chocolate fondue) whenever possible.

***

Last month, Erin took Ellie out for a "British tea." It was there that she discovered clotted cream.

Need I say more?

This might be my most favorite picture of Ellie, in the history of pictures. To me, it perfectly depicts Grandma Eleanor's beloved joie de vivre. Cheerful joyfulness, indeed.

Erin showed this picture to a friend whose response was: "She looks like she's been waiting her whole sweet life for this!"

I sure hope Ellie (and the rest of the children) don't waste any time, and that they all enjoy the many sweet things life has to offer, whenever possible.

Their Grandma Eleanor would be so proud.

That Much Sweeter

The Breast Imaging Center at my local hospital hands out roses to all the patients. A nice touch. This rose bloomed more beautiful and longer than any rose I've received in a long time.

I spent last Thursday morning at a place no woman wants to be. The breast imaging center at our local hospital. The same hospital where I’m due to give birth to two babies in roughly five weeks.

A few months ago I found a small lump in my armpit. My gene pool is lousy with breast cancer so I immediately feared the worst. I showed it to my OB (I was fairly early in the pregnancy at the time) and she felt the lump, but told me it was probably just extra breast tissue due to hormones (did you know breast tissue extends into the arm pit? I didn’t) and blah blah blah.

Pfew.

But then a few weeks ago I noticed the lump again. And this time it was bigger. A lot bigger. My doctor felt it again at my last check-up and immediately said she wanted me to get an ultrasound, which of course, scared the hell out of me. How could this be happening? For the past seven months I’ve been getting “fun” ultrasounds. Ones that involve heart beats and little hands and feet and the discovery of hair on tiny 32 week-old heads. An armpit lump ultrasound? Decidedly not fun.

Of course, because I was so worried, there was a two hour wait at my appointment. For a five minute procedure. When I was finally called in by the cheery tech, I studied her face as she read the screen. I swear that her expression immediately went from buoyant to tragic. As she gazed at the little gray and white blob on the screen (which she pronounced as “kidney shaped”) she appeared serious, concerned. It was bad. I could just tell. She told me she’d show the scans to the doctor and he’d either come in to discuss it with me and look further, or perhaps just relay results to her. I reminded myself not to be worried if the doctor came in. It had happened when I had a mammogram a year ago and that had turned out fine.

I flipped through a wrinkled, two-year-old copy of Life & Style magazine and three minutes later, there was the doctor. He offered his hand to shake, dimmed the lights, and then immediately came the questions. How long had I had the lump? When did I first notice it? Had it gotten a lot bigger recently?

My heart began to pound. My body felt heavy. The room felt like it was getting darker, closing in around me. This could not be happening. The Doctor slid the ultrasound wand across my armpit a few more times and peered at the fuzzy screen, at my infamous kidney shaped blob. All the Good Things, all the Things To Look Forward To—the babies, the kids, Erin, seemed suddenly very far away.

And then:

“Well this looks totally normal. Benign.”

The proverbial weight lifted. But all I could think was, Why couldn’t the doctor have led with that? With normal and benign? He gave me a bunch of information about hormones and underlying infections and lymph nodes and keeping an “eye on things” but the only thing that mattered to me were the words “benign” and “normal.”

Melodrama aside, I’ll be honest. For twenty-four hours, my little life got quite a jolt. Sure, it was just a little armpit lump, but it could have been something more, something worse. As much as I tried to tell myself it would be OK, willed it to be OK, I knew. It wouldn’t necessarily be. After all, I’m a member of the Club. The Club of Bad Things. I know those things don’t just happen to other people. That as much as we can think positive and hope for the best, we’re all ultimately, just one cross town bus or extra chromsome or abnormal cell away from catastrophe. The question isn’t how could this happen to me, but rather, why shouldn’t it happen to me? To anyone? Stuff just happens. There is no explanation.

I remember after my mom died, I went through a phase where I wasn’t afraid to die. Maybe because I felt I would see her in the afterlife, so how could death be a bad thing? Although I would describe myself as faithful, my religious stance is murky. I don’t know if I’ll see her again. But what I do know is I want to be here now. There are two, almost four little people who need me. And oh, do I need them. Now is not the time to go anywhere. I know what it’s like to lose a parent. And more than that, and to make it about me, I don’t want to lose them. To lose out on raising them.

I didn’t tell anyone but Erin when I found the lump. But when the good news came, I called my dad. I told him about my fear being wrapped up in the kids, in losing them, in them losing me. We got on the subject of time and how once you have kids it seems to speed up. My dad, a practicing Buddhist talked about how difficult it is to grasp time, to appreciate the Now. We all seem to be inherently hard wired to move onto the next thing. He said what helps is to focus on the sensory experiences of life. The smells, the feels, the sounds.

And it’s funny, because the morning of the big Armpit Ultrasound, I sat with Ellie as she ate her cereal and strawberries and felt more present with her than I’ve felt with anyone, in a long time. It was an unseasonably warm day and she wore a little pink cap-sleeved top, exposing the length of her remarkably soft, chubby little arms. I couldn’t help it--I reached over and stroked her tiny arm and she looked at me as if she was about to protest, as if to say “Mommy why are you doing that?” (a common refrain), but instead she said nothing, and went on to take a sip of apple juice and another bite of cereal.

It was just a little moment. A little snapshot. But it was one that made this one, little, happy ending for now, that much sweeter.