A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan APRIL 21, 2014 - MAY 2, 2014

Having a Moment * Keeping Promises to Myself * Mom * Irene * Deviant Normal * ALL THE MEANING IN THE WORLD * My George Clooney * For Crying Out Loud * Happy Birthday, Kerry Colleen

To read "My Diary" from the beginning, go to "Scenes from the Trenches" June 14, 2017, in the Archives on the right hand side of the blog page. To continue reading, scroll up in the archives from June 14, 2017, and click on each individual diary post. If you have difficulty, message or email me and I'll walk you through it. I didn't know, as I was writing, that I was capturing the last year of my son's life. His voice comes through loud and clear. For me, in these pages, he'll always be alive.

 

APRIL 21, 2014: HAVING A MOMENT

My daughter posts a photo on Instagram of my ex and his wife with her arms around my grandson. I can try to deny but denial's not good. This photo's stirring stuff up. Shouldn't those be my arms around my grandson? What was wrong with me? How did I let my marriage fail?

"What was wrong with me?" is the question we douse all over ourselves — forever. Maybe nothing was wrong with me. Maybe it was the time or the mores or my upbringing or any number of things. Is it possible I did the best I could?

When it comes to my marriage, I have to start giving myself the benefit of the doubt. I was and am a caring, well-meaning, and intelligent person. If being caring, well-meaning, and intelligent aren't enough, other elements must be in play.

Like luck? Like karma?

I don't know. There's a lesson here I'm supposed to learn. I'll keep working on it but, right now, I'm having a moment.

 

APRIL 22, 2014: KEEPING PROMISES TO MYSELF

I'm huffing and puffing with Deanne this morning. I'm not one of those people who gets high on exercise. I'm one of those people who hates exercise. I'm not enjoying the stretching, balancing, flexing, lifting, and pushing. I know, though, that I need to do this. I need to fight against losing muscle mass. I need to massage the old heart muscle with cardio exercises. Deanne makes sure I cover all the bases.

Home again. I paw through a messy desk drawer to find stamps, address labels, and note cards. I've stopped sending Christmas cards. Instead, I'm sending cards at random throughout the year to say, "Hi," and to let people know I'm thinking of them. Don't know about you, but I love finding cards and letters in my mailbox, and I find fewer and fewer. Like newspapers, written notes are becoming anachronisms.

This morning I've written cards to eleven people and dropped them in the mailbox. I have more cards to write but I'm taking a break and recharging my batteries. I want my thinking-of-you cards to be energetic with comments and questions specific to the person I'm thinking about. Otherwise, I may as well send out mass Christmas cards. "Happy Holidays. Love, Dede"

I visualize the recipients of my notes walking to their mailboxes. There among junk mail, bills, advertisements, and political flyers, they find my cards. They sit down at their kitchen tables. They turn the envelopes over pausing, for a second, to wonder what might be inside. They weren't expecting anything from me so what news could this be?

"Surprise. I'm thinking of you and wanted you to know."

Then I imagine that they go about their day with a lighter step, a little glow — someone's thinking, especially, of them. And I go about my day with a lighter step and a little glow because I'm doing what I promised myself I would do.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST:  Nothing like a sign at your favorite watering hole that informs you that you must have been born by today's date in 1993 to legally purchase alcohol to make you feel really old.

 

APRIL 23, 2014: MOM

Mom calls.

"Hi, Mom."

"Hi. How's your day?"

"Good. How's yours?"

"Good. What day can I make an appointment with the eye doctor?"

"Well, I'm thinking you better try for something after the week of May five. I'm on call for jury duty that week."

"Okay. How about Tuesday the twentieth?"

"That works if it's after two. Tuesday's my day at the thrift store. And if I happen to still be on jury duty, you'll have to reschedule."

"Okay. The twentieth. You'll pick me up at two?"

"I'll pick you up at two."

"Okay. What about my sheets?"

"I got your sheets."

"You did what?"

"I got your sheets."

"You got my sheets?"

"Yes, a full set that includes pillow cases."

"What color did you get?"

"They're white with a little pattern in them."

"How much?"

"Around sixty dollars for the set."

"Okay. What about my prescriptions?"

"I ordered your prescriptions. You should get them in the mail this week."

"Okay. What about Mother's Day? Do you want to come to the luncheon here?"

"Of course. Sign us up."

"Okay. And I have to tell you something. I had my blood pressure checked today and it was one hundred twenty-one over seventy-seven."

"That's terrific."

"I also got weighed and I've lost ten pounds."

"Wow. Good job."

Mom sounds pretty pleased with herself. She rides her scooter everywhere and walks between her bed and the bathroom with her walker. I know exercise isn't part of her weight-loss regimen. "How did you lose ten pounds?"

"I skipped desserts and cut everything else in half."

"How long did this take you?"

"About three months."

"Well, way to go."

"I'm drinking some Irish cream to celebrate. I have about one-fourth of the bottle left. Bye."

"Bye, Mom."

 

APRIL 23, 2014: IRENE

Irene calls. That's synchronicity. I put a note in the mail to her yesterday. She hasn't received it, yet. "I have a few moments and I decided to call you to catch up."

"It's great to hear from you, Irene. How's everything with you?"

"I'm busy getting our home ready to put it on the market, seeing my doctors, and weeding out what to give away and what to keep. I'm actually looking forward to moving into the assisted living facility in Grass Valley. I want my daughters to get their lives back."

Irene's also preparing for heart surgery and back surgery in addition to managing her progressive MS. "I get really tired and just do a little every day. How are you?" I tell Irene about the trip to Bend and my mother's 96th birthday. "These sound like wonderful birthday celebrations."

We talk for an hour. Irene is less than a year away from losing her husband, Eddie. She turned 70 in February. "Dede, I think we have to keep positive attitudes and keep moving forward. Let's stay in touch. Okay?"

More than okay, Irene. More than okay.

 

APRIL 24, 2014: DEVIANT NORMAL

I'm not looking forward to this. I'm in for my six-month check at the dentist. The hygienist is examining my tongue. "Have you noticed that the tip of your tongue is redder than the rest of your tongue?"

"Well, no, I haven't noticed." (I don't stand in front of the mirror with my tongue sticking out. Maybe I should.)

"Nothing to worry about. It's what we call 'deviant normal.'"

I like this term, "deviant normal." Shouldn't we all aspire to be deviant normal? To stand out? To not follow the crowd? To sometimes say, "Fuck you?"

"I think I may be deviant normal in more ways than the tip of my tongue. At least I hope I am."

The hygienist laughs. Sounds like other patients haven't told her they aspire to deviancy. She changes the topic. "It's been a year since we took X-rays of your teeth, so we will take X-rays today."

"Stop. Hold on." I'm practicing deviancy. "I've read studies linking dental X-rays to brain tumors. Nothing conclusive, but some experts are recommending receiving X-rays every two to three years instead of annually."

"Well, the radiation level in these X-rays is less than the radiation you'd get spending ten minutes in the sun. They're very safe."

After more discussion, the hygienist offers that I might opt to have X-rays every two years. "You know that X-rays may reveal problems that I can't detect visually."

"If you see something that concerns you, you'll let me know. Then, we can still take the X-rays, right?"

"Right." The dentist sits down next to me. I've never met this dentist and I don't know why she's not the same dentist I saw six months ago. The dentist concurs with the hygienist."You realize I can't see what X-rays might show."

"Yes, I realize. Let's take that risk."

The dentist pokes around in my mouth for less than three minutes. "I agree with the previous dentist. You should have treatments in four areas with receding gum lines. The teeth in these areas aren't protected by enamel. They can become infected."

"Are these fillings covered  by insurance?" I know they're not covered by insurance because I asked this question six months ago. I'm testing the waters. I'm being deviant.

"I don't know anything about costs and insurance. I simply make recommendations on what's needed. The woman at the front desk can tell you about price and coverage."

Hmm. I've heard doctors say the same thing. "I don't know anything about costs or insurance coverage." Maybe medical/dental knowledge and knowledge of patient costs should be more integrated. Maybe health care personnel would think twice about recommending less critical, expensive procedures. Again, maybe they wouldn't. Maybe these procedures provide welcome, additional revenue. This is the new culture of health care — impersonal, corporate, pricey.

The hygienist cleans my teeth. "You're good to go."

The young woman at the from desk double checks for me. "No, the recommended fillings would not be covered by insurance. Yes, they would cost twelve hundred dollars."

I schedule my next six-month appointment. Deviant or not, I'm not looking forward to it.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Overheard at work: "Are you gonna go to the gun show, the fishing derby, or the rodeo this weekend?"

 

APRIL 26, 2014: ALL THE MEANING IN THE WORLD

Pat &MeDinner2014.jpg

Pat calls. "Mom, would you like me to take you out for a birthday dinner tonight?"

"Tonight?" It's not even my birthday month. My birthday celebrating will be over before my birthday.

"Do you like that fish restaurant in the Fountains?"

"It's good, but it's a little costly."

"That's okay. It's your birthday dinner. Meet me there at six-thirty."

Here we are sitting in a cozy booth. The restaurant's busy. Rustling prom dresses and black tuxedos fill the chairs. There's lots of girlish giggling at the tables. The waiter brings us the menu. At the top it says, "Happy 70th Birthday!!!"

I'm impressed. "Thanks for the personalized menu."

"You're welcome. Would you like something to drink — wine or from the bar?"

I order a glass of Chateau St. Jean chardonnay. Pat orders the same. "Good choice." Waiters always say that. Pat decides to order a bottle — two glasses for each of us. I worry about his budget, but this dinner is as much for him as it is for me. Today's his payday. He hasn't had paychecks in a long time.

There were days, in the past, when I hoped and prayed my son would survive. He was often missing, in jail, 5150d to a psych ward, or living on the street. I remember one night in the middle of yet another crisis. I was home alone in my big house on a hill. I felt like a mother animal — any mother animal — lion, tiger, bear, elephant, cat, dog — whose offspring was in mortal danger. I felt primal, obliterating emotional pain. I started crying in my kitchen. The crying turned to screaming — a someone-is-being-murdered kind of screaming. The screaming wouldn't stop. I wanted to smash every glass, cup, saucer, and dish in my cupboards. I wanted time to start over without the bipolar/schizoaffective disorder or whatever illness it was that no one could pin down, without the illness that was kidnapping my son and holding him hostage.

It's been a long road from that night to this night. For the first time in eight years Pat has a job. Thanks to my mom's generous rental policy he has a roof over his head. Thanks to me he has a car, and his monthly utility, phone, internet, and car insurance bills are covered. We talk about this.

"I want to start paying these bills myself, Mom, but can we wait until next month? My car's flashing a 'maintenance required' light on the dashboard. I don't know how much it might cost if the problem isn't under warranty."

"Take care of the car, Pat, then we'll revisit your finances."

Pat's bankruptcy filing was finalized March 22. Since then, he's been bombarded with letters from car companies congratulating him on his responsible decision to file bankruptcy. They're offering him deals on cars that don't require a down payment. He's also receiving new, pre-approved credit card applications. This should be illegal. It's corporations preying on consumers who have a hard time managing their income and outgo. These letters and enticements are placing a bug in Pat's head. "I'm thinking I should get a new car before I have to put a lot of money into the one I have."

The car Pat drives, and I own, is a 2006 Ford Focus. It's the same age as my Toyota Prius. I don't plan to buy another car anytime soon. "Pat, I don't think you should be taking on new monthly payments. Your car should be good for quite a while if you take care of it. What if you lose your job? What if unexpected bills come up?"

My squashing his idea is being ignored. "I'll have to cross those bridges when I come to them."

At 45, almost 46, with an intractable tumor lurking in his brain, Pat's trying to dig himself out of a deep hole. He wants to feel successful. I won't push this conversation further this evening. After all, it's my birthday dinner. It's the first birthday dinner Pat's treated me to. It's probably my best birthday dinner ever. I want the guests at other tables to know what a special dinner the two of us are sharing. I want them to realize this dinner includes, in addition to a side of grilled asparagus, another heaping side:

ALL THE MEANING IN THE WORLD

It's clear that others won't capture this moment. So I must and I am.

 

APRIL 27, 2014: MY GEORGE CLOONEY

Well, it was inevitable. 

The headlines are screaming it all over the internet. George Clooney, my George Clooney, is engaged.

Maybe it's not true. Maybe there'll be a retraction. Photos, however, don't lie. In the photos, there's something in their faces. They look happy. They look together. George is 52. His fiancee, Amal Alamuddin, is 36. That's a sixteen-year age difference. There's an eighteen-year age difference between me and George. Why her and not me? She is beautiful. And smart — an attorney in international law and human rights who speaks multiple languages.

I get it. George is a human rights activist. She's a human rights activist. I might call myself a human rights activist. On a much smaller scale, of course. Like in my own backyard. I'll take the high road with this. I'll wish the happy couple well. I'll stop having dreams about me and George getting married. I'll start dreaming about getting invited to his wedding to Amal. They haven't set a date. Maybe they have and we're not in on it. Doesn't matter.

It was inevitable.

George Clooney, my George Clooney, is engaged.

 

APRIL 29, 2014: FOR CRYING OUT LOUD

I grabbed the tube of Preparation H instead of the tube of toothpaste and started brushing my teeth.

I left the pot of soup on the stove all night instead of putting it in the fridge.

I walked out the door with my credit card instead of my mailbox key to go get the mail.

I searched five minutes for my purse. It was hanging on my shoulder.

I drove north on the freeway for eight miles when I was supposed to be driving south.

I wore one blue shoe and one black shoe to a block party.

I put a clear earring on my left ear and a black one on my right ear and went to my workout with Deanne. She didn't say a word.

Disclaimer
All of these events are true.
THEY DID NOT HAPPEN ALL IN ONE DAY.

 

MAY 2, 2014: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KERRY COLLEEN

Today, my fourth and youngest child is turning 37.

In 1979, the San Francisco Chronicle published my article, "Diary of an Unplanned Pregnancy." It was about my unexpected pregnancy with Kerry. Abortion wasn't an option and I felt trapped. I wrote, "I was beginning to dream of time for myself and here I am shackled again." I received dozens of letters from readers who were moved by what I wrote.

Kerry didn't know about the article. I pondered if and when I'd show it to her. Then, out of the blue, this choice was taken away. Fifteen years later, when Kerry was in high school, she and I stood in line at a mother-daughter luncheon. A mother of one of her classmates came up to us and said, "I remember that beautiful story you wrote about Kerry's birth."

Kerry's eyes got big. She looked at me like "What? What is that woman talking about?" There was no way out. I knew, when we got home, I'd have to pull the newspaper clipping from my file and give it to my daughter. Would she understand? Would she be hurt?

Kerry read the article. She said she got it. But really? Could a sixteen-year-old girl relate? Could she believe what I wrote at the end?

"As for you, Kerry, I know I made the right decision. It's hard to believe you once seemed so threatening. Now, I wouldn't give you up for anything. I sit and hold you, brush my face against your soft cheek, and still the tears come. The wonder of you. Of your new life. You and I are going to be fine, Kerry."

Thirty-seven years later, I still wouldn't give you up for anything. And, as I write this, still the tears come.

 

COMING UP THURSDAY, MAY 3, 2018:
May 5, 2014 - May 17, 2014: Jury Duty I * Jury Duty II * Ladybugs * Being Part of It All * Mother's Day * Books and Wolves * Deja Vu * California Chrome

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

MORE FEEDBACK FOR A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan

Hi there, I just wanted to reach out and say thank you. I found your site through FB and the "kismet" is right there. In two weeks I am heading up to a monthly writers group here in Los Angeles. We are not officially a NAMI group, but the families members are all from the L.A. or Santa Monica family support group. We will be writing about our experiences and emotions. It will be cathartic and healing and I've just sent a link of your site to everyone, to get inspired. My own writing will be towards writing a book and more advocacy to hopefully come from it. K.

Best.ever.comment: Trying to find meaning in the suffering ..rising each day ..no matter what. Nancy Dee

We all suffer but we all have different journeys. Dealing with a child with SMI is horribly tuff. But we all get up everyday! Happy Easter to everyone and to you Dede, my friend. I love your posts.  Karen Riches

 

To read "My Diary" from the beginning, go to "Scenes from the Trenches" June 14, 2017, in the Archives on the right hand side of the blog page. To continue reading, scroll up in the archives from June 14, 2017, and click on each individual diary post. If you have difficulty, message or email me and I'll walk you through it. I didn't know, as I was writing, that I was capturing the last year of my son's life. His voice comes through loud and clear. For me, in these pages, he'll always be alive.

If you're reading and liking "A Mother's Diary," please let me know. I'm building a case for getting it published — one way or the other. Thanks. 

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, APRIL 19, 2018
April 21, 2014 - May 2, 2014: Having a Moment * Keeping Promises to Myself * Mom * Irene * Deviant Normal * ALL THE MEANING IN THE WORLD * My George Clooney * For Crying Out Loud * Happy Birthday, Kerry Colleen

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

Pat and me 1969

Pat and me 1969

A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan APRIL 7, 2014 - APRIL 20, 2014

96th Birthday * Yay for Our Team * Let the Celebration Begin * Thelma and Louise * On the Road Again * Hell-o-oh * 70th Birthday Party * A Wonderful Adventure * The Tree Guy * Easter

To read "My Diary" from the beginning, go to "Scenes from the Trenches" June 14, 2017, in the Archives on the right hand side of the blog page. To continue reading, scroll up in the archives from June 14, 2017, and click on each individual diary post. If you have difficulty, message or email me and I'll walk you through it. I didn't know, as I was writing, that I was capturing the last year of my son's life. His voice comes through loud and clear. For me, in these pages, he'll always be alive.

 

APRIL 7, 2014: 96TH BIRTHDAY

A birthday whirlwind weekend. I drove Jim and Sharon to the airport this morning after nonstop eating Saturday and Sunday. Michael prepared a delicious arugula salad with candied walnuts and pears poached in sauterne and, of course, his French bean, sausage, and duck cassoulet. David made Brussels sprouts in a Dijon mustard sauce. The lemon layer cake with rosemary and whipped-cream-cream-cheese frosting didn't disappoint. Sunday morning was Michael's quiche and more of the poached pears.

Thirteen adults and three children joined GG for her 96th birthday fete. Kerry hung 12 gold helium balloons over the dining room table. She tied double-sided family photographs to the end of each balloon string. Cousin Annette sent two dozen pink roses from Kansas City.

Mom beamed. "It's the best birthday party I've ever had."

She blew out two candles on her cake — a nine and a six — and made a wish. "Can I tell everyone what I wished?"

"Mom, you can do whatever you want."

"I wished that all of you will come back here, in four years, to join me for my one-hundredth birthday."

"We will. We will."

Happy 96th Birthday, GG Moon.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: The great thing about walking your dog in the park on a leash is that, if you get caught up in an awkward conversation with your neighbors, the dog will drag you away and you don't have to excuse yourself from the conversation.

 

APRIL 8, 2014: YAY FOR OUR TEAM

Annette calls. She wants to make sure her roses arrived. She also wants to tell me about her blind date.

"How did it go?"

"It went well. Jim picked me up, opened car and restaurant doors, showed me around his beautiful white-everything house, and kissed me good night. He's invited me to dinner again next Thursday. He wants his friends to meet his girlfriend."

"Wow. His girlfriend?"

"That's what he said on the phone."

This gentleman owns several houses, a boat, and flies his own airplane — at 82 years of age. Annette says, "I'm not ready to go up in the air with him."

Yay, Cousin Annette. At 75, you're a spring chicken and a fine catch.

 

APRIL 9, 2014: LET THE CELEBRATION BEGIN

I'm going to Bend, Oregon, on Sunday. This is a surprise trip from Marisa and Kerry for my 70th birthday. A little early, but it's Easter break and they can get away for a couple of days. Kerry, Regan, Ayla, and I will drive from Lincoln to Bend. Marisa, Sam, and Elise will drive from Seattle to Bend. Marisa has reserved a craftsman-style house in the center of town.

I'm adjusting my calendar — canceling dentist appointments, bridge dates, my shift at Snap it Up, and arranging a cat sitter for Jazzy. This morning I wake up with a scratchy sore throat. Drat. I have to will this sore throat away. I'm happy and excited to be preparing for this unexpected Oregon excursion with my daughters and grandchildren.

Let the 70th birthday celebration begin.

 

APRIL 12, 2014: THELMA AND LOUISE

I'm running around, getting ready to go. I've been laid up with this cold and I'm catching up. I hate colds. You feel like you're not really sick but you're really not well, either. Actually, you feel like shit. I'm drinking orange juice, using nose spray and eye drops, and taking antihistamines and cough syrup. Probably, all together, they're a lethal combination. But, I don't have time to fool around. We're leaving tomorrow morning at 6 a.m. on our road trip to Bend, Oregon.

Lay in cat food and kitty litter. Check. Water houseplants and outside potted plants. Check. Print off a map. Check. Fill the gas tank. Check. Buy birthday favors for the grandkids. Check. Sounds like I'm leaving for four weeks instead of four days.

This will be a Thelma and Louise adventure with a seven-year old and a five-year old. I'm raring to go.

 

APRIL 13, 2014: ON THE ROAD AGAIN

On the road again. Can't wait to get on the road again. Kerry, Regan, Ayla, and I are settled into my 2006 Prius. Kerry's driving. I'm assigned the passenger seat and the role of navigator. Kerry's phone is programmed to Siri for directions. My old-fashioned printed directions are a backup in case we lose cell phone contact.

Regan and Ayla, still in pajamas and buckled in their car seats, sit surrounded by blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, and kid-size electronic gadgets. Kerry and I agree on some ground rules:

  • The driver's always right.
  • The front seat passenger is allowed to scream once. Only once.
  • What happens in the car, stays in the car.
  • Because I'm the Birthday Queen, Kerry and Marisa can't call me out — for anything — for the duration of the trip.

According to my Google map, the distance to Bend is 424.3 miles or seven hours and five minutes not counting pit and food stops. Ten minutes out of town we run into a dead end. How did we get off the main road? Was it the driver or the navigator? Oh, boy. This could be a long trip.

Back on track, it's a clear day with blue, cloudless skies. We pass a reasonable mix of green and brown grasses, given the drought situation. Lake Shasta is low. A wide swath of black, muddy earth rims the perimeter. Half way to Bend, Kerry and I realize we haven't turned on the radio. We've been "banterizing." Kerry makes up this word. We're laughing and teasing each other. We're having a good time.

The girls are getting restless. Now I'm driving and Kerry's navigating and directing car yoga. Ayla throws her feet up over her head in her car seat. Regan's a swirl of hair flying from one side to the other.

We pull off the road in Weed. Kerry sees a photo op in front of a "Welcome to Weed" sign. She asks Regan to run as fast as she can to get an action shot and to use up some of her kid energy. Back on the road, we're driving through northern California outback. We pass an adult superstore. Gun shops and signs for certified NRA instructors appear like Golden Arches - with predictable regularity. Looking for lunch, we pass a restaurant that advertises, "We now serve good food."

Hmm. Think we'll keep looking.

As we approach Bend, we call Marisa. We're a little bit ahead of her and will arrive at the rental house first. Marisa gives Kerry the code to gain access to the house key. Our get-away is about to begin for real.

 

Ocean Rolls from Sparrow Bakery, Bend, Oregon

Ocean Rolls from Sparrow Bakery, Bend, Oregon

APRIL 14, 2014: HELL-O-OH

NW Federal Street is our Bend address. The owners live in Cleveland, Ohio. This house will be their retirement home, along with an East Coast home in Florida.

I claim the downstairs bedroom. It's not the master bedroom but it means I don't have to climb the steep, narrow stairs to the second floor. Marisa and Kerry are sharing the master bedroom. A third bedroom, on the second floor, has a single bed for Sam and a double bed for Ayla, Regan, and Elise. The kids want to be together. This morning, the four of them are up at 4 a.m. There's too much excitement for young cousins to stay asleep.

Marisa and Kerry walk to the Back Porch Coffee Shop to buy coffee and breakfast treats. I brought ground Yuban, my coffee of choice for many years, but it doesn't meet M & K's minimum standards. It comes in a plastic container from the grocery store. It's not tall or short or blended. My cup of "real coffee" from the coffee shop doesn't impress me. I like my Yuban better.

The unexpected magic, though, is in the breakfast rolls that Kerry and Marisa bring home to all of us - Ocean Rolls, a Bend exclusive from the Sparrow Bakery. Oh, my. This is a true discovery. A cross between a breakfast roll and a croissant and flavored with cardamom. The seven of us share two of them. We all agree these are among the most wonderful, delicious concoctions we've ever tasted. Kids and grownups fight over the last few crumbs.

I don't eat breakfast rolls and I'm not a fan of croissants, but these Ocean Rolls are over the top. Why they're called Ocean Rolls isn't clear. Bend is far from the Pacific ocean or any ocean. Cardamom is native to the evergreen forests of Southern India. Nomenclature is of no significance, however. The roll is the roll is the roll.

At lunch time, we pull in at the Ten Barrel Brewery a few blocks from the house. The day is much warmer than we were expecting. We sit outside at a polished picnic table. Crayons and coloring paper are provided. Halfway through our meal, the drinks for the kids haven't arrived. I spy our waitress across the yard. In an instant, in Bend, my life changes forever.

"Hell-o-oh," I yell. "Hell-o-oh!"

The waitress turns around. Marisa and Kerry duck down. Customers at other tables are staring at us. Sam and Elise are laughing. What did Mim just do? This is so embarrassing. The waitress comes to our table. "We're still waiting for the kids' drinks."

"Oh, right. I'll get them for you."

"Hell-o-oh" becomes the vacation catchphrase. I remind everyone of the trip rule. No one can criticize the Birthday Girl.

This afternoon we hike in Shelving Park which has level walking trails, lots of big and little sticks, and water running over rocks and logs. Perfect. "Hell-o-oh" everyone shouts through the forest. We stop at a covered bridge for a group photograph.

Back at the house, the evening's filled with games like "I'm going camping and I'm bringing..." Everyone has to guess the secret code to be allowed to come on the camping trip. The kids love this game. They take turns making up the rules. After a while, the game deteriorates into knock-knock jokes involving butts and poop. Butts and poop are as funny as "Hello-o-oh" and all are mentioned, often, to fits and giggles.

The walls in this house on NW Federal Street are blushing. They've never heard such goings-on. It's a good thing the owners live far away. In Cleveland.

"Hell-o-oh."

 

APRIL 15TH, 2014: 70TH BIRTHDAY PARTY

My 70th birthday party continues. Everyone's up before me and there are more Ocean Rolls this morning. About one quarter of an Ocean Roll is left for Mim. That will teach me to get up last.

We pile into Marisa's white Honda Odyssey mini-van. We're driving to Sisters, a little tourist town about half an hour from Bend. Turns out it's not a good time to walk the main drag. The streets and sidewalks are all torn up for a major renovation. The make-over will be finished in a month for the summer tourist season, but right now, walking is a pedestrian's nightmare — plenty of opportunities for tripping and stumbling. I watch my feet and where I put them.

We head to a restaurant famous for its fish and chips. The girls order from the kids menu — their third meal of mac-n-cheese. Sam joins M & K and me in sharing an order of fish and chips. The fish and chips come and they're good. We order another basket. Kerry orders a diet Pepsi for the second time as it has not yet arrived.

Our chatty waitress says, "I used to live in Seattle. I lived there seven months. I didn't like it."

"Was it the weather you didn't like?"

"No, it was the traffic."

M & K take the receipt to the cash register to pay for lunch. I sit with the kids. And sit with the kids. This is taking a while. Ayla's upset. She wants her mom. The woman at the cash register rings up three baskets of fish and chips instead of two. She charges $3 for the diet drink that never came. Eventually, all is adjusted and Ayla finds Kerry.

Back at our NW Federal home away from home, I pass out Easter Bunny PEZ dispensers with candy refills. They're received with cheers, thank-you's, and hugs. I had Popeye and Mickey Mouse PEZ dispensers when I was little. PEZ candy was invented in Austria in 1927 as a breath mint. The name comes from the German word for peppermint — "pfefferminz." in 1948, the first PEZ dispenser was designed to resemble a cigarette lighter to encourage people to quit smoking. In 2011, PEZ, Inc. opened a visitor's center in Orange, Connecticut. A true product success story.

With PEZ dispensers in their hands, the kids disappear upstairs. M & K open their laptops on the dining room table. They both have work to do for their jobs for Williams Sonoma. They work from home and away from home.

I opt for some alone time and drive to Bend's main street shopping area where restaurants and clothing boutiques abound. I examine a few items on racks — a blouse, a jacket, a skirt. They each cost the same. $324. Time to move on.  At the market, two blocks from our house, I buy cheese, crackers, wine, and the makings for noodles and tomatoes for Sam and the girls. The grownups are having Happy Hour for our last evening in Bend.

We open the wine and drink a toast to my birthday. We play Simon Says and Sorry with Sam and Ayla. Regan and Elise are upstairs. M & K go back to the market for another bottle of wine. I pick up dirty dinner dishes and load the dishwasher. The grandchildren are dueling each other with the long, plastic tubes their PEZ dispensers came in. Packaging is always so much fun.

M & K return and there's a commotion in the dining room A sparkler's blazing on top of a cupcake. My two daughters and their four children are singing "Happy Birthday." We have a choice of chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting or vanilla cupcakes with vanilla frosting. And, if we're good, we can have one of each.

This birthday celebration is my best, ever. Marisa and Kerry have gone above and beyond  — making the plans, renting the vacation house, paying for breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. I'll pull this memory out of my memory box and relive it again and again.

"I love you Marisa, Kerry, Sam, Elise, Regan, and Ayla. Thank you for sharing this birthday with me."

My 70th birthday road trip is coming to a close, all too soon.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Thank God it's tax day! Now maybe all the idiots who dress up like the Statue of Liberty and stand on the street corner and wave signs and wave at traffic will go away.

 

APRIL 16, 2014: A WONDERFUL ADVENTURE

This morning we're packing up and getting ready to leave Bend. We walk to a nearby bakery. The first thing Kerry and I notice is the absence of Ocean Rolls. Oh, my. What shall we do? Back at the house, I say, "I have to leave for a few minutes to run an errand."

"How long will this errand take?"

"I don't know. Maybe half an hour. This is still my birthday celebration. I'm still the Birthday Queen."

"Well, okay, but we have to leave pretty soon, you know. It's a long drive home."

I back my car out of the driveway and consult Siri for directions to Sparrow Bakery. Yesterday, Marisa and I stopped by the bakery to check it out. I gathered the necessary information while Marisa used the restroom. 

"Yes, you can freeze Ocean Rolls."
"No, we don't have an online site for ordering them."
"No, we don't ship them."
"Yes, you can order them by the dozen."

I ordered three dozen Ocean Rolls to be picked up tomorrow, which is now today. As I pull into the bakery parking lot, my cell phone rings. "Hi. This is Sparrow Bakery. We're holding your order for three dozen Ocean Rolls."

"Thank you. I'll be right there." I don't want my Ocean Rolls sold to someone else. 

Heading back to the house on NW Federal, the car vibrates with the smell of warm, baked-this-morning Ocean Rolls, I walk in the house and give a box to Marisa. "For me? All of these?"

"Yes, we each get a dozen."

On the drive home, for an hour and a half, Kerry and I talk about Ocean Rolls. How we'll freeze and reheat them. How we'll try to find a recipe or make one up. How cardamom may be our new favorite spice — ever. An hour and a half. Is this what you call mother-daughter bonding? I don't know. Whatever it is, I want to pack it in a sealed container and preserve it forever.

We arrive back at my house. Ayla and Regan move their car seats from my car to their white Honda SUV which is parked in my garage. They're eager to get home. They want to see Daddy.

No matter how wonderful the adventure, it's always good to get home. I'm home. I'm tired. I wouldn't have it any other way.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: My official job title is auto parts delivery driver but a more accurate title would be Sirius Satellite Radio Operator as I scan the dial all day while cruising though the Northern California gold rush communities.

 

APRIL 17, 2014: THE TREE GUY

The tree guy's here. Over the winter, five of my podocarpus trees have croaked. And the African sumac, in my front yard, is drooping with large sections of brown leaves. When I look at it, I feel like I live in a southern swamp. Maybe it can recover but there are other issues.

This African sumac tree grows like a weed. It's evergreen yet drops yellow leaves all year long and it's encroaching on my roof top and gutter line. It's building my case for getting rid of it, even though I hate to remove, okay kill, any plant or tree.

The tree guy says these trees need major pruning every year. Like $300 worth of pruning. Case closed. The dead podocarpus trees have to go. The still-living African sumac has to go. Damn. The other thing is that there's a finch nest in the African sumac with two baby birds inside. I don't know this until the tree guy points it out. He can move it to another tree. I inhale.

"Move it to another tree."

We wait. The mother finch flies to the new tree with a worm in her beak. She's figured out the relocation of her nest. She's found her lost babies. She's on it. "Go, Mother Finch. I'm for you, not against you."

The African sumac comes down. The podocarpus trees come down. Huge holes appear in my yard. I'm having a yard identity crisis. "Wait," says the tree man. "Live with your yard for a while. Think about what new trees you might want to consider."

I need someone to hold my hand in this endeavor. I need a good tree guy. I think I have one.

 

APRIL 20, 2014: EASTER

For me, Easter is about family getting together. We had Easter egg hunts, forever, when my children were growing up. If not in our own yard, in GG's yard. When my kids were 18, 19, and 20, they still wanted to hunt for Easter eggs which, by then, were plastic and some included five-dollar bills.

I'm at Kerry's house this afternoon watching the custom continue. Two hundred plastic eggs, some with dimes and nickels in them, are hiding in Kerry's backyard. Regan, Ayla, and their friends, Evan and Grant, run around all the bushes and trees. In five minutes the hunt is over. Everyone has a basketful of eggs and a chocolate rabbit. As much as the hunt, sitting down on the entry way floor to count their loot is part of the thrill.

Among our clan is GG, of course, and Doug. Doug is Regan's and Ayla's great-grandfather on their father's side. His wife, Joyce, recently passed away. (My perky polka-dot umbrella story.) Doug, age 85, brings his homemade desserts — a  banana cream pie and a lemon pie. I take a slice of the banana cream pie. It's really good. Doug and Joyce were married for something like 65 years. He's making an adjustment. He's hanging in there.

Doug represents what Easter's about — hope and renewal and our individual lives playing out without fanfare. Living, suffering, and living on. It's the best thing about us. We rise up each day no matter what.

Happy Easter, Everyone.

COMING UP THURSDAY, APRIL 19, 2018
April 21, 2014 - May 2, 2014: Having a Moment * Keeping Promises to Myself * Mom * Irene * Deviant Normal * ALL THE MEANING IN THE WORLD * My George Clooney * For Crying Out Loud * Happy Birthday, Kerry Colleen
 

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

MORE FEEDBACK FOR A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan

We hear the words, "gun violence and mental illness" used together everyday. How often do we hear the words "love and mental illness" used together? In your memoir, love and mental illness are inextricable. C.M

Dede, as I’ve expressed before to you, I anxiously await each posting from your blog/book! You write with such skill, and not easy when it’s so personal, but your passion sprinkled with humor are the reasons that this is successful. The subject is so important — mental health is becoming more important to our country right now with all the school shootings. Keep it up girl!  Joan 

To read "My Diary" from the beginning, go to "Scenes from the Trenches" June 14, 2017, in the Archives on the right hand side of the blog page. To continue reading, scroll up in the archives from June 14, 2017, and click on each individual diary post. If you have difficulty, message or email me and I'll walk you through it. I didn't know, as I was writing, that I was capturing the last year of my son's life. His voice comes through loud and clear. For me, in these pages, he'll always be alive.

If you're reading and liking "A Mother's Diary," please let me know. I'm building a case for getting it published — one way or the other. Thanks. 

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, APRIL 5, 2018
April 7, 2018 - April 20, 2018: 96th Birthday * Yay for Our Team * Let the Celebration Begin * Thelma and Louise * On the Road Again * Hell-o-oh * 70th Birthday Party * A Wonderful Adventure * The Tree Guy * Easter

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

Pat and me in 1969

Pat and me in 1969

A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan MARCH 24, 2014 - APRIL 4, 2014

Thank You * Anytown, USA * Grandparent's Day * Love is Alive * Pacing Myself * Getting Ready * Life Goes On

To read "My Diary" from the beginning, go to "Scenes from the Trenches" June 14, 2017, in the Archives on the right hand side of the blog page. To continue reading, scroll up in the archives from June 14, 2017, and click on each individual diary post. If you have difficulty, message or email me and I'll walk you through it. I didn't know, as I was writing, that I was capturing the last year of my son's life. His voice comes through loud and clear. For me, in these pages, he'll always be alive.

 

MARCH 24, 2014: THANK YOU

Dear Lincoln Hills Foundation,

On behalf of the Lincoln Hills Family Mental Illness Support Group, thank you for your recent gift of $1,000.

The group is surprised and excited to have this kind of support. I've opened a checking account in the group name with an EIN. We have two signatures assigned to the account for control purposes. We are in the process of brainstorming a book list for a group library and a speaker list for upcoming meetings.

We will keep you apprised of our activities as you have requested and will acknowledge the Lincoln Hills Foundation at each opportunity.

Please extend our gratitude to the Board of Directors and to your Advisory Board.

Sincerely,

Dede Ranahan
Group Moderator
Lincoln Hills Family Mental Illness Support Group

 

MARCH 25, 2014: ANYTOWN, USA

Back working the cash register in my favorite thrift store. Today, kids clothes are two items for $1.00. Long-sleeved tops are $1.00. Buy a pair of pants and get a second pair free. Repeat customers are beginning to rely on this shop. A regular wants to know, "Are shoes a dollar today?"

"Not today."

"I'll wait then. I'm a single mom. I have to watch my budget."

A woman plops six women's tank tops on the counter.

"Looks like you're getting ready for summer."

"No. I have MS and I spend most of my time at home in my pajamas."

Another woman has a question. "Do you have any long cigarette holders?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"I'm looking for them and they're hard to find."

A woman buys some kitchenware and a plastic nose attached to Groucho Marx eyeglasses.

"Who's going to wear this nose?"

"I am. I teach a class for seniors at the community college. I'll wear this for one of my lectures and see if they notice."

"I'd love a picture of you teaching in your fake nose and glasses."

"Okay. I'll bring in a photo."

A man with long hair comes in every Tuesday. He walks around the store until he senses something calling out to him. Today, he buys a string of costume pearls. "My sister will use these for crafts. I have a room with boxes I'm filling up with the things I buy here. I used to buy and sell stuff. Now I'm stashing it away for my kids when I pass on."

A pregnant woman loads up on baby and toddler clothes. Another regular, a hispanic woman, returns a pair of black shoes with thick, rounded soles. We don't usually take returns. "The manager said I could return these if they didn't fit my son. They didn't fit."

"Do you have your receipt?"

"Yes, right here."

"Would you like to look around to see if you find something else?"

For 30 minutes the woman picks through clothes, shoes, kids clothing, pots, and pans. "I don't find anything today."

I process her $5 refund. I put the returned shoes back on the men's shoe rack. As the woman goes out the door, a man walks in. In short order, he stacks three men's tops on the counter and spies the newly returned shoes. "Those are really interesting shoes. Looks like you could rock back and forth in them."

"Would you like to try them on?"

"Yes, I would." The man walks around the store with his old shoe on the left foot and the new shoe on the right. "Yep. These are interesting shoes."

"Would you like to try on the other one and make sure they feel good?"

"No, I know I want these shoes."

He makes his purchase. Three winter shirts and one pair of shoes. $8.

Items of all sizes and shapes come in, go out, come in, go out. People of all sizes and shapes come in, go out, come in, go out. Another ordinary, extraordinary day in the thrift store.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: My dog just set the world record for most urgent shit ever taken.

 

MARCH 28, 2014: GRANDPARENT'S DAY

Today is Thomas Jefferson Elementary School's 10th Annual Grandparent's Day. Regan's teacher says, "This kind of day is what makes me love teaching. Keep your fingers crossed, as we're losing other things to 'core' curriculum, that we don't lose this day."

I take a seat in the multi-purpose room. I'm getting teary perusing the program - Flag Salute and Pledge of Allegiance. Out of five classes of second graders, Regan's been selected to lead the 200 visiting grandparents and her classmates in this pledge. When it's finished, Regan, holding the microphone in hand, says, "Thank you. Please be seated."

Her little voice is clear and steady like she does this every day. Later, Kerry will tell me, "Do you know how much this means to me? I mean, she's shy and it's taken a long time to get her to this point."

Five second grade classes proceed to sing nine songs. My favorite song is from Sesame Street:

WE ALL SING IN THE SAME VOICE

My hair is black and red
My hair is yellow.
My eyes are brown and green and blue.
My name is Jack and Fred
My name's Amanda Sue
I'm called Kareem Abdul
My name is you.

Click here to hear the entire song.

There's hope for all of us. The next generation, Regan's generation, will be fine. They have good parents and grandparents and teachers. Why shouldn't they be fine? Listening to these pure, sweet voices I'm coming undone.

Grandparent's Day continues. It's quite a production. We take a break and the kids serve the grandparents treats. Regan brings me a cup of strawberry lemonade. "Is this okay or would you rather have raspberry lemonade?"

"This is perfect."

She gets her own strawberry lemonade and a plate of cookies for us to share. I ask her how she was chosen to lead the Pledge of Allegiance. "Some of us tried out. I had the loudest voice."

Hmm. I suspect a wise, caring teacher here.

Back in the classroom, grandparents share stories of branding irons, sewing their own clothes, ice trucks, and war medals. The kids are attentive. The teacher asks the children what they've learned from their grandparents' stories. They all agree. Life is very different now. One little girls says, "I like hearing what grandparents have to say."

Regan and I leave for a quick lunch off campus. She orders a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake. I seem to make a good grandma move when I say "yes" to the milkshake.

I drop Regan back at the school office. Later today, I'll pick her and Ayla up at their house for an overnight at my house. Stay tuned...

 

MARCH 28/29, 2014: LOVE IS ALIVE

I'm not in charge of this overnight. Two little redheads outline the program. It's non-stop activity from drawing, to picking out the right color jelly beans, to dressing up, and dancing to made-up songs and cheers.

In the kitchen, Regan's wearing her mother's high school cheerleading outfit and brandishing ostrich feathers for pompoms. Ayla's twirling in a pink princess dress from the thrift store. The floor is littered with discarded clothes.

"We are the feather eggs."
"We are the feather eggs."
"We will beat the dogs."

Ayla shakes plastic eggs, filled with pebbles, to Regan's beat. At the end of their cheer, they both take a bow. Of course, Grandma Mim applauds with wild enthusiasm. 

We're hungry now and we chow down boxed macaroni and cheese shaped like Sponge Bob characters, and a couple of strawberries. We settle in on my red sofa, under my red blanket to watch Frozen. Regan and Ayla have seen it three times. It's their favorite movie.

I say, "I'm excited. I haven't seen it yet."

Ayla assures me, "Mim, if you need something, we'll get it for you because we've seen the movie before and you haven't."

We enjoy the voices, the heroines, the animation. When all seems lost, as it always does somewhere in a Disney movie, the heroines discover that "love is the answer." We like Elsa because she has magic powers. We like Anna because she's spunky and has red hair.

It's time for vanilla ice cream drumsticks with caramel centers and chocolate on top. Regan picked them out at the store. "They're the best."

In the pull-down wall bed, the three of us snuggle together for bedtime reading. One of the books is When Did I meet you Grandma? The last page is to be filled in.

IMG_1949.JPG

"I call my Grandma, 'Mim.'"

"My favorite thing about my Grandma is..."

I'm holding my breath.

"She gives us candy."

"My Grandma is wonderful because...she gives us candy."

"I love my Grandma because...she gives us candy."

Every question ends with the same answer. This is very funny. So much for my dreams of "wonderfulness." Ayla asks, "When did I meet you, Mim?"

"We met each other in the hospital when you were born."

"Can we have another jelly bean?"

"Umm, no, you've brushed your teeth. Good night, Regan. Goodnight, Ayla."

I'm writing this down, hoping that sometime Regan and Ayla might remember this day. And this overnight.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: For those of you who don't believe in love, love is the sound of a man tightening his lug nuts on his wheels with a drill before heading off on a long journey with his wife and child. Love is alive.

 

MARCH 31, 2014: PACING MYSELF

I'm gearing up for the big 96th birthday dinner this Saturday. Today, after my workout with Deanne, I vacuum, change the beds, wash two loads of clothes, pay some bills, and make a to-do list for the rest of the week.

I promised myself, when I began writing about this year, my subject matter would be organic — my recordings would spring up from real events, not from contrived drama. My premise was most any day, and most anything, could be interesting. Sometimes, in describing a quotidian event, I find a gem. Like watching a lowly corn kernel transform itself when it pops.

When I was in high school, I collected an anthology of poems about little things. I wish I could find that anthology now. I had an early intuition about what's important and I want to nourish that intuition again.

In this week that will be one of busyness, I'll factor in time to reflect. In the moments between doing and doing more, I'll listen for the cadences, the sound track that would rise and fall, if my life were a movie.

This is one of the gifts of aging. Things don't have to be as exciting as they used to be. I'm pacing myself.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Lunch has become my favorite word.

 

APRIL 3, 2014: GETTING READY

I'm cleaning toilets, cutting dead leaves off plants in the outside entryway, and grating lemon peel for the cake I'm baking tomorrow. Michael's package of French sausages and duck legs arrived and I've put them in the fridge, along with three batches of homemade Irish cream I blended this afternoon.

I'm nervous about the lemon layer cake since I've never made it before. If it looks like a flop, I'll call Kerry and ask her to pick up a cake at the market. I'm hoping my cake will come through, though.

My to-do list, in addition to the cake, includes clean the litter box and make Saturday's prepare-ahead breakfast. Probably, clean the litter box is the most important. Don't want the house reeking. Ah, the things we wind ourselves up about.

PATRICKS' FACEBOOK POST: People playing music together is the polar opposite of people fighting. I know I posted this photo a while ago, right around the time it happened. Wanted to revisit this remarkable luncheon hosted by Michael Bayard celebrating a recent healing journey I made. This is the group of sound healing musicians who became a pivotal support group in a time of great distress. Thanks again!

 

APRIL 4, 2014: LIFE GOES ON

My Kansas City cousin calls. She wants to know what time to send two dozen roses for GG to my house on Saturday. She also wants to let me know she has a blind date coming up.

"How old is he?"

"He's 82. His wife died a year ago."

"Where are you going?"

"He's taking me to dinner and picking me up at my house. I want him to see who I am and where I live."

"Please call and let me know how it goes."

"I will. Danny told me, 'Have fun, Mom.'"

Yes, have fun and go find a person who needs to find you. This is not always easy to do. May the force be with you, my Kansas City Cuz.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: This whole missing Malaysian jetliner thing just goes to show that, though we claim to be highly evolved, we really have no idea what we are doing.

 

COMING UP THURSDAY, APRIL 5, 2018
April 7, 2018 - April 20, 2018: 96th Birthday * Yay for Our Team * Let the Celebration Begin * Thelma and Louise * On the Road Again * Hell-o-oh * 70th Birthday Party * A Wonderful Adventure * The Tree Guy * Easter

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com