Just a Little Woman

Written on an airplane on Friday, July 10.

When my son Erik first met his grandmother at the age of 30 - and why he would meet her at that age is a story for another day - he asked me, “Why is everyone so afraid of Granny? She is just a little woman, and now she is growing old.”

As he came to know her, Erik learned what the rest of us already knew - Granny was in charge. She ruled by a combination of organization and hysteria. As long as everyone did what she said, when she said it, all was well, If not, she used her prodigious energy to let everyone know how unhappy she was, No one could rail louder or cry longer than my mother. It will come as no surprise that the unspoken family rule when I was growing up was,” Don’t upset your mother.

She could also be a lot of fun. She particularly enjoyed her children one on one, preferably over a Bourbon Old Fashioned - or two. And if yours was more full than hers, she might “get confused” and help herself to it. She would tell long stories about her childhood and the generations of her family. About riding the train from Nebraska to Illinois. Alone. When she was five. About how she was allowed to eat the lumps out of the brown sugar crock when she visited Aunt Glen. About the woman who named her first daughter Amelia and when she died as an infant, used the same name for her second daughter. Who also died.

People are never all one way, never all good or all bad. As my mother’s memory began to fade and she could no longer control everything and everybody in her orbit, the happier memories of growing up with her began to drift back. I am grateful for that time.

The force that was my mother, or “The Matriarch,” as she called herself, departed this world Wednesday morning. She was, at the end, just a little woman, surrounded by her family. She died soon after her family had sung to her the song she had sung to us as children, “Over in Killarney, many years ago. . . Tura, lura, lura. Tura lura lie. Tura, lura, lura. Hush now don’t you cry . . .”

Forty Good Years

Forty years ago, I waited in Friendly Plaza - right near the old Monterey City Hall - while my young husband went into the Monterey Herald for a job interview. It had been a busy few years for Kevin: drafted out of college; time at Ft. Ord, Ft. Devens, and in Vietnam; finishing college while working at the Whittier Daily News; getting married to me. Now he was about to find out if his new job would be in Monterey or in Modesto.

Kevin was born to write. He had been kicked out of seminary for starting an underground newspaper. Then he was elevated from lowly copy boy to full fledged reporter when a fast-breaking story found the Daily News without any reporters. "Howe, can you write?" the city editor had shouted. "Yes, sir!" he replied, and he got his big break.

It has always been a real trip to watch him compose a story. Head thrown back, eyes closed, the words stream out of his prodigious mind, down his arms and out through his fingertips. I still marvel at his speed of thinking and typing and his ability to cut through the petty details to the central facts of any story. But sitting in Friendly Plaza, I wondered whether the man who was interviewing him would appreciate just how accomplished he was

Out he came - awfully soon - and said, "He asked me what I would work for and I said $160 a week." There were no benefits, but we thought that was quite a coup, as we had been getting $110 at the Daily News. The next day we drove around Pacific Grove and found a little cottage on Mermaid Avenue with a view of the Monterey Bay. "Kevin," I said, "If you can stand to work the same place forever, I'd love to stay here."

Yesterday, my dear husband celebrated 40 years at what is now the Monterey County Herald. It long ago ceased to be owned by its founder, Col. Allen Griffin. We've had health care for years and the plant moved out of downtown Monterey over 20 years ago. There are just a couple other people left from when Kevin started.

We've had three kids - all now grown. I still think this small town is the best place in the world to live. It amuses me that Kevin - who seems like he was just hired for his brand new job - is the granddaddy of the paper. The young reporters ask him who to call for what. He know where every body is buried. He still throws back his head and closes his eyes when he writes. I'm more convinced than ever that he's the best and fastest reporter around.

Thanks Kevin, for this wonderful life you made possible for us! I love you!

Many Diverse Surprises

Walking into the north wing, eighth floor, of the vast UCSF Medical Center, a person passes through a huge kind of portal above which is written, "Brain Tumor Center." At UCSF, everything is called exactly what it is. Earlier, for example, we had seen a sign for something like "Fetal Intervention." That kind of took my breath away.

As we passed through the portal, we could see that the whole outer wall of our department was glass - a long corridor looking out over the Golden Gate Bridge, Golden Gate Park, the tops of houses in the foreground and the hills of Marin Headlands in the distance. That took my breath away, too.

We sat there waiting, my son Walt and I, admiring the view and from time to time checking out the cordoned-off streets directly below. It wasn't filming, we surmised, because there was a television truck there. Maybe it was some kind of race. . . but on a Tuesday? Suddenly we heard an enormous explosion. Racing to the window, we could see smoke pouring out of the television truck. Finally we realized that it was filming, and that the explosion was all part of the plan. My goodness, this was not what we had expected while waiting to see the head of Neurosurgery for what I hope would be the final word on these two tumors of mine - my benign meningiomas.
It all made my prognosis seem slightly anti-climatic. No, said the very knowledgeable Dr. Berger. No, the vibrating is not being caused by the tumors. Keep on with the physical therapy which is reducing those symptoms.

But - here was the surprise - in people "as young as you," meningiomas are likely to grow fast, and if mine do, they will have to be surgically removed. What this means for now is frequent MRIs, and maybe someday I'll get to wear those hats Sarah gave me for after surgery. And maybe not. I'm obviously rooting for not.

After that, we went out into the sunshine of a beautiful day in a beautiful city and had fabulous salads for lunch at La Boulange. Final surprise of the day - at La Boulange, macaroons come in many flavors. Both the caramel and the pistachio are delicious!

Dream Cruising

I fell back asleep for 15 minutes this morning and awoke having had an awesome bike ride. I started out with Sarah - riding down city streets. Stop lights, cars, lots of people and confusion. No problem. Just riding a black bike with both handle brakes and pedal brakes. It felt normal, good, and free.

I woke up happy.

I don't think that will ever happen except in my dreams, but I am full of hope for the future. Who knows what will happen next. I'm ready!

Cruising, Again!

I’m sure my adorable little pink Cruiser (RIP) would be jealous if she knew, but I’m riding another bike now. It’s called a Biodex Semi Recumbent Cycle. Biodex is not nearly as cool a word as Cruiser, is it? Turns out my new bike is at the physical therapy place I hang out two afternoons a week.

Still and all, I’m happy, as physical therapy is vastly preferable to brain surgery, and it’s the route I’m taking right at the moment. The idea is that the vibrating may very well be caused by a too-curvy lower back, some tight back muscles, and some kind of trauma. The trauma was maybe riding the bike in general. Or, riding with too much determination. Or, loading the bike on the car rack. Or, the fall I took that first day.

At any rate, Kathryn, my own personal physical therapist, works on those knotted-up muscles in my lower back and then hands me over to Ava or Tom for a variety of exercises. Including riding a stationary bike. The first time Kathryn led me to the bike, I blanched. “But a bike caused all this trouble,” I protested. Kathryn firmly but kindly pointed out that it’s a different kind of bike. For one thing, it’s stationary. For another, there’s no resistance. And there’s no school yard, no street, no balancing, no effort getting off and on. No promise of cruising along the bike path near the beautiful Monterey Bay, either. And alas, it’s beige not pink.

My goal five months ago was so different. To master the bike and start to Cruise at 65. Right now, however, I’ll be content with another kind of cruising – just being a normal 65 year old woman who isn’t vibrating and doesn’t need surgery. And with any kind of luck, pretty soon all this will just be a distant memory of a hard time I hope never to repeat!

The distant memory will also carry with it the steadfast kindness of my family and friends. Notes, cards, prayers, love letters, phone calls, visits. Hats and chocolates. Ideas for ways to approach the problem. Patience with my frustration. As it turns out – and isn’t this the way of life - a lot of unexpected and lovely things in a hard time.

Jennie!

"Don't blame me, Daddy. I’m just the kid!”

With those words, Jennie at age three revealed herself as the clear thinker and straight talker whom we have known and loved for 37 fantastic years.

And she was right, by the way. Her father - undoubtedly distracted - left the crib side down so that baby Sarah fell out. Sarah was fine, and Jennie had found her voice.

Jennie is almost always right. No, really. She is. Her areas of mastery are breath-taking: child rearing, cooking, computers, poetry, thank you notes, blogging. . . The list goes on and on. She also has the distinction of having the world’s thickest and prettiest naturally wavy black hair!

Jennifer burst into our lives, just as the strawberries were coming ripe in late April. She was a week early. I’ve always thought she just wanted to get going on life. We took her home to an old ranch house across from Point Lobos. I loved going into her little lean-to nursery, to find her all pink-cheeked and dreamy after her nap. She took in everything with her big hazel eyes and delighted us in every way. She was the perfect first baby – flexible and forgiving of all our new-parent foibles.

And oh those smiles! Not just for us, but for all passers-by when we moved to Pacific Grove. Jennie made everyone feel special. “Hi-ya!” she would say and little old ladies in Holman’s would swoon.

Jennie has always known her own mind. She learned to read quickly and devoured books whole. She switched from violin to viola, because the latter didn’t have “those screechy high notes.” She chose interesting friends who were willing to be different and set her sights on the University of Oregon, sure that was the place for her. It was.

She spent her junior year in Aberdeen, Scotland and graduated with majors in both music and English. She taught in three places in four years without faltering, married a man whose interests and talents are as extensive as hers, and is a formidable mother to three. She insists on please and thank you and doesn’t back down. She’s also the only woman I know who can load her three small children in the car and drive straight through from Eugene to the Monterey Peninsula, alone.

After a recent visit, her aunt declared Jennie “laid back,” and it is a mystery to me how she can accomplish so much with such equanimity. Most recently, she put aside her fear of skiing (ACL surgery will do that) and threw herself into a week-long ski clinic in Colorado. On Facebook she wrote, “I might finally be getting the hang of this skiing thing. A little bit.” And later, “Worst ski-related injury this week: a pinched finger sustained while carrying them. I'll take it.” None of us was surprised. Jennie does whatever she puts her mind to.

No one ever told me what a delight grown children are. And they are a great resource, too. When I was trying to ride the bike, she stood back and observed. “Push off with your left foot,” she said, and it worked. “Jennie, how do you make bacon wrapped croutons?” I call to ask. Of course, she knows.

Jennie, you are an amazing woman – competent, loyal, determined, talented, and wise. How did I get so lucky to have you as my daughter?

Down the Rabbit Hole!

I am feeling a little like Alice when she fell through the rabbit hole into a land where nothing seemed quite familiar. That’s not necessarily bad – just strange.

The neuro-surgeon does not agree with the neurologist that either of two small growths in my head is causing the vibrating throughout my lower body. So, it looks like no brain surgery for me in the near future, and probably never. Hurrah!

So, pending some tests for less dire things, we remain in mystery. The doctor did say that sometimes a person experiences a kind of mysterious neurological episode that eventually “self-resolves.” I myself will quibble with that terminology and add God in there as the major force for healing, along with many fervent, and steadfast prayers.

All this leaves us in Wonderland, and I have never been great with ambiguity. However, I like ambiguity better than brain surgery, so I feel we have gotten very good news. My plan now is to have the tests and then take my vibrating self to Oregon with Kevin and Walt to be with Sarah, Jennie, and their families for Christmas.

What the new year will bring, we will see! By the way, Sarah says I can keep the hats!

We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels. We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds. Chekov.