Cool Comfort

I have this recurring dream where I'm in a basement. It's cool and dry and sparse. And oddly comfortable. The floor is cement and the walls are sheetrocked and there's a few dimly lit light bulbs hanging from the ceiling rafters. The room is filled with dozens of closed wooden coffins on top of gurneys. The all look exactly the same, with the exception of my mother's coffin.

My mom is sitting on top of her coffin. She looks neat and clean and her clothes are freshly pressed (like always). And, of course, she's smoking. She's happy to see me and she asks, 'What took you so long?' And I'm thinking 'what took me so long?? What took you so long. I've been trying to connect with you for 14 years.' She has on a bit of make up and she seems so at ease.

And then she smiles at me. There's light radiating from her when she smiles - not literally radiating from her but it's more like an aura or presence. This is the smile that's meant only for me. This woman has known me my entire life. She knows everything about me. (Even things I wish she didn't know about me). She sees right through me. She looks at me with a strong, even gaze but I have a hard time looking at her.

This happens in my dream but I remember these feelings when my mom was alive, too. She had such a strong presence, without saying much at all. I think it's a family trait; something inherited. When my oldest son was a young boy and did something wrong I would look at him and he would say, 'Stop yelling at me!'.

Maybe I can't look at my mom because I feel guilty. I can't think of specific things but I'm sure there were times when I hurt my mom. She often tried to help me label my feelings, often suggesting guilt, but I would dismiss this with a different feeling. Maybe I did feel guilty and I didn't want her to be right. Guilt seemed like such a weak emotion and I couldn't afford to be weak. Isn't guilt the great humanizing emotion? The one that levels the playing field? We all are human, we all make mistakes, we hurt others and therefore we feel guilty. I was in a double bind. If I didn't feel guilt, then I wasn't seen as quite human. If I did feel guilt then I was a weak link in a family that couldn't afford any more weakness. So I chose to keep my family strong, the best way I knew how, as a child. My mom knew me well -probably better than anyone has ever known me. Next time I dream about her I'm going to ask her why I chose not to feel.

I love trouble

My mother was goofy and fun loving. She laughed alot and she was so playful. She energized the room with her impulsiveness and good will and spiritedness. As kids we used to stand on our heads against the wall in the living room and see how long we could stay there. Of course, mom would be the instigator and us girls would take over the competition. The play would morph into some other active play, usually outside. By them mom was off doing something else - sewing or cooking. I wonder if she knew this would lead to alone time for her. If so, it was a pretty good strategy. Mom had lots of physical energy. Too much energy. Sometimes it got her into trouble.

When you read this, picture a cross between Lucille Ball and Erma Bombeck:

My mom was in the waiting room at the doctor's office. She had been waiting quite awhile- the waiting room was full. And she was sitting with her legs crossed. The nurse called her name. She stood up, took a step, and fell. (Her leg had fallen asleep). The nurse waited patiently for her. Mom got up, took another step, and fell again. This happened a few more times until she made it into the exam room. Afterwards, when she told us about this my sister asked her 'Mom, you were at a doctors office. Why didn't you ask for help?' Mom replied, 'I didn't think anyone noticed!'

Another Lucille Ball moment: We lived in the suburbs, not far away from our local high school. After school the kids would 'cut through' our back yard, tossing their cigarette butts in our garden. This irritated mom to no end. One afternoon she was so angry that she went outside and flipped off these kids. They looked at her quizzically and kept walking. She was proud of herself and told us about it when we got home from school. She told us, 'I went like this to them - (demonstrating a thumbs up sign!)'. My older sister corrected her on how to flip someone off. My mom laughed her head off at her own naivete. Plus we wondered what those kids thought when mom gave them a 'thumbs up' sign.

I miss my mom's laugh and her energy and her antics. I didn't inherit her musical talent but I inherited her spiritedness and love of laughter. I've had many Lucille Ball moments myself. So has my oldest sister. But that's for another blog. I'll probably title it 'Lucy and Ethel go Christmas shopping'.

Mom, I miss laughing with you.

The Kool corral

Did you know that lung cancer is the leading cause of cancer death in the United States? The only other thing that causes more deaths is heart disease.

Twice as many women die of lung cancer as breast cancer.
Three times as many men die of lung cancer as prostate cancer.

And the survival rate is still at about 15%. It's been this way for decades.

The statistics are staggering. How come not enough is being done for lung cancer victims?

I miss my mother. I miss her voice. She left a message on my answering machine about a month before she died. I kept it for the longest time. It was so comforting. It was something so simple - something like 'Hi, Lisa. It's mama. Just calling to chat. Call me when you get a minute'. It was heavenly to have a mother. Even after her death, I still had something tangible when I listened to her voice.

I don't have a mom anymore. I don't even have the recording of her voice. I want to blame someone for her death and I don't know who to blame. I blame my mom for starting to smoke. I blame the tobacco companies for making cigarettes so deadly and so increadibly addictive. I blame myself for not being able to get my mom to quit smoking. I blame societal pressures - my mom was a young adult in the 1950's when smoking was seen as cool. She went to school at the University of Minnesota where there were ashtrays within reach of every chair in the classrooms.

A freind of mine read this blog and commented that I seem really angry. Guess what? I am really angry. I'm pissed as hell. My mother is gone and I can't nail the blame on any one source. Placing blame on a tobacco related death is about as elusive as cigarette smoke itself. It just can't be corralled. And it makes me want to scream.