The last post

This will be the last time I write. On this blog, I mean.

My mom died 15 years ago yesterday. I remember the shock of hearing this news in the middle of the night. Oddly, I went back to sleep for awhile. My way of getting ready for weeks of crying and grieving and changes, I guess. Plus, mom couldn't get irritated with me anymore if I showed up somewhere late. I was pregnant and exhausted and scared. It's difficult forging ahead in life without a mother.

Another strange irony was that I thought my mom's funeral was lovely. I remember beautiful music and poetry - I don't remember the specific pieces- I wish I did - but I remember thinking that they were lovely. I felt like I was floating through her funeral and her burial. Graceful, peaceful, and sad.

In the end, my oldest sister had the incredible courage to put a flower - a perfect pink rose- on my mother's casket, in front of everyone, and say 'goodbye, mama'. It was heart wrenching. My other sister and I followed suit. There's so much comfort in having older siblings lead the way through life. And death.

The most powerful memories I have of my mom are when she would ask me to come over and visit when she was depressed. She felt better - sometimes much better - after we talked, and that made me feel good. I couldn't stop her addiction to cigarettes but I helped ease her depression. And it was during those times that she was with me in the present moment. She was honest and sincere and thoughtful. I think that's the person she truly was - at least that's the person I truly connected with. I was closer to her than I was - or have been - to any other person. Ever. I imagine I won't find that kind of depth with anyone ever again.

So this is the end. Of this blog. Not the end of my mother's presence. She will continue to live through my memories and writings and stories that my sisters and I share.

My mother's story is just one of many. . many people who die from an addiction. And all these people are complicated and multifaceted, too, I imagine. Just like my mom. I didn't want to write a polly-annish blog about how wonderful and perfect my mother was. I think we have a habit of putting loved ones on a pedestal - especially in families with addiciton. I know - I used to do that with my mom. Cigarettes are an addiction that kills - more than any other addiciton. My parents were addicted to cigarettes and my family suffered because of it.

I miss my mom. Not all the time, and not all of her. I miss her laughter and energy and her strong hands. I miss the sound of her voice and how much she loved me. I miss those deep, intimate talks that brought me closer to any person ever. Her laugh - I loved her laugh. And her innocence and beauty. So for now I'll say what I haven't been wanting to say for a long time - because I know I can come back to visit her anytime I want, simply by writing.

Good-bye, Mama.

Minnesota funerals bite

My mom died in January - almost 15 years ago. I was pregnant with my third child at the time. I remember my nurse midwife being so worried about me when I told her about my mom. She wanted me to take a few weeks off work to reduce my stress. I laughed at the idea of taking so much time off and, or course, only took a few days off work.

My mom didn't have any nice clothes for her burial so my sisters and I had to go shopping for her. The saleslady in a small shop asked is she could help us and we told her we were looking for a dress for our mother. She said, "Oh, how nice." After a few more questions we finally told her mom had died. It was all so awkward. We didn't want to make the saleslady uncomfortable.

Which brings us to the topic of "Minnesota Nice". Minnesotans don't want to make a scene. We don't want to rock the boat. So we stuff our emotions while we take care of everyone else.

Funerals in Minnesota are a minimal expression of our losses. We make small talk with relatives and show composure and say and do all the right things. We even cry when we are supposed to. Right on cue.

What I wanted to do at my mom's funeral was scream at the top of my lungs. Or hit someone. I was so angry. And afterwards, at mom and dad's house, to see all the ladies helping out in my mother's kitchen triggered more primal rage. This was my mother's space - her kitchen, her life. People had no right to be in my mother's home.

What really happened at my mother's funeral is that I comforted others and made small talk. I tended to my kids and stuffed my emotions. I took care of my pregnant self - drank enough water so I didn't get dehydrated and ate a bit.

It makes sense in those cultures in the world that have professional mourners who go to funerals. They cry and moan and carry on. Minnesota should have professionals who grieve like that since it's so difficult for us to do. I wonder where you get one.

It wouldn't be in autumn

You know that song from the musical 'Camelot' where the king sings about what he'd miss about his wife if he left her? He goes through the seasons and each season sparks new memories.

I miss my mom in autumn. Fall was her favorite season. I think she liked the cool air and the color of the leaves and anticipating the holidays. I think she especially liked when school started and she could finally have some alone time. She was a housewife and home was her office. I don't blame her. If I had three kids running around my workspace all day long that would drive me nuts, too.

Having alone time didn't stop her from smoking. I think she would do housework for awhile and then take a cigarette and coffee break - I think that's how her day went. When I was young I used to think if us kids would be nicer or quieter or anything to help reduce mom's stress then she would quit smoking. But she smoked when she was happy, too. Nothing I did made a difference. I was powerless over her cigarette addiction. I wonder if she was, too.

So if someone dies from a cigarette-related death, is it considered homocide or suicide? Humans have free will. Which leads us to do lots of stupid things. Like have unprotected sex. Or drive while intoxicated. Or light up that first cigarette.

Smokers play their addiction the way all addicts do - with lots of denial and blaming others and minimizing. That's what keeps people using their drug of choice. That's what keeps smokers smoking.

The cigarette companies, meanwhile, load their products with addictive substances to keep smokers hooked. I've heard that it's more difficult to quit smoking than to quit using heroin. I wonder why there are no government controls over the lethal substances put in cigarettes.

I don't think we can place blame on just the individual or just the tobacco companies for a cigarette related death. I think both have an equal part in these deaths. I think you can't have one without the other. So I (being the dorky person that I am) came up with a new word that explains this. Shomicide. Say it ten times fast. My mother's death was a shomicide. And, beleive it or not, I feel better after having figured this out.

Money can't buy me love

I like things to do with money. I like to plan my budget and figure out new ways to save money. I like to go to the bank. I like the smell of the bank. One of my favorite field trips in grade school was when we went to the old Farmer's and Mechanics Bank in Minneapolis. Go figure.

It's not that I'm stingy with money or all that great at staying on a budget. On the flipside I don't need new things all the time, either.

I just like the concept of money.

So I've been thinking that there should be a 'pay to play' tax on cigarettes. The money would fund medical care for smokers if they get lung cancer or emphysema. Sort of a cross between medical insurance and life insurance. It's easy for me to be smug and angry and petty about this, with all the mixed up emotions I have about my mom's lung cancer. But I'm not above giving into my own craving for some things.

My mom couldn't overcome her nicotine cravings. I struggle with food cravings. And, to be true to my inner financial wisdom, I think there should be a 'pay to play' tax on fatty foods. Anything over a certain percentage of saturated fat should have what I call a 'cheesecake tax'. Think of all the tax money that could help offset the medical costs of strokes and heart attacks and diabetes.

Burgers, fries, and of course, cheesecake, would all be taxed. If we had this tax I think sometimes I would give in to my cravings and hope that the rest of my healthy living habits would offset a heart attack. Other times I'd forgo the urge for something fatty and opt for healthier food (maybe). And I'd be helping other people that struggle with food abuse. That feels good.

There's a song that my kids listen to. It's about a friend who has a girlfriend that doesn't work and spends his money. The advice he gives is to tell his girlfriend 'I won't pay, I won't pay, no way'. There's more to the song, and lots of swearing, but the tune is catchy and I like the message. No one likes to be taken advantage of. With money or anything else.

I don't want my tax money to go to people on medicare who smoked and are in need of medical care because of it. For that, I won't pay. No way.

Summer at home

I miss my mom most in the summer. My sisters and I spent our summers at home and we'd cook and sew and garden and do arts and crafts. My mom taught us the basics in these areas and then we took off on our own. I remember making a macrame chair and candles and a quilt from all the fabric remnants from all my sewing projects.

When we were younger we'd play outside all summer long. We rarely watched TV and we didn't snack much. Back in the '60s there wasn't much snack food. No chips other than Fritos. Potato chips were bought to go along with meals. Ice cream was for an occasional bedtime treat. Sometimes my mom would give us popcicles or soda crackers for a snack, but we didn't go looking through the fridge or cupboard for something to eat.

Sometimes my mom would send us up to the corner store - it was called Rog & Jim's - to buy her cigarettes. She would send along a note giving the cashier permission to give us the cigarettes. We would buy penny candy with the change. Back then you could get a brown paper lunch bag sack filled with candy - normally 5 pieces of candy for a penny. A quarter bought lots of candy.
Or we'd buy candy cigarettes or wax lips or candy lipsticks.

It seemed like such an innocent time back then. When you're living your life, living in the moment, you don't really expect that things will change so dramatically.

Forty-some years later the 'mom and pop' stores have been replaced by Super America gas stations. Children can't buy cigarettes with a hand-written permission slip. The penny has become obsolete.

Some things haven't changed. Summer comes every year. I still like to can tomatoes and sew and cram in as much gardening and arts and crafts as I can while I have time off from my school job. People still smoke. Lung cancer still kills more people than any other type of cancer.

My mom's spirit is strong in the summer. Actually, her spirit is strong within me all the time. Sometimes I feel like I'm strong in spite of her. Today I feel like I'm strong because of her.

Can you say EL-A-VIL?

I've gone through some guided imagery - sort of like hypnosis. I can't remember the exact script of this imagery, but you're supposed to visualize yourself walking through a meadow. After a while you come to a clearing and you see a tree. The tree can look anyway you want. I visualize an oak tree - huge and strong and comforting. I touch my tree. The bark is dry and weathered. I try to wrap my arms around it but the trunk is too big. That's O.K. This tree gives me strength.

If my mom had been a tree she would have been an elm tree. Slender, slow growing, providing some dappled shade for her little seedlings. Beautiful and graceful but vulnerable to storm damage. Swaying with the wind until a branch breaks.

My mom was hospitalized for 'nervous breakdowns' in the 1960's. That was the term back then for depression that spiraled out of control. People were allowed a much longer in-patient stay for mental illness in the '60's . She stayed at a place called Glenwood Hills Hospital. She missed my first birtday because she was at Glenwood Hills. She was also hospitalized when I was 5, and then later when I was 8.

My sisters and I were farmed out to friends and relatives during her hospitalizations. I have few memories of these times. I do remember visiting mom at the hospital and she showed us the swimming pool. I sense that she was distant; kind of shell shocked. She had lost alot of weight. She didn't make much eye contact. She had had shock treatments-that ultimately helped ease her depression quite a bit. Back then they didn't have the newer anti -depressants that may have helped. But maybe not. I think her bouts with depression were quite severe. I remember her being on Haldol and Elavil - heavy duty anti-depressants and tranqulizers used for psychosis. I don't know if she ever had psychotic episodes with her depression, though. I don't think so. She never told me.

All of these words and phrases were a part of her vocabulary, and so they became part of mine - Haldol, Elavil, Glenwood Hills (a.k.a 'the nut house') and Dr. Dorsey (her psychiatrist). I knew these words and phrases well.

One phrase that wasn't part of her vocaulary until shortly before her death was 'sexual abuse'. As a young girl my mom had been sexually abused by a relative and hadn't told anyone about it - not even Dr. Dorsey. Maybe if she could have addressed some of this trauma her depression could have eased. There's a theory that depression is anger turned inward. What happens when it's not anger but rage that's turned inward?

Mom didn't want to take a closer look at the trauma of her past. She said she had forgiven her abuser. My guess is that if she had focued on this in therapy maybe she could have grown stronger and more resilient. Maybe she could have found the strength to quit smoking.

She died an elm tree which is really sad because she started out life as an oak tree. I really needed the shade of an oak tree.

Smokey smokerson

The attitude towards smoking was so different in the 70's and '80's. Restaurants had designated smoking areas and the VFW's and bowling alleys and bars allowed smoking. Even the high school that I went to had a smoking area outside for the students.

I worked at Sears as a teen ager and there was a 'break room' attached to the ladies rest room in the back of the store. That's where all the sales ladies went for their smoke break. You couldn't get to the bathroom without walking through a haze of smoke. Sometimes I'd sit down and visit with my mom's aunt, who worked in the lingerie department of Sears. She was a heavy smoker and I generally knew where to find her on her break. I got the feeling that the smokers felt like you were 'stuck up' or better than they were if you didn't stop to visit for awhile. So I'd stop and visit. I didn't want to appear rude. I probably got a contact high just from the second hand smoke. I'd walk out with a head-ache, slightly dizzy from inhaling all the smoke. It would take a few hours before I wasn't smelling smoke with every breath I took.

I wanted my wedding reception to be smoke free. I vaguely recall making a few whining noises to my parents about how smokey the wedding would be - but they wouldn't even pursue this line of argument. After all, my husband-to-be smoked, as did my parents and most of my aunts and uncles. In fact, between me and my husband only a hand full of our relatives didn't smoke.

And our wedding reception was at a VFW. Like my oldest sister says, the bowling alleys and VFW's are the last bastion for smokers. I don't know exactly what that means but I like to say it and it seems to fit.

After a few hours into our reception, you could see a thick cloud of smoke hovering below the ceiling. My mom and I had tried to make sure to find a VFW with good ventilation. (I wonder how things would have been with a VFW's with poor ventilation!). With the festivities over, I felt nauseous and head-achy and smelling of smoke. I would have rather smelled like perfume or flowers. The tobacco and smokey smell doesn't quite fit with a bride's dream of gorgeous flowers and white dresses and satin ribbons. I felt sorry for myself. I was a pretty bride but I felt more like a pretty ashtray. I hate second hand smoke.

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.

Lonely Island

O.K. I feel guilty whining about my mom's lung cancer when other cancer families have more horrific tales. My mom wasn't young when she was diagnosed and the cancer wasn't totally a surprise.

When a family member is diagnosed with lung cancer you feel like you're isolated, on an island all by yourself. Lung cancer is so different from other forms of cancer. Well, the cancer itself isn't that different but the psychological implications are so completely different. Lung cancer is a combination of cancer and substance abuse. Both need to be treated.

My sister said my mom's lung cancer was encapsulated and it was the kind caused by radon exposure. Most of the time lung cancer has spread too far for surgery to be helpful. But my mom's lung cancer was treatable with surgery and chemotherapy and radiation. The surgeon was adamant that we get mom to quit smoking. That's like getting an alcoholic to quit drinking.

We couldn't get her to quit smoking. She didn't want to quit smoking. I think she was thinking since she had lung cancer she may as well keep smoking. I think the nicotine really calmed her and I'm sure she was pretty stressed during this time. The survival rate for lung cancer is low. She probably knew that. We didn't really talk about her lung cancer or the 'what if's' - like what if you die, or what if the cancer comes back. I was too afraid to bring up the topic and she never did.

I think my mom was teribbly addicted to cigarettes. She had depression and anxiety and the cigarettes helped calm her nerves. I don't think she had much self-knowledge. I think that's true for alot of addicts. Actually I think that's the hallmark of addiction. And we live in a society where addiction or abuse is so readily available. If you feel stressed then shop or smoke or drink or eat or gamble or have sex or take drugs or whatever. You know, smoking a few times is a way to cope, at best, and foolish, at worst. Smoking cigarettes to the point that it becomes a pattern or a way of life is life threatening. It hurts the people you love. That's another thing that addicts don't quite understand. We hurt. Our hurt isn't enough to get them to stop. How come that isn't enough? I have a feeling I'm an island in a sea of islands. Thousands, maybe millions of islands.

Capable Hands

My mom had strong , pretty hands. Long fingers. She played the piano beautifully. I didn't inherit that particular musical talent. She had a white gold diamond engagement ring and matching wedding band. I still feel a bit rugged with my gold wedding band - even though I've been married 20 years. White gold is so much more elegant and clean looking. At least it was on her.

Mom could take potatoes out of the oven without using a hot pad. She could open up jars of pickles and wash dishes in very, very hot water. Yet her hands stayed pretty and soft. She used Jergens lotion. I can still remember the smell. Sometimes she'd brush away our bangs from our eyes or give us a backrub. She wasn't really overly physically affectionate. We'd give her a quick kiss good bye in the morning on our way to school. Not many hugs. Just the knowledge that she was there taking care of us and taking care of the house was enough.

My mom was a good cook. She was a housewife and cooked from scratch. She'd make meatballs and gravey and potatoes or swiss steak or spare ribs. Always a meat dish with some kind of potatoes. And she'd make jello salads embedded with shredded lettuce or cut up celery. She made desserts like home made pudding or cake. I don't remember her ever baking a cake from a mix. Supper was always a high point in my day. In the summer my sisters and I would be playing yard games with the neighbor kids and my mom would invariably call us in for supper right when things were getting the most exciting. We'd wolf down our food and race back outside to recapture the high of play, but the moment would be gone and we'd settle into a less exciting game.

My mom and dad would sit in the kitchen after the dishes were done, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. My mom insisted that they only smoke in the kitchen. She didn't want to risk a fire if they fell asleep with a lit cigarette.

When I was young I don't remember the house smelling like smoke, but it probably did. My mom kept a clean house and aired it out - even in the winter. She made my dad paint every few years because the cigarette smoke discolored the kitchen walls.

In high school everyone thought my older sister smoked because her clothes smelled so smokey. I remember taking some Christmas cookies out of the freezer in January and they reeked of tobacco. Isn't that kind of sad?

Smokers can never tell how smokey they smell. My parents always thought my sisters and I were exaggerating when we complained of how much it smelled. (I never told them that they smelled bad - that would be rude). I guess I should be thankful for how my mom tried to keep the house clean and airy, despite her smoking. I should be thankful. But I'm not.

Tattoos and Daisies

My mother's favorite flower was the daisy. My dad used to sing her that song 'I'll give you a daisy a day, dear'. It was a song about a man who continued to give his wife daisies even after she died (He laid them on her grave). It was a sweet song and my dad has a great voice.
But we don't put flowers on my mother's grave. Real flowers only last a day and mom hated plastic flowers. There aren't too many other choices.

A few years ago I got a small tattoo of a daisy, in memory of mom. I could have chosen a tattoo of a giant ashtray with a lit cigarette, but the daisy was pretty and poetic. (The ashtray would have been more honest, though). Tattoos go beyond their visual symbol - they hurt like hell!! There was something so congruent about the physical pain of my daisy tattoo and the psychic pain of living with my mother.

My mom could be mean. At times she would mock me, repeating what I said. It was always unexpected, this emotional abuse, because most of the time mom was wonderful. My sisters say she sometimes used to stare at me while we sat at the kitchen table. I don't remember this. But it's another example of her sometime bizzare and hurtful behavior. At least she was an equal-opportunity emotional abuser - she was mean to my sisters, too.

My parents used to like to tell the story of my first day of Kindergarten. I made a new friend at school and got off the bus at her house instead of coming home. My mother was frantic and was finally able to track down where I was, with the help of the school. She spanked me when we got home (she rarely spanked me). And guess what?

I wouldn't cry.

I think, in my mind, I had divorced her. I thought she wasn't a good enough mother so I wasn't swayed by her parenting. Isn't that an odd way for such a young child to think? The sad thing is I never changed the way I was with her. The sad thing is she never changed, either.

Sometimes I hated her. Sometimes I was secretely glad that she smoked so she would die a cigarette-related death. (I actually thought this is a child!!). I didn't really want her to die. I just wanted her to quit hurting me.

The emotional abuse stopped when she died, fourteen years ago. I don't miss her mocking me. I don't miss sitting with her in her kitchen, inhaling second hand smoke as she lit up cigarette after cigarette. There are other things about her that I don't miss. The daisy tattoo that I have - the pedals kind of droop down. There's a reason for that.

Beautiful People

My mother was beautiful. She had high cheek bones, full lips and almond shaped, blue eyes. She was tall and she was thin when she was younger. She had short, dark hair. People say I look like her. We are exotic-looking women. At least that's what I've been told.

Smoking didn't marr her beauty. She didn't get those little wrinkles around her mouth like so many women get. Maybe that's partly what kept her in denial with the cigarettes. She couldn't see any ill effects of the smoking so why quit?

I was a child in the 1960's and a teen ager in the 1970's. Women's fashion changed so much over those two decades. My dad used to carry a picture of my mom that she had taken at a beauty salon. She just had her hair done and she had this ice-blue cape on. She looked stunning. I remember a bathing suit she had at that time, too. It was a pink and white gingham one piece suit. My mother could be so classy.

In the summer she'd wear pedal pushers and white Keds and a cotton button-down shirt. My mother always looked so clean and pressed. She'd buy us girls something new each summer from Penneys. That was my mom. She was kind of like the JC Penney version of Jacqueline Kennedy. Clean, crisp and energetic.

As I grew older I valued comfort over looks so my clothing style gravitated toward jeans and mocassins. (I also looked pretty darn cool). My mom's style changed, too. She wore more polyester and olive colored clothes. Earth tones and clunky jewelery were popular in the 70's. She picked out new wallpaper for the kitchen - dark brown flowers on a white background. It was hard to find beauty and elegance in the 70's.

I didn't pay much attention to my mom's clothes and style after I grew up and moved away. But I remember those earlier decades and the influence my mom had over my own personal style. It was important for my mother's generation to have poise and grace. Not so much with my generation. My mom had lots of physical energy. The house was always spotless. Our clothes and faces were always clean.

I didn't inherit my mom's energy levels. My kids rarely had clean faces when they were little. My house was never spotless. My mom was a housewife so she had more time to tend to these things. I worked outside the home. My parents expected me to keep my life cleaner but I couldn't muster up the physical and emotional energy to have that kind of lifestyle. I valued beauty but also valued my own personal needs of comfort and calmness. It's hard to be calm if you're constantly chasing dust bunnies.

I have a memory - a place that I go to in my mind when I want to feel completely serene. I picture myself about ten and sitting on the wood floor in our old living room. It's springtime and my mom is cleaning. The house smells faintly of lemon pledge and ammonia. She just washed the window sheers and a breeze is making them billow. The house is so beautiful. My mother is lovely and happy. I'm at peace with the world. My mother loves me so much. I can feel it. With every breath I take I feel it.

Russian Roulette

My mother was diagnosed with lung cancer the spring of 1994. They had found a spot on her lung and she assured me and my sisters that it was 'probably nothing'. It turned out to be something - cancer. Most types of lung cancer are inoperable because the cancer is detected too late or it's spread to lymph nodes. My mom was lucky. Her cancer was operable and it had only affected one lymph node. After surgery I remember the surgeon talking to my dad and me and my sisters and saying, adamently 'You have to get her to quit smoking!' He didn't know my mother. I'm thinking he didn't really know smokers, in general.

My sisters and I have tried many ways to get my parents to quit smoking. When we were young we would hide their cigarettes or throw them away. We'd plead with them to quit because we were worried. I remember telling my mom that she'll get lung cancer if she keeps smoking. Beleive me -it doesn't feel good to be right.

My parents would dismiss our intentions and eventually get mad. We'd give up trying to get them to quit. Sometime they did try to quit on their own. I don't remember it lasting more than a day. I think it's harder when both husband and wife smoke. While one is trying to quit the other is smoking.

In college I took some psychology classes. For one of my classes we had to design and implement our own behavior modification. My parent graciously participated in my experiment - every time they had a craving for a cigarette they would snap a rubber band around their wrists. I thought it was kind of sweet in a twisted way that they would allow me to 'punish' them in this way. I never yelled at my parents - they didn't yell either. We come from good Scandanavian stock - we stuffed our feelings. When we got mad it poured out in passive aggressive ways, or in my mother's case more bizzarre behavior.

I think smokers never really think that they will get lung cancer or emphysema. Many don't. And many do. I think it's like playing Russian Roulette. You never know if the bullet is pointed your way. And so many people are willing to take that risk. I don't get that. Maybe because lung cancer and emphysema seem so far away. If you start smoking in your 20's and don't get sick until you 60's or 70's - it's too far in the future to seem real.

Back to my mom. She went home a few days after her surgery. I took her cigarettes away from her and told her what the surgeon said. She narrowed her eyes and growled at me 'Give them back - you bitch!' Nice, huh? I'm trying to save her life and she's verbally abusing me. I gave her back her cigarettes and never tried to hide them again. Luckily, dad was there to buy her cigarettes. I don't know what I would have done if she had asked me to buy them. I tried to take away the smoking gun but failed. She kept playing Russian Roulette. And she lost.

Annelie

My mother died 14 years ago. She had lung cancer - an operable form and she had gone through chemotherapy, too. She died of a stroke about 6 months after her diagnosis.

And she was a smoker.

I wanted to create this web site to remember her and to talk about the mixed emotions that I went through during this time. Mainly I want to help other people who's loved one is seriously ill from the effects of cigarettes. Lung cancer is the leading cancer killer among women, but I'm guessing most people think it's breast cancer. I think that's because women with breast cancer haven't contributed to their illnesses - 'they aren't to blame'. Also, many times women are older when they are diagnosed with lung cancer. The articles I've read in women's magazines rarely address lung cancer, and when they do the patient 'had never smoked a day in their lives'. I'm guessing emphysema is mainly caused from smoking, also. I think it's funny how they changed the name to COPD - to make it less stigmatizing I would guess.

My mother smoked. Lots and lots. She started smoking in her 20's and never quit - not even after her lung cancer diagnosis. I'm guessing since lung cancer is the leading cancer killer among women, and that most lung cancer is due to the effects of smoking, there are many people out there who have lost a loved one to lung cancer, or are maybe facing this battle right now. I thought it was time we should have a forum for this subject - not to blame the people who smoke but to express ourselves - the way adult children of alcoholics do. They even have a support group (Al-anon). So I plan to write once a week about my mother, about cigarettes, and about my mother and her cigarettes. I welcome any comments from people with similar feelings and life events. This web site is dedicated to my goofy, elegant, smart, beautiful, depressed, soulful, mean, strong and smokin' mother, Annelie.