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.