I wasn’t expecting the question. I paused the TV and thought a moment. It occurred to me that I haven’t told her much about my father. He died from cancer before she was born. The proximity of his death to my own cancer diagnosis made it even harder to talk about.
I told her about how he always laughed at his own jokes, that his belly laugh made his whole body bounce up and down. And if he was sitting, his feet stuck straight out in front of him for the duration of the laugh.
I told her about how he loved to play guitar and sing to us, and he made up the most ridiculous songs.
I told her how he was often considered the smartest person in whatever room he was in.
I told her how we used to tease him about being short, and how he would tell his friends I was 4’20” rather than an inch taller than him.
I told her how he embraced our interests, how he dove in head first to whatever we were doing. When we got into theater, he memorized Shakespeare right along side us. When we played soccer, he trained to become a linesman. After my brother married a woman from Russia, my dad learned to speak Russian. He was all in.
I told her how he loved sports, how when I went home for a visit in ’99 I found him in his ref uniform watching the US Women’s team trounce China in the World Cup. I watched him flash a yellow card at China on the TV.
I told her how he was one of the Palmer High School football team’s most loyal supporters. Long after all his kids had graduated high school, he was still the keeper of the Moose Gooser, a cannon fired each time the Palmer Moose scored. He even took that cannon to away games.
She asked me if her grandpa would have liked her. “Oh, my, yes,” I said. “He would have loved you. He would have enjoyed your wit and your laugh. He would have loved playing chess with you. He would have loved that you’re learning French and Russian. He would have marveled at the amazing young woman you are growing into.”
My dad cared deeply about a number of things, threw his energy into a lot of things, but I suspect that, out of everything, being a grandpa was his favorite.
My girl and I laughed and cried at the stories. She snuggled and held me tight. We both grieved his loss and the fact that they never met. But mostly, we experienced my Dad.
She wanted to know how he died, and I told her about how his friends came over with banjos and guitars and played the bluegrass music he loved so much. I told her about how they played “I’ll fly away,” and how that song was even more special at that moment.
I’ll fly away, oh glory I’ll fly away, in the morning when I die, hallelujah by and by I’ll fly away
Then when his friends said goodbye, he got tired and went to sleep with my mom and brother sitting by his side. In the morning, he flew away.
Sharing this moment was a gift for both my daughter and I. We haven’t talked a lot about death or grieving, and this opened the door for some deeper conversation. This process was healing for me too. I’d forgotten how it can feel good to talk about someone you lost.
My father has been gone for 14 years, but for a few moments last night, he was right there with us. I felt like, in a way, I got to introduce them to each other.
The grief of losing him is still there, but it’s different now. The time helps, the talking helps, too. The grief is something that I carry forward with me. It has helped shape me. I’ve grown since his death, and that grief was a part of the growth. I would be a different person without it.
That’s not something I would have been able to hear or contemplate shortly after his death, and please don’t say that to anyone in the early stages of their grief.
I shed many tears last night. I cried again after G went to bed. I do miss my dad, I miss the relationships we might have had. But the tears were bigger than sadness. There’s beauty in this story. I experienced a sense of awe when sharing this story with my daughter. It was moving, it was deep, it was the same kind of tears we experience when watching a masterful performance, or viewing great art, or hearing a story of profound kindness. It was healing and transcendent. I’m not done grieving my father, that’s not something you finish. But I’m no longer afraid of the grief. I’m making friends with it, and that starts with talking about my dad.
Earlier this week, I tried something different on my facebook page, and invited friends to describe parenthood using only the titles of movies. My friends really came through, and the results were hilarious.
Many addressed the general chaos of living in a house with kids
A Series of Unfortunate Events
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
Apocalypse Now
Armageddon
Flying Circus
How to Train your Dragon
Into the Wild
It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
Sharknado
Sudden impact
The Crying Game
The Fast and the Furious
The Good, the Bad & the Ugly
The Greatest Show on Earth
The Hunger Games
Toy Story
Transformers
War and Peace
War of the Worlds
We Bought a Zoo
And the way they can be little monsters
Aliens
Animal House
Monsters, inc.
Psycho
Revenge of the Nerds
Ruthless people
There were allusions to the fact that there are no easy answers in parenting
Adaptation
Catch-22
It’s Complicated
Mission Impossible
Spies Like Us
The way it consumes our whole lives
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
From Dusk ‘Til Dawn
Six Days Seven Nights
The Theory of Everything
And it’s impact on our social lives
How to Lose Friends and Alienate People
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
The exhaustion, sleep deprivation, and brain drain
Altered States
Clueless
Dazed and Confused
Groundhog Day
Sleepless in Seattle
The Neverending Story
Waiting to Exhale
The fraying last nerve
Big Girls Don’t Cry
Despicable Me
Drive Angry
Sure, they can be naughty
Catching Fire
I Can Do Bad All By Myself
I Love Trouble
Liar, Liar
Something Wicked This Way Comes
The Invention of Lying
The Usual Suspects
Throw Momma From The Train
But they’re our little mini-mes
Identity Theft
The Imitation Game
Then there’s the high cost of raising children
Million Dollar Baby
Money Pit
The things you keep hearing yourself say, over and over again
My bald head was covered with a baseball cap. I was out with no makeup to cover my chemo-grayed complexion as I pushed my baby girl on the swing.
She giggled and squealed, catching the attention of a young man passing by.
“She has a beautiful laugh,” he said. “Are you her grand… parent?” He stumbled over grandparent as we both realized that, not only had he grossly overestimated my age, he had no idea whether I was a man or a woman.
That wasn’t my low point.
The real punch to the gut came a few years later when I was getting my little girl ready for a bath and she casually asked me how old she will be when they cut off her nipples. No tears, no fear, just matter-of-fact assumption that somewhere along the line, her breasts get hacked off.
I felt like my body betrayed me
Cancer didn’t just take my health, it also made off with my breasts, hair, femininity, strength, and a good deal of my confidence. I felt like my body betrayed me. And now, in this hypothetical but not unlikely scenario, my daughter’s body would someday betray her as well.
I helped her into the tub and watched her pretend to be a mermaid. Her movements are fluid and unfettered by notions of shame or inadequacy. Her future is wide open – she can be and do anything, but at this early age, my life is her template.
I knew, sitting there on that bathroom floor, that I needed to wrap my head around this cancer and my body image before my issues became her issues. But first, I had to answer this big question from the little girl in the water.
“Not everyone gets cancer,” I told her. “I hope you don’t, but you might. It will be 34 years before you are the age I was when I got cancer, and that’s lots of time for someone to invent a cure or even a way to prevent it.”
By the time I finished those three sentences, the tub was full of toys and Poseidon was mediating a battle between a narwhal and a walrus. She had moved on and wasn’t listening, but I was stuck in my head trying to define what a healthy body image means, how to make that a reality in my life, how to convey that to my daughter, and how cancer complicates everything.
My body image issues started long before cancer.
At seventeen I was touring Washington D.C. with a group of 200 high school students from around the country. As we walked through the Mall, I overheard two of the other students discussing my appearance. “Judy’s legs are so ugly,” one of the guys said.
“Give her a break, she just got out of the hospital,” the other replied. (No, my health issues did not start with cancer.)
A small part of my brain acknowledged that the second student had jumped to my defense. Thank you, by the way. A much larger part of my brain registered that HE DID NOT DISAGREE with the first student’s assessment of my legs.
In the court of high school social politics, the issue of the ugliness of my legs was raised, and swiftly seconded. That was all I needed. The verdict stuck with me, and I kept my legs covered with tights or long pants for nearly two decades.
Even today, in my mid-forties, each time I leave the house in shorts or a skirt without tights, it is an act of courage that requires a deep breath before stepping through the door.
Why do they have so much impact?
I can’t remember their names. I would not be able to pick them out from a police lineup. I have not seen those boys (men, now) since 1987, and I bear them no ill will. Why do they have so much impact over the way I prepare to leave the house most sunny summer mornings?
It’s not even about them. It’s about me, and my willingness to cling to the derogatory comments and ignore the many more flattering comments I’ve received over the years. A large part of this is about me devaluing my own needs and comfort, and assuming that I owe the world something that I don’t.
After my first mastectomy, I agonized each time before going to the gym.
Sweat made the prosthetic breast slip around, and even fall out of my clothes. Yeah, that was embarrassing. I could stuff my bra with socks and they’d stay a little better, but as I pumped my arms on the treadmill, they’d pile up in the middle of my chest, making me look more Picasso than if I’d just shown up single-breasted.
It was all so inconvenient and awkward, and I contemplated not returning to the gym.
To what extent am I obliged to present myself as a double breasted woman?
Is it offensive to the other people if I show up with one breast?
I struggled with this question. I lost sleep over it. I imagined people who’d had arms or limbs amputated; I wouldn’t expect them to wear a prosthesis if they didn’t want to. Why did I apply a different standard to myself with an amputated breast? And then, I worked up the courage and took a deep breath before stepping through the door single-breasted.
Nobody noticed.
Motivational posters
I noticed a motivational poster hanging in the gym showing a woman drenched in sweat with the words, “If you look good working out, you’re doing it wrong.” Ha! Despite the fact that I know women who do kick ass while looking amazing, there is a great deal of truth to that poster.
Why had I not seen that before?
My body is a work in progress.
I don’t need a perfect body to have a healthy body image. My thoughts on body image are evolving, even as I write this. I am learning to accept and embrace both my vulnerability and my resilience – both integral parts of what it means to be alive.
I don’t lecture my little girl on these issues, although we talk about them as they come up.
I hope that she will see that ideas can evolve as people learn and grow just as our bodies do – that is also part of what it means to be alive.
Mostly, I put on shorts or a skirt with bare legs and go out side to play with her when it’s sunny. Sometimes, I even go through the door without noticing, and I’m out in the sun before I realize that I didn’t have to stop and brave up first.
I’m supposed to be on vacation right now. Actually, I AM on vacation right now, hidden away on a cabin on an island with a few close friends, but I just had to share something.
I recently did something brave and scary: I worked up the nerve to audition for Listen To Your Mother.
What is Listen to Your Mother?
LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER features live readings by local writers on the beauty, the beast, and the barely-rested of motherhood, in celebration of Mother’s Day. Born of the creative work of mothers who publish on-line, each production is directed, produced, and performed by local communities, for local communities.
I’m so glad I took a chance and did the scary thing.
Stay tuned, you’ll be hearing more about this soon. I will be sure to let you know when tickets go on sale, but save the date for May 9, 2015. I’d love to see my friends in the audience.
Update: Bios are posted. Check out these amazing writers with whom I will be sharing the stage on May 9.
This is where I do the very important work of blogging about being a mom. I know. You want to be like me when you grow up, don’t you?
I even have an intern.
Let me tell you, for an unpaid intern she’s quite expensive and high maintenance. She expects a meal, several meals, every day. I’d say something about her expecting me to wipe her butt, but that would be crude.
This is the kind of meal I prepare for my crew every day.
Ok, that’s not true. That’s the kind of food I intend to cook every day.
This is more like the kind of food I prepare for our meals.
Well, no, that’s not true either. That is the kind of food I would like to eat, and it implies I actually cook. In reality, I serve freezer lasagna, macaroni and cheese, and anything else that requires less than 5 minutes of time and effort on my part.
So much for being a food blogger.
These are my blogging pants.
What? You don’t match your intern to your pants?
Yes, she was taking yet another break. But she does contribute a lot to our team.
Here she is storyboarding my next blog post.
How do you work?
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