This weekend, Jilly and I will help our dad move from the family home–the only home we and our siblings have known. To be expected, I know we will at least go through rooms and move to storage items we’d like to preserve either to keep or to hold for a future decision. We’ll move more items to a space now defined as succinctly in text as its square footage–”dad’s condo”–and we’ll experience the place where we grew up for potentially the last time depending on the market. All of this is something any adult would experience in time. People go through this all the time, memories are lasting regardless of where you are, they say. Yes, this is true. However, those that say that may not know…

That basketball hoop is where Jill and I would beat Craig handedly in a game of ball and then would be unceremoniously helicopter-swung into the bushes like ragdolls. Those flowers and/or weeds in the flower bed were dutifully planted by our mom with the help of the girls. The round flower bed raises herbs, Diane’s very own. That tree in the front is where our mom broke her leg and we’d nurse her back, washing her hair in the kitchen. That other tree in the front is the one Craig playfully hung from upside down years before he died. He would hem and haw as to whether to use that as an on-line dating picture. I remember telling him he’d be a moron if he didn’t. That gutter is the one he’d clean over thanksgiving during one of our typical family traditions (yard work), and the one he’d help hang a welcome home sign on when our mom was finally discharged from inpatient physical therapy following her brain surgery.

That corner in the foyer is where Craig hit his head when our Dad was playing chase; that space in the back is where we’d hold our fancy family dinners and the nook is where our mom would serenade with Fur Elise on an unassuming piano or where Craig played, often with his harmonica. That hallway holds the pitter patter sounds of four young children anxiously awaiting a slumbering Santa and his wife to wake up, and the murmurs of stealthy hide and seek/secret spy games. That room on the right now no longer restricted but equally revered is one we couldn’t go into until Craig left for law school. His room was just that—his. While he did not care for our presence in his room, I remember taking note and loving his presence in ours. And, that room in the far back to the left still somehow smells of our mom though she has long since passed. With just the turn of a knob, she still sits on the edge of the bed under a pale yellow light and smooths mentholatum on her lips before heading to bed.

Each room, contour, blemish, artifact and point of erosion is a memory. These “easy buttons” are the painted silhouettes that so easily give form to the memory to come–a portal to the memory. Those who have the gift of future tense and the ability to continue making memories may not appreciate how precious, coveted, and necessary these “easy buttons” are when the ability to create is finite. When the moment approaches and when the easy buttons are no longer accessible, so begins a new milestone, a new process of grief, and a new period of letting go leaving memory alone, in this sense, to create shape. There are other tools and means for connecting with our mom and brother, sure, but perhaps none as real, palpable, and majestic as home.

~E

Fast forward four years. I have never posted about the last fireworks I have been to in 4 years nor the moments after that fireworks show. Now that posting is buried somewhere in the files of an inherited computer broken down from the blue screen of death. I have it saved, but no way to retrieve it as of yet. Some day. As with other memories, saved and ready to be retrieved with the right devices, the right moment, the right time. The clear look of Craig’s eyes. My mom’s smile. Some day.

Still, I find myself writing more than a year and a half after the last posting. Another Olympics has passed. London. Another Democratic National Convention. North Carolina. Another Stand Up to Cancer telethon. Who knows. This recipe is probably lost on all but those who were there on Arapahoe street, Denver 2008. A Beijing Olympics watched in Craig’s apartment. A DNC held in Denver; Craig found the strength to walk to his apartment window to witness hundreds walking in support of his common causes. A Stand Up to Cancer first, at least for us, where we watched with both tears and that pissed off determined look we are sometimes known for—eyebrows narrowed, forehead furrowed, frankenviens forming a bulge at the temples. The goddammit we are fighting too feeling and the wish that Craig and Mom could be a heartwarming success story on TV. Truth is, four years now, and I’ve heard more than a few people suggest that happy, optimistic people beat cancer. Suggesting, as well, that somehow those who die from cancer succumb not only to the disease but from will, from optimism, from happiness, from the yearning to live and survive. Eff that. I was on an exercise machine Friday when another Stand Up to Cancer telethon was broadcasted with every celebrity asking for resources on the face of a success story, someone with charisma and beating cancer. I’m for that cause, but I’m also for all those charismatic fighting souls whose systems were taken by cancer—a monopolizing, selfish, destructive entity that strickens some and not others. It’s not because of will or want that people survive or die. It’s a thing like the great Stephen King novel “the Thing” and it takes some and not all. Those that fall, those that die are the stones that keep others from drowning, the way others reach with their tippy toes for solid ground. It is those stones that have fallen before, settling into the days and years, forming a foundation with the history of others and giving height for people after them to catch air and continue the good fight. That’s my mom. That’s my brother. And as I dripped sweat and drew tears in my eyes, that is me, that is my family. Every day, every anniversary of their death, every birthday, that is me and my family lifting my mom and brother in thought and carrying them through. Together, they’re stones in a bridge between death and that next chance and I’m determined their voices are heard. Each year, I make the anniversary of their death and their birth something different, something people can hold onto—champagne in a park, coffee in the morning, favorite chocolates whispering take me…today. I keep them alive.

Too regularly, I find myself even wondering if this is reality. My eyes close. Did Craig, my brother, ACTUALLY die? Did my mom, and her voice, ACTUALLY die? Living in another state, it’s easy to believe that they are just elsewhere. I know I’m not alone. It’s the DNC. Craig was an Obama supporter even before his Hiliary-supporting sisters. A missed call and I know I’m not alone. I call back to find Steve, Craig’s loyal, childhood friend. The moment and season wasn’t lost on him. As days float on for his friends, Steve remembered Craig staunchly embedded in the DNC and likely, with any breath left in him, would have rallied the same. With receiver to ear, I slid down my apartment wall, watching the cats (one very sick) as they ate and reminiscing a time that was no less complicated. Not comparable by any means. I recalled my mom saying goodbye to the cats in a mediocre best western hotel room. Hunter green bedspreads covered the beds where she sat. She stroked Sammy then Maxie and said goodbye knowing it might be the last that she sees them. She said I love you. Steve asked me to convey that to Craig before he died. I did. And, there I was watching the cats, remembering my mom and brother, listening to Steve and wishing for a better tomorrow. He gets it. My sisters, dad, Emily and family get it. Close your eyes and guess to what reality really brings you. That’s not being stuck in grieving, it is honoring and remembering two people who were and are such a significant part of our lives. It is still progress. Still happiness.

Loss and tragedy don’t define us but they give us definition. My mom and brother will always be a part of me, part of my family. As they should be.

We chase life with them in the wind…

~E 

We talk about plan, we talk about the future. We wonder what advice we’d have and remember from our Mothers. I was able to ask, and she said “choose your battles wisely.” I have no idea what she means anymore because it seems most battles aren’t of my choosing. Her loss. Craig’s loss. To be 28 and loose them both, and to look to the future with any hope of something that would match those seemingly negative experiences with something positive. A boulder to a boulder. Something of equal weight.

I just returned from Oklahoma and the lofty experience of packing up the belongings of two loved ones into some 2X3 or 2X4 container that would protect their presence and essence with any regularity and comfort as plastic in a climate controlled storage unit can afford. Jill was in Bangkok, Diane in Denver, and our Dad not yet able to pack up belongings; merge into, move, or discard perhaps, but not pack up. Then there was me. I traveled to Oklahoma to help him.

There they were: first Craig’s room with chiseled swords surely used to combat an evil Steve Hall or any other young foe, books that could describe to any alien the inner workings of middle earth, and the complete design and architecture of legos and its ferocious, unyeilding men standing guard (with the occasional muscle men, whom, let’s face it, Jill and I played with more times than not). Truth be told, by then, a good year after his passing, Dad’s belongings had hijacked or grown over like weeds into most of Craig’s spaces which he very plainly demarcated — “Craig’s stuff: do not throw out.” He posted this sign after learning that some of his (tackier) attire and perhaps Halloween costumes a la Dad’s 1970’s wear had been thrown out. If there is ever a reason to post a sign, this is one. …Clearly…  ;0) The sign, his legos, makeshift dungeons of dragons weapons, casual drawings of his sisters in the art of Garbage-pale Kids, college notes and the like were tenderly and neatly tucked into a plastic box for a later time. I went through each nook and cranny in a compulsive manner even shocking to myself. I wanted to make sure that all of Craig was captured for my sisters and I to part with when the time came given that they were not there at the onset. Too many memories to potentially destroy either by lack of foresight or haste.

I moved to the room Jill and I once shared, which has become the catchall of all other things…and a safe place for the most important of things. Our room became the sanctuary when having Mom’s and Craig’s belongings (in boxes) in common areas meant possible destruction or, at the least, anxiety and lecture. Understandable. I live in my apartment of reminders; I don’t know what it is like to live in a house of constant reminders. I can understand wanting to bathe in it for a moment and then cleanse. But, I do know what it is like to return home and still see my mom’s purse hanging on the doorknob waiting for her; or to go to her bathroom and see her mirror, her toothbrush, her drawer of make-up. As much as I selfishly wanted that kept as a reminder — to feel her, smell her, and remember her — that alone brought me here to help dad.  I couldn’t imagine him facing that day to day and I couldn’t imagine him one day throwing it out before we could say goodbye.

I moved through mine and Jill’s room. Much of our mom’s clothing was hanging in our closet; the majority of her highschool, college, and other keepsakes were in our room. Then to our mom’s room. Mom did not have such signs as Craig to deter intruders but her spaces were equally hijacked or grown over. Though I love my dad, I couldn’t help but envision temples obscured by an overgrown forest. My mom was the temple now past in tense and my dad, a thriving overgrown forest. It is how it is to be, I know, but the sight and image and concept is hard to process. I found her clothes buried between dad’s suits and long-sleeves which she dutifully ironed despite her full-time professional job.

In our room and in hers, I folded each garment and placed it in a tub. Each purfumed experience that exclaimed “Mom”, each deodorant and sunscreen infused garment that spoke of Craig, even those shirts that still held tight the common yet exquisitely personal stickers of a room number on the Oncology ward — 1102. They were all inhaled, all felt, all experienced and placed in time before being placed in a carrier of time — some plastic tub to hold them until another time. And, until another time, I will be able to remark upon the tears that filled my eyes each time I pulled a sweater from its hanger; Mom from her effort of placing her sweater on a hanger; Craig’s suit he wore to her funeral; Mom’s bridesmaid’s dresses and her wedding veil which I opened in Dad’s presence to find us both sharing long, sorrowful tears. “I think this is Mom’s wedding veil.” Dad: “Oh boy.” Me: pulling the box arms away. “Yes, ….it is her wedding veil.” To look up at dad with tears in his eyes and hear him able to say, “Oh, boy.” The tears tracing my cheeks fell like his. I’ll never forget that — to see him in his crisp button down and tie, pulled slightly loose after a day of teaching, staring at the box. Such a small hallway to share such a large experience. We did as Lawlers do — own the moment, then go to dinner.

Until you know what it is to lose, you will have no idea what is like to move through the lives of those you’ve lost, to see them come to life in the very fabric that you hold to your nose, to remember their form in its threads,  to once again suffer the disconnect of loss and life, to put to bed those meaningful stones that now lay as boulders next to the memories that remain. You will remember me, come hail, sleet or snow, they say. You will remember me.

It’s cruel. Death. Cruel to those whose lives were cut short. Cruel to those left behind. Cruel to those they’d never meet. I wish I could see my brother as a father, my mom as a grandmother. To see her as she was with us. To see them as they are today.

I packed up Craig’s room, Mom’s room, the room Jill and I shared, any remnants in Diane’s room, all closets, every nook and cranny, and even the garage. (Even defrosted the deep freeze for Dad and organized the pantry and laundry room.) All was packaged neatly, tenderly, and loaded into a U-Haul for storage. Dad helped. I’ll never forget that experience — to ride together in an over-sized U-Haul and unload box after box and tub after tub in the pouring rain. We did it together — not without strain, a little bloodshed, and laughter — but together nonetheless.

So now while the wait, in storage and in life, until the time to re-experience and say goodbye, if need be, to the items that remain…though they will always remain in memory.

~E

This was written when Jill was leaving for Bangkok after “all had settled” at home. Diane and I had returned to Stillwater after dropping Jill off at the airport…

–

I was pulled over yesterday on our way back from dropping Jill off at the airport. We were driving on a road where the speed limit dropped quickly and I, quite frankly, did not know what the legal speed was in the first place (turns out it was 45).

The very kind police officer asked if I knew why I was pulled over. I thought to myself, “because you think I’m pretty and want my number??” Probably not wise to jest with the po-po, at least not until the ticket/warning is written. Instead, I told him (probably too casually) exactly my thoughts as they transpired –  that I was just asking myself what the speed limit was, saw the sign, saw him, saw the lights and figured. (Power of deductive reasoning right there). Whatever the case, we seemed to get along and he let me off with a warning, since I wasn’t too far over the legal speed. Even if he did give me a ticket, I had resigned myself to not giving a damn. As things line up, my second ticket in my lifetime pales to the hardships we’ve faced in a few short months. Go get the real bad guys, we’re just folks wanting to go home. ~E

In one dream, my sisters and I were chatting while sitting in our old kitchen. The metal framed garage door opened with a familiar squeak followed by the dull suck of the larger wood door. Mom appeared in her lilac-colored sweater, her gray slacks and black shoes. Her hair was short and nicely styled from a recent haircut, and her makeup made her eyes as big as the moon — a pale white moon. Instead of beautiful brown eyes, hers were clouded with the appearance of cataracts. Just as I noticed the change in pigmentation, she whipped a white cane from behind her and began clanking about the kitchen, hell bent for her bedroom despite not seeing her way. We asked if she was alright and if there was anything we could do. She quipped, “I feel like I’m cross-eyed and I don’t need any help” and proceeded out of the kitchen and out of my dream…

Random, but welcomed.

~E

Today, on what would have been her 67th birthday, I’ll raise a forkful of carrot cake and will toast to Mom in memory just as we did last year. And, just as I did last year, I’ll try to swallow without choking on the tears…

Happy Birthday, Mom. I live this day with you in mind, as with every day. I love you and miss you every moment.

..I’ll see you in my dreams…

~E

The brilliance of Mother’s Day is that it happens every year with such predictability that you can prepare for it – send that card well in advance, design an extra special tribute to the woman who gave you life. Instead, you find yourself lost in a card isle searching for the perfect card among what remains, and convincing yourself that the generic card you’re now clutching and that massage gift certificate you’ve yet to purchase will suffice. I’m sure this scenario resonates with many. I wish I could say I was more punctual and more creative. I wish I did so much more in hindsight.

This year, I found myself lost in the card aisle staring at Mother’s Day cards the moment they were made available – months in advance. I stood frozen, slowly taking in the cards I would not send, the event I’ll miss this year and all years to come. It was as if someone took a board to my gut. Those gestures I once took for granted, seemingly common and often last minute, seemed personal and unique almost like an epitaph on a grave. I spent time in that aisle thumbing through cards, wishing I had the opportunity to send a cheesy cellophane wrapped card to Mom. Tears welled as I allowed myself to envision what I would write, what I would do, and what she would say when she would receive it. A lifetime of this is a long, long time and part of me wanted to tell passersby to “make it count” before the opportunity passes and you’re found crying in an aisle clutching a card your mom will never read.

Despite hoping that milestones like Mother’s Day are skipped over, they somehow stand proudly from the crowd and deliver with maddening punctuality. Last month, Mother’s Day was merely a spoken placeholder for a hard day to come – another anticipated milestone to wade through in the grieving process. As days ticked off, that distant ship light on the horizon drew painful distinction. Mother’s day commercials replaced regular advertisement with startling speed; watching testimonials and gift ideas for that special mother was nothing short of agony. To imagine a life time of not being able to participate, to actively celebrate Mom and tell her how much she means to me takes the breath from my lungs. Though I can tell her now in the breeze and the trees, it’s not the same and it’s a painful permanence that is rubbed in every time there’s a commercial break.

Yesterday, as I was standing in line to pay for next week’s groceries, I spotted the familiar green packaging of Trident gum and instinctively grabbed a pack and placed it between my bell peppers and strawberries. Back in the car, I clutched the package hoping the taste hadn’t changed with the packaging. I closed my eyes and popped a piece. It was the same and just like that I could see Mom in real time rifling through her purse for a short stack of Trident gum; she’d offer a piece to us before selecting one for herself. For years, Trident was the only gum Mom would chew and would inevitably pull a piece while waiting for Dr. Hollingsworth (our pediatrician) or any other appointment dotting the years. She’d pop her gum without ever really blowing a bubble. I remember her teaching me how to catch air by rolling the gum – thank god I never learned! It’s ironic that I sought out that memory when it sometimes was an irritant. Annoyances today, treasured moments tomorrow. What I’d give to hear her pop her gum.

So began my tributes to Mom, evoking any and all memories to bring her close to me. It would be our day – mom and mine – even if in memory. As difficult as it was anticipating what Mother’s Day might be like, when the ship docked, I boarded. I awoke today after dreaming of mom. We were in a frenzy to reach an unknown destination and even rode dolphins (stay with me here) to get there on time. There was a familiar sense of desperation to reach “base” but this time we wouldn’t yell olly olly oxen free; I think my subconscious wouldn’t allow her to reach it.

Once awake, I decided to pot mom’s favorite flowers in planters on my balcony (“favorite” meaning the flowers she would always plant). I soon realized she chose the begonias, pansies and daffodils not for their extraordinary grace and distinctive color but because they are low maintenance. Atta girl! She was with me with each handful of potting soil. I could recall her taking us to Quality Plants to pick out the perennials and annuals; I could remember her teaching me how to garden, how to tap the sides of the containers to loosen the roots before pulling them out. I could hear her compliment me on my green thumb just as she did when I was in college.

After “giving the flowers a good soak” as she would say, I sat with mom on the balcony as the sun grew soft before changing and leaving for the next tribute. I took myself out to the last restaurant Mom and I went to in DC – a Spanish tapas place she loved. We talked and laughed for hours over small plates and decent drinks. Tonight, I ordered a light wine for her as a placeholder and could see her sitting across from me just as clear as that night. She was dressed in all black with turquoise jewelry, and was absolutely beautiful. I ate in silence, however, sniffling back the tears as I welcomed the memories. I hope the memories are as vivid next year as they were tonight.

As a last tribute, I re-read the cellophane wrapped Mother’s Day card I purchased for her, though did not send. The message is just as poignant for her in life and now in memory; buying it brought her close to me.

The cover reads, “Mom, you leave a little bit of wonderful everywhere you go…”

~E

I’m sure Sleeping Beauty had something else in mind when she sang that sweet melody. For my family, it carries a different meaning with a Prince whose gleam is more a permanent glower and whose name does start with “C” but rhymes with “answer” and is always the wrong one.

Dad called today, which is not out of the ordinary. He’s leaving on his first vacation sans family this Saturday when he accompanies a geology group from OSU for a 2.5 week stint in Morocco. Just one thing… A few weeks ago, he noticed a few sun spots on his forehead and went in to have them checked. Last year, at around this time, he was the third Lawler to undergo chemo treatment and applied a topical chemo to combat pre-cancer cells on his face. It was a miserable couple of weeks for him as his skin blistered and pealed. In the end, he had to endure TWO rounds of topical chemo due to the pre-cancer cell persistence.

After cooling the breeze with idle chatter, he said the familiar phrase, “I don’t want to worry you but I have some bad news.” His biopsy results came back and he has cancer.

Yep. That’s half of our family now, if we’re keeping count. Yayyy for our family health legacy! Needless to say, my sisters and I are feeling the warm and fuzzies for a lifetime of health and happiness. Fortunately, he caught the cancer at “baby cancer stage” rather than “6-12 months to live” stage, so we’ll take it! We’re not sure why the pre-cancer chemo treatment failed to work but not really surprised (we are Lawlers, after all). If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. (Cancer hasn’t caught on that it doesn’t apply to him). And, just so we’re all paying attention, Dad’s due to discuss and start treatment just two weeks prior to the first year anniversary of our Mom’s passing. Awesome.

Our Dad is 70 and has had “interesting” medical issues in the past months from his gall bladder to now baby cancer. I think a part of my sisters and I can’t help but feel like we’ve pulled a bit from the shore again with his health and find ourselves swimming among little sharks that nip at the feet but are otherwise harmless –”just be aware”. Here’s to hoping that great white doesn’t rear its ugly head again and take something more.

I told him if there’s a cancer to get, I suppose this is it and said I don’t think we could take another “you have 6-12 months to live” diagnosis. That statement may just read like a sentence and nothing more, but really, I don’t know of three more protective daughters of their dad than my sisters and I…for his own benefit and ours.

We have two loved ones to walk with in dreams; we’re not about to lose him too.

~E

By the end of the day, we were all giving Dad the stink eye.

That morning, I read out loud my Mother’s Day note to her. She cried, and so did I. Through the tears, she said that she wasn’t going anywhere, and for that day, she wasn’t. She was as present as her body would allow. After a nice morning and afternoon together, we drove to Tulsa for dinner at Los Cabos – Mom’s favorite restaurant. We had a helluva time getting a table, and an even more ghastly time trying to get Mom in and out of the toilet. By then, she was starting to lose her ability to stand, and required fairly constant assistance. We had a difficult time maneuvering in the Los Crapos non-handicapped friendly bathrooms. Bathroom drama and all, we still had a nice time and it was good to leave Stillwater, even just for an evening. We had a nice laugh on the way home once we realized that we had driven off with the restaurant beeper used for seating. Take that, Crapos! 

I remember the car ride home. Mom and I were sitting in the back seat and I was sitting close to her side to help prop her up.  At one point, Mom started buzzing my hand. God, I can remember how that felt and how I tried desperately to hide my tears. I can remember staring out the window and thinking how unfair it all was. How absolutely unfair. Later that evening, we Skyped with Craig and Erin in Denver, and gave Mom the rest of her presents,which included new outfits.

Fast forward a year and here we are, welcoming the first Mother’s Day without Mom. Erin, Diane and I have been reflecting on this day and what it means. For me, though Mom is no longer with us, I still feel compelled to celebrate as if she were. This was her special day: no reason the festivities should stop simply because she’s gone. She would want us to be happy and to try to move forward from this grief. And I am, though slowly.

I spent this Mother’s Day weekend at the beach with friends. In some way, I felt like I was doing her memory justice by doing something joyful and less lonesome and sentimental. She would want us to continue on with life, while also finding moments to reflect on what a life without her means. So far, it means a weird mixture of emptiness and longing, pride and strength. While I feel numb and hollow, and it’s hard for me to think of Mom and all she endured, I also feel proud, and as if I’m doing her memory justice. Nothing is as sad as losing yourself. So far, I feel that I have done my best to keep true to who I was and who I am. For all that we’ve gone through, we’re still here. We’re still a family.

I think Mom would be proud. I miss her. I wish life was different and that she was still here. I wish I was back in that car, holding her hand, telling her that I loved her. Like the milestones before it, Mother’s Day is hard. Life without her is hard. It’s a deep pain that is shared by Diane, Erin and Dad. We’re just taking it one day at a time, slowly crossing the river by feeling the stones. That’s all we can do.

–J

                                                                                                November 25, 2007

I searched for a notebook to scribble notes for work and there it was - a memory waiting to be recalled. That was the beginning of a hand written passage I drafted last Thanksgiving break…

 November, 2007

There comes a time when you become so far behind in writing about life that you just give up. What’s the point of documentation, of spending valuable moments lost in thought instead of taking in what’s around you? Living in the moment; relishing the day; holding on to every second you can still say, “hey mom?” and have a “Ye-ah?” in return. Where do you begin to capture what you want never to forget? How can you hope that 28 years of memories will be enough to last a lifetime? How do you maintain optimism against something seemingly so bleak? How do you stare in the face of profound pain, sadness, and fear and manage to give a smile, a high-5? While hearing her say “we’re going to beat this thing”, thinking to yourself “I hope so” but hearing words of confidence, strength, and encouragement instead. “We had a good week mom. We have many more good weeks ahead. You keep fighting and we are right there beside you every moment. Live each day.”

Earlier, just before celebrating Craig’s 32^nd birthday Lawler-style with dinner, presents, and obnoxious song, she cried. It’s a rare occasion for her to cry despite having every reason to. Lots of folks complain and sob over more trivial things-work projects, boyfriends who don’t pay enough attention, long commute, stupid incidents in the grand “incident” of living. Tonight, she broke down in a sobbing pain for something far, far more significant. The deepest, gut wrenching look of sadness and fear overtook her. It was the look of a woman fearing that this was the ”last time to be here to celebrate his birthday” as she later explained.

Diane, Jill and I were there with her in her bathroom as she processed. She said she was sorry for breaking down. We encouraged the tears, the expression, and shared in the sadness. I said, “You’re here now, Mom”. Diane followed with, “Take each moment as it comes, one day at a time”. We wandered back to her bed. Dad came in at this moment, whistling. He saw the four of us crying, said “oh”, and left. It was too intense, maybe. Craig was in the family room either completely oblivious to the moment or purposefully checking out. He was noticeably disengaged for the duration of our time together, despite doing the traditional jog around the cross country track and work out at the gym. While Diane, Jill, Mom and I played, giggled, sang, wrestled, watched back to back episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit together, he slept. Something was different, distant. On occasion, he’d tune in to an episode, but not often. He typically did his own thing-walked down the street playing harmonica, swam. When we’d ask him if he wanted to do something, he mentioned that he “couldn’t keep up with our pace”. To his credit, that’s probably true. Tired, worn out, emotionally spent, all these expressions or attributes somehow turn another tide when dealing with mom. You have energy because you have to. You have charisma and playfulness because you have to. For the sake of mom, normalcy must at least be entertained (whilst not ignoring our reality). Normalcy includes joking around, working out together (walking around the track together), cooking, standing extremely close and talking as if in a huddle and the competition might hear our plays. (The visual is particularly funny given her smallish stature (4′11) and fluffy bathrobe). Normalcy includes watching the Bedlam game together and talking to the TV, then going to get coffee during halftime. Normalcy includes dressing up - Mom in her new brown sweater and amber jewelry. My favorite. She sought out Diane’s makeup — had a real yearning to put herself together which was nice to see. Man she’s beautiful.

When the family’s together, time seems to slow for us - to stand still. Tonight, we were as we were and have always been. The disease was ever present and would sometimes rear its head with tearful exchanges but we dealt with it gracefully. The context was never lifted but we managed to live inside it as Lawlers do- with a jovial, determined, contagious spirit. Still, the context was inescapable certainly when mom cried at dinner. She was frustrated that her food options had become limited by the cancer. Cancer feeds on sugar. The better the diet, the better the chances of surviving. More importantly, she was sad from all of the ”last moments” –the possible last Thanksgiving, possible last celebration of Craig’s birthday as a family. In those moments, I become very angry for what she is enduring. Why her? Why us? It’s unfair that she has to live in that continued threat of “lasts”, to envision her inexistence.

Back in her bedroom, her daughters just listened to her, gave her support where we could and showed her how much she meant to us as she discussed the possibilities. On these days, it seems worry is our most persistent friend. I think every mother takes on the role with a kernel of doubt whether they will end up being “a good mom”. Knowing that opportunities may be limited in the future, we tried to show her in that moment that she was our everything. We told her it was okay to cry. It was okay to be scared, to be sad and angry. It felt odd to be coaching our mom in expressing emotion, to feeling vulnerability as if we were somehow stronger in the moment and sharing our strength. Maybe we were, maybe we weren’t. Maybe we were still kids drawing from her all that she offered even in the moments of cancer. A mom facing cancer and all that it represents is a mom, a woman, and a role model. I don’t know how she does it but she does it with grace and tremendous courage.

Those moments of crying for her are fleeting. She usually stops them with a brief comment, “crying makes my head hurt”, over a familiar sardonic smile and new look of anguish. It’s just too much for her to get into, to entertain for too long and I can’t blame her. To entertain losing her for even a moment is too long for me. It’s simply too painful, though some part of me accepts that scenario as one version of reality this disease might lead us to. I see it on her face like I see it on mine, an indescribable fear tempered by unfettered resilience. It’s the “I’m not ready yet” look. I wish I could take her pain, transfer her disease to me - a younger body with a better chance. I would if I could and she knows that. We’d all lay on the tracks for her if it meant even stalling this train.

When saying goodnight, I said at any time you’re scared, sad, angry, whatever it is, just talk and we’ll be here for you and she said she would. I told her we’ll listen at all times and there will be a time where we’ll need to talk with her (to talk of aspirations she has for us, to share how much we love her and will miss her).  She told Jill and I that all she wants for us is for us to be satisfied with life. (Was she, I wondered). With our careers, the people in our lives…  When asked, she said she wasn’t disappointed we haven’t met anyone because she doesn’t feel we are ready to settle down yet. One day, she said. On the topic of parenthood, her biggest piece of advice was, “choose your battles”.

I don’t think she had many with me. I recall the great Battle of Polar Bear (which Jill and I won and took home a life sized polar bear from Sears that we didn’t need looking back on it BUT loved and used as a reading chair) and the infamous battle of “Quit your bitching”, which I also won. Perhaps those were battles she chose to lose. I’ll never forget her smile when she did and hope I’m only half as tolerant…

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As feared, this was the last Thanksgiving and Craig’s birthday to share with Mom.   …and with Craig

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