My Death Day Planning and Why It's Really Not Morbid

When my Grandmother had a massive stroke we drove to Houston to say our goodbyes.  In the days we were there, my Dad asked me to look through the house for a will or any important documents.  It was so difficult for me.  This was the grandmother that baked challah and chocolate cake from scratch with me. I still bake when I miss her and want to feel close to her.  I remember the many times I wanted to sleep in and Dad would wake us and she would remind him it was her house and her rules.  She had a piano that I never heard.  She didn't play and we weren't allowed to play on it. Going through my Grandmother's home uncovered a person I never knew.  I saw the awards she got for her yard and understood the love put into her garden.  Later I found out it was the flower bed near her bedside window she had my younger cousin cultivate with roses and flowers.  I was home in Los Angeles, pulling weeds and getting dirt under my nails as I planted herbs and vegetables, and that was a passion close to her heart as well.  I didn't know that my love of all things growing came from her.  I love books and I was shocked that there was only one book in her home that wasn't a bible and it was The Young Housekeeper's Friend by Mrs. Cornelius dated in 1859.  She didn't have much jewelry or bottles of perfume.  I finally got to check out the piano, and in the bench were songs written by her. A lot of them were worship songs and I wish I could've heard her.  I love to sing, but I can't remember ever hearing her sing.  She had a certificate from a bible college but I'm not certain if she finished high school.  I saw a work ID from a utility company and my Dad had no idea she did anything other than clean houses.  She was surrounded by pictures of me and all of her children and grandchildren.  She had kept every single card and envelope I had sent to her throughout my life.  She kept everything all of us sent to her.  Her bed was in front of the television and I could tell she spent a lot of time on the shopping network by all of the cooking gadgets throughout the kitchen that overflowed to her den.  She would watch an infomercial and look for easy ways to make healthy meals as she was bedridden toward the end and in her helplessness, she was still able to shop.

When my husband's uncle passed, my father in law asked me to help his brother's friends clean out his home.  My husband and his sister weren't interested.  Even in death, some wounds continue to fester. He was a collector of all things Hollywood and television memorabilia.  He was also a hoarder.  Getting through his home meant meandering through a maze of the many things he bartered, found on the street or bought.  There was a stack of picture frames from Ikea that stacked flat and touched the ceiling.  He had several toys still in original packaging.  There were toy cars, movie stills, and puppets. Most of what he had  was donated, and there's an online archive somewhere that his friends painstakingly put together with small children and full time jobs.  My specific task was to go through and find any family heirlooms.  It was so hard to figure that out, not ever seeing any of the stuff before hand or ever meeting my husband's grandmother that it came from.  What was touching was after her death, he had his mother's thesis and all of her work documents. He had her letter of appreciation signed by the late Mayor Bradley. The toys they played with as children were in a display case and the last thing he saw before falling asleep.

I have a file folder on my desktop titled, "If I Die." It seems morbid but it was my gift.  More than once I had the honor of going through the belongings of a family member after they had passed.  I call it an honor, because it is.  It's also painful and humbling and impossible to not hurt other people.  The hardest thing was digging through things to find an identity. It's a file where I've compiled my bio and accomplishments. It's a place where you can see my favorite flowers are California Poppies, but anything in shades of green would be appropriate.  I have my favorite songs listed with specific instructions for jewelry.  I also made it clear that my funeral is not to be an altar call.  If I didn't sway you to my faith in life, I won't do it with guilt in death. There are letters I've written to loved ones as well. I used to update this file each Christmas, but I didn't this year, and it's time I did. The first year I started the folder was hard.  Not too hard.  I was emo before the word was a trend, but it was difficult to get through all I wanted to say.  I ended up making a few calls to say what was in my letters and had to start over. Why wait to tell someone how important they are to you?

Today I talked to both my Dad and my husband's Dad.  I told both of them that I am filing for divorce as soon as I get a hold of my attorney and get her fee sorted out.  I told my Dad I got married on my own, it makes sense I'd divorce on my own and do the big girl thing.  My Dad is my Dad and he said all of the things my Dad is supposed to.  My father in law proved to me that he is also my Dad and he gave me love and support and I will be visiting with him tomorrow.  He called the new girlfriend a "troll" and that really made the blow of him meeting her that much easier.  Tomorrow will be a year since my husband told me our marriage is over, and I thought about a long and extensive post to go over what this year has been, but he's not worth the carpal tunnel.

A Fond Farewell in Hollywood

Today was an epic farewell to a time of personal growth and transition and to the office with people that didn't even know they helped me through it.  I have a feeling what was picked up and examined today will stay in my mind in a very happy place for a long time. The picture was tonight's sunset from the office I loved for two months.  The city is covered in a blanket of fog.  I remember the 1980's, so I won't call it smog.  There is a difference.  The ocean isn't visible and it looked like layers of thickness that increased to the west where the cooler ocean air can hold the moisture in low lying clouds of ice crystals.  Farther inland where it is warmer, the crystals melt into humidity and that is your meteorology lesson.  Thank the teacher later.

Above the darkness you can see the pink and yellow clouds that were still kissing the sun's rays.  It reminded me of right now in my life.  I'm funemployed until my next assignment.  The optimist in me sees something happening next week. It's in the pink and gold above the darkness.  Realistically, I won't breathe in relief until I have landed a job because this single Mom has 3 kids to raise and they depend on me.  That's what's right in front of me. If I keep my eyes above the darkness, I can bathe in the colors and feel the warmth.  I'm keeping my head up and something amazing is right around the corner.  It always is.

For tonight there is joy and peace and butterflies still buzzing in my belly.  For tonight there's Hulu and some housework.  I was heading to the beach for a drive along the coast to clear my head, but I had crazy butterflies in my belly, the look on his face in my mind and the naughtiness in my head still warming my skin and I went on autopilot and ended up at home, driving a little too fast and hugging the curves where I found them because my happiness was overflowing.

Saying Goodbye To An Epic Couple of Months

I was off of work, but sat at the desk that I probably should have claimed when I first started.  The sun filtered through the haze that settled over Hollywood all day.  The pale pink sky didn't quite reach the red and flaming cotton candy look.  It was muted and ethereal, unlike clear evenings that can't hold the colors painted by a fading sun. I started my goodbyes today.  There were some people that I wanted to say goodbye to in person.  There were others I emailed.  One of the girls that started the day I did gave me a candle and probably has no idea how close to tears I was at her generosity and warm heart. It hits me in waves that ebb in hope and flow around me in moments of panic.  There could always be something better. The biggest loss in the job I'm leaving is the visual joy I have had.  The views of Los Angeles from the heart of Hollywood were the best views I've ever had from a job. I think I'll miss them the most.  I loved watching the water fountains in the courtyards around our building.  This past week I've seen sunbathers lounging around pools and stood in the window, feeling the heat of the southern California sun, touching me as I stood in sweet adoration.  The sun was starting to set in the west and it was an overcast day when I started writing.  The haze of cloud cover over Hollywood must have been a respite for the workers bustling around the Cinerama dome red carpet as they prepared for a premier that I really didn't care about.  I had spent yesterday and today slowly removing the pictures and pieces of paper that identified my desk as mine. I had post its and notes. My favorite was from something I scribbled that I saw online.  It reminded me of my husband and said, "I understand the spark is gone and I'm ready for the next step. Let me charge my stun gun." Not a direct quote, but that was the spirit of it.  I had my name spelled out in cardstock to help others remember me.

I'm not angry about the job ending but I am sad.  The company was an answer to prayers, but I believe there are more answers waiting for me.  It put me in a different place than I was and in ways I couldn't imagine.  I found myself in a job I loved and was eager to go to.  I have only had that experience once before and I'm sure one day I'll be matched with a company that will offer more of a challenge and less repetition. I loved the challenge here at first, but I could see the monotony start to take its toll in ounces of boredom that would tip my hand toward chocolate and excuses to watch the skyline, with several surreptitious glances toward his office. Because it's his office and he's usually in there doing office work things. In fairness, I was there for a specific task and I did only what I was meant to.

At this job I've started wearing dresses and heels and putting on make up and taking care of my hair.  I owe that to a woman who is also preparing to depart into the unknown with a dream, a vision, and bravery.  She was the feminine image I wanted to emulate.  Today I wore a low cut dress for the ego boost. I was feeling emotionally bottomed out and wanted to be looked at.  The men I didn't work with had no problem admiring my dress.  The men I work with avoided looking at me or specifically saw only my eyes.  Perhaps it was too low cut.  Last night I fought my sheets most of the night until I woke at 3 and couldn't shut off the worries running through my mind until 5.  Then my inner clock goes off at 6 every morning, so I'm running on too little sleep and lots of peanut M&M's.

At the end of the day I'm a temp with an agency.  Working temporarily and moving on to the next assignment is the nature of what I do. At the risk of gross cultural appropriation, part of me would like to think of myself as a gypsy.  There's a lot of bad in it, but I only see the mysterious seductress that stays for a while until the next job comes along.

Fighting Like a Girl and Pulling Punches

Fists are raised. Her right hand is balled next to her chin and her left hovers in front of her mouth and nose. A slight tuck of thumbs and a swallow of bile burns her throat, but she has a face to wear. The determination in her gaze hides the fear that is urging her fight into a flight, but she steels her resolve and plants her feet, bending her knees slightly so they don't lock on her when it's time to move.  He doesn't realize he tells her his next move as he steps before he reaches for her shirt. His cologne met her before she saw him and this close the assault on her nose is enough to make her flinch. She's been here before and she knows that she has learned the next move like a dance based on muscle memory.  She drops her chin and shoulder in a hook aimed at his ribs stepping in and on her right side below the left side of the rib cage he exposed in his attack. With a quick draw back of her stinging right hand, she lifts up his slightly slackened left arm with her left forearm, moving closer and following through with the force of her right elbow and forearm, twisting her back for a second hit with the back of her elbow, catching his ribs again. As he's bent in pain she takes a second to snap a left cross at his cheek and feels positive his stubble stung her more than her bony hand could have hurt him.  He was taller than her but he didn't have her solid frame.  He probably didn't look past her jeans and stilettos.  He takes a moment to fight the pain, and step back.  His fury builds but that moment was all she needed and she runs off, slapping the pavement in bare feet as her shoes lay abandoned on the street and her purse is still miraculously strapped across her body. Wouldn't it be amazing if we could all just defend ourselves? My first fist fight was me getting punched in the stomach because I teased a boy about his teddy bear on the school bus and insisted on touching it even after he said it would get my butt kicked.  I had the wind knocked out of me but the shock was most painful.  I remember walking home and the anger fell from my face in silent tears and shame.

In middle school I had more enemies than I knew what to do with.  I think it started as jealousy, but I was so not aware of anything related to my looks that I didn't know what to feel other than fear.  I was the last to leave the classroom after each period because I was afraid of getting jumped.  My looks were always given as you see them.  I still can't work with a curling iron and frequently see men in drag that deserve my girl card and breasts more than I do.  (Perks of not being afraid of a beautiful man is they will sometimes help you with makeup tips.) I will rarely spend more than $20 on any one item of clothing or accessories.  My designer purses are all gifts.  I'm loved.  Envy me. That same love showed up for me one day after school. I finally told my family what I was so afraid of.  The next day my sisters came to pick me up from school after drill team practice. They sent me to the car and went up to the drill team room where some of my biggest fans were.  I have no idea what was said or done.  I just know I was told to take a vacation for the rest of the semester.  The problems went away and there was talk about my sisters stepping out of line as the adults that came to my rescue when my teachers and administrators didn't.

Growing up I saw my Mom rage at my Dad, then pick up the pieces of their life and do what she could to take care of us and any other person who needed help. She's the most giving person I know.  There is something inside of her that she's given to me that has the ability to cut down the strongest tower.  For her, it is the ability to get up and do what survivors do.  For me, it's an ability to frame ideas that seek out the vulnerabilities that can be used to undermine a situation and tilt things in my favor. She has this fight that is full of strength and determination, but as a kid, it always came out as the phrase, "grab and twist."

I'll just leave that there a minute.

My Dad marched with Martin Luther King Jr.  He served in the Army during the TET Offensive in Viet Nam. Naturally, I grew up around his post traumatic stress and with a healthy dose of patriotism and respect for our vets. I know not to wake him abruptly because his fists rise before he does.  He's not a fan of fireworks and he taught me that time doesn't heal all wounds.  Work and perfect love do. You can't ignore or drown out your pain.  He never fought with Mom. She would rage, and he would stand quietly.  He didn't want to fight with her, and she needed a reaction.  Any reaction was better than feeling ignored.  It also taught me to work around a shaky temperament and I can dance on eggshells if I need to. That dance came in handy as a wife.

We learn a lot from our family of origin and sometimes we have to unlearn what we know.

I wasn't always an advocate.  For most of my youth I was self centered and obsessed with a good story and personal time. Fighting for someone else wasn't my thing because I didn't care if it didn't involve me, until it did involve me. When I had kids, and learned about autism is when I learned about  a good fight.

When we first married, we lived in the garage at my Mom's house.  It was converted and my project home.  I was learning plumbing basics and I was so proud of putting the trap in under the sink all by myself.  That was the first toilet I installed and it will be there forever because when I tiled the bathroom floor, I didn't know I was supposed to remove the toilet first.  It's grouted to the floor and it doesn't leak.  But a new toilet would require a new floor as well. Live and learn. When we moved into our first apartment it was perfect for our family of three.  When we were about to become a family of 5, it was time to move.  I expected part of our deposit back.  They tried to charge us a few thousand above that.  I looked into renter's rights.  I took them to small claims court and I won.

Later we moved and I started pseudo managing a property for my Mom.  She wanted a tenant evicted and I started and finished it.  In hindsight, I may have missed a few steps, but at the end of the day they moved out and it's not my fault they didn't search for loop holes. They would've found them. Now Mom gives and takes the responsibility from time to time, but I'm okay with that too. I usually have quite enough on my plate.

My kids have always been in public schools.  I was grateful that the free assessments set us on a path with Regional Center and the school district that started services and therapies we needed.  My kids didn't come with instructions.  Most people figure it out as they go and I'm in that boat, rocking and upchucking over the side and on the deck with the next person still finding those sea legs and just as annoyed that there is only one Head on deck and it's busy. It built up over years, but their behaviors were adjusted and worked around in the classroom to the point where we saw it as behavior that needed adjustments, and not the emotional neglect that my kids were suffering.  I was always involved.  I sat through classes.  I still know the voices of all of the principals and vice principals that have overseen my kids. At the end of the day, becoming a teenager is hard enough without sensory dysfunction and below average social and communication skills.  My son was taken from school by ambulance and put on a 72 hour 5150 hold.  Our constant vigilance at his side and his calm when with us got him released early.  He still had to endure being at that school for another 6 months until we were able to get him an emotional disturbance diagnosis and placement in a nonpublic school for autistic kids.  I had to write letters, follow up respectfully, document and keep on top of things. I've had to make calls to different departments and regions to see where I could rattle a few chains.  A couple of years later and my second child went through the same process.  A short while after that I would fight for compensatory hours and a refund of therapy co-payments and win with the help of an attorney that the district paid for me.

I'm also an In Home Support Services provider for my kids.  They have needs outside the scope of typical parenthood and the state recognizes this by  paying me and sending me W-2 forms at the end of the year.  My kids would need me to do what I do anyway so when the union started taking dues I had a problem with it.   It took a few months, phone calls, and even and affidavit but I got a check from them too.

I think the hardest fight is the one in which you decide early on that you don't want to give it your all.  It's when you pause to think about the repercussions instead of doing what you know comes next, instead of worrying about consequences you won't face.  It's when you decide to be gentle in your attack, setting yourself up for defeat, and knowing the road you are on is the high one. It's hard when people think they have you beat, but don't realize you haven't taken off your kid gloves and have been pulling punches because part of you still cares enough to want to protect them.