Thursdays, Therapy, and Me

It’s past noon on Saint Patrick’s day. I was out and about this morning, and I have just realized that I’m not wearing green. There is a thin vein of chartreuse running through my scarf, but that wouldn’t nearly cut it for my Irish relatives. I should be stripped of my one-eighth Irish heritage. I haven’t even drank green beer for going on 24 years. Haven’t drank alcohol at all, for that long. Not much of an Irishman, some would argue. At least those who subscribe to stereotypes.

It’s also Therapy Thursday. This morning’s session was much like last week’s. It took me a while to get going, but I finally hit that chord variation that I keep trying to avoid, the one I need to tune into, play through, and then, when the time is right, release it...note by note. The solution to my condition is in part, to feel the feelings that I have tried for so many years to block with school, work, busyness.  

Good thing I adore my therapist. I loved my last one too, some twenty years ago. Her name was Fyfe, and the therapist of the moment, well her name is Fiona. Both good Celtic names, albeit more Scottish than Irish. I appreciate them both, for their part in leading me back towards myself. At the moment, Fiona has me feeling emotionally depleted. Not crawl into a ball devastated, more like “really don’t think I am going to be cleaning the bathroom today after all” kind of devastated. Yet I also feel vaguely mellow, in a pleasant sort of way.

This morning I recounted what it was like to sit in an oncologist’s office eleven years ago and hear a doctor tell my mother that she had three weeks to live. How it felt when the oncologist left the room, promising that he would be right back, and then never came back. How mad I was that my mother was so hurt by his abrupt abandonment. My mother had put her life and her faith into this man and his medicine for sixteen months, and he didn’t have the guts or the grace to come back into the room and wish her well. Later that day Mom lamented: “To think that he didn’t even have the decency to come in and say good luck, take care or kiss me arse or anything.” Or something to that effect. My mother could be quite Irish when she wanted to be. Today, I’ve come to understand that not everyone can handle talking to people about dying, or saying goodbye. But that day, I wanted to go back to the cancer centre and strangle the bloody oncologist.

The other memory I had today, was that later that night, my Dad went to play darts with my brother and the guys, as scheduled. He was clearly in denial, shock. It was the best thing for him to do, as irrational as that may sound to people who don't know our family. I drove my mother back to the home she loved so dearly, the one place on earth that she loved above all others. We watched Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune and Touched By An Angel. We ate Kraft Dinner and pumpkin pie. My mother always loved Kraft dinner, but rarely made it because Dad doesn’t like it, at all. At one point in the evening, I sat at my mother’s feet and laid my head upon her knee. She caressed the top of my head as I cried and said to her very quietly: "I want to go with you." I didn’t really of course. I would never want to leave my beautiful family, my lovely life. Not then, not now. I guess I just wanted her to know that if I could, I would be with her forever. Always.

Thursdays are hard. I need to revisit the story, and process the grief. But I know and I trust that healing can and will follow the pain. I believe that with all of my being. I'm just beginning to remember the story.

Well, enough of this for today. Sorry if I have caused anybody out there sadness. I am going to switch emotional gears and go grab myself some lunch. But first, I might as well go out with a good old Irish bang. This one’s for all of my green-beer drinking Irish relatives, and in memory of my Mom, and of course, with love to my brother Danny.

This version is sung by a wee lad named Declan Galbraith. Enjoy it, and I promise tomorrow I will be funny.

  

Baby Sister, Mrs. Beasley, and Me

Happy birthday, Baby Sister. Everybody knows that as a leap year baby, you don't actually get a "real" birthday this year, but I hope that your pretend one is everything you want and deserve it to be.

I loved you months before you were born. At seven years old, I had no idea what a sister was or what you would become to me, but I knew that I wanted a girl baby to come out of our mother's stomach. Or wherever. I already had two older brothers, and they never wanted to play house with me. Or anything else, for that matter.

I remember being at a friend's home after school when I found out that you had arrived. As I recall, I called our neighbour Ena (she would eventually become your babysitter when Mom returned to work) and Ena happily exclaimed that I had a new sister, and that you were a leap year baby. I was ecstatic that you had come out a girl, but incredibly worried about you being a leap year baby. I thought she meant you were a leper. I had  recently learned about Jesus or somebody curing a colony of lepers, but I still really didn't like the sounds of it. I am sure somebody would have cleared that up for me right quickly.

My memories of your childhood are mostly fond, albeit a bit sketchy. I remember that you had a Mrs. Beasley doll that you loved, and that I sort of wanted one myself. You had a Fisher Price bus that our cousin Lisa cut her foot on, although I can't for the life of me recall how she would have done that. It was Fisher Price, after all. I don't know if there was even such a thing as a toy recall in 1968. I remember that at your christening party (always a big deal in our family) I overheard Nannie say to somebody, "Yes, she's a beautiful baby but they all start out that way. Why look at Dawn, she gets homelier every year." Which is kind of funny now, but I suppose it might have hurt like hell at the time.

I remember that when you graduated from a crib, that you hated to sleep in your own bed. To keep you out of their bed every night, Mom and Dad gave me their double bed and bought themselves a queen. You would crawl into my bed every night and I would curl myself around you, content and happy for the company. What I remember about loving you the most, was that you would always play house, or whatever else I wanted you to play. I was the mother, you were the baby. I once built you a crib out of a box and put you in it in my closet. You hollered blue bloody murder (now there is a "mom-ism for you). You didn't like the dark, and at two years old, you had probably already developed your unhealthy and extreme fear of clowns. I don't know why Mom threatened you with clowns and wooden spoons, but she wouldn't have if she realized how detrimental it was to your psyche, I am sure.

Watching the family movies that you and Bro-In-Law stitched together on DVD recently reminded me of how much of a little ham you were by the time you were six. You were an adorable little bugger with your freckly angelic face and your red hair, your exuberant smile. You loved the video camera (were they called that back then?) and it captured your personality perfectly. Seeing you on film dancing and playing with Wee Blonde Baby Cousin, I can only wonder that you loved having her to boss around as much as I had appreciated having you.

Seven  years difference spread like a huge gulf between us at various times over the years, and as with all families (yes, Baby Sister, all families) shit happens that is better left to therapy. But I don't ever recall not loving you with all of my heart. I love you still. Next year is a leap year. We will do it up right. Until then, happy birthday to you today. And watch out for the clown. Seriously, he's still going to get you.