Showing posts with label dead letters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dead letters. Show all posts

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Living Mothers Day



May 12, 2012

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day.  Your sister sent me a Mother’s Day card.  It is the first in many years.  I bought myself a bouquet of pink roses from you and put her card in front of it.

Happy Mother’s Day to me.

Tomorrow.

Aunt Karen called me earlier this week.  “We are going to Tillicum Village for a salmon bake on Sunday.  Want to go with us.?”  “Us” being your cousins Lisa and Ryan.  Lisa’s kids, Tanner, Alicia and baby Annalise.  Annalise you have not met. 
“We take a boat to Blake Island for a fun filled day.” 

“A boat to Blake Island for a fun filled day?”  I asked.

“Yep.”  She answered. 

“Count me in.” 

This morning my heart was beating funny in my chest.  It does that sometimes.  I thought “What if this is my last morning, my last afternoon, my last evening?”

Do you know how when someone asks you a question you really have to think about it?  You are shocked at the frankness of the question?  You have to spend a few moments with the question?

I did not want to answer. 

I did not want to accept the implication.

Taking a deep breath, willing my heart to find its rhythm, a thought rises up in me. 

Answer the question.  Be the question.

Live the question.

I hug my pillow around my head as the tears fall. 

First, I must take a moment to mourn.  Mourn my childhood.  Mourn the mother I never had. Mourn the years of adulthood that I lost fighting for survival.  Mourn the years I spent in marriages that kept me down.  Mourn the death of you.  Mourn your sister’s anger and estrangement.  Mourn my father and that I cannot be with him.

Nested in my bed, my home, sun shining through the blinds, birds chirping over morning seed the question persists.

“What if this is my last morning, my last afternoon, my last evening?”

What if?

First I let the tears finish falling.  Accept the grace of feeling.  Let myself linger there until I have had enough.

Sadie, laying next to me, shifts her weight against me.

This is a day of sunshine.  A day for planting seeds and seedlings.  For watering things that will grow, provide color, a place for butterflies, birds, bunnies, and a little tree frog.  This is a day to build cages around new growth, allowing it every chance of survival. 

This is a day I will plant things that will nourish me through fall and winter.

I bought my dad a Martha Stewart Contour Pillow for his neck.  The hospital pillows and the pillows at the rehab center are like hard stones. 

On Friday I asked him, “Are those pillows uncomfortable for you dad?”
“Yes.”  He answered.

“Would you like me to bring you one more comfortable?” 

“That would be nice.”  He smiled.

After I finish planting, I will drop the pillow off to him.  I know his wife will go ballistic.  I cannot help that. 

I have not interfered with her relationship with my father.  She is his wife.   

Why is she interfering with my relationship with him?  I am his daughter. 

I cannot ponder questions that have no answers. 

But this “what if”?  It speaks of possibilities.

My tears water seedlings of change, of choice, of mindfulness this mourning.

Mourning.

Morning.

I’m about to come alive.

I can’t cry hard enough.

My life is brilliant this morning. 

Because I am going to spend the day living.

What if.

I love you baby girl.  My heart is full of you.
Mom






Friday, May 11, 2012

Spiraling





May 5, 2012

Spiraling

Falling

Trying to catch
Myself

Grab
for branches

Hope
for a safe landing.
…………………

The wind has been knocked out of me.

Breathe again.  

It may feel like white hot briquettes are being fanned in your chest. 

My heavy chest rises. 

Breathe.  Deeper this time.

Steve is talking to me.  I try to focus on the words.  Dinosaurs.  Bugging you.  In the back of your mind.

“Hey kid.”  The  sound of snapped fingers, I am back to him.  I look up, meet his eyes.

“Yes?”  I linger on the word, melt it from my mouth.

“You o.k.?”  He asks.

“I am.”  In that one moment I am certain of that.  I am fully aware of o.k.ness. 
Steve smiles, goes back to the orchestra of sound he creates in the kitchen.  Teaspoons dropping on each other in a drawer.  Oatmeal transferred from the cardboard Quaker Oats box into a plastic container.  The whisper of a cotton dishtowel over a porcelain plate.  Water running.  The sound of the tomato flesh giving way to serrated blade.

Crushing the Quaker Oat box, Steve comments “130 years and counting.  That’s cool…………..Way Cool.”

I am 57 and counting. 

Lately I’ve been hearing you, a little voice inside of me.
“I miss you.” 
“I miss you too.”  I answer. 

And I write to you.  Because you always understood, understand.  There is a mother tongue mine, to yours.

Today is Saturday.  I have not seen my dad for two weeks and one day. 

Yesterday, a text. 

Sherry, Dad would really like a visit from you.  Charge nurse said make your appointment with the social worker right away so you may do that.  Oh need to tell, still NO outside foods.  Didn’t want you to bring something all the way from and be told no by the nurses or docs.  So make that appointment, have that meeting and go to go to visiting.

I can’t do crazy.

It took me years to separate from it.
To shield you and your sister from it.

But did I really?  Shield you from it?
My past so much a part of me. 
Always driving me.  Away.  Always running.  Away.

Even in my dreams, I was not safe.

It was hard to see, experience the world around me as I gathered speed for lift off.  My focus always forward, on some point perceived better than where I was. 

I thought motherhood would come naturally.  Instinctively.

The instinct I felt was a fierce need to protect and love you.   What was in my heart I knew.  The rest I had to learn.

Did my mom ever feel the fierce need to protect and love me?  I can’t remember. She died five years ago, and I can’t ask her.

A question haunted me months after your death, did you know how much I love you, loved you from that first moment I knew your cells were dividing, creating you in my womb?

“You should have an abortion.” You yelled at me before you died two months later.

“You never wanted me.”  You sobbed at me through the phone.

“Where ever would you get that idea?”  I asked—core melting down.  “I chose to have you.  I never wanted anything more than to hold you in my arms and see your little face.”

I chose to have you.
Gathering speed for lift off. 
Hoping instinct was enough.

Weaning you from my breast when you were two.  Holding your hand crossing the street.  Making sure your vaccinations were current.  Feeding you, bathing you, clothing you, reading you stories, teaching you, teaching you, teaching you. 

All the time learning.

My focus on points ahead.  Lifting off.  Trying to pay attention to you and Erin.

Montessori, Head Start, Girl Scouts, Blue Birds, Seattle Girls Choir, Dance Lessons, Ski Lessons, Summer Camps.  Disney World, Disney Land, Disney Cruises.  Cabbage Patch Dolls, My Little Pony, Barbie Dolls and Barbie Clothes.

The first time I left you at a daycare.  I pulled out of the parking lot, you at the window lifting a blade of the venetian blind, sobbing.  I could see you calling for me—“Mommy” as a hand appeared, pulling you from the window.  You were two.

I made it up as I went.  Mothering.  With no experiences I wanted draw on.

You and your sister expecting me to know, to be an expert.
Me trying to be mother, father, grandma, grandpa.  Filling in all the blank spaces left behind.

I have not seen my dad for two weeks.  The grandpa you did not know.  The father I ran away to Remann Hall to get away from.  The father I reconciled with and grew close to in these later years for both of us.  Forgiveness has as been as good for me as it was for him. 

          Sherry, your dad would really like a visit from you.

I am tentative about walking back into crazy. 
I can’t do crazy anymore.

And now I have a choice.

Love you—thanks for watching over me.

Mom.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

April 24, 2012

You can’t remember writing these, Weekend News, by Andrea. 

My dad remains in the Critical Coronary Care Unit at TG.

I won't go back.  I don't do crazy very well anymore.

So, I start the slow process of sifting through the legal size boxes in my garage.  The ones I found in your storage unit last summer.  The ones that smell of mice, mildew and aging ink.

I pull out a handful of files, a red binder with your school work.  I work on piecing together our history.  Yours and mine.

Andrea
9/19/88

1988, you were 6 years, 9 months.  You were learning penmanship, spelling, story telling. 

Sunday I woke up and played inside and then I Went to Sunday School then came home and played outside and had my onw club And went inand ate dinner and took a bath and Went to bed.
Andrea


In the same folder, one line written by me on a pink sheet of notebook paper in that same year, 1988, my second year of law school. 

“In my family, the poverty and abuse stops here.”

A folder marked Welfare, full of  Recipient Information, Action Requests, Planned Action Notices, Requests for Fair Hearing, an old Medical Coupon.

1984 I was a welfare mother.  Had been for a few years.  No child care.  No child support.  No job skills.  Minimum wage jobs. 

In January 1984, you’d just turned 2.  I walked onto the University of Washington campus for my first day of classes.  I was pushing you in front of me in your fold up stroller.


Recipient Information or Action Request
3-22-84

You must register with the Work Incentive Program (WIN) since you are out of the home on a regular basis while in school.   Please take enclosed registration form to the WIN Unit for completion at time of interview.  Call 872-6310 for an appointment for interview with WIN Worker.

Please register before 4-3-84 to avoid having your 5/84 warrant held.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Notice of Planned Action
April 2, 1984

To date, we have not received verification that you have registered with WIN.  As you are a full time student, you are a mandatory registrant for WIN.  As such, your needs to be deleted from the grant, and grant will be just for the two children.  Please supply verification of registration by 4-12-84 to avoid being deleted from the grant.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Recipient Information or Action Request
April 27, 1984

Hurrah! Hurrah! WIN now has a way to register people like you and put them in a special status so they can go to school even tho’ the program exceeds one year and not to re required to actively seek work while they are attempting to better themselves.  SO if you get registered with WIN and put in the special status you can continue your education and be on assistance also.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Recipient Information or Action Request
February 26, 1985

When you began working last fall WIN somehow got the idea you were employed full time and off assistance.  Therefore they deregistered you from WIN.  This is in error.  You should’ve remained registered with them but in “student status” if possible.  Call WIN at 872-6310 make an appointment to re register and take enclosed form EMS 587 to the appointment.  Since you are a full time student, as defined by the school you attend, you can NOT be exempt as the primary caretaker of child(ren) under age 6.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

You can't be exempt.  That meant I had to quit school.  

With laser focus, I was going to school.  Nothing was going to stop me.  It was my only way out, my children's only way out of a past that continued to grab at my ankles, hold me up, trip me up.
 
My sister Kathy remarked I am only where I am today "because I worked the system."  Got something for free.

It is easier to believe in that than to believe someone can get someplace by working hard, never losing focus and something others call luck--I call synchronicity.  Taking risks.  Putting yourself out there and having faith it will work out.

A Notice of Award and Acceptance from the University of Washington.   Autumn, Winter, Spring 1984-1985.

College Work Study                                      2400
Univ Tuition Exemption                                 1308
National Direct Student Loan                      1100
Suggested Guaranteed Student Loan        2500
Estimated Pell Grant                                    1675

DAWN NEWSLETTER                    MAY 1987

Domestic Abuse Women’s Network.  DAWN.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
HARVARD BOUND
(see Page 4)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Page 4

* * * * * *CONGRATULATIONS!!* * * * *
To Sherry C. for getting accepted to Harvard Law School.  Sherry has worked long and hard to achieve this goal.

Sherry has been a DAWN Volunteer for 3 years.  She attended the U of W (graduating in 3 ½ years!), served as Chairwoman for the Office of Minority Affairs Student Advisory Board, and was student representative on the ASUW Child Care Advisory Committee…AND she has two daughters Erin 11 and Andrea 5.

We are proud to have had Sherry as a DAWN Volunteer and will certainly miss her.  We know she will be very successful at Harvard and we are in full support of her next goal after graduation from Harvard – “I’d like to become the first woman President.”

Sherry, CONGRATULATIONS – and thank you for all you’ve done for DAWN.

In 1987 I had dreams of being the first woman president.  You wanted to become the Tooth Fairy.

I love you Andie.

Mom.



Saturday, December 31, 2011

Happy Birthday Baby Girl


 
December 31, 2011
Two twelve a.m. December 31, 2011 I cannot sleep.  I make myself a cup of tea, pull the chair up to my desk, check Facebook.  There is a post from your friend Edwina.
Andrea would be 30 years old in less than 2 hours. I miss her so much. The tears are rolling down my face as I type this. for the 2 years before she pissed away she always told me two things,"i will never get a chance to have kids" and "i won't live to see my 30th birthday." It hurts my heart to know she was right. Andrea you are missed by many. Happy Birthday. I will love you always.
Edwina Pezoldt-Smith oops blurred vision from tears I meant passed not pissed.
3 hours ago · Like · 1

Your cousin Lisa sends you birthday wishes.  She writes

“Why is no one sleeping??”

And a birthday wish—“God has you in his arms.  We have you in our hearts.”

I need to find the box of pirate paper plates and napkins for tomorrow.  They are buried somewhere in the garage, along with all your papers and possessions I am storing.  The garage is full, overwhelming.  Searching, I find a pile of notes I made, and printouts of things you posted on Facebook, MySpace, your Tweets.

I find something you wrote on April 9, 2009.  April.  Five months before you died.

Future…new option for me.  I realized during my break that I’d been living in anticipation of dying…I’ve thrown out the earlier calculations that I wouldn’t make it past 30, and at my 27th birthday dinner, I proposed a toast to the future.  I mentioned how happy we’d all be the day I turn 31…Now there’s a milestone.  My friends dread turning 30, when I think my 30s will be the happiest decade of my life….

I am up because Steve and I were playing Scrabble serenaded by the sound of dishes in the washer.  The steady syncopated beat and swishing water.  We play a relaxed game.  Make up our own rules.  I do not know why we keep score.  Playing Scrabble with Steve is never about the winning.   He has fallen asleep in the chair in front of the fire.  Stella lays out flat as she can make herself absorbing the warmth of the tile hearth. Sadie sleeps beside me at my desk.

I also find your Beatrix Potter baby book—A Tale of Baby’s Days.  I open it and find two ultrasound photos—one taken on October 7, 1981.  The second December 28, 1981.  Your Certificate of Baptism from Saint Anthony’s Church in Kent, Washington on February 20, 1982.  A list of THINGS TO PACK FOR LAMAZE BAG (KEEP WITH YOU AT ALL TIMES).  The first thing on the list is Focal Point.

I need that focal point now.  Where is it?

In my handwriting I added to the list—extra pillows, wash cloth, footies, Baby Book. 

A card that was attached to a bouquet of pink roses from your dad.  To the Treasure of our Hearts.

An envelope.  3-16-84.  Andrea’s First haircut.  I have a few locks of your hair.  Something of you.  I held that envelope in my hand.  Could not open it.  For some reason all I can think of is my trip to Poland several years ago.  The room of hair at Auschwitz.    How I could not move, was paralyzed.  The locks of hair brought the magnitude of loss, of the atrocity home to me.  I put the envelope down.  I cannot open it. 

My hospital bracelet.  Yours.

The card they had on your bassinet.  Date of Birth 12-31-81.

Time:  7:37 a.m.

Weight 7 lbs. 2 oz.

Length 20 inches.

Valley General Hospital Certificate of Birth.  This document should be carefully preserved.  It is your family’s heirloom record of the facts pertaining to your child’s birth.

Baby’s left footprint.  Baby’s right footprint.

Your first smile was on January 29, 1982.  4 weeks old.  On March 29 you rolled over from back to front.  On May 31 your rolled over front to back.

On April 1, 1981 you laughed out loud for the first time.

On August 7 you got your first tooth.  At six months you sat up on your own.  At 7 months you crawled.  At 11 months you walked alone.

Sometimes I feel you missing me.  Or is it just me missing you?

I stop.  Close my eyes.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.

It is you missing me. 

You, holding a My Little Pony up to your face in the snow.  Smiling a smile as big as Kansas.  The caption reads “If I am smiling, you should be smiling too.”

Enough of this. 

It must be 32 degrees outside.  I hear the hot tub pump come on.  I strip.  Leave my clothes in a pile by the patio slider, wrap myself in a big beach towel. 

Immersing myself in the steaming 100 degree water, I melt.  Float in a womb of warmth, feel the breeze brushing my hair, caressing my cheeks.

30 years ago I laid alone in a hospital room at this hour, laboring, waiting to give birth to you.

Focusing on my focal point as contractions seized my body.  Breathing in.  Breathing out.  Resting in between.

7:37 a.m.  December 31, 2011.  Thirty years have come and gone. 

There is no place in your baby book to record your death.

THINGS TO PACK FOR DAUGHTER’S DEATH (KEEP WITH YOU AT ALL TIMES).

Whatever you decide to bring, pack lightly. 

The journey is a long one. 

Happy Birthday Baby Girl. 

Happy Birthday.

Friday, November 25, 2011

Thanksgiving




THANKSGIVING EVE 2011

Dear Andrea,

“Laughter is important.” Steve said, standing at my kitchen sink.  Placing both his hands on the rim of it, balancing all of his weight on them, leaning towards me with that special crinkle in his left eye.

“It is essential.” I respond.  I am on the other side of the counter sitting at the breakfast bar, head resting in the half-moon-cradle created where my palms meet my wrists--both hands together fingers bent around my face an offering.

We have just finished comedic verbal sparring--collapsing into each other--holding each other up--bouncing off one another in fits of laughter--tummy cramping--tears falling.

Steve is at my house tonight.  He still cannot tell me that he loves me.  He cannot bring himself to say those words, “I love you.”

He still misses his wife.  This is how he honors her.  I understand that now.

There are so many other ways to say I love you.

I am thankful for all of them. They are all I need now.

“Laughter is important.” he said.

The connection is essential, is what I mean.

This is our second Thanksgiving eve together. 

We live together apart.  Steve has his house.  I have mine.

I cannot stay seated on the stool--the breakfast bar, the sink, a reef between the energy in what is not spoken, those thoughts and feelings that pass between the two of us.

bon iver, bon iver fills the room with movement of music.  Steve reaches out, encircles me with his left arm, pulls me into him hip to hip as I approach him.  I steer him into me, exerting pressure with the tip of my hip bone.  He faces me, I rest my forehead on his shoulder. 

We dance.

When the music stops we collect each other’s articles of clothing from the kitchen floor.  Steve takes me by the hand.  Leads me up the stairs, into my bed where I turn away from him, press my back into his chest.  He puts his arm around me.  Draws me up against him.   

I am facing sleep, the journey into this night’s world of dreams safely protected.

Do you sleep?  Do you dream?  I wonder where you are.

There are so many ways to let someone know you love them.

Laughing together.

In this dance through days, I am glad Steve is my partner.


Thanksgiving morning 2011

Thirty years ago, exactly, I woke to the sound of rain pounding on the windows of the little house on Center Street in Kent.  Slowly coming into consciousness I felt the taunt roundness of my belly.  Waiting to feel knees, elbows, heels, your butt, your head rolling, pushing as you entered your eighth month of habitation inside of me.  Imagining you.  Naming you—though I did not know yet if you were a boy or a girl.

Names are important.

I your had been a boy, your name would have been Nicholas.  Or Alexander.

I rolled around girls names.  Katherine.  Elizabeth…

We name everything. 

With names, we define things. 

Close your eyes.  Think cake.  Your mind will form a mental image of a cake.  Four letters, but think of the complexity of everything that forms a cake.  The mixture of eggs, vanilla, sugar, flour, butter.  Batter in a bowl.  Two 8 inch round pans baking at 350 degrees in the oven, filling the house with the fragrance of its transformation.  Two 8 inch round objects cooling on a rack.  Two 8 inch round objects stacked on the other, frosting in the middle holding them together.

What kind of cake do you imagine when you think “cake”?

Andrea.  From the Greek word Andreas.  Feminine.  Warrior.

My daughter.

It’s a girl.

Seeing your black hair, as my body contracted, forced you into the world.

Your grimacing face at the first kiss of the room’s air.

Your glistening body as the doctor cut the cord.

Andrea Marcella.

Andreita.

Sorrow, this grief, it has a definition.

Andrea.


THANKSGIVING EVENING

My eyes are closed.

Lady Gaga sings, her voice projecting through the speakers in the electric organ in Stephie’s living room.  Paparazzi.  The only song of hers I know and recognize. 

…I'm your biggest fan
I'll follow you until you love me, Papa-paparazzi
Baby there's no other superstar
you know that I'll be your
Papa-paparazzi
Promise I'll be kind but I won't stop until that boy is mine
Baby you'll be famous, chase you down until you love me
Papa-paparazzi

Real good, we dance in the studio
Snap snap, to that shit on the radio
Don't stop for anyone…

In the kitchen, standing at the sink, I close my eyes, move to the beat.  In this moment, I am the music.

In the living room, everyone scatters on chairs and sofas.  Claims a space before joining in a collective coma--full of turkey, garlic mashed  potatoes, giblet gravy, Parker House rolls, waiting for pumpkin pie.

Dishes need to be done.  Food put away.

I sort through my memories of my 55 Thanksgivings preceding  this one.  Mostly my memories are of Thanksgivings with you.  26 of them.  The last one Thanksgiving 2008. 

This is Stephie’s first Thanksgiving Dinner she is hostessing.  At first I was hesitant about surrendering the roasting of the turkey, the mashing potatoes, the menu, over to someone else.  But it is time.

You never got a chance to make Thanksgiving Dinner for me, though you were almost always a presence in my kitchen.  Except for those few years you were at sea, or living in Virginia. 

I sort all the dirty dishes by size and type to the right of the stainless steel double sink.  I fill the sink with Planet Earth lavender scented dish soap and hot water, the faucet handle turned to the left as far as it would go.  Water hot as I can get it.

I slip first the tips of my fingers into mounds of bubbles separating them. I wonder how many sinks of dishwater I have filled.  In how many places.  How many dishes I have washed. 

The rest of my hands follow, letting the water slightly scald skin.  When I pull my hands out they will be red.

Lady Gaga continues with the song.

I wrap my right hand around a glass.  Find the dishrag in the water.  Shove it in the glass, twist it cleaning all the way to the bottom, draw it out, wipe the rim, rinse it under hot clear water, put it in the rack to dry.  Watch the steam rise off it.

This is mindless work. 

I wash bowls, salad bowls, mixing bowls, serving bowls.  An old clear scratched Pyrex bowl catches my attention.  I hold it up to the window.  Search the etchings for a secret clue, a sign.  All I find are the tracks of pastry cutters, wire whisks, electric beaters.  I believe this bowl belonged to Stephie’s grandma.  And then to Stephie’s mother.  It is part of Stephie’s inheritance.  The memories, meanings of the etchings lost, carried by the women who made them as they mixed zucchini breads, birthday cakes, pie crusts, pea salads. 

I make a cradle of my hands around the third Pyrex bowl’s base.  Making an offering of it, I lower the bowl in the hot sudsy water.  When it is safely resting on the bottom of the sink, I put my right hand in and swirl it, making a whirlpool.  My hand becomes the force drawing a trail of water round and round the bowl.  I am mesmerized by fluidity.  The properties of motion.

I feel you there, in the swirling water, your hand brushing against mine.  And the presence of every woman who ever stood at this sink, looking out the window on a black Thanksgiving night while the guests gathered in the living room.  The presence of every woman who etched a little of her story in the clear Pyrex bowl now in the sink.  

Lady Gaga is no longer singing.

I stop.  Take my hand from the sink, watch the water calm itself.

This is my third Thanksgiving without you. 

Stephie comes into the kitchen.  Gives me a hug.  “Thank you for cleaning up.”  she says.

Last year she came to my kitchen, my table for the holidays. 

This year I have come to hers.

 Thanksgiving.

Steve sneaks up behind me as I stand at the sink rinsing forks and knives and spoons.  Startles me. 

The prankster, Stephie, me. 

We all dissolve into laughter.

Love.


                                    Miss you—Happy Thanksgiving,
                                    Mom

  
    

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Initial Diagnosis




November 17, 2011

“You’ll love it here.  The winds are beautiful when they blow.”

Those words you whispered in a dream haunted me this morning as I drove to work.  The remnants of last night’s windstorm littered Barnes, then Crosby Streets as I drove over, then down the hill to my office. Brilliant yellow orange red leaves wet, pasted to the pavement.  A ribbon of baby blue lined the sky above and below a hedge and then a wall of clouds in varying shades of gray.

I am trying to make sense of the senseless.  Piecing together what medical records and what you wrote in emails, on Facebook, Twitter, My Space.  Notes I find written on college ruled 8x 11 sheets of paper. 

The struggle with Lyme disease was really your story to tell.  It is a story that can only be told from the perspective of the participant.  The story I tell, will be different than yours.  But it is all I have.  You want me to write what you no longer can.  I feel it as thoughts flip cartwheels through my brain.

My lawyer’s training, my work now as a judge, demand that I look at all the evidence I have before me, come up with a conclusion based on a preponderance of the evidence.  It is the discipline I use approaching everything. 

In this case, your death was the conclusion—the final order I must grapple with.  It is the hedge and then wall of clouds in varying shades of gray that frame a ribbon of blue sky outside my window as I sit here going through your papers.

Notice of Occupational Disease and Claim for Compensation
US Department of Labor
Employment Standards Administration
Office of Worker’s Compensation Program

I found this application in the Banker’s Box.  On the outside, written with a black Sharpie the letters-AMP-your initials.  In your handwriting—IMPORTANT PAPERS.

I read further.

Name of Employee
ORTIZ-PETERSON, ANDREA M.

Employee’s Occupation

ABLE SEAMAN
MILITARY SEALIFT COMMAND
AFLOAT PERSONNEL MANAGEMENT CENTER
VIRGINIA BEACH, VA

Date you first realized the disease or illness was caused or aggravated by your employment

02/07/05

Explain the relationship to your employment, and why you came to this realization

MY TRAVELS WITH MSC HAVE LED ME TO AREAS WHERE TICK-BORN ILLNESSES ARE PREVALENT.

Nature of disease or illness

LYME DISEASE

Your signature on the bottom of the form.  February 15, 2005.

Exhibit A.  Admitted. 

Attached are your medical records to substantiate your claim.  I keep flipping back to the first page.  Exhibit A  Running the tip of my index finger over your signature. 

Exhibit B.

MEDICAL SUMMARY FORM

History and Physical Findings:
During work up for CTS Right hand by D.L. McDermott, Neurologist, blood serum showed + Lyme AbIgM by Western Blot.  No symptom.  No incidence of tic-bite.

Results of Diagnostic Studies/Testing:
+Lyme AbIgM by Western Blot

Diagnosis:
Lyme Disease

Treatment:
Vibromycin 100 g x 2 for 2 weeks
She is fit for duty

I cannot read the physician’s signature.  But it is signed.  By a doctor.  MD.  Whose diagnosis was Lyme disease.  Definitively.

Exhibit B.  Admitted.

In a whimsical mood and quite extemporaneously, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes once remarked: ‘Facts in isolation amount to mere gossip; facts in relation become philosophy.'


The same could be said about Lyme disease.  Every doctor is his own philosopher, has his own philosophy. 

Philosophy: n.  1.a.  Speculative inquiry concerning the source and nature…
b.  Any set of ideas based on such thinking  2.  A basic theory concerning a particular subject.
Philosophy.  Everything is speculative.  You base your ideas based on speculative thinking.  You come up with a basic theory concerning the particular subject.

Lyme Disease.

It is hard to determine what is mere gossip.  It is impossible to be a patient caught between two philosophies. 

This is a lesson we have yet to learn. 

Exhibit C.

LabCorp
Attn: Flordeliza M. McDermott MD
Virginia Beach, Virginia 

Date Collected:  1/25/05

You are 23 years and 25 days old.

Date Reported:  1/28/05  2135

Lyme IgG WB Interp.             Negative

Lyme IgM WB Interp.            Positive

Exhibit C.  Admitted.

To distinguish the false positives from the true positives, a more specific laboratory technique, known as immunoblotting, is used. (The Western blot, which identifies specific antibody proteins, is but one kind of immunoblot; there is also a Northern blot, which separates and identifies RNA fragments, and a Southern blot, which does the same for DNA sequences.) In a Western blot, the testing laboratory looks for antibodies directed against a wide range of Bb proteins. This is done by first disrupting Bb cells with an electrical current and then "blotting" the separated proteins onto a paper or nylon sheet. The current causes the proteins to separate according to their particle weights, measured in kilodaltons (kDa). From here on, the procedure is similar to the ELISA -- the various Bb antigens are exposed to the patient's serum, and reactivity is measured the same way (by linking an enzyme to a second antibody that reacts to the human antibodies). If the patient has antibody to a specific Bb protein, a "band" will form at a specific place on the immunoblot. For example, if a patient has antibody directed against outer surface protein A (OspA) of Bb, there will be a WB band at 31 kDa. By looking at the band pattern of patient's WB results, the lab can determine if the patient's immune response is specific for Bb.
Here's where all the problems come in. Until recently, there has never been an agreed-upon standard for what constitutes a positive WB. Different laboratories have used different antigen preparations (say, different strains of Bb) to run the test and have also interpreted results differently. Some required a certain number of bands to constitute a positive result, others might require more or fewer. Some felt that certain bands should be given more priority than others. In late 1994, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) convened a meeting in Dearborn, Michigan [1] in an attempt to get everybody on the same page, so that there would be some consistency from lab to lab in the methodology and reporting of Western blot results.
Many patients have noticed that their Western blot report usually contains two parts: IgM and IgG.These are immunoglobulins (antibody proteins) produced by the immune system to fight infection. IgM is produced fairly early in the course of an infection, while IgG response comes later. Some patients might already have an IgM response at the time of the EM rash; IgG response, according to the traditional model, tends to start several weeks after infection and peak months or even years later. In some patients, the IgM response can remain elevated; in others it might decline, regardless of whether or not treatment is successful. Similarly, IgG response can remain strong or decline with time, again regardless of treatment. Most WB results report separate IgM and IgG band patterns and the criteria for a positive result are different for the two immunoglobulins. 

The website for the Center for Disease Control says the following on its first page:

Typical symptoms include fever, headache, fatigue, and a characteristic skin rash called erythema migrans. If left untreated, infection can spread to joints, the heart, and the nervous system. Lyme disease is diagnosed based on symptoms, physical findings (e.g., rash), and the possibility of exposure to infected ticks; laboratory testing is helpful if used correctly and performed with validated methods. Most cases of Lyme disease can be treated successfully with a few weeks of antibiotics.

Lyme Disease Diagnosis and Treatment

Lyme disease is diagnosed based on:
  • Signs and symptoms
  • A history of possible infections to infected blacklegged ticks
Laboratory blood tests are helpful if used correctly and performed with validated methods. Laboratory tests are not recommended for patients who do not have symptoms typical of Lyme disease. Just as it is important to correctly diagnose Lyme disease when a patient has it, it is important to avoid misdiagnosis and treatment of Lyme disease when the true cause of the illness is something else.
  
I just want hard facts.  Physical evidence.  Something I can base my thoroughly objective decision on.  It is important to get it right.

You are 23 years and 28 days old.  When you get the results, you will still put all your trust in doctors.  You will believe you have a definitive diagnosis for what is wrong with you.  You will believe you will be cured.

You will not believe me when I tell you the importance of getting the right treatment with the right doctor.  You will not believe me when I tell you that two weeks of antibiotic therapy is not enough. 

You will remind me I have a law degree.  Not a medical degree. 

Because I am only your mother, not your doctor, not a doctor, you will trust them more.

Because I am your mother, I go to the internet.  Google Lyme Disease.  Begin building my case.  My arguments.

Exhibit D.  Your Honor.  I offer Exhibit D.

NORFOLK GENERAL HOSPITAL
MD:  RYAN, GORDON A. MD
ADM: 2/7/05
DX:  GRAM POSITIVE COCCI IN PAIRS IN CSF, LYME DI VERIFIED RADIOLOGY REPORTS

CONSULTING MD;  DEVGON, PITAMBER M
CONSULTING MD: CHERRY, JILL RES
CONSULTING MD: COLE, FREDERICK MD
CONSULTING MD: LAPINEL, STEPHEN MD
CONSULTING MD: .SMGID
CONSULTING MD:  NEUGHEBAUER, BOGDAN
CONSULTING MD: .NEUROLOGY SPEC ME
CONSULTING MD:  WILLIAMS, ARMIST MD
RADIOLOGIST:  KIM, YOONAH MD

Streptococcus pneumonaie in bacterial meningitis:
"Before the 1990s, Haemophilus influenzae type b (Hib) was the leading cause of bacterial meningitis, but new vaccines being given to all children as part of their routine immunizations have reduced the occurrence of invasive disease due to H. influenzae. Today, Streptococcus pneumoniae and Neisseria meningitidis are the leading causes of bacterial meningitis."
"High fever, headache, and stiff neck are common symptoms of meningitis in anyone over the age of 2 years.""The diagnosis is usually made by growing bacteria from a sample of spinal fluid. The spinal fluid is obtained by performing a spinal tap, in which a needle is inserted into an area in the lower back where fluid in the spinal canal is readily accessible. Identification of the type of bacteria responsible is important for selection of correct antibiotics."

Gram positive cocci in pairs in csf  means Streptococcus pneumonaie.  Bacterial meningitis.

Are you offering Exhibit D counsel.

I am, your Honor.

Any objection?
No objection.

Exhibit D is admitted.

Lyme disease is transmitted by Ixodes hard ticks; man is an accidental host.
Doxycycline, amoxicillin, or a cephalosporin
it is important to note that many people are not aware of tick bites, so a negative history for them should not be considered unassailable.

It is important to note:  There is a controversy surrounding what is known as chronic Lyme disease. 

I am a divining rod, seeking an underground source of water. 

I am thirsty.  I will not give up until I find it.

I am a judge.

I must render a judgment.

The tea kettle whistles under the gas flame.  I have a cup of Starbucks Via Italian Roast with a dollop of sugarfree hazelnut Coffeemate.  I need to brush my teeth.  I need to soak in a hot tub of lavender scented bubbles. 

I listen to towels tumbling in the dryer.  The whir of the processor in my computer as I try to piece Exhibits A-D together. 

Sadie feels me feeling you.  She comes and lays her head on my thigh, sighs.  I look down and see her plaintive button eyes.  Sadie still mourns your loss too.

She distracts me.

I Google “dogs mourning”.  I find an article by Dr. Nicholas Dodman.  He writes what I think Sadie would tell me if she could talk:

Pets may also show signs of loss and mourning in ways that the family may not recognize. Although somewhat different, they do feel the loss of loved ones. Many have a significant degree of attachment to their owner that leads to anxiety and distress when even short-term separation is thrust upon them, let alone bereavement.

Perhaps, the most famous dog-grieving story of all time is that of Greyfriars Bobby, a Skye terrier owned by a Mr. John Gray of Edinburgh, Scotland. Mr. Gray passed away in 1858 and was buried in Greyfriars Churchyard, Bobby was one of the conspicuous mourners. As time went by he never forgot his deceased master. Every day for the next 14 years until his own death in 1872, Bobby spent each night lying on his master's grave come rain, hail and snow. In honor of Bobby's devotion, a statue and water fountain was erected to his memory in 1873.

Sadie has no grave to go to.  She only has my thigh to lay her head on, my body to curl up to at night.

And I have her.

Moving along.

Exhibit E.  I offer Exhibit E.

DISCHARGE INSTRUCTIONS:
2/11/05           DISCHARGE MED: CEFTRIAXOME, EVERY 12HRS- 2GM,--IV,
                        ANTIBIOTIC, --THRU 2/21/05, --THEN 2G EVERY 12 HR, THRU
                        3/7/05

No objection.

Exhibit E is admitted. 

It is all I can process on this day.  We are adjourned.  For the evening.

I walk outside the sliding glass door onto my patio.

While I have been taking in evidence, deliberating, the clouds have won.  Have obliterated the ribbon of blue.  It is early afternoon, already the sky darkens.  First comes the mist, droplets so small I feel caressed by clouds, but it is cold.  Damp.  My cheeks pinken. 

Condensed water coalesces into droplets too small to fall as precipitation.  They are the clouds.  The moisture around us is continually evaporating, condensing in the sky.  Looking closely, I can see some parts of the cloud around me disappearing, evaporating.  Other parts grow, condense. 

The droplets concentrate on tinier dust, salt, smoke particles that form the core.

But before they can fall, the fall velocity has to exceed the cloud updraft speed.

This is not a trivial task.  Millions of cloud droplets are required to produce a single raindrop.

I am condensed water coalescing into droplets too small to fall as precipitation.  I am a cloud.  A collection of droplets condensing.  Forming a core around your dusty ashes.

This is not a trivial task.

                                           Love,  Mom