Category Archives: my finite wisdom

63 and other numbers

I had obscenely long hair growing up. It was super thick, stick straight, and cut in a straight line across my extreme low back where it’d technically reached my rear end. It was so long I didn’t know what to do with it, and I never really learned how to tame it, even in its maturity. It was so long that my mom had to help me tie it back to help me avoid straining my neck. It was so long that while my soccer teammates were having their hair braided in dreadlocks for tournaments, my mop took double the amount of time of others with multiple hands on deck for me to get the same look for team spirit. It was so long that I had to then tie all of the dreadlocks back in a supplementary ponytail because certain referees didn’t like that the little braids became sharp weapons if I turned my head too quickly. It was so long that showers took way more hot water than it would for most to get all of the shampoo and conditioner out, and drains clogged far more quickly than the norm. It was so long that I didn’t even bother with styling products since it was already heavy and hopelessly unruly with a mind of its own. It was a total annoyance, but I liked my mom brushing and braiding it, so the very long hair remained very long.

For as long as I can remember without the help of old photographs, my mom always had the exact opposite hairstyle. Apparently, there was a point in time when my mom was my age that she too had super long, stick straight, dark brown hair. And then she chopped it, permed it, and eventually shaved it all off. My memory of my mom for the longest time ever was with her signature shaved head. My soccer team rubbed it for good luck, and she was a charm. She was so kind to everyone she met that warmth and beauty radiated from her face, and it would have been a sin to have her hidden behind hair anyway. She was so beautiful regardless of what was or wasn’t on her head because of the good on the inside that beamed out.

At some time in junior high school, I’d had enough of my hair after straining my neck one too many times. Chopping it off was liberating, but the new ‘do gave me a weird, naked feeling. I could feel the chopped end without being a contortionist or spinning my head like an owl for the first time in a long time. On the bus home from school one day, a horrible, little girl in the popular crowd made a horrible, little comment about my mother. She made fun of her and her hairstyle and said how I should have given my long hair to my mom and glued it to her head like there was something wrong, sub-woman, or subhuman about her without it.

She said she looked like a patient with cancer.

She said it without knowing her story. She could have had short hair due to brain surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy like she did for the 21 months before she died. She could have had alopecia or maybe some trauma. The girl didn’t know or perhaps didn’t know better, but she was unnecessarily mean anyway. I didn’t have the confidence to speak up for her at the time, but at some point between then, my mom’s diagnosis, her passing, and now, I realized that I am my mother’s daughter and speak up for the underdog even if I can’t find it in me to do that for myself.

To the girl who said it, I’d like to say that you should be ashamed of yourself.

DSC_4145

it’s just hair…

My mom was the person who did cartwheels on the sidelines of my soccer games and taught me that being silly is the first step of having fun. She attended every single game, every single track meet, every gymnastics meet, every single dance class, and every single ballroom competition without fail. When I lived at home, she stayed up late with me while I worked on homework past midnight after sports and other after-school activities just to be with me. She read every essay I wrote to give me a thumbs up when I didn’t have the confidence to decide whether or not it was good enough as is. She told me she was proud of me every day, wished me the “humongiest, happiest, healthiest, luckiest day” every day, and told me she loved me and meant it every single day. When I was away at college, we talked daily and she talked me off a ledge often. She dropped everything and drove the two and a half hours to Connecticut to simply be with me during way too many nervous breakdowns. She was always there. Always.

She let me feel loved and tried to overfill a cup that was cracked by another. She treated her students and her friends the same way. She was everything and made sure you knew you were worth love.

And then she got sick. Her diagnosis of glioblastoma came with a life expectancy of 12 months if she was lucky. She had brain surgery to remove as much of the bastard as possible that left a hoof-shaped scar in her head. Then radiation and chemo made her lose her more hair. She didn’t bother with a wig or head scarves. Actually, she wore a wig one day and decided she didn’t look like herself or like it very much. Instead, together, we shaved off her remaining hair to beat the side effects of her treatments to the punch.

The first night we shaved off her hair, she made a hilarious newspaper contraption that was meant to be a smock to cover her body. It was basically a giant newspaper tarp with a hole for her head, but she was pleased with herself and the end result. She sat in the middle of the kitchen with her newspaper smock on a short chair and gave me the reigns with the electric shaver.

I was terrified. I never told her that, but I was terrified.

The hoof-shaped scar in her skull was still healing and there were still stitches poking out of it.

The electric shaver was shaking, and my hand probably was too.

I was freaking out that the blade would rip out her stitches and make her bleed or that the vibration from the shaver would disrupt the healing inside her brain. I convinced myself that any remaining tumor might jiggle around with the vibration, break loose, and spread more. I thought I would be the cause of making the cancer worse and her die quicker.

My mom wasn’t afraid though. She wanted to get rid of it. It was just hair. So that’s what we did–gently, carefully, and completely. We got rid of it all and she looked like herself again.

Hair is dead, you know. Maybe my mom knew that she didn’t need to hold onto something dead or unnecessary. Maybe she knew she could be better without it weighing her down.

Today, on what would have been my mom’s sixty-third birthday, what I’m trying to say is that the length of your hair, like the length of your life, doesn’t matter. My mom’s was cut really short. Painfully short, if you ask me. But no number of years or millimeters could place a value on the human or the heart underneath. Maybe she knew that. The love and the thoughts and experiences underneath are what count in all of us.

Instead of celebrating surviving another year once a year on our birthdays, perhaps instead we should celebrate every single day for being alive. For getting another chance. For being able to dance and laugh and live because we still can. We should celebrate the lives of the people we love on more than just one day a year. Because one day, they won’t be there.

Today, on what would have been my mom’s sixty-third birthday, what I’m trying to say is stop waiting. You, dear reader, are only guaranteed right this very second. Not tomorrow. Not the day after. You’re not guaranteed the vacation you hope to take one year from now. So celebrate now.

I still wish I could wish my mom a happy birthday today. I wish I could get her cupcakes, make a big deal out of today for the sake of celebrating her existence, and be there when she makes a wish and silently says it as she blows out a candle. But I hope more than anything that she knew how much I loved her every other day of the year.

That’s my wish.

Tori

P.S. My hair is way too long again and long enough to donate. It’s being chopped off this weekend! It’s dead weight anyway.

one, two, or none of the above

When I was in pharmacy school, I loathed multiple choice exam formats that went something like this:

Question #3: Pick the best answer. There can be more that one right answer, but to get any credit here, you have to pick the “best” answer which is subjective. Get over it.

i) Pharmacy school is hard. ii) Pharmacy school will be worth it. (Predict the future here.) iii) You are extremely confused by this point. iv) Time is on your side.

Is the answer A) i and iii; B) ii and iv; C) i, ii, and iii; D) all of the above; or E) none of the above?

The only way to nail these questions was by process of elimination since there could be more than one right answer. One by one, I’d think to myself, “Nope, that one’s definitely wrong. I rock! This is going so well! And that one sounds right. Wait. Shit, I knew this last night. How did that weird song I made up to memorize this go? Yeah, that one’s right. I’m not sure about that one. It could definitely either be answer A or C. Time is not on my side, so there’s no way it’s all of the above. Wasn’t that a song by the Rolling Stones? Victoria, focus. Is this really worth it? Maybe it’s not C, because maybe this is a trick question and I’m not going to be successful if I can’t figure out the damn answer. Why did I want to be a pharmacist again? I wanted to be a writer! Screw it. I’m just going to say A.”

Every question on every exam for six years went something like that. It was exhausting. And in retrospect, it was worth it, although I didn’t predict that at the time. I met Ray because of pharmacy school and was able to help my mom through her diagnosis and treatment because of it too. So maybe the answer was C after all. I don’t know.

My first year of college, I got to take an elective that had to fit certain criteria set by UConn, but it was still mine to pick and it didn’t have to do anything with pharmacy school. So I chose something as far from and as different than science as I could. “Feminism and the Arts” is a class? Hell, yeah.

I was already a liberal upon going to college. My mom loved everyone of every color, culture, religion, gender, sexuality, age, ability, disability, and difference with complete and utter equality, and I wanted to be just like her. It was too beautiful of a notion for me to disagree with. “Feminism and the Arts” just gave me more fuel for the fire with examples of adversity and the proper terminology behind it all.

One of the most important things that I learned is that there are three distinct things that some people have somehow mushed into one: sex, gender, and sexuality. They’re different, and they really don’t have anything to do with one another. A person’s sex is based on the chromosomes and body parts they’re born with, and it is not limited to only male and female. Some folks are born intersex. And some folks ultimately take hormones and have surgery and identify as transsexual. A person’s gender is how they internally identify and outwardly present themselves. It can be fluid and changing. It does not need to match the sexual parts they were born with. Some folks identify as transgender but are not transsexual. Some folks are both. A person’s sexuality is based on whom they are attracted to. They may be gay, lesbian, straight, bisexual, questioning, asexual, pansexual, and so forth. This is an extremely brief overview, but obviously, it’s not straightforward like some people out there seem to think. It’s confusing, overwhelming for some, and very complex like the multiple choice exam questions they threw at us in pharmacy school.

There’s no right answer. But there’s no wrong one either.

I know how I identify, and my gender happens to match my sexual parts, and my sexuality happens to be straight. I cannot even begin to imagine how difficult it must be for people to feel like they were born in the “wrong” body with the “wrong” parts, or to have society tell them they love the “wrong” person or people. That’s got to feel incredibly lonely and scary. Why can’t we as a society make it a more accepting and safe place?

It seems like nowadays, people as a whole are a lot more open-minded about LGBTQ equality. (Thank you, SCOTUS!) Transgender and transsexual people seem a lot more accepted, or perhaps it’s because people are being more vocal about it.

So what I don’t understand is that with all of the fluidity, ambiguity, and variety of sexes, genders, and sexualities out there, why are “gender revealing” parties even in existence? And wouldn’t they really be “sex revealing” parties since sex is the biology you’re born with and gender is how you identify?

A lot of the people I went to school with are having babies now. Some of them don’t care if their baby was seen to have a penis or vagina on ultrasound. But some make a party out of it. Why?

With all of the fluidity, ambiguity, and variety out there, why are people reducing their unborn children to one of two buckets: pink or blue? Who said that the baby you have brewing who looks like it has a vagina on ultrasound is going to be and identify as female? Who said it will even like the color pink? And why are you thrusting that upon them? What if “she” identifies as male, is attracted to both men and women, and has orange as his favorite color? What then?

I know why pharmacy school made those ridiculous multiple choice questions for exams. Because in the real world, there generally is no 100% correct answer or 100% wrong answer (except with math problems, perhaps). In the real world, it’s complex and fluid and ambiguous.

Beauty exists in the variety. If all of us were the same, we’d be incredibly boring with pink and blue blips walking the earth. What about the rainbow?

Please don’t limit your baby’s world before he or she or ze has even entered it. Celebrating the fact that you’re creating life should be enough.

Tori

the sky on the fourth of july

There’s a song called “Fourth of July” by Sufjan Stevens that has nothing to do with patriotism but everything to do with this very moment. He sings about a conversation that he had with his mom on her hospital bed as she died with aggressive cancer and uses bird-terms of endearment and examples of brilliant light to symbolize life. Needless to say, it strikes a chord and makes me cry every single time but I can’t stop listening to it.

“Did you get enough love, my little dove, why do you cry?

And I’m sorry I left, but it was for the best, though it never felt right.”

My mom and I both firmly believed that her dad–my grandpa–came back to us as a bird after he passed away. After my mom passed, I found feathers everywhere I went when I happened to look down, even indoors. And she and I always told each other, “You are my sunshine.” So I’ve let myself believe it’s a song she’s singing to me (even if it’s via the lovely voice of a male stranger).

“You do enough talk, my little hawk, why do you cry?

Tell me, what did you learn from the Tillamook Burn? Or the Fourth of July?”

the fireworks from our beach

the fireworks from our beach

Apparently, the Tillamook Burn was a series of catastrophic forest fires in Oregon starting in the 1930’s. (I had to look that up.) The fires caused massive destruction, but the life of the fire did come to an end. As did the lives of the trees. The Fourth of July blasts hundreds or thousands of fireworks across the sky where they make dazzling colors and inspire some hope and reflection. But within each burst comes a small death that disappears in the sky. After the thirty minute show, they’re gone forever. Their light dies too. What remains?

I’ve written about it before, and I’m sure this won’t be the last time, but those things are impermanent. We’re impermanent too. That’s the next line in the song, by the way: “We’re all gonna die.” We’re momentary bits of beautiful light across the universe like thousands of tiny suns, we’re flocks of birds across the sky, and we’re fleeting. We can’t fear that. It’s just something to accept, and the sooner we accept it, the easier it feels. It’s devastating but beautiful, because it makes everything mean something.

The second we accept that nothing lasts forever is the same second we can start living fully without the barrier of fear in the way. (I’m still working on the acceptance part.)

My mom was only on this planet for 61 years, and I know that she positively impacted every person she met. She fervently loved her friends and students, and while I don’t think she played favorites, she loved the underdogs a little harder. She fought for them when they couldn’t see their own strength or beauty. She fought for me when I couldn’t see mine. She beamed light from her pores and fingertips and toes and smile. She was a ray of sunshine that made its way through the fog and to our hearts. She was a rare and special cobalt blue firework bursting across the midnight sky. She was a hummingbird fluttering for mere seconds in the catmint in the garden. She was a momentary but magnificent beacon of wondrous things like strength and hope and silliness and kindness, and I thank God or whatever is calling the shots up there that I got her to brighten my life and illuminate my path as long as I did.

“Shall we look at the moon, my little loon, why do you cry?

Make the most of your life, while it is rife, while it is light.”

Last year around this time, my husband and I were driving my mom to her weekend getaway at our house when fireworks went off over the bay. We pulled the car over to watch them for only a moment, but while my mom was in the passenger seat watching them, I was watching her. She was so beautiful inside and out that you couldn’t help but stare in awe.

Use today and especially this Saturday to think of your life like a firework. Live fervently and purposefully, even if your sole purpose is to cast a little light into the world. Leave a magnificent mark across the sky for others. Be an inspiration. Perform random acts of kindness just for the sake of being kind. Love without limits for however brief of a time you get that opportunity.

Start really living before it’s too late.

Tori

you are my sunshine, mom. for always and forever

you are my sunshine, mom. always and forever

P.S. Sufjan Stevens, please forgive me if I’ve destroyed the intended meaning of this song. This is how I understood it. I thank you for your beautiful music even if it makes me cry. And I’m so sorry about your mom.

property lines and personal boundaries

The neighbor’s dog attacked us tonight. Us as in my eldest fur child and myself.

my goofball, monkey-dog child who i birthed. obviously

my goofball, monkey-dog child who i birthed. obviously

I got home from work to bring the sleepy Coconut outside. She was excited to see one of her humans and presented a toy like always. She wiggled her butt and tail side to side as always. We went through the garage door and to a small patch of grass like always. Coconut was still excited about the rope toy she seemingly rediscovered upon my arrival and oblivious to her surroundings. A naive pup, happy as a clam, like any other day that quickly turned into anything but any other day.

Ray and I live on a corner lot in a quiet, placid neighborhood next to an owner of a demon dog made of pure evil. We’ll call the dog “Evil” to de-identify him.

The first time we encountered Evil, Coconut and I were playing in the yard and Evil started charging ferociously and barking at Coconut right in front of his owner who didn’t do a thing to stop it. Coconut ran away while Evil chased her; Evil was bearing his teeth and undoubtedly trying to hurt her. Coconut ran to me, I scooped her up instinctively, and Evil’s human mom made fun of Coconut for being too passive and just needing to socialize. I walked Coconut inside and made a point that if Evil was outside, we would not be, as Evil’s owner struggled to regain control of her beloved, hateful little horror.

Yes, perhaps Coconut can be timid around some dogs but not always. For some reason she follows Labs and German Shepherds around like a weird groupie, so this doesn’t happen 100% of the time. She’s not hugely social, but she’ll mingle with other dogs that she feels safe with. But then there are dangerous dogs like Evil and the ignorant owners who don’t hold Evil back.

There’s a difference between playing and attacking. There’s a difference between consent and crossing boundaries. There’s a difference between foolishly leaving yourself in harm’s way and knowing when to walk away. Evil’s human thought his pure aggression was totally endearing and playful. It didn’t matter. He crossed the line, terrified Coconut and myself, and Coconut was smart enough to trust her instincts, protect herself, and remove herself from the situation.

Contrary to Evil’s human’s skewed belief, it wasn’t “play” the first time or the next time he charged at her growling. It wasn’t play the third time or when he tried jumping through his owner’s car window to hurt Coconut either. And it definitely wasn’t play this afternoon when Evil sprinted down the street from the opposite direction of his house with no owner in sight, directly at Coconut who was simply sitting in the yard oblivious to the thing about to get her.

I sternly told Coconut to come to avoid alarming her and to get her out of Evil’s way. She ignored my first command and stayed there with her rope toy until I said it again and she turned her head to see Evil running straight at her. She cowered after she saw Evil and ran to me in time to scoop her up before he got to her, but I was too far away to get to the damn door in time.

Evil turned his efforts on me to get to his target. I’ve never had a dog charge at me, so I didn’t know what else to do. He got me backing up as he came at me, as close as a foot and a half away from us. He was growling, barking, and terrifying. I screamed bloody murder at him repeating, “No! Stop! Stay! No!” and felt pure panic as Evil would not leave us be.

Something distracted him. I think he heard something because he turned his head to his house, then sniffed Coconut’s rope toy, and just left. I don’t know why he came at her or why he continues to attack her, but it made something that I have been obsessively thinking about and trying to understand make perfect sense today.

I don’t have a human child, so I can’t say, “I know what it’s like,” but I imagine the same goes for healthy parents and their children: you protect your babies and do anything in your power to get them out of harm’s way. Healthy people don’t hurt people and want the best for their young, other people, and all living creatures, really.

Evil can maul me as I cling to Coconut in my dead lifeless arms before I ever allow him to touch a hair on her head. I won’t let him hurt her. I can proudly say I protect her to the best of my ability, especially when she doesn’t know how to defend herself.

These are things I know, but I have obsessed over trying to figure out why Evil would try to hurt her. Why would you try to hurt another being? Finally, I get it.

It doesn’t matter why Evil exists or whatever made Evil, well, Evil. All you need to know is that if Evil is trying to hurt you, you protect yourself and walk away. Perhaps you shrug off Evil as having a bad day and let it go the first time, but when Evil makes a pattern of aggression and attacks, you walk away and you never look back. No excuses.

I finally get it. You cannot change Evil. You don’t even need to understand it. You never will. All you need to do is protect your babies and protect yourself by knowing when to walk away. If other people chastise you for that decision, they do not care about your well-being.

But you must.

Tori

the thing with feathers

Tomorrow will be Mother’s Day. Specifically, it will be the first Mother’s Day that I have to spend without being able to celebrate my mom’s existence with her. It will be the first without her here. Last year I wondered, “Am I doing enough?” This year will be the first that I question, “Did I?”

So many people have told me, “The first year is the worst.” It’s something you can be sure you’ll look forward to dreading with every holiday stirring up your sorrow. I used to think “looking forward to something” implied something good would happen, like when I used to look forward to holidays. I’d rather skip them now.

A year of firsts and worsts, although I can’t imagine subsequent years getting any easier. My mom left this earth in August, and I somehow got through Thanksgiving, Christmas, a new year, and a non-Valentine’s Day. I spent them hiding at home in a blanket cocoon and avoiding people, but somehow, my heart kept beating and my lungs kept filling up with air, which felt an awful lot like suffocating. I can’t imagine tomorrow feeling much different with the exception that I will leave the house.

I have a new chiropractor for my scoliosis who I began seeing eight days ago. Upon my initial visit with him, he took a thorough history including my family history. I had to check off the horrid little box on that sheet of paper that said my mom was deceased. The reason? Fucking glioblastoma. I didn’t write the expletive, but I thought it.

He discussed everything I wrote on that piece of paper, including how horrible glioblastoma is. He said how two of his patients passed away with glio this past year too and how he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. He said how being her only child, it must be more than just the loss of my mom but also the loss of my best friend. He knew.

Yesterday, I returned to his office for an adjustment and was greeted by his secretary-wife who said she and my chiropractor were talking about how depressed I’ve been since my mom passed (which I’m fairly certain is a HIPAA violation), and how Mother’s Day must be tough being the first. Clearly, they both knew.

I got settled in the exam room and was greeted by my chiropractor who asked what I was up to this weekend. I said that “we” (meaning my husband and I) are going to Monomoy, a wildlife refuge on Cape Cod known for its birds. I wanted to be with the birds and by the ocean, something I know my mom would love too.

The chiropractor started laughing and blurted out, “You’re bringing your mom?!” I thought briefly that perhaps he forgot what we’d talked at length about and said, “No, she’s…” Yet he squealed, “I know! I know!” Then I realized that the asshole actually thought he was funny and was making a joke about her not being here, that he knew she was gone and was making fun of the fact I said where “we” were going.

I didn’t have the guts to speak up and say, “That’s really not funny.” I mean, during a neck adjustment, he could paralyze me, so I didn’t want to ruffle any feathers. I’d save that chat for another time. This same chiropractor later made “jokes” in the form of mocking a gay couple he knows and used the term “ew!” to describe their kissing. I am furious at myself that I didn’t have the nerve to stand up for myself or my friends who happen to be gay. Either way, I’ve lost all respect for that man.

What I didn’t tell him is that “we” (Ray and I) will go to the bird-filled beach tomorrow because “we” (my mom and I) had discussed at length where she and I would meet, and I know I’ll feel her presence there. Each night when she was still here, we’d pick a beach to visit each other in our dreams. Sometimes it was one we’d been to together (Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina was a favorite), and sometimes it was one we’d only dreamed about (I told her I’d bring her with me to Bora Bora). But my mom and I also firmly believed that her dad (my grandpa) who happened to be the greatest man on the planet came back to this earth as a bird after he passed away.

There were too many instances to prove our case. I’m a fan of Buddhism and like the notion of reincarnation, but my mom was a practicing Catholic who decided she liked the notion too. Right after he had passed and I went back to college, a hawk kept me company on my walk back to my apartment when all I could do was cry. I learned that the excerpt I read at his funeral was the same as a song by the Byrds. “There is a time for everything. […] A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.” Little chickadees hopped up to our car when my mom and I were pulled over and lost while trying to find a farm in Connecticut. Cardinals brought my mom to happy tears. There were countless examples and all of them made us sure that he visited us as a bird and that he earned his wings.

When my mom passed, I looked for birds, certain that she would come back as one too. But it wasn’t birds that I found when I needed her most. It was feathers. Anytime I looked down, there would be a feather at my feet, even when I was in the locker room at the gym. Then there were flocks of starlings dancing across the entire sky above (Hi, Mom). And a giant heron mixed in with a group of seagulls that brought me to tears on my way to work one morning (she stood out from the crowd in the best way possible). I know she’s up in the air and all around now too.

What I should have told that chiropractor is that Ray and I will be meeting my mom down at Monomoy. We (the three of us) will spend the day together by the ocean and with the birds, somewhere my mom would want me to go and the greatest picture of peace that I can imagine. I think it’s what heaven and nirvana look like. I’m not “bringing” her there, but I carry her in me wherever I go, so yes, perhaps I am. We’ll have to have a picnic with her and her bird friends.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. You will always be the greatest mom and person on this planet.

I miss you and love you the mostest.

Tori


An excerpt of “Seven Birds”

A white bird
A breath condenses
Even density can be pleasant
Each wall widens its cracks
And retains the call
A height that remains a height
Springs that have gathered the winds of the fields

A red bird
It may have traveled the river in one night
The road may have guided it through the upper layers
I ponder the mystery of its redness
Then forget the sky
That has taken it there

Mohammad Bennis as translated by Fady Joudah

lost socks and butterflies

I have been accused of something terrible by my husband. The other night, I went upstairs to go to sleep to find him folding his laundry next to the bed. He looked at me dead in the eye with a perfectly straight face and said, “You’ve been stealing my socks.”

Wait, what?

Let’s be real here. I have swiped many articles of Ray’s clothing, as any good wife will do. Mostly, sweatshirts. Pajama pants on occasion. Most recently, a fantastic, buffalo plaid, button-down shirt that Ray claims is too small on him, but I know he was just begrudgingly giving me a reason to snuggle up in it. But socks? A sock thief I am not.

On Ray’s bureau, there were something like 20 solo socks with no partners to be found anywhere. I do handle laundry half of the time, so certainly it could have been something I did. I passed the buck and blamed the dog, who probably blamed the cat. Ray checked the cellar to see if the creatures hid their sock stash somewhere to save for later, but nothing turned up. A bunch of single socks, all vanished in the night.

Ray was, of course, kidding that I was the culprit. The socks are genuinely gone, but none of us – neither the humans nor the furry folk – are to blame, although I’d still bet money on the dog. Perhaps the washing machine chewed them up. Maybe the hotel bed sheets on our latest vacation ate them never to be seen again. But like the loss of the socks, things, stupid things, annoying things, and meaningless things happen all the time.

Things, sometimes, just happen organically, randomly, and magically. Okay, maybe not magically. Maybe the dog stole all of the cat’s toys, so the cat got antsy. Then maybe the cat stole one sock, and the dog swiped one too to be like her sister (that’s two). Maybe the washing machine ate one (that’s three), the hotel sheets ate a couple (let’s say we’re up to five), Ray lost one (six), I misplaced one for kicks (seven), and so forth (like magic, twenty). Maybe the totality of what’s happened was a result of everyone and everything that transpired as things tend to do in life. And now Ray is down twenty or so socks, because of the summation of a series of seemingly insignificant events that caused something greater.

When I was little I wanted to be a veterinarian, because I’d get to put my brains to use and help animals, until my mom pointed out that I’d have to put animals down which immediately changed my mind. Then I wanted to be a doctor because I’d get to put my brains to use and help people, until I was permanently scarred by the thought of cadavers and blood in medical school.

From seventh grade through high school, I was bullied and increasingly more anxious just being around my peers and started spending study periods hiding in the guidance library, an empty and quiet room filled with books of colleges, careers, and life after high school. There, I found the resources and answer I’d been looking for. You like chemistry, math, and health? You want a job that’s highly demanded, respected, and paid? You should be a pharmacist. You want to stay local and avoid a high tuition? You should go to UConn or URI. UConn looked nice. Bam. Easy.

I left high school with a clear path which I quickly hated in actuality. I hated pharmacy school and the stress. I hated the choice I’d made single-handedly, but was so far in my mom begged me to finish. I wanted to make her happy even if I wasn’t. I went on sixth-year rotations with no clue what I wanted to do when I graduated, until one phenomenal preceptor said, “You like to write? You should be a medical writer. You have to go to Midyear.” So I did.

At Midyear, I started thinking about fellowships and the future. I was offered my top choice and for reasons I still question, I later turned it down. But in the airport on the way home from this weird experience in California in an attempt to find my future, I did. I met Ray and got seated next to him on the plane. A hop, skip, and a long distance relationship later, I married him.

In the butterfly effect of years of fear-based choices and uncertainty and a little bit of hope, I met my husband. I met him because I wanted to be a veterinarian then a doctor then a pharmacist. I met him because I hid from my peers in a rarely used area of the high school. I met him because my mom wouldn’t let me quit what I’d started, and because deep down, I knew she was right. I met him because I was lost and one preceptor had the best advice (Dr. Effie Kuti, thank you). All along I wanted to figure out my future, and I did when I met him. And I met him because of the summation of a series of seemingly insignificant events that caused something greater.

A little over a year after I graduated with my pharmacy degree, my mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor and my world crumbled. And somehow, all of those random events including having Ray in my life made me prepared to help her through her treatment and trials. She wouldn’t let me quit pharmacy school, a fact I resented at the time, but that very fact in turn helped her. Looking back on it all, maybe I didn’t do it to make her proud at all. Maybe God or the universe or whatever you believe in knew what was in store and knew she’d need the help. Maybe the series of seemingly insignificant events caused something greater: peace of mind.

I thank God that I went to and finished pharmacy school. I thank God for every single little thing that made it happen, step by step, inch by inch, butterfly and beyond. And maybe my mom’s passing will be an impetus for something great to happen that hasn’t been realized yet.

Anything could happen. Maybe Ray will find his socks. Maybe he and I will have a child that will find the cure for glioblastoma in my mom’s memory. Maybe I’ll learn that without her, I can still be strong and find happiness. Maybe she’ll come back as a butterfly this spring.

Anything could happen.

Tori

for sonya

“You should write.”

Ray was talking about a book in the future. As though I’d be a respectable author trying to make a name for herself. Not as a road trip vacationer in the passenger seat cradling a small dog in one arm and furiously thumbing the keys on her phone to compose a blog entry with the free hand.

But here we are.

We – Ray, Coconut, and I – are somewhere in the middle of Nowhere, North Carolina. Actually, we just passed a sign for Wilson. Like the volleyball that Tom Hanks’ character befriends and is forced to part with in “Cast Away”.

It’s been quite some time since I last wrote beyond a to-do list here and there. I’ve felt uninspired and empty of words and emotion. Numb, but breathing. But the encouragement from Ray and the fact that I remember writing a one-thumb entry from my mom’s hospice bed far too well have brought me here.

Tom Hanks had to say goodbye to Wilson. I had to say goodbye to my mom, and a friend from high school just had to say goodbye to her mom who lost her battle with cancer as my mom did. It’s brought back painful memories of the past that I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

But it’s just that: the past. And one day, it’ll be her past too. Even if it doesn’t feel like this hurt will ever pass.

Assuming time moves forward like this car traveling 70 miles an hour down the highway, one day we’ll all have to say goodbye to every other thing that crosses our paths. We’ll get past the hard times, we’ll be forced to say farewell to the great ones, and we’ll move further and further away from the ones that we almost didn’t notice like the way my left arm went numb a few minutes ago from holding a dog while my right one was too busy writing. Some of them will leave us largely unchanged, but others will leave us stronger.

We’ve now passed Wilson, North Carolina. We’ll probably never be back. It’s in the past and a memory that will become a more distant memory with each passing mile.

To my friend who just lost her mom: this will pass, I promise. It will never be easy, but it will get bearable. You will have bad days, but let the good memories outnumber them. You will never have to endure the passing of your mom again, and you can rest easy knowing that you have somehow survived it. And she would be proud knowing you kept breathing.

As for your mom, she is no longer in plain sight in front of you, but she’s not really behind you either. She’s in you and all around. She was with you when you picked out her flowers. She’ll be in your passenger seat when you’re driving by yourself to work.

And when you whisper or maybe cry, “I wish my mom was here,” I promise you she is.

Just keep moving forward and hold on tight.

Tori

on curves and strength

Here’s a little known fact about me: I have pretty bad scoliosis with three distinct curves in my spine that try to keep each other in check by pulling each other in different directions. Like an “S” that got too wide and had to hook around once more again to keep itself upright. Or maybe it just wanted to be an asshole. The thing that’s supposed to hold your body straight up and down like a flagpole decided to make itself a nice 30-degree deviation from where it should be, like it was driving along and found a huge pothole in an icy road at the last minute and swerved, fishtailed, fishtailed some more, and then got back on course. The thing (apparently I call my back “The Thing”) has been X-rayed, cracked at the chiropractor, massaged, strengthened at physical therapy, strained, and sprained by movement that I probably self-inflicted too many times. It’s been braced by a horrible plastic girdle thing-a-ma-jig that was specially fit for my scoliosis that I was supposed to wear daily but I bargained with the orthopedic specialist and he let me just wear it at night. At some point, he wanted to put a rod along my spine, which I also refused, because I like dance, yoga, and backbends too much.

What’s my point besides telling you, Dear Reader, that I am a horrible, stubborn patient with a curved spine? I wanted to tell you that there’s a perpetual giant knot next to my left shoulder blade that just sits there trying to pull the worst curve back where it’s supposed to be. It just sits there holding on for dear life. And that sucker hurts perpetually. It’s always there and it will never go away. Like a nice little knife that decided to wedge itself in there and take permanent residence.

Okay, so seriously, what’s my point?

My point is that sometimes, life throws you curves that you did nothing to deserve. They hit you out of nowhere and they cause irrevocable changes you can’t undo. Sometimes those curves will cause you deep, stabbing, gnawing, raw pain that may never go away. You were going happily along a nice, normal, little path and then, bam. Pothole. Car accident. Natural disaster. Terminal diagnosis. (Clearly, I’m not lumping my scoliosis in that last category, because I was only using it as a metaphor to get to this point. It’s trivial by comparison.)

Things happen every single day that weren’t supposed to happen. They’re not fair. I find myself talking about missing my mom and saying to my husband on an almost daily basis, “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” regarding her diagnosis of glioblastoma and subsequent passing. And his response, which was possibly the most comforting thing he could utter was a simple, “I know.”

Good, kind, wonderful, vibrant people are supposed to be on this planet. They’re not supposed to die. But they do. Sometimes when they’re 21, sometimes when they’re 61, sometimes when they’re 101. And at some point, it will happen. It’s not a matter of if; it’s a matter of when. And for whoever is caught in the vicinity, the knot – but this time, the knot in your stomach – will ache and it might always be there. Like the namesake quote from this blog states, “It’s supposed to hurt. That’s how you know it meant something.”

I’m not trying to be morbid or pessimistic, but this, Kind Reader, you must know: Go live your life. Really live it, with no worries or regrets. Do not fear the future, because crap will happen that is entirely out of your control. It will happen. That’s actually the First Noble Truth in Buddhism: “Life contains suffering.” Regardless of your creed, you know that bad things happen. You could encounter a pothole tonight. A family member might get bad news from the doctor tomorrow. Anything worse is fair game at any moment.

But fearing the unknowable or the inevitable doesn’t get you anywhere. And living in fear leaves no room for living in peace. I need to remember this truth just as much as the next person: Deal with the curves when they arise.

You might get a strong, little muscle when they do.

Tori

what is wednesday?

“She is delightfully chaotic; a beautiful mess. Loving her is a splendid adventure.”

I’m a little confused. At a standstill, really. Shrugging my shoulders and trying to figure this one out. We just celebrated what we’re thankful for on Throwback Thursday. I mean, Thanksgiving. Then we proved we’re not content with what we already have by honoring Black Friday. I don’t know what Saturday and Sunday were called. Black Friday’s Evil Stepsisters, perhaps. And if that isn’t enough, we buy more crap we don’t need on Cyber Monday.

Some awesome organizations out there remind us to remember those who are less fortunate on Giving Tuesday. Giving Tuesday campaigns make me smile that there are still some inspirational folks among those who were throwin’ elbows for the latest and last Kindle on the shelf. Whatever Kindle is most popular right now, assuming Kindle’s are still popular. Whatever the popular thing is that people duke it out over. But violence is not the answer. That’s what internet shopping is for so you can be a shopping ninja from the comfort of your own home. In the nude, even. Before leaving the topic of Giving Tuesday, wait! Here’s my plug. Please go donate to any cause you love if you haven’t already. Pick any! Support Gay Rights and Equality. Bring kitten toys to an animal shelter. Support brain tumor research with NBTS to find a cure in my mom’s memory! Anything.

But after Giving Tuesday, then what? What the heck is the day after called? The day after Tuesday? Any other Wednesday? Hump day, for most. But seriously.

We have a manic stretch of days from the day we say we’re grateful, to the four days we shop like we’re on Supermarket Sweet, to one more day of being good people, and then what? Sidebar: Supermarket Sweep was the shit. It was me and my mom’s goal to not only be on it but to dominate it. We were both sprinters with great fast-twitch muscles to beat everyone to the turkeys, other cuts of fine meat, and bacon. We’d find a bonus somewhere at the end of the refrigerated meat aisle, switch carts, get the damn baby formula and diapers fast! We had our plan down cold. I digress. No more talk about shopping.

Today is just a Wednesday. There’s no name given to it by pop culture or the newscasters that I’m aware of. Scratch that. I just Googled it. It’s been called Weeping Wednesday because of all the bills people racked up. Really? What if you spent within your means and finished your next month’s project of shopping? There’s no crying in that. I’ll probably be crying because I’m a sobbing mess lately with the holidays here and my mom not here. But that’s not the same.

The Wednesday after is just back to normal. It’s living in a messy world, where every single day has loads of responsibilities, not just one the shopping gods have delegated for us: give thanks, buy, buy, buy, buy some more, give. Wednesday doesn’t have a set agenda. It’s more carefree, a little messy, even wacky if you will. Anyone local knows Trucchi’s Supermarkets have Wacky Wednesdays. My mom was a huge fan. She’d stock up on whatever we didn’t need, but it was always prime time to get cereal, since we were only allowed to buy it if it was on sale and my mom had a coupon. Ray’s mom had the same deal with him growing up, to be fair. But still, we’re back on shopping. Enough of that.

Wacky, messy, normal, living, breathing, being Wednesday doesn’t quite have a melodic ring to it, but life is not cookie cutter. I so badly wanted it to be a perfect cookie cutter when I was little and tried my hardest to make it that way, but life is a blubbering, sloppy mess. Like our dog’s kisses. She goes all over the place in excitement. She licks up your nose back to a section of your head you didn’t think you could reach, your ear lobes, the inside of your mouth if you’re not careful. She stands on anything in reach to get to you. Your face, the area of my chest where boobs should reside if I had them, Ray’s delicate areas, your gut which always hurts. She’s just all over the place. You can’t control it or contain it. She’s entropy! I’m so far out of school I barely remember this, but something in thermodynamics states that in natural processes entropy increases. Using life as a metaphor, that’d mean everything gets messy and it’s basically supposed to be that way. It’s supposed to be all over the place with nonsense and crazy thrown in. Just like the organization of my essay right now.

Here’s my Wacky Wednesday: Call in to 7am meeting while still basically asleep and definitely still in pajama’s with bed hair (messy). Be exhausted after having insomnia and trying to treat it by pacing and getting out of bed to write this essay until 2am the night before so crawl into the shower begrudgingly. Brush my hair if I remember (messy). Drive to work when I will most likely cry about something that reminded me of my mom or a trigger that brought up my dad (ugly cry, messy). Seriously though. I had a meltdown over a water bottle the other day. Get to work with makeup smeared down my face (messy). Pull my shit together for work even if I cry there too randomly. But I also twerk behind my officemate, do jigs in front of the Keurig, and run the risk of peeing my pants every single day since the office is an icebox (that’s messy and it’s happened before). Drive home and cry (messy). Realize I have no clean clothes (messy) and must do a laundry immediately, realize the dog ate her poop again (disgustingly messy), notice the kitten is a gem (cats aren’t messy), realize it’s a night Ray works until 10pm which means I’ll be alone and sad (messy), perhaps I’ll cook the rest of the salmon (messy but delicious), try to wash my face like they do in infomercials but fail and get soap and water all over the sink and mirror (messy), hog the comforter (mean messy), and yeah. You get the drift. You, the person reading this, might not have the same exact scenarios as me, but you know you have a lot of messy in your life. Admit it. You’re a freaking disaster too. Maybe you have poop-filled diapers to tend to, soccer cleats after a game in the mud you need to clean up, hair dye covering your forehead and fingers, your basement’s abyss (ours too) that you’re afraid to even enter, your family (oh, trust me, you’re not alone) – all messy.

We’re all disasters in some regard. And that’s kind of a cool common bond. We probably have millions of intentions for every day that barely ever get done. Things we meant to do and had to do that we never do. But even focusing on a little of it is something. Taking a chip out of it is a start. Maybe there’s a mess before you. Something you know you need to tackle, even a part of yourself you deem as a mess. Know that some stains never come out; some things can never be worked out. But who the hell cares? Functioning disasters deserve a badge of honor.

How about the back to normal Wednesday be dubbed Wacky Wednesday (yay Trucchi’s!) where you can stop trying to hold all of your shit together from the past five days, holiday shopping, time crunches, and races against time. Relax and unfold. Let your disastrous self be revealed. Let all of your crazy shine through. Be messy and imperfect. And just be you. That’s your only requirement today.

Just like any other.

Tori

thanks for giving

I am currently boycotting the holidays, as it’s too tough without my mom here. But I know she’d want us to make some good no matter what. She was always able to be there for others, no matter how sick she got. So no matter how sad I may be, I’d like to make her proud.

Last weekend, Ray and I threw a Friendsgiving Dinner for the friends who have become family. Providing the food, we asked our friends to help us support the Plymouth Area Coalition for the Homeless with their Food Pantry and Holiday Fund. Here are some photos of the loot we’ll be donating tomorrow for the holidays! Pantry items for everyone and gifts suitable for teens, the population the PAC specifically asked us for help with. So excited with the outcome!

DSC_0439

like emeril, bam! tons of pasta, cake mixes, canned goods, and cleaning products!

DSC_0440

some books, games, and sports stuff. i picked out the rockin’ soccer ball!

Before my mom passed, she had bought 16 seasons tickets for the Providence Performing Arts Center, to Cirque Dreams Holidaze, a magic show, and Blue Man Group. She used to buy the tickets every season and then sell them to friends so everyone could sit together, but when the tickets arrived in the mail, I didn’t know what to do with them. I decided to mix it up. I do admit that I gave the tickets for the Cirque show to friends of my own to keep a little tradition.

However, the magic show tickets are all going to Special Olympics Massachusetts, an organization my mom and I volunteered for together for years so it holds a special place in my heart. I’m hoping some special families get to enjoy the show together!

second and third row seats!

second and third row seats!

I was hoping to give the Blue Man Group tickets to Hasbro Children’s Hospital in Providence, and after contacting them, they found an organization for me that is somehow more perfect. My mom would have loved giving these to children in need, but they’ll be going to the Tomorrow Fund to benefit children with cancer and their families. My mom would be giving a big “thumbs up” to all of the above.

My mom was the most generous and selfless person I’ve ever known, and I am so thankful I got her as my mom and role model. I honestly feel bitter without her, but I was lucky for however short a time she was on this earth. Not everyone is so fortunate.

Before I break into a panic attack thinking about her, I’ll get to the point of this post. Go do some good. Go do something for others who might not have the means to do it for themselves. Even if you’re struggling too. Give your time, give your funds if you can, and give your heart.

“Your work is to discover your world and then with all your heart, give yourself to it.”

Happy Thanksgiving (even if I’m boycotting it) and thanks for giving to whatever charity feels good to you!

Tori