Maman - A Tribute

I am sitting on the back porch of the house I grew up in, feeling rays of sunshine kissing my face as I sit here and wonder how I'm going to distill 28 years of life experiences into a short reflection on the life of the woman who brought me into this world. It's no easy task. But I'm glad the sun is here to keep me company as I type, as the sun was a good friend to my mom, who grew up with it shining down on her Mediterranean skin during her first 26 years in Beirut, Lebanon and who missed it dearly every time summer rolled around and the fog rolled in over our Bay Area home.

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When I was a baby my mom nicknamed me "screech owl" because of my affinity for temper tantrums that reached impressive decibels and pitches higher than her poor musician's ears could handle. My dad always joked that if I'd only screamed in tune, life would have been a lot easier for both of us. But as it was, my one-year-old self hadn't yet digested music theory. So my mom was out of luck. 

But somehow, we made it through those years (my mother's ears intact), and we found many different ways in which to harmonize with each other that didn't involve me wailing over a stubbed toe or a smooshed ice cream bar.

We had so many adventures together; there was always something to do. In fact, growing up, the word "bored" was like a bad word in our household.  "How could you be bored when there is so much to explore all around you?" To my mother, being bored was evidence of a lack of imagination. So I grew up in a world in which boredom didn't really exist. 

We read mysteries set in far-away places... we ate out at delicious ethnic restaurants... we wandered down Telegraph Avenue and through colorful booths at the Himalayan Fair... we spoke French together... we told inappropriate groan-worthy jokes together... we received hugs from Ammachi and went to yoga classes and drank chai together -- my mom would often make a huge pot of it and leave it simmering on the stove for hours, causing the whole house and whatever you happened to be wearing to smell like a glorious middle eastern market... We explored the red rocks of Sedona, wandered through cobblestone streets in Paris, and stayed in cinderblock cabins in Lake Tahoe while collaborating on creative ambush techniques for the local mosquito population... we went to the Christmas Revels and theatrical productions and concerts at the Freight, and sung carols through December. 

Boredom wasn't an issue growing up. 

And to this day, I still can't bring myself to use that word. In part, because I don't really need to. Most of my friends would agree that I definitely got the Hadidian gene for throwing myself into life at a mile a minute. And while I'm learning bit by bit -- just like my mom did -- how important it is to occasionally slow down and truly be present, I'm thankful that she showed me, again and again, how to look for opportunity around every corner. And just... dive in.

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I received a letter this December, a few days after my mom passed away, from a woman named Alexandra, who had been my mother's high school math teacher in Beirut, Lebanon, nearly 50 years ago. In the letter, Alexandra explained that she’d recently come across an old “friendship” album from her Beirut days in which, following in a Greek tradition, friends had been invited to answer questions every few pages to form a sort of memory book.

It turns out my mother had written in this very album back in 1964, a wide-eyed 15 year old toward the end of her 9th grade year, and Alexandre had typed out all of the answers she could find written by Eileen to send along to my dad and I.  It was amazing to read, like a little portal into my mother's adolescent mind. Alexandre wrote "As you look at the answers of this 15 year old girl, and subsequently at Eileen's whole life, from her responses you could pretty much see the Eileen that was to emerge as an adult"

She was right. This one, in particular, stuck out... it was originally written in French... but don't worry, I've translated it.

The question posed was this:

Write three things that you would ask of your future, your life

My mom’s answer…

1. My happiness and that of everyone around me

2. Courage

3. Faith in any situation

That was my mom at age 15. And that was also my mom at age 64. I think anyone who knew Eileen can say that those three points remained primary tenets in how she sought to live her life. 

I was only 10 when cancer came knocking at our door for the first time. It came again and stayed when I was 13, all the way up through last December. It was like this shadow sibling that moved in, unannounced, which we all had to make room for, and who tagged along on all of our adventures, completely uninvited.

If there was ever a time when those three tenets would be tested, day in and day out... it was during those years. Happiness... courage... and faith in any situation. 

Those of you who knew Eileen well can attest to the fact that when she believed in something, she stood by her belief and advocated for it 110%. "No" was not an acceptable answer. “Tenacity” was her middle name. This could make living or working with her tedious at times, but my mom really had a way of bringing people along, inspiring you to believe what she believed. Cause she believed in some pretty powerful stuff. 

Rather than just focus on how cancer was ruining the life she’d envisioned, my mother used it to open new doors. She dove deeper into her musical passions and founded Healing Muses to bring soothing harmonies into the noisy hospitals that had become her second home. She began to explore alternative therapies, pushed for more holistic health options at Kaiser, and became a dedicated advocate to other women going through cancer. Around every corner, she found new avenues through which to build community and cultivate gratitude in her life. 

Looking around this room now, I'm still blown away by the number of lives my mom touched. And I feel so incredibly grateful to each of you for the many roles you've played in creating this amazing community, which supported my mom all the way through her final days. And which continues to support my dad and I, with your memories, your love, your friendship, your generosity. You've been incredible, and we wouldn't be here today celebrating, if it weren't for you.

This overwhelming belief in the power and the importance of community was one of the biggest gifts my mother passed down to me. Eileen loved her friends deeply and it was evident that her "chosen family," as she liked to say, was just as much family as my father and I. And beyond her immediate friends, she felt a strong commitment to play an active role in her larger community -- whether it be the musical community, the breast cancer community, the healing community, the Albany community. She believed in the power of coming together, of helping one another. And she wasn't afraid to ask for help when she needed it. Because she knew she couldn’t do it alone.

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There's an amazing Ted Talk by a woman named Brené Brown called "The Power of Vulnerability" which I would encourage everyone in this room to go home and watch if you haven't already. I won't go into all of the details because, really... you just need to watch it. But one of the core principles Brené talks about is what differentiates people who have a strong sense of love and belonging... from people who really struggle for it.

She says, "There was only one variable that differentiated these two groups and that is... that people who have a strong sense of love and belonging believe they are worthy of love and belonging. That's it. They believe they're worthy."

My mom believed she was worthy. 18 years of cancer is a ridiculously long time to keep pushing forward, to keep living life against the odds. But she believed she was worth it. 

She believed she was worthy of laughter, of success, of happiness, of love, of deep friendships and heartfelt connections. 

And she believed all of us are worth it too.

I think that's part of the legacy that my mom wove... helping others embrace their own worth. 

Whether it was through her teaching, helping her students tap into their creative worth to find their musical potential... through her cancer advocacy, empowering women to become informed, to know their options, to fight for themselves through the pain and the bureaucracy and the unfairness ... through her work with Healing Muses, supporting that belief that we are all worthy of moments of beauty and tranquility during stressful times...

Or through her role as my mother, telling me through countless words and actions that I was worth it. That the three failed pregnancies before I came along were some of the worst doldrums she'd ever experienced... but that, in the end, it was worth it... because she’d had me. That all those sleepless nights of screetch-owl tantrums and unending tears were worth it... because they were part of my becoming. I was worth it.

We’re all worth it.

We are all worthy of love and belonging. We are all worthy of that happiness that a 15-year-old Eileen wished for herself and for everyone around her. 

But we have to believe that we're worthy. My mom stood by that belief. And because of it, she pushed through and lived to see me graduate middle school, and high school, and college, and cheered from the sidelines as I found my own footing, working at a nonprofit job that I love, and building my own community up in Portland.

I hope that after sharing food and music and our favorite Eileen stories during this wonderful celebration, each of us can walk out of this room tonight honoring my mom’s legacy… believing that we’re worth it. I can’t think of a better tribute to one of the most courageous and worthy women I know.  

Thank you.

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May today there be peace within.
May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others.
May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content with yourself just the way you are.
Let this knowledge settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.

I cried in shavasana

Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, 2013.

Today is the day Barack Obama was inaugurated for his second term. And mentioned equality for gay people in his speech. Which feels kind of incredible.

Today I woke up at 6:30am, caught a ride to Beaverton at 7:30am, helped sew five out of 158 blankets for kiddos as part of the bi-annual Bink-a-thon I've helped put on now for the past four years, stood on a chair in front of a room of 100 and welcomed everyone while the camera rolled, returned home by 3:30 thoroughly spent, collapsed into bed after a bowl of yogurt, and made the mistake of reading emails before trying to take a nap.

Five emails about my mom's memorial. Logistics, planning, questions, ideas, asking permission. I am holding the reigns.

I fell asleep with a fluttery mind and dreamt of my mother in moments. And for a moment, dreamt her alive. Waking up felt familiar. And then the feeling was gone.

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Awake. Out of bed. Chit-chat with Cristina, have a cup of tea, pedal to the grocery store, pick up vegetables and Umcka, pedal home, chop, chop, chop while listening to Radiolab on Bliss and Heredity and drinking red wine (bought for the recipe, so why not pour a glass?). And the clock ticks and the pot bubbles and I pull out yoga pants and a mason jar to fill with stew for a sick Jordan and write a quick note and put my matt in the bag and I'm off.

Pedal, pedal, pedal.

I feel the wine. Crap.

Drop the bag with a housemate, lock up my bike, send a text, change into my pants, go to the bathroom, enter the studio, adjust to the dim lights, feel the warmth of the place, unroll my matt.

I am tipsy. Crikey.

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The first half hour is me trying to find my edges. My head is fuzzy. The wine is pulsing. I am not fully present. I sink into child's pose and feel the pressure on my forehead.

Breathe.

His voice encourages me into a forward bend, into downward dog, into cat, into cow, into a deep lizard pose that hurts my pelvic muscles until I give up and release. I keep my eyes open to remind me where I am.

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An hour in, we practice breathing with one nostril and then the other. Inhale with the right, close both nostrils, hold, relax, exhale with the left. Inhale with the left, close both nostrils, hold, relax, exhale with the right.

"It's like the moon. Let it fill you, gently. And when you're ready, let it leave."

I try and imagine my breath and the moon as one. I'm not sure what he means, but it works. I soften. I finally find my rhythm. I am here.

And I remember the story of my mother and father, and their first yoga teacher. "Breathe through both noses," in a faux Indian accent, my father's impression.

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We sink into a hip-opener -- we can choose regular pigeon or reclined pigeon. I choose to lie on my back, my poor pelvis still sore from lizard pose. I find the pose. I find my breath.

And I remember again -- "Breathe through both noses."

My parent's yoga class.

Doing yoga with my mom.

My mom.

Restorative yoga with my mom on fourth street. Barbara is up at the front of the class. My mother is there on the mat next to me, lying on her back, one leg crossed over her body, wearing teal leggings and a bright t-shirt. I can see her warped spine, the permanent hunch, slowly stretching, lengthening.

I hear her breath.

I am there, in the wrinkles in her forehead, the slight downturn of her lips as she focuses, concentrates on the pose. Concentrates on the pain. Breathes through it.

I am there as we leave the studio and walk to the 4th street market nearby to grab some wholesome 4th-street-priced deli food. My dad is there too. The three of us. We eat.

I am there as my mother unwraps her sandwich and eats. I can see her chewing. Her square jaw, crumbs at the edges of her mouth. Large detached earlobes moving slightly with each bite.

I smell her purse as it opens, as she reaches for a balled-up kleenex to dap at the crumbs.

I am the lipstick as she reapplies it to her lips, one coat, then another, pieces of it balling up at the edges where her lips are chapped. A muted tone. A glossy reminder of the color they once held.

I am in the middle of a hug. I feel my dad on one side. My mother on the other. Small. But there. Holding us. Her family. Her two favorite sweeties.

My mother.

My mother.

My mother.

I miss my mother.

---

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks, my eyes beginning to pool.

My mother.

Tears begin to roll silently down the sides of my face as I am reminded to deepen into the pose. "Take it deeper. Go deeper if you can."

I remember. My mother.

I watch her cooking in the kitchen. Smell the pots of "working mom's dinner" bubbling as she flits from  stovetop to counter in her jewel-toned outfit.

I hear her voice, slightly strained, calling me up in my room... "Melia... Melia... dinner's ready."

I can see her left hand, holding the fork, small and skinny, but the first joints of each finger slightly swollen and bent with the beginnings of arthritis.

My mother.

I want to hear her laugh.

My mother.

The tears begin to roll faster, pooling in my hair as I try to keep my breathing steady, deep, unobtrusive.

"Go deeper if you can..."

I watch her, hunched over her wheelchair at the dining room table as I pass her the memory book. I am there when her eyes light up. When her eyes twinkle and her smile is so large, larger than I've seen it since the moment I walked in the door and she saw me. Her daughter.

I watch her as her eyes twinkle and glow and her breath gasps as she looks through the pages and she comes alive and I can feel the emotion rising in her throat and I look down because I know the book was the right thing, I know I feel proud, I know I feel happy to see her happy... and a part of me feels shy. I am her daughter. I am her only child.

My mother.

Her eyes twinkle and mine leak. I feel my chest swelling, my breathing loosing its cool, the hot tears rolling fat and free over my temples, into my ears.

And I wimper.

I didn't expect it. It just escapes. A small, high-pitched inhale as I try to catch my breath before it hiccups. A tiny, distant, audible moment of sadness.

I have no idea how loud it was. Or what it sounded like to those sinking deeper into their poses around me. I just know that these tears feel necessary. This sadness feels real. My body finally softens.

---

This was the first time since the day after she died that I allowed myself to be there with my mother in the memories. The first time that I was truly there. Feeling alongside her. Feeling her. Feeling her details, feeling her presence, feeling my mother next to me, very much next to me.

Not watching from a far and distant place, from the safety of a third-party observer. From the vantage point of those who knew her as a musician, as a friend, as a mentor. From the vantage point of an event planner. From the vantage point of some one else. From the vantage point of not-her-daughter.

But I am her daughter. And she is my mother.

She is my mother.

And I need to allow her to be here, with me. And for me to be there, with her. Present in those memories.

Alive.

The moments

Friday morning around 4:15 am my mother took her last breath. My father was by her side, watching as the life escaped her eyes. One second she's there... and the next, peace. And an empty shell, left behind.

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Today, I found myself going through all of her bags, sifting through each little compartment for all the various toiletries and sundries she was known to carry with her... if you needed a tissue, chapstick, advil, a quarter, a stick of gum, a mirror, a brush, a pen and paper, you could always count on her to have something on hand.

When I opened her purse, the familiar smell of... well... "mom's purse" drifted up and hit my nostrils. And for a moment, I could feel my throat begin to grow tight.

And then I let myself fall into moments of memory... her hands unzipping the purse to dig out a piece of gum for me. The way she balled up barely-used kleenex and stuck it back in an inner compartment for later use. The way she would laugh and grimace simultaneously and say "ewww, Melia!" when I would reach my hand over her shoulder from the backseat of the car and say "present!" to hand her a significantly-used kleenex or a candy wrapper or some such other piece of trash.

The other day, I watched my niece pull this same move on my brother. Watched pieces of myself, reflected back at me.

---

Yesterday I played through a good handful of the instruments in her collection. It made me feel warm. Held. Connected. Peaceful.

Music is my deepest connection to my mother. That will never change.

---

I flit from room to room, looking for ways to occupy my brain, my hands, this limited time that I am down here. Organize, dust, wash dishes, write emails, make phone calls, read facebook comments, wonder what I'm forgetting, remember what I'm forgetting, get sidetracked, eat food, talk with dad, answer a text, pack a box, wipe a table, muse about finances, set aside books to sell back. And not feel.

I am my mother's daughter.

---

I check facebook incessantly. Searching for a connection to a world outside of this one. I look outward, not inward. And what do I find? An invitation to join Jordan's meditation group... using Facebook to help motivate that inward stillness through virtual community. I sigh. Maybe this is what I need. Maybe if my inward practice is supported by my outward addiction, I might be better able to carve out that space.

As long as some one else is holding me accountable.

---

I am convinced that I'm holding back, building barracks, to muscle through these days of details. Who knew death required so much bureaucracy? Closing accounts, changing over names, starting memorial plans, writing emails, sitting on hold with the medical equipment rental company, donating clothing, throwing out meds, delegating tasks, paying final bills, deciding what to take, what to leave, what to jet.

I keep telling myself... the feelings will come later. In waves. I promise.

---

The feelings will come later. But I must remember to make room.

Holding Loosely

Another one of those 3am wake-ups with a tight chest and the weight of a hundred thoughts and feelings swirling between my head, heart, and gut.

I tried to breathe through it. Tried to relax my mind. Momentarily clung to the idea that tonight was supposed to be my "catch-up" night of 8 or 9 hours sleep. Got up to use the bathroom and felt tears squeeze their way onto my cheeks. Considered tip-toeing upstairs and crawling into bed with Cristina (my rock), who has told me repeatedly that I can always do that if need be.

And then I remembered this blog. And its purpose in helping me type through these moments. Collect them. Process them. Let the swirling of head, heart, and gut be released onto the page.

When I went to type in "embracing the elephant" to find my way here (I haven't visited or posted in over a month), I felt laughter rising up in my chest.

"Really?" I thought. "How did I not make that connection?"

Sitting in my living room right now is the beginnings of a cardboard elephant head. My "random inspiration" of last wednesday evening, as I mused about what sort of mask might best top my paisley pink-purple-green-yellow jumpsuit in honor of Halloween. Never once did I think "elephant in the room" or think of this blog and this year and the potential symbolism there. I just thought an elephant head might look cool and present a unique challenge to my cardboard-crafting abilities.

Oh synchronicity. I sometimes really appreciate your sense of humor.

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What brings me here tonight (this morning) is my motto for the this year. Holding loosely. Holding loosely amidst the rapids and eddies of change and movement and transition.

Riding home today with a coworker, the conversation turned to the future, new developments in his life, and the realization that those developments might take him away from his life in Portland, his job at Hands On, his world here, and send him and his wife into a new beginning in Atlanta as she begins her new dream job there as head of our network. At the time, I took the conversation in stride. My focus was on him, on how he was feeling amidst these transitional thoughts and conversations, on what the future might hold for him. My voice was curious. The weight of what he was saying felt suspended in midair; it wasn't something I was ready to let sink in, perhaps.

At 3am, in the midst of my dream-sleep, apparently the news finally seeped its way through my external armor and into my core. I awoke restless, heavy, vulnerable. On my tongue was the taste of a future workplace without one of my mentors... and not just a workplace without him (which I have envisioned in the past during conversations of our futures), but a Portland without his presence and the opportunity to grab a monthly or bi-monthly beer and connect. Even though it has been three years since he was my direct supervisor and at least a year or two of feeling less consistently connected in our work than we used to be, Brenden has always been an incredibly important rock for me in the work that we do. He reminds me -- both actively and through his own presence and actions -- to ground myself in our mission, to build relationships, to stay connected to our heart.

Envisioning his absence... the hole he would leave behind... struck me incredibly hard in my bleary-eyed wakefulness. As I sink into the idea that I might now be working for Hands On/UW for the next few years (when I had been entertaining personal change myself as recently as last year), the reality of losing one of my rocks hit me with alternating waves of sadness and fear.

Two of the themes in my journey through loss. Of the two, fear is my default. And sinking into the sadness, letting myself feel that, takes a deeper space of vulnerability. The I'm-alone-in-my-bed-at-3am kind apparently works well to bring me there.

As the sadness sinks in through the fear, I begin to remember that the other side of loss is opportunity for growth. And while the process is not a strictly linear one, it feels to me like I have to break through the fear-reflex to really get at the underlying maelstrom of feelings beneath (of which sadness is one). And only when I really allow myself to feel those underlying emotions can I really begin to feel some of that hope and openness to opportunity and that side of the equation.

I know I will need to hash this out many, many times in the months and years to come, trying to feel my way through that process of loss, on all of its varying levels.

The possibility of Brenden leaving is one more layer in the life lesson of holding loosely. And holding loosely has been the biggest tool in my collection of mindful mantras to fight the fear that accompanies loss. If I can hold loosely now, if I can understand that movement and change are integral to life (and mine in particular, as an action type), if I can cultivate that space as a space of opportunity, not a fearful chasm to slip through... if.

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Part of the lesson of holding loosely is being present in the now without focusing too much on how the now may or may not last into the future. That's the part I've been actively exploring (or trying to explore) in the last year.

Part of the lesson, too, however, has to do with the past. And that's where I feel somewhat challenged in my journey. I have always been a documenter. A collector of memories. Rooted very strongly in the experiences that have shaped me, the people that have influenced me, the reflections I have gathered.

The other week, I mentioned having boxes of old journals and writings to Jordan -- the buddhist-leaning minimalist who owns very little and feels most comfortable in a room sans stuff. He looked at me and asked, almost off-handedly, "Why do you keep them?"

It was the first time I think I've ever been asked that question. And I felt myself rise to their defense with a sense of guarded heat. "They define important parts of my life, they allow me to sink back into past moments, revisit memories and all their attached emotions. They are my memories. They are where I come from. They are me."

I've always felt like my box of journals would be something I would try to grab if my house were burning down. I've spent time thinking about how I might back up my computer files and cloud-based storage -- like email! and pictures! -- so that I can have that copy "for safe keeping." I don't want to lose where I've come from, even if I rarely revisit it.

As it stands, if I so desire, I can sink right back into my headspace from any romantic relationship I've been in through captured correspondence. I can revisit moments in school through assignments and journal entries. I have an "external memory" to turn to... for comfort.

I am my father's daughter.

And to some degree, it scares me how much that feels like an integral part of who I am. Documenting the past for safe-keeping. As if the only way I can move forward "holding loosely" is if I know I have at least collected all those "moments of now" to revisit later. So that they aren't truly lost.

"I wouldn't be who I am without... my memories."

Thinking about moving my father and his vast and unwieldily paper trail raises my anxiety... in large part because I empathize with that desire to hold on. And I can't make heads or tails of how we'll be able to move through all that stuff with some sense of pragmatic reality.

Being challenged (again by Jordan) to muse about my desire to have children of my own has also raised in me feelings of not just wanting to "leave my mark", but also not wanting to be forgotten. To have some one else to carry me forth in memories. To have someone else with a closet that can hold my dusty journals even after I'm gone. Evolutionary biology is an interesting thing. Keeping our lineage alive...

---

News of Brenden's possible departure once again opened up the doors to thinking about my own future. That hazy thing I sometimes grasp at, but which feels like an incredibly unknown and unguided landscape.

Whenever I think of my future, I think of my now. And what things might be different. Often I find myself focused on what things the future might be missing (versus the now) and how that would be, rather than on things the future might have added, because it's easier to think of what I know than what I don't know.

Thinking of Brenden leaving made me think about five years from now for me... will I have some of my best friends move away? What will it be like to no longer have Cristina as a housemate? If Heather leaves again? What if I move to a new city, without the web of connectivity I have built up over the past nine years in this town?

I spend much less time envisioning some sort of "ideal" future. I instead muse on the "ideal" moments of the present and the past.

How can I balance "holding loosely" with envisioning goals and hopes for my future... and taking the steps I need to get there?

I have become adaptable to change as it greets me, but how often have I been the one to instigate that change with future possibilities in mind? I know how to add but not as easily how to leave one thing to make room for another.

I don't like closing doors.

---

And of course I thought about my mom. And about how, at my last counseling appointment, I found myself admitting just how tired I am of the uncertainty. The roller coaster. The inability for any of us to seemingly make *intentional* change at this juncture. Hurry up and wait. Be on call. Monitor the situation. Be present when you can. Plan for the future if you can... but you won't really know till you're in it.

I think once I am in the midst of change, I can ride it relatively well. I have something to grasp onto, I have rapids to navigate. It's the meandering go-with-the-flow moments before the rapids that raise my anxiety level. The fear that entangles itself with anticipation of an unknown (or a somewhat known) around the next bend.

---

It's hard to act when I'm floating in a slow current. And it's hard for me to sit still.

---

Holding loosely is only part of the adventure.

The Anniversary Post

So last month I lamented some resistance I was having at the thought of writing another update to the Helping Hands blog, to be sent out to my mom's community (with another "ask"). Luckily, I found a moment of zen on a Sunday afternoon (the anniversary itself), at Bare Bones café on Belmont, to sit with a nutella and banana panini and a late-in-the-day mimosa and finally write the anniversary update I'd been procrastinating on. I thought it might be worthwhile posting it here, as a follow-up.

One year ago today... and additional Eileen updates

posted by Melia Tichenor, Sunday, August 12, 2012, 7:00 PM

Hello to Eileen’s wonderful community of friends –

It’s incredibly hard to believe, but it was exactly one year ago today that my mom walked into her bedroom, felt her leg snap from beneath her, and soon realized her life would never be the same. One year ago today that I received the phone call from my father, letting me know they were in the hospital, that my mom was scheduled for emergency surgery, and that they weren’t sure what was to come in the days ahead. Wow.

I’m not sure any of us knew what was to come, or could even have imagined that Eileen would spend the next 12 months confined to a hospital bed in our living room. How could we, when the Eileen we knew so well was a kinetic, lively, and animated presence, constantly on the move despite over a decade living with cancer as an ugly stepsister, following her every step?

If the past year has taught us anything, it has been the power of adaptability, the importance of patience and managing expectations, Eileen’s amazing strength against all odds, and the wonderful community we feel so blessed to call our friends.

We would not be where we are right now without your support – whether it be continued donations (through the Pledgie website and personal checks) to help with the still-monumental cost of monthly care-giving; in-person visits to bolster Eileen’s spirits and bring her a smile; cards, warm sentiments, and memory-book contributions from those of you outside of the bay-area; and the amazing series of benefit concerts and events put on by those of you in the music and yoga communities– y’all are phenomenal!

For those that haven’t seen the last Helping Hands update, there will be another benefit concert, hosted by Kathy Pearl and her husband Mark, coming up this fall. You can find the details in Greta’s last Helping Hands post, or at the end of this email. (I feel especially excited for this one, as I’ll actually be home that weekend and look forward to attending! If you are able to attend, please do come up and introduce yourself if you haven’t already!)

On the updates front, Eileen has been up and down throughout the summer – there are weeks when she is awake, engaged, happy for visitors, and ever-eloquent in conversation. There are other weeks when her pain increases and her morphine must be upped, which results in sleepy, hazy days, without as much input from the outside world. We’ve all been learning to expect these waves and live for the moments when she is the animated self we know and love – even after a year confined to her bed, we should have known from the beginning that the light in her eyes would not, could not, be squelched. It just manifests itself in a slightly different fashion these days.

One interesting project that Eileen has been involved with from her bedtop perch has involved being interviewed by Viji, one of her first yoga teachers in the Bay Area and the generous organizer of the yoga/Indian dinner benefit last May. Viji is taking the time to talk with Eileen and record some of her life story and her journey with cancer, to be written up in an article later this fall. We will be sure to pass along the piece when it is completed!

Another highlight from this summer was the opportunity I had to visit my parents during their birthday month in June. Little did my father know, but my mom and I, along with a number of other co-conspirators, had been in cahoots to plan a surprise 70th Birthday party for my dad that month. Seventy is a big year, and we couldn’t just let it slip by unacknowledged, despite the rough circumstances! Eileen helped offer suggestions from her bed during my May visit and over the phone, my brother and sister-in-law snuck albums out of the house to amass photos for a baby-to-70 slideshow, and a number my father’s friends and colleagues helped make sure all the logistics fell into place and offered a venue for the party.

The surprise was a big success and what ensued was an evening of friends, good food, storytelling, and heartfelt celebration of my dad, who has been shouldering quite the load this past year in the shadow of my mom’s current circumstances and needed a good boost. While we all greatly missed Eileen’s glowing presence at the party, I recorded a short video of her sending along her best birthday wishes, so that she could “be there” in spirit with all of us. You can see her beautiful smile and birthday video here:http://www.flickr.com/photos/melizoic/7485227088/in/set-72157630381425138 

To see more pictures from the surprise party, visit:http://www.flickr.com/photos/melizoic/sets/72157630381425138/detail/

Another big thank you and hug to our virtual community of Helping Hands friends on this one-year anniversary of my mother’s fall.

May your August be ripe with sunshine, gratitude, and good people,
Melia

P.S. Below are the details of the upcoming September Benefit Concert, for those who are interested:

September Benefit Concert Details

(Remember, if you can’t make it to the concert – pledge a donation at:http://pledgie.com/campaigns/16523)

Date: Sunday, September 9, 2012.

Time: 2:00 p.m. Concert, followed by a reception

Place: Home of Kathy and Mark Perl
(address removed)
San Francisco, 94114

Performers:

• The Healing Muses: Diana Rowan, Patrice Haan and Maureen Brennan, Celtic harps.
• Louise Carslake, recorder and flute
• Hanneke Van Proosdij, recorder and harpsichord
• Kathy Perl, harpsichord

*** Requested minimum donation: $40.00. ***

Please call Kathy or Mark Perl to make your reservation. RSVP soon, as there are only 45 spots available!

Please make your check out to: Peter Tichenor, Eileen’s husband, and send it to: (address removed) We do not accept credit cards. Your name will be on a list at the door.

Poor elephant...

I flew back to the Bay this wednesday for a week-long visit to the parents and during my first moments setting up my little sleeping corner on the futon in my dad's office, my dad leans over to hand me that week's Bizarro cartoon, laughing.

"I had to clip this one out and share it..."

We cracked up for a good couple minutes and I knew I had to share it here. 

Like an ostrich

It's another wednesday (are wednesdays writer's days?), nearing 9pm. I'm alone in the house for the first time in what feels like a long time. Ian is off in Ashland with his parents, and Cristina is at an outdoor concert with her sister and the-boy-that-makes-her-smile. I get texts periodically about how giddy she is, and it puts a smile right on my face... that girl is my antidepressant, I swear. Living with her has been one of the best gifts I stumbled across in the last year (thanks to craigslist and Brian Benson). But I didn't come here to vamp about how amazing my housemate is, though I could go on for ages.

I'm here for another dose of writing because tonight I ignored a call from my mom.

And just about one year ago, I ignored a call from my dad, telling me that my mother had broken her femur, simply walking into her bedroom... and I didn't get the message till nearly 24 hours later. And I felt simultaneously horrible for not knowing sooner... and relieved that my peaceful and productive Sunday hadn't been interrupted by the news when my dad did call. That I could be blissfully ignorant for 24 hours beyond the moment when it became obvious our family's world was changing for good.

Steve had just left for Central America that morning, early, and I had had a really nice day. I can't remember what was so nice about it, but I do remember that it was early evening and I was in a similar spot as I was tonight, alone in the house, cleaning my room, catching up on the "me" time I rarely give myself. I saw my dad's call and chose to let it go to voicemail, thinking I'd call him the next day. He didn't call back and I didn't check the message until the next day. I was standing in front of the grocery store near work, and could feel knots begin to form in my gut, tugging at me from the inside, as I heard my dad's recorded voice recount the story and explain that they'd been at the hospital since 2pm and would be there through the night.

After that night, I no longer ignored calls from my parents. And for six months, I didn't even receive calls from my mom... she was too weak, too morphine-hazy, too busy getting ready to die. It dawned on me one day last winter that I may never receive a phone call from her again, and I quickly googled "how to record voicemail messages of your phone." I'd saved some past messages from both her and my dad -- mundane messages, calling to check in, calling to say hi, letting me know when I should call back -- because of a low-grade fear that the day would come that those would be the closest I could get to a real phone call.

Those messages are still on my phone, un-extracted, waiting to be immortalized in an mp3 track one day, when I have the time, the foresight, and the courage to sit down and get them from my phone to my computer. My mom's voice sounds so strong on the birthday message she left me in 2010. It's like a blast from the past.

The day I received my first phone call from my mom since September was sometime around February. I'd missed the call (not intentionally) and listening to the message was like a gift. There was my mom's voice, proactively calling to check in, saying it had been awhile. It was small and feeble and she slurred some words, but there it was. Not a memory, but something in the present. I still had my mother.

Now, six months later, I feel like I've adjusted to a new normal. And returned to moments of selfishness, where, in a given moment, somehow being alone and cleaning my room feels more important than picking up the phone when my feeble-voiced mom calls. But more than that, I've found myself returning to a bit of the denial I worked so subconsciously hard to shroud myself in during much of my life. The denial that has allowed me to be selfish, to do things for me, to ignore, to make excuses, and to put off... to put off feeling, thinking, acting on anything that had to do with my mom having terminal cancer.

After an entire year stepping into a role of trying to be proactive on behalf of this whole situation (and getting mightily rewarded for it with praise from all directions and a true sense of feeling useful and instrumental), I think I've burnt out a bit. And allowed myself to slip back into a "my life for me" mindset, such that I have blissfully... *blissfully*... forgotten for days, weeks at a time, that my mother is actively dying. That life is in the process of turning our family on its head and shaking us free of all our loose change, our emotions, our reserves.

I have been a straight-up hedonist for the past month. Always chasing fun and good-time and adventures with friends -- bike touring, camping, volunteering, laughing with housemates till late, compulsively cleaning if I do find myself alone, going out for dinners, seeing live shows, spending money -- doing-doing-doing-doing-doing such that I barely have time to think. To reflect. To spend a moment alone, even. I spend my life chasing happy moments so that I don't have to feel the sad ones. I smile and I laugh and I don't always know how to let those go for a moment and feel the other range of emotions burbling below the surface. Sadness. Anger. Fear, to some extent, although I think that one is easier to tap into. Sadness and anger? So hard to find, to sit with. So hard.

The last time my mother called and I did pick up, the main thing she wanted to talk about was the fact that the donations had dried up and we needed to make another ask (another plea) and ask our friends to "renew their pledge" to help us through this, so if I could update the blog with another ask in the next couple days...

God, her nonprofit fundraiser's jargon just irked me. I could feel myself digging in my metaphorical heels as she talked. As my dad said the last time I was down there, "we're the biggest charity case on the block!"... and not only is it true, but it's become such a normal part of our circumstance that my mom talks about it using the same language she would when talking about fundraising campaigns for her music nonprofit. That's just been our schtick... for years.

It's harder to want to be proactively engaged when you feel like you're being needled from the sidelines. And that your dying mom wants to talk "business" with you and has expectations about the role you play. But that's my mom for you. She's got so many friends thanks to her amazing networking and, in many ways, big heart... but she's also got a fair number of folks who found it very hard to work for her because of her expectations, her (sometimes) tunnel vision, her strong beliefs in what is right and correct. And having that conversation with her suddenly made me feel like I was in those shoes, feeling pushed to meet her agenda, rather than feeling inspired to write an update from my heart, for her, for the purpose of expressing gratitude to the community, reflecting on how things have been going, pausing a moment to paint a picture of a lovely moment shared...

So I dug in those heels and stuck my head in the sand and haven't written any update since we talked two weeks ago. I've conveniently pushed it aside, forgotten about it, made excuses to myself and to my dad, who felt compelled to check in with me about it because... hey, the reality is, we are running out of reserve money and it's scary as shit to imagine what happens when we finally hit financial bottom. And the only thing we know how to do is ask for help.

I finally decided on a compromise within the last week, because I know a) I can't avoid writing another update all together, but b) it needs to be something I write for a reason... and that reason can't just be "we need money, help!" I can't do that. I refuse.

So this Sunday, I will write and post the next update on the one-year anniversary of my mom's femur snapping into two pieces. The one-year anniversary of the fall that she's never been able to get up from. One year of being confined to her bed, wasting away to the size and weight of a child, trying to sift through the pieces of her life and wondering when she will die. And the post will be about how lucky we have been to have had this year with her. And how thankful we have been to have everyone by our side as this roller-coaster has continued, for longer than any of us imagined. It'll probably sound a lot like my last posts, but hell, it'll be real. It'll be from the heart. And, while it'll include a link the pledgie, it won't be a frickin  "ask" for folks to "renew their pledge." It will be a thank you. A reflection. A tribute. And hopefully that will be enough.

-----

Funny enough my mom did call back partway through my writing this, so I took a 30 minute interlude to talk to her. And while we talked business for awhile, I also had the chance to fill her in on happenings in my life and feel like a daughter again. Which is always nice. It's something I know I am going to miss a whole lot when it's gone.

I realize, too, that so much of what's happening with my mom right now is her desire to regain some sense of control... so her asking me exactly what I'm going to write and when I'm going to post and wanting to know all of the details in advance it isn't so much a judgement on me or her trying to micromanage as it is her desire to anticipate and feel in control of her situation... in whatever tiny small ways she can. And I need to be -- want to be -- sensitive to that. And shrug off some of that irksome feeling and frustration, knowing that she's damn well as frustrated as I am by this whole circumstance.

This has been a bit more stream-of-consciousness lengthy than I'd anticipated, but I guess that's my default. Hopefully getting some of this out will help me regain some of my awareness, empathy, motivation, and drive to pick my head out of the sand and be present and proactive again.

(but a little bit of hedonism is okay, I guess... I'm not exactly planning to stop having fun this summer...)