“Harry, what are you looking for?”

H: (rooting in the utensil drawer) “I’m doing a science project.”

“What science project is that?”

H: (pulling out a garlic press and a spatula) “I’m turning a watermelon into a fairy.”

“With those?”

H: (running off) “Yes.”

“Good luck with that.  Bring them back when you’re done.”

Let it not be said that I discourage scientific inquiry in this house.

…who repeatedly searched my site with the term “badgirlspictures”:

I am pretty sure what you are looking for is illegal in your country.

Before preschool dropoff:

“Mommy, when we get inside, I want two hugs and two kisses before you leave. Because if I get three hugs and three kisses, you will be late for work and you will miss the party.”

Nobody told me about the party.

I think my son is going to be heartily disappointed when he enters the ranks of the working world.

“I love you, Buddy.”

“You say that all the time, Mommy”

“Well. Does it bother you when I do?”

“No. Because when you say it all the time, I know that it means you love me very, very much.”

“Yes, baby, I do. More than anything”

“I know.  That makes me happy in my heart.”

My mother is awake.

Which wouldn’t be so profound an announcement if it weren’t for the fact that she has been asleep for three weeks.

While I was on my vacation in St. Maarten, she developed an infection.  Considering what her Infectious Disease Specialist has told me about the identity of the bacterial culprit, it’s my (relatively informed and educated) opinion that it may have started with an infected tooth and then developed into a deep abscess in her neck.  He and I may disagree a bit on this point, but having two specialists is like having two clocks.  If you have one, you know the time.  If you have two, you are never sure.

What we do not disagree on is that, from her neck, the infection spread to the cervical vertebrae of her spine (causing her an immense degree of pain), and then, by aspiration, to her lungs.  Once there, it really set up shop to stay.

By the time they took her from her rural town by medical helicopter, delirious and then unconscious, to a more equipped hospital in Minneapolis, her lung capacity was nearing less than 25%, and they placed her immediately on a ventilator in a twilight sleep of antibiotics, painkillers and sedatives; a sleep that would last almost 21 days.

When we sleep, even a sedated sleep, we dream.  We dream and we are not oblivious to the world outside ourselves.  Our brain works to create the fantasies of our dream, and at the same time, it tries to make sense of the external stimuli that our senses still work to collect, even in sleep.  How many times have we dreamt a telephone ringing and awoke to find it was our alarm clock?  Or a doorbell?  I once dreamed I was driving a car with my eyes closed, struggling in a panic, unsuccessfully trying to open my eyes, and I woke to find I had my pillow over my head.  We are never completely inward, even in sleep.

When you are asleep for three weeks, in a critical state, the results of the brain’s attempts at synthesis border on the bizarre.

My mother awoke to the absolute and utter conviction that she had been abducted, thrown in the trunk of a car, beaten and abused by people who shouted her name at her.  She describes this vividly and emphatically, and it is as real to her as the view of my parking lot from my office window.  Only it never happened.

Her brain has created for her a perfect scenario from what it knew.  She was taken, strapped to a gurney, in a confined space.  She was poked and prodded and rolled around.  She was in pain and afraid, and people were calling to her in the dark, saying unintelligible things.  Without context, her belief is perfectly logical, even reasonable.

The immediate reaction is to tell her what did happen, to tell her the objective truth of her experience.  But that would be a disaster.  Imagine if you believed, absolutely believed and experienced, that you had been kidnapped and abused, and nobody believed you?  Imagine how horrible the abandonment and isolation of feeling alone and undefended?

Eventually she will need to re-synthesize her personal history and fill in the blanks of her lost three weeks.  For now, we work with her damaged psyche to assure her she is safe , that she is getting better and she is not alone.  A hospital security guard stops by her room and lets her know he is there.   We do not contradict her, we simply assure her.

And we let the brain have its own reality and give truth a holiday for a little while longer.

One of the reasons that my blogging has slowed down is that there have been so many things over the course of my recent life that I lack the ready words to process the experience.  The time I spend reaching, searching through the combinations of my vocabulary, have produced nothing adequate to express the workings of my mind or my heart.  And once laboriously laid in ink or pixel, they have no consequence.  They change nothing, do nothing.   They lay inert and lifeless and inconsequential in the face of the enormity of life.

Last evening I lost a friend.  The second friend lost unexpectedly in the last few months.  The latter was a friend of my past, and the hole he left in my personal history I have struggled to fill.  But this loss, of a recent friend, a young woman still fresh into the prime of her life, was a loss of my future.  And it was in her loss that I realized that grief, the moment of grief, the feeling of grief has no words.  Grief has only the words we wished we had said.  These words we have lost and can never be given, like gifts to the recipient.  These words we must keep forever bottled in our hearts, because we can only whisper, like secret wishes, to their absence.

I wished I had told you how much you inspired me.

I wished I had told you how I admired your love of life and your decency, your skill.

I wish I had told you how bright the moments were in your presence, how many times your words had given me hope and resolve and comfort.

I wish I had told you what a beautiful laugh you have.

I have already done those things that are customary in loss.  Last night I lay in the dark with my son, talking quietly about the little things that make up his day, those little, innocent musings that I never want to ever forget, imprinting the smell of his hair and the soft brown of his eyes on my memory.   How long I will have these moments is unpredictable.  I do not want them wasted.

I spent a lot of time with the light out in the quiet of the dark thinking of the years I have spent with my husband, what we have shared, the tears and the joy.  The all-encompassing warmth of his presence that I have shared for so very long.

I sent a silent prayer for my mother, still lying sedated in Critical Care, many miles away, that she may have more years with her grandchildren; more years to fix her in their memory.

In times like these we unconsciously cross ourselves and prepare for those days when those closest to us pass beyond our reach.  But what of the people who pass through on the periphery of our lives?  The people whose time with us is ephemeral, but who, nevertheless, brought smiles and warmth and inspiration to us?

People to whom, by social conventions or emotional restraint, or just plain shyness, we have never said:

You touched me.

You gave me hope.

You are beautiful.

Until the time to say them has gone, and to utter them seems so inadequate, so meaningless.  We can only resolve that we will not let neglect take us again; that we will not let people pass through our lives without acknowledging that they have changed us for the better.  That their lives held meaning to us.  That they are cherished for those moments they lightened our day or our load, however brief they were.

Bye Kitty.  There are so many things I wish I had said to you.

To the anonymous sweetheart who paid for my coffee order in the Starbuck’s Drive-Thru in North Little Rock this morning:

You completely made my week. Thank you.

There will be a vacation update. There MUST be, because I came back last week from the closest place to paradise on earth, and I CANNOT wait to tell you about it. But during the middle of my vacation, my mother was medi-vaced to a critical care unit in Minneapolis with severe pnuemonia and an infection of her cervical vertebrae. She is improving, but is still on a respirator and heavily medicated. This is taking up a lot of my psychic energy, and as soon as I have it in me to post, I will.

One thing, however, that touched me, is that before she was taken out by helicopter, my mother informed my father that no matter what, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WHATSOEVER, was her daughter to be brought home early from the vacation that she desperately needed. It was actually one of the very nicest things my mother has ever tried to do for me.

I hope she gets better soon.

Don’t expect an update until next week, mon. There will be no pictures, because the internet is apparently on island time, too, and loadin’ the pictures. it is too much heavy liftin’, eh?

My son and Olivia were twins separated at birth:

If you don’t have children, you may not be familiar with Olivia the Pig.

Let’s just say, she has a very health sense of self-esteem and dreams big.

Real big.

If you aren’t acquainted with Olivia, ThingsMomsLike is offering you the chance to meet her, free.

Then you will know what my days are like, every single day.  Except for the red dresses.