November 26, 2009

My mom died at home on Thanksgiving day 1977. She was 46, barely a month shy of her 47th birthday on Christmas day. She had battled non-Hodgkins lymphoma for nearly a year. We were hopeful at first that she would survive, but after a hard summer, there was no avoiding fall's steady decline, and by the time Thanksgiving came, we knew she was going to die any day. Cancer has a way of "preparing" you for death. After watching my mom waste away and fall into a coma, her death was almost a relief. She must have experienced excruciating pain, but I never knew. My parents protected my sister, brother and me from that even though we were all young adults at the time.
We may have been prepared in a sense for her death, but we were far from ready for the aftermath. As young adults, we were poised to spread our wings, but within a year there really was no nest to leave, no home we could point to as having left behind. My dad sold our house and remarried. I graduated from college, married and left the S.F. Bay Area. My older sister relocated to Southern California after completing her teaching credential. My younger brother continued at UC Berkeley.
I was cleaning out a drawer the other day, and came across my mom's obituary in the Montclarion. In the photo, my mom is smiling and wearing a blond wig. The newspaper didn't do a very good job of cropping the photo, and you can see pieces of the rest of the family. My dad's eye is to my mom's left, my brother's shoulder is on her right. My sister and I stand behind her. Our faces are cut off. I think it's the last picture the five of us took together.
The headline describes my mom as a "women's activist." To me, she was just my mom, and even after 32 years, I still miss her.

November 19, 2009

Workouts aren't always when or what you think they will be. Yesterday, I helped my 22-year-old daughter pack up a van and move to a townhome. She is small, but strong having worked as a kayak guide and SCUBA instructor since last April. Lugging, lifting and pushing those kayaks, carrying weights and tanks and pulling students through the waves was clearly better than my twice a week gym workouts. I stood back while she and her friend lifted mattresses, dressers, a book shelf and a small couch into the van and up the stairs of their new home. Unfortunately, her friend had to leave early and I had to help Julie get the seats back into the van - this was no minivan, but a van she had borrowed from work meant to carry fifteen people. Those bench seats needed to be wrestled back into the van and locked into place with a metal bar. My daughter had no problem hefting the seats up and into the van. Me, on the other hand.....
Last Saturday, I invited my 17-year-old to hike at Torrey Pines State Reserve. For some reason, my daughters feel the need to "best" me in physical exercise at one time or another. It must be some part of their rite of passage into womanhood or something. =O Anyway, my youngest has very long legs and easily outstrode me the entire time. She was always a little bit ahead, and when I would jog to catch up, she would speed up herself and accuse me of cheating. ha ha She overtook my friend as the fastest walker I know. The next day she was sore.
I went on my usual Sunday bike ride. =) Guess the old mom still has something - wonder where they get their competitive side from????LOL

November 13, 2009

So I found out last weekend that there are two main reasons why hikers do not summit Mt. Kilimanjaro - a) they are not in shape or b) they are not dressed appropriately and are too cold. I get cold so easily I can just picture myself swaddled in everything I brought, hat piled on hat, wool gloves pulled over mittens, pants straining over layers of long underwear - my eyeballs hardened like the grapes my daughters put in the freezer. A new obsession for me - will I bring warm enough clothes or will I be denied the summit as I shiver along the trail? =O
I "hiked" to the base of a waterfall last Saturday. It was more like a scramble up boulders and loose shale. Sliding back down was worse, the butt of my jeans muddied, my quads trembling, but I didn't care - I made it alive with no broken bones. My two worst fears - confrontation and steep downhills - maybe I should just narrow it to one - confronting steep downhills.

November 6, 2009

My friend and I were watching a body boarder in Solana Beach. There was a lot of time between sets, and the body boarder spent most of the time bobbing on the surface of the ocean. It was a beautiful day, sunshine and palm trees, pelicans diving for fish, and he did manage to catch a few amazing waves. Watching the body boarder, my friend and I started talking about waiting. It seemed that the body boarder spent 90 percent of his time waiting, 10 percent of his time riding an exhilarating wave, rushing through the water, foam curling behind him, salt spray stinging his face. At the end of each ride, he would immediately turn his board and paddle back out to wait again. We recognized a parallel to our lives and the amount of time we spend waiting for that next big wave, the excitement that's over all too soon. What sustains us in the waiting? Is the rush of a good wave enough to keep us bobbing on the surface? For how long? What exactly am I doing in the waiting?
It will take six days to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro next summer - so the experience will not be as short as catching a wave, but when considered in the scheme of preparation, it probably is less than 10 percent of the overall experience.
Being a goal oriented person, I haven't always taken the time to revel in the preparation, to reflect on where I am in the "Here and Now" whether it's training to run a half-marathon, writing a novel or raising my daughters. I hope this time will be different, and I will learn to appreciate the journey along the way.