Superstitions
Magic is what you make of it. Superstitions only count if you believe in them. The omens you notice and their interpretations are mostly a way of talking to yourself. So I do not view Friday the thirteenth with trepidation. Thirteen is not an unlucky number for me. It's just a step beyond twelve. I recognize that in the the language of symbols, that puts it beyond the totality of things, so in that sense, "supernatural," but that doesn't make it bad. In a way, it's like going beyond the door, like breaking into a new adventure.
This past Friday the thirteenth, I arrived at work as normal, started my computer and made myself a cup of tea. The day before, we had celebrated National Library Week with Chinese food for lunch, and there was a bowl of leftover fortune cookies in the lounge. I pocketed one to take back to my desk and enjoy with my Earl Grey. Not long after I started into building a supply order, my cell phone started vibrating.
My mom has been recovering from a stroke since January, trying to cope with physical therapy, doctor appointments, new diet and medicines for a cluster of other newly diagnosed health problems. She had a seizure and nearly died (well, technically, did die until CPR brought her back) in February, and she had recently come home from a long hospital/rehab stay. Getting her to follow doctors' orders and to understand that her life depends on it has been tough. She's stubborn, stuck in her ways, and even less likely to be reasonable because of the recent damage to her brain. So, I've become accustomed to sudden flurries of text messages with my sisters about her care and progress. When at work, the buzz of a text does not surprise me anymore, and I don't treat it with the urgency of an actual call. But, after the first, my phone kept vibrating. This was not a text.
I picked it up and rushed to the door to take the call outside where there was better reception and more privacy. All the while, I was thinking my mom may have collapsed again, and on a Friday morning when she was not expected to be in the presence of any competent rescuer, odds were this was going to be very bad news. It was, but not about Mom. Dad had passed away some time in the early morning.
He, too, had started off the year in hospital, and at a few points, we wondered if he would be coming out again. However, he did recover, came home to my sister's house and proceeded to be the pain in the ass he is on a usual basis, even getting himself kicked off a caregiver program for chasing away too many of them. But he was better. As normal as one might expect. We celebrated his 80th birthday last month with a pleasant trip to a local Mexican restaurant.
Numbly, I put things in order and took the steps I needed to so that I could leave work and go to my sister's side. My boss had been out all week, so I called the director to inform him of my departure. Though I had calmly and quietly closed up the projects I had been working on and made my desk ready for the absence, once I had to speak to someone, I broke. I could barely get the words out. The crisp, grey chill of a morning struggling to be spring helped a little toward regaining my composure to drive, and soon I was on the road. I turned on Pandora to listen to some upbeat music that might take my mind off the immediate wounds, and the first song it served up was I Palindrome I by They Might Be Giants. Thanks, Pandora.
>>From this point on, I will refer to my sisters by their middle initials. As I've mentioned before, that was the chief way we distinguished ourselves when we needed some sort of marker because all of our first names start with C. This way, I can preserve some of their anonymity while still being a little clear in the reading.<<
My sister's (M's) house was humming in a minor key. There was all the activity of people gathering, plans being set in motion, but beneath it all was a current of grief. F was there, her workplace being nearer, as was my dad's one time girlfriend who had remained close to him and the rest of the family. The other two sisters, A and B live out of state, and calls were being made to try to break the news. M said Dad was still there, so we each took our time saying goodbye. He apparently died in his sleep, she relayed. It looked as if he had simply lay down and drifted away.
As the morning progressed, husbands and boyfriends arrived, as well as my oldest daughter. She was born when my youngest sister was only eleven, so as she grew, my daughter has become, in many practical ways, like a junior sister in the group. There was talk, some about Dad, but some, just as important, about more frivolous things that might provide relief for the crushing grief.
The morning wore on, and when people first started to murmur about being hungry, I remembered the fortune cookie in my pocket. No, they all said. Don't even open that thing. So, a couple of the guys went out for sandwiches.
It was a long day, but all the things that needed to be done were done. The body was transferred to the crematorium. We finally reached the last sister to know, B, who worked nights as an emergency room nurse and had been sleeping while her world came unraveled. We talked about services, and although Dad didn't want anything formal, decided that a private visitation for sisters and other close family who weren't as local would be best, to be followed by a later casual memorial.
This past Friday the thirteenth, I arrived at work as normal, started my computer and made myself a cup of tea. The day before, we had celebrated National Library Week with Chinese food for lunch, and there was a bowl of leftover fortune cookies in the lounge. I pocketed one to take back to my desk and enjoy with my Earl Grey. Not long after I started into building a supply order, my cell phone started vibrating.
My mom has been recovering from a stroke since January, trying to cope with physical therapy, doctor appointments, new diet and medicines for a cluster of other newly diagnosed health problems. She had a seizure and nearly died (well, technically, did die until CPR brought her back) in February, and she had recently come home from a long hospital/rehab stay. Getting her to follow doctors' orders and to understand that her life depends on it has been tough. She's stubborn, stuck in her ways, and even less likely to be reasonable because of the recent damage to her brain. So, I've become accustomed to sudden flurries of text messages with my sisters about her care and progress. When at work, the buzz of a text does not surprise me anymore, and I don't treat it with the urgency of an actual call. But, after the first, my phone kept vibrating. This was not a text.
I picked it up and rushed to the door to take the call outside where there was better reception and more privacy. All the while, I was thinking my mom may have collapsed again, and on a Friday morning when she was not expected to be in the presence of any competent rescuer, odds were this was going to be very bad news. It was, but not about Mom. Dad had passed away some time in the early morning.
He, too, had started off the year in hospital, and at a few points, we wondered if he would be coming out again. However, he did recover, came home to my sister's house and proceeded to be the pain in the ass he is on a usual basis, even getting himself kicked off a caregiver program for chasing away too many of them. But he was better. As normal as one might expect. We celebrated his 80th birthday last month with a pleasant trip to a local Mexican restaurant.
Numbly, I put things in order and took the steps I needed to so that I could leave work and go to my sister's side. My boss had been out all week, so I called the director to inform him of my departure. Though I had calmly and quietly closed up the projects I had been working on and made my desk ready for the absence, once I had to speak to someone, I broke. I could barely get the words out. The crisp, grey chill of a morning struggling to be spring helped a little toward regaining my composure to drive, and soon I was on the road. I turned on Pandora to listen to some upbeat music that might take my mind off the immediate wounds, and the first song it served up was I Palindrome I by They Might Be Giants. Thanks, Pandora.
>>From this point on, I will refer to my sisters by their middle initials. As I've mentioned before, that was the chief way we distinguished ourselves when we needed some sort of marker because all of our first names start with C. This way, I can preserve some of their anonymity while still being a little clear in the reading.<<
My sister's (M's) house was humming in a minor key. There was all the activity of people gathering, plans being set in motion, but beneath it all was a current of grief. F was there, her workplace being nearer, as was my dad's one time girlfriend who had remained close to him and the rest of the family. The other two sisters, A and B live out of state, and calls were being made to try to break the news. M said Dad was still there, so we each took our time saying goodbye. He apparently died in his sleep, she relayed. It looked as if he had simply lay down and drifted away.
As the morning progressed, husbands and boyfriends arrived, as well as my oldest daughter. She was born when my youngest sister was only eleven, so as she grew, my daughter has become, in many practical ways, like a junior sister in the group. There was talk, some about Dad, but some, just as important, about more frivolous things that might provide relief for the crushing grief.
The morning wore on, and when people first started to murmur about being hungry, I remembered the fortune cookie in my pocket. No, they all said. Don't even open that thing. So, a couple of the guys went out for sandwiches.
It was a long day, but all the things that needed to be done were done. The body was transferred to the crematorium. We finally reached the last sister to know, B, who worked nights as an emergency room nurse and had been sleeping while her world came unraveled. We talked about services, and although Dad didn't want anything formal, decided that a private visitation for sisters and other close family who weren't as local would be best, to be followed by a later casual memorial.
And then, we went home.
And in a quiet moment, I ate the cookie.
Because something made me pick that up on this morning, when I rarely indulge in the treats left in our staff lounge. And this was the message inside:
In the week that followed, the other sisters came into town. We made preparations for the service and put things in place to take care of usual responsibilities. My daughter volunteered to cater the event. There were other offers of help and expressions of sympathy from friends and family. There were hugs and tears, jokes and stories, and long nights where we set out to do something practical, but wound up accomplishing something we needed more. There was drama with A, an unfortunate but predictable occurrence, and she decided she wouldn't stay past the private visitation. In the midst of all this, my husband's aunt also passed away, and although I was more on the fringes of that, I know that side of my family must have been going through their own version of what my sisters and I were experiencing.
By the end of the week, I found myself walking into the funeral home for my husband's aunt's wake. These things are usually rough, knowing the sorrow in every person you encounter, but I thought I would be OK. It was only a wake, no readings or eulogies to pluck the heartstrings. Right away, there was all the usual pain, but layered on top of it, many of the family knew about my dad and offered condolences as well. The sadness overwhelmed me, and I couldn't speak most of the time I was there.
Back to a night with the sisters, tacking old photos to posterboard and rebuilding my spirit for the memorial ahead. We spent the night under the same roof that had been Dad's last home, all of us but A who had declined the offer and returned to Texas.
The sky was clear blue when I drove home after breakfast. The grey day when I received the news a week before had slid into icy rain, sleet and snow soon after, but had been climbing toward spring again as we made our preparations. Now, on the day of the service, the only clouds were the contrails of jets crossing the sky. As I drove, my eyes were half on the road and half on the sky before me. Dad loved planes, and when I was young, we lived near Mitchell Field. That might not have been a plus for most people, but for Dad, it was an opportunity to share his love of flight with his kids. At five years old, I could identify several planes, and I knew the term "contrail" and what it signified. So, this was a happy sign. More, there was a fresh trail moving up and to the right, crossing an older line like a graph of prosperity. Things were going to be OK.
Nevertheless, with the memorial that evening and a public speech expected, I decided to pull out the rune necklace M had given me, and wear it to the service. I could use the extra boost of strength it signified. Since it had lain in my jewelry box for a long time, I decided to polish it up a bit, but in doing so, it came apart in my hands.
For a moment, I was stunned. My rune of strength was broken. What did this new omen mean? And then, I remembered the message on Friday the thirteenth: You don't need strength to let go of something. What you really need is understanding.
So I put on a necklace I had purchased while supporting one of my other daughter's enterprises, and I went on to the memorial. Friends and family were there to mourn and celebrate Dad's life, even those from my husband's side of the family who came after the other funeral. My daughters were both there, helping and supporting. And I didn't have the strength to make it through my eulogy without crying, but I made it through because of all the love, support, and understanding of family and friends.
And in the days ahead, I'll rebuild my necklace and my strength, but I may need a little help from my sisters on both.
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