Home-word Bound: Memories

March 29 – Today our drive is full of dark clouds, pouring rain, and stop-and-go traffic. It’s long and tiring, so we spend time talking about our experiences.

What a strange feeling, looking back over the two months we’ve stayed here.  We feel as though we’ve been away much longer, because of all that we did, because of all that happened.

Our house was constantly filled with visitors, which is what we wanted and planned for when we found a rental. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a nice open kitchen and dining area, our own small pool and lanai. This house is lovely, with a great open plan and a bigger-than-average seating area around the pool. 

It’s lived-in, needs some deep cleaning and carpets replaced, but we felt comfortable. We didn’t have to worry about cats and kids, with their exuberance and freestyle ways.

 In the beginning, I didn’t want to bother the property manager, Vera Gualano, but I learned later on that I should have. Clearly, it means a lot to her to ensure the house is being maintained properly. I would rent through her again with no hesitation.

Each visitor brings their own gifts of conversation, excitement, love, and interests. Mike and Rita were in this area of Kissimmee only last year, so they take us exploring. They fit us perfectly, like brothers and sisters often do. Easy, comfortable, fun, generous and in our loss of Sahara, so very consoling. 

We're together when Mike and Rita's daughter, Laura, calls from Ontario. She's engaged to be married to a wonderful young man and we toast their love and happiness.

 Kristen, John, Ben and Cate bring high spirits, energy, laughter and fun. We play in the pool for hours, visit Universal Studios and play cards at night. They spend fourteen hours at Disney one day! It’s pure joy for me, every minute I can wake up and see their amazing faces. 

I haven’t spent this much time with my daughter’s partner. Now I appreciate and love him even more.  I cannot describe the feelings I have for this daughter of mine, this strong beautiful talented amazing woman whom I still remember as a little hand in mine. 

It’s during my daughter and her family’s visit that we hear about Rose. For a couple of years now, we must admit, we have grieved for her loss. 

At ninety-five, Rose was no longer able to do all the things she loved such as cook and garden. She was very often unable to communicate and this was a woman who loved to tell stories, ask questions, give fiercely held opinions, offer unsolicited advice. 

Rosie was a huge presence. She ran her household with gusto, was the original reduce, reuse, recycler. Her sauce and pasta were unparalleled, along with her pizza, melting moments cookies, biscotti, apple or lemon meringue pies, butter tarts, scrippelle…

When she had leftover pizza dough, she’d roll it up, fry them and salt them, and presto! Long Johns to munch! At special times of the year, such as Christmas, she made her own Christmas cake, and at Easter, she made sweet, fruity bread. I remember her salads were always delicious because most of the vegetables came from their garden, and the dressing she made was perfect. Rose, along with assistance from her husbands and sons and later, daughters-in-law and grandkids, was the consummate hostess, and she loved having family around. 

Although she was a woman of deep faith, Rose didn’t take too long to accept me, even though I was half responsible for her son’s marriage break up. Because he loved me, and she loved her son, she eventually enfolded me in her circle. Nowadays, she sat mostly sleeping in her chair, often unable to recognize people. She never forgot her sons, though, even if she couldn’t retrieve their names. When Vince and I would visit, her eyes were often vacant when she looked at me, but as she gazed upon him, a light would appear. She’d rest her head on his shoulder and pat his belly, as though soothing her baby boy. 

Very often, we’d shed lots of tears when we left her, for the loss of her quality of life. When she falls that day in February and breaks her hip, we fervently pray that she'll go to sleep, go to where she can play cards again, tend a garden, give a family dinner, run around on two strong legs. On March 1, she does just that.

Vince books a flight home for Saturday afternoon, so I drive him to the airport. It’s a hasty decision, one we somewhat regret later. When he’s home in Canada, alone, feeling the effects of losing his mother, in a house that’s torn apart for painting, his voice is tearful and sad. I wish then that we had waited until Sunday, when I could have gone with him. My sister Chris and her husband Dave arrive tonight and I have booked a flight and back again for the funeral only. I feel as though I am in a bubble. Here I am, enjoying the company of my beloved sister and brother-in-law, while Vince grapples with grief. The first night, Dave and I drink a couple of bottles of wine (okay, each), make a few drunk calls, sleep late the next day. Their friend Grant’s son, Adam, comes to visit and we have a ball. 

On Tuesday, I take a cab at 3 a.m. and get on a plane, wearing a sundress and my sister’s boots. Our friends Mary Jo and Peter meet me at the airport. It’s surreal, getting to hug and kiss them unexpectedly, and stepping over ice and snow. When Vince sees my face in the doorway of the funeral home, he begins to cry. I wrap him in my arms and kiss him, and he lets his sorrow flow. The day is a whirlwind of family, friends, tears, laughter, funeral egg salad sandwiches, and memories. Our nephews and Vince’s sons are pallbearers; our nieces do readings at the Mass. We are so proud of our children. The grandkids add zest and innocence. Dylan speaks for all of us as the casket is raised and inserted into the crypt: “Wow, that was awesome,” he says and we all smile. Because it was awesome—the celebration of a life well lived, Rosie’s long, loving legacy, the memories, the joys and sorrows. 

Suddenly we are back in Florida. We visit my cousin Wendy and Dennis the next day, revel in their company, in the sunshine, marvel at the dolphins, and of course eat and drink well. For the rest of Chris and Dave’s stay, we laugh and swim and sun and talk. We talk about loss, we talk about life and love. 

After we reluctantly allow Chris and Dave to leave early Saturday morning, we get ready for David, Rebecca, Sydney and Evan. Once again, the house is filled with high spirits, laughter, playfulness, romps in the pool for hours. They spend a whole day at Disney and excitedly describe every moment when they get back. 

I am so grateful for their presence in my life, never ever take for granted the fact that they have embraced me and treat me as mother-in-law, friend, grandmother.

When they leave, we are glad that our friends Helen and Sandy and Maire and John are arriving, the Duplassies on Saturday and the Kearns’s on Monday. Since we’ve been friends for over forty years, there is complete and utter comfort and ease in their presence. We can be ourselves. We enjoy the warm air, the pool, shouting at each other over cards, and going out for dinner. We visit Winter Garden and Bok Tower Gardens. The four of them spend three days in Bonita Springs, while we stay home with Monkey. 

Then suddenly there we were, on our last day, crying over Sahara, our faces looking toward home and certain realities. 

But the lilacs in Georgia are in full purple bloom and the radio is playing our favorite songs. We start to sing. We feel very lucky, very blessed, very grateful. Monkey meows in her pet carrier.

Home-word Bound: Leaving Sahara

March 28:

Perhaps it’s because we leave a bit earlier than expected. The cooler weather is followed by rain, so we decide to spend a bit more time in the morning packing up. If we wait until Saturday, we’ve got to be out by 10 a.m.


We are ready to take off early in the afternoon, a little while after Maire and John and Helen and Sandy leave.

On our last night, we had a great time at the House of Blues in Downtown Disney.

Whatever the reason, grief hits us again without warning. First for Sahara. 

If you read my blog about our trip here, you know that we arrived with two cats. In fact, the blog was entitled Sahara and Miss Monk Go To Florida. Little did we know that our beloved tabby would never leave here.

Her death wasn’t entirely unexpected. Five years ago Sahara was diagnosed with very bad irritable bowel syndrome that either bordered on, or had morphed already, into lymphoma. The vet told us she had between twenty-four and forty-eight months to live, but that she could have a good life. Once the cancer “jumped”, it would likely happen very quickly. It did.

Until a couple of days before, Sahara was her usual self. Loud, feisty, highly attached to us, she’d follow us everywhere, complaining or just observing. She had a lot of different sounds to express her opinions, often hilarious. She had the kind of personality that could not and would not be ignored. She even ruled over her dog cousin and nephew. 

 

 Her daughter Raven, called Monkey because she sounds like one and is a little mischievous, was enraptured with her mother. They played, cuddled, cleaned each other, and were seldom apart. 

At first we thought Sahara was still nervous about being in a “new” house. Suddenly she began to spend time in our bedroom closet, huddled up behind a suitcase. Even though she hadn’t shown signs of feeling strange here, that’s what occurred to us. After a few hours, she’d come back out and be her loving, active self. The next day when it happened again, we thought maybe she had a stomachache. On the third day, when she went under our bed and didn’t come out, we knew there was a problem.

Did she eat something poisonous? A plant, a beetle? I got on the Internet, searching for the weeds that poked up in the garden outside but I found nothing dangerous.

I tried coaching her out, placed her on our bed, petted and talked to her. Gave her some of her medication, which she had been refusing. She took it, but it came back out a while later. She wouldn’t eat, or drink. She crawled back under the bed.

The next day, Valentine’s Day, she was lethargic, hardly moving in the spot under our bed. We pulled the mattress back to touch her. At one point, she seemed to have slipped into a coma. I burst into tears, thinking she had died, but suddenly she began to purr. A soft, broken sound. Every once in a while she would give a rattled sigh, as though she were trying to breathe through pain.

“We have to take her to a vet,” I said, and Vince reluctantly agreed.

When we gently pushed and dragged her out and placed her in the cat carrier, she groaned. Urine squirted out on the floor and all over me as I clutched her to me. Rita and Mike, upset too, cleaned up after us as we stumbled into the car.

At the veterinarian hospital, we petted and cooed to her. She gave a weakened, rumbling purr in return. The vet and assistant were amazing. Knowledgeable, efficient, yet caring. They were gentle with Sahara, doing what they had to do with a minimum of fuss. When the doctor showed us the x-ray results, we knew the time had come. The cancer had indeed jumped—her stomach, her liver, her intestines. She was likely in terrible pain, though animals instinctively hide it.

“What do you recommend?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

“I think we should put her to sleep,” he said, as kindly but as honestly as he could. “I guess you have two options. We can help her go right now, or you can take her home and she’ll probably pass naturally during the night.”

We both thought of the chance to cuddle her in our bed once more, to hear her purr as she died, but we knew that was selfish. She’d try so hard to purr for us, to make us happy, even while she was suffering. We couldn’t do it to her.

We talked to her, petted her, cried over her as the medication stilled her heart. Sahara died knowing we loved her with all our hearts.

When we got home, Mike and Rita were waiting with hugs and tears. We were so grateful to have them with us. In the two weeks previous, they’d gotten to know and love Sahara, too, so they understood.

There were lots of tears over the next six weeks. We cried as Monkey meowed mournfully, searching the house for Sahara, night after night. The time she looked into the still pool water, saw her own reflection and reached out a paw to touch it, brought on some weeping. We watched as she changed her personality, became more vociferous and affectionate, clinging a bit more to us, as she had once cuddled her feline mother.

Now we leave here, the site of Sahara’s last days. She had played, purred, talked, raced around, fallen onto the pool cover and got soaked, meowed for a video, and slept at our feet. 

Monkey seems lost and lonely in the big cat carrier. In the hotel, she has no one to cuddle when we go out for dinner. She’s a cat, she’s adaptable, she’s fine. We all just wish Sahara were heading home with us, too.

During this same trip, we lost our Rosie, too. As the miles (not kilometres yet) fall away, we wonder how we’ll feel once we’re home. Until then, her loss has not seemed real.  

March 29 – rain, peanuts, lilacs – describe each visitor

Three Random Things about Author Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  

 Three Random Things about Author Cheryl Kaye Tardif

Today's special guest is international bestselling author Cheryl Kaye Tardif, who is celebrating the release of her new thriller, SUBMERGED, during her official Blog Tour. I asked Cheryl to share three random things about her, and a bit about SUBMERGED.

Turns out we have a lot in common, since I too did background "acting" (in This is Wonderland).

Cathy, since we both have film connections, I thought it would be fun to share some random experiences I've had in the film industry. So here are my Three Random Things…

1.     Just over 20 years ago I worked as a background actor or "extra" in Vancouver, BC, and one of the shows I worked on was The Commish, starring Michael Chiklis (from Vegas and The Shield fame). I appeared in a few episodes, but the most memorable one was a Halloween show ("The Witches of Eastbridge" episode) where a killer was poisoning candy. I was in a scene with several cast members, including Michael—about 10 of us altogether. I think Michael thought I was one of the main actors because he introduced himself to me and shook my hand. Minutes later I met Stephen J. Cannell, producer/writer extraordinaire. Then I sat beside one of the guest actors for the scene.

2.     One of my other jobs as a background actor was for a scene on The Heights (a popular FOX show back then, similar to Melrose Place.) In my first scene on the show I was partnered with a much older man for a scene in a lounge. Since there can be a lot of waiting and retakes, I decided to make my "roll" fun and I convinced my partner that we were playing the part of older man and expensive escort. I even took off my wedding ring. When I told my husband afterward, he just rolled his eyes. He knows me well. I can make even a somewhat mundane task seem exciting. J

3.     On set for another episode of either The Heights, the director decided they didn't have enough extras for an outdoor scene on a busy city street. So we were asked to change our appearance as much as possible so they could use us more than once. Watching it back later with my husband, I pointed and said, "There I am." I had my hair down and was wearing a black jacket. A few seconds later, walking in the opposite direction, I showed up on screen again, hair up and wearing a blue jacket. I think that was also the scene where two of the main male actors had to scarf down hotdog after hotdog until the director finally said it was a wrap. I felt kind of sorry for those guys. They looked a little green…

And now I am dreaming about other movies—my movies, from my novels. One day. Until then, here's a little SUBMERGED appetizer…

From Cheryl Kaye Tardif, the international bestselling author that brought you CHILDREN OF THE FOG, comes a terrifying new thriller that will leave you breathless…

SUBMERGED

"Submerged reads like an approaching storm, full of darkness, dread and electricity. Prepare for your skin to crawl."

—Andrew Gross, New York Times bestselling author of 15 Seconds

Two strangers submerged in guilt, brought together by fate…

After a tragic car accident claims the lives of his wife, Jane, and son, Ryan, Marcus Taylor is immersed in grief. But his family isn't the only thing he has lost. An addiction to painkillers has taken away his career as a paramedic. Working as a 911 operator is now the closest he gets to redemption—until he gets a call from a woman trapped in a car.

Rebecca Kingston yearns for a quiet weekend getaway, so she can think about her impending divorce from her abusive husband. When a mysterious truck runs her off the road, she is pinned behind the steering wheel, unable to help her two children in the back seat. Her only lifeline is a cell phone with a quickly depleting battery and a stranger's calm voice on the other end telling her everything will be all right.

*SUBMERGED has a unique tie-in to Tardif`s international bestseller, CHILDREN OF THE FOG.

Get SUBMERGED today.

Learn more about Cheryl Kaye Tardif at http://www.cherylktardif.com and follow her on Twitter.

Enter Cheryl’s March Giveaway – 59 Prizes! http://www.cherylktardif.blogspot.com

To All The Girls I've Loved Before

     Maybe it’s because I grew up in a family of girls, but I have always had lots of girlfriends. I know Julio and Willie weren’t really singing about the friend kind of love, but I think the line is still appropriate.

    All my friends are no longer girls. They’re women. Not ladies, either, because none of us would conjure up high heels, crossed ankles, delicate laughs, or formal clothes. We can do that, but we’d rather not. We run around in sneakers, sit crossed-legged, laugh so loudly we get kicked out of restaurants, and are more comfy in track pants or jeans.

     My women pals are large (not necessarily in size, but in life), smart, loving, and unique. We talk about everything, from food to sex to other pleasures and pains. We discuss our husbands, or man friends, or other women, or television and movies. We recommend the latest books we’re reading. We love to all finish the same novel and then see the film version.

     Some of my friends are blood related. They’re my sisters. I love being with them. They’re funny and often wild and always interesting. Conversation never lulls. In fact, it’s surprising we can hear each other because we all talk at once. Our family get-togethers are absolutely nuts. We do recognize that it’s difficult for some of the significant others to take, but if they hang around long enough, they are loved so fiercely that, even if the relationship doesn’t last, the family connection often does. We have the hugest laughs you’ve ever heard and we indulge in laughing every few minutes.

     One of my sisters died nine years ago, and her laughter still rings in our ears, and we still see her mooning us from the car as we caravan down the highway. We still watch her dance on the deck or sit on the balcony watching a seagull float by.

     One of my closest friends is my cousin. We’ve known each other since birth, just like a sister, and have that flow of shared genes between us on top of our enduring friendship.

     I remember writing a poem a long time ago stating that the highest compliment I can give to one of my friends is that they are like a sister to me. Because for me, sister means joy, love, and hope.

     Some sisters are related by marriage (and continue even if the marriage didn't). Some have grown up with me. We met in high school or in our first year of teaching. We have literally gone through every twist and turn in the road that can be imagined. We’ve watched each other change and grow and learn. Others were met later along the path, but have no less a place in my heart and in my life.

     They’ve helped me through divorce (now that’s another story), child rearing, loss of loved ones, difficult times. They’ve been there at the celebrations and crossroads. Happily, I’ve been there for them, too, or at least I’ve tried.

     We support one another, praise or critique when deserved or needed, raise a glass or two or more in tears or laughter. We can bitch and complain without feeling censored or misunderstood. We can disagree without losing each other’s respect. In fact, sometimes it only heightens our esteem. We can be annoyed with another, because we can be real. It doesn’t shake that deep abiding love.

     I realize and never take for granted that I am especially lucky. I have lots of women friends. I adore them. They help me laugh, cry, think, learn, and grow. They demand that I be honest and true, not just to them, but to myself as well. As the saying goes, they insist that I be the best I can be.

     To all the girls I’ve loved before, I still love you now.