Mother's Day

I love Mother's Day. I have always loved Mother's Day. I loved celebrating the one person who went through so much to carry me. Omigod, did she ever.

My parents tried for years to get pregnant.  Remember, this was the beginning of the 1960's.  Not much was known about infertility at the time. All they knew was that pregnancy wasn't happening for them. Mom did everything she could - okay, she kept smoking - but she ate better, lost weight and most importantly, stopped drinking. Still, nothing. Year after year of trying, they sadly accepted the fact that biologically parenting a child was not going to happen and focused on adoption. All was set; their baby boy was on the way. Until the agency discovered my mother had severe hypertension.  Bye-bye baby. Devastated, they decided to just live on with no more thoughts of ever becoming parents.

I wasn't having that.

I guess there is something to be said about not trying so hard for something you want more than anything in the world. My mom did everything to make sure the pregnancy would be a healthy one and yes - even quit smoking... or so I was told. I can't say for sure if she did or not. I do know that the pregnancy made her really weak and sick. I know from seeing photos of her right after I was born, she was not well, nor did she look well. I nearly killed her. Fact. She went through a lot for me, and I felt it was so nice to devote a day to the woman that carried me, who felt like shit nearly every day she did, and for months, afterward. That on some days she nearly lost her life because of me. For all that she did prior to getting pregnant with me. I thanked her for taking such good care of her body in preparing for me.  She once told me that though she was overweight, the least she could do was to stop drinking and eating horribly. I loved that!  She nurtured me even before I was a glint in their eyes. Awesome.

I then looked forward to the days when I could celebrate Mother's Day.  I dreamed of sharing the day with my own mother. I got pregnant very easily unlike my mother. I decided that I would take better care of my body; eat better, stop smoking and stop drinking and try to make my body the healthiest it could possibly be - kind of like cleaning for company! I marked my first day of my cycle with a big "X", counted fourteen days ahead.  Marked that day, the day prior and the day after. Those were the TTC (Try-To-Conceive) days.  Just over two weeks later, "Wow, it really does work"  Pregnant. The plans for my first Mother's Day with my mother began.

The celebration would never happen.

My mother died that October.  I was due on Christmas Eve.  It was very hard on me.  VERY hard.  The one thing in my life that I wanted my mom there for was to see her first grandchild.  I didn't know (then) if I could deliver my baby without her. I did. It was a joyous day. When I saw my child for the very first time (hours later), the first thing I saw was my mother.  Now, I could celebrate Mother's Day.  I was a member of The Club.  My first Mother's Day was a very bittersweet yet amazing day.  Yet, in my heart of hearts, it was only reminding me that part of the day's reason for celebrating was now gone and an ache in me grew. Every Mother's day is a bittersweet one.

Don't get me wrong.  I love Mother's Day.  I am pampered and thought of with the kindest sons on the planet.  I have been blessed with sweet, thoughtful and truly amazing sons and I am so very grateful for them.    I miss my mom so very much.  It's funny, in the past week, I have heard so many people complain about their mothers.  This one is outstaying her welcome. That one is "all in my business."  That one "won't take care of herself." It makes me so sad and then I get angry. I want to grab these people and shake them and remind them that soon they won't have to complain any longer because they'll be gone.  "God, my mom is soooo annoying."  What I would give to have my mom annoy me.

A friend of mine is also missing her mom and she nailed on the head when she wrote:  It's not fair that the person I want to celebrate isn't here to celebrate.  Amen.

Mother's Day, to this mother, means so much more than just getting cards and being taken out to dinner by my own children. It means truly thanking the woman that went through so much to have me.  So much to care for me, and all the while making me laugh and giggle, singing and without even trying, teaching me to be a good mother.  Yes, I am not only blessed with two of my own wonderful children, but I'm so very blessed to have had the best mom to learn from.

I love you, Ma.  Thank you.  Happy Mother's Day.

Shoulda. Woulda. Coulda.

For the past week, I have been so stressed out. Besides the normal day-to-day things, a few other things crept up.  I am now having to take care of things that I neglected and are now biting me in that hiney of mine.  Because of my procrastination, this task - which is something that would normally take seconds to do - now requires me to do it ALL over again, from the beginning, and that will not only take weeks, but it slows down things I must do NOW, too.  Lesson learned the hard way; find a way.

I knew a good friend of mine had been ill for a while. I did speak to her just over three weeks ago when she hadn't been heard from.  I called her and she returned my call.  Still in the hospital.  She is the recipient of a heart transplant that took place nearly twelve years ago. She's been on many medications to prevent her body from rejecting it.  If I understand things correctly, her meds began interfering with other organs and the doctors were scurrying around trying to find new ones that would help with no dangerous side effects.  In the mean time, she had trouble breathing and was retaining fluid.

That would be the last time I would ever speak to her.

On the day she was released from the hospital, she was rushed back.  Pneumonia and MRSA .  She was placed on life-support. I was informed yesterday by her sister that there is nothing that can be done, now. The family met for an extensive meeting with all of her physicians and decided to let her pass in her sleep.  They will be taking her off of life-support on Monday afternoon. I'm devastated to say the least.

For the past four days, I was terrified to log onto my computer and Facebook for fear of dreaded news. Not to make this at all about me, but I have to say that all of this stress is not cool for me. My blood-pressure has been up. Yesterday the day just - well, it was just a SHIT day. Everything went wrong. Rob was off and we thought we'd take care of a few things (mentioned above) and then just enjoy the rest of what turned out to be a gorgeous afternoon. The cards were just not in my favor. I was so stressed out by everything that I my glucose level plummeted. I had just returned home from shopping with Rob, logged onto Facebook hoping for news about my ill friend when I noticed I was making typo after typo. My hands were shaking terribly. I stood and that's when I felt the tell-tale symptoms of hypoglycemia. I quickly took my glucose reading. 71. NOT cool. I gulped down some orange juice while Rob took Aaron to drop him off at the skate park. Alex was here, otherwise they would have stayed with me. So, with stress and a low glycemic number, Alex and I brought my sugar levels back up; the real WRONG way.

Ever have "Birthday Cake" Oreo cookies? I hadn't ever heard of them until yesterday. Bought them as a rare treat for myself (and I would certainly share with the fellas). I had to have something to bring my sugar back up. I should have had more juice. I need to make a sign for my fridge in bold letters:

MARY! DRINK THE JUICE!

I didn't. I ate one cookie. **ERMEGERSH** Those things are so damn yummy. One more. Then another. Surely my sugar levels are returning to normal, right? I won't say how many more I ate, but Alex and I compared them to crack. Crack is whack. My levels came up. Boy did they ever. In excess. *sigh*

I ate horribly for the rest of the evening. I was terrible to my body. I felt lousy all evening long.

My friend who is nearing the end of her life, also has diabetes. She too ate the wrong foods. I would beg her to change her habits, reminding her that her new heart was a gift and that she should treat it as such.  Being the good friends that we were are, I could talk frankly to her. She would agree and thank me for being so bold with her. Promise to change, then go out and eat things she knew she shouldn't. She had a very hard time making these changes, even with a new heart. A year or so ago, she finally saw the light and began eating much healthier, working out, walking, and lost a lot of weight. She was very proud of herself, and said she felt great and was doing so well.

Now, she's dying. She never told me of a number for her life expectancy post-transplant. Her doctor said a few days ago that he was surprised that she "was with us for as long as she has been."  Not sure what that means.  Her transplanted life expectancy?  Or because of her neglect to her body for so long? I'm hearing the family is pursuing legal action due to the MRSA. I just think that her body is ... tired.  It's had to fight all of her life, every single day of it. She's been through so much. And yet, she still made a lot of people so happy. She made us laugh. She was always finding little things to send to me. She's a great writer. I'm going to miss her so damn bad.

I'm not absorbing the fact that - unless the miracle that I'm praying for comes through - soon she will no longer with us. But, if all of this has taught me anything, it's taught me two things:

1.  Be there for your friends.  I could have been a much better friend. There were times where my silly life got in the way of returning a phone call. Now, I'm dealing with huge amounts of guilt. HUGE. Shoulda, woulda, couldas SUCK. They SUCK big time.

And

2.  Take GOOD care of your body.  LOVE your body like you love yourself. I'm seeing it now. If you don't take care of yourself, you will not survive. I am having a wickedly hard time trying to eat right. I admit it.  I must learn to do this all over again. I did it once, and successfully;  I can do it again. I know it's all "P.I." these days to view an overweight person and not say negative things. I get that. Everyone IS beautiful, no matter what their body shape and size. I truly know this.

However,  while everyone is beautiful, everyone is not healthy. A photo went around the internet a year or so ago of a young woman holding a sign:

So sad that she only sees the outside.

This photo breaks my heart. Yes, she is glorious. But it's so sad that she only sees herself from the outside. Inside, her heart is surrounded by fat. She most likely has a fatty liver disease. She most likely suffers from obstructive sleep apnea. Gerd, hypertension, and diabetes. If she doesn't now, soon she'll suffer from degenerative joint disease. If she doesn't now, she will soon start her day taking numerous medications to allay these conditions. Yes, she is beautiful (as are size 2's).  It's wonderful that she has accepted her body as far as her looks go. Sadly, it's not about looks though, is it?  Google a size twenty-two heart.  Google a size twenty-two liver.  Even a size 14 heart and liver are suffering. I have the papers to prove it.  It's not all about looks, lovlies;  it's about HEALTH. There's no maybe about it; those are FACTS. Ask your doc.

I am making major changes in my lifestyle. I'll never go on a diet again. Diets fail. It's lifestyle changes and staying with them that do the trick. I know it is; I did it for nearly seven years. I can do it, again.  

Yes, it's been a stressful, eye-opening bitch of a week. Today, though I'm still very sad, I will breathe easier, eat healthier, exercise and love myself. I'm worth it. My kids and husband are worth it. I want to spoil my grandchildren someday. And I will.  

Thanks for reading. I don't really know why I wrote this. I guess I just needed to vent and purge all of this negative energy. I know some will read this and sneer at my comments. Sneer away.  

Think I'll go write a letter to a friend. Or call her.

Love each other. Love yourself, too.

Peace

Vivid.

I'm not sure where I am at first.  I see old windows with the white paint on them chipping off.  I see springs and wood.  I suddenly hear a table saw screaming as it rips through wood.  That wonderful aroma of wood and electricity fills the air.  I'm now in a basement.  In my old house in Berwyn Heights.  I can see the sink near the washing machine.

I hear my father's voice.  My view changes and I see my hands guiding this wood along the spinning blade.  I don't know what's being said, but I know I'm being coached.  He knows I'm not fond of using this machine.  I think he's trying to desensitize me to it.  I'm afraid I'll lose digits.

I hear a woman's voice.  A thick and syrupy voice.  Sultry.  Julie London is singing "My Funny Valentine"

(No connection there, right!?).  It's perfect.

I see a man.  He's wearing a flannel jacket.  Blue, grey, and black.  I am now using a jigsaw.  I'm much more comfortable using that.  Still, I find it hard to follow my father's pencil guides around the curves.  He takes over.  I'm relieved.  I look at the large pad of graph paper.  Numbers, more pencil lines and notes written in his familiar hand.  I drill holes for two large springs.  I see sawdust on his thick eyebrows.

I'm making a bead loom.  Dad's design.

I still hear his voice.  I know it's him.  I just can't understand [or remember] what he's saying.  I feel him close to me.  I sense that he approves of what I'm doing.  He's proud of me, but I know he's happy with himself, too... because he's passing his skills onto me.  I feel silly.  I have nowhere near the amount of skill that he does.

We are in my living room.  He's trying to be patient with me.  His impatience makes me nervous - and impatient.  I let him take over.  I know I can do what he wants, but I also know he's proud and just humor him.  I sense he knows that, but is still okay with it.

I am now showing him how to put on the warp threads.  He tells me I'm using the wrong kind of thread.  He wants me to use sewing thread.  I secretly switch it to strong nylon beading thread.  Not sure why, but I sense that he tested me.  He's happy that I chose the other thread. [??]

I tell him that we forgot to sand the wood.  He is laughing.  I'm not.  Not sure what that means.  I'm staining the wood.  I ask him where the polyurethane is. I'm impatient to use my loom but the poly must dry.  I again smell wood, but now it's mixed with polyurethane, coffee and cigarettes.

Throughout the dream, I felt a sense of comfort;  like he was there to make sure I not only did as I was supposed to do, but I felt that I knew he really wasn't there.  Alive.  He was "visiting" me.  I saw a few smiles.  It's just he and I.

I woke up and felt like he was just inches from me.  It was one of those dreams where I felt like it was real and still continuing as I wiped the last vestiges of sleep away.  It's haunting me in a way.  I still feel a presence.  Like he could just walk into my kitchen.  It's not a bad feeling at all.  A tinge of unease, but more than anything, it's reassuring. Comforting.  Kind of like he simply popped in to see how I was and to let me know that he's always around.  But most of all, I felt comforted; by him.

I'm glad.

A lot of evil is wreaking havoc in the world, lately. Pain,  horror, and fear. Suffering and death.  Anger and disagreements. Threats of war. The world is a nervous place right now. Maybe it's his way of comforting me.  I am a firm believer in dreams, and I believe some occur for a reason.  I always loved being with him while he was wood-working in the basement.  I can still recall being not yet three and holding glue, nails and brads for him as he worked.  I never felt safer.  He was always my hero.

"So... how ya doin, Squirt?"

I'm okay, Dad.  Really.  Thanks for checking in on me.

Think I'll go put on some Willie Nelson.

RIP To My Website

It is with great sadness and trepidation that inform you that I am closing my webpage.


*snickers with glee*

Okay, I lied.  I am not sad.  I'm actually glad.  My jewelry website - http://gemboree.weebly.com/index.html  will be closing down.

Why?  Not because the economy is (still) bad.  Not because I don't make jewelry anymore.  Are you kidding?  I'll always make jewelry.  Not because I can't sell it.  I can and still do.

I can honestly say it's partly because I myself never go to it.  I never update it.  I really don't like it and so it is being neglected.  It's a major PITA to keep.  So, I am closing it.

I am, however, creating a Facebook page for it.  I am on FB daily and it is a much better venue for it.  I post photos of my stuff when I make it, so why not just give its own place to live?  A site on FB for beads, I like that!

I ask that you bear with me in the coming days and weeks as I learn a new area of Facebook.  It's quite different than your own page.  It's technically a business page and there is a bit of a learning curve.  Soon, it'll be all sparkly and pretty.

Thanks for reading and I hope you'll check me out:  Gemboree

Bead on!

Where Do You See A Wye In My Name?

Before I got married, I never really had any problems with people mispronouncing my name. "Mary" is pretty easy.  "Gambino" is also pretty easy.  I mean, no one ever called our home and asked for "Mr. GamBYEno."  It's pretty easy to say based on how it's spelled.

Okay, there was that one time in high school.   There was a guy in my science class.  He was cute, but not the brightest crayon in the box.  We sat next to each other.  That first week of school, we had to grade our science partner's papers.  He called me Mary GUMbino.  My name was printed neatly in the upper-right corner.  Of course, that was the beginning of being called Gumby all that year.  Gumbino or Gumby.  It didn't go past Sophomore year, thank God and he was the only one that called me Gumby.

When I got engaged, I was on the fence about how I felt about my name changing to my husband's name.  I loved my name.  I hated the whole hyphenated name thing.  To me, it just seemed silly.  My surname was long enough, why do that?  So, I went with the change. I practiced signing and saying what would be my new name over and over and while it looked and sounded great, my heart broke knowing I would never be using my maiden name ever again.

I decided to do a little name re-arrangement.  I was talking to my aunt (who is also my Godmother) about this very subject one day, and she happily told me that I could still use my name.

"Do what I did;  start using your maiden name as your middle name.  If you do that for a long time, it'll become legal."  Well, I don't know about that, but I did it.  I may do it legally, someday.  My name has a story.  When I was born, (and my folks argued about this for as long as I can remember) my mother wanted my first name to read, "Maryfrances (no middle name) Gambino"  My father did not.  He wanted "Frances" to be separate and wanted it to be my middle name.  Well, he won.  The hospital assumed my mother made an error and left the middle name area blank.  The hospital put "Frances" in that spot.  So, here I am.

I'm rambling... but I'm happy that you're still reading.

Anyway.  I got married and took the name Botkin.  I did come around and eventually loved my new surname.

And then we had kids.  And those kids would get sick.  And those kids were now in the waiting room at their pediatrician's office, and suddenly our name changed.

"Aaron Boykin?  And Alexander Boykin.  Come with me."

Eh?  Say again?  Now, I knew they she was referring to us; my children.  An honest mistake.  Once back in the room I politely corrected her.

Then the phone calls.  "May I speak to Mary Boykin, please?"  Again, most likely a simple mistake.
"That's BoTkin." I'd politely correct.

Now, being a family of four, we had bills to pay.  We still have bills to pay.  Every single collector that called "May I please speak to Robert Boykin?"  Telemarketers (before the Do Not Call list), "Is this the Boykin residence?"

I would just shake my head.

Years later, I would become very ill and began seeing a plethora of different doctors, specialists, and numerous nurses at various testing facilities. Every single nurse and receptionist - and I do mean EVERY ONE - called me "Mary Boykin"  I'm screaming inside my head. "WHERE on that sign in sheet do you see a Y in my last name!?"

Okay, I lie; there was that one nurse who got it right.  At Labcorp.  She said it like she knew me.  It slid off of her tongue like butter on a hot knife.  "Mary Botkin?"  Rob and I were actually speechless. It was beautiful!  Clouds parted with bright rays of gleaming sunlight as the angels sang!  I commended her. I told her why.  She was amazed. "Really?  It's so - phonetic!"  Yup.

When people call my home and ask for Robert, or Mary Boykin, I now tell them that "There is nobody here by that name." I wait.  "Oh, my apologies,"  and as I wait for them to re-say my name correctly (assuming that they are looking at whatever list they have), instead of hearing my name said correctly, they hang up!

It's become so bad that whenever someone asks me for my name, I say it like this:  "Mary BOT-kin." It's become second-nature now and  Rob laughs and mocks me.  It's truly come to that.  If I see a new doctor, or go anyplace that needs my name, chances are, they'll get it wrong. And these are educated professionals.  It's truly sad.

Which brings me to today.  My youngest son has been very ill for the past week and I have been emailing his teachers and his counselor daily with updates.  Now, I have known his counselor for years.  She is a wonderful woman and has been a great help to my son, academically, and socially.  I don't know what we would have done without her at times.

I emailed her and told her about Alex being in the emergency room last night.  Her response:

"Hello, Mrs. Boykin,"

**Bangs head against wall**

I used to want to get "Gambino" tattooed on my wrist.  I love it and miss it.  I may just have to forgo that idea go with this on my forehead, instead: