#She’d been battling cancer for years may she rest in peace

[yugiohz]

one of my profs passed away :(

[caranfindel]

Take these broken wings and learn to fly (15.20 coda)

het, but Wincest-compatible | about 2300 words | PG-13 for language | characters: sam winchester, sam’s blurry wife |

Julia has been widowed (God, what an awful word, widowed) for three years when she meets Sam. It’s a work-based friendship at first. She’s kind of lonely and sad, he’s kind of lonely and sad, and they gravitate toward each other. And then one evening they’re at a bar, the last ones left from an after-work happy hour, both of them drinking more than they should, and she thinks he’s kind and thoughtful and smart and he may be 10 years older than me but he’s still hot as hell and I enjoy being with him and I look forward to seeing him and maybe I should just… and she kisses him. He’s shocked; shocked enough to confirm that he wasn’t just hanging around hoping to make it out of the friendzone. And then he’s holding her face in his hands and he’s kissing her too.

It’s good. They’re good together. It’s not the earth-shattering, all-encompassing romance she had with Shaun. Julia knows she’ll never have anything like that again. Most people don’t even get one soulmate in their lives; no one gets two. And she knows Sam doesn’t have that same desperate love that Shaun had for her; she knows she’ll never have his whole heart. (She knows the woman he intended to marry was killed in a fire, she knows another woman he loved went back to her ex. She doesn’t know which of these women still owns that last piece of Sam’s heart.) But she loves Sam, and he loves her, and they get married.

(The sex is amazing. Sometimes he’s gentle, almost reverent, as if he’s afraid he’ll break her, and other times he’s fierce and passionate and almost tries to break her, and she loves both ends of the spectrum.)

She suggests they melt down her old wedding band to make a new one. It was an heirloom from her grandmother, a plain wide band of yellow gold that she loves, that she thought she’d wear for the rest of her life. But Shaun is the one who put it on her finger the first time. It doesn’t seem right to ask Sam to accept it now. A new band from the old gold seems like a good compromise. No, Sam says, I couldn’t ask you to do that. I know a way we can make it ours. He has the inside of the band engraved with the same symbol he wears tattooed over his heart, and makes her promise to never take it off. Bad luck, he says.

He’s such a contradiction. Scary smart, but as superstitious as an Appalachian grandmother. Calm and unflappable, but with a weirdly hyperactive startle reflex. Kind and empathetic, but capable of extreme violence when pushed to his limits (seriously, don’t walk your drunk ass up to Sam Winchester’s wife and lay hands on her, and don’t get mouthy when she tells you to back off) and just really, frighteningly skilled at that violence.

(A little frightening and also very sexy. Julia’s always had a thing for the hero type.)

They both have nightmares. One night Julia watches Shaun’s face melting under his gear and wakes with a cry of horror. Sam holds her as she tearfully describes living on the knife edge of constant fear that comes with loving someone whose job is literally running into burning buildings. I know, he says, over and over, even though he can’t possibly know. The irony of their first loves both dying in flames is not lost on her, but it’s not like his college girlfriend was a firefighter. It’s not like he watched her go to work every day and prayed she’d make it home alive.

Julia’s pregnancy is a wonderful surprise. She and Shaun had tried for over a year before she was widowed, and she just didn’t count on it happening with Sam. They agree not to name the baby after anyone they’ve lost. Let’s not name him after our pain, she says, and Sam is okay with that. (Or he isn’t. But ever since she showed him the positive pregnancy test, she’s known she could ask him for anything. She’s known he would rip out his heart and serve it on a platter if she asked for it.)

But they haven’t decided on a name yet when her water breaks four weeks early. When their perfect baby boy is born at 12:10 a.m., the nurse announces the date and time and Sam looks up at her in shock and blinks away happy tears and says it’s the 24th. It’s my brother’s birthday. Julia is flying high on endorphins; she loves this baby and she loves this man and she even loves his dead brother she never got to meet, and she says it’s got to be a sign; let’s name him Dean.

She takes off her wedding ring, just this once, to have Dean’s birthdate engraved on the inside. Sam does the same with his own ring. He insists they go to a jeweler who will engrave while they wait, rather than leaving the rings there. She waves a hand at her lumpy postpartum body. You afraid someone’s gonna make a move on all this if you don’t keep a ring on it?

He laughs at her and says you’re onto me, even though he’s the one who needs to be locked away, still with that long lean runner’s body and the amazing shoulders and the goddamn dimples. I just don’t like us being without them, he says. He is a sweet, sentimental fool and she adores him. He bends down to kiss her, carefully maneuvering the baby he’s wearing in a sling, and Julia looks at this man and this baby and this life she didn’t think she was get to have and knows she’s happier than she has any right to be. And she’s relieved when Sam slips the ring back onto her finger, this ring imbued with the men she loves, so maybe he’s not the only sentimental fool.

(One thing she loves about Sam is that he understands why she feels guilty that Shaun didn’t get to share this life with her.)

In July they light a little candle for Dean’s six-month birthday. When Julia wakes the next morning, Sam’s side of the bed is empty and cold. She finds him cuddling their sleeping baby in the living room. I got up to give him a bottle, Sam says. I guess I just fell asleep out here. His red-rimmed eyes and empty coffee mug suggest he didn’t actually sleep at all, but, well. They’re both battling their own private demons. If a night cradling the baby gives Sam some peace for whatever reason, she’s glad of it.

Sam’s fierce love for their child takes her by surprise. If Julia has 90% of his heart, his son has 110%. He parents with a vengeance, is the only way she can think of to describe it. Like he’s making up for something. She doesn’t feel slighted, but it’s impossible to ignore that ever since Dean was born, Sam’s prime objective has been to make sure the boy is happy and safe. Everything else comes second.

(When she notices Sam has been carefully marking his tattoo symbol onto Dean’s clothing, hidden near seams and always in a color that almost matches the fabric, she decides not to say anything. He gets a little funny about his superstitions sometimes.)

Sam desperately wants Dean to have a sibling, and they try for another one, but it doesn’t happen. Julia reminds him that they’re lucky to have even one child. That having a sibling is not a lifetime guarantee of companionship and love. She should know, after all, since Stephanie cut her off after she married that asshole Scientologist and decided she couldn’t have a relationship with anyone who wasn’t also in their stupid cult.

Dean has plenty of friends and tons of activities, which Sam encourages with an almost religious fervor, but he never pulls away from his parents. They have so much in common, Sam and his son. Instead of rebelling as a teenager, Dean seems to grow even closer to his father. They spend hours together, paging through the ancient books in Sam’s study (she hates them, they smell musty and make her sneeze) or driving in the old Chevrolet. They even travel together sometimes, visiting those friends of Sam’s that live up north somewhere. Julia met them at the wedding and they were perfectly nice, thrilled to death that she and Sam had found each other. But she always feels like an outsider when they’re around, like they’re part of something she’ll never understand. So much history, with Sam and the brother she never got to meet. They absolutely dote on Dean though, and he seems to love them too, so the boys’ trip to Sioux Falls becomes an annual event.

(Dean is 14 years old when he comes home from one of these trips with his own version of the tattoo.)

When Julia is diagnosed with cancer, Dean is 16 years old. Sam does his best to ensure life goes on as normal for their son but somehow never neglects Julia’s needs. He throws himself into research and is always on top of the latest treatment, always at her elbow with the top internet-recommended remedy for her side effects, making sure both she and Dean have everything they want and need, all the attention and support they can tolerate. She doesn’t know when, or if, Sam actually sleeps. When she feels up for it, he arranges experiences for the three of them. A week lying on the beach, a weekend in New York City, a night in the mountains looking at the stars. When we look back on this time, he says, I don’t want us to only remember how much it sucked. I want us all to have good memories too.

(She doesn’t know why he’s concerned about her memories. There’s a good chance she won’t have much time to enjoy them. But it’s good for Dean. She doesn’t want this to ruin Dean’s childhood.)

Sam insists Dean go away to college as planned. Julia agrees, although she’s kind of surprised he’s willing to let the boy out of his sight. Aren’t you going to miss him? she asks.

So much, he answers. But this isn’t about me, and what I need. It’s about him. They drive Dean to school in the ancient Chevrolet. Supposedly because the trunk has room for all of his stuff, but Julia is pretty sure it’s just one last sentimental road trip in the old thing before Sam retires it. When they pick Dean up at the end of the school year, it’s in her SUV. Dean promises his father, more than once, that he’ll restore the Chevy someday.

Five years after Julia’s diagnosis, she’s sitting in the doctor’s office learning that her last remission was her last remission. There are no more options. She has months, not years. Sam clutches her hand and nods, once, as if to say I should have known this would happen; I should have expected something like this. Then he takes her home.

It’s a blessing in a way, he says late that night, after a little too much to drink. Knowing what’s coming. Having time to say goodbye. You don’t always get that. And yes, she knows this as well as anybody does.

Sam has always been supportive of her choice not to contact Stephanie, but one day he says Jules, I promise I’ll never bring it up again. It’s just that I don’t want you to have any regrets. I don’t want you miss the opportunity to say things that you’ll wish you’d said. Julia isn’t sure Steph will speak to her. She’s not even sure she’ll have the same phone number — they haven’t spoken since Dad’s funeral, a year after she was widowed — but she makes the call. And Steph answers. And cries. And comes to visit, where she hugs and cries some more. Sam watches it all with a sad smile for a while, then disappears into the garage to sit in the old Chevy.

When Julia takes her last conscious breaths, Dean is holding one hand and Sam is holding the other. She squeezes her son’s hand and thinks I love you, dear boy, and I’m sorry I have to leave you. She squeezes her husband’s hand and thinks thank you for giving me this, thank you for taking care of me, thank you for loving me and letting me love you. Then she closes her eyes and lets the soft, warm darkness take over.

And then. Then she wakes to a cool breeze and the sound of chirping birds. She’s standing at a lake she recognizes. It’s Shaun’s favorite fishing spot. And Shaun is there, waiting for her. And everything is okay.

Sam does show up eventually. Julia’s sitting on the porch of the cabin with Shaun, enjoying the perpetual nice day (sometimes a spring morning, sometimes a fall afternoon, but always nice) when she hears the familiar rumble. It cant be, she thinks. It can’t be that old car. But it is.

I’m glad you found someone with good taste in cars, Shaun says, as Sam unfolds himself from the driver’s seat. He looks exactly as he did the day she met him; no glasses, only a little grey at his temples. Still tall and strong and beautiful. She runs to meet him and embraces him as Shaun watches from the porch.

You found Shaun, Sam says. I’m so happy for you, Jules. I really am. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of joining her (their) Heaven permanently, but he doesn’t seem to have anyone else with him either. Where is the dead girlfriend? How is this fair?

They talk about Dean, and Julia’s heart swells with pride over her strong, smart, kind, brave son. He’s like you, she says. He’s just like you.

Sam shrugs. He’s a Winchester.

But what about you? she says. You’re not — you’re not alone here, are you?

Nah, he says. I’m good. I promise.

(Eventually Julia meets the first Dean, and she understands.)

===

I know a lot of people have mocked Sam's blurry wife, but I actually have grown to love the concept. Because it means she can be anything we want her to be. And yeah, initially I liked the idea of her being Dr. Cara, or Eileen. But now I don't think that would happen. I think Sam would have to start fresh to have that kind of relationship. And I also like the idea of Sam's wife having her own soulmate somewhere, waiting for her, so she's not a huge part of Sam and Dean's shared Heaven. I mean, they're gonna visit, obviously. And then they'll go home to their soulmates.

The title is from "Blackbird" by the Beatles.

[dyinglightroleplay]

𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒.

NAME : Arabella Petra Figg RELATIONSHIP TO THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX : Member ( active - duty ), On-call Non - Magical Physician AGE / BIRTHDATE : 37 Years Old / born 16 July 1942 at 10:02pm EST ZODIAC SIGN : Cancer ( sun ), Virgo ( moon ), Aquarius ( rising ) EDUCATION : Université de Paris / Université Pierre-et-Marie-Curie ( MD ) BLOOD STATUS : Pureblood Squib

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

✧     Benjy Fenwick ( platonic ) ✧     Peter Pettigrew ( antagonistic ) ✧     Gabriel McKinnon ( player’s choice )

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐍.

Directing the makeshift infirmary created at Order Headquarters following the Battle of Hogwarts.  She’s yet to hear a full report of the battle’s events.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 : 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍.

PLAYER : Mod Rivka FACECLAIM : Rachelle Lefevre URL : @aerabella

𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: BLOOD SUPREMACY, GASLIGHTING, ALLUSIONS TO THE SHOAH, WAR

ZERO / RISING. * How is your character perceived by others?  What mask do they wear, and is there more than one?

The biggest current conflict in Arabella's life is, frankly, that she's essentially leading two of them --- --- she's spending her days ( and three nights a week on call ) at Charing Cross Hospital, working as a general surgeon, and her nights ( and nearly every waking hour she isn't working ) making herself available for Order business.  These two worlds hardly dovetail in any convenient, meaningful way, and often, Arabella feels more like she's being slowly - pulled apart between them than she is bridging any sort of gap.  And, as the War progresses this feeling only intensifies for her, bringing a new companion in doubt.  Albus' move to the Ministry saw one of her major remaining ties to the Magical world frayed, and she can't help but feel lost ; the disintegration of her relationship with Alastor, no matter how necessary or mutual, hasn't helped that.  Arabella has always relied on her uncanny ability to seek strongholds in people, rather than places, in friends rather than family, to keep herself tethered to the life she's chosen.  But even that is called into question as the Order steadily begins to turn inward, as bonds strain, as the stakes raise in ways she's not even certain herself she can withstand.  

Something I'd really like to investigate with Arabella is how much of her literal existence is affected by continual, subtle gaslighting --- --- even unconsciously, bias lives so intertwined with Magical politics that not a single day goes by where she doesn't question her place in this world, or her ability to participate in it.  Losing Albus’ influence only fuels this, leaves her unsteady enough to begin to doubt her own competence, her own power ; while she may not have Magic, she's never felt its lack as keenly as she has in the days since the news of the Battle of Hogwarts broke.  And of course, she's grown used to fighting this, she's grown used to proving herself time and again at tests that never would have been presented to her if she could wield a wand.  But the weight of displacement wears, a quiet wound she doesn't dare mention for fear of seeming too needy, too weak, too much.  Arabella has spent her life taught, continually, that who she is, who she was born to be, is something of an accident, a problem, a tragedy, something to be hidden or forgotten, something to be ashamed of.  And the fear in that self - fulfilling prophecy --- that by asking for help, that by speaking about her insecurity or her fear, that by appearing anything but self - possessed and certain she's somehow proving them right --- keeps her from growing past it.Additionally, I'd really like to explore the shape Arabella's role in the Order takes, as a non-magical person.  We know that she spends her life as this 'double agent', continuing undercover and keeping an eye on Harry as he grows up on Privet Drive --- --- how does she get to that point?  What about her training, her personality drew Dumbledore to that conclusion, fostered that trust?  And what is she doing now, in his absence?  She's a woman with military training, an accomplished physician, but these are not valuable skills to Magical eyes ; how does Arabella translate her accomplishments for Magical colleagues in order to establish her competence and earn their regard?  And what does she do with it, once she's finally managed to earn it?  What inspires her to carry on even after the fall of You Know Who, even after Lily and James' deaths?  Why does she continue to devote her life to a world that has, from the moment she was born, tried so hard to forget her ?

And perhaps it's the nature of a woman brought up across two worlds, but Arabella is a woman of contradictions.  She is brutally soft, she is tender in equal measure as she is tough.  From a very young age, she understood that she, and she alone, was responsible for her happiness, for her safety, for her security, for her love.  Coming of age the non-magical child of pureblood parents taught her early that no one would make space for her, if she did not demand it.  And does that necessarily always make her the easiest to get along with?  Of course not.  But has it made her singleminded, driven, powerful in ways that she would not have been otherwise ?  Absolutely.  She exists in a space entirely of her own making, and taking that space is a purposeful, continual choice.  Arabella is, above all, protective of this, and careful to only allow people into that space who will respect it, or help her maintain it.

Ruled by her emotions ( a true water sign ! ), Arabella thinks with her heart, with her gut.  She's intelligent, well - spoken and well - educated, but pragmatism doesn't serve her ; she's action - oriented, stubborn, and proactive.  Still, she is steady - handed, and is less about the rush of acting before thinking and more about the dominant emotion of the action --- --- while she allows her emotions to dictate her choices, time has given her the benefit of perception and self - awareness.  She learnt empathy long before she decided to pursue medicine, and discovered the joy in using her perceptiveness to bring others peace early in life.  Guided, always, by her heart, Arabella presents a calming, opening presence, but it is not one that she abides being used or taken for granted.  And again, this is where her fundamental duality comes into play ; she can be generous, kind, and affectionate with those she trusts with those energies, but she can be equally cold, distant, or aggressive with people who've proven themselves unworthy of that emotional labor.  Protecting herself --- because, truthfully, she doesn't trust others to do it --- takes precedence here.

A classic introvert, Arabella can come across as quiet or aloof, but her rich inner life --- and vibrant energy, shown to those who know her well --- fills her time and keeps her from retreating inward or closing herself off fully.  However, she has a distinct confrontational side, and one that is not always to her advantage ; Arabella wears her anger, just like her heart, on her sleeve.  Despite this, she is not a good arguer, preferring instead to sort through her own feelings first to address her needs, if possible.  Sensitivity and intuition rule here, as well, and while Arabella is at her most obvious when angry or frustrated, she is very particular about whether or not 'fighting it out' will serve her, or simply take away her peace.  This combination is interesting, especially for a woman who prioritizes herself, especially for a woman stretched between two worlds as she is --- --- Arabella is, truly, the sort of unbothered who can decide if a confrontation will not be worth it long before it comes to a head.  In this way, her anger is valuable to her --- --- not as a weapon, but as a means to separate out what is and is not worth her investment. 

ONE / THE SUN. * Choose one to explore : what about their personality, general preferences, sense of self / ego, or fundamental traits attracted you to them?

I have .... so quickly fallen in love with Arabella, in the same way I fell in love with Davey, as an opportunity to really dig deep and explore intersections in this universe that don't usually get much attention.  With Arabella, there's a chance to delve into how Squibs interact with the magical world in a time where their very existence is questioned even more than it usually is --- --- where do Squibs fall in the hierarchy desired by blood purists ?  What part of their identity is more valuable, is more important, is more easily leveraged, politically and interpersonally ?  And what does it feel like to be part of a sub - group so small that you might very well be the only you you know ?  But even beyond that, Arabella presents the opportunity to look into the worth of a woman's work, and how its gauged in a society that fundamentally considers her to be 'broken'.  Children raised in magical homes who end up without magic don't have that Hogwarts Moment that Muggleborn children do ; at eleven years old, at ten, maybe even earlier, Arabella's entire world got infinitely smaller, rather than broader.  She was raised in one culture and fundamentally turned out of it, how does she cope with the intersection ?  What life does she chose ?  How does a Witch who can't perform magic parse her own identity and how does she go about making space for herself to just exist ?  And all of this, of course, viewed with the Dark Lord's war as the backdrop .... I can't wait to tell the rest of her story.  I can't wait to hear it.

The Order is not Arabella's first time amongst soldiers, but it is undoubtedly her first time fearing for them.  Albus was never a man of great explication, preferring to work as close to omnisciently as possible in what was, at least she'd believed, an attempt to protect anyone else from the pain and loss of the great labor of war.  But as the recruits skewed younger, as the faces seated 'round the meeting's table grew rounder, softer, before they became fewer altogether, Arabella caught herself thinking less and less like an Officer.  And the newest ones, the youngest ones, they are fierce and indomitable in ways the Order undoubtedly needs to re - invigorate their efforts, but is that worth this ?  Is that worth losing them ?  It seems absurd that a world of magic, armed with the fantastic and limited only imagination, could fall so easily into a pattern repeated in the wake of the waste laid to the Muggle world mere decades before.  She wants to be hopeful, she wants to see that ferocity and conviction and let it reassure her, let it comfort her, let it reignite her own fire.  But Wizards are so ineffably human, in this way --- --- as prone to mistakes as they are to a fervent refusal to acknowledge them.  So she worries, instead.

TWO / THE MOON. * Which color would you associate most strongly with them and the emotions that dominate them?  Describe however you’d like.

MUTED TONES.  Lavender, clary sage, rose quartz --- --- soft but lingering, perfumed, precious, protective.  Spring rain on windowpanes making watercolor, worn - in knits, velvet or silk, the thatch of an aging floral sofa run - through with unmistakable cat scratches yet beloved all the same, comfortable all the same.  Multi - colored capsules and oils, blood seeping pink through the white threads of sterile gauze, the faint - orange stains of iodine left behind and the quiet yellow of sterile soap caught under cut - short fingernails.  The blue - lipped hush of the operating theatre, and the lavender tinge of dawn that greets her as she leaves ; sunset - colors of desert and death, white enveloping as some believe it will always do, when life leaves this world.  The sweet melt of candlelight across a familiar face, the pale gold pinch of a well - baked challah, burnished gold and the cream droplets of dried wax. 

THREE / MERCURY. * What is this character’s area of expertise? Where do they excel?

Several years of Medical study and residency later, Arabella is currently practicing as a hospital - based general surgeon.  She spent two tours of French Army duty as a field medic, first at eighteen ( and simply an assistant ) and again at 35 and running her own team.  She's also an active participant in Médecins Sans Frontières, helping to train younger physicians in field strategies they might use abroad, and while she hasn't yet had the pleasure of taking a humanitarian trip herself --- blame this war, of course --- she very, very much wants to.

Despite being unable to accomplish any Magic on her own, Arabella takes careful consideration and great pride in finding and placing protective objects and plants in her personal spaces.  Growing up so entrenched in Magical culture meant she sees the efficacy --- and the appeal --- of utilizing crystals, candles, oils or scents, and herbs for their healing, safeguarding, and enriching properties.  She's also a rather adept Tarot reader --- --- the grey area between everyday magic and Magic is expansive.  

[icanseeyoufromhere]

In remembrance

I’ve struggled for weeks with this post. I will warn you now, it contains sadness and turmoil. It might not be easy to read. (Although, who knows? I am only just writing it now myself.) But it is necessary that I write this, and so here I am.

On December 29, 2018, my beloved mom, Jane Marie Cyr, passed away.

Her death was not unexpected. She had been very, very ill for months. Her third (!) bout with cancer began in 2016. Unlike the first two rounds, this one was terminal. But she fought it for two years--two years in which she hugged her grandchildren, traveled, sent friends and family cards and gifts, checked in on her own kids daily, and rarely, if ever, discussed her disease. That last part is important. Until only three or four months ago you would never know that cancer was ravaging her body. Can you imagine? Cancer truly is all around us.

Anyway, her decline began at the end of August. In a matter of days she went from living on her own (lunching with friends, driving to the city, gardening) to needing help walking to the bathroom. The cancer, we found out, had spread to her spine and brain. She had leptomeningeal disease, a rare symptom of breast cancer that, funnily (ironically? tragically?) enough, is becoming more common now that we know how to keep breast cancer fighters alive longer. Is there an opposite to a silver lining? Because my mom was strong enough to survive cancer for so long, she became victim to what seems like one of its cruelest manifestations. Toward the end she could do nothing on her own. In August, my mom was in Greece on vacation, riding horses and marveling at the tones of blue around her. (Blue was her favorite color. Greece was her dream vacation.) By November she could not stand by herself. She could barely eat. 

These details are uncomfortable but necessary. My mother was perfectly healthy--her heart, her lungs, her skin, her everything--but for cancer. Again, can you imagine? Such a vibrant woman. Such a fucking awful disease.

Anyway, the months of her decline were a blessing and a curse. I spent a lot of time with her. I began mourning her passing in early September. I had time to grieve before the hard work of saying goodbye, in a permanent sense, began. I thanked her, told her I loved her, made sure my kids touched her, sat with her, gave her hugs.

But, as it turns out, my mother’s rapid decline took off shortly after I had reached a pivotal moment in my own work in therapy. In trying to comb through and better understand my weaknesses, we had come to the (inevitable?) point of discussing my parents and, in particular, my mom. Her weaknesses, as a parent and as a person, became points of contention. I hated the discussion; refused to admit to her imperfections; and avoided whenever possible the topic at all.

In my mind, my mother was perfect. To be sure, I know rationally that no one is perfect. But my mom was always the exception. To come to that conclusion was not totally bizarre. Ask anyone: My mom was kind and generous. She was beautiful. She never forgot a birthday. She’d stay up late to make cookies if she knew they were your favorite and you were having a bad day. She showered her children, and then her grandchildren, with praise and gifts and love. She was always trendy and looked ten, maybe twenty?, years younger than she was. She survived my dad’s death with grace and integrity. She battled cancer three times and never seemed the worse for it. She was, by many metrics, inhuman in her life.

Our in-therapy discussions of her flaws were like a slap in the face. They made me deeply angry. The image of my mother had become irreversibly tainted (because, once you see the chips in the crystal, how can you unsee them?). I stopped going to therapy. I felt betrayed.

And then my mom’s health turned. Her death was near, and all I could think about were her weaknesses. I cried a lot. I stopped writing. I barely worked.

You know, patience was never my mother’s strong suit. She liked efficiency and saw no point in putting off till tomorrow what we could do right now. But there is a (selfish?) part of me that thinks that my mom waited to die until I came out of the other end of the dark tunnel I had entered with my therapist. Indeed, over the months of her decline, I had the time to reflect on my relationship with her--the good, impossibly joyous aspects of it as well as its seedier underbelly.

In that time, my understanding of humanity changed. I began to see that one’s imperfections did not cancel out their strengths. Instead, they worked together in a symbiotic relationship, giving us nuance, shaping our character, making us unique. My mom’s flaws did not obscure her goodness. Instead, they made it brighter. 

What good is unconditional love if there are no conditions to test it?

My usually impatient mother gave me the time to work through these ideas. She waited as I traveled back and forth from Tucson to Chicago, juggling teaching and her care. She waited, still, on the night of her death, as I--her middle child, her gray-hair baby, ever the black sheep of the family--arrived to the hospice care facility. I was famished. I warmed up some leftover food in the room, ate it and even washed my hands before I took my place, next to my sister and brother, by my mom’s side. I took her hand and within minutes she took her last breath. 

***

2018 was quite the year for me. I mothered two small children. I finished writing my second book. I battled cancer. I underwent surgery and chemotherapy and endured serious problems during recovery. 

Without question, however, the hardest thing I had to do last year was say goodbye to my mom. Her way of being seemed, at times, inhuman in its brilliance. But my mother was unquestionably human--a paragon of humanity in all of its brightness and color, light and dark. 

I am so grateful to have known her. I am so proud to be of her. May she rest ever in peace, and may those of us who knew her shine even brighter in her memory.

[bubblythewanderlust]

Radha Ma.

The second I step into her house, the aroma of freshly cooked food fills the room. Don’t forget to take off your shoes or wash your hands or you just may get a beating from her. She’s five foot tall and 100 pounds, but the strongest person you’ll meet thus far. She is not only strong, but the most positive, upbeat person you’ll ever meet. She is my rock. That’s my Radha ma.

She welcomes us with a warm heart and open arms whenever my sister and I used to come visit her since we were younger. If we weren’t at her doorstep, she would come at ours saying, “What happened? You forgot your hip and young sixteen year old aunt?” That’s my Radha ma.

When we were younger she’d come pick us up on the weekends, treat us to cheese pizza from the place she liked and take us out to the park to have a picnic. She always said that God made this world so beautiful while my sister and I race each other on our scooters against our cousin. She showed me to enjoy the simple things, the little details and cherish the little that does make you happy and keep you going. That’s my Radha ma.

My traditional parents, being that my sister and I are the first generation to be born here, did not want me going to my friend’s house, or sports games, or even birthday parties. School was only a place to learn, not to make friends. She became my friend. She took me to hang out with my friends from school, or carnivals and even birthday parties. She even talked to me about boys. She supported me when I needed her most, and now it’s my turn. That’s my Radha ma.

Currently, she’s strongly fighting the battle of a stage four cancer in her lymph nodes. A woman who was always healthy, taught me to eat healthy organic foods, and almost convinced me to be vegetarian, has been patiently undergoing chemotherapy and radiation to take over her life again, and believe me she’s a fighter in that aspect, but she loves all. That’s my Radha ma.

March of last year was when her first surgery took place. She had the cancerous tumor removed from her lymph nodes. She had her tongue reconstructed. She had a graft from her thigh that was not viable to supplement her tongue reconstruction and then had another graft taken from her wrist. She underwent a ten hour surgery and even then, she would yell at me for not making the bed or not cleaning something a certain way. That’s my Radha ma.

After the surgery, it was my turn to be her rock. I was there to change her bandages, to help her into her clothes, to bathe her, and to take her medication, yet still, she packed lunch for school and work, and made sure I had some sort of money on me just in case. She started radiation, and that was ineffective. She grew weaker, but was always strong in my eyes. That’s my Radha ma.

She had no choice but to continue fighting and she did. She underwent weeks and weeks of chemotherapy. Being that the cancer was in her neck, she had a feeding tube put in to feed her stomach directly. We weren’t able to enjoy cheese pizza and go to the park anymore. But instead I was able to give her massages when she was in pain and help her do small exercises to maintain her muscle tone. Today, she is still suffering, but she suffers with a smile. Her faith keeps her together. That’s my Radha ma.

Someone once said the love you give is what you receive, and boy did my Radha ma give me love. She taught me to be a fighter and be strong through the toughest times. She taught me to believe in my faith. She taught me to be a person of my word. She taught me to be humble and happy with the things I have done and accomplished. She is my rock. She is my Radha ma.

Rest in peace my beautiful Radha Ma. 4/11/2016. 

365 days.