Great-Aunt Mary has joined us at the lake this week, and she has spent the day blueberry picking. She always wears an enormous smock over her clothing, handmade, of course, by my grandmother. The smocks have deep pockets that run the entire bottom width of the fabric. If she has been picking, these pockets are often berry-filled and welcome little hands for a sweet nibble. Berry picking means pie making when are at the lake. Carolyn and I help fill fresh-made pie shells with the contents of the smock. In the end, our fingers are stained and sticky, and Mom and Great-Aunt Mary take over.
Chapter 25, Ojai, 2015
I HOPE I GO FIRST
When I look at Carolyn move now I have glimpses of how my Great-Aunt Mary and my Grandma Vi walked when they got old. I tell my mother this. “Maybe that’s a gift,” she says.
“How could this be a gift, Mom?”
“It’s the gift of getting to see what she would have been like if you had lived in your old age together. When you are old and moving is a challenge, you will remember her now and picture her still with you.”
Before Carolyn is diagnosed, she and I always joke that our husbands would probably not outlive us. Our female Scandinavian ancestors lived tremendously long lives. My Great-Aunt Mary lived with us in her final years until she was ninety-seven years old. My Grandma Vi lived to almost ninety. My Great-Aunts Toto and Alice lived to be well over one hundred. Carolyn and I envision ourselves at this age, sharing a three-bedroom apartment at a fancy assisted-living facility in Santa Barbara. We’ll have our own rooms and a spare guest room for our old lady friends who’ll visit. We’ll learn to play bridge, and Carolyn will teach me Dominos or Pitch. We imagine that the best dinner seating in the communal dining room is given to the ladies with the best jewels, so we start our “need-for-when-we’re-old ladies” collection around 30. We “geek out”, buying many almost identical pieces – the same ring, for instance, from my jeweler friend, Brooke-Carolyn’s in topaz and mine in garnet. Carolyn makes matching rings for us out of a pair of my Grandmother’s jade and diamond earrings, and I make us matching sister rings out of my dad’s turquoise bolero ties after he passes away. We vow to be ALL about the shuttle at the facility; concerts, beach days, drop offs at exquisite shopping destinations, to maintain our communal dining room fashion credit and social standing. We won’t date in our old age. First of all, we determine men are scarce in these places. Secondly, we’ll have already “done that.” We’ll merely enjoy one another’s company until the end of our time…
“I hope I go first,” I say. “I’m much more emotional than you, and I don’t think I’d be able to eat alone in the communal dining room without you.”
“Bullshit,” she says. “You totally would, AND you’d wear all of my jewels!”
Chapter 26, Ojai, 2015
DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE
THIS MIGHT KILL ME! It sounds dramatic. I don’t mutter these words out loud. I am overwhelmed and suffocated. There are too many hats on my head and running away sounds appealing. What if I have a stroke? Carolyn and I were raised to totally commit to each “task at hand.” I can’t do this – care for this family at forty percent. I only function, as Carolyn did, at a one hundred percent level. This requires utilizing every minute of my waking time. If I get the unexpected gift of a few minutes between tasks, I freeze. What did I do before Carolyn got sick? I remember having a DVR favorite TV show list. I watched television shows! I loved books! I used to have a huge pile of books I was reading on my nightstand. Today on my nightstand there is a lamp, an almost empty bottle of melatonin, lip balm, an open, tipped-over bottle of Advil, and two sips of red wine in a clear glass with lipstick marks on the rim… last night’s leftovers. There are no books… just drugs and booze. Who have I become? And since when do I bring wine to bed?!
I am truly starting to question my mental state. I’m not suicidal. There is a big difference between understanding why one may want to kill themselves and actually being suicidal. I am “at the brink” - a polite expression my mother loves to use. Extreme stress changes my body. It makes me have a fuzzy brain and a horrible memory. I have had to put locator charms on my key chains so I can remember where I put them. I have learned how to set alarms for EVERYTHING on my iPhone so I won’t forget basic things - like events at the kids’ school and who I told could come to visit for the weekend. This seems crucial after a friend of Carolyn’s texts me, “We’re Here! Just checked into our hotel!”, and I have no idea who it is. I look up the area code of the phone number and slowly recall everyone I know who lives in Kansas City. I have started having crazy dreams that put to shame crazy dreams of the past. These new dreams are incredibly graphic in detail. Sometimes they feel real, like I’m not dreaming but walking through my room when I’m suddenly transported to another world, where I see silver gigantic cows or oxen (I have never seen an actual ox, but I have heard they are much larger than cows). They are more than silver. They glisten, almost as if diamonds or glitter are floating off their silver bodies and into the surrounding space. They are sitting on the front lawn of our house, and I see them in the middle of the night, accidentally at first, when I walk to the bathroom. My bedroom is at the front of the house, and there is an enormous window that overlooks an amazing hilltop view just beyond the front yard. We aren’t in view of any neighbors, so I never close the drapes at night.
The first night I am surprised by these ginormous creatures-it is around three am. Post-childbirth, this is my habitual middle of the night walk to the bathroom. The room is void of noise other than the slight, deep exhale of my sleeping husband. I can’t hear cars or music from the local bar, The Deer Lodge, like I do most nights. We live on a high hill and sound seems to travel from the end of the valley and land in our yard. This night I do hear crickets outside and the occasional cat defending its territory, lending credence to what I see. I have cracked the bedroom window, and a slight breeze gives me a chill as I pass. I see the glow first. I walk right to the front window, mesmerized by the faint sparkle that becomes larger the closer I get to the glass. There are three huge creatures on the lawn, reclining. They look relaxed and well-fed. I briefly wonder why they are not standing up, as I remember my childhood in the Midwest and tales of cow tipping. It dawns on me they are staying for awhile. They are content. I am also content. I go to the bathroom and back to bed. Surely I am dreaming. In the morning, I tell Dines about my dream. “I’m headed down the rabbit hole. I’m now seeing things!” I exclaim.
“Melatonin gives some people crazy dreams, honey,” he says while rolling over to tightly hug me like he does every morning. I sit up.
“No, this is not like a melatonin dream at all, Dines. This is trippy weird. This is so real. I might have actually seen silver oxen on our lawn! They were peaceful, like angels. They felt soothing. They were silent and beautiful. Sparkles surrounded them.”
Every night for the next few weeks creatures appear to me. They are always at peace, and I notice something more beautiful about them with each visit. Their sparkles reflect the stars in the sky. All of them have soulful blue eyes. One ox is larger than the other two. They have big furry ears. One night, one of the smaller creatures is wearing a lei of beautiful flowers. My lawn is dried up from the drought in Southern California, but the creatures seem to bring their own lush landscape. They feed on brilliantly green grass and chew on bushes much more robust than what I have planted in my drought-tolerant yard. Their faces seem kind. It’s almost as if I could walk out the front door and lie with them or even on them and gaze at the stars.
I take a brief weekend away at the urging of a lifelong friend who understands my stress. We escape to a relaxing desert spa. We sit in warm pools of mud and eat dinner in our bathrobes. I dream in the desert, but not of my sparkling creatures. I dream of my Great Uncle Hugh, my Grandpa Vern’s brother. He stands down the hill from our house, looking up but not walking up the road. This is not the first time I have seen him. After he died, when I was a little girl, I had dreams of Hugh each time a f
amily member and or a pet died. I would see him like I see the creatures, in the middle of the night outside my window. Most often he sat on the front roof of a car in the driveway, but once he stood right outside the front hall. He doesn’t speak to me but instead shows me images of his missing finger tip that I remember as a child. Hugh’s outfit is always the same - simple working-man’s clothing in muted colors. This was how men dressed in northern Minnesota when I was young. I am intrigued by my dream in the desert. He has always appeared close to the house in the past. Now he is farther away. It seems his message is this: “Death is looming but has not yet arrived.”
Right before Dines’ birthday, the creatures are on the lawn but not alone. Standing among them is my departed Grandpa Vern. It takes me a moment to decipher who is standing before me. Grandpa Vern always dressed like his brother. They were sons of a baker. Grandpa taught high school for most of his life. In retirement he owned a shop. My grandfather nursed my grandmother through her slow death from lung cancer and raised my mother’s sister who suffered from a rare neurological disease. In pictures, he was an extremely good-looking young man. He was a champion swimmer, and many remarked, “the kindest of all men.”
Carolyn adored Grandpa Vern. She named her son after him - Matson was his surname. Grandpa Vern leased me my first car when I was in college and bought me my first dog - a fluffy white Bichon Frise named Olivia. Grandpa died my second year away at school. My memories of him are full of joy, laughter, and thoughtful, patient conversation. My mother said when she was a child and would have bad dreams, he would wake up with her, and together they would make salad, eating it until they had worked out her dream. It has been pointed out to me that Dines is just like my Grandpa Vern. Perhaps this is why Dines felt like home when I met him and why Carolyn adored Dines just as much as she adored our Grandpa Vern.
“Grandpa, you’re here!” I say to him from the window overlooking the front lawn.
“Yes,” he answers as I begin to weep.
“Are you here with Uncle Hugh?” I ask through my tears.
“It seemed only right that I should help him,” Grandpa says.
“You are silver like those oxen,” I say.
“Yes. These are my gentle beasts. They are here waiting for Carolyn, just like I am. We are transporting her in our finest regalia.”
Grandpa Vern is bare chested and super muscular, like he was in the pictures I saw of him as a young man. His pants are as silver as his skin, and on his head he wears a crown that is over one foot high. It is filled with silver fruits, jewels, and ribbons. The frame of the crown is cut out of wood, Scandinavian in pattern. I recognize this pattern from Christmas decor in my childhood home, decades ago. He sparkles, too, like his gentle beasts. He carries a huge broad staff, curved at the top like the staff of a shepherd. His blue eyes look kind and alive, and I smile at seeing again the dimples I remember in his cheeks. I am not scared. I am happy for Carolyn. This is how she should leave this life - as a princess, in the safe care of the Nordic King.
Chapter 27, Ojai, 2015
YOU HATE ME
Carolyn has decided now that she hates all wine. In true Scandinavian style, vodka becomes her drink of choice. Since she is going through another steroid adjustment, she gets very upset if you don’t join her for one or two or three cocktails at exactly four o’clock. I am forty minutes past four due to the fact that my furniture installers were late delivering my client’s furniture. She is super mad. Chris has been in Los Angeles all day, and she is at my house with the kids and our helper, Emma. Kid noise has gotten to be too much for Carolyn. Her agitation gets worse as the day progresses.
“I’m sorry, sorry, sorry!” I yell as I enter the house. I have picked up a fresh bag of limes, which we were out of when I left earlier, so I know Carolyn hasn’t even been able to have Emma make her a drink. She insists on limes. She looks very upset – pissed off even.
“My furniture installer was late, Carolyn. I’m so sorry! But I got limes!” I sing-song say as I hold up the bag and a bottle of tonic and smile. “I’ll make us a drink!”
“All you do is work,” says Carolyn in a low, slow voice. “You don’t care about me. All you care about is work.”
“That’s not true, Carolyn. I am working just as hard as I always have…just as hard as you always have. You know what it’s like to run your own company. It’s all consuming, and sometimes I’m late because it doesn’t always run smoothly. I’ve had three installs this week, and with Chris gone and Dines at work all day, it’s tough to do it all perfectly. I’m doing the best I can.” My drink, I notice, is already empty. I drank one vodka tonic completely, in probably less than a minute, while making hers. I quickly make another, hand her a drink, and sit next to her on the couch.
“You hate me,” she says in an almost childlike voice.
“I hate your cancer, Carolyn. I love you.”
“I love these,” she says, smiling slightly and swallowing a sip.
“Next time I’ll try not to be late for our 4 o’clock date. This is our happy time, right?!” I sing-song say again.
“It’s one of the few things I can do,” Carolyn says.
Chapter 28, Minneapolis, 1985
SO TIRED I CAN’T…
Like clockwork, on the first day of summer vacation, Dad pulls the loaded van out of the driveway and heads to the woods of northern Minnesota. Mom waves from the passenger seat as she fastens her seat belt. I follow the bright red van, walking barefoot down the driveway as it disappears around the corner. I am in seventh grade. It is my first summer not going to camp. I feel too grown up for camp. I want to be at home like my big sister. Carolyn is in tenth grade. Our adult cousin, Jaana, from Finland, is staying with us. We are thrilled! Jaana is laid-back and fun. She’s almost six feet tall, always smiling or laughing. She has super tight, curly hair and a penchant (thank god) for eating the gross Scandinavian canned food Dad keeps in the pantry and serves us when mom’s not home (fish balls and pickled herring). We adore Jaana! She picks me up from swim practice daily and takes me through the McDonald’s drive-thru. She sneaks a cute orange cat, behind my dad’s back, into her basement bedroom. I visit it daily. She has been in her basement bedroom, studying for most of the week, and the house feels extra empty now that my parents are also gone.
It is almost silent on the main floor of the house, with the exception of the grandfather clock in the living room that chimes on the hour in a mellow tone. The absence of my father’s TV sport games loudly playing from the family room creates an unfamiliar calm. Carolyn decides it is definitely too quiet, and we are super bored. She invites our friends, sisters Jen and Steph, over to spend the night. They are both, looks-wise, opposite of Carolyn and me. Jen has extremely long legs and skinny arms. She has the look of Cindy Crawford or a young Janice Dickenson. Steph, at five-foot-ten, towers over my five-foot-two frame. Her long dark hair is naturally curly, and although I repeatedly tell her I am envious of her wild mane, she swears she’d much rather have short, straight, boring, dark blonde hair like me. Jen and Carolyn, being the “older sisters”, lock themselves in her bedroom and turn on the Psychedelic Furs at full volume. Steph and I can’t hear or see was they are doing, so we decide it’s a great night to “try” drinking. We open the Japanese stereo cabinet that my dad bought in Tokyo and converted stateside to a liquor cabinet…Tom Collins mix… rum, vodka, so many choices. We make a concoction only fit for a seventh grader and guzzle down two or three. Then a brilliant idea comes to mind! We must ride our bicycles to Super America, the nearby gas station, for snacks! Off we ride, returning home in a blurred haze of corn nuts and dilly bars, finally passing out on my hundred degree, heated coil-free waterbed.
Laughing is all I hear as I open my eyes suddenly, the sting of cold hose water hitting my face! Our older sisters are standing over my bed with the garden hose in their hands…I am confused and scream. Steph and I run outside, grabbing another garden hose, slinging it over the balcony to my bedroom, equipped
with the super power nozzle so it won’t turn on until we retrieve it upstairs.
“Oh my God, Lila!” my sister screams as I surprise her by hitting her back in the upstairs hallway with the full mode power nozzle switched on. An all out hose fight ensues between the four of us until Jaana interrupts us, reporting water is now dripping into the kitchen below where she has been consuming a new can of fish balls. We are suddenly overcome with the dread of being reported to our parents and beg Jaana to remain closed-mouthed about our antics. She agrees but sets up a dehumidifier and orders us to take the garden hoses out of the house. I’m so tired I can’t even try the cigarettes we bought at the gas station…
Chapter 29, Lake Tahoe, 2015
CHECKING INTO THE BETTY FORD CENTER SOON
It seems like Carolyn is in bed all the time. Her condition seems to be declining. The elevation at Lake Tahoe makes her balance worse, and things that were enjoyable, like movies and television, cannot hold her full attention. I feel her slipping away. I see her struggle to communicate with friends when they stop by. She has begun rolling her eyes at the prospect of visitors. The social girl (the queen bee of all social occasions, really) that I once knew is only present in rare moments. I update friends on social media that Carolyn’s journey is becoming more “private.” She wants fewer visitors. She wants less interaction if she goes into town. I encourage friends to wave or blow a kiss but not to instigate conversation. This is difficult in a town of 8,000 when, everywhere you go, there is bound to be someone you know.
The Situation Page 8