Wild and Precious Life

by Deborah Ziegler

  “The ‘apologize’ part of her brain isn’t there anymore. It hasn’t been there for a while, hon,” Gary said, reaching for my hand.

  I thought about Brittany’s brain, and how some of it was missing and some of it was tangled and choked with the tentacles of her tumor.

  I vacillated between feeling like the worst mother on earth and feeling like an abused mother. Finally I found it therapeutic to make a book of photos of Brittany and me. I decided to design the book around a baseball theme, since Brittany had told me that I hadn’t knocked motherhood “out of the park.” It was my way of trying to heal myself and reach out to her at the same time.

  The title of my creation was Hitting It Out of the Ballpark—Being Brittany’s Mother. On the cover was a photo of me giving Brittany a kiss as she ducked to avoid me. Inside were impish photos of her as a child, photos of us over the years, and quotes that I thought related to both baseball and motherhood.

  I wrote, in part:

  I do see some similarities between mothering and baseball. Of course it would be great to knock the ball out of the park, but that’s not what professional players are usually trying to do. They simply train themselves to strike the ball well, and they can do it almost without thinking. . . . Occasionally they do manage to strike it just perfectly and it flies like a rocket. Oh, to have felt that moment. I don’t think I’ve hit mothering out of the park. I did eat, sleep, and breathe mothering. I showed up, played pretty smart, and swung with everything I had.

  The last page of the book was a photo of me whispering in Brittany’s tiny shell of an ear when she was little. I wrote, “How many times have I whispered ‘I love you’ in Brittany’s ear?”

  I had a copy mailed to Brittany in Oregon, hoping it would soften her heart.

  In early September, I sent an email to Brittany. I felt strange being in Southern California, tending to my ailing father’s needs and letting others tend to her care. But I was sure that at this moment, her young, intelligent, and resilient friends were doing a better job with Brittany than I had been doing. This wasn’t fun to acknowledge; in fact, it hurt like hell. I continued to email my daughter, trying to let her know that her kicking me out of the house had not changed my love.

  One thing of which you may be sure. I love you. I have loved you since I first felt you move beneath my ribs. I understand that at this time in your life you find more confidence and comfort in the presence of others. I am grateful to anyone who commands this respect from you—who can be that rock for you. For some reason, old worn out patterns of the mother daughter dance are especially grating on your nerves right now. If you really love someone—you step aside so that that person can be calmed and comforted by those who do a better job than you do. It doesn’t mean that there weren’t thousands of times that I was exactly the right person to give you care. It just means that right now—in this instant—I am not. It was clear in the days before I left that I was irritating you and providing little if any added value. I think of you each day, each hour. I pray unceasingly.

  Brittany emailed me back on September 8.

  I just got this and wanted to say I LOVE YOU SO MUCH MOM. It’s not fair . . . it’s not fair . . . it’s not fair. Your emails bring me to tears but they are a tear that must be shed. They have to come out. I am so sorry I am dying. I am trying so hard to be brave and do what is right.

  I love you, that love will ALWAYS be with you, nothing can ever take it away. Ever.

  Your daughter,

  Britt

  I booked a flight back on September 31, following the directions that Brittany had screamed at me. She had said she didn’t want to see me until October. It came as a surprise to me when she later said, “Everyone loves the book you did for me, but no one gets why you used baseball quotes.” I bit back an answer, realizing that Brittany might not remember saying that I hadn’t knocked motherhood out of the park, that she didn’t want to see me again for a month, if ever. It happened over and over again: my thinking she meant what she said, and her not remembering it at all.

  My on-and-off attendance in my father’s life had created problems, although since his eyesight and hearing had also degenerated over the last year, it was hard to know what the source of his rage and depression was. Dementia had steadily built plaque between the synapses of his brain, causing it to harden and shrink.

  Prior to Brittany’s illness, my steady presence seemed to stabilize his moods. I think I made him feel safe and needed. I knew all of Daddy’s stories, could finish his sentences. Sometimes I knew how to make him feel that he was still a contributing member of society—something very important to him. I convinced him that his job at his caregiving center was to thank all the musicians who came to perform. I encouraged him to clap and call out “yee-haw!” at songs that were particularly good. Dad referred to the caregivers as “people he worked with” and where he lived as “a pretty good outfit to be employed by.” He wore a different cowboy hat each day of the week. All seven hats hung on hooks in his room, and at night he would count them before going to sleep.

  Although our friend Pamela graciously moved into our home and visited Daddy daily, his mood and weight had dropped significantly in the last nine months. We were blessed to have such a caring, loving person step in to care for my father in our absence, and Daddy’s life had been as stable as possible, given the circumstances.

  Try as I might, I didn’t think I could fool my father, now ninety-two and losing his memory. I think that like everyone else, he could sense my grief and pain. But it wasn’t appropriate to tell Daddy anything other than “Brittany is sick, and sometimes I have to go away and take care of her.”

  I tried to coax Daddy into eating. I made him chocolate milkshakes with Ensure and ice cream. Sometimes he spat or sprayed the shake on me, and I ended up wearing it home. In the caregiving world, it seemed that everyone I touched was dying.

  I watched Brittany’s visits with friends on Facebook, having become a voyeur of my daughter’s life.

  Finally I emailed another letter to Brittany. I wanted to let her feel that doing what she needed to do, including not having me around, was all right.

  Darling daughter—(these are words from my heart—I don’t want these words to make you cry with weakness—if you weep, let it be tears of strength . . . you are fiercely strong.)

  You are flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, a matching soul in the universe. We know each other so well, and yet in some ways we are mystified by each other. You are the first thing I think about when I wake up. Even pregnant, I’d touch my tummy and think of you. I have prayed for your safety and happiness more than I’ve prayed for my own.

  You are the only human being that if by offering my life I could give you more time to live in joy, I would sign up in a flat second.

  I want to soothe your soul, smooth your brow, massage your legs, feet, shoulders. I don’t want to make you angry or anxious. If you need me—I will come. If it is easier to do fun things with friends—be with those who are of your own age who are good at sharing youthful fun and laughs—I will come later.

  This is excruciating. Yes, we need to get all dolled up and go out on the town. Laugh about some old memories. For me, I think pain is etched upon my face, but I will try to shake it off and live “in the moment” with you.

  You are beautiful. You are smart. You are a giver. You are the bravest woman I know. I thought I had a pretty big pair of cojones, but you are much bolder—much braver than I am. You will die as you have lived, with no looking back—you will just look forward and overcome every obstacle—creating the person/soul you will be for eternity . . . I’m convinced that the next journey you take will be full of beauty and understanding. You will look back at all the exploring and traveling you did here on earth and smile. Each bit of this world that you explored prepared you for the best journey of all. This is my heart’s understanding. This is my heart’s joy.

  I know that this is not fair. You are too young. The first thing that go
es through my mind sometimes is that there was a quickening, a knowing, inside of you so early in life. You lived more life in less than 30 years than most of us live in a lifetime. Somewhere inside your old soul—you knew. You went for everything with such gusto . . . no trepidation.

  Now you ready yourself for another journey. You will travel light. Your body no more than a favorite soft, warm garment that you enjoyed wearing and were so reluctant to part with. As beautiful and feminine and strong as that body was—it cannot hold a candle to your fearless spirit. Your warrior princess iron will. The will to . . . Improve . . . Move forward . . . Know more . . . Love more . . . Accept more . . .Challenge yourself more . . .

  Nothing can put out the flame inside you . . . though this illness is trying. You will not be diminished. You will not be brought down. You will be lifted up. I lift you up.

  If I can be a calming steady presence by your side—I will come to you. If my presence brings up old angry feelings, I don’t want to be a vehicle for those feelings. As you plan these special coming days, weeks, months—put me where your heart and gut tell you I will be of greatest solace to you. Leave me out when you think that my grief will be an additional burden to carry. You need steady—steadfast—perhaps less emotional people with you at times.

  I have been everything I knew how to be to you for almost 30 years. Now I must trust that you know what will be best for you in this stressful time. I want you to have the dignity that this whole medical option is built around. You are wise far beyond your years. I have nothing I need to prove. My agenda is not important. With all my heart I want to free you of a feeling of obligation. Do what you need to do. Know that I am with you in spirit, whether we can touch each other, or speak to each other. You are the last thing I think of at the end of each day. I pray for a peaceful night for you, for you to know that you are loved; I pray that I will be in the presence of your spirit always and forever. Just as I could hear you call “momma” over a din of other children’s voices, I will hear you in a breeze, or the call of a bird, or the sound of the ocean. I long to shed my body and join your traveling spirit. It will be just a minute amount of time that we are separated. I will know your spirit above all others in the universe. It is spirit of my spirit. Always my beautiful daughter.

  Giant hugs and kisses,

  Momma

  One September 22, Daddy was taken to the emergency room with a gash on his head from falling. I rushed to meet the ambulance there. I found myself thinking that my father and my daughter were going to die almost simultaneously. I was flying to Portland at the end of September, come hell or high water. Hopefully, Daddy would be healed and stabilized by then. I had about a week. I called my sister for help, and Donna agreed to come out and give Pamela a break. This allowed Gary and me to fly up a few days sooner, in time for Brittany’s two-year wedding anniversary on September 29, 2014.

  There was pressure from the caregiving staff to put Daddy in hospice care due to his forty-pound weight loss, three falls, and emergency room trips. Dad’s little legs couldn’t hold him up long enough to transfer from the wheelchair to the toilet. A contraption called a “Hoyer” was brought in, and Dad was understandably terrified of being lifted in the air. I managed to convince him that the Hoyer was an Army Corps of Engineers invention, and pretty soon, he told the caregivers it was an “army contraption.”

  I signed the hospice papers for Dad before I flew. It didn’t feel right to me, but what the hell did I know? There was no solid ground anymore.

  26

  Mountain Climbing and a Wedding

  2012—2013, Age Twenty-Eight

  Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting, So . . . get on your way!

  —Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

  Early in 2012, I booked a trip for Britt and me to go to Rome, the Amalfi Coast of Italy, and Austria. I was trying to re-create the trip that Britt and I had missed in Greece, but we weren’t ready to face Greece again. The memories of my mother’s death were still too raw. Brittany suggested that Gary join us. She also asked if Dan could join us for a few days, and I said of course.

  I had been so busy with Daddy that I hadn’t noticed that Britt had stayed closely in touch with Dan since Christmas. With her applying to law schools all over the country, I didn’t see how this relationship would make it. But if she wanted Dan to come with us on vacation, that was okay with me and Gary. Since we’d be gone for three weeks, I arranged for my sister, Sarah, and my friend Pamela to come and take care of Daddy.

  Before we left, Brittany received admittance letters to UC Berkeley Law School and to University of Washington School of Law. She received offers of scholarships from University of California Irvine’s Law School, and the law schools at University of Colorado and University of Chicago. Brittany was glad to get the acceptances, but also stressed about the choices.

  Gary, Britt, and I left for Italy in early April, and Dan joined us in Rome. After a few days we left to tour Pompeii. It was as if Mount Vesuvius embalmed a slice of Roman life. Britt and I spoke of our sadness as we realized that volcanic ash had beautifully preserved the city for so long, but now exposed, it was endangered by pollution and tourism.

  We continued south to the Amalfi Coast. One evening Gary and Dan went out together, and Brittany and I went to a different restaurant. At dinner, Dan asked Gary’s permission for Brittany’s hand in marriage. Caught off-guard but charmed by the gesture, Gary was his gracious and honest self.

  “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” Gary asked.

  From the look on Dan’s face, apparently this was not an expected response.

  “Brittany is a very difficult woman to please. We’ve found her very difficult to live with since her late teens.” Gary gazed at Dan. “Did you know that about the woman you want to marry?”

  Dan smiled and said that he did. “Well, then, congratulations!” Gary raised his glass of wine for a toast.

  That night Gary told me of this dinner conversation, and said that perhaps Dan’s extra years of maturity would help him ride through Britt’s storms. We both truly wished them happiness.

  We took a boat out to the Isle of Capri. Dan and Brittany enjoyed a leisurely day of shopping while Gary and I rode the tram to the highest point on the island. The ocean had never looked bluer. After Capri, Dan headed home as we headed for Austria.

  In Vienna, Britt’s mood seemed to change. One day she threw an absolute conniption fit because I wanted to visit the Lipizzaner stallions at the Spanish Riding School. I’d read about the horses as a girl and had always wanted to see them, but after yelling at me that it was animal abuse, Brittany stormed off to the hotel.

  Knowing that she was planning to get married, I worried and felt a profound protectiveness that I could do nothing about. Law school would be out, at least for the foreseeable future. Dan didn’t want to wait another three years to start a family. Britt felt that law school would be hard enough without having a baby in the middle of the process. So Brittany would be walking away from some important dreams and some significant scholarship money. I hoped she was sure about giving it up.

  When we returned to California, Brittany and Dan began an exhaustive house search. They settled on a quaint home with an enormous backyard and pool. Yet I sensed my daughter struggling with the idea of settling down in suburbia.

  The next thing I knew, Britt had booked a trip with her friend Mina to New York, Boston, and Massachusetts. The bigger news was that she had also booked a trip to Kilimanjaro, and was beginning to train for the climb.

  When she returned from the East Coast, Dan and Britt signed the closing docs on their new home and Dan officially popped the question. I asked Brittany if Gary and I could host a dinner with Dan’s parents to toast their engagement.

  Gary told Brittany that our big backyard would be a beautiful place for an intimate outdoor wedding. He pointed out that we could arrange parking at the nearby school and shuttle guests from there to our home.

  Britt wri
nkled her nose. “We’re planning on having the wedding in Sonoma Valley, at Beltane Ranch,” she said.

  “Really?” Gary’s eyebrows rose.

  Afterward, he and I had several conversations about how we wanted to handle Brittany’s upcoming wedding. Traditionally the parents of the bride footed the bill for the festivities. It was clear that Dan and Brittany had already discussed and settled on plans that we weren’t conferred with about, or on board with. Renting an entire ranch in Sonoma for a wedding in September at the height of the wine season? Obviously I wouldn’t be playing a big part in planning the wedding, because Britt had chosen to have it in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I was the primary advocate and caregiver for my elderly father 450 miles south of there.

  We weren’t interested in taking on a wedding of imprudent proportions, nor did we think Brittany would function well under the pressure of an ever-ballooning event. Gary and I felt strongly that the last few receptions we’d been too were overly elaborate and stressful. We had heard the comments about the grinding machine of the wedding industry and had no intention of getting crushed in the gears of florists, photographers, and caterers.

  After much discussion, we decided to offer a fixed amount of money toward a wedding, or whatever they wanted to spend it on. Having recently come into a chunk of cash from a distant relative, Brittany could match our offer and have a very nice wedding.

  We agreed to rent two large homes to house family members and friends. One of the homes could sleep ten, and the other could sleep six. I also hosted a spa day for the bridesmaids.

  After making our monetary contribution, we didn’t get a thank-you note from Brittany until we called her on it. Although it was unspoken, we felt strong vibes that our contribution was seriously deficient. She tried several times to get me pulled into the wedding machine. I resisted each time, telling her that she could use the money we’d given her in any way she wished. “Oh, that’s long gone,” she said.