In Memory of My Son Joey - This Day, This Fifth December Day

I knew his life before anyone else.  Almost from the first minute, you know?  Those who argue about when life actually begins, should ask a mother who has life inside of her, because we know, almost from the very first minute.  I knew.
Those months, counted in threes, are a most special time, you know.
Before it was evident to anyone else, I would find myself placing my hand on my flat stomach and I could feel the warmth of him.
Before it was evident to anyone else, I felt his life, quiet fluttering butterfly feelings.
When it became evident to the rest, only I could feel his heaviness, one arm under, one on top, soothing him as he turned and kicked.
He came quietly into the world.  Not in the middle of the night, but at a most considerate 2:00 p.m. time of the day and my arms were his first cradle.
The memories of the time of only he and me are vividly clear, while at the same time gently calming.
Then the memories of the days after he wriggled out of my arms and climbed down from my lap are fleeting.   They seem to be hidden from me, only coaxed out by old photos and videos or by hearing stories from others.  I suppose the passing of time and  the stuff of life have cluttered up those spaces in my mind.
I knew him though, I knew him so well.  Because he and I we had a bond, you see, as only a mother and son can.
Today, as I recall that day, that December fifth day of only one short year ago,  I am overwhelmed with painful and sad memories but they are painful only because they are of that day.

This poignant passage from "The Testament of Mary" reveal my feelings so well, on this December day, this fifth day:

“He lifted his head for a moment and his eyes caught mine.” He was the boy I had given birth to and he was more defenseless now than he had been then. And in those days after he was born, when I held him and watched him, my thoughts included the thought that I would have someone now to watch over me when I was dying…I would have cried out as I cried out that day and the cry would have come from a part of me that is the core of me. The rest of me is merely flesh and blood and bone.”

Yes, the core of me is where he lives and I will never say good-bye.

I wrote the following piece once year ago.  This is my Joey.

Who was this mysterious man who was known to us as Joseph, Joe, Joey, Bro, Uncle Joe, or Hon?
From the time he was a little boy, I figured out how to "read" Joe.  I learned what each subtle body movement meant.  His facial expressions were actually quite loud.  Sometimes his eyes alone would tell a whole story.
His teachers would say to me,
"Joseph is a good student, but he is so quiet."
As he got older and moved on to adulthood, I lost touch with little things about Joe. What music he liked, what clothes he chose to wear, what songs he liked to play on his guitar, where he was on the weekend or who he spent his evenings with.
I never lost touch, though, with the silent communication we shared.  His eyes, his smile, or a little shrug of his shoulders, each meant something particularly special to me.
Because he was so quiet, very often Joe would get teased :
"Keep it down, Joe, you're talking so much that none of us can get a word in edgewise."
Joe would turn red, but he would always smile.
It seemed as though some people would be uncomfortable around him. "He doesn't talk much", they would say.
Many of the people in his life knew only small bits and tiny pieces of him.
He is so quiet they would say.
What is he thinking?  How does he feel?
He is so quiet.
Oh yes, we all knew that Joe was a Mets fan.   I know that when everyone in the stands was yelling "Lets Go Mets, Lets Go Mets," Joe was quietly yelling it too. 
His laugh may have been quiet, but his sense of humor was obvious.  I'm sure if you listened closely you would know that inside he was laughing loudly at a silly Conan skit. 
What was there about "Unca" Joe that Bella, Kenny, Ryan and Tyler could hear that perhaps others couldn't?  I'm sure they never said, "but he is so quiet."

I suppose there may have been some little specific things that I didn't know about Joe.

But when I reflect on my son I understand that I knew the most important things about him.   

I knew what a gentle person he was. I understood his off kilter sense of humor.  I knew that he loved little children and puppies and that they loved him.

I knew that he would always go back for seconds when I served my "famous" lasagna. 

I knew that Domani was the light of his life.

I knew that he was a good father.  

I knew that it was meant to be for he and Anne to find each other again.

I knew that he loved his wife. 

I knew that he was strong and that his strength ran deep.

During the last weeks of his life I knew that there were times when he must have been very frightened; but he never gave up the fight.

I knew that he would never willingly leave his family.  

Just few days ago he smiled and said to me "we still have time."

He knew I loved him.   

The last time he "spoke" to me he mouthed the words "I love you." 

Quiet people are sometimes misunderstood.   

Take the time to get to know a quiet person.  

After all you might be lucky enough to discover the treasures of their mind, heart and soul, just like my strong,  lovable, wonderful "quiet" Joe.

The Top Best Things About Being Married to Ross

At 3:30 yesterday morning, I asked Ross this question:
"What am I going to do?"
His response was "whaa?" "huh?" "whas a matter?"
Yea, he was sound asleep.
The best thing about being married to Ross is that no matter what he is doing, 99.9% of the time he will immediately stop, or in this case jolt out of a sound sleep, and give me his undivided attention.
Actually tied for the best thing about being married to Ross is that he listens, giving my question or statement thoughtful consideration.  His brow furrows and I can almost hear the wheels turning as he ponders what I have said.  Of course I realize that part of the pondering he does may have to do with stalling for time as he attempts to assess my mood.
Ross and I have been married 11 years.  Early on in our relationship he revealed to me that he has been gifted with "the force".  He reassures me that he only uses "the force" when all other humanly efforts have failed.
By now, I probably should not be surprised that even if I pose a quite cryptic question or make a seemingly ambiguous statement,  99.9% of the time, with perhaps a minimum number of clues or a few follow up questions, he is able to piece my sometimes jig sawed words together to solve the puzzle. But  I am still in awe of how eerily telepathic his responses are.
Actually, topping the tied for two best things about being married to Ross is that he knows when no words are needed, just big, tight, secure, "I got ya", hugs.
Oh, one more thing, a little while into our relationship, Ross revealed his "dancing" name to me.  Sorry but I promised not to tell.

I have created a page for Anna's Diary.  It can be found under the Tab titled Anna's Diary.

I have posted all of the entries to date there, starting with January 1, 1929.

Here are the entries from the past two days from Anna's diary:

Mon. December 2, 1929

Went to N.Y. to get coat out of storage with Mary & Rose.  Went to New Paramount. Very stormy out and lots of snow.  Came home about 7:30 and rushed to pick up girls for card party at Elks by Mrs. Albano.

Tues. December 3, 1929

Home all day.  Tired from rushing last night. Slippery and nasty out doors.  Junior had to stay in all day and made him cross.  Baked a lovely cake to amuse him a bit. 

Who Is My Ghost Writer?

I wish to mind meander here a little...

I am struggling with grief loneliness.  I understand, believe me I get it, no one can actually feel my pain.  
For instance when I watch a video of someone sky diving, I might suck in breaths of fear, feel tinges of exhilaration and a sense of relief when the parachuter lands safely, but unless I actually jump from the plane, I know that I will have never get the full impact of the experience.  

I can gather together with others who have had losses almost exactly like mine and I may have the ability to empathize with them more than someone who has not suffered such a loss.  But, their tears are agonizingly and privately  their own, just as mine are.

Today, my mind is weary and my limbs seem too heavy to move.  I speak a mute's language of shrugs and sighs. The pain just above my right eye is relentless, and my heart is writhing.  

I imagine being somewhere else.  Strangely, it is not basking in the yellow warmth of a sandy beach, but instead I picture shivering in the white cold of a snowy mountain.

My scattered thoughts lead me to my mother's death bed.  She was unresponsive at that point.  She had not seen my brother for a long time.  She spent her whole life wanting him to be okay.  Although he was not able to be by her side, he called and we placed the phone up to her ear.   He told her he was doing well and that she need not worry about him because he was okay.  It is what she longed to hear.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I went in to check on her.  I stroked her hair and told her that she was a good mother, she was loved by all of us and most importantly, Adam was okay.  
She passed a few hours later.

As I think and write about this, I realize that there is never really an end to life's story.  Our life is not a sit-com TV show or a novel that gets wrapped up tight.   Life is more like a short story, a very short story.

My mother died thinking that her son was going to be okay.  He was not and still isn't.  But we gave her the ending that she would have wanted.

How silly to think that we are the creator's of our own story.  

My story had a predictable beginning, and a relatively uneventful middle. I spent hours developing and nurturing my beloved characters as I helped them grow and evolve.  How foolish of me to think that  I had the plot all figured out and I could end my story with "And they all lived happily every after".

Actually, the epiphany of accepting that my story is being written by a ghost writer is somewhat of a relief.  I can relinquish control to her, for she writes a most suspenseful story which will keep me guessing right up until the...

As I willingly and gratefully share my thoughts, I remember and appreciate those everyday hugs and "I love you's", the hours of almost daily telephone support chats, the continued "thinking of you" notes I receive in the mail, the "just when I need it most, "checking in" and Skype sessions, and of course the supportive comments from my very kind readers.

I have created a page for Anna's Diary.  It can be found under the Tab titled Anna's Diary.

I have posted all of the entries to date there, starting with January 1, 1929.

Here are the past few days from Anna's diary:

Friday November 29, 1929

Junior and Vera are invited to Doris C's party in Arlington.  Children had a nice time.  On way home stopped for alcohol in the car.  Very cold out.  Both Vera and Marie came home with me. 

Sat. November 30, 1929

Stayed in bed all morning.  Vera and Marie here with Junior.  Jean home at one.  Got lunch for us.  Mary came over about four and Isabelle and Ted.  All stayed for supper.  Tom did not come.

Sun.  December 1, 1929

Home all day long.  Raining out.  Jean studying. I read a book.  Junior took a long nap.  About six o'clock we took him to Mt. Prospect with us.  Quite good but tired towards the end.