Write. Rinse. Repeat.

When FETCHING came out, the very nice people at the International Reading Association asked me to write a guest post for their Reading Today Online blog. I’m now able to share it with you on my own blog:

Surviving Serpent-Filled Seas of Epic Proportions. (Or Fifth-Period PE.)

“All of life, it turns out, is explained in the eighth-grade English list.”

I wish those were my words, but they’re not. I found them in The Washington Post, in a column by Michael Gerson, titled “Life Lessons in an Eighth-Grade Reading List.” (http://tinyurl.com/az8rmrt). In it, he discusses bullying, injustice, and the torment of outcasts, all to the following point: “Young adults learn big lessons – such as how to cultivate courage and sympathy – through the eighth-grade reading list.”

As Gerson points out, very few of us can read “Lord of the Flies” and not be moved by the savagery; very few of us can read “To Kill a Mockingbird” and not feel a sense of awe and pride.

It’s an insightful article, and Gerson has a great point. Good fiction can give us hope, perspective, and understanding of the world and how it works; good books can not only change how we think, but how we feel. Literature can change lives.

Here’s how literature changed mine.

It wasn’t eighth-grade for me – I have to say that middle-school was more a study in social survival than great literature. It was in my ninth-grade English class, during a section on Western mythology. I had a wonderful teacher named Rudolfo whose lessons have stuck with me, in more ways than I could have predicted.

Every myth, he taught us, has the following elements:

Challenge: What problem is being presented? What does the character want or need that he or she doesn’t currently have?

Journey: What will the character have to do to change the situation or get what he/she wants or needs? How does the character plan to do that? What is the quest?

Obstacle(s):  What thing(s) – both direct and indirect – come up to complicate the quest?

Battle with obstacle: How does the character react to the obstacle?

Reward: The term is used very loosely, and doesn’t always mean a glory moment or a blatant victory, or even a happy ending. Rather, what has changed or been affected as a result of the above?

It was enlightening; when we applied it to the myths we were reading, a pattern definitely emerged. But then he had us take it a little further. Go home, he told us, and watch something on TV. It can be a sitcom, a drama, a movie. Dissect it. And see what you find. Sure enough, each of us found the parallels – whether it was an episode of Family Ties, or Knight Rider, or a storyline in General Hospital. I think someone even found the elements in a toilet-bowl cleaner commercial.

It was fascinating. I felt like I had been given a secret decoder ring to understanding the elements of a story. Rudolfo had demystified it all – from mythology to modern screenplays – he’d made it accessible, relatable, even fun.

But it was during a classroom discussion that he really made us think. Where were the stories in our own lives? What were the challenges each one of us had faced, and how had we managed the journey? What obstacles had come up, and how did we deal with the obstacles? What was the reward, and did it come in a different form than expected?

You may not think a bunch of awkward, ill-complexioned, gum-snapping fourteen-year-olds would have been able to pull all the elements of classical literature out of their own life experiences. But we did.  I’m not going to claim to remember everything that was brought up, but I do remember the experiences ran the gamut from seemingly ordinary (trying out for a soccer team, for example) to slightly heroic (standing up to a bully) to pretty tragic (losing a pet).

At the time, I was still recovering from the very “character-forming” years of middle school and had the self-esteem and confidence of a sand gnat. My brother had been put into a drug rehab a thousand miles away – I missed him. I was scared and full of angst. But Rudolfo gave me a different perspective. Maybe life was like an intricate myth, full of average monsters and everyday titans and little wars and nearly invisible victories, and maybe I just hadn’t gotten to the reward yet.

I know it’s not always so simplistic – in fact, my brother’s struggles with addiction have become a long-strung series of obstacles, perhaps more of an epic odyssey than a myth. But his journey isn’t over. Sometimes it’s a matter of keeping up the fight.

But Rudolfo made us more interesting. He not only taught us how to read a story, and even craft one, but he empowered us. He gave us a way to look at our young lives and our moments of turmoil – bullies, injustices, tragedies of varying degrees – and find real meaning. To this day, when I’m going through something tough, I see the value in what I learned from him. It helps to remind myself that maybe I’ve just come up against a new challenge. Or maybe I’ve hit the battle phase.  Maybe there will be some reward – if I can just get through the journey.

Sometimes I like to think we’re all just modern, ordinary, unromanticized, perhaps even Cheeto-eating versions of those gods and goddesses themselves. Sure, none of us wakes up every day feeling like some sort of glorious Greek deity, but it helps to know that if we don’t shy away from the uncomfortable, inevitable obstacles, we’re channeling a little bit of our own inner hero. #

Here’s a link to the much-more-professional-looking original post: http://www.reading.org/general/Publications/blog/engage/engage-single-post/engage/2011/10/13/in-other-words-surviving-serpent-filled-seas

There’s plenty of letting go in yoga. It’s called aparigraha –  letting go of old habits, restrictive thoughts, material attachments, expectations and results. Even people. Letting go is never easy, but it’s particularly hard when you’re letting go of a community of people that you’ve grown with and really come to love.

Today, I taught my last yoga class at the gym where I’ve been teaching for more than four years. With the exception of a little break in my voice during my final namaste, I managed to do so dry-eyed, until I got into the car and it hit me how much I’ll miss my students.

There’s Mathilde, who rushed in to be my surrogate mother when my own mom died. There’s Irene, who called to check on me during my most difficult times. There’s Marcos, whose enthusiasm and enjoyment of yoga made teaching a pure pleasure. There’s Jocelyn, the superstar who was a real inspiration to me. There was Clarence, who became my technical glitch-fixer, and Nancy, who mastered the poses with ease and grace.

There was Yong, who liked class enough to start bringing nearly her entire family, and Lee, a yoga natural who has great taste in coffee. There was Catherine, whose gorgeous smile always somehow had the magical effect of making me feel happy despite any hidden turmoil in my life, and the ever graceful Elizabeth, and Judy, whose elegance I couldn’t help but to step back and admire.

There was Dave, who appreciated my crazy ”cocktail poses” and didn’t laugh too hard when I brought in the “Moving Men” disks for him to work with, and Eugene, who will very soon, I’m convinced, get into headstand with both legs floating up at once. And there was Erika, who I had many laughs with, few of which I can share in a G-rated setting, but none of which I will forget.

There was Yoshiko, who became a friend both on and off the mat, along with Susan, who generously loaned me the use of her West Virginia cabin when I had a writing deadline to meet.

And those are just to name a few. Through the years, these students didn’t hold it against me that I CONSTANTLY confused my left and right sides; that I often forgot names of things like the wriggly parts at the ends of your hand (Um, yep. Fingers. Exactly); that my sense of time was faulty enough that we often went about fifteen minutes overtime; that I sometimes spent a good five minutes instructing on how to stand; that I often — perhaps too often — referred to the pelvic floor, and occasionally used the awkward word, “buttock.” (Sorry, guys, on both accounts!). They never held it against me that the room was often too dark, or too cold, or too hot, which it often was.

Some didn’t speak my language. Some had never done yoga before. Some came only because Zumba was cancelled, but ended up becoming yogis. Some were senior citizens who were brave enough to give me a shot. But they were all so generous with their kindness. And they all made me feel incredibly appreciated. I only hope that I made them feel somewhat the same. Because for four years, they made my life better. More fun, more interesting, and more meaningful. Teaching this class, even just sharing time with these wonderful people, was an actual honor.

It’s hard not to get attached, especially when you meet people who seem so irreplaceable. So maybe I’ve overstepped the yama of aparigraha, just a little bit, simply because I would hoard my students if I could — I wish I could take them all with me to the west coast, where we could do fun, pretzely things all day, and sometimes just sit around and breathe, and then practice all sorts of gravity-defying Cirque de Soleil stunts, and come up with fun substitutes for words like “pelvic floor” and “buttock” that don’t make us cringe. But I can’t. So I’ll stay on the yogic side and try my best to let go.

It won’t be easy. But then, I guess, neither is side crow. (And hey, guys, if that ever is, I’ve got some more tricks for you! Just ask Jocelyn!)

Bye, guys. I’ll miss you – almost to illegal standards (those yamas and niyamas can be harsh!) Keep practicing, and don’t forget me, and let’s please keep in touch.

Outside of the obvious, such as parenting, meditation, and assembling Ikea furniture, there are a couple other skills that make my list:

1) Screen protector application.

If you own a highly priced but cheaply made smartphone, and are slightly resentful and paranoid about it, as I am, you may have tried to place a sceen protector over its fragile face. And if so, you may have learned that it requires more than sheer will and basic common sense. You may have wasted several screen protector sheets, scraping over each one with the reserves of your patience, convinced that you will eventually conquer the stubborn, deceptively resilient bubbles underneath. Understand this: You will not. The bubbles will win. Best to leave this to One of the Chosen Few who actually have this superpower. They are often the least appreciated clerks in the AT&T stores. Be prepared to ask very nicely, to kiss up, and to tolerate the smug and sometimes self-righteous attitude that comes along with such magical superskills. It’s well worth it.

2) Avocado whispering.

Unlike the banana, the avocado is a deceptive and fickle fruit. As soon as you think you have the science down (waiting til it’s slightly soft, then waiting an additional 11. 25 hours, if you want my unskilled opinion), it changes the rules on you. The avocado is especially sensitive to light and temperature, and possibly to moon phases as well. Try to get to know your avocado. Coddle it; value it; be respectful. When you slice into it (or slaughter/sacrifice, as it sometimes feels), you may find it’s already started its slow death inside.

Evidence of the need for Avocado Whisperers

3) Sharing good news.

Okay, so say you haven’t saved the world from spinning off its axis. Heck, you haven’t saved anyone from anything. In fact, you just vaccuumed up a spider! You’re actually contributing to the demise of the world, if you think about it. BUT. You do have good news. You don’t want to brag about it or anything, but you do sort of want mariachis and pinatas, at the very least a special champagne toast. That CNN crawl wouldn’t do any damage either. You want to people to throw confetti, maybe break out a few dance moves, but how do you keep tact and dignity in balance, while you have this shameless need for attention? How do you…..OKAY, TO HECK WITH ALL OF THIS!! MY SECOND BOOK JUST SOLD!!!!! I HAVE ANOTHER BOOK DEAL!!!! I AM SKIPPING AND SKIPPING MORE AND I JUST DID A CARTWHEEL DID YOU SEE IT!!!?

I hope so.  Because I didn’t trip or anything.

Anyway, here’s the Publisher’s Marketplace announcement: Author of FETCHING Kiera Stewart’s HOW TO BREAK A HEART, in which a 13-year-old girl who’s been dumped almost as many times as the characters on the telenovellas she loves tries to turn the tables and learn to be a heartbreaker herself, again to Abby Ranger at Disney-Hyperion, by Holly Root at Waxman Literary Agency (World English).

My best friend Michele texted me about a month ago to tell me about a dream she had. In it, she and I were able to transport ourselves in time — we went back to a time when my mom was alive. She was visiting with a friend and was happy. Michele said that I went and gave my mom a hug; when I came back, Michele felt the need to remind me that it wasn’t real (She insists she wasn’t trying to be mean!). I said, “I know, but it still felt good.”

So kinda nice, right? When she told me, it made me cry a little. Then I told another close friend about Michele’s dream, and she cried a little too. It was a pretty sweet little dream. But it wasn’t mine.

I wished it was. Apparently, I wished that so hard that my head tried to conjure up something similar. BUT…here’s how mine went:

I was sitting in an armchair in someone’s living room, and suddenly became aware that my mom was sitting on the couch in front of me. I was thrilled. She wasn’t looking at me, but she seemed serene and somewhat detached, and I spent a lot of time thinking, “This is it! I’m reconnecting! This is the moment!” But I spent so much building up to the moment, that her facial features began to change — she started looking a little like Sally Field. Finally, I asked, “Is that really you, mom?” And she opened her mouth to talk, but her teeth were made out of abalone shells. THEN she started talking all right — about how great the Kardashians were, how much she admired them. So it became painfully clear that this wasn’t actually my mom at all, it was just an imposter.

A pretty crushing dreamfail.

But finally, a couple of weeks ago, my head finally got it right. I dreamed that I got to hug her. We didn’t say much, just hugged. (Full disclosure: There were also slightly disturbing peripheral details of this dream, such as a very unglorious nude hot-tubber in my field of vision, but please let me not ruin my Hallmark moment.)

I don’t know if that means that I’m closer to having peace about her being gone. Maybe I’ve babystepped into the “acceptance” phase; maybe not. Either way, I know it wasn’t real, but it still felt good. Despite the hot-tubber.*

*Just googled that complete phrase in quotes. To date, I’m happy to report that there are NO RESULTS FOUND! Until now, google. UNTIL NOW.  You’re welcome.

So, if you’ve been reading my postings lately, you probably realize I’ve been a little derailed. Over the past six months, death has ironically been a big part of my life. If you’ve been bearing with me, I really do appreciate it.

But here’s the thing. My book came out! Yep. It did. It actually did. FETCHING is an actual book, one that you can hold, and fan the pages, and admire on the shelf. It weighs a full pound, and makes a nicely satisfying thud when you put it down on a table, and it thwacks shut, and it has actual substance and matter AND IS NO LONGER A FIGMENT OF MY IMAGINATION as it once was, years ago.

So here’s what happened on November 8th. It would have felt like any ordinary Tuesday if it weren’t for my best friend, Michele (who was my best friend back in eighth grade, so very fitting!). Determined NOT to let it be any ordinary Tuesday, Michele shuffled her kids off to various family members and drove to my house and insisted I take her Barnes & Noble.

It’s not that I didn’t want to go to Barnes & Noble, I was just afraid of being disappointed. It was the release day — there’s no way my little book would have made it to the shelf already, right? I tried to convince Michele. FETCHING was probably still in a box in the stockroom waiting to be unpacked — a necessary but tedious retail chore to be handled when all the glitzy bestsellers had been handled, you know?

But she wouldn’t accept my Debbie Downerhood. She kept insisting. So we drove to the nearest B&N, went in and looked.

And couldn’t find it.

So we asked the coolly aloof teenager at the customer service desk (If I wasn’t so self-absorbed, I would have noted his name. For now, I’ll have to call him Clark). So Clark typed in the title. I sighed and waited for the expected, “We can order it for you.” But instead, he said, “I’ll show you where it is.”

I think I said, “Really?” And it was an actual question, because it didn’t seem real. But he started heading into the Juvie section so Michele and I followed, practically skipping. My heart started going a bit wild and I found it increasingly difficult to exhale.

But then he couldn’t find it, and I thought, “See? What did I really expect?”

The three of us browsed another few shelves and I started feeling panicky. I started manically hurling descriptions of the spine at Clark (“it’s hot pink”) and the cover (“it’s got a Boston terrier on it”) and the compliments the book had gotten on its cover (“everyone says it’s EXTREMELY attractive!”). Clark smiled at me nervously and rightfully backed away some, toward another shelf.

And then. I saw it. THERE IT WAS! On the top shelf. FACE OUT. Under a sign that said “New for Young Readers.” And a few inches down from Raold Dahl (!)  and right next to a Pulitzer prize-winning author (!), and nestled nicely among new books from some great and notable writers (!!!).

So maybe I squealed some. Maybe I danced some, or otherwise awkwardly jerked myself about. I’m not sure, but judging from the look on Clark’s face, my behavior was clearly not that of your standard shopper. So I told him it was my book (I actually think my first words were, “It’s MINE! It’s MY book!” But those were quickly followed up with further context and he relaxed). And then Clark dropped his coolly aloof facade and actually got a little giddy too, and we all had a great little moment — for me, a really memorable one. A lady in the aisle overheard us and joined in on the revelry, smiling and congratulating me. (However, it’s entirely possible that I might have blown that sale by stroking the cover and muttering, “Mine, mine,” one too many times.)

And then Michele and I bought four copies. Because we could. Because my book had been published. It was on the bookstore shelves. And my dream had come true.

And it definitely was NOT an ordinary Tuesday.

Release day joy! FETCHING on the shelf at B&N

A few weeks ago, I got a letter from the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences — where my mom donated her body — to let me know her cremated remains were about to be sent to me. While I had a choice about how I wanted them delivered, they said their preferred method was through the mail. Yep, the U.S. Postal Service.

At first I was a little incredulous. Even though USUHS had assured me in the letter that it would be certified mail, I still pictured the box of her being shoved into a big blue mailbox and winding up on my doorstep in a pile of Safeway circulars and Domino’s coupons. My friends agreed. Somehow, it just didn’t seem dignified.

I was pretty close to checking the other box, until I started thinking about what my mom would’ve wanted. She believed in “authentic” experiences. She was the kind of person who opted for bus over train (and even put me on the Trailways bus from Fresno to Redding alone when I was seventeen — “Just think of all the interesting people you’ll meet,” she’d said. “Plus, it’s cheap”). She preferred the company of complicated, slightly troubled people. She was wary of the perfect. She was cynical of the pristine. 

So. I chose the USPS. And mom-in-a-box arrived on Friday. Maybe what was left of her WAS shoved into a mailbox. Maybe it got lost once or twice under a pile of Harriet Carter catalogs. Maybe it even got pushed up against a shipment of toilet paper cozies. But I can bet that being delivered by mail was an experience, an authentic one — one that she would have found the adventure in, the imperfections in, and, certainly, the laughable awkwardness.  

Today, I learned that her body was one of four used to help the White House medical staff practice intubations and “unique” IV placements — it was a two-day cause to help better prepare the medical team in the case of a possible terrorist attack.  As an Obama supporter, a medical enthusiast, and an educator she would have been thrilled.  And she would have felt good about giving someone else an authentic experience.

For now, what’s left of her body is in a small, still-sealed cardboard box. Which only cost $9.30 to send. But this would have made her happier than a fancy funeral, or an expensive hearse, or even delivery via a special courier certified to handle human remains (I’m guessing here. Seems everything in the death-biz is quite regulated).

I still don’t know what I’ll do with her ashes, but, sadly — for me at least — I suppose having her made into a diamond and mounted in platinum is out.

My mom's melted-crayon painting. She wasn't trying to be avant-garde about the medium, she was just out of paint.

This past Saturday, with Hurricane Irene throwing the East Coast into an unexpected panic, I held my mom’s memorial service. I’m not sure if “service” is the right word — she was an unconventional person, and it was an unconventional event. I rented a small gazebo the gardens of a public park. I hired an acoustic guitarist to play folksy songs from her era. I emailed her closest friends. I wore flip-flops and brought my dog, Casper. We had no minister, no bouquets of flowers, no formal program, no rain plans. And yet it all came together.

I hadn’t planned on speaking at her memorial. I’m not the most charasmatic public speaker anyway, and when you mix faulty presentation skills with the pain of loss, it’s pretty much guaranteed NOT to be a pretty picture. I foresaw my voice cracking, my throat closing, my face clenching up with grief — the whole idea of it made me lightheaded, dizzy, and practically immobile with fear. I figured I could give myself a pass on this. I mean, everyone knows I’m grieving. Everyone knows I miss her. Why make a show of it? But on Thursday, just two days before the memorial, I was sorting through her house and found something she’d scribbled on the bottom of a cable bill: “I am not going to shy away from the things that make me uncomfortable sometimes.”

At first, I thought, how great! What a nice little find — I don’t know why she wrote that down, or what she was thinking about when she did, but I loved the idea of her facing an uncomfortable situation, approaching it handily, taking it on with conviction. Not letting her fear or discomfort get in the way of something she felt driven to. What great words to live by! Maybe I could make this my mantra!

And then the Tony Robbins effect wore off, and it really hit me, and I thought, oh crap. If I really wanted to honor her, I’d have to step up, face my own discomfort, say a few words in front of her friends.

And so, on Saturday, I did. I only spoke for about a minute — and it was about the scribbled words I found. And my voice did crack, and my face did seize up, and I probably only got through it because my dad called out to me to take “three deep breaths!” (which, as it turns out, actually DOES work), but I didn’t shy away from the thing that made me uncomfortable, and I think that would have made her happy.

And I’m glad I did. Because you know what? Among other people, an EIGHT-YEAR-OLD BOY, an amazing kid, actually stepped up and said a few incredibly wonderful words about her, and I would have felt really, really stupid if I couldn’t have handled a few of my own.

I don’t really get the How To Recover From This Kind of Loss just yet. My mom was my friend, my advocate, my confidant. She made me laugh. A lot. (Sometimes purposeful, sometimes not — sorry, mom!) She was always up for an interesting conversation, and had her own unique way of looking at the world. She was the person who loved me most of all, and one I loved back pretty damn hard. She gave. I don’t know if I ever gave back quite as much. But hearing her friends speak about her helped, and hearing Elijah say what a nice lady she was helped. And maybe bucking up and saying a few words too helped. At least now, I can’t regret that I didn’t.

My friend Michele read the essay “Nurture a Plant” from Richard Carlson’s DON’T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF (AND IT’S ALL SMALL STUFF) — a book we found in her house. And my dad gave me a melted-crayon “painting” she did of two horses (I told you she was different, right?), and a photo of her from the Peace Corps in Venezuela, laughing and running downhill with the little girls of the town. And we ended on this poem.

AFTER GLOW by Helen Lowrie Marshall

I’d like the memory of me

to be a happy one.

I’d like to leave an after glow

of smiles when life is done.

I’d like to leave an echo whispering softly down the way,

Of happy times and laughing

times and bright and summer days.

I’d like the tears of those who

grieve, to dry before the sun,

Of happy memories that I leave

When life is done. ~

And I think that helps too.

My mom with the children of the village of Cumuna, Venezuela, where she served in the Peace Corps.

Rule #2: Being with someone while they die, especially someone you love, is the most intimate experience you will ever have. (Noteworthy: If you talk about it too much, however, you will creep people out.)

Here’s what one of the nurses told me. There’s birth and marriage and sex and all sorts of intimate experiences out there to be had, but death is the one that can most bond you to a person. Seems like she was right. My mother’s death, and her dying process, feels like such a big part of my life at this point — maybe even deserving of a paragraph on my resume. 

May 2011:  Chaperoned Mother Into Death

- Supervised dying process, kept pain and discomfort to a minimum

- Interpreted body language, facial expressions and other nonverbal cues; Served as both advocate and spokesperson for the infirm, dealing with both medical/support staff and laypeople, including friends and family

- Other duties as assigned, including the watering of gardens, the collection of mail, the returning of phone calls, the paying of bills.

The truth is, I was such a novice. I had never before seen a dead body; I’m terrified of funerals; I am that person who always says the wrong thing, mostly out of fear and abject ignorance. But yet, my mother trusted me (and my best friend, Michele), with her life — and her death. And somehow we managed.

When it became clear that my mother wasn’t going to survive, the doctors told us there were several drugs at our disposal for (her) pain, anxiety and breathing. We were told to let the nurse know when my mother needed anything. But when someone can’t speak and can barely move, how do you know how what they’re feeling?

“How are they leaving it up to us, two bungling idiots?” Michele asked me.

But then it happens — you really start to tune in. You notice the slightest tensing of the brow. You notice a wince when you move her arm. A slight squeeze of the pinky when you ask if she’s in pain. And you know that current dose of morphine isn’t doing its job; and more important, that you can do something about it. If death isn’t inevitable, pain or discomfort should be.

And then you might notice a slight upward flinch in her mouth when you get it right — an attempt at a smile. A small motion that you might not even notice if you weren’t so there.

So. Yes. It’s a very intimate thing. And it makes me feel sad, and changed, somehow. Maybe wiser. And wise people can still lose it from time to time, right? Right? Especially when said Wise Person is driving and a particular Collective Soul song comes on? I would think.

I guess wisdom doesn’t replace pain. And wisdom isn’t anything you can put on your resume. But that makes me think — the things that really matter in life aren’t actually resume-appropriate anyway. In my limited (but growing) experience, I’d say mostly they’re the things that you bungle through.

Rule #1: It’s all guesswork.

Okay, first of all, when someone you love is dying in a hospital, there will be PLENTY of people who will give you advice. Most of them will deliver this advice with a good degree of authority, and thankfully with a good degree of compassion. Accept that advice, but realize that no one really knows anything for sure, and few will admit that.

When you get to the point that the doctors start telling you there’s nothing further they can do, you’ll be told to gather the family for any final goodbyes. You will likely feel partially dead yourself. You will likely question what you’re being told and you might ask things repeatedly and still not be able to hear what’s coming at you. It’s important not to be alone at this time, to have someone you love with you; what you don’t retain, they might. You will likely break down, contort your face into unbecoming poses, suffer from an undelightfully runny nose and care little about it until hindsight kicks in. If it does.

The doctors will probably give you a timeline. Realize they may be wrong. In my case, what was expected to take four hours took forty-eight. No one really knows.

You will probably say your goodbye, and feel lightheaded, confused, and slightly psychotic. And then you may glance at  the various vital signs monitors. And then you will say goodbye again. And then you will glance back up at the monitor. And then you will repeat your goodbye, and then you will study the freaking monitor. And then you will wonder if you should summon an emergency surgery because maybe it’s not her time to die. And you will act on this thought. And the doctors will look at you with pity and feeling and tell you again that she’s dying.

And then you will watch the monitor again. And then will start second-guessing yourself. You will wonder if she’s waiting for you to say something important. And then you will scour your heart and soul for anything that requires closure, and you may hear yourself saying something like, “And I’ll make sure all your library books are back before the fines kick in.” Or, “I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time about your composting obsession.” Or, “Thanks for not buying me Jordache jeans when I was in middle school. It actually DID give me character.” Even if you’re still bitter about the Jordache.

And then you will hold her hand and wait. And then your knees might get tired and you might sit down on the chair next to the bed, still holding on to her hand for dear life. Or death.

And then you will get tired. And the nurses will start circling the room. And you’ll feel okay, you may even start to feel hungry when you realize it’s been fourteen hours since you last ate. Or took a pee break. And then you start to feel ridiculous — how can I take a pee break when my mom is dying? How can I be thinking of a banana nut muffin, for God’s sake, AT A TIME LIKE THIS??

These things can happen. Don’t worry, it won’t last forever. You’re just bungling through.

I said goodbye to my mom on the Sunday before last.

Well, actually, I said goodbye to her that Friday. And Saturday. And that Sunday, for the last time.  It was probably the most emotionally significant and unexpected thing that I’ve been through. I’ve thought about how best to honor her, and here’s what I’ve come up with. A series of “Bungling Through…” blog posts. Death isn’t anything most of us specialize in, emotionally, logistically, medically, legally, or any other adverbial way. It just kind of happens. And you kind of learn as you go. At least that’s how it happened for me.

Of course, I may look back in a year or two and wonder what the hell I was thinking, but for now, knowing my mom and her wonderfully inappropriate sense of humor, it seems like a brilliant idea. And if in a year or two – or even a couple months or weeks or days from now — I look back and question my judgement, there’s always the wonderful, underestimated power of the delete key.