I am sitting at my desk trying, trying, trying to put a cohesive sentence (paragraph/entry) together to no avail. It is just too damn nice out and I can't concentrate. I had forgotten this feeling. I'm in high school all over again, working to finish my 11th grade research paper so that I can pass English (of all fucking subjects) and make it to 12th grade. This was the best red pen moment of my entire school career. First of all, the paper was on the "hidden" drug references of Alice In Wonderland which gives you a little insight into what my interests were at the time and why I was struggling so hard with deadlines. And because I turned it in on the last possible day that I could for any credit, all I could earn was an F which indeed was plopped right at the top of the page with a note that it was "potentially an excellent paper..." Not too many F's come with that accompanying sentiment. The best part is that my Mattie, who is a year younger than I (which explains why I'm so much mature) turned it in for his 11th grade research paper the following year since he had a different teacher...and got a C! Considering the project was supposed to have taken most of the latter half of the school year to complete and I gave it maybe two weeks (and that's a big maybe) worth of effort, I stand by that C. And so does Mattie. (By the way, I just checked to see if I still have that paper---I do, which explains why the Spoffice is what it is--- and 16-year-old Mattie had crossed out the F and written in an A+ "3D's such dedication, determination, and desire. That's friendship.)
It's moments like this, when I can share a 13-year-old memory with someone else who remembers it, that I am so grateful for our enduring friendship. (I just texted him to see if I could tell the story of the 11th grade research paper and he wrote back, "Of course you can...The truth will set me free!!!") The opportunity to see Harry Potter in the flesh is another perk of our love. The video above was shot last Friday at the Drama League Award in New York City. Mattie, the world's next great host, who will eventually push "Seacrest Out," flew in from L.A. to work the red carpet before the award ceremony and asked me if I'd come down to serve as videographer since it was a last-minute thing. Having never videoed anything besides the occasional sex tape before, I was terrified that I would ruin the whole deal but it ended up being a fantastic time and another fabu memory to add to our treasure chest. (And Mattie, fuh real, I apologize for going so heavy on the zoom button. I don't know what was going on there. I'll do better next time, I swear!) The whole event was incredibly interesting and it was just one of those days I would have never planned on living. The red carpet scene is so fast and intense (the other cameramen and hosts were only inches away from us...and those bitches kept hitting into my tripod) and while I was sweating it out, Mattie just worked it and was so at home with all the pretty people. He had thoroughly researched each nominee so that he was familiar with all of their stage work and could just talk so easily to them. My boy's a professional and I'm feeling mighty proud of him. He just launched his new website www.matthewrodrigues.com and I encourage you all to get to know him now so that he can get you seats at Idol 2012...and at the Oscars in 2013.
So while today I was planning to write and post something very deep and profound and important about our last hour with Oprah and how she got me blogging again, my ADD is winning the battle and instead I am paying tribute to the guy who presided over my wedding in 2007 and with whom I shared a "fake" make-out session on stage during the school musical in 1998. We've come a long way since Alice in Wonderland, my friend. Thank God we finally grew up...
As I was laying on the ground trying to take this picture I had to say out loud, "Oh, Mom, I know you're laughing your ass of right now watching me do this." (The tulips in the background? Dan brings 'em home every week since they were Gig's faves...good man.) (The mountain of crap on the table? That's all me.)
I think Oprah may have inspired me to return to this blog. Long-winded explanation of my absence coming soon. (And if not, then there will be a long-winded explanation of the absence of the aforementioned long-winded explanation coming less soon...)
Mattie sent this song to me in an e-mail just days before...
There have been many times that I have used the phrase "I cannot express" to express something. I cannot express how thankful I am. I cannot express how stupid I felt. I cannot express how shocked I was. Had I worked a little harder, I could have probably expressed those things. And, as a writer, I probably shouldn't be writing that "I cannot express" anything and should instead be reaching for the words. That said, I cannot express, I cannot convey, I cannot even understand how disconnected I feel from the passing of time. It has been six months to the day since we lost my mom and I cannot express how untrue that feels. It was days ago to me. A week at most. Truly, that's how it feels.
Truly.
I woke up and she was gone. Sitting next to me, she was gone. It could have been yesterday. It could have been this morning.
I've heard (and tried to study without much success) about time not being a real scientific concept. Something to do with quantum physics and a fourth dimension. I have no comprehension of it and I'm certainly not going to try to explain it, I can only say that six months have passed since that morning and I don't know how I spent those months; I'm not sure that time actually occurred.
I wish I could tell you otherwise. I know people want to see and hear that time has been doing its healing thing. I can see it in their eyes. Make this easier for me, their eyes beckon. Tell me you're okay.
"I'm okay," I say.
I am okay. I'm breathing. I'm waking up and getting through my days. But I am also living with a constant and sickening sadness in my gut that, were I not bearing it, would seem unbearable. All my sisters are too. Sometimes we just bear it on our knees. And since time has stopped, since its passing is no longer real, this feeling has not dissipated. In fact, and my sisters and I have discussed this, things seem to be getting harder. Probably because it's spring and that means she's everywhere. Every popping crocus, every saluting daffodil, every brilliant tulip---they are her. They are reminders of the joy that spread over her face as the world found color. They are the joy and color of her.
I'm not seeking sympathy or even understanding (I would have never understood this before losing someone to whom I was this close) but I just have to be honest about it, at least here. She was just beside me this morning. Just last night, as I did the night before she died, I told her, "Even though I'm grouchy sometimes, Mom, I love you so much." And I hugged her.
"Oh, my girl, I know that," she said and hugged me back. I know that.
We (Cherie, my mom and I) were watching a movie at the time, Little Women, and as the March girls greeted and hugged their Marmee, I began to cry and said I was sad that I wouldn't be able to hug her always. That's what got me to rise and cross the room and go to her and she said so tenderly, "Oh, you're sad to lose me," and held me tightly. Less than ten hours later, she was gone.
She hugged me back. I love you so much. My girl, I know that.
I know how lucky I am that I had that. I know all who loved her wanted that hug and I hope in writing about it, I am sharing even a piece of it...
I don't dream about her with any consistency. As much as I've tried to meditate on the thought of her, running my fingers through the tassels of her blanket as I fall asleep the way she used to do, I can't bring her to me whenever I choose. But last night, she came. In the dream I was in my parents' house and all of a sudden she walked into her kitchen, beaming with the warmest smile. I said, "Mom, what are you doing here?" and I ran and threw my body into hugging her. She hugged me back. I know I am lucky for this too.
You think you're out of tears and then there they are. Today, I was texting with my aunt who had knee surgery this morning and got sick from the pain meds. I said I wished I could be there to hold her hair, rub her back and hand her a tissue. This was my routine with my mom, I told her, and she wrote back and told me that she knew of this routine...that my mom had told her. Even those little things, my mom appreciated. The tissue. The colors.
"My Laura," my aunt reported that my mom had said. My girl.
And there they are. More tears. Colors.
I couldn't have loved my mom any more than I did and all I ever hope for is that she knew. Even now there's something in me that is trying to communicate with her, trying to say, I will never stop thinking of you, I will always love you...I'm still waiting for you to come back if you decide, you know, maybe you want to. It's absurd, really. Dan and I always laugh about how when the power goes out it's like our short-term memory malfunctions. You go to turn on the light...oh yeah, the power is out. So then you walk into the kitchen and throw a piece of bread into the toaster...oh yeah, the power is out. That's what losing my mom has been like. A hundred little moments during the day when I say to myself, oh yeah, she's gone.
And it's like those hundred little moments are really just one moment. I wake up, I look beside me and she's gone. Oh yeah, she's gone.
Today, six months later, and it's still, oh yeah, she's gone. Time hasn't happened. Nothing has changed. Nothing has changed since everything changed, I mean.
But when I have a dream like last night's I want to believe she's visiting me. That she wants to bring me comfort. That she knows I'm longing for her still. Knows that I would do anything to have her back. That I wish I had loved her harder. I wish I had said it more.
