Posts Tagged ‘Linda Pattillo’

Ann’s Diary: In Her House

It’s always difficult to re-enter my real world–the one where I have a husband and children– after spending time “back home.”

By ‘back home’ I mean the place where I grew up. My folks still live in the house I came home from the hospital to: the tile on the bathroom floor is still the same white-checker-board-with-black-tile-middle that I stared at as a kid. My 10-year-old signature still dons the wall on the cellar stairs. That place where my cousin Peter jumped from my bed and mistakenly put his head through the wall still shows through the 35 year-old-plaster patch job my Dad did (Peter was, mercifully, okay). And the lamps I used to rub on my mother’s bureau, pretending they were the bottle on the TV show “I Dream Of Jeannie” are still there. They say “you can’t go home again” but in my case, not only can you go home, you can take a tour of what used to be.

It was this way this weekend, when I traveled 3 thousand miles to say good-bye to my godmother, who’d lived in the same house next-door to mine for more than 50 years. Though remodeled a bit more than my folks’ house, Darlin’s home still resembles the place I ran over to to visit, hang out, play, escape sibling strife, wash cars, and in one long stretch, polish silver weekly in a 6th-grade effort at making money. I never signed any walls over there but if those walls could talk they’d have a lot to say about me and my romps next-door to see Darlin and Prez–her husband and my godfather. 46 years of living is a long time to make memories.

So it was difficult to say good-bye this past week–not just to my godmother, but also to her house. Of course her place will be lived in from now until its eventual sale–but it won’t be hers; she’s no longer here. And that reality, as strange as this sounds, makes her passing as difficult and as heart-wrenching as her actual death. It’s one thing to let my godmother go: it’s another thing to say good-bye to her home.

Why is this? I have no idea.

What is it about walking over there more times than I can remember–for cocktails, for coffee, for conversations, for counsel–you name it, I did it–that embedded itself into my heart and soul? I slept there, ate there, cried there, laughed there, answered the phone, took in the mail, polished tea sets, raked the leaves, even mowed the lawn–I guess that makes it my second home? And from the looks of my first home–with all the elementary-style Crayola tattoos I gave it– my memories are strong and lasting. They are memories of what once was and what I can still revisit: but next door I suppose–with my godmother’s passing–those memories can neither be made nor visited any more. Is that why it hurts?

That’s life, I know. That’s the way it goes for all of us, eventually. One day it will be my childhood home that no longer holds my heart and soul. I’m not going to like it then, either.

I am not certain why it is this way but I have learned that with death there are two endings: the life that has lived and died, and the house that was a home for all those who loved there. And in the case of my godmother, I was certainly one of ‘those.’

While I still don’t get this whole house-means-sadness thing, I do know one thing: if my heart breaks this much at a next-door buidling, there must have been a damn beautiful place inside there–for many moments of my life– that I got to call my own. And while I hate this strange new lesson in my life, I know I am so very lucky to have known someone who made me feel so very welcome in her life, in her heart, in her soul, in her home,

and in her house.

Posted January 6th, 2012 by
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Ann’s Diary: Good-bye

This blog was written in October, 2011 but not published until today. It is dedicated to my godmother, for whom it is written, and who died this week at age 90.

I don’t know if you’ve ever said good-bye to someone knowing you’ll never see them again?

I don’t mean because you met them on a plane and you had a great chat but you live in 2 different states 3 thousand miles apart with no real reason to ever bump into each other.

Or when someone helps you pump your gas and you say “thanks” and they say “you’re welcome” and you both say “bye”—

I don’t even mean when you say “good-bye” and you hope you never see them again–like an old romance who broke your heart and you see them at a reunion and you wish you could duck under the table until the coast was clear.

What I mean when I say “saying good-bye to someone you won’t see again” is the kind of good-bye that comes when you know that person is dying.  And you know you won’t likely be there in the next weeks or months when they finally say they’re through with living in this world and they’re ready to go on to the next.

I had this experience today. I had to look into the eyes of someone who means more to me than any other person in the world, save my own mother and father.  I had to look into those beautiful, fading hazel eyes and squeeze her as tightly as her 93 pound body could safely handle and say good bye. And I have to tell you, it sucked.

And before you say “oh goodness, why did she have to say the s word? Isn’t that a little strong?” I have to let you know that I grew up a good girl, went to church every Sunday, was schooled Catholic and believe in God–but when I got breast cancer I realized that SUCK had a very important place in the English language, and it was right after the world CANCER.

So forgive me if you can–because today I found another place where that word goes perfectly–and it’s right after that moment where you have to say good-bye to someone you love more than anything in this world.

This person I’m talking about is my godmother.  She’s been my godmother for 46 years.  She’s been my next-door-mother for 4 decades plus–she’s helped me tie my shoes,  changed my diapers, spoiled me rotten with colored balloons, cards on my birthday, LLBean fleeces, potted plants, and jewelry.

She’s called me, cajoled me, laughed with me, made me drinks.  She’s heard me cry, she’s made me laugh, she held me when I cried, she hugged me when I hurt.

And one very special day, in the sun porch of her home, she looked into my teenaged eyes and told me I was a star. And for some reason, I believed her.

And I’ve never, EVER, forgotten it.

On this last day I spent with my godmother there was drama—because we’d had a snowstorm and our neighborhood had lost electricity overnight.  It was planned with her daughter that if the power went out, I’d go check on her mother/my godmother–whose name is Darlin–because at 90 years old and with congestive heart failure, she needs to breathe with the help of an oxygen machine. The machine needs to be plugged into electricity to work. If there’s no juice in the wall, it stops working. And Darlin could stop breathing.

So it was planned, and it so happened, that the electricity DID go out–and I ran over to hook my godmother up to her battery-powered tank…so she could breath until the power came back on.  I stayed the night, I pulled up a down puff and snuggled in the next bedroom–because my mother and Dad were safe next door but both Mom and I–and Darlin’s daughter Marie–needed Darlin safe.  I could easily do that if I just stuck around to make sure the air flowed.  It was simple–as I said to Darlin, “we’ll have a sleepover. Just like kids.”

The next day, I had to pack my bags and ready myself to return to my home state–3 thousand miles away.  Which meant I had to say good-bye to my godmother.  I really didn’t want to do that.

Because in the past, every time I’d said good-bye I knew I’d see her again. My godmother is a strong, beautiful woman of grace and determination. She got her college degree in her 60’s, lost her husband–my godfather–in her seventies, yet lived on and flourished as much as you can after losing your best friend–for 2 more decades.  She took classes, she volunteered, she traveled.  And I watched it all in awe.  And I learned from her.  I learned to keep going, keep swinging, keep living. And I, like her, never let life beat me down. After all, Darlin always came back swinging. And so, as I battle metastatic breast cancer,  do I.

In these last years, when congestive heart failure stole my godmother’s breath away, she hooked herself to an oxygen tank and arrived at cocktail parties, grandchildren’s weddings and the cherished Maine beach her family visited all their lives–looking fabulous in outfits I could only dream of looking as good in.  And don’t even get me started on her matching shoes.

And through it all I always saw in Darlin’s eyes that desire to continue. And I was always–ALWAYS– so thankful to see that.

But this last visit, I saw something else in Darlin’s eyes.  It wasn’t exactly a choice to move on as it was a realization that it might be time. She was still smiling and still lovely, ever the hostess offering me coffee by day and cocktails by night–easily and graciously.  But those eyes of hers told me a new story.  They were silently saying to me, I’m getting ready to go.

I confess to not looking too long into those hazel jewels because I didn’t like what I saw.  But I knew it was true.  I knew.

The morning I left Darlin was sitting on her couch, breathing deeply from her oxygen machine, and smiling. She looked at me and laughed her Dorothea–that’s her real name–laugh and, while not adding drama to the already theatrical oxygenated overnight we’d passed together, acknowledged the crazy night we’d spent.  ”Thank you for saving my life last night, Ann.”

I looked at her beautiful face and saw way more than a woman exhausted from 9 decades of life on this planet and a scary, weird night’s sleep–and I saw so much more than a woman I adored.  I saw all the years she’d helped me grow, taught me strength, showed me compassion and told me I was a “somebody”–even in the moments I didn’t believe it myself.  I didn’t see that I saved her life last night. I saw that she’d saved me in my life many times over. And I saw what I always knew to be true–that I was so lucky to have known her.

Which is why, as she claimed I’d saved her life, I replied immediately and without hesitation,

“And thank you, Darlin, for saving mine.”

Posted December 28th, 2011 by
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Ann’s Diary: Pink Christmas

I forgot to mention I got a FREE DOWNLOAD of this song here: it’s a Merry Christmas gift from Krysta Youngs herself. Enjoy!

I met singer/songwriter Krysta Youngs a few years ago quite by accident and we have kept in touch on Facebook ever since.

Like many up-and-coming artists, she’s moved from New England to Nashville to try to ‘make it’ in the music business. I am not entirely sure how that’s going for her, but since all I ever hear is Lady Gaga on the radio, I have to assume that Krysta is still on the trying side of making it.

Every now and again though I’ll click on one of her links on her FB page and just sit in awe watching her talent sing out from the screen. Like so many up-and-comers out there, she hasn’t “hit it big” yet, and shares much of her work from her Youtube account. I like to think of it as “the next new thing” tube because so many of the artists we eventually hear ad nauseum have gotten a running start there.

Today I clicked her song, “Pink Christmas”, which, though pink is the color of breast cancer, has nothing to do with breast cancer. It just has to do with fun. I love it, and I wanted to share it with you–I hope it makes you feel as good as I do when I listen to it.

And after you hear it, when (not if) Krysta Youngs becomes a big star, you–like I– can say “I knew her when.”

“Pink Christmas” rocks it–and so do you, Krysta.

Posted December 7th, 2011 by
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Ann’s Diary: Coming Clean

Since the beginning of November I’ve shared with you that I’ve been feeling a bit blue. Okay a lot blue.

I’ve enjoyed your comments, your compliments and all your efforts to remind me to look at the bright side, keep my chin up and keep going. I am, I do, and I will. I promise.

But there’s a secret I’ve been keeping from you and I am ready to let it out. It’s taken me a few weeks–almost 8 I suppose–to be able to do so, and all I can say in my defense is that I’ve never been a she-who-lives-with-breast-cancer person before so you’ll have to forgive me my missteps. Anyway, here we go:

my cancer is rising.

Okay, there it is. And the world did not fall apart like I’d feared–this is a good thing.

I’ll specify and explain: when I got back from my fabulous New England book tour, I had my usual blood draw–and got the slam of my life. My tumor markers had risen–and not just by a few points, they’d gone up by 50 points. That’s a lot.

So now they’re back at the level they were when I first found out I had cancer last year. Which SUCKS.

And, as you have already figured out, the blues hit me full force in the face–and continue to do so to this day.

Now here’s the good news: I’m making progress. The first big step is now, admitting it to you. For me that’s big because I’m ready to face it publicly–and stop hiding out with Will and Grace (although I can’t promise they won’t be holding my hand this holiday, you know how I lean on those two.) More good news, my doctor is on it. She’s helping me figure out what’s going on, what might have changed, and how to best handle it so we can get those numbers down again. Together we are going to do it. And by together I mean all of us–you, too.

So here I go again–asking for your help. I know, it’s the holidays and you’re busy–wrapping, baking, holly and jollying. I’m with you on that! (minus the baking of course)–but here’s what I need you to do:

HAVE A WONDERFUL, FANTASTIC, FABULOUS HOLIDAY SEASON.

That’s what I’m going to do–blue or no blue, I am NOT letting the Cancer Grinch steal my Christmas.

Happy Holidays to you all…

Posted December 5th, 2011 by
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Ann’s Diary: Forgiveness

I recently got an apology from a friend after two years of waiting.

Before you read into that let me just say I wasn’t sitting around my house awaiting a phone call or drawing Xs on the wall to mark off the days until I got one. I admit initially I was hyperventilating as only I can, climbing the proverbial walls and wondering what had happened to make my pal say the things she’d said to me. At one point I thought maybe this was the end of us.

And then I thought: absolutely not.

Here’s why: we’d been through college together, 9 moves at least between us, 2 marriages, 2 children, several whoopie pies, 2 languages, breast cancer and family estrangement. This is a very good friend–and this was out of character for her. I had to hang in there.

We went through about 2 months of not speaking, and then one day I woke up and just said “enough. This is ridiculous.” I wrote her saying “I am sorry I hurt you, I didn’t mean to. You are my friend. I love you.” And we began to talk again–not discussing what had passed between us.

I was okay with this because I love her dearly. But still confused, I lived hoping that the whole stupid misunderstanding would disappear from my memory forever–but of course it never did. (I’m pretty good but I’m not that good.)

A year later and still no apology, I came to a place where I officially realized something that remains true to this day: some things in life I do not understand. One of them is corn dogs, one of them is hot yoga, and one of them was this strange blow-out in our friendship. And that’s just the way it is.

And here’s something else I had realized at the same time: people can only do what they can do when they can do it. Like water seeks its own level, people can only rise to the occasion based on what they’ve got inside them. I could have confronted my friend and said “okay, where’s my apology?” but to force it out of her–to me–would have made it all worse. I just wanted her get there on her own, so it was real

and then this week–2 years almost to the month when it all began–we were together driving and the conversation naturally flowed toward that awkward time of our friendship a few years back–

and she apologized.

I could have crashed the car in delight!

But I didn’t–instead I put it in park and just hugged her. I was so happy I cried, which she was already doing. Of course I’d forgiven her a long time ago, so I didn’t need to say that–what I did say was, “I’m sorry, too.”

Because another thing I’ve learned is that, regardless of who is more at fault, it always takes two to tango–even if one is stepping on the toes of the other. And I’ve never seen people consciously plotting to step on their partner’s ‘toes’ anyway–unless it’s a bad soap opera or one hell of a twisted “Dancing With The Stars” episode. I just see people doing their best. Sometimes their best isn’t what I need or want–but they are doing their best, just the same.

I waited two years for an apology–and I’d have waited 22 if necessary.

I still don’t understand how life works: I still think corn dogs are scary and you will never see me at yoga class above 89F–but life in all its mystery has taught me a few things: 1) if it’s all your child will eat for lunch then a corn dog can be a life saver. 2) Hot or cold, yoga is crucial for the body and soul,

and 3) there’s no friend like an old friend to remind me that forgiveness given freely is always the best forgiveness–

whatever the time frame it takes to finally give it.

Posted December 4th, 2011 by
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