Spooky memories

My mom was totally blind, so it seems kind of weird that she loved Halloween passionately. She always wanted to be the one to answer the door and hand out treats, asking kids as they placed their bags under her hand, "what are you?"
She had a little counter and kept careful track of each bag she filled, then she'd call Kath or me and tell us with glee what a fine and busy Halloween she'd had. Some years, she's have more than 100 and I'd have only five or six at my apartment.
She's gone now and I've become her. I LOVE opening the door to the little ghouls and dollies. And I count. Then I pester my siblings with the magic number, like it's a personal accomplishment. Dave, I tell my brother, it's not quite 7 o'clock and I've had 54. Woops, gotta go. Tell Kath.
I'm in the right place for this pursuit. Our house is sort of by itself between neighborhood clusters. You'd think we wouldn't get much monster action, but it's the opposite. We're the house that all clusters cross. Tonight, we scored big, more than 300 little beasties weaving their way past the decorations Beaux put up. It's a blatantly Halloween-friendly house and the kids and their parents flock to get our candy.
Mom would have loved it. And perhaps that's why I love it so much. More than any other day, this is the one where I honor my mom, Mary Collins.

Making lemonade from a major lemon

I used to think there was no upside to needing a liver. I'd be lying if I said the prospect of Beaux having a transplant doesn't scare me to death, although I can't wait for it to happen so that he'll feel better.
The pessimist part of me worries about the details and how we'll pay for the medications and all that good stuff. I'm absolutely convinced God will provide, but I wish He'd show me His plans. The drugs are going to be astronomical, and Beaux's now getting sick enough that I don't suppose it will be too long before he can't work until he's on the other side of this organ transaction. And I make a pretty decent salary, but not enough to pay everything on my own. It's not like he's worked so hard all these years to buy pretty clothes for all of us.
Add to that the fact that I am A) a world-class worrier and B) a journalist -- and reading an actual newspaper doesn't seem to be America's favorite hobby right now -- and you kind of get the idea that my freak-out may not be so far-fetched.
What I know, absolutely, is that I will work three jobs if that's what it takes to give Beaux a new shot. I've learned a lot more about him during the seven months since we were told he's dying than I did in the last 12 years of marriage. Who knew that he was so damned funny? Or that he'd adopt some off-the-wall hobbies for entertainment and amuse the heck out of the entire household.
Anyway, the good news just keeps on coming. His psoriasis, which has long bothered him a lot, has gotten to the point where it may be dangerous. It sometimes even bleeds and he's already prone to infections because of the liver disease.
Today, we went to see the dermatologist -- who's actually one of the world leaders in terms of psoriasis. Beaux's definitely been planted in the right garden, here in Salt Lake. And here's where we make lemonade.
We'd like to get the psoriasis cleared before a transplant so that he's more comfortable and we reduce the risk that an infection will knock him off the list temporarily. So we talked today about all these options, most very expensive and all uncomfortable. Although it wouldn't be the first time I gave Beaux weekly shots. We've done that once before.
The the doc dropped the bomb and I can't seem to stop smiling.
A transplant, it turns out, is a real good cure for psoriasis. The most popular anti-rejection drug is almost magical in its ability to kick the pegs out from under the hyperactive skin disease.
Cool.
Anybody want a lemonade?

Family feud

When you're part of a big, boisterous family, it's pretty easy to overlook the petty jealousies that may smoulder beneath the surface. And it's tempting to think that we're all pretty much the same, when clearly we aren't.
Holly and Lucy had a minor spat tonight. Holly was cuddled on my lap, munching a carrot, when Lucy tried to nudge him out of the way. When it didn't work, Lucy got huffy and grabbed Holly's carrot, then sauntered off with it.
Holly looked like he didn't know whether to cry or ignore it.
I'm trying, though, to teach the kids to play nice. So I'm afraid I spoke a little sharply to Lucy. I happen to know she doesn't even like vegetables.
Looking guilty, she forced herself to eat it. Then sulked for another 20 minutes.
I hate it when the labrador and the guinea pig can't get along.

My mother's other life

I've been working on a writing project with a dear friend for a while and my professional world has been peopled with folks in their 90s and even 100s. I'm quite charmed by all of them, but walk away from each encounter feeling like my mom was ripped off. Born blind, a remarkable woman in all ways, and forced to wind down without her sense of self. I can only hope she was in a happier place than my siblings and I were as we watched her go through Alzheimer's.
Looking back, nearly four years after her death at age 80, I have been thinking not of the tragedy of the disease, but of some of the joyous moments that come if you just go with it and stop fighting it.
One day, as we sat in the small anteroom in the Alzheimer's unit in Ogden, the sound of restless spirits wailing and grunting and shouting in various rooms around us, she told me it was the dullest convention she'd ever attended, "but I'm no quitter. Maybe it will get better." She didn't have anything in common with the other conventioneers and the speakers were just unbelievably uninspiring, she said.
The day they finally got a piano, she tinkered and even played. I'd always suspected that playing piano, which she started doing as a prodigy of age 5, would be the last thing to go. She didn't disappoint. But after a few pieces, she told me she was sorry sometimes she'd made it so big in music. "These tours are grueling." No doubt.
The Keeper Moment of my life came the day this lovely, beloved woman I'd come to view as Fake Mom, since she no longer even knew who I was, said unexpectedly, "You know who you'd like? My baby, Loie. She's a keeper." You can't buy that kind of testimonial.
And the day she told me that she'd been talking to her brother, Don, who died in 1976, I believed her without question. And was glad. I didn't even want to know what they talked about. I was just glad he'd finally gotten in touch.

Mama the warthog -- or things I didn't know about me.

Two days ago, I was putting some towels away and passed my daughter Alyson's closed bedroom. As I was heading back down the stair, she called me into her room. "Mama, come," she said.
"How'd you know it was me?"
"I waited for your happy grunt."
Huh? I have a happy grunt?
She said that when I finish a task successfully -- in this case, putting away towels -- I make this distinctive little grunt. She listens for it if she wants something, because my happy grunt means I'm not busy for a minute and I'm in an okay mood.
Huh?
The next day, I was telling the story to Beaux. Did you know I have a happy grunt?
Jeni, in the back seat, started smiling. "Oh yeah. The happy grunt. I listen for it."
So I started listening, too, and guess what? I have a happy grunt. It's a tiny, understated little thing that sounds like I'm clicking my tongue and clearing my throat at the same time.
It appears, though, that it's not a solo act. This morning Jen told me she likes my happy grunt, but not my growly grunt.
Huh? I've got a growly grunt?
That, she and Aly agreed, is the noise I make when I'm vexed. It's part growl, part throat clear, and it's the preamble to "knock it off, you two."
I found it today when I paid attention, as well.
The girls were delighted they knew something about me that I didn't know, so on our way to the grocery tonight, they introduced me to two more grunts. I have a sad, I'm-disappointed-in-you grunt and a long-suffering (but still short) frustrated grunt.
Huh? Those, too? Yikes.
So I started listening and, blast it, I found them. They're real. I'm a veritable mood ring of sound.
Wonder what other secrets I'm keeping from myself.

The bestest animal ever

Today, gluttony won and sweet Blossom passed away. She was the dwarf hamster who could stuff food in the pouches of her mouth all the way back to her hip bone. Seriously. You'd touch her cheek and feel hard kibble just below the surface. She liked to roam, but she never sneaked out of her cage empty-handed and we'd find her by looking for the food she piled in for a single trip.
There was, of course, a veritable tsunami of grief, but at least it kept the girls from noticing that her mouth was packed with food. Ugh.
A corner of our yard has now become a pet cemetery that would be the envy of a small community. Three weeks ago, the neighbor girl's dwarf, Princess, died. In true friend fashion, we offered to let her bury it in our yard -- they live in a condo -- and Beaux even did the digging. Within an hour, other neighbor girls were knocking on the door and bringing flowers. The kids have some weird communication network that makes a calling tree look prehistoric.
It was not until I went out to dig a hole for Blossom that I realized how amazing the graveyard really has become. Princess' grave was encircled with garden edging and adorned with a veritable garden of flowers, some silk, some felt, some plastic, some real. There are marbles and gewgaws and a little brocade purse.
After we passed Blossom's little corpse around -- cradled in the arms of a small teddy bear, no less -- and said a few words (I dug deep and came up with something more profound than "Bye, Blossom" but it wasn't easy. I didn't know her well), then sprinkled the dirt over the popcorn box she's riding into eternity, I went back inside so they could grieve as a family of hamster lovers. (I'm more a cat person, actually.) Three little girls wailing so loud I thought someone might call the police.
When I went out to drag them in eventually, the plot had thickened -- literally. In addition to the flowers and gew gaws, it's now covered with colorful rocks and a fuzzy teddy bear. By the end of the week, I expect it to look like the makeshift memorial in front of The Dakota after John Lennon was shot.
No one loves as passionately as a preteen who's lost a palm-sized pet.

Another drive-by day

I'm sitting at my desk, tired and hungry and it occurs to me. Ah, crud. I did another drive by.
A drive by is how I measure my sanity in an increasingly insane world. And it goes like this. I pull up to Burger King or someone where and place my order, humming happily because I'm gonna be fed soon (childish tune in background).
Pull to window, pay. Get change. Drive back to office.
Realize -- sometimes an hour or so later, when my stomach's growling again -- that I didn't wait for my order. When clerks give me change, that signals the end of the transaction to me. If they do that before they give me my food, I drive away.

My friend Elaine and her family love these stories. They're especially fond of the day I went to Mickey D's and pushed the intercom button, then zoned out. Hi, can I help you, the disembodied voice asked. Must have reminded me of a phone, because I introduced myself. "HI, I'l Lois Collins from the Deseret News." A few minutes later, when he called me by name, I wondered briefly how he knew. Duh again.
I gotta get more sleep.