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I remember buying my first Joan Jett cassette tape.  I was about thirteen and I had money from my paper route, so I rode my brother’s BMX to Alco and forked over a ten dollar bill. I popped the cassette in my Walkman, and then in my car stereo when I started driving, then in my house stereo when I got my first apartment. Stevie Nicks, Janice Joplin, Melissa Etheridge, Lita Ford, Joan Jett and Ann and Nancy Wilson. They were my girls. I loved the guitars, and sultry vocals.  They kept me company on long drives, all night marathon study sessions, writing my grad school thesis, and grieving bad break ups. Except for Janice, I have seen them all on stage. That was back in the day, when people stood in line for concert tickets. And I did my time, sitting all night in front of the record store in all kinds of weather to get close to the stage. Sometimes I used my grocery money to get the t-shirt at the show. I could survive on ramen and hand-outs from my cousin’s kitchen.

Even though, I never stopped loving music, when I had kids, concerts stopped being a thing for me. First off, for years, concert tickets were a luxury I couldn’t afford. But more importantly, I never thought rock concerts were appropriate for kids–drunk, high people acting crazy.  One time when I was at Red Rocks seeing Stevie Nicks, and the couple right next to me started having sex. RIGHT NEXT TO ME.  It was traumatizing. So I never have taken my kids to a live rock show, but they had lots of other exposure to music. My son can play cello, guitar, and rock the house on the drums. My daughter plays the ukulele and guitar. Both have eclectic taste, and know the words to hundreds of songs. The radio gets way more play than our television and in the car we turn up the volume and sing along. I didn’t realize how much I missed live music though. When I was in Chicago in June, I went with my girlfriends to the Blues Festival.  We saw Mavis Staples take the stage.  She spoke about marching with King and moved the audience to tears with her rendition of “I’ll take you there.” It brought me back to the days when I loved sitting close to the stage and watching the musicians do their thing.  So when I got the chance last weekend to see Joan Jett, I broke my rules and asked Darian to go with me.  After all, she’s going to college next year and after what the girl has been through, I figured she was mature enough for a rock concert.

It turned out to be one of the best nights of my life.  First off, we got to go to the State Fair, which I secretly love.  I went every year with my parents.  We’d eat complete junk and wander through the livestock tents and catch the rodeo.  Dad and I would look at all the horses and usually someone would let me take a short ride around the corrals.  My brother and I would play games on the midway and ride the rides and we almost always ran into some of our relatives.  D and I walked through the creative arts tent and checked out the quilt show and she walked with me through the corrals as I talked to every horse that was peering over a stall.  She didn’t want to look at the livestock, but she did agree to do the dairy exhibition and gave milking the fake cow a try.  We got to our seats early and Darian was so excited–we were in the fourth row, center stage.  Once the music started, Darian shot out of her seat to dance.  She knew all the words to almost all of the songs. The ladies in front of us kept turning around to compliment D, impressed that she was so young and rocking out with them.  After the show, we rode back home, talking about how great the music was.  Darian knew without being told that Joan Jett is an icon. She is one of the first women to start a rock band.  She is one of the first women to play lead electric guitar. She took criticism from Rolling Stone and all the boy critics who didn’t think she could make it.  She has had bottles thrown at her on stage.   But she never gave up and helped pave the way for generations of women musicians.   Joan Jett is resilient and brave, which is how I often think of my daughter.

In August, Darian and I went on a whirlwind tour of colleges on the East Coast, with Shayne tagging along still dealing with the tail end of his psychosis.  I had this moment at Penn Station when I was trying to figure out what train to take to get to the Bronx to see Sarah Lawerence.  I looked over to check on the kids. Both looked so city; Shayne, gutter puppy city–he had on clothes that didn’t fit him because he’s so skinny and was looking down at the ground–moving quickly to pick up a rolling quarter.  And even through the crowd, I could see him talking to himself, in the way that he does since the voices came to call.  In a place like Penn Station, no one even noticed him.  Darian was leaning up against the marble wall, her bleached white hair curling around her face, tapping her Doc Marten to the beat of whatever she was listening to on her headphones.  I realized right then, that she already looks like she belongs.  I know in her mind she has already moved to the city.  It doesn’t matter how far away it is from what she knows, or how expensive, or what I say, she has already made up her mind that New York is where she is destined to be.   And I better catch up, or she will be gone before I realize it.

I used to think my dad was the bravest person I knew.  He left his small town to join the Army when he didn’t even speak English. He learned to jump out of helicopters in the midst of gunfire to save downed comrades.  He survived a prisoner of war camp.  He never ever once asked for anything, but got respect anyway because of his quiet, generous nature.  I know he left his strength for me, but I think he left his courage for Darian.  She might be little, but she is tough.  So many times in the last years, I’ve seen her gather herself together and move forward.  There has been a lot of tears and pain, so to watch her dance and laugh with a musician we both love was pure joy.  It’s impossible to know what the future holds, but I’m going to treasure every moment that I have left with my brave, wild child. She wants to change the world and even though I don’t know what form that will take, I bet she will succeed.  She’s already changed my world and I am grateful for her every day.

 

School started this week.  For the past three years, I’ve missed the first day of school, so in a way I was excited this year that my life has settled down enough that I could do something normal, like go to work without being paralyzed with grief, or wondering if my son was dead, or rushing off to a radiation appointment.  I was ready, right?  Positive.  Cheerful.  Thinking about new projects. Ready to see my pals.   But when I got into the auditorium on the first teacher day, all my excitement drained away.

First off, when  I looked around and it was like a flashback from twenty-three years ago when I first entered the same auditorium as a student teacher.  I remembered looking at women pushing fifty sporting new dye jobs and geometric patterned skirts and thinking, “Lord, don’t let that happen to me.”  And while I don’t dye my hair, or wear primary colors or chiffon, I realized I have become one of those women teachers who are making fans out of handouts and rolling my eyes at the new teachers rolling out their Pinterest bulletin boards.  I sat and listened to two days of educational presentations and realized new ideas are just old ones dressed up in new clothes.  I went into my classroom and colleagues came to me whining and complaining about a schedule that didn’t meet their needs.  I acquiesced to their wishes.  Even if it puts thirty rowdy nine year olds in my room at one time, it’s way easier to agree, than to argue about what’s best for kids.   I came home in tears, feeling drained and trapped.

Hours later I was still crying.  And I wondered if maybe I was going through a mid-life crises.  Do women have those?  I mean I don’t want a convertible or a trophy wife, but I also don’t know if I can handle all the stupid shit.  All the discussions of hallway rules, and auditorium rules and bathroom rules and math scores and reading programs.  I’m so tired of acting like these things are important.  Where else in the entire world do people line up in single file to get to a destination, except for elementary school?  And dealing with the emotions of a building were half the women are having babies and the other half, hot flashes is intense.  I know I’ve been through a lot in my life, but I wondered if this might be the breaking point.  Kids hadn’t even stepped in the building and I was already dreading the year.  To cheer myself up, I went into my backyard and sat on my swing and watched the hummingbirds in the rose garden.

Last week, the kids and I went on whirlwind tour of college campuses on the East Coast.  One day we went to the beach and took a ride on the Wonder Wheel.  The Wonder Wheel is a eccentric Ferris wheel, which means that some of the cars are built on tracks that swing up and down as the wheel rotates.  Imagine that, swinging 150 feet in the air with the skyline of Manhattan on one side, the Jersey shoreline on the other.  I told the kids that when I retire I am moving to the beach.  Darian thought that was a good idea.  Shayne didn’t respond; he was still not completely responding to his meds and spent most of the trip, lost in his own head.

So I was sitting on my swing, thinking about all this and knowing retirement is not an option, when Shayne came out and joined me.  We just found out that his kidneys are being damaged from the antipsychotic drugs.  The drugs are fighting one war and staging another.  No wonder, little petty things about school are under my skin, I am watching my kid die a little every day.  Shayne turned to me and said, “Thanks, mom.” I said, “For what, bud?”  And he waved his arm around, indicating the yard, “For all this, thanks.”  I smiled and put my hand on top of his.  So I guess I’m not really having a mid-life crises.   I just forgot that this journey is about breathing and enjoying every moment. No matter where I am.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As a child, I can never remember a time in my life when we didn’t have a dog or two.  But I grew up thinking dogs needed a place to run and play, so in my years of apartment dwelling, dogs were off the table.  But when I moved back to Canon and got my first house and had a boy and a baby, I thought a dog was in order.  We went to the shelter and looked at the puppies.  There were only five or six puppies on the day we went and they were all smallish breeds, except one–a blue heeler/lab mix little boy dog.  He had giant paws and in my mind, dogs should be big.  So we took him to the viewing room and he hid under the bench, trembling, until Shayne coaxed him out.  He was the puppy for me–shy and reserved.  We named him Blue–partly because he was a blue heeler, partly because I think animals should be named after colors (we had a gray cat named, Ash, at the time) and there was a dog named Blue in my favorite book–Where the Red Fern Grows. Plus Darian was too young to have an opinion, or the name debate would have gone on for two weeks. When my mom saw him, she rolled her eyes and said, “That’s all you need, another baby.  And look at his paws.  He is going to be huge.”  But my dad said, “Ven aca Blue-boy.” and rubbed the puppy’s ears thoroughly.

The first morning after we got him, I went out into the living room to find several piles of poop strategically placed all over the living room.  Tears came to my eyes, and I realized that the whole puppy thing was maybe a bad idea.  Shayne came out of his room, took a look at the scene and said, “I got this,” and he started the process of cleaning it up.  After that, Blue was pretty much Shayne’s dog.  He took him for a short walk before school everyday, and then a long walk after school.  He made sure his water bowl was full, and fed him and took him to obedience school.  Our shy little puppy transformed into a rowdy trouble maker.  He chewed big holes in the carpet.  He ate choice pieces out of the laundry basket, mostly my underwear, which could be a whole separate blog on its own, and he loved shoes.  He LOVED them so much that he’d chew them into pieces.  One morning he gathered up all the shoes from the neighbor’s front door and brought them to our door.  He could open the gate, the back door, and the bedroom windows.  We had to bungee everything closed.  Every time I got frustrated with Blue’s behavior, Shayne would hug the dog tight and say he would keep working with him.

Shayne started running seriously when he was twelve years old.  He started out training for middle school cross country and at first ran three to five miles a day.  He would take Blue with him.  The runs were great for Blue; he started getting a lot more exercise and settled down some.  As Shayne increased his miles, Blue was his constant companion.  They’d leave at four am and run for miles.  That lasted for years.  The year Shayne went away to college was hard on Blue.  He would lay around looking listless and forlorn.  His boy was gone and he didn’t really know what to do with himself.  I walked him everyday, and was surprised at well-behaved he had grown to be.  And he didn’t seem to age.

When Shayne came back from California, he was showing symptoms of schizophrenia.  At the time, we didn’t know what was wrong with him, but Blue knew there was something wrong with Shayne.  It wasn’t his boy anymore.  And in the last three years Blue has turned his loyalty to me.  He became my dog.  He followed me, slept in my room, and greeted me with tail wags.  Yet, when Blue had a stroke last spring and his leg stopped working and he seemed to be suffering from dementia, Shayne was the one that refused to let me consider putting him down.  He said, that he would still care for Blue and we couldn’t kill him just because he was old.  He said he would help him get outside and clean up if he had an accident.  Shayne has been through so much, and Blue was still eating and able to move around on his own, so even though, Blue needed assistance getting up and down the steps and couldn’t really walk far distances, and sometimes fell, we kept caring for him.

Last week we went on a short trip to the East coast to see a friend, get a taste of the ocean and visit college campuses.  I wasn’t sure about leaving Blue or Shayne.  Shayne is still not quite stable.  Traveling with him is worrisome, because I would hate for him to run away far from home, but leaving him alone is just as worrisome.  So I elected to take Shayne and I got care for Blue.  But it was too much for Blue.  He fell when he was outside and didn’t bounce back.  When we got home, he couldn’t get up at all and was lying in his pee.  Shayne picked him up in his arms and carried him outside and set him down on the grass.  The dog took two or three stumbling steps and fell onto his side and started crying.  Shayne swiped at his tears and told me that it was time.  He didn’t want to watch Blue suffer anymore.

We made an appointment to put him down.  When we got home, Shayne went to his room.  I didn’t know how he was going to handle losing Blue.  Stress can and has lead Shayne into psychotic breaks.     But when I checked on him, he was asleep and Charlie was curled next to his side.  It made me feel better and at peace.  I think all of us will miss that crazy, old dog, but he had a good life with lots of runs, plenty of stolen pizza off the table, and a boy who loved him beyond measure.