A Week of Feeling

I woke up Wednesday morning after a busy evening the night before of watching election results pour in. These days I can often find the political situation of our country stressful and exhausting. I am a vocal non-supporter of the current occupant of the White House, and I have no shame in saying it out loud.

Wednesday would have been like any other day, except that after my shower, as I sat down to eat breakfast and peruse Facebook, I was immediately inundated with news of the devastating mass shooting in Thousand Oaks, California. I saw coverage of a father waiting for word of his son, whose phone was in the bar. And later, I saw the tragic news conference where this father tearfully informed all that his son was confirmed dead. His raw grief in that moment hit me right where my own still-raw grief sits.

Then there was the news of Ruth Bader Ginsberg (a personal hero) having a fall in her office and breaking three ribs. Being a non-supporter of the current administration, I don't want it having yet another Supreme Court pick. RBG needs to hold on until we can get this clown posse out of D.C.

So perhaps I went into Wednesday a little more anxious than usual. And it has persisted.

I'm not anxious to panic-attack levels. Fortunately, I haven't had a panic attack in a while now, thanks to medication, and, perhaps, my own self-awareness about how to fend them off. But I have been anxious this week, and it leaks out of me in the weirdest ways. It's being a little bit harsher with my students, a little bit less patient while driving, and, of course, a lot more introverted and hermit-like. Hard to be anxious when reading a book on the couch with a cat on my lap.

Then the fires started.

California is no stranger to wild fires these days. I follow all of them in the news when they happen, because it breaks my heart to see my beautiful home state burn. But the Camp Fire in Butte County is particularly terrible for me--Paradise, the town destroyed, is a short distance from Chico, where I attended university. I lived up that way for five very important years of my life. While I doubt I'd live there now, it holds a very special place in my heart, and my two dearest and longest-running adult friendships--Sarah and Summer--both began there.

So watching Paradise burn has been stressful. It has been painful to hear of the destruction of the historic Honey Run Covered Bridge, a point of local pride. I used to drive up Skyway to Paradise whenever I was feeling stressed. It was a gorgeous, relaxing drive, and knowing that Paradise is all but gone is heartbreaking.

To say I need a break right now is an understatement.

Fortunately, I'm getting one. I'm on Day One of a three-day weekend, and the coming week is not only shortened by a day, each day is a half-day for the kids. While I have to work full days (and two of those days are parent-teacher conferences for the first trimester), I also get a lot of non-contact time in which I can cross a lot of things off my to-do list. New seating plans. Print out a new set of grade book sheets for the new term. Organize some things around my classroom. I'll be able to play Keane through my Promethian Board and get down to work.

After that, I get a whole week for Thanksgiving. I'm not looking forward to the holiday itself this year--though Dad and I have plans to eat with some friends of his, we will both be feeling the loss of Mom especially keenly that day. They say the firsts without a loved one are the worst. They're absolutely right.

So I look for ways to take care of myself. Today, that was cleaning--scrubbing the shower, mopping the floors, bleaching down the kitchen counters. Casa Meg is sparkling after several hours of work, and tonight I've got candles lit and a comfy couch waiting for me. I have fun plans with Sarah tomorrow, and plans to see Dad on Monday. Little by little, I cut into the stress and anxiety, the best I can.

Autumn

It seemed rather sudden, but one day, the daily high wasn't over 95 degrees, and then, there was even a tiny bit of rain. Now, we are hovering at an average high of 80-85, with cool nights and daytime breezes.

Autumn is here.

I've always loved this time of year. Mom did, too. A recurring theme of our conversations at this time of year was, "I love this cooler weather!" and "I feel like making soup." We shared a deep dislike of the hotter weather, and relished the time we could open our windows and let fall into our homes.

I suppose maybe that's why this past week, in particular, has been one of high emotion. Mom loved this time of year so very much, and now she's not here to enjoy it. I'm glad she's not suffering anymore, but damn, I wish she had gotten more time. I wish cancer had never happened to her. I wish, I wish, I wish.

If wishes were fishes, and all of that.

I'm doing my best to enjoy autumn for both of us. I have a vanilla bourbon candle going and I'm making potato soup. My windows are wide open and I put out my favorite fall decorations. I happily step on dried leaves on the ground, relishing the crunch they make. Yet with ever stomp, every batch of soup, every glance up at the tree across from my parking spot, which is on fire with fall color, I miss my mom.

I'm told that the firsts are the hardest, that it gets better year to year--if not better, than at least less overwhelming. On a day-to-day basis, I'm actually quite fine. Perhaps I'm a little more easily distracted, a little more introverted. But I'm okay. Work keeps me so busy I can barely process how much I miss her...but the evenings aren't always so easy.

Dad and I still hear from people who tell us they miss her, and her smile. How good and kind she was. It's comforting to know we're not alone in this. I recently sold some of my Etsy goods at the Lincoln Woman's Club home tour sale--something I did a year ago, with Mom helping me out. She was a member, and her friends hoped I'd come again this year. Mary, a good friend of Mom's, looked at a picture I had of Mom on my table at the sale. "You have no idea how much I miss her," she said, with a sad smile.

"Oh, I have some idea," I replied, with the same sad smile.

"Of course you do..." said Mary, giving my arm a squeeze.

One step forward, then another. We're closing in four months since she died--it seems like a long time, and then it seems like yesterday.

One Year

A few weeks after Mom died, I found myself reading Us Against You by Fredrick Backman. If you haven't read his works, start with A Man Called Ove and work your way through from there. Mom and I read that one, as well as Britt-Marie Was Here, My Grandmother Told Me to Tell You She's Sorry, and Beartown, which Us Against You is a sequel to.

Backman is wonderful. Of course, I'm reading his works translated into English, but there is still so much charm and wittiness in his writing. It reads quickly, and there are moments of humor followed by moments that tear your heart open. Beartown and Us Against You are a bit less quirky and humor-filled than his other works, but still very, very readable and easy to get lost in.

But I digress. The point of this post is that Mom never got to read Us Against You. I mentioned having ordered a copy to her before she died, thinking she would eventually have her turn to read it--when she was feeling better. But she didn't feel better. And so it goes.

So I found myself reading it, a few weeks after, and one evening, I read the passage pictured below and it took my breath away.

It was like Backman had preemptively read my mind and written that line just for me.

What wouldn't I give for one more year? I miss my mom so terribly sometimes, and three months out, it still feels unreal that she's gone. How in the world is she gone?

She loved Fall, and I always have, too. I miss idly discussing how glad we are to see cooler temps and turning leaves.

One more year with her is what I got, from diagnosis/surgery to her death. And yet still, I wanted more. Another year. Another. I'm still reeling that I didn't get that. When I read this, it was like a gut-punch. What would a daughter give to have one more year with her mom?

"You're a tough little broad," she told me, two days before she died. Her way of reminding me that I could survive losing her. But I'd still give anything for one more year.

Natural Order

I colored my hair this morning--nothing drastic, just a slightly red-tinged brunette by Garnier to hide those first few pesky grays and to even out my naturally ashy roots with the richer tones of the rest of my hair.

There is nothing remarkable about coloring my hair...except that I bought the box in June and am only now getting around to doing it.

June threw everything off the tracks, and it occurred to me just now that I'm only starting to get the train up and running again.

Grief is strange.

At any rate, my hair looks good.

Ka-Pow

A few weeks after Mom died, I finally signed up for kickboxing classes, which I'd been mulling over for a while.

Four or five years ago, I took some classes through a Groupon deal, but never committed to a membership. It's expensive, etc. etc. But now I'm quite a bit more financially stable, so after my five intro classes, I bit the bullet and signed up for a one-year membership. It's spendy, but I love it.

I'm going to the Roseville iLoveKickboxing gym. If you want to be a trained fighter, this isn't what you're looking for. This is pure workout, and pure fun, at that. You do get taught proper form, but the whole point here is to work out, which is exactly what I want. I need--pardon the pun, which is very much intended--a kick in the butt with my workouts. My running has completely fallen by the wayside, thanks to a hot, fire-ridden California summer in which even just going for a long walk was unhealthy. I have enough weight equipment at home to do some pretty awesome workouts, but I also have a very comfy couch. A few days a week, I can make myself lift...but I also need something that gets me out of the house, and something that is directed by someone else.

 Every workout is an hour long. The first fifteen minutes are warm-up...though "warm-up" might be a bit to soft-sounding. We run laps around the mat, do Burpees, squats and squat jumps, lunges, V-ups, planks, push-up holds, Mountain Climbers, push-ups, and more. So much more. It is fifteen minutes of pure hell. Within a minute or so, I'm dripping sweat. (Let it also be mentioned that they happily help people find any modifications so that each individual gets a good workout without doing something their body is ready for--for example, I'm not able to do full Burpees right now, and no one bats an eye when I modify them or just do some heavy-duty squats instead.)

After a quick break for water and to mop up our faces (never, ever leave the towel at home, because you WILL need it), we do some stretching for a couple minutes, and then it's time to strap on the gloves.

Then it's six fast-paced, three-minute rounds of punching and kicking. Twenty minutes of kicking and punching the snot out of your bag, and feeling all of the stress and angst leave your body.

Let's face it, I've got a lot of that these days.

The thing is, I'm okay. I really am. I get through days at work with nary a tear. I function just fine. But I'm tired. Every day, I'm exhausted, and I know it's the grief and shock of losing Mom. It seems like it's been so long, but in reality, it's just approaching ten weeks. Two-and-a-half months. And the month leading up to her death was stressful enough to give all of us some shock.

So the jab-cross and the left hooks and the roundhouse kicks go a long way to letting some of that exhaustion and tension leave my body. I can almost visualize it leaving me and making the bag rock and teeter while I sweat and grunt my way through each round. I get so much satisfaction in feeling my muscles working, in feeling the sweat drip down my face and neck. The people who lead the classes shout encouragement and give boxing-glove high-fives. The environment is completely supportive and helpful. If I need help, I get it, with a smile.

I've been aiming for twice a week (and the occasional weekend visit if I have the time/energy), and it's been a great thing. The gym is about 15-20 minutes from my home, so after stopping in to feed my dudes, I'm able to dash over there, get my workout, and come home to shower, eat dinner, and collapse on the sofa for the rest of the evening.

Kickboxing makes me feel strong, and fierce. It's the perfect antidote for my grief right now.

Forty

Forty is an octagonal number, and the atomic number of zirconium.

It is a unique number (in the negative) at which the Fahrenheit and Celsius scales correspond.

There were 40 days and 40 nights of rain in the Biblical flood.

Johnny Cash recorded "Forty Shades of Green," about, of course, Ireland.

Forty winks is a short nap.

Forty weeks is the average term of human gestation.

There are 40 spaces in the traditional Monopoly game board.

And forty is the first birthday in my life that I celebrate without Mom. So my celebration this year is quiet, not because I feel I ought to for Mom's sake (she'd hate that), or because I feel it's inappropriate to celebrate so soon after her death (she'd hate that even more). Rather, it's because I haven't had the energy to plan anything big and fabulous. I've been channeling what energy I do have into planning for the new school year, and helping Dad sort through Mom's things, and taking care of my most immediate needs for rest, and, yes, some solitude. School starts this week, and with it, the busy days.

So today, I am forty. Forty years old, forty years young, or just meet me right here, at forty. I work at an amazing school doing something I love, I own a home, and I am surrounded by family and friends who love and support me (including, of course, Da Boyz).

Life rolls forward.

The Hole

This last month without Mom has been a series of ups and downs. I'm learning a lot about grief and how absolutely strange it is.

I guess the best way to describe it is that it's like having a hole in me. A gaping hole that once was filled--with love, friendship, a mother-daughter bond. The hole was carved out when Mom died, and that part of me is missing now. It won't come back.

Having a hole carved out like that is shocking, and painful. It took my breath away and left me desperately trying to refill it...only to find that you can't refill that hole. It's there now. Like a broken vase, you can glue it back together, but it will never be the same as it was before.

I will never be the same.

That's not to say that I won't be alright. I will be--I am--alright. I'm even finding laughter and joy and beauty, even while that hole aches. The edges are still raw, taking their time to heal. This isn't a wound that just goes away. The edges will scab over, and new skin will grow over it. But the hole will remain. You can't replace a Mom, your biggest cheerleader, your life-long best friend.

So I'm learning to live with the new me. The me with a hole. Never entirely the same as I was before Mom died. It's not that I'm more sad, or angrier, or more serious. I'm just...different. I'm missing a piece. It takes some getting used to.

So I take it one day, one step at a time. The pain lessens, the shock dissipates.

The hole, however, is permanent.

A Tough Little Broad

Two days before she died, I watched two nurses wheel my mom into the Emergency Room. She was severely dehydrated and her blood pressure had plummeted.

In the ER, she was hooked up to a couple of fluid bags and started perking up very quickly. When the bustling activity around her had subsided, I walked over to her bedside and took her hand.

"You're a tough little broad," Mom told me, smiling and gently squeezing my hand. I just laughed through my sobs, and answered, "I'm trying..."

Am I?

I suppose so. I've traveled, I've survived some hurts and some trials. But nothing prepared me for how much I miss my mom. How strange it is that she is simply no longer living. How every once in a while a wave of grief will wash over me, taking my breath away.

On Saturday, we had her celebration of life. I sang "In My Life" by the Beatles, accompanying myself on the ukulele. People have been telling me how brave it was to get up there and sing, but I didn't feel brave, I just felt like the best way I could honor my mom was in song. After all, she was the one who dragged me to those earliest piano lessons.

Brave. Tough.

Honestly, I'm just a woman whose inner child is hurting right now.

Pennies From Heaven

There are some who believe that finding small coins, especially pennies, on the ground is a message from someone who has passed.

My own religious and spiritual beliefs are a muddled mix of hope and "I don't know." But Mom always believed that when she found a penny, it might just be a message from her own mother. "Penny from heaven!" she'd exclaim, picking it up.

I pick up change when I find it--even pennies. Is that strange? Who cares? Anyway, I pick them up. I stick them in my little coin sorter and save up all that loose change in paper rolls to put in my savings account. Trust me, it adds up.

A few days after Mom's death, I returned home to my condo after another busy day helping Dad, and decided to walk to a nearby gas station for some M&Ms. It was hot out, and I was in a hurry to return to my air conditioning, a soothing shower, and the quiet of my home. I walked along in my customary way--booking it.

Then I saw it: on the ground, a penny, heads up. Images of Mom filled my head and I could hear her in my mind, saying, "A penny from heaven!"

The tears came fast and hard as I bent down to pick that penny up off the ground. Was it a message from Mom? A sign that she's okay?

I don't know.

Nonetheless, that penny is tucked in a little box where I keep her rings when I'm not wearing them.

Cooper Loops

On Wednesday night, Dad and I made the long drive home from the hospital in my car. We talked the whole way, sometimes sniffling and crying, and sometimes laughing. Dad pointed out how lucky we are to have so many wonderful memories.

Somehow, Cooper Loops came up.

A Cooper Loop is a very basic, very silly maneuver. It started when I was a child in Folsom. Our cul-de-sac, and our home's placement on it, were perfect for driving a loop around, and then sort of swinging into our long driveway. Dad started it, making the rest of us laugh hysterically.

Over the years, Aaron grew more embarrassed by it, but Mom, Dad, and I thought it hysterical.

We left that house in 1998, and Cooper Loops became quite rare.

But on Wednesday, as I pulled into Dad's cul-de-sac, I said, "I'm going to do something..."

"A Cooper Loop?"

"Yeah."

This particular cul-de-sac doesn't give quite so perfect loops as that long-ago one in Folsom did...but we managed.

And we smiled.

...

Yesterday, I spent much of the day at Mom and Dad's (it's still hers, too, you know) and had my car parked on the street. As I left, Dad said, "Do a Cooper Loop!!"

So I did, kissing my fingers mid-loop and raising my hand to the sky. I laughed as I passed Dad on the driveway, giving me a thumbs-up sign.

I laughed, and I cried a little, and then my tears dried up and I drove home.

Mama

Susan Mae (Bean) Cooper
July 4, 1946-June 27, 2018
Picture: Mother's Day 2018

I lost my beautiful mama last night.

For a year, we had such hope that we would beat her cancer enough--we knew it wasn't curable, that "remission" was not the goal. But we believed, we hoped, that we would beat it enough into submission that Mom could live an enjoyable life.

For a while, it worked. Then it didn't.

The last several weeks have been a roller coaster of worry and emotion. Mom went into the hospital on June 1st with severe jaundice. Over the next three weeks she would be prodded and poked in several procedures, given a bile drain, and given a feeding tube. She suffered the indignities that come with needing a nurse's help to use the restroom.

She fought so hard...and it weakened her so much.

She came home a week ago today. We all thought, Finally! She'll have a real chance to be comfortable, to get strong again. We're going to fix her up and get her on immunotherapy. Show this stupid cancer that Team Cooper is tough!

Friends, she tried.

She did her physical therapy exercises in her chair. She had no appetite, but gamely tried to eat and drink. Dad changed her feeding tube, cleaned her bile drain. Helped her stay clean.

On Monday, we had to get her to an appointment with her oncologist, who is based in Sacramento. When we got there, Mom was feeling rough, and she declined quickly. The blood pressure reading in the oncologist's office was 40-something over 30-something. She was clearly dehydrated.

The doctor sent her to the nearby chemo infusion center for hydration, but when they saw her blood pressure, they told us, "We can't take her, she needs the ER." So they helped us wheel her down to the ER and she was immediately taken in.

As they started pumping two bags of fluids into her, Mom started to perk up. I caught her watching me--sitting in a chair nearby, crying--and I mouthed, "I love you" to her. She mouthed it back, from behind a surgical mask, and her eyes crinkled up with her smile. That night, she was admitted to the hospital.

On Tuesday, we met the hospital doctor, Dr. J., and for the first time in a month, we had a medical professional lay it all out on the table for all of us.

"Thing is, you're dying," he told Mom, holding her hand and looking her directly in the eye. "I mean, all of us in here are, but you are doing it faster than I am." Mom nodded and smiled at him. She knew. Dad suspected. I had been mostly in denial, but coming around to the truth.

He gave her all of her options. We could continue with aggressive palliative care, and try to get her strong enough to go on immunotherapy. Or we could focus on comfort. Mom opted to continue with semi-aggressive care, but held the comfort option as a close alternative. Dr. J. smiled at her and said, "You get to decide. If I say I want a procedure, and you don't want it...I don't do it."

Yesterday (Wednesday), Dad and I set out to see Mom. Because she was in Sacramento, Dad had been coming by to pick me up when we would go there. As we drove, his phone rang, and he answered. It was Dr. J.  Mom had worsened a tiny bit the evening before. "She wants to have a meeting--is Megan with you? Oh, good--so have Antony page me when you get here." (Antony being her morning shift nurse, and the sweetest, kindest man.)

Dad asked me, "Are you ready for this?"

I replied, "I could never be ready for this. But I can do it."

Dad sighed. "Yeah."

Mom had decided to stop trying to get better. She knew, in her heart, that her time was limited, and she wanted to be at home, and as comfortable as possible. There were tears, of course. But we all agreed that her quality of life had diminished drastically in the last month, and we only wanted peace for her.

I held her hand. She told us what to do with her most precious things. We talked to an RN connected to the hospice program and got the ball rolling to bring her home today (Thursday).

When we left, at about noon, Mom was tired. Dad gave her a kiss, looked her in the eye, and said, "I love you." She said, "I love you, too" with a beautiful smile.

I stepped in and gave her a kiss. "I love you to the moon and back." She smiled at me, and said, "I love you to the moon..."

...

I had dinner at Sarah's house. Sarah fed me homemade lasagna and wine, and we talked about my mom, alternating between laughter and tears. A little before 9:00, my phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number, but I answered.

It was Mom's night nurse. "I think you need to get down here with your Dad," he told me. "Your Mom is starting to fail."

Sarah was already handing me my keys and ushering me out the door as I called Dad to tell him. Then I raced to his house, and we made the seemingly endless drive to Sacramento.

...

She was gone when we arrived...having passed just a few minutes before we came in. As her nurse (I believe his name is Gerard; forgive me for having lost it in the grief of the night), turned off the various machines, Dad and I touched her--without gloves for the first time in days--and cried. We told her we love her so very much. And then Dad looked at me and said, "She did this on her terms. She's at peace."

And she was friends. She was so peaceful.

I held her hand, and I brushed my hands over her hair. I found her favorite red hat, the one I bought her when her hair started thinning, next to her hand. She wore it often in the hospital to keep warm.

We stayed for about an hour. Her nurse closed the door after telling us we could stay as long as we needed. An orderly came in with a tray of cookies and coffee. In the next hour, three more nurses quietly, respectfully came in. One was a family liaison, who hugged us and told us in a beautiful Jamaican accent how sorry she was for our loss. Another came to take some of the various medical accouterments off of Mom, like a blood pressure cuff. And finally, the head RN came to make the pronouncement. She gently checked for a heartbeat, and gently checked Mom's eyes. Every single person who came in that room showed utmost respect and care for my mom, and for Dad and I.

...

I took her hat home, but what we forgot were her two rings. One was her own, one was Dad's original wedding band, which she had been wearing. The hospital called Dad, and agreed to mail them to him.

But this morning, Dad called me. "You'll never guess who knocked on the door a few minutes ago..."

Turns out Antony, that morning shift nurse, was at the door. He held out a bag with Mom's rings in it.

"This is above and beyond," Dad said to him, with tears in his eyes.

Antony smiled. "It's part of the job."

No. No, it isn't. That young man drove all the way from Sacramento to Lincoln (about forty minutes) to personally deliver Mom's rings to Dad. It is above and beyond, and you can't tell me differently.

Dr. J. called Dad to check in. He wasn't on shift last night, but saw in his notes this morning that she had passed, and took time to call. You could say that's all part of the job, too, but Mom was one of but many patients on his list. He took the time to get an immediate call to my Dad.

...

We talked all the way home, Dad and I. There were tears and sniffles, but also some smiles and laughter. We are blessed, you see, with so many years of wonderful memories. From the big moments and fun vacations right down to the everyday little moments that made us laugh, or smile.

So many memories.

We also have the peace in our hearts that comes with knowing that Mom got to meet death on her own terms. Of course she wanted more time, but when she realized the cancer was not going to allow that, she accepted it with grace and friends, the fact she had that choice means the world to me.

And forever, I will carry with me that my last words to her were words of love, with smiles, and affection. I hope my voice, and Dad's voice, were echoing in her head at the very end.

She will be with me forever.

The Hummingbird

This morning, I went for a walk.

I try to do as much walking and running on my summer vacation as I can, this morning being no exception. I was in a hurry, however. I needed to be back in time to shower before the four-hour window for a delivery opened up, and the secondary purpose of my walk was to stop at a nearby grocery store for a couple of small items.

Walking and running both help my anxiety (as does Lexapro, let's be real here). The endorphins get pumping and it's harder for me to feel anxious...but these days, I'm in a constant state of anxiety or near-anxiety.

My mom has cancer. That's been well-documented. We are fighting--she is fighting--and we have hope, always. But the fact remains, she is ill. She's been in the hospital for almost three weeks as they sort out some of this, some of that, to get her ready for immunotherapy. It is stressful for her, it is stressful for Dad, it is stressful for me.

We want her home.

So my walk this morning was a mix of feeling good, but also worrying--can she come home today or tomorrow as we have been hoping? Will they finally let her be home where she is happiest and most comfortable?

As I walked, and thought about Mom, a motion came into my vision--a tiny bird. A hummingbird. But this one, smaller than most I see at my feeder.

A baby hummingbird, perhaps just out of the nest for the first time, darting uncertainly through the air above the street. It dashed to and fro, in short bursts, then hovered and looked around. It landed on a branch of a nearby tree as I stopped in my tracks and stared at it. It was so tiny, so new. I watched it for a few minutes, a huge smile on my face.

Turns out, many Native Americans see hummingbirds as "healers and bringers of love, good luck and joy." When Henrietta nested in Mom's yard, we were told this was a sign of good luck.

Maybe...and maybe it's all just nonsense.

But something about that tiny hummingbird this morning brought me a moment of great joy. A reminder, perhaps, that my family can face down whatever is coming to us with dignity, with grace, and with great love.

We still have our Fightin' Pants on. They're not going anywhere.

Mother's Day

This year, Mother's Day has a deeper meaning, perhaps, than it has in the past.

A year ago, we knew something was going on with Mom's health, but we were furiously avoiding the c-word. But after a few hospital stays for blood transfusions, and many tests, colon cancer was found, and last summer, we put on our Fightin' Pants and got going.

Mom doesn't complain a lot, and when she does have a moment of self-pity, she apologizes to me. I just scoff and say, "Mom, you've got World War Three going on in your body, with all that chemo," and remind her that an occasional woe-is-me moment is allowed in all of this. It's been a long battle for her, and while we've faithfully stood by her through it, I know Dad and I can't truly understand how it feels.

I'll be 40 this summer, and if you count the gestation period when I was growing in Mom's uterus, I've known her over 40 years now. And she has known me. She knew me before she gave birth to me--the tiny heartbeat, the kicks and bumps and sitting on her bladder in the middle of a hot Nebraska summer. And God, how she wanted me. I've never doubted that. Mothers and daughters have their ups and downs, and some mothers and daughters have troubled relationships...but this mother and daughter are so lucky to be friends, especially now that I am an adult.

Mom thanks me for the little things I do these days--helping her out, helping Dad out, etc. I don't feel like I owe them anything, and I also don't feel like thanks are necessary (appreciated, of course, but not necessary--they're my parents, and I help them because I love them). When she starts thanking me for something I'm totally happy to do, I just smile and say, "How many diapers, Mom?"

She always stops, and smiles back. "A lot of diapers. But I loved it."

Well Mom, I love being able to help you.

It hasn't been easy to watch Mom suffer the indignities and discomforts of chemo. I hate that it makes her miserable, and tired. But I know that it is also making her better--her last scan showed us very good news--so we live with it. Mom bears it, because it's helping. Dad and I hold her up, because that's what you do for the people you love.

And on Mother's Day, I appreciate, so much, that she's here, that she's in good spirits, and that she's mine.

Amsterdam 2018, Part Seven: Off to Delft

As mentioned in an earlier post, one of my dear duck ladies, Amanda, is Dutch. She lives in the city of Delft, and though we'd met for dinner on Wednesday evening, we had grand plans to hang out in her home city all day Friday.

Amanda had made an itinerary, so I was off early to catch my train to Delft. I boarded a train at Amsterdaam Central...and let me tell you, Centraal is a busy station, and unlike London train stations, it is not a terminus, it has trains moving in and out in both directions. So sometimes it can be a little confusing for the non-Dutch speaking tourists like myself.

Anyway, I boarded a train and promptly started getting anxious--what if it's the WRONG train? What if I end up in Belgium?

So I got up and started to leave...then I moved to sit down. Feeling foolish, I finally asked a man a few seats away, "Is this the _____ train?" (Even now, the name of the terminating city eludes me.)

"Oh, yes!"

"Thank you!!" I exclaimed, and then pointed to the top of my head and said, "Toooouuurist!"

The man laughed, and replied, "That is not a bad thing. It's always good to ask."

And this is why I love the Dutch.

About an hour later, I was arriving at Delft's main station, and Amanda was waiting for me near the exit.

The first activity for our day was a visit to the marvelous Delft Works, home to the master painters and makers of this beautiful Dutch pottery. To get there, it made more sense to ride bikes than to walk, so Amanda unlocked hers from the station storage area (there were several hundred bikes, I'm not kidding), and saw to renting one for me.

I grew up riding my bikes in the sunny streets of Rancho Cordova, and later, the hilly suburbs of Folsom, into my teen years. I know how to ride a bike. However, it had been...a long time. So I was a little bit nervous about this part of our day, but I gamely climbed on and tried to remember how.

It's like riding a bike, really.

I was wobbly, but I managed, only having one clutzy dismount in which I fell on my ass, and not causing any international incidents ("American Tourist Causes Multi-Bike Pile-Up in Delft"). What I actually learned was that the more I tried to control the bike, the wobblier I became.

We stopped at the point where Vermeer's painting of the
view of Delft was painted. It looks different now, for sure.

The Delft works building was absolutely fascinating. The master painters spend about ten years working their way to that distinction, and the amount of artistry involved is mind-boggling. Even more fascinating, the paint they use, which has cobalt in it, comes out black, but turns blue through a chemical process during firing.

A master painter at work. He even chatted with us, laughing
as I marveled at how steady his hands are doing such
intricate work. 

A Delft tile rendering of Rembrandt's "Night Watch."

The official royal china, commissioned by Willem-Alexander
and Maxima, hense the MW in the middle. 

Christmas collector plates from various years.

They actually let you walk through the area where the
pottery is done. For many classic shapes, they use molds
to mass-produce the vases, plates, etc. 

The evolution of a Delft vase: the first rough casting, then
a sanded-down version. Next, it is painted, and finally,
fired, where the paint turns blue. Then it is glazed. 

After the Delft works, we cycled back to the train station. We had to wait for a drawbridge on one of the canals, so I took a picture of myself to prove I had ridden a bike. Once the bridge was back down, we waited for all the others to pass us before I wobbled my way back into the bike lane.

I will say: I may have been wobbly and worried about falling, but the cycling conditions in the Netherlands are such that I never felt any sort of worry about auto traffic.

After returning my bike at the station, we set off on foot to central Delft, home to the historic buildings and churches, and, of course, canals. 

The Old Church has a leaning tower, and is undergoing
some restoration work.

Delft is much like Amsterdam, but a bit smaller and without the crowds of tourists. There are tourists there, but in smaller numbers, and it feels calmer than Amsterdam.

The New Church

The old City Hall, across the square from the New Church.

"The Blue Heart"

 We went in the New Church and climbed the bell tower. Holy cow, we climbed. Medieval stairs are difficult, because they are uneven, steep, and spiral. But we made it. And the view was worth it.

City Hall

We climbed a bit more, to the top level you can climb to.

City Hall, even smaller.

IKEA! 

"Whoa..." It was around this point where I admitted to
Amanda that I am very nervous of heights, but that I like to
scale them nonetheless because of the views to be had." 

Finally, a pic of Amanda and I. 

The New Church is, of course, older than anything in California other than the Redwoods. It is home to the royal burial tombs, including that of the country's "founding father," William of Orange.

Sarcophagus of William of Orange

After all that climbing, we were both hungry for lunch, so we set out to find something to eat, and do some shopping and sight-seeing.

Next it was into the Old Church.

Vermeer (he of Girl with a Pearl Earring fame) is
buried here.

Our next stop was the Museum Prinsenhof, which shows the unique history of Delft through it's art and it's role in the creation of the Netherlands. It is also, incidentally, where William of Orange was murdered.

Bullet holes in the wall where William of Orange fell
as he was shot while coming down the stairs. 

For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, we wandered a lot, popping into shops and stopping to take pictures.

 

We walked to the East Gate, and made a surprising new friend.

That, ahead, is the East Gate.

Suddenly, a pig.

 

A pig, just going for a walk. (His person was on the other
side, waiting for him to snuffle his way along.) 

Delft is home to one of those really cool ground paintings
that only looks "right" from one angle. 

Every so often, I'd see a tile like this in the ground.

Delft is lovely in any light, but sunset always makes any city look its best. We were now just killing time, waiting for our 7:00 dinner reservation.

I did not buy the huge red duck. For one, I had already maxed
out my duck limit for this trip with Bluey Swimmy. For another,
I knew this would NEVER fit in my suitcase.

Amanda had made reservations at a traditional Dutch restaurant, and judging by the crowds when we got there, while we were there, and as we left, it was a good idea. It was filled with locals, and I knew that meant I'd get a good meal.

(I didn't have any bad meals on this trip, even at the cafeteria at Zanse Schaans.)

But this meal was awesome, because it was basically good ol' Dutch comfort food. Over dinner, I told Amanda that when I was in college, if I got sick, I'd come home to my parents' for the weekend, and Mom would make me chicken and dumplings. "If I had grown up here in the Netherlands," I told her, "I think it would have been stamppot that Mom made me!"

"Dutch food, Dutch prices," loosely translated.

The banner, Amanda told me, is a popular decoration people
put up in their homes for birthdays. 

What is stamppot?

By culinary standards, it's not too complicated. It's a large meatball served on a bed of mash--in this case potatoes and carrots, but there are other variations. The meatball is spicy, but not hot. I read later that it has mustard in it.

It was delicious. I ate every bite (because it was delicious, and because I'd walked several miles that day and was hungry).

For desert, I had a traditional Dutch pancake with ice cream. I can't describe how Dutch vanilla ice cream is different from American, but it really is--it's less over-the-top sweet and relies more on the natural vanilla bean flavor. It was amazing--rich and flavorful, and all melt-y on that hot pancake.

After dinner, it was time to head back to the station, so I could get back to Amsterdam. Alas, my trip was pretty much over. I needed to get back to do the last of the packing and get a decent night's sleep before the insanity of the next day started.

I woke early on Saturday, showered, and put the last of my things into my suitcase and carry-on. Heavens, but I bought a lot of stuff! Tulip bulbs, cheese, Delft Blue, souvenirs...and one awesome van Gogh skirt.

I hefted it all down the steep old stairs and checked out, then waited for the nearby tram to take me to Centraal.

One last morning on the Prinsengracht, at the
tram stop right next to my hotel.

My train, the Sprinter that would take me to Schipol. 

If entering Amsterdam through Schipol was easy-breezy, leaving it was a nightmare of long lines, confused people, and an extra-heavy carry-on that was digging into my shoulder. First there was the massive line to check in. Then the line to do the baggage check. Then the line for security (about a half hour wait). Then later, a line for a second "paper check" required by Delta Airlines. Holy cow. All of the airport employees were very friendly, it was my fellow tourists I wanted to punch sometimes. Keep it moving, you know?!

But I made it through all that in plenty of time and plopped down to eat some breakfast. The flight from Amsterdam to Minneapolis/St. Paul was uneventful, and I even had an open middle seat between me and the guy on the aisle (score!!). I dozed through the first snack service, which is rare for me.

As we landed in MSP, it was snowing out. I've never landed or taken off in snow, but figured the pilots know what they're doing.

It was at MSP where I went through customs, and that was a bit of an adventure, just in that I'm used to customs being at my last destination. I had to go through passport control, where I told the man I had tulip bulbs to declare. He wrote a big A on my printed-out form, so from there I had to go through the Agriculture line. That took all of two minutes, as the guy inspected the box my bulbs came in for expiration dates, approved them, and sent me on my way to baggage claim.

Once I got my bags, I went through customs, then baggage check-in (again) and finally, security (again).  They had to hand-inspect my cheese, but it passed muster and I was allowed to carry it on the plane.

I sat in the terminal area with some fruit snacks, and chatted with Mom and Dad on my phone for a bit, as the snow continued falling.

That's a lot of snow.

Finally, it was time to board. I had a five-hour flight ahead, and San Francisco calling my name. I also had a whole three-seat aisle to myself. All. To. My. Self. Guess who actually slept on an airplane--like, full-out had a lovely nap? THIS LADY.

The view from seat 24A. 

But first, we had to get off the ground, which involved de-icing the airplane. A bunch of trucks sprayed us down with whatever solution they use to melt off all the ice and snow, and then we were on our way.

By the time I landed in San Francisco, gathered my suitcase, and got back to the hotel where I'd started this whole adventure, I was very glad I'd reserved the room. Driving back to Sacramento that late after all that traveling would have sucked in a big way. I showered, got a good night's sleep, and the next morning was able to drive home, only stopping at the grocery store, well before noon. Mom and Dad brought my boys back and I settled into unpacking, laundry, and relaxing.

For such a whirlwind, it was a really great trip. I loved Amsterdam and Delft, and it was wonderful to meet Amanda at last. I know I'll go back some day--there is more I'd love to see!