Basically Betty

I've been waiting, dreading, suspecting that any post now, Mom's final post would be pushed off the home page of her blog.  With last week's post, it happened. 

Now, when you come to the site, none of Mom's post will be on the first page that loads.  She posted hundreds of pieces on the site and they're all still there, they're just not on top anymore. 

They're not on top anymore because she's not on top anymore.

With every day, I become more aware of my loss and how much I miss her.  And, it's things like this that make Mom's death seem like she's slowly extracting herself from my life, from this world. 

It's not like she left all at once, you know what I mean?  It's like most of her left when she died, but a lot of her lingered. 

Her pink fluffy robe no longer smells like her.

I got her hats down at the studio yesterday and put on the big floppy purple and magenta one while I shoved my face into the whole box, sniffing for her scent. 

Nothing.

With the rolling forward of posts on BasicallyBetty.com, I've helped her leave. 

The day will come when she's all gone and although I can't do anything about it, I wish it weren't the case, I wish she were still here and I wish her posts were still up front. 

This isn't quite denial but it's denial's best friend.

Love and Prayers From Here to There.

At the end of last year, my 17 year man John Vatcher asked me to move forward with putting together a settlement of the last remaining comingled asset we held, our swank penthouse condo where we lived together for over 10 years and where he continued to live when I moved out and began living alone 4 years ago.

All through our many exciting years together – 17 of ‘em, hence his nickname - John and I were absolutely sure we would always be in love, we would always be close and we would always help each other, no matter what, and I truly believed that right up until he made me mad at the end of last year. 

I was mad about one thing and one thing only; I was mad about the timing of his request. 

We’d been living separately for almost 4 years and there were several times during those 4 years that I suggested we settle the condo but we never did because he always had a reason why it was good for both of us to leave it as it was and so that’s the way we left it. 

From the beginning of my relationship with John, he dearly loved Mom – what’s not to love? - and in between in person visits they stayed in touch with each other by phone and online. 

In August when the Rays and their record were becoming credible and Mom had just received her cancer diagnosis, John told the Big Three (Mom, Pooge & I) that we were sworn to secrecy about it – his family, especially his father, must never know - but that in honor of Mom he was officially rooting for the Rays instead of his beloved Red Sox.

This was huge.

It was perhaps the highest demonstration of love possible for John. 

The only time he’s seen his father cry was during that  famous and horrible Bill Buckner play of many years ago and John himself dropped his head on the bar and sobbed, right there in Fox Sports Bar in downtown Seattle, when the Red Sox came back to take the Series in 2005.  His brother met his future wife at a Red Sox game and the proposal took place in an empty Fenway Park, right there at home plate. 

His family is a Red Sox family. 

As Mom’s cancer advanced last summer, John and Mom talked about it and they told each other how much they loved each other, she always told him to take care of me and he promised to do just that.  Not only was he sweet and caring with Mom but he’s also been a rock for me.

Everything was as expected between John and I until mid-October.

Background:  I’d found a girlfriend for John in July of 2007 and at first she seemed fine with the fact that he and I are still really close but over time, that changed and as their relationship advanced toward the end of last year, he said it was becoming important for him to cash me out of the condo so he could be the sole owner of it; that way, when she moved in with him she’d feel like she was moving into his place, not our place. 

The only problem with that was when John needed me to get the settlement together I was busy with Mom. 

Mom was dying and I was trying to help her die and that takes a lot of time, a lot of emotion, a lot of work. 

I told John that I was focused on being with Mom and I didn’t want to take time away from that to work on the settlement.  I assured him that other things in my life, other really important things, were going untended; I had to present at a huge educational conference starting November 3^rd and I wasn’t prepared, I had a booth at a trade show that same week and I didn’t have materials for the booth. 

I explained that it wasn’t just his request for me to prepare a settlement that I was neglecting, I was behind in everything, everything other than Mom.  I was current with Mom.

I told him that her condition was worsening so dramatically that there was no way she would live past Thanksgiving.  I promised him that we’d be settled out on the condo before the end of the year, for sure.

He said “Bec, there won’t ever be a good time.” 

I said “But I want to focus on Mom.”

He said “It will always be something.”

I said “But it will only be THIS once, she’s only going to die once and she’s dying now.”

He was unconvinced and with that, I was done.

I was done with him. 

While in North Carolina and instead of focusing on Mom or helping Joann, I spent many hours on the phone and online to find an appraiser who specializes in the type of penthouse construction we have (rare) and I ordered the appraisals (one for March 2005 which is when I moved out and one for October 2008 which is the time of the settlement) and when I received the report I forwarded copies to John.

He said “This is a bad time for me, my company is struggling.”

I said . . .  Well, you can imagine what I said. 

Meantime, as the Rays were working their way through the playoffs and as they were beating those evil Boston Red Sox, Mom was getting worse and worse.  When I talked with John during the Rays Sox series, he told me he was rooting for the Red Sox.  What happened to rooting for the Rays in mom’s honor?   

I could have killed him.  Twice.

Done.  I was done.

But he wasn’t. 

He would email me and ask how Mom was and I told him he no longer had a right to know anything about us.  I assured him that I would let him know when she died and until then, to remember that any kindness he could have shown Mom or me was negated by his insistence that I move ahead with the settlement. 

The last day I saw Mom, she asked me to make up with John. 

I said there was absolutely no way I would make up with John because he didn’t care about her and he didn’t care about me and that if he did, he would not have had me go to the work of moving the condo settlement forward when I wanted and needed to be doing more with and for her.   She was well aware of how long it took me to find an appraiser and I wasn’t going to let her forget that about him. 

And her words were . . . well, she didn’t say anything.  But she gave me a look and the look she gave me was one of acceptance, satisfaction and certainty. 

At the time, I thought she was certain that I would be okay and I would do it without John. 

Mom and I were in love with each other.  John and I were not.

So, we all know Mom died at the end of October.  I’m doing my I told you so dance as I write this, because I was most certainly right that my settlement with John happened no sooner as a result of him pushing me to work on it while Mom was still alive; I’ve still not given him the Quit Claim Deed but he did cash me out just before Christmas. 

But, the really great part about this story is that John came to his senses.  He not only broke up with his girlfriend but he told me how sorry he was for having behaved poorly and he asked me to forgive him. 

And of course I did. And I love him even more than ever. 

And that’s what Mom knew would happen. 

Mom’s always know about stuff like that and as I’ve thought about that look Mom gave me when I spoke the truth about John’s temporary insanity (that’s what it was) I’ve realized that she knew he and I would recover.  Her certainty, acceptance and satisfaction had to do with her already knowing he’d be sorry, her already knowing I’d forgive him and her already knowing we’d be fine.  And that we’d be fine without her.

So, John is happily single, he’s busy working on perfecting his gnocchi recipe and during my recent move he’s been spending a lot of time at my place getting me settled into my new home. 

He was over yesterday putting up shelves and he told me about April 6^th.

April 6^th is Opening Day for the Red Sox.

They open at Fenway.

They play the Rays.

Love and Prayers From Here to There

In 2002, a dear friend of mine named Kristin died.  She was 88, I met her when she was 84 and she and I were thick as thieves the last 4 years of her life.  We called her my West Coast Mom.  My Mom, Betty, used to send Kristin birthday cards, mother's day cards, Christmas cards and would always ask about her every time Mom and I talked.  Kristin always asked about Mom.  It was fantastic having two Moms for a while there.

Kristin was a simple woman, a millionaire, but simple.  Her gloves didn't match.  She bought day old bread.  Her house was dirty but clean enough.  She was alone until I found her collapsed into a laurel hedge seeking refuge from a downpour, I talked her into letting me help her get home and from then on, I took her grocery shopping every week, to all her doctor appointments and slowly but surely, became her surrogate daughter.  She called me her angel but really, she was the one who was heavenly.  Kristin was lovely.

I didn't know she was rich until she died, she'd written me into her will for a tiny fraction of a fraction of a fraction, and it was still enough to help me pay off some of my business debt and give me some breathing room for a few months.

There were many great things about Kristin but one of the neatest things about her was how she pared down her existence until, after she died, there was hardly anything left for those of us handling her affairs to have to contend with.

This is not the case with my Mom.

Mom loved stuff.  She kept almost everything.  And by everything, I mean everything.

Now, my sister is slowly sending me choice belongings and a few days ago a small box arrived with about 6 pairs of Mom's favorite earrings, some pins and two scarves.  I've already received a bunch of hats, some scarves and other jewelry. 

For those of you who ever saw it, Mom's closet rivaled the racks at Macy's - she had easily over a hundred tops, half that number of slacks and around 30 dresses.  Moving to North Carolina gave her a reason to begin collecting coats, sweaters, wraps and the like. 

There seemed to be no stopping her.  Mom is the opposite of Kristin.

The two muumuus I bought her in Hawaii - now back in my closet - are among my favorite Mom things, Heidi and I are going to wear them this summer at one of our studio parties, and, as I told you a while back, I will eventually buy hat holders and put the hats up around the walls of the studio and on special days, we'll get them down and wear them during class. 

So far, everything my sister has sent has found a home in my home.  I will glue these newly arrived earrings on a box I'm painting for Mom's ashes - it will be a little performance piece all its own.  I still have a bunch of things Kristin gave me, too.  Like her cutting board, a bunch of her kitchen stuff, a set of chairs, her spinet desk and best of all, her key fob. 

Is sentimentality herediatary?  If so, I know how I got this.  I got this from my real Mom, not my West Coast Mom.  My West Coast Mom was a minimalist.  My real Mom was a maximalist.  I'm a bit of both.

Love and Prayers From Here to There

I’ve been in Palm Springs since Saturday night, I flew down to work with a couple of clients who winter in the California desert, effectively escaping the dismal, dank, drizzly and dark Seattle winters.  As I write this, I'm on an Alaska Air flight back to Seattle.

I happen to love Seattle winters but most people don’t.  Not only do we boast the highest suicide rate in the country, the bridge right by my house has the second most jumpers (after Golden Gate) and Seattle also has the distinction of being the coffee consumption capitol of the world.  This is all related to the rain.

It doesn’t help matters that when I’m asked why the weather doesn’t bother me, I respond “it’s always sunny on the inside.”  If they ask, I tell the truth and it never goes over well.

My 17 Year Man, John, suffered mightily with the winter doldrums.  He works a legit job where he has to be there early every morning and he has to stay until late every night; he goes months without seeing the daylight, or the graylight, as I call our Seattle winter skies. 

I do not have a legit job.  I’ve never really had a legit job.  With my job, which feels as much a part of me as my lungs, my hair, my feet, I get to do whatever I want.  I get to show up when I want.  I leave when I want.  I can spend the middle of the day in Pike Place Market buying and eating those tiny donuts that the vendor covers in cinnamon and sugar.  I can run errands.  Make doctor and dentist and hair cut appointments whenever I want.  I am the master of my domain.  I can enjoy hours of our graylight and I think that’s the biggest contributing factor to why the Seattle winters have never bothered me.

In contrast, I lived in Bend, Oregon, at the 4,000 foot level for 10 years and in Bend, it’s sunny all the time.  More than Florida.  And hot.  Dry and hot.  I was unmoved by the weather in Bend just like I am unmoved by the weather in Seattle.  I’m just hard to move, I guess. 

I do miss St. Pete storms and although we just flew through 2 thunder storms, they’re not the kind I miss.  I miss the kind that I’m on the ground to enjoy, not the ones I’m flying through.

I’m going to fish out the picture Mom took of me when I was in third or fourth grade, during a huge storm, when she agreed as easily as if it were the most logical thing to do that we would drive down to Bayfront Center and I could walk on the sidewalk and watch the waves.  Once we got down there, I turned inside out with glee to see that the waves were not only huge but they were breaking over the sidewalk after crashing violently into the seawall with a crack.  I talked Mom into – again, this wasn’t hard, she was nothing if not game for adventure as long as she could watch it, not do it – letting me sit on the pipe railing, with my feet hooked through the lower rungs, in hopes the waves would drench me.  Well, I not only got my wish but Mom, with her handy 110 instamatic, captured the moment for all time.  This is yet another example of an event that I’m sure, had we a nosy neighbor with a malicious streak, Mom could have been charged with child endangerment, child neglect or wishful child abandonment should there be such a thing.   I digress.

I think about Mom all the time.  My thoughts of her are not driven by grief, they’re driven by the fact that my life is continuing and hers isn’t and I want to talk to her and I want to see her and I want to email pictures to her and I just basically want her to still be alive.  So, as I dash through every day, she’s with me but not in an ominous way, she's with me in a “I wish Mom could see this” way.  In a “Mom would love this” way.  In a “Mom would know what I should do” way. 

Back to Palm Springs.

My host, a dear soul opened her gorgeous home to me, shared her family with me, included me in the many activities of the holiday weekend (I don’t seem to recognize President’s Day, I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do, I don’t know how to observe it – do we think about past Presidents?  Do we have Parades in their honor?  I am just not committed to this as a concept and I’m this close to ignoring it all together).  It was a beautiful weekend.

As Mom was dying, my host not only sent emails of gorgeous poems that helped settled my soul, she bought me books, she checked in, she held my hands and sat quietly with me, she unflinchingly listened to the long detailed horror stories of how Mom’s body fell apart, she graciously put my needs above hers in coping with my schedule of being with Mom every other week or so and me not being in Seattle to work with her. 

My host has recently had foot surgery and she’s still in a boot so our activities this weekend were Pilates, I massaged her feet, I worked with other clients, we had beautiful meals with her big family (when I left, I told her, one down, TWELVE to go! – it’s a big family!). 

Indian Canyon is in her backyard and she loves hiking there.  We knew she couldn’t even walk normally, let alone hike, so I wasn’t expecting to get out and about but today, we finished at the studio in time for us to take a trip into the Canyons in the car. 

Palm Springs is the high desert.  Bend is the high desert.  All high deserts look alike.  All high deserts are beautiful. 

This was only the 3^rd time I’ve been in Palm Springs and I really like it.  If I were the type of person who bought time shares, I’d buy one and go to Palm Springs every year.

Mom would love Palm Springs.

Frank, Dino, Dinah, Sonny.  All the stars.  Frank and Sonny are buried there.  Mom loved Frank and although she didn’t love Sonny, she did love that one wooly vest he used to wear in the 1960s. 

In addition to the terrain and the weather, another thing I love about Palm Springs is the architecture. 

When I’m really rich I’ll have two things.  I’ll have an ice machine like they do at bowling alleys, the kind where it makes an endless supply of crushed ice, and I’ll have a Frank Neutra (sp?) house.  There are Neutra houses in Palm Springs.  There are also lots of other mid-century masterpieces, all strewn about, nestled high and low in the hills. 

When I have an ice machine in a Neutra house, I’ll be the happiest person in the world.

As we drove into the Canyon today, my host said that when her Mom died, she would hike into the Canyons and sit on her favorite rock and talk to her Mom.

I’d just read a short piece in Seattle Metropolitan Magazine about a man in Seattle on a short job assignment who had daily phone conversations with his father who was ill back in his home state of Texas.  The essence of the piece was how the son would sit on Harbor Steps every day and call his Dad on his lunch hour and he’d describe the sights, the smells, he even told his Dad about our famous Lusty Lady strip club where they always have a cute saying with a strip club slur on the marquee: The Chronicles of Nudia.

I don’t have a place-centric Mom connection.  Mom is everywhere for me.  I access her all over.  If there’s a portal where there’s more of her, I haven’t found it yet.  And come to think of it, I don’t have a special place.  I love my airplane seat.  I love my bed.  I love love love my Pilates studio.  But I don’t have a quiet place.  I don’t have a holy place.  I don’t have a serious place.  I only have every place.  I have everywhere.  I feel like I have the world and I feel like Mom’s everywhere.

I’ve finally placed her ashes, Daddy’s too, in the new house; they’re on the 4^th floor (I live in a “tall skinny,” an infill house) in a big window facing South where they will be bathed in gray light, sun light, moon light and star light. 

Indian Canyon is gorgeous and, timeshare notwithstanding, I will go back when my host and I can hike and she can take me to her rock and I will see if I feel a stronger Mom than the one who is on my shoulder, in my heart and whose voice constantly fills my ears.  How could she be more there than here.  In 14E.  On the way home to Seattle.

Love and Prayers From Here to There.

So, I came off a 10 day road trip on the 28th of January and immediately began packing because 3 days after returning home, movers came and moved me into my new place.  That's the thing about moving, you have to put all your stuff in boxes, move the boxes, take all your stuff out of the boxes and put it away.  Then it's time to clean.

Since returning to Seattle almost 10 days ago, I've been so busy I haven't had time to do much of anything but settle into the new house and it's been a relief to be this busy because I've been struggling with feeling more and more separated from Mom. 

I wrote last week how surprised I was about my missing her more than usual because things were happening in my life that she didn't know about and I realized that I'd been laboring under an illusion of sorts.  She and I talked so much about my plans that I felt like she was involved in them and when my plans began to evolve in ways I couldn't anticipate, taking me into directions I never told her about, I felt really separate from her.  And that ain't good.

In the process of moving, I've kept her little shrine in tact, always knowing right where all my Mom Stuff is, and that's helped me feel a bit more stable in this most unstable time.

Today, unpacking boxes of office stuff, I went through an old Supersonics folder and I found a copy of a thank you card I sent to my Sonics ticket rep, Zack, who'd learned quite a bit about Mom through me and who took me to a Rays game om 2006 when the team was in town to play the Mariners. 

Although Zack never met Mom, he loved her because of that fan-to-fan connection that's so strong among all sports fans, regardless of the sport, regardless of the team.  Zack was also connected to the Rays because his good buddy is BJ Upton.  Zack pitched in college and the minors but never got called up and he loved Mom even though he never met her. Zack had the Rays send Mom a goodie bag back in 2005 after she had one of those designer strokes she used to have every once in a while.  Anyway, read this.

 

Here's the ticket from the game Zack took me to.

Do you remember that non-balk call?  Boy, was Mom mad. 

When I'm unpacked and settled, Mom will still be gone, I'll still be behind and more things will be happening to me that take me further into my life and further from hers but I am reminded, through this note to Zack, that she's here, right here, and her passion, her loves, her joys are mine.  And yours.

Love and Prayers From Here to There

Trouble in Tennessee

As Mom was dying, we talked about our usual varied topics of conversation and then some. 

She was always interested in my long term plans and I was able to tell her more specifically than usual about my goals, hopes and dreams.  We covered all manner of things; the garden I hope to plant when I have a patch of Earth to call my own, recipes I hope to perfect, places I hope to eventually call home.  Mom never traveled much and I travel a lot so we had fun with me setting the scene and trying my best to make a place she’d never been seem real to her. 

We talked about the travel I knew I had booked for the rest of 2008 and through 2009 and she loved the fact that this year, the good Lord willing, I’ll go to South Africa for the first time, to the north of England and back to my beloved Italy several more times. 

While we spent time together all through the fall, Mom knew I was working on a presentation for an educational conference that was in Phoenix in November, she knew I was heading to Madrid to teach in the largest Pilates studio in the world (15,000 square feet) in early December and she knew I was supposed to go to St. Pete for Christmas but, and hopefully, if she was still alive, that I would be keeping up my every other week vigil and spending the holidays with her in North Carolina. 

In early December, a good 5 weeks after she died, I booked 10 days of work in Signal Mountain, Tennessee.   I’m on the plane on the way back to Seattle right now and I must admit, it’s weird.

A couple times these past 10 days in Tennessee, I reached for the phone to call Mom.  I’ve gotten good at being in Seattle and not doing that but when I travel, I’m still used to calling her when I’m waiting at the boarding gate or waiting at baggage claim. 

As my work ended at 1 pm today, I experienced a strong urge to call Mom. 

She didn’t know about the Signal Mountain work and I felt really strongly at the end of my day the urge to call her and tell her all about the similarities between Chattanooga and Pisgah Forest, between the Tennessee Valley and the Ohio Valley, and about all the wonderful people and one icky one that I met while there. 

In a way, I feel like things are getting out of control, like too much of my life is happening without her. 

She didn’t know about the Signal Mountain work and she didn’t know about the new house I’m moving into Friday and she didn’t know about the article that featured my work in the Chattanooga paper and she doesn’t know that her dear friend Elaine McCoy who lives in Chattanooga read it and called Pooge to get my number and she doesn’t know that I called Elaine we had a lovely, long and rambling talk as if the 20 years between then and the last time I saw her seemed like 20 seconds, and she doesn’t know that I’ll be going back to Virginia and Tennessee to work again in July. 

I really hate it that Mom doesn’t know those things.

When I think about people who found their passion long after their parents or their loved ones passed away, and they never had the joy of sharing their success and happiness with them, I realize that I’m lucky that Mom lived to see me find my way.  She generally knows what I’m doing and she generally knows that I’m happy and she generally knows that there’s no stopping me but I really really wanted to call her from the tiny airport in Chattanooga and I can’t and it’s weird and I feel like too much is happening without her. 

Love and Prayers From Here to There.

My sister Joann had a birthday on the 16^th.  Her husband Bill had one the day before hers, on the 15^th.  On Bill’s Birthday their well pump broke and they spent the day trying to get the help they needed to get it fixed.  On Joann’s Birthday, she drove down to Florida where she’s apparently on a tour with more stops than a politician on the campaign trail.   Happy Birthday you guys!

When Joann and I were kids, birthdays were never a huge event in our family but they were definitely more structured and celebratory than having to spend the day messing with the well pump or driving 12 hours of interstate.

When Joann had her first child on Mom’s Birthday, August 11^th, our family definitely exploited the rare and beautiful quality of Mom being able to share her special day with her beloved grandson.  Then, a few years later when Joann had her daughter on the same day, we had 3, count ‘em three, births to celebrate on that single day and there was just no denying that a major bash was in order and every summer, I’d try to go home for what was referred to simply as “Birthdays.” 

When Joann’s kids, James and Veronica, were little, Mom was featured equally with the kids on their special day but over time, a shift occurred. 

As the kids grew up and developed friendships outside the family, the intensity of the celebration for them within the family was diminished because their friends had parties for them and the big family celebration was no longer their only opportunity for gifts, togetherness, hilarity and calamity.  To fill the gap, more focus fell upon Mom and the older she got and the more, well, interesting she became, the more elaborate her August 11^th celebrations. 

Mom always had a strong church family surrounding her and they always pulled out all the stops and had big cakes and big parties for her, matching her big personality and her big hats. 

Going back to the 1960s and 1970s, Mom’s father was still living and Popa would take us all out to his favorite restaurant, Aunt Hattie’s, for our family celebrations.  We spent many a birthday, anniversary, good report card (those were for Pooge, not me) celebratory meals there.  Mom loved Aunt Hatties. 

And it’s still there, right off the tarmac of Albert Whitted Airport in downtown St. Pete only it’s not a restaurant anymore, it’s part of the college campus that’s taken over the south end of downtown but the building still says “Aunt Hattie’s” on it and the parking lot is the same.  I like seeing that.

I’d like it better if Bruce Boore’s family still ran it and we could still go there and I could still get a toy out of the treasure chest after cleaning my plate and we’d all saunter to the car, the big family-sized car Mom always drove, afterward for the short drive home.  But no.  We’ve got the building with the name and that’s all we’ve got and that will have to do.

I think my sister is enjoying her mid-fifties, with Mom gone and Joann finally able to make her own to-do lists without the needs of an aging parent guiding the day, it’s going to be fun to see what she does, how she goes, who and what she’ll find time for. 

With Bill enjoying his new (everything old is new again) job as a Sheriff’s Deputy, he’s working 3 – 4 days a week and loving the purpose of it, making new friendships and serving his new community.  It seems they’re both set and that definitely made Mom really happy.

No matter how old we get, we’re still somebody’s kid and no matter how old our parents get, they’re still our authority figures, leaders and counselors.  The years, as they fly by, don’t seem to change the essence of our interactions.  Joann, even in her mid-50s, was still Mom’s little girl and Mom, in her mid-80s, was still our protector, arbitrator, boss lady. 

I’m somewhere in the mix but not traditionally placed. 

Mom always told me that she tried to guide me when I was younger, she really did, but she gave up because I was unguidable, unmanageable, I’m sure incorrigible and often a huge pain in the neck.  Fortunately, I never got into serious trouble but day in and day out, there was never a dull moment and for a long time, until Joann was in her pre-teens, she was just as much of a stinker as I was.  I swear.

And if the three of us girls ever got stuck, it was never long before Daddy came home and solved the problem.

I recall telling this story recently so if I’ve already written about it, I apologize.  The chance that I’m repeating myself is never reason to not repeat myself so here I go, potentially, again. 

And, just so you know, this has nothing to do with birthdays.

Pooge was probably in junior high and I was probably in 5^th or 6^th grade when I saw a fruit rat laying on one of the branches of our big Ponderosa Lemon tree in the backyard and it wasn’t moving but it was definitely still alive.  I got Pooge and together, we watched it to see what it was going to do.  It wasn’t long until Pooge called for Mom and Mom came out to the backyard and the 3 of us cooed, tapped, waved our arms, stomped the ground and generally made fools of ourselves trying to get the thing to move. 

Our revulsion at its very existence turned to compassion when we thought it might be injured, ill or somehow frozen in time and space. 

And there we stood in the backyard, 3 smart human beings, transfixed by a rat. 

But everything changed when Daddy came home. 

We heard his big truck rumble around the corner and pull into the driveway.  Just like every other day, Daddy came through the open garage door and into the dining room.  When he realized we were all out back, he came out and we told him what was going on, or rather what wasn’t going on. 

Without uttering a single word, he went back to his truck then returned to the back yard with a shovel.  He walked over to the Ponderosa Lemon tree, shovel in hand, he grabbed the leaf end of the branch that the rat was laying over and he pulled the branch down then he let it go with a whap and that whap was sufficient to send the rat falling almost lifelessly onto the grass and then Daddy, with shovel poised, brought the hammer down, so to speak, and the rat who’d held us, 3 smart human beings, transfixed for longer than I care to recall, was slaughtered, silently and swiftly by our super efficient Father. 

Daddy looked at all of us like we were nuts, he hosed off the shovel, he trashed the rat and then he got in the shower and when he got out of the shower he cooked us dinner and we didn’t speak of the rat again. 

We did, however, make a silent pact that we would never again lead to destruction another creature of nature, bearing the responsibility for bringing such innocence under the swift and merciless sword of our Father, who art in heaven, rat slayer be thy name. 

I honored that pact for a good number of years but, frankly and at the risk of being targeted by PETA (it’s only a matter of time) I have severely injured more than one dog who was trying to eat me and I have, under extreme duress and in retribution for a dog who couldn’t do it herself, thrown a cat into Tampa Bay and I’m pretty sure it couldn’t swim.  Daddy lives in me and it feels good. 

Happy Birthday Pooge  & Bill!

Love and Prayers From Here to There.

If Mom weren't already dead, this week's trade of Rocco to Boston would surely have killed her.  Trust me when I say that it's a very good thing she is not here to see this. 

Here's what she'd say.

She'd acknowledge the obvious by saying that he will be closer to home and he'll be able to spend more time with his family, especially his little brother.   

And then she'd put her lips into the position of a perfect horizontal line and she'd stare straight ahead.  This was her look that telegraphed "I do not want to live in this world and I do not want to talk about why I do not want to live in this world." 

And she'd hold that look on her face for a while, long enough to come to terms with Rocco being traded and not only traded to but those dreaded Red Sox.  

And then, in a day or in a week or in a month or never, she'd get over it.  But just barely.

No.  It's good she's gone.  This would not have gone well.   

Love and prayers from here to there.

Greetings from Old Northeast, St. Petersburg, Florida.

I've been in St. Pete since my last post to Mom's blog, her funeral was on Saturday the 20th and, honestly and without being biased at all, I can report that it was a huge success and a ton of fun, as funerals go. 

I'd sent an email to friends in St. Pete reminding them of Mom's service and assuring them that both Mom and I would understand if the demands of the holidays made it so they couldn't attend.  Our dear and very old friend Neil wrote back that he and his wife Jojo would never be so busy that they'd miss a Leone funeral!  They'd attended Daddy's wake at the bowling alley and expected just as much happy remembering for Mom as we managed to have for Daddy back in '93.

The formal funeral in the sanctuary was lovely, the pastor gave a lovely Mom message and James played a lovely movie he made of old family pictures set to a lovely song about love and the building of relationships.  James will post his Nana tribute online and we'll let you know the link to that in a future BasicallyBetty.com post.

Here's Mom's prayer card.

After the hour-long funeral in the sanctuary, we moved to the memorial garden out back where the Pastor gave a commitment prayer and I put the small earring box from Burdines (Mom's choosing) containing a 50-50 mix of Daddy's and Mom's ashes into the ground, then covered it with dirt and mulch. 

The earring box topped by the Rays sticker Mom chose for her ashes to be mixed with Daddy's and put into the Memory Garden at her church.  Yes, that's my Starbucks cup in the background - Howard would be so proud!

Me putting the box into the ground.

We all tromped into the social hall where there were long tables full of sandwiches, cookies and a sheet cake.

After everyone got their plates and cups full and took their seats, I gave Mom's eulogy and Neil filmed it.  We'll get the video up on You Tube and I'll give you the link in a future BasicallyBetty.com post.  I can tell you that there was brief but intense pandemonium at the beginning of my eulogy but with the help of Joann we restored order relatively quickly and I proceeded to talk for about 10 minutes, telling stories about Mom. 

I think I'm going to sprinkle some of her ashes down in Straub Park tomorrow night as the fireworks are going on, seeing in the New Year and taking us all into what will hopefully be our best year yet.

Thank you for still coming to Mom's blog, I will be writing weekly now that the holidays are over and I hope you'll let me know how you're doing, what you're thinking and how it's going.  Mom loved you and so do Joann and I.

Love and Prayers From Here to There.

Dear Friends,

Mom made the front page, Sunday edition, of our hometown paper, The St. Petersburg Times.  Here's the link to the article: 

 

http://www.tampabay.com/features/humaninterest/article839313.ece

In the paper the story is on 1A with the picture that's in the online version but the article continues on page 8 and in the continuation on page 8, there's the Mohawk picture.  For those of you with a bent for electronic media, the Times offers a free 14 day digital replica subscription if you want to see it as it appears in print.  We'll have a bunch of copies at her memorial service, I'll buy the rights to link to the full article and will put that up on the PPNW site and I'll get a copy framed for the studio so if you want to, you'll see it, one way or another. 

 

My dear old friend Mark Ferguson owns Ferg's Sports Bar right across the street from Tropicana Field and he and I will talk later today about putting a copy of mom's article up, he's wanted my old cheer leading memorabilia for a while and I'll get that together for him and we'll have a little Leone shrine in Ferg's.  I'll also make plans to have one last party at Ferg's for mom after her church memorial service; she never missed a Ferg's party. 

 

Short Version:

 

But mom's not dead yet.

 

Long Version:

 

I think the best way to describe her current condition is one foot in this world and one foot in the next. 

 

She sleeps almost constantly.  About half the time when she talks she doesn't make any sense.  Mom has always loved eating - anything and everything and lots and often - so my sister and I were shocked when we realized that hell, in fact, had frozen over when mom announced a couple days ago that food no longer tasted good to her.  Her appetite has been slowly diminishing and she's down to a few nibbles a few times a day.  In the night, at one of our bed pan/oxycodon parties, she cast those red rimmed eyes up at me and said "did you think that cake today was dry?"   I confirmed that the cake (Joann and Bill's 34 year anniversary cake) was not dry and she just sunk a little lower emotionally. 

 

On Thursday morning, I awoke to the sound of mom's oxygen tanks blaring their alarm, signaling a power outage.  I called upstairs and woke my sister up and she was down here in a flash.  The bed people said in the event of a power outage we would have about an hour before the bed deflated sufficiently for mom to be laying on springs.  They lied. 

 

There we were, my sister and I, scurrying around in the dark and we must have looked like ants in the farm with me on the phone to the bed supply place while crawling around underneath the bed trying to follow instructions for hand-cranked manual operation while my sister drug a battery operated lift chair over to the hospital bed, then called hospice and asked for help in moving mom.  They were dispatching the volunteer fire rescue truck to help us - my dad is in heaven howling over this, I assure you - when the lights flickered and then came back on.  The bed refilled and mom was refloated.  Disaster averted.

 

That same night, Mom said she wanted to type some emails so I put the keyboard on her lap but she couldn't type.  I put my laptop on her lap and she couldn't type.  We tried the computer keyboard again and she still couldn't type.  She decided she couldn't type because she was sitting up in the bed but if she could sit up in her lift chair, she could type.  Realizing that she just can't type anymore was really hard for her and she got all cranky.  I don't think she'd gotten over that indignity when the next one came along.

 

She got downright surly a couple of days ago when she lost every argument to get out of the bed.  She mounted these arguments with her favorite hospice nurse John here, thinking he'd be her ally and although he tried every way possible to get her to see that we are just out of options, she felt like we were all ganging up on her and she got pissed.  Really pissed. 

 

She weighed 205 before her organs began failing and fluid started building up in her abdomen - I bet there's 20 pounds of fluid in her - so we simply cannot support/lift her safely.  Coming to terms with the fact that she can no longer walk was I think the most difficult aspect of her illness so far.  When that crystallized for her - "I'm not going to spend the rest of my life in this bed!" -  she got huffy, then snotty, then belligerent and finally she went mute.  She's dying and she's pouting - what a combination! That was Friday and she's still moping.  I keep saying "mom, let's pray for acceptance and grace" but so far, it hasn't worked. 

 

We cannot be anything but honest with her so neither my sister nor I wants to give her hope that she'll walk again.  My sister is worried about our backs when we have to lift her - I told her that whatever we do to our backs will heal - but I'm more concerned that we'll actually drop mom and that dropping her would kill her. Mom's low back hurts a lot (because of the distended belly and the weight of the fluids) and her hips have been shot for decades.  She's so weak there's just no way she can support even a fraction of her own weight.

 

We've installed a trapeze above her bed - the whole arrangement looks dangerously like a Cadillac (a piece of Pilates equipment) - so she can work her upper body and she hates it.  I make her to pull ups every other day and her upper body is still pretty strong so she can lift her head and shoulders up off the bed.  She glares at me the whole time but afterward, she tells me how much better she feels and asks when she can do it again.  I've explained that her training for this maneuver will help avoid a catheter since she's less able every time to roll on her side for the bed pan.  If she can pull her self up on the trapeze, we can still get the bed pan under her.  Everything's a strategy, planning ahead for the next step down in her abilities, her condition.

 

About every other day we also do a series of ultra light intensity knee floats and stirs, footwork and arm circles, each set of 15 separated by 5 Fletcher Percussive Breaths.  Joe Pilates theory that even the bedridden sick can and should move is certainly being lived large for mom and I right now.  She always feels better afterward, is much more clear mentally.  Ron's breathwork helps her cough up some of the crap that's in her lungs.  Because there's so much pressure on her diagphragm, her breathing sounds more like a cat hissing.  I wonder if she'll just end up drowning in all this fluid.  

 

Here's pretty much a verbatim recount of a recent exchange:

 

Mom was whimpering, I went to her bedside and said

 

R:  Mom, are you okay?

M:  Yes, why?

R:  You were whimpering.

M:  I was?

R:  Yes.

M:  Well, I'm sick.

R:  You feel sick?

M:  No.

R:  Then why are you whimpering?

M:  Because they told me I'm sick and sick people whimper.

 

She's a riot, my mom.  I gave her an oxycodon and a lymph massage until she drifted back off to sleep.

 

If you're squeamish, just skip this whole next part.

 

Her middle is severely distended, it's filled with toxins that her liver and gall bladder can't process and those fluids occasionally just come out any hole that can carry them.  Hospice warned us her kidneys would eventually shut down and we think that's happening because her urine output is greatly diminished.  Only once has she wet the bed, not able to give us any notice that it was time.  Her whole abdomen is huge and when I say huge, I mean huge like an airplane inner tube, it looks like a giant water balloon, and the skin on her abdomen is red and purple and it's hot to the touch. But right in the middle of the front of the inner tube rises a tumor, like Everest.  It sticks way up, undeniably growing.  Weird. Her skin looks like alligator skin, like it can't hold the line much longer. Her teeth have all broken off, they're nubs now, and they've shifted in her head.  She has no idea this has happened and it doesn't bother her to eat. 

 

Mom's head hospice nurse will be out tomorrow and she and I will, once again, try to strategize about whether I should head back to Seattle on Tuesday as scheduled.  If mom is probably going to die in a few days, I'll stay but if she's probably going to linger for longer than that, I'll head back to Seattle and be on call, day to day, until my next scheduled trip here around 10/14.  It feels like cat-and-mouse.  I find myself praying she'll just be gone when I get up to check her in the night.  I wonder what is served by her suffering through this physical deterioration.  My lessons in being her companion are many and great, but surely it would be more merciful for her to just go on and go.  I pull the night shift so my sister can sleep in her own bed upstairs, we both spend all day with mom and it's pretty weird because 4 days had gone by and I hadn't been outside a single time.  The hours just fly by.  Two days, I didn't even shower yet my hair still looked fantastic.  (new do, picture attached, with me wearing the mom's aurora borealis set that I've been begging for since 8th grade and only now has she let me have.)

 

But yesterday, I got sprung. 

 

My brother-in-law took me to the college track and we ran and ran and ran, he and I did sit ups and push ups every time we passed the 5 yard line and we felt like tough guys.  I breathed hard, sweated like crazy and the weather was gorgeous and it felt pinpoint fabulous. 

 

My sister's been my personal cook and she's been making some of our dad's favorite recipes (daddy was the cook in the family) and it's been amazing to taste those wonderful long-ago flavors again. 

 

She and I work together like a well oiled machine and sharing this time with her has been lovely.  Daddy used to call mom, Joann and I the Big Three, and although our dynamic has changed as we've aged, we're still a pretty strong combination.  I'm not able to get hardly any work done and I'm trying not to worry about it.  I always manage to pull everything together one way or another.  Heidi is keeping the studio running, she's growing and learning and getting a crash course in the more serious aspects of studio ownership - I could not be more proud of her or grateful to her.  Jimmy continues to keep my apartment safe and tended, he calls every other day, he's a friend of 30 years and is such a rock.    

 

Mom just called me over to tell me her middle hurts and she wanted me to rub it.  The pressure on her diaphragm makes her feel like a belt is tightening around her middle and although there's no way to make the fluid come out, a lymph massage and some soothing conversation usually helps.  I told her it's perfectly okay to go ahead and die, that although she's on the front page of the paper today, we can't give that to her again, at least not until she dies (when Jeff will write a follow up).  She seemed happy, content and accepting, then she peed and now she feels better, I gave her another oxy.  And so it goes.

 

Ray's game 3 of the first round is on today at 4, Mom will sleep through it but my sister and I will be screaming, ringing our cowbell and threatening to give each other Mohawks. 

 

With mom like this - so broken in her physical form - I think it will be easy to say goodbye.  A relief.  It was like that for daddy and it's feeling exactly the same with mom.  Nobody dies fast in my family; I hope to change this.

 

But until then, I cannot wait to get outside again to run and breathe and wave my arms around and kick up dust and stare at mushrooms and squint at the sun.  I can't wait to move through the world.

 

On vigil in the Blue Ridge,

Bec 

__________________

And then finally, the day she died, I sent this:

Betty Gean Burns Leone 8/11/22 - 10/28/08  Â

Heaven Welcomes  Baseball Betty!

With my sister having to give mom morphine every 30 minutes around the clock, I called her this morning around 4 am, Seattle time, just to keep her company, and about 90 minutes into one of our marathon "sister talks," mom died with Joann at her side and me on the phone.      It was a Verizon death (my line), giving new meaning to the definition of a cellphone dead zone (my sister's line).   Last Words   Mom could talk a little bit up until Sunday and the last words she said to me were "I love you Becky, I love you."    My last time talking to her was last night during the 5th inning of game 5 when I called and sang Take Me Out to the Ball Game to her and, as I have in so many conversations of late, I told her to go on ahead and go, that her body was done and it was time for her spirit to head north.    Crossing Over   Mom told my sister Sunday night that she saw a group of people but she didn't know who they were, she kept saying "my name is Betty, my name is Betty" as if she were introducing herself to them and she kept trying to lift her arm as if she were waving to a friend.     It's clear to us that she had a whole contingent of escorts (baseball fans?) waiting for her, to help her find her way.    What a Wonderful World   Soon after mom stopped breathing this morning, Joann opened the french doors just above mom's hospital bed and, on their wooded hillside, there was brilliant sunshine illuminating the blaze of fall leaves still clinging to the branches and a light snow had begun to fall.  Joann said "all of creation is celebrating!"  And I think she's right.   We'll certainly be celebrating in the studio tonight.    After I teach 6 o'clock mat we'll bust out the champagne, fire up the 9 x 14 foot big screen and watch our segment on Evening Magazine - we won "best of Western Washington" - thank you world! - and I'll issue a general call to our fabulous clients for their favorite mom stories and I'll learn about so many great moms and it will be a lovely way for me to end this day, this very special day, the day my mom died.   Life Goes On So, Heidi is now my favorite mom, my sister is elevated to Saint status and I'm most happy to report that, contrary to what so many people have told me, upon the loss of my second parent I do not feel orphaned; in fact, quite the opposite.    I've never felt more loved, I've never felt more held dear, I've never felt more special, lucky and happy.  I'm not sure I can explain it but there it is.   So, let's all try to keep perspective and focus on what's truly important.  Try to embody peace.  Try to give yourself and all you have away, every day, every time, to every one.    That's what I think.  That's what I try to do.  That's mom's legacy in me.     And about those Rays   Mom separated from baseball before the World Series began, saying her team could not possibly do any more to earn her love, respect and adoration than they had all year long, that every game they won all season long was like a World Series win as far as she was concerned.    And with that, she was done with baseball.    She never watched another game.  She never asked another question about the team.  She was done.    This morning, Joann sent mom off to the oven freshly bathed and wearing her favorite blue nightie with a Rays bumper sticker in her hands.   It has the Rays name and logo and the words "I live for this."  And she did.  For a really long time.   Go Rays.     Next Time   When you see me, whenever that is, please give me a big hug and lots of kisses.  Suddenly, I miss everyone a whole lot.    Big love,   Rebecca

__________________________

So now, in looking ahead to when a lot of us gather in St. Pete to honor mom, we'll have a bit more of a common base to appreciate her grace, to admire her strength and to marvel at her spirit.  She sure was something.

Love and prayers from here to there.

Mom's St. Pete memorial service is December 20 at her church, Lake Seminole Presbyterian.  I've been working on her eulogy and I've also been in heavy rehearsal for my performance in leading the gang in a rousing rendition of Take Me Out to the Ball Game. 

Mom, proper and always concerned with appearances, specifically and sternly forbid any such frivolity in the church but once in the social hall, all bets are off.

Mom specifically set these ground rules to try and keep Pooge and I from misbehaving while in the church.  She essentially negotiated away the social hall, knowing that was the best deal she could strike.  Pooge and I, without fail, seem to devolve into some sort of twisted Mary Tyler Moore Chuckles the Clown thing, and mom was helpless to stop it.

At daddy's mass at Jesse and Ida's catholic church, Pooge started laughing, she made me start laughing too (yes, it was entirely her fault), and when it became an issue mom pursed those lips and hissed a warning that we needed to immediately get control of ourselves. Then she started laughing too.

It was the incense that got us going.  Daddy hated strong smells and, with emphysema and lung cancer, being around any smoke, even from a candle, would trigger big big breathing trouble.  Had he been at his own service, daddy would have died from respiratory failure.

Once the service was over, the priest approached and we though for sure we were going to get tossed but he was lovely.  He confessed that he didn't remember exactly who daddy was and we had to tell him that daddy never actually came into the church.  He was a catholic on a technicality.  We asked if the priest recalled frequently seeing a small brown man who sat in a Ford Taurus under the tree in the parking lot on the 16th Street side?  Bingo!  That's our dad!

And it turns out, it counted.  I think those catholics are just happy you're on the property.

Back to mom.

She not only told Pastor Bob exactly what she wanted her formal service to consist of, she also sent a follow up email to him listing everything, outline form, just the way she wanted it. 

I've been working on her eulogy and I've got 7 short stories that illustrate her capacity to love, her playful spirit, her sense of humor that was part innocent/part devious and her suspect problem solving skills. 

When I think of how funny mom was, it's almost tragic because there's no way I can really make vivid just how hilarious she was.  She'd crack me up, we'd both lose it, not be able to catch our breath, both be snorting and gasping and wheezing, and I'd say something like "mom, how will I ever remember this? How did it start?" and she'd say something like "don't try, I've already forgotten." 

How's that for being in the moment?

Those laughing fits, and they were very frequent, became more about her giving to you, bringing you to the point of such joy and when she'd join you there, laughing just as hard, it became about the release of it all, the freedom in that release and the resetting, recalibration of all of life that stacks up and presses down on that freedom. 

And I think that's the overarching theme of mom's life.  She was in the moment.  She was really right there on the edge of her seat for you, with you, because of you.

I'm heading to Madrid on Wednesday to work with some wonderful teachers, none of whom know my loss, none of whom know the extent of my mom's passion, wisdom, strength or capacity to love.  None of whom know, as Pooge puts it, the enormity of love that surrounded mom as she lived, as she died and surely as she rests in heaven. 

All of us, everyone you see at the store, on the road, at work, at school, we all have stories, feelings, loss and gain, heartache as well as joy.  I can never make mom known to everyone who should know her, who should be loved by her, who should have had just a little of her light shine their way. 

They'll never know how proud I am of her or how proud she was of me.  I can never do mom justice but on December 20th, I'm sure going to try.

Love and prayers from here to there.

Daughter Becky reporting in from Seattle.

On this, the 4 week anniversary of mom's death, I'm still filled with thoughts of her, I still hear her voice every couple of days when I have to re-save a treasured voice mail and I've begun wearing her pink robe, having moved the tissues from the one pocket into the other - consolidating - with a plan to never wash it and hope that it always smells, even a little bit, like her.

As I begin putting together her eulogy, I've been thinking of her role as a fan and how representative her love of the Rays was of all the players and teams of her life.  Her friends, her family, her many loved ones; we all formed one big team of effort, joy and triumph.  Mom was a great fan of baseball and of most sports, but she was absolutely best at being a fan of her friends.

Jimmy and I are basketball fans.

We lost our own NBA team in the off season, a band of Oklahoma City business men bought our Seattle Supersonics and moved them to OKC.  With the team went 42 nights of absolute delight for Jimmy and I. 

For the past 2 seasons, we sat in the 7th row behind the home bench and as Jimmy learned about the rules and strategies of the game, I studied how the coaches interacted with the players, tried to predict injuries by the mechanism of the impact and, sitting so close, especially enjoyed feeling like I was actually heard when I'd scream at a player, coach or referee.

In bad times a few seasons ago, I was a fan with a sign. 

Our coach was Bob Weiss and he was absolutely terrible.  Our record was absolutely terrible.

Back then and at this same time of year, I began wearing my Santa hat to games and made a pretty red and green holiday themed sign that said "All I want for Christmas is a new head coach." 

I felt Coach Weiss was blaming players for our dismal performance when his coaching was the real cause - he's not really a coach, he's more a friend and all the players were quoted as saying they weren't getting any direction from him or his staff. 

It was time for Bob to go and I was going to help him leave.

After Christmas passed, my sign changed to "It's not them Bob, it's you." 

He didn't last through the first week of January.

Jimmy carries one all-purpose sign and he only brings it when I bring a sign.  His sign says "I'm not with her."

I've had my share of fits at refs, opposing players, even other fans when they've behaved just slightly worse than me.

My worst moment, by far, as a fan came a bunch of years ago when Nate MacMillan's jersey was retired during half time at a Sonics game.  Nate was an assistant coach for our team then and if you've never seen a retirement ceremony, it's really neat. 

Dignitaries from the front office, the city, the league and the cream of our past player crop were all on hand.  One of the executives of our club was Wally Walker and he was so roundly hated by the fan base (for expensive and inane recruiting/trade decisions) that fans used to pitch in and hire an airplane to pull a banner that said "Wally Must Go" or "Fire Wally" around Key Arena for a couple hours before each game. 

Well, Wally Walker gave a speech early on in Nate's jersey retirement ceremony and I just couldn't help myself, with the arena dark and Wally speaking into the microphone, a few fans began boo'ing and I don't know what came over me - mob mentality, perhaps - but before I knew it, at the top of my considerable lungs I let out a "Wally You Suck" and he actually stopped talking, he was so shocked.  A round of applause, not just for me but for the whole defiant effort, erupted throughout the arena and Wally's speech was cut noticably short. 

In the press the next day, Wally said he was shocked by the reaction.  I took that as a personal accomplishment.

John, my seatmate for that game, told me he thought it was disrespectful to NATE to boo Wally but I disagreed, saying that if I was Wally's neighbor I could put a sign in his yard, if I shopped at the same grocery store as Wally I could give him a piece of my mind in the check out line or if Wally and I banked at the same branch, I could educate him waiting for the ATM.  But I never see Wally.  I don't know where Wally lives, shops, banks or eats. 

I had one chance and one chance only to let Wally know my thoughts.  And I did.  And it felt good.

It was many years before Wally was fired and all of town rejoiced when he left.  He's recycled in the industry, ruining someone else's organization.  Wally's a jerk.

And this year, at a WNBA game right after the City of Seattle totally sold out to the Oklahoma City ownership group and made a deal for the Supersonics to leave town, our Mayor, who I long ago unofficially named Captain Kangaroo, showed up at the Seattle Storm game. 

During the trial to move the Sonics, Mayor Roo admitted he'd only been to 2 Sonics games in more than a dozen years.  Then, within a few days, he's at a Storm game.  They showed him on the Jumbotron and the crowd boo'ing was so intense and immediate that they instantly took him down.  I realized I couldn't find him around the arena and that meant that he was probably sitting pretty close to Jimmy and I in our 3rd row behind the home bench.

Sure enough, with 6 minutes left in the 4th quarter and the Storm well ahead, the Capt'n and his wife (poor soul) made their way out, crossing just a few feet right in front of us. 

Realizing I do not know where Capt'n lives, shops or banks, I knew this was my one shot and I stood up and let him have it.

"Captain Kangaroo, you sold us out, you're an idiot, YOU move to Oklahoma City, you suck." 

Again, applause.  And surprisingly, catharsis. 

My team left.  Idiots bought them and moved them to one of the most ignorant and racist places in the country.  I went to all the rallies.  I called all the politians.  I spent ridiculous amounts of money on season tickets.  And, in the end, none of that mattered.  The Sonics are no more.  But screaming at the Capt'n, that felt great. 

Now, make no mistake about it.  This type of behavior displeases my mother greatly.  Foul language.  Angry tones.  Grimaces.  Mom expected more from me and yet, I just can't quite deliver.

Mom was a polite fan.  I am not. 

As she was dying, I'd be dealing with some emerging disaster with her illness, hovering over her, helping clean up, straighten out, comfort or administer and occasionally, I'd say a swear word. 

And all mom would do is say "Becky, that is not my favorite word." 

I think daddy, an excellent swearer, a bi-ingual swearer, in fact, perhaps desensitized mom to these things. 

To help Jimmy and I cope with being team-less in Seattle, I bought an 8 pack for the Trailblazers and last night was our first game. 

It was great to be in an arena again, only this time watching a good team with 17000 crazed fans, Nate MacMillan is the head coach for Portland and we sit 3rd row courtside, baseline between the Blazers bench and the basket.  Paul Allen, team owner, Microsoft founder and bazillionaire, sits 2 rows in front of us. 

We have good seats.

I took a sign and in honor of mom, it was a nice one.  Of course, I don't have anything to complain about.  Yet. 

Me and my sign made it onto the Jumbotron and Blazer fans came down the aisle just to see my sign and give me my asked-for and very theraputic hug.  The mascot dog-type-thing gave me a nice long embrace and kissed me with his round plastic black nose pushing into my face.  I was hoping for a hug from Paul Allen but his body guards would not have allowed it, I'm sure.  Maybe next game.

I will never be a fan like mom was a fan.  But she did appreciate my love of the game, my game, basketball, and I think she accepted that my fandom is like everything else about me;  different and not very polished but with my heart in the right place.  Unless you're Wally Walker.  Or Captain Kangaroo.

Love and prayers from here to there.

Blazers beat Sacramento by 1 point.

 

Yesterday a box arrived at the studio and it was full of mom's things.  Pooge is making her way through the sorting, donating, arranging and mailing of mom's belongings. 

Going through everything in the box felt like a slightly sad cross between Christmas and my birthday.  Some things are so old that I remember mom and dad using them going all the way back to when I was in elementary school. 

There's the plastic trivet that has alphabet pasta and long grain rice and some small colorful beans suspended in it, it's about 6 x 8 inches and for decades it sat on the table between mom and dad's easy chairs.  Mom was surprised I wanted it but was happy that I did and I told her I've had a spot on the corner of my desk just waiting for it and that I'd use it to hold my huge glasses of water that I chug all day every day.  She liked the idea that it would my constant companion every day that I'm at work. 

A small but impressive portion of mom's Rays shrine is now in Seattle and I'm going to give it a place of honor in the studio.  I'll wait until all the banners, pins, balls, posters and, my favorite, the bobble heads arrive, then figure out the best and most decorative way to display them. 

The cowbell is my favorite Rays thing so far.  When I pulled it out of the box, I exploded into tears thinking about how mom clanged that thing so loud and for so long during all those exciting games toward the end of the Rays' season, toward the end of her season.

Her pink fluffy robe still carries her scent and unused tissues, tucked away just in case, are still in the pockets.  Her down pillow will be with me every night.  Pooge has daddy's pillow and I have a blanket we used for him as he was dying. 

Eventually, Pooge is sending mom's hats.  Mom and I had a love of hats in common and we both have absolutely huge heads so I'm pretty sure all of hers will fit me. 

It's well documented that smell is a powerful trigger so it's understandable that the smell of mom on her robe and pillow create such a strong emotional response in me but I'm also, and almost equally, comforted by holding the things she held, using the things she used and having them become part of my daily life as they were hers. 

Is it odd that we keep these things?  That I keep these things?

I've always been aware of the reverence our family feels for the personal belongings of our loved ones but I know lots of families, happy and normal (whatever that is), who aren't attached to a single personal item, no matter how closely associated it was to the loved one. 

All I know is that, for me, from the Rocco Baldelli mouse pad to her last driver's license, I'll happily keep my own collection of Baseball Betty's belongings.  I feel closer to her this way and that makes me happy.

Love and prayers from here to there.

It's been two weeks today since mom died. 

Plans for her St. Pete service on 12/20 are coming together, Pooge has been fielding all the calls/emails/inquiries while also getting mom's apartment transformed into its new incarnation.  All the while, she's finding her way into her new independence. 

Going out for lunch is nothing shy of a revelation when you've been a primary care giver for so very long.  Freedom is a wonderful thing and I'm so happy Joann can finally have personal discretion over her days and nights.  From someone who's known nothing but, I imagine this is the most amazing aspect of her current reality.

I've just finished presenting at an educational conference down in Phoenix and am busy planning my next road trip to Madrid to teach at the beginning of December.

The workshop I just presented was mostly what I worked on while I spent those few weeks in North Carolina with mom over the summer and fall.  I had my favorite picture of her out on my podium while I was presenting so I could keep her close. 

I held together really well all weekend long until Sunday morning when, at the end of a 5 day slog, I was up at 5 and in the expo hall by 6:30, pressed the flesh til the expo closed at 10, then rushed back to the room to pack everything up in time to clear the room for the noon check out.  I had a couple of voice mails so I put my phone on speaker to hear them - that way I could keep shoving stuff into bags - and you know how you have to resave messages when they time out? 

Well, I had to listen to an old message and deal with it before I could hear my new messages and the old message was from mom, from May 13th, calling late at night to tell me that her Rays had beat the Yankees twice and were now 2 games ahead of Boston. 

As soon as I heard her voice, I burst into tears.  Heidi, my dear teaching partner and roommate on this trip who was also frantically packing, burst into tears. 

Mom was in tears, too, on the message. 

She was so happy her team beat those Yanks and were edging ahead of those evil Red Sox.  She said not to call her back - mom was always so respectful of my time - that she'd be going to bed soon but that she wanted me to know the great news. 

I have a bunch of other voice mails from her saved.  One queued up for resaving the day after she died.  I cried hearing that one, too. 

The one I have from her giving me the play by play on what transpired the night a bat flew into her apartment and Bill had to come over and get it out is absolutely hilarious.  I just might send the audio to James for him to build into mom's memorial service multimedia show . . . you weren't expecting anything less, were you? 

She wouldn't and we won't let her down.

Love and prayers from here to there.

Mom was so happy when I told her Pooge and I would continue posting to her blog after her death. You'd think she'd have a long list of approved topics, ideas about censorship especially for me, or some attempt to guide content, but no. Her only request was that we continue to end each post with her closing salutation, Love and Prayers From Here to There.

With pleasure.

As you know by now, mom died last Tuesday, October 28th, at about 8:45 in the morning, North Carolina time.

It certainly helps to have known it was coming, and it certainly helps to have been able to spend time talking about the fact that we knew it was coming, but somehow, the world seems slightly different. At least my world does.

I think we can all be sure mom had a lot to do with Rocco's homer in the last game of the World Series. Sitting in my Seattle studio alone, watching the game, I burst into tears a milisecond after Rocco's bat made contact, absolutely certain mom had helped him swing, then helped him run, then helped him recover. How she loved Rocco.

Her last few days were pretty rough. From Friday through Monday, she had a lot of pain and Pooge ended up having to administer morphine every 30 minutes around the clock to try and keep it under control. That worked, and mom rested comfortably the rest of the way.

Between 5 and 6 am on Monday, mom was downright chatty.

She told Pooge she was seeing a crowd of people but she didn't know who they were. She kept saying "my name is Betty, my name is Betty," as if she were introducing herself to new friends. She also talked about Maddon's Mom, saying it over and over again. Joann pinned her down on the details and it was true, mom was talking about Joe Maddon's mom, saying that she was watching Joe's mom on TV.

What I take this to mean is that a bunch of baseball fans came to get mom and that she has cable in heaven. This is all good news.

About a week before mom died, Hospice had told Pooge not to be busy and fuss around mom, that activity surrounding her would keep her here longer than she would otherwise stay. They described her as half way here, half way in the next world. And I think that's true, since mom had visions and hearings and plain old hallucinations a lot toward the end.

We think her kidneys shut down a day or so before she died. We also think she was hemmoraghing. The physical aspects of her death were remarkable to us because we saw and helped her go through so many changes but in the big picture, they weren't nearly as bad as they could have been.

Mom's last words to Pooge were "don't be gone long," said on Monday as the nurse was giving her a bath and Pooge was headed upstairs to shower and make herself some food. Mom's last words to me, on Sunday night, were "I love you Becky, I love you." Mom never complained about pain or her situation, in general, but she did run a tight illness-command center with frequent and insistent email requests, Google and Switchboard.com searches and especially food orders. Hospice said mom could eat anything she wanted those last few weeks, so the gloves came off, the bacon fried and the ice cream was dished.

Good Lord, how she enjoyed her food, almost to the end.

So, her last breaths came as Pooge and I talked on the phone and we're sure mom knew we were talking to each other and that we were talking about her - she has dominated our conversations our whole life - and that we're fine, we're going to stay fine and that her legacy is in loving hands.

Without a care that a single thing had been left undone, untended, unsaid, off she went.

Pooge bathed her, dressed her in her favorite blue nightie and placed a Rays bumpersticker in her hands. The logo, the team name, and the words "I live for this." She sure did.

Her St. Pete service is scheduled for December 20th at her church, Lake Seminole Presbyterian. We'll have a Steubenville service in the Spring, one in North Carolina in late Winter, and I'll host one in Seattle just after the new year. Mom always wanted to but didn't travel much in life, but her ashes are sure going to get around.

When Paul Newman died recently, his obit was on Page 3 of the Seattle Times. Mom's obit ran on Page 1 of the St. Pete Times. She was front page news twice in the last 3 weeks of her life. The most famous Leone, her obit online carries well-wishes from baseball fans and readers all over the country, including one from the entire City of Philadelphia. Only one idiot, Gus, wrote something inappropriate but it doesn't matter.

Nothing does, except mom lived a great life, she died a great death and Joann and I, and many of you, will honor her with our friendships, our passion for baseball and our love of life, now and forever more.

Love and Prayers From Here to There.

Baseball Betty - rest in peace.