Torn

So, it is hard to decide who I want to wish to be. It is not as if I believe I will really be one or the other, but feel that I need to aspire to one or another. In other words, do I crave wealth, but worry then about my footprint. But, oh, oh, oh, after a lifetime of always trying to making ends meet, this does sound appealing. I am deeply ashamed to complain of all the things on my mental wish list, when I know that the only things that really matter at all, are the health and well being of my family and myself, so I often submerge those thought into the Unthinkable File. But, here are some -- my kitchen needs to be totally renovated, my clothes closet doesn't work, the coat closet needs to be retrofitted as well, I want to be able to go to NY a few times a year and splurge, the bugs in this house bug me all the time, the outside needs landscaping, my hair needs to be done in a way that might require me tending to it every six weeks, I would really rather live in a cool, small downtown house than in this hulking North Raleigh sub-division abode, sometimes when I see diamonds on someone they seem somewhat appealing to me-- like maybe their partner REALLY loves them (?!), opening a real shop/office for lactation--cool nursing bras-- consultations that are not in my home, etc. But then, I pause and realize I am really so grateful, so happy, so very blessed with abundance with just what I have and move on through the rest of the day, with gratitude. All is well.

A Mother's Vulnerability

With each child I had, I increased my level of vulnerability. If I had had no children at all, then my odds would be good. In other words, I could avoid the possibility of complete devasatation by having anything happen to my flesh and blood. When I had my first child, I was nervous and somewhat anxious, to get it all right. I educated myself, tried to learn from others, ate right, drove right, bought the right toys and breastfed for a couple of years. I joined a food coop and ate organic foods before it was the rage.

When I had my second child, I even had a home birth so as to safe guard the event from the moment he hit the earth. I was an even better mom now and got things right. I was amazed by this kid as well and followed his lead much of the time. I learned that. I did not feel so vulnerable then except for the warnings around about keeping your children safe from strangers and predators. But, I was never really a hovering parent and consoled myself with the ratiionale that those predators were probably estranged spouses.

With my third child, I was becoming a real earth mama. I wanted to be the La Leche League mom I would see at a conference who had lots of kids eating rice cakes, wore a baby sling and seemed cool and calm. I pushed my husband to have another baby, even though he was hesitant. This baby was also born at home and nursed even longer.

Baby number four was a surprise. I was 42 years old and we were in a terrible financial crisis in the late 80's. With a new house and three kids, I was frankly, embarrassed to be pregnant. But, after a long and difficult birth, I pushed out that 101/2 pound, fourth son and fell madly in love. I was beginning to feel vulnerable during this pregnancy and wanted to know if he was healthy due to my age. My anxiety was increasing throughout the nine months and I remember my LLL leader saying to me, "Look, it would be nice if we had a Velux window in our bellies so we could see how the baby is, but we don't so just relax." I still wanted the Velux window and even had an amniocentisis. All looked well, but I was nervous.

That precious baby, Gregory drowned in a swimming pool when he was two years old. Life, denial, safety, faith, joie de vivre, would never be the same again. I have felt vulnerable and terrified ever since. I live my life in fear but fight every day to avoid sharing that with anyone else. I don't want to ruin their lives.

I couldn't get pregnant after Gregory died and had to go through infertility treatment. Many fears, off the charts anxiety and vulnerability reared their ugly heads again. The twin pregnancy was over wrought with fear and terror day in and out. I had to make sure no devastating events took place. The hospital birth was nothing like my at home ones. I was too afraid to proceed with labor and early on, I requested a c-section. Me, who railed against such things, who encouraged hundreds of women to read and believe each word of "Silent Knife," had an elective c-section.

I struggled to get a full milk supply in for both babies. Feared that I would not. It took tremendous effort to do so, but in the end, I did. Now, I have two kids who I fear for and they are wild ones so it is hard as I look the other way most of the time, in order to survive.

My feeling is this... I am six times vulnerable and I cannot stand thinking that. It is not normal to feel this way. The more I have gained, the more I fear I have to lose and it is only my children and my husband that I fear losing. What was I thinking taking risk after risk after risk? It must have been during one of my high strong faith times where I still believed that all would be well. It is not.

What is it About Swim Meets?

It's Tuesday and it is June and that means swim meet night. I feel like such the odd bird, in that unlike other parents who don their gator green clothing (Go Gators!), I forget that it is even Tuesday, let alone remember to wear green. Truth is, that when I do realize that it is Swim Meet night, my heart sinks and I feel great dread. No one loves their kids more than I, and these are my fifth and sixth sons, but I hated it for all kids before and I still do.

Is it the "whiteness" of the crowd? The blondness of the moms? The youthfulness of the parents? Is it the cheering and yelling for the kids when they are swimming that I question, knowing there is no way the kiddo can hear their daft parent's screams? Do any African American kids do competitive swimming? Why do I never see them? Do any other ethnic groups between blond and white participate anywhere? Is it the pure and adultered junk that everyone eats and drinks when they are at the meet that makes me cringe? The bright blue and green drinks, the corn dogs, and nachos bathed in orange slime are enough to make Jamie Oliver crawl under a rock never to emerge again. Hideous food. Am I too much of a food snob with my juice spritzers for kids and meals I make them eat at home before they go to the meet?

There is a long and tedious wait until you get to watch your kid swim and after all these years, I still have no idea what anyone is talking about when they refer to "heats" or "fly", etc. Everyone else seems to understand just fine. Then too, I can only imagine how lame and unhelpful they all must find me, because I do nothing at these meets. Some moms are "pushers," some timekeepers, some ribbon givers, some "spacers." Not only do I not understand these "jobs" I never apply for them, and interestingly, my kids never win.

Then too, it is about 95 degrees or more at the meet and mosquitos and biting flies swarm during the entire three or more hours. There you are, standing at the foot of a pool, watching kids swim fast but you cannot so much as dip your toe in for relief from the North Carolina heat. Torture. If it rains, it is worse. They never call the meet. Instead, kids have to wait 30 minutes after it lightens before getting back in the water. Thus, if it lightens twice, that is 60 minutes. As if the meet isn't long enough, now it is longer still.

I don't feel good about my attitude at all, believe me. I am mortified that I feel this way, but I do. It all seems so silly and so pretentious in a way -- like cuteness or something. The little girls in their tight Speedos and headbands and the boys dying from their Speedos that they only reveal for the swim and then jump back into their regular swimsuits. The numbers drawn on their arms with Sharpee that I question as a carcinogen and the sayings that kids write on their backs as well, all still irritate me more.

Maybe it is because I am not a swimmer and never was one, that I just don't get this. I am not a complete grinch because I do enjoy the boys baseball games, basketball games, shows at school and more, but swim meets--not so much. I wonder if there is a punishment for moms who do not yell and cheer and wear green. If so, I am in deep trouble.

Labyrinth Walk on a Tearful Night

Went to walk a labyrinth last night. It was hot and buggy and muggy. One foot in on the path and I began to cry. Not sobbing, gasping for breath kind of crying, just hot tears running down my already hot face. As I walked the peaceful path, slightly aware of the bouncing basketball players in the parking lot, vaguely aware of the squeals from the apartment complex swimming pool and only faintly mindful of the lilies and verdant around me, I felt a moment of panic. What if, what if, what if, I never get to the center? What if I can never figure out what to do or what is causing my sons' illnesses? What if I can never find someone to help them? To help me? To make everyone better? It came to me once again, that I had still never figured out how and why Gregory died. I never did unscramble the reasons he may have gone into that pool or fell or followed the wandering cat to his distraction enough to suddenly be drowning. You see, those three possibilities still float around in my soul. The endless vision of his sweet, round self bobbing in the water face down in his drenched yellow sweatsuit and primary colored shoes. This nagging, unsolved mystery that in the last 15 years, I've had to come to grips with and sit with. I have come to live with its absolute unresolved reality and accept that I would never know what happened, only the clear truth, that it did. I might know on my dying day, but no sooner. So, after walking and walking round and round, in and out, through and through, I finally did reach the middle, the center, somewhat annoyed with the mere presence of all the other middle aged women around me. They were doing nothing wrong, it was just my absolute bare, exposed nerves that made me so intolerant. And there I stood in the middle, not feeling the usual peace I have in the past when I arrived at the labyrinth center. I felt nothing, only acceptance that I do not know the center and I do not know the way. God please lead me, support me, help me find the way to help those I love more than life itself. Bring me to the center, the middle, somewhere where I can sit and listen and wait for your guidance. I promise to follow if only you will lead me.

The Birds

Several weeks ago, my homebound son, Peter noticed that a bird nest had been constructed in the middle of the Christmas Cactus out on the front porch. In it, were six perfect blue robin's eggs on top of which sat a puffed up robin day after day. We knew not to touch and so reverent were we, that we never even got close enough to take photos. Once before, the twins had touched a nest to which the mama never returned. Those babies hatched and we tried to syringe feed them to keep them alive, but their imminent death was trauma for us, so we were not going down that path again!

It has been the most perfect Spring event to observe and track. Each day the mama bird sat, patient and proud and waited. She never went to childbirth classes, no trips to Babies R Us were required, nor did she register for any baby gifts in preparation for the births. She would fly away for periods of time and curiously the dad would perch nearby and squawk for her to return to her full time job. It seemed she just needed to spread her wings a bit and have a break from the nesting. She had made a most beautiful and perfect home, but even from the best of abodes, we all need a break sometimes.

Days passed and each morning we checked the progress until finally lo' and behold when we weren't looking, six skinny, hairless chicks had emerged. We had missed the drama of the shells cracking and all, but nonetheless, we were thrilled to see this next phase. Now, began the hectic work of keeping these babies fed. Oh my! This mama flew back and forth all day long, retrieving worms, chewing them up, spitting them into continuously opened mouths. There seemed to never be any satiety in these chicks who wanted more, more, more. Isn't this the case with human babies too? As a lactation consultant, I find this to be the single most difficult concept to deliver to new moms -- "Babies are hungry, most of the time and feed continously."

We wished we had done some filming with some time lapsed recording, because each day was something new. One day the babies eyes opened, one day they grew feathers, one day they got more crowded in the nest. But, always, when mom when to get some food, dad flew nearby and yelled for her during her absence. Poor thing was always on the mission of getting those babies fed. I wondered why these birds were not designed as mammals where mom has all she needs to feed the babies. This seemed so much harder.

Ironically, the Christmas cactus, that housed the full house nest, began to bloom, totally out of season. First one, then several beautiful pink flowers burst open. It was as if to celebrate the coming of life, the yin and the yang, the loveliness of it all, heralded with pink blossoms in May that typically only bloom in December!

Six perfect baby birds snuggled together with mouths almost always open begging for food and when they weren't, they slept in a heap, kept warm by each other and by their very capable and proud mama. I think the most amazing part to me was the complete lack of intervention. No one rushed anything. Not the birth, not the infancy. There was no induction because she was overdue or supplementation because there wasn't enough milk. No one pressured the mama (maybe the dad a little!), no one said these babes "just weren't getting enough" or "gaining weight fast enough" or "growing enough feathers." No, on the contrary, all was well, just the way it was. It was such a delight for my chronically ill son to observe each day as he thrilled to the process and progress through the front window.

And then, oddly one day all but two birds were gone! One cute little round robin, perched on the top step, trying to spread his wings, falling over, trying again, falling again, over and over until poof -- he was gone. But, ah, those last two -- they stayed and stayed. In fact, they stayed a whole other day, waiting for mom to bring food, and cuddling up with each other still to snooze. What is it that makes some of us slower to fly than others? What is it that gives some more bravado, more faith in it all working out, than the rest of us? I always wonder this and now bore witness to that very phenomenon. But then, we looked away and those last two as well, had flown the coop. Left behind was a whole lot of bird poop, some shedded feathers, and one absolutely perfect bird's nest. Indeed the saying runs true, "We give our children two things, roots and wings."

We Didn't Know Today Would be the Last Day

On Tuesday, May 3, 1995, Shep and I woke up in the lovely, Southampton home of a friend of ours, Stephanie. She had invited us to use her weekend house while she was away and we were visiting. Nicholas was 13 and wanted to spend the day at a friend's house. Peter was 11 and had been stung by a bee on his leg, the day before and was still pretty sick from the allergic reaction he had had. Oliver was seven and up for whatever we planned. Gregory was two and had slept without me and without nursing through the night, for the first time, totally randomly and without coaxing. He had made his way through this strange house in the night to the bed his dad was sleeping in a room with the other boys and snuggled up beside him to sleep. I had a glorious and peaceful night where I actually got to sleep through and when I woke up, was shocked to find that Gregory was not next to me as he usually was. I felt good in the morning, but edgy as now it seemed, I wanted even more alone time. I wanted to lay on the couch and read The Southampton Press from cover to cover, undisturbed. Having lived in the Hamptons for 12 years, I still knew many of the people mentioned in the paper. Reading a paper and being the mother of 4 young boys is simply not possible.

We decided to go into town and walk Jobs Lane and then Main Street checking out changes in Lillywhite's toy store, the boutiques, the restaurants, and to drool over what we had left behind by moving to plain vanilla land in Raleigh, North Carolina, two years prior. In walking, we ran into a few familiar old friends and stopped to chat about old Little League teams, schools our kids had gone to and the like. We ate some lunch in The Driver's Seat restaurant which was always so enjoyable and then moved on. Peter's leg still hurt and so he wound up sitting in Gregory's stroller, while Gregory attempted to push him. It was a hilarious site that entertained many strollers in town that day.

We came back to Stephanie's house and made some spaghetti for dinner. I was irritable when Gregory kept climbing on the deck bench and leaning over. I was still lusting after alone time, or at least mommy-off-duty time and resented the interruptions. I kept pulling him back each time he leaned over and in retrospect, I only wish I had let him fall. He would have broken bones and that sounds horrific, I know, but read on and you will understand more. Gregory was covered with spaghetti sauce on his blue and white outfit so I changed him into a cute yellow sweatsuit and his multi colored shoes that matched. For reasons I will never understand, we chose to visit a woman I knew from La Leche League who had just given birth to her third child. This was not a close friend of mine, but rather a co-dependent, weak yet radical earth mama who was married to one of the most despicable men I ever met. George was at the time, County Legislator for Suffolk County and when he wasn't busy cheating on his wife, neglecting his children, or being a total egocentric asshole, he was making derogatory racist or anti-gay comments for those very populations he bragged about defending. Sleazy and repulsive is the only word I can still use to describe this unattractive being.

The truth of the matter is that we could have visited several other people on our first evening back in Southampton to see friends. My best friend, Joan wanted us to come, as did so many others. Who can ever say why we made the choice we did. It will haunt me forever. When we visited, the two older boys played with mine and went in and out of the house shooting basketballs. Anne and I sat admiring her baby, and as was typical for her she referred to astrological charts of each newborn as they came into the world. She had left George more than once and showed up crying, with kids in tow at my home for refuge. I always wondered why she chose our home, since we were not particularly close friends. I tried to figure out now, if that was over or if George was still up to his same slimey tricks. Her newborn nursed on and off as she and I sat in the living room. Shep was in the kitchen talking to Anne's visiting mom and then, George arrived bragging about the TV show he had just been interviewed for. Gregory wandered in at one point, noticed the baby nursing and so climbed into my lap and nursed as well. It was sweet and more poignant then I could ever know.

For some reason, we all wandered into the kitchen which was where the back door was. George who continued to be unbearably full of himself, showed off his parrot on his shoulder. He told us that it was not easy to determine whether the bird was male or female. "Just my luck," he said, "that I would end up with a 'faggot' parrot!" I remember feeling so confused that this man was such a complete fraud, deriding the very population he claimed to publicly defend. It is hard for me to look at parrots, still.

Minutes later, Shep asked me, "Where is Gregory?" I responded that he was following the boys in and out to the basketball hoop. "No, he responded, I don't see him." In that second the entire world changed for six of us and it would never return to how it was one second before. Gregory was indeed floating face down in his yellow sweatsuit, multi colored shoes, in the swimming pool. Shep and George grabbed him and pulled him out. The open gate (The Hamptons had very strict laws about this, but of course, George was completely above the law) had gained him entrance and what happened next, I will never know. I do know that there was running and screaming and sirens and chaos and me jumping up and down in the air in a maniacal, frantic, desperate fashion. I would flip from kneeling and begging God for help to leaping in the air over and over. There were hours in emergency rooms, helicopter airlifting, racing to a larger medical facility and sustained hysteria by us all. There were my kids coming and going, being brought, being removed, being calmed, being lied to, being supposedly -- protected. There was no way to protect, no way to calm.

I have written of all the details many times, so I will not repeat. But, in ten hours time, we watched a medical team desperately try to infuse life back into the lifeless body of my darling, chubby child. It crossed my mind that if they would let me nurse him, he would be okay. Truth was that when we pulled him out of that pool, he was already dead even though medical efforts made his heart beat again. We let him go forever at 6:00 am and stepped into the cesspool of our new lives, that would take us years to learn to navigate. If only we had known that the day before would have been the last day. We could have done things differently, I suppose.

Today is that day again, only it is now 15 years later. We have survived without my darling son and we have been given the blessing of two more sons, twins in fact who really are solely responsible for pulling us out of the black hole we lived in following Gregory's death. As you know, I live each day in search of "the normal day" always consciously pleading and praying that it is not the last one.

The Other Side of Midnight

Last Saturday, my colleague/friend and I drove to Charlotte, NC to attend a statewide La Leche League conference. I have officially been a LLL leader for over 22 years but have been inactive for the last five or so.



My initial experience with LLL was in San Antonio, Texas in 1980. I was pregnant with my first child and have no earthly idea why I was even remotely curious about breastfeeding. I had never seen anyone breastfeed and God knows my mother was completely horrified by any and all body parts, so this was not an idea mentioned in my growing up years. But, something brought me to that Couples meeting that night and I became more and more interested. When I gave birth to my first son in 1981, I began attending meetings and the rest became my history. Suffice to say, my connections to LLL changed my whole paradigm of thinking, taught me loving and tender child rearing along in a nurturing style. In the end, it became my career choice, as I have been a board certifield lactation consultant for the last 14 years. The women in the LLL groups I belonged to in New York and in North Carolina have also become my life long friends with an attachment, like no other.



So, when I got to this Charlotte conference -- I had that familiar feeling of connection that I miss so desperately. Being a lactation consultant in private practice is a lonely field. These were my friends, my cohorts and many of these women had been to hell and back with me when my two year old son died tragically in 1995. It felt so good to be amongst these women. As well, there is a sense of "normal" at a LLL event. These are happy mothers and content babies, many of whom have made mothering a profession. They practice attachment parenting snuggling their babies in slings who were born in a most natural style, use alternative vaccination schedules, and they think before they accept most things handed down to them in the health field. It is a lovely arena.



On Saturday morning, I cheerfully attended my first session which was on increasing breast milk supply. This is a subject that has no end, as it has become the holy grail of breastfeeding. When the session was over, I came out only to be met by the horror stricken, tearful faces of two old time leaders who I have known for years. They grabbed me by the arm and said they needed to tell me something. My heart sank below my knees, I was terrified -- was it my husband? one of my sons? Which one? What? What? Jan said, "Karen's 21 year old son killed himself on Thursday. I just got word." I was horror stricken in every possible way and began crying uncontrollably. That was it. I wanted only to go home and see my own sons to be sure they were okay. I wanted to hold Karen, an old time LLL leader and lactation consultant, and rock her, knowing that her life would never be the same. I wanted to lay in the streets and sob for the agony of losing a child and the inability to ever comprehend the ache. The compounded horror of suicide is I feel, the worst of the worst. He had a gun, we came to find out, all the more horrible, I suppose. I cried on and off all day long and finally got home late that night, kissing and hugging those who were home and burying myself under many covers.



The funeral was a Catholic mass on Tuesday. This is the thing for me. Many said they could not attend because it would be "too hard" or "too upsetting" or too something. I feel this way. I do not have that choice. I am a fellow human being, a fellow traveler, if you wish. I am your friend. You are descending into hell and I have the responsibility to show up and to bear witness. Isn't that the VERY LEAST I can do? I must steel myself and wade through the fire and the grit, but I must be there. It is torture for me to go to that place in my heart that still has an eternal flame or torch. But, I go anyway.



The mass was nice, with touching music, moving eulogies by a brother and a friend. The brother said two eloquent things that I have thought of many times since. One was that he felt that Jesus had to go through hell and so had his brother Ted. The other really got me. Ted was bipolar and apparently, he suffered terribly, unresolved by medication and/or treatment. His brother said, "It was often very difficult to live with Ted. But, in fact, it was much more difficult to live AS Ted." It is so telling, that when one shoots themselves with the purpose of ending it all, one almost always chooses to blow their brains out. The pain of life seems much greater than this painful, instant death, at that moment.



And then, the receiving line, where this poor derailed family, stands receiving hugs and "I'm so sorries" while they barely have the strength to breathe in and out. There simply are NO words. I bring water to the mother. I bring a chair. It doesn't matter. The dad mentions that it will be odd not getting emails from his son. Oh honey, that will be the least! I hug the mother, my colleague, and she says, "Oh those babies. We love them so." Yes, indeed. I think to myself that they have no idea how long and rocky the road ahead is. On the phone she said to me, "He's with Jesus. He is fine. I have my faith." Yes, but hey, Jesus' heart broke over this tragedy as well. This will do your for awhile, but not for long. The gnawing will come at 3 am and no loving arms of Jesus will take away the agony of loss. The other side of midnight awaits all surving parents with hell on earth.

Necco Wafers

Growing up in the projects in the East New York section of Brooklyn in the fifties and sixties, was a truly unique experience. I could go on and on about the socialist form of living that was really beneficial in so many ways. When you were assigned one of the three huge city projects to live in, placement was made according to your total family income level. Thus, you either lived in low, middle, or high income housing. My family of Irish and Hungarian descent, lived in Boulevard Houses because we were a middle income family. My Irish Catholic father was a parking meter collector at the time, working for the City of New York. My raving atheist Hungarian mother stayed at home and spent much time "on the bench" with the other moms. This was group therapy or at the very least a support group, long before those terms were the vernacular.

The families who lived in the projects and for that matter, most of East New York (ENY) were almost all Jewish. I was being raised Roman Catholic. I was in fact "the other." When there was a Jewish holiday, I would often be the only student in my class to come to school and I would delight in helping my teacher clean out closets, rearrange classrooms, etc. Oddly, all the teachers were Jewish too, but did not get the privilege of a day off. I was the "shiksa girl" or "goyim" and several parents of my friends, did not encourage my presence around their children. I did not realize this at first, but as I became a more conscious age, I often had this feeling that I was "dirty."

On Wednesdays at 2:00, I would leave school to head for St. Gabriel's Church, well over a mile away for what was called either "Religious Instruction" or "Released Time." Either way, I hated it and was embarrassed to leave. The walk was long and kind of scary and amongst the few other non-Jewish kids, I don't remember any others walking along to St. Gabriel's. I was alone. At the time, there was Hannah Shea, Patrick Manetta, Diane Grinage, Gino Dinolfo and a few others who were not Jewish, but they must have either been in another grade, or not been forced to attend this Wednesday ritual, so I never saw them.

I was always very intrigued and in awe of receiving communion. Part of me, was particularly confused because my Catholic dad never received along side of me as other families did. Years later I came to find out that this good, honest, faithful guy had a divorce in his past which rendered him excommunicated from such last suppers. I was angry about that for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, each week, I would go into that dark scary booth to confess my sins to the priest on Saturdays, say my penance, and receive communion on Sundays. Sister Martin Joseph (why the male names always?) said, "Never chew Jesus, let him melt in your mouth." One of my biggest fears became the dread that perhaps Jesus would get stuck in my teeth or palate and I would be damned forever, as I suppose, would He!

Growing up in the projects meant that you always had lots of friend so play with. No matter what the day or season, there was someone around to dress Ginny dolls with, to go sledding with, to set up a neighborhood carnival with, or to ride bikes and roller skate with. Great fun. When it was too cold or rainy to play outside, we would either meet in the hallways of the building or visit each others apartments to play. So an assortment of friends like Nadine, Susan, Audrey, Paula, and others would come to play. They were all Jewish, of course. I would take them into my room and say, "Okay, I am the priest. Kneel down." I have no idea why, but they would heed my commands. It is often like that with children -- someone becomes the director and others follow suit. I was in fact, often labeled as "bossy." Once they kneeled, I would have them fold their hands in prayer, and close their eyes. Then, I would carefully peel one Necco wafer out of my pack, demand that they stick out their tongues and place the wafer there. "DON"T CHEW!" I would command, "Let Jesus melt in your mouth. You cannot chew Jesus!"

Although they seemed obedient time and time again, when we played this game, it was in fact, upsetting enough to them, to cause them to report to their parents. Some of these parents were Holocaust survivors, but even those who were not, found this less than amusing. The parents would come banging on our apartment 4A door, report to my father what was happening and I would be told to stop at once. At the time, I couldn't really understand why, but I sure do now.

Often too late to find old friends....

Old friends mean a lot to me. Old acquaintances and relatives do too. Now with the advent of Facebook, it all becomes a reality. One can find just about anyone and if you can't find the one you are looking for, surely you can find another family member or a friend who can.

We lived in Texas some 28 years ago. Shep and I were just married and living in Manhattan and absolutely loving it....when, lo' and behold, his job with WR Grace required a transfer to Dallas, Texas. Being Ms. New York my entire life and working at that time as a manager in Macy's Cellar, I was horrified. Although we were newlyweds, we argued about this move passionately and watched the show, "Dallas" with renewed curiosity mixed with dread.

We flew to Dallas, and trying to duplicate Manhattan, I found the only high rise apartment building at the time, (in Turtle Creek) and put down a deposit to hold it till our arrival. I went to Joske's Department store and applied for a position as a buyer. Already on slippery terra ferme, the mud sunk deeper, when suddenly there was a shift in plans. The move would be changed from Dallas to San Antonio. This was it -- too much. I could never do it. But, Shep did have to relocate; there was no way to avoid it if he wanted to advance his career. And so, I gave in, had a cool Manhattan farewell party with the "Dallas" theme as background music and bid adieu to our upper east side apartment in The Claridge House.

To say I was a “poor re-locator” would be a gross understatement. As a hip New Yorker, born and bred in the Brooklyn housing projects, I relocated with such reluctance and skepticism, that my adjustment was destined to fail. The quirky thing I notice about so called "worldly wise New Yorkers", is that in actuality, they can be very provincial. There is something really odd about living in New York and the daily struggle for survival. The goal is to make it to work and back, through a gourmet dinner and wine, then, into your loft bed for the night, and when that is accomplished, you feel like a hero/survivor. There is the notion that the harder it is, the bigger the struggle, the better it must be! After all, good things don't come easy, so it stands to reason that New York MUST be the best, because it is the most difficult. I believed that with all my heart and never wanted to leave. Most New Yorkers don't. The truth is though, that there is life outside of New York and in fact, everyday life need NOT be a battle royale. It can be simplified and less stressful and still very worth living.

Back to the subject matter here. We did relocate to San Antonio, Texas into a garden apartment complex (there were no tall buildings!) ironically named 7600 Broadway! I worked for Dillard’s Department stores as the buyer for three departments in about a dozen stores in Texas, Arkansas and New Mexico. I was the gifts, lamps, and wall decor buyer. And my office was in a warehouse on Broadway with several other buyers. My boss was a genuine Texas merchandiser who chewed and spit tobacco, in between smoking Marlboros. He was kind, but I was horrified. He was short of breath and slightly impatient with my low comfort level with numbers, facts, and figures. I have never been a numbers girl and even in college as a merchandising major, I struggled with Open-to-buy formulas. Send me to the wholesale gift market and I was a gem. I could choose items, colors, styles that almost always sold. I had a true sense of what someone else would like to purchase, even when I hated the item. With a great flair for merchandising the item and creating desire for it, I was worth my salary, but for my number sense -- I should have been slaughtered.

Now, while I was busy learning to drink Dr. Pepper and purchase stone cactus displays and armadillo statues, Shep was working with Howard Publicover for WR Grace. WR Grace was busy spreading their retail and restaurant acquisitions at the time, and Handy Dan home stores was their big push. Handy Dan was the precursor to Home Depot in the southwest. I think Howard was slightly intimidating to Shep as was the corporate world he was now in. Making presentations to large groups of executives always seemed to rattle Shep, though he did well. Howard was perfect in his job though, and we soon became friends with Howard's family, who had relocated from Massachusetts. We all tried to learn Texas two step dances together, ate on the lovely River walk and shared our stories of missing the Northeast and our friends.

The Publicovers were the epitome of a large, happy family and we loved to spend time with them in their big house with four kids. Their twin daughters, Kym and Karyn were in high school by then, their son Mark was probably in elementary school as was their perky daughter, Lynda. I was pregnant with my first child and very excited to be so. Shep and I had traded up and bought our first house on Dove Flight in the northern part of town. San Antonio was still a very military area and this part of town was especially so, thus we fit in, even less. Being around the Publicover family through my pregnancy was so appropriate and when I had baby Nicholas they were quite helpful in getting us acclimated. Lynda was especially interested in this new baby and she spent time at our house helping me. I too, was very drawn to her sweetness, her zaniness and her open questions.

This family seemed to do most things, BIG. Their new house was so big and the windows might have been the biggest I had ever seen, with drapes that ran for two stories. The kitchen was big. The yard was big. This was Texas where most things are BIG. But biggest of all, was their camper which we loaded into one weekend, with baby Nicholas in my arms. I cannot remember if we had a destination or not, but it sure was fun riding around while Howard, also a big guy, drove this mammoth vehicle. Howard and Shep had purchased cowboy hats and boots at WR Grace's cowboy store, Shepler’s and wore them well. So, as I remember, it was a fun time, at a tender and impressionable phase of our lives.

After two years of non-stop comparisons to life in New York, Shep finally relented and we made plans to move back. I have always looked back on this decision as a mistake, because we were doing well, had a nice life and had made some good friends. Texas is a very family friendly place, the antithesis of where we were headed. But, this is how life goes and this is how maturation takes place, through making some poor, but hell driven decisions. So, back we went, only this time we moved out to Hampton Bays, Long Island and I shall write more about that another time.

We sent Christmas cards to the Publicovers for many years and then somehow, that ended, but I am not sure why. Baby Nicholas is now, 28 and married and his five brothers followed him into this family. I am a lactation consultant and will be attending a conference this summer in San Antonio, so all these years later, I became curious as to what and whom I will find and if anything will be vaguely familiar. Enter, Facebook -- the life changing channel of communication, perfect for someone like me who always likes to follow-up on lost friends. Through just a little bit of searching, I found the Publicover twins and then, Lynda! Oddly, coincidentally, synchronicity, who-knows-what, Howard Publicover had died the day before! Irony or ironies? The family was too busy with funeral plans to email back and forth which was completely understandable, yet so very sad to hear. I became even more curious about what had become of this family.

How uncanny this is? I, who thinks of death and its meanings, more often than is probably normal, runs smack into death. There are these grown-women-and-men-children who have lost their big daddy. Their mom, Virginia (who in her Facebook photo looks very much like a Texas country singer), has lost her husband of so many years. Lynda has posted two photos that haunt me in their loveliness. One is of her in hospital bed with her dying dad. The other, so striking, is of her holding his hand as he lay dying. She had been told many times that she had "man's hands" and she finally came to realize that her hands were her father's replicas. The wonders of genetics. And, she is so honored to have the facsimile of the hands of the man she loved so dearly. We are in touch and I am enjoying hearing about her grownup life. She says I was an inspiration to her in the way that I nurtured my first child. She went on to breastfeed each of her children, which to me, is the greatest honor of all. Surprisingly, I recollected my first year of mothering as clueless and so ungrounded. Who knew? Through the eyes of a 12 year old, comes glory and tribute unknown to oneself.

So, moral of story -- too little, too late. We will never see Howard Publicover, though we hope to visit with the rest of his family. I wish I could keep up with everyone who has ever crossed my path, but it seems that is not possible. I am ever curious as to the impact I may have had on them, and how they perceived me, at different times in my life.

My Friend Nancy

Last night at church my friend, Nancy shared a slide show of her recent "pilgrimage" to Iona, Scotland. Pilgrimage?? This means what? Journey? Retreat? Meditation? Hiking? What? I am not sure I know this word. But, there I saw the most incredible scenes of stone walls, abbeys, beaches, roads, flowers, and caves -- some of which were millions, yes, millions of years old. It was amazing to see, I tell you. And it was deeply awe inspiring and suddenly I wished I had been on just that pilgrimage! When Nancy was thrashed around in the wind on the end of an island on a rocky beach to the point where she could barely remain standing, the residents of the "community" said, "Oh, the wildness of God!" I love that! The wildness of God.....

And kudos to my friend, Nancy, who is one of the few friends I have come to know in this second half of my life who really wants to keep digging deeper and deeper. I have laid claim to that in so many relationships, where I keep wanting to know more, more, more about myself, about my soul and about why I am here. I believe in her own way, this is what Nancy does too and in her pilgrimages, that is so much more available as she stands thrashing about watching and feeling, the "wildness of God."

The Lyme Nightmare

I am still reeling today. I hate that expression because my bipolar/borderline personality mother used it when accusing me of hurting her, but here it is true... I AM reeling! Yesterday, Peter (the Lyme suffering son), and Oliver (the 21 yo activist who was home from school for Super Bowl), and I went to a Lyme support group that meets here in Raleigh. Not only is the meeting so poorly run, or shall I say "not run" that you could lose your mind, but it is positively depressing and hopeless. I don't know where to begin, except to say that the leader of the meeting does not lead and those few people who by sheer persistance, find the meeting (it is not advertised anywhere) are so depressed and so beaten, that the sense of complete hopelessness is awash over your entire being.

It is hard to describe the quagmire that is Chronic Lyme disease. It is a political, medical, and legal nightmare of the most extreme proportion. Medically it seems that there are few or no doctors willing to treat this controversial disease as there is no definitive protocol and the one commonly used remedy of long term antibiotics, is of great controversy in the medical arena and completely unacceptable by the insurance companies. So much so in fact, that one doctor formerly in North Carolina was sued for millions of dollars by Blue Cross and lost not only his practice but everything he owned. He has moved from NC to SC and now to DC but obviously offers no insurance reimbursement, so the out of pocket expense is out of reach for most of us. Other doctors have lost their licenses to practice through review by the Infectious Disease Society of America which is as riddled with conflict of interest as the tobacco industry and the infant formula lobby rolled into one! It is a frightening state of affairs when the members of that review board are in charge of our well being and health.

This of course also links into the political arena with attempted protest groups in legislative branches in local government and protests launched with little or no impact. The legal implications better known as CYA by most practitioners leave them unwilling to risk the witch hunt that awaits if they continue treating Lyme patients with long term antibiotic therapy, to the point where doctors seem to want to run for the hills when they are discovered to be Lyme-saavy or as the terminology goes, "Lyme Literate." If they are deeply moral, compassionate and really are doctors because they believe in human kind and truly want to help save lives, then this becomes a heck of a moral dilemma for them to wrestle with. Imagine, trying to decide between hanging onto your medical license and supporting your family and doing what you went to school to do, or losing it all while saving lives and health. Hippocratic oath anywhere???

So, the support group is hopeless really. I cannot sit at a table where no one is introduced, and there is one upmanship on who has had this disease longer or to a more severe degree. Then too, there are the really scary alternative treatment suggestions by some. I mean these sufferers are risking leukemia and the like by removing some of their blood and exposing it to infrared rays?! Or, using Bariatric oxygen treatments at levels potentially toxic to their brains. Two out of three, the leader of the group included shared that they would much rather have a diagnosis of cancer. This is hard, too hard. I hate my boy hearing this hopeless talk. I really hate it. I want us to start our own support group with maybe a guest appearance by someone who actually got cured and feels better. Imagine that? Or, maybe a pain specialist, or a mental health provider sympathetic to the ensuing depression. Surely, there has to be better support available then just sharing our darkest terminal thoughts.

I Think This May be a Normal Day!

We have been snowed in for two days! In Raleigh, NC, that is a big deal.... About 5 inches came down on Friday night and then sleet all day Saturday, so we have all been snowbound and my kids have been out for 7-8 hour stretches playing non-stop with their sleds and other kids. Imagine! Now, that in and of itself seems very normal to me! I have cleaned out my sheets closets and gotten rid of all old and frayed ones. Have also done the same with all the old towels that we have had since before we were married (31 years worth!). Got rid of old medications and unused shampoos and organized under sinks and in cabinets. I've made lots of hot chocolate and had tea with my neighbor and good friend. Have slept till 9 am and been on the treadmill for 30 minutes each morning without complaining. I got to scrapbook for a few hours yesterday and got all our Rome photos cut and pasted. I watched some tv, including the 20/20 special on my "friends", John and Elizabeth Edwards, as well as several editions of "Say Yes to the Dress" which I find completely fun and distracting. We ate great food made by dear husband and chef, Shep including Cornish game hens with orange sauce, sauteed buttenut squash with greens and wild rice, followed by an almond torte with coffee buttercream and chocolate granache topping. Not bad, eh? And now, we hear no school for tomorrow too! Is this it? Is this a normal day??? I think it may be... Ahhhhhh, feels good to me.

After Death

This is one of the things that gnaws at me about death. I cannot bear the thought of things going on without me. I mean, how could new inventions or discoveries occur without me knowing about them? So, the new Apple Ipad arrived yesterday and all the world sat up to see. Haiti continues to barely function and Haitians die in droves from injuries and now, from disease setting in. Emergency call for donor human milk for Haiti, abounds. News is happening. Things are changing. All this in just a week. But, my friend Mary is not here to participate. I cannot wrap my mind around that. It has always mesmerized me about death. Then too, Gregory would be graduating from high school next Spring. Talk about not being able to wrap one's mind around.... Death is so endlessly perplexing for me.

Snow Prep in the South

Why is there such a ruckus when a predicted snow storm is coming, here in Raleigh, NC? Is it because it is so rare? Is it a merchandising hoax that convinces people to mob the supermarkets and Home Depot in frantic preparation, as if they don't have enough food stored in their pantries to see them through and unless they get a generator, surely they will freeze to death?? Maybe it's because I grew up in New York, where it felt like it snowed all winter long and no one made any big deal about it. Maybe it is because the world, and technology changed and predicting storms is an art form, along with intense preparation. It is too much drama for me, and too fear producing. If it snows, it snows and I will burrow inside, feel guilty about not playing in the snow with my kids, complain about all the wet clothes thrown in the garage and start making hot chocolate. My pantry is well stocked on most days, as if my freezer. All will be well. Let it snow.

Lyme Disease and its dominant role in our family

My son, Peter has been suffering with Chronic Lyme disease for months now. He is 25 years old and was a healthy, succesful business consultant, in Boston. He now lives at home with us in Raleigh, NC and spends most of his days on the red sectional in our living room, in pain. Mostly, it is intense leg pain and some headaches and other ghastly pains. We have been to see the Lyme gurus, aka Lyme Literate doctors and have gotten various protocols, but the current one he is following, is high doses of Tetracycline with not much else in the way of supplements, so as not to feed the Lyme spirochetes.

I have begun to wonder, how this will ever end, how he will gain the lost 35 pounds back, get another job, find a girlfriend and rebuild his life. Then, I wonder how one poppy seed size critter could have wrecked this much havoc on his life and ours as we bear witness with broken hearts. What life lesson is there to be learned here? He is the brightest, funniest guy you could ever want to meet and one wonders, what this is really all about?

What do we do without Mary? Mary Rose Tully leaves us....

Today, I attended the funeral of one of my dearest friends, my consistent go-to reference person and my mentor, the infamous, Mary Rose Tully, director of lactation at UNC hospital in Chapel Hill, NC. I cannot really remember the first time I met Mary, but it seems she has been a part of my life since I moved to North Carolina. Mary was totally beloved by all who knew her in a way that crossed all boundaries. I have been awestruck by just how much impact she has had on just how many people. And, most likely, the majority have not voiced their admiration or we don't know how to find them or most importantly, the thousands of babies whom she has helped, are more or less, speechless.

The thing about Mary, for me, is that I was so in awe of her, that I often missed opportunities to be with her. From the beginning, when I was a lowly La Leche League leader (at least in her eyes, I believe -- after all, she did in fact begin her own group called Nursing Mothers of Raleigh, which I cannot help but think was because she did not buy into LLL!) I would see her at "The Art of Breastfeeding" conference in Chapel Hill and she was so darned impressive and so incredibly smart, that I did not dare gather round her or her followers. I would watch from a distance. When I ran into her at international lactation consultant conferences, it was even worse, because she was then surrounded by the superstars of lactation and I just didn't feel adequate enough to engage with her or them. I would hug and kiss her, and run off instead. Regrets.

In 1995, my then youngest son of four, Gregory drowned and my family turned into gruel. I did not know Mary then. The last time I held my son alive, was when he toddled into the friend's house we were visiting in Long Island, jumped into my lap and nursed. He then went outside with the older boys to play, but instead, he wandered into a cold swimming pool and drowned in his yellow sweatsuit and multi color toddler shoes. Somehow, in the depths of my grief, I held onto that blessed nursing moment and began thinking that I needed to ensure that all babies had the same gift as he did. I would need to do more than I could as a LLL leader to make that happen. I wanted to become a lactation consultant. I called Mary Tully at Wakemed Hospital in Raleigh to ask for her help. In truth, she was not all that encouraging. In retrospect, I suppose she had a feel for what a complete and utter mess I was and wondered how I would cope with all the studying and have the stamina for the long and trying exam. Be that as it may, I persisted and she explained all the prerequisites and hoops I would need to jump in order to sit for the exam.


By that time in my grief filled life, I was trying desperately to become pregnant again. I felt that in order for my sons, my husband and most of all for me to go on, I would need to create life in the dark hole of death in which we lived. I attended a class that Mary Tully and Mary Overfield (fondly referred to as "The Marys"), were offering at Wakemed. It was a five day review course that pretty much guaranteed that you would be prepared enough to sit for the exam. It was nearly impossible for me to stay focused that whole week and I remember at one point, going to the ladies room and asking an obstetrician who was in the class, if she thought I could get pregnant again. I was 45 and she said simply, "No." Ouch. I spent that whole summer trying to study out on the deck but I would stare at the same page for hours and absorb nothing. Instead I would look out into the yard at the slide and the swings and wonder when Gregory would come home.

During that week of review, I became fixated on Mary Tully. She was so intriguing and the subject was fascinating to me. She knew so much that I wanted to know too. I also wanted to know her, but felt that I would never measure up to such an icon . At the end of July, 1996, I sat for that 8 hour exam and came home completely spent. I piled my whole family into the car and said, "Let's go to Atlanta to the Olympics" and off we went without tickets, a room reservation, or any plans. I needed to get away and did. We missed the Olympics sniper which was a good thing and had a fun time.

In October, I found out that indeed, I had passed the exam and was now an officially documented, International Board Certified Lactation Consultant, commonly known as IBCLC. I was as thrilled as any very depressed, still deeply grieving, desperately wanting another baby woman could be! Shortly after that, I went for coffee in Barnes and Noble with Elizabeth Edwards who I knew from Compassionate Friends. It was there that I shared with Elizabeth my struggles to become pregnant. "Ah, she said, "you are too old for it to happen naturally. Run, don't walk to this Infertility doctor at UNC. I know what you are going through because I am going through the same thing." Of course, Elizabeth Edwards wasn't the wife of senator/president-wannabe/involved in scandal at the time. She was then, just another deeply grieving mother who was trying to figure out how to go on, and was married to simply, a successful NC lawyer. I was stunned for more reasons than one, but I did in fact make that appointment and get on my way. I later switched from UNC to Duke who could see me faster and move things along more rapidly. By December 1997, I was pregnant and 46 years old. By February, 1998, I found out that I was carrying twins! I credited Elizabeth Edwards, and always will!


On August 21, 1998, my fifth and sixth sons were born at Wakemed hospital. By the next day, Mary Tully appeared to help me latch them on with a twin nursing pillow. Surely I would not need any help. I had been cocky as could be over the years when it came to any discussion on nursing twins--- "Well you have two breasts, so you should be able to breastfeed two babies." When Mary's smiling face and eyes appeared that day, I already suspected that trouble lie ahead. My 46 year old breasts were saggy and limp. My babies were hungry. I was in fact, a veteran LLL leader and now an IBCLC of two years. Mary helped me latch both Sam and Will on at once and I looked at my husband in dismay. "We've really done it this time Shep!" I said to him discouraged. Mary came often during my postpartum stay, but breastfeeding was not improving. My LLL co-leaders were convinced that I just needed to get home and be in my own bed. That happened, but my breast milk supply did not.

A few days after my return home, Mary began her nightly visits to my bedroom. She would work so hard all day long at Wakemed hospital and then come to visit me on her way home. She would arrive with a case of 12 Mason jars of human milk and an arsenal of breastfeeding gadgets. Mary would try massaging my breasts to elicit a let down that never came. She would feel for heat in my breasts (indicating an increasing blood supply) but there was none. She would cajole the twins to suck to no avail. Not only was I devastated as this unfolded and then, panicked about how I would feed my babies, but I was MORTIFIED that this was happening to me! So, one night I said to Mary, "Tell me your deepest, darkest secret." "Why?" she asked. "Because, I want to make sure you never tell anyone that I am unable to breastfeed and if you do, well then I will spill your dark secret. This is better known as blackmail." Mary roared laughing and agreed to the deal.

I stuck with the routine of nursing, then weighing on Mary's scale to check intake which was typically pitiful, then double pumping, then feeding again, then using a supplemental nursing system around my neck to try and feed the babies human milk from another source. And, night after night, Mary would come to help. She was magical to me. I wanted her to be my mother, my sister, my best friend and of course, my mentor. I would never forget her compassion and her hugs and her crying with me saying, "You're right. This is completely unfair that this would happen to you." We spoke at length about Gregory and his death and about how my kids were still struggling. She shared with us the challenges with depression that her son had as well. After three months of struggling, my full milk supply finally came in and my twins became genuine breastfed babies. They went on to breastfeed for years to come, thanks to Mary.

In the first few years of twins, you can hardly remember anything. You are in survival mode and when you are as old as my husband I were, you are in barely surviving mode. So, obviously I did nothing with my IBCLC status. I was still a LLL leader and occasionally led meetings with two babies nursing. This was impressive to all and no easy feat while sitting on a chair with no arms. But one night at a women's group meeting, my friend Lisa said to me, "When are you going to put that certification to use? You haven't done anything with it." Food for thought and a pressing of my guilt buttons, I ruminated over this and kicked into action. Despite having toddler twins and school age kids coming and going, I began renting a few breast pumps out of my home. Within a few years, I had over 50 pumps coming and going and earning me income from my dining room. I also started doing breastfeeding consultations which I was as nervous as could be about. I just couldn't really figure out where and how to start.

I called Mary one day and asked if I could come and sit in her office to watch what she did. She declined saying that it wouldn't be okay to do this since she was in a hospital office. I am not sure if this was really true or if she just didn't want to be bothered with me and I guess now I will never know. Once when I asked her to write me a letter of recommendation for a scholarship, she did and referred to herself as my "mentor.' That was the first time I realized that she thought of me in that way and I was not sure how I felt about that.

Over the years, I attended many professional conferences in many places and always, Mary Tully was there. I have clear recall of how I felt around her. As open and as smiley as she was, I always felt intimidated. She was revered. She had written a book, authored many a research study, taught classes to professionals, had run the lactation department at Wakemed hospital and then UNC CH hospital, created the Human Milk Banking Association in North America, and she ran with the leaders of the pack. So, the scenario would go something like this: I would arrive at a conference and then pretty soon after, I would see Mary flying around busy or chatting in the hallway with friends. I would politely wait my turn, then hug and kiss her, but quickly pull back, thinking I was wasting her time. At lunch, I would smile again when I saw her, try to come up with something warm and witty to say and then slip away. I could not feel I was qualified to eat with her and her peers. I regret this deeply, now.

Once when I arrived early in the morning at an Art of Breastfeeding conference in Chapel Hill, Mary was the first cheerful face I greeted. I would always be so happy to see her and then immediately feel slightly awkward with what to say or do next. Usually, her side kick, Mary Overfield would come along and they had such important things to do, that I would simply step aside. But that morning was different in that my cell phone rang just as I filled my hands with coffee and buffet breakfast. It was my son, Nick saying he was in an ambulance following a serious car wreck and on his way to UNC hospital. I became immediately hysterical and Mary ran around getting me to my car, getting someone to help me get there etc. She hugged me tight and told me to go. I had this feeling that Mary knew, that indeed, I could not withstand another tragedy in my life. She just knew.

At the 2008 conference in Las Vegas, Mary was sick. She had a bad cold, and then terrible asthma problems. Her friends wanted to take her to the hospital but she refused. They felt she had pneumonia, which of course, she did have, but I remember her saying to them, "Oh, I just don't want to go to the hospital, please." She went home early and got medical care home. Later on in the year, she had lots of problems with her back and lots of pain. She got a portable TENS machine which seemed to help. Then, at the conference this past July 2009, Mary was everywhere and we spoke briefly but I had my consistent feelings of inadequacy which kept me from eating meals with her. However, my good friend Lisa's son had just been diagnosed with Colon Cancer and we were texting back and forth wildly. When I told Mary, she was full of concern and I texted Lisa, "Get your son out of Rex Hospital as per Mary Tully. She says it is no place to be for a cancer patient."

When Mary left early Virginia, she found herself with relentless full body itching that nothing would relieve. She also felt that she was turning yellow. Mary and I had discussed our mutual primary care docs who we were not enthralled with. She said, 'I'm firing them and you should too." Anytime, I ever needed referral for a doctor for me or anyone in my family for for friends, Mary was the one to ask. Immediately she would tell you who was best in the field and then shortly after, she'd have you set up with an appointment. Just last year, I came home from a trip with a horrific rash on my breast that wouldn't go away. My OB was alarmed, as was his assistant. I was completely terrified and convinced that I had Inflammatory Breast Cancer. I called Mary in hysterics. She too, sounded quite worried. Within 24 hours, she had me seeing the top practitioner in the field who quickly allayed my fears diagnosing a full blown thrush infection. Whew. Thank you Mary.

But unlike me, Mary was not quite so lucky. She approached her new PCP and said, "It's cancer isn't it?" "Yes," her doc said, "Pancreatic cancer." And so began the hamster wheel of hope, surgery, care, more surgery, more hope, chemotherapy, more hope, and the whole exercise in insanity. I am just not sure if false hope should be offered for a cancer so wicked, so deadly that it has a five year survival rate of 4%. The question is do we NEED the hope, or do we NEED the truth? Mary had the horrendous Whipple procedure surgery which pretty much removes and rearranges every organ in your body. After this new configuration, your digestive system cannot really figure out what on earth to do with your food, so it sits there for most of the day and then you throw it all up. So, Mary never felt much better after this and her energy decreased little by little and a lot by a lot when she was given more and more pain medication that made her so sleepy.

Last year, we attended a wonderful 60th birthday party for Mary's husband, Doug at her house and I of course, was so honored to be invited. It was a lot of warm fun. I was also invited to Mary's Annual Christmas cookie bake which I believe I only attended once because I am not fond of cookie bakes, but again, I was honored to be part of it. I must admit, I do not think I ever felt adequate around Mary, through no fault of hers. It is my inadequacy that needs addressing. So, there I was visiting with home made butternut squash soup in hand, freshly made tapioca pudding, and some of my husband's infamous scones. We sat down to eat together and Mary reached across the table to pray over our food. I must say, that even that day, something was missing from Mary's eyes. Fear had taken over the usually twinkly eyes, instead. We ate together and she ate slowly, but well, while I waited for it to all come back up, but it didn't. She was moving well and insisted on emptying the dishwasher herself. I spent a long visit that day as Mary sat on the leather couch and I, on the IKEA chair. I felt very conscious of me overstaying my visit, and could almost hear Mary Overfield admonishing me for staying so long, but we were laughing and having fun and talking about everything going on with our kids and careers. I stayed a long time because I felt it was a good distraction for her. But then, I sat in my car and cried my eyes out.

The next time I came, it was with my friend Lisa, who had had a prayer shawl made for Mary. It was one that was crocheted by nuns as they prayed over the shawl for the particular person it was going to. This visit was a little more awkward since it was evening and Mary's son was there as well as the love of Mary's life, her granddaughter, Anika. When we said goodbye and got out to the driveway, Dr. and Mrs. Young were on their way in with food in hand. We chatted in the driveway about Domperidone helping breastmilk production and then left. Lisa and I felt sad but oddly, hopeful.

I came again, hearing Mary was not doing well and brought home made vegetable soup and tapioca. Mary was woozy from the drugs and she hated it. I asked, "Mary, what do you miss most?" "Thinking, she said, I love to think." Then, Mary said, "You know I cannot go back to work until Spring. It is going to take me awhile to get my strength back." I thought to myself... I don't think so, dear friend, don't really think so, hope so, but don't know so. Mary ate the soup, but I declined. I sat opposite her and watched as her eyes would roll back from sleepiness. We didn't pray this time either. I never knew at this point whether one should approach the topic of death or not. I suppose not, but what if the patient also feels that she'd like to talk about it but doesn't want the visitor to be uncomfortable? She asked about my son and his Lyme disease and asked about all my other boys as well. She asked how my friend, Lisa's son was doing too. So very Mary.

Is caringbridge.com the kiss of death? Does anyone ever get better and move on after caring bridge or does everyone on there die? I will admit it is a great venue for disseminating information quickly and widely and it works. So, Mary O, set up a Caring Bridge page for Mary Rose and here we were able to keep track of what was going on. Within the four months since she set it up, there have been in fact, over 12,500 hits and just short of 1000 messages entered! I believe this is unprecedented and the messages are the most admirable, most loving, most amazing things you have ever read, adoring and thanking Mary in every way from all around the globe. What is it about Mary that makes a life long impression? I believe it is summed up in one word, "giving."

There were positive and hopeful updates on certain days with reports of doctors saying there was every reason to believe in full recovery. And then, that they had gotten all of the cancer in the surgery and nothing had spread. Oh and that Mary wouldn't need radiation, just chemo, but Mary was miserable and sick and couldn't digest food and was in pain all the time. Back and forth to docs and hospital she would go. Finally, 10 days ago, Mary O emailed saying that Mary could not breathe and that she was not expected to survive the night. Ah, but they placed a drain in Mary's lungs, removed the fluid and kept her alive for another week. This was the greatest, most Mary-giving blessing to all of us. Friends and colleagues began coming from various parts of the country to say thank you and good bye. Mary's thinking of others, continuing on her death bed.

On Wednesday, January 13, I was scheduled for a mammogram at UNC. I went with an attitude of "just don't give me any bad news today, I have someone I really need to see." After my mammo, I headed over to cancer hospital. In the room, was Mary's sweet husband, Doug, the infamous Amy Spangler, breastfeeding guru and author, and Mary's sisters. And there, was my Mary, looking ever so Mary, laying in bed with drain in her chest. "Mary, I said, What is going on?" "Well, she said, it's a long story." "Tell me the short version then," I said. "I am very sick inside and I am dying." Whew.... This was a tough dose of honesty for me who thinks you can never be too honest. "What is it like?" I asked, "Is it like 'falling off a cliff, like Jennifer said in Love Story?" "No, she said, it isn't quite like that." But she never did tell me what it was like because the next thing I knew, we were told to wait outside so she and Doug could talk privately. We waited outside for a long time, with Amy and the sisters and me, all talking nervously. The ocassional 12 year old doctor would go in and out of the room as well. Finally, when it was time for us to go back in, Amy said, "Okay, now Ann will say goodbye and then leave so you can rest." "Oh," I said. I held her small, cool to the touch hand and looked deep in her blue eyes and said, "Mary, I am everything I am because of you. And, I think you did a pretty good job, no?" I couldn't swallow to save my life. "Who will I turn to now Mary? "Oh, you can go to Amy, " she said. "No, Mary, I can't send mothers and babies from Raleigh to Amy in Atlanta!" "Mary, I said, as I fought back not only tears, but complete hysteria, "What about Gregory? Will you hold him?" "Oh yes, she said, I will carry him all around until you come." I kissed her, tearfully,left and sat in the car weeping.

For some unknown reason, I headed to A Southern Season. What is it about that southern gourmet food/wine/gadget store that I find akin to comfort food? There is something peaceful and nurturing there that in my worst moments coming from UNC Hospital (like the time I was convinced I had Inflammatory breast cancer), I find complete distraction here. So, this is where I went following my farewell visit to Mary's bedside. I wandered aimlessly for over an hour, tried to convince myself to splurge on something expensive because, really what did it matter, but was unsuccessful in doing that. I worried about the portable pain pump that the hospice worker asked me to find that I never did, and finally I bought a lemon drink, some cheese and crackers and drove home to Raleigh with that jello feeling looming in my belly.

For the next 10 days I checked Caring Bridge obesessively, several times daily. There were few updates which drove me crazy, not knowing what was happening to Mary. But, what there was, were hundreds of heartfelt notes of gratitude and goodbyes. I emailed Mary O, who was in charge of visits, and details and asked if I could visit Mary one more time as she lingered but was told not to, so that others could. I understood. On Wednesday, I opened some odd emails, asking if I would like to go with friends to the memorial service scheduled for Thursday. I was mystified and confused since I had not gotten word of Mary's death. I was on the brink of hysteria in fact, trying, trying, trying to find out what had happened and when. I had sat bolt upright in bed at 4 am-- was it around that time? I had been unable to stop my thinking of Mary night after night, making me unable to sleep for any longer than an hour or so at a time.

Finally, I spoke with someone who told me that indeed Mary had died at 3:30 am with her sister at her side. I sat, staring into space for a long time, before I told Shep what had happened and cried quietly, yet still in disbelief. Why is it that, despite much prep and time for transition, we can still be so shocked that the presence of one so very present, will be no more? I was hurt that no one told me and my anxiety level had soared out of control waiting for the news. When I spoke with Mary O, she was tearful, glad that her friend was out of pain and entering into arrangement-making-mode, which is where she is most comfortable. She apologized the next day, for me not being told, but by then, I realized how little that mattered.

On Thursday night, Shep and Lisa and I went to a Catholic student center on the NC State campus for what was called "a visitation." There was a long line of folks to meet the long line of Mary Rose's family. It was awkward and tiring. We spoke with Doug and with Mary's son, Chris and then, her sisters. Her sister said tearfully, "No one should have seen how Mary looked those last few days." Doug said, "She was in so much pain, despite the pain meds that I finally felt like she should go to be out of pain." Processes. Mary's ashes were in a beautiful red enameled container, but it bothered me that there was no photo of her beautiful, loving self.

On Friday morning, I went to the Catholic Cathedral downtown with much anxiety and always, the jello feeling. I found a seat and at first, felt like I did not want to sit with any of my colleagues. But, then when I read the program and saw that the hymn, "The Bread of Life" would be sung, I panicked. On a good day, I can barely tolerate this music. It was first played at my Aunt Florie's funeral which I went to New York for, with Gregory in my arms. Six months later, it was sung at Gregory's own funeral in New York and then, again at his North Carolina funeral. Two years later, at my father's funeral. So, the minute I hear it, the slide show begins and though I always convince myself that I can make it through the first few stanzas, I never make it past line two, without disintegrating. So, I began searching for my friend, Cindi but could not find her. Doug walked down the aisle, holding Mary's container, weeping. I pictured Shep, carrying mine. And then, a beautiful, deeply personal mass began with two priests who knew Mary well, praising her life and her giving nature. She had made a vast imprint on the world and it did not go unnoticed. The younger Columbian priest referred to Mary as though she had mothered him. The older priest had been through chemotherapy himself and felt that Mary had cared for him and he was so appreciative. He was rather infirm though and used a cane which he leaned on.

And so, the mass proceeded with tears and then, it was time for the infamous hymn, "I am the bread of life, He who comes to me shall not hunger." Panic set in. I had no one to hold onto. It was time for communion. The infirm priest went crashing to the floor, splat, just like that and Doug and Chris raced up to help him. Oh my God. I lost it... too, too much and I headed up for Eucharist but was disoriented and just short of hysterical. I carried the host all the way back with me, forgetting to put it in my mouth. I couldn't breathe well and could not stop crying. Miriam Labbok was in front of me, another one of my highly revered colleagues who holds rank as both an MD and a former Unicef executive with the UN. She sweetly and kindly came back to sit with me and hold me and I appreciated it so. I whispered... "This is the hymn from my son's funeral."

The music was really so deeply touching. I am a practicing Episcopalian in a modern, liberal church, but I tell you, the music is awful. A bunch of hymns from hundreds of years ago that I find mostly find irrelevant, unmeaningful, and out of touch with our modern day travails. Then came "On an Eagle's Wings" so fitting for Mary and finally her favorite song, "Simple Gifts" so we could all refrain to "Dance, dance, wherever you may be." And, when it was over, several eulogies, one by her son in tears, one each from two sisters, Miriam describing all Mary's professional credits that were simply phenomenal to have accomplished in one short lifetime along with her intimate relationship with her colleague and friend, a couple who had been close personal friends, and finally, a nervous description of friendship from Mary O. Mary O and Mary T, were joined at the hip in every way, so it was hard to believe that she was still standing and in control. That's Mary O, though.

And then, it was over... just like that, no more Mary. Outside, was freezing rain and there was a shaking, Mary D. who had been my friend and birth doula for the twins, Nancy, my first LLL coleader when I moved to NC, Kathleen who had delivered donor milk to my house on more than one occasion and with whom I had homeschooled one year. There outside this church was the full array of medical practitioners, researchers, comforters, and nurturers, almost all taught either completely or in some part, by Mary. A church completely full of those whom she had touched and taught, and I was one of them.

At the reception following, I met three interns who are in the educational program at UNC, now named after Mary. They are very bright young women, who have not had children yet, but who are intensely drawn to this field of lactation through a very different doorway than most of us came through. And that is okay, because they are the future. We are getting older, and we must proliferate for the field to survive so that all the struggling mothers and babies have someone to go to for help. I was encouraged and impressed. I kept looking around and feeling so overcome with emotion on all that Mary had made happen and I couldn't wait to tell her all about it, but that would not be.

That night, I could not sleep. I went to bed, exhausted, but began thrashing about and proceeded to have what I believe may have been an anxiety attack. I could not stop imagining Mary dead, and I could not stop wondering, "How do I know that I too, do not have pancreatic or a similar deadly cancer? How do any of us know?" It got worse and worse and it seemed Shep could not comfort or calm me down. At 5:30 am I went downstairs to watch some mindless tv which helped. It had been an awful night but perhaps, it needed to be. As uncomfortable as it can be, maybe some sleepless nights are necessary and real and a working through the traumas and the fears. Maybe.

I went to work with a heavy heart the next day. My first patient had her third baby and was unsure how breastfeeding was going. Like a splash of cold water, she said to me, "Mary Tully is my lactation consultant and was the only one who kept me going with my last baby. She was a failure to thrive nursing baby and everyone was telling me to quit, but Mary, who was the only one who kept believing in me and that it could work. I love her for that. I had every intention of seeing her as soon as this baby was born to be sure I got off to a good start. I called Mary at home in October to tell her I was pregnant and to make a plan. She was excited and we spoke at length but she never told me she was sick. We decided that I would come to her house this time. But, I went into labor at 3 am on January 20th and at 5:30 am my baby was born. We had planned to name her, Mary, but when we looked at her, we changed to Katie. I now know that Mary died at 3:30 am. I am so sad." I asked her, "We all want to know. What was it that Mary did behind closed doors, with mothers like you, that was so nurturing, so helpful and so effective? What can we all do to be more like Mary?" "Mostly, in the seven visits I had with her, Mary just believed in me and that all would be well. She was so sweet and so caring." We sat close, hugged, and cried and I stared into her baby's blue eyes, knowing that life would go on.

And so now, I have put myself in this uncomfortable, slightly pressurized place, where I feel I must pick up some of what Mary left behind. I do not feel confident enough to pick up any of the research, the program creating, etc... but I can help out with the field work. So, I intend to do as much as I can to make Mary proud and to share the love and the caring that she shared so easily and effectively. Thank you, my dear, dear friend, Mary Rose.