Somber Anniversary

[Disclaimer: Yes, today's post is a bit of a downer and deeply personal. Please allow me to indulge.]

Today marks the 19th year since my mother's death from cancer. 19 years. It's such an odd feeling to come to terms with the fact that I have lived longer without my mother than with her. It's an odd feeling to know that I'm just about 2 years shy of the age when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, and that my sister is already the age my mother was when she was battling the disease. Furthermore, it's odd to realize that I am at an age when I myself could be a mother; how would I handle things if I was in her position?

I am not the only one I know who lost a parent at an early age. Young relatives of mine lost both mother and father before they barely reached their teens. My heart goes out to them. They are the best kids I know, and I am glad that they have a close family for support. One thing I have never told them, though, is how the loss of a parent remains with you, no matter how old you get. At my happiest moments, there is still an emptiness. I may not always be able to identify the cause, but deep down, I know what it is. Still, it's important to not let it destroy you. Use it to make yourself stronger.

I feel lucky to have known so much love from my mother in such a short amount of time; it has remained with me all these years and influences me even as an adult. So, today, I remember the death but also the life of my mother, and say thank you to all she gave to me.

What Would You Do?

This morning, I felt like I was walking through a scene set-up for ABC's show "What Would You Do?" - and failed miserably.

Here's what happened: At my place of employment, I park in a covered garage. I was walking from my car to the building entrance, when I heard slamming of a door and a man' s voice, clearly agitated. As I got closer to the noise, I saw a man either loading or unloading a wheel chair-bound woman from the car. He was slamming the passenger back door and yelling, throwing what appeared to be pieces of the wheel chair (the foot rests?) in the backseat. The woman, who I did not see but heard, sounded like an elderly woman in distress. She kept yelling "Stop it! Stop it!" and then something else. It didn't seem that the man was physically violent toward her, but was verbally abusive. But from a few second snippet, I could not truly tell what the situation was.

I looked over at him, surprised to see and hear what was going on. He looked back. I kept walking.

As soon as I passed them, something in me said to go back. See if everything is ok. But I didn't.

Afterward, it took everything inside of me to not cry. It really bothered me the rest of the day. What if something was really going on there, and that woman needed help? I can't say that I'm proud of my action...but what could I have done? I could have said something to him, but then what? Would I report the man to building security? Would I call 911? What? Was it even my place to say something? I'll never know.

Elder abuse is something that should never be tolerated. EVER. I think of my own grandparents, who both turn 90 tomorrow. Every senior out there could be my grandparent when I think about it, so I want them all protected. So, why on earth did I let that situation go this morning?

I know this morning's incident will stay with me for a long time. I would like to know, what would you have done if you were in my shoes?

Winter of '91

Today is the 18th anniversary of my mother's death. It was a day that changed my world in almost every way imaginable. I apologize for the somber tone of today's post, but wanted to pay tribute with this poem I wrote a few years ago.
---
The Winter of '91


The chill of the winter blast cut deep
with its icy razor, through the skin into the bone,
cut deep but blood froze on its way from the throat,
and the fingers of the brilliant sun
tossed salt onto the icy patch, salt upon the back
cut deep by the thrash of the cane whip.

In my 7th grade English class, I sat
still as the frozen day outside, limited speech,
eyes fixed on the sky, blue terrain over white,
I sat while the kids rehearsed diagrams and lines;
and they came. Called my name for the somber ride,
came up three floors to the unit hall, came
through the doors to the bed where she slept –
slept, but beginning the trip – packed and ready,
while we stood in the room unable to move –
in that room like all the rooms we’d known before.
Monitors kept time, breathing life, dripping slow,
keeping minutes like days. Could she stay
just a little longer?
No, no, she’s ready now.

I had walked away for a momentary break
but the clock stopped short before my return.
The words dropped from their lips, I paused
my reaction in disbelief. It cannot be.
She was the fortress of the lion, a Capricorn star.
The brightest constellation clipped its string from the sky.
Her brilliance was stolen by that demon sun,
The way it reared its head higher over white terrain.
A brilliance my eyes shunned, and that silenced the tongue.
Caught within the tunnel that allowed only half the light,
Like months of Arctic night, turning days to years.

I remember the funeral, and then pouring tea
for the comfort of friends, comforting them! Stood straight
in the room where she was, not a week ago –
her essence pervading the walls, her touch on the cups.
And all that I’d known, all who showed pity shifted
in tag-team parallels with those who stayed back from hell.

Then words stopped completely.

Years have passed now – how I’ve grown!
My sister and I became women too quickly, we were
women of 12 and 17, yet I still dreamed
of that winter white brilliance, transcending
the bitter incision and salt-sting on my back.
How the skin pulled tightly over the sores and blood,
frozen from its way up to the tongue.
Now my blood flows swiftly and warmed by the sun,
I take in the light, swallow its rays – swallow
and keep it to counter other sharp winter days.

Happy Monday

I have nothing earth-shattering or thought-provoking to say today, but I'm feeling good and thought I'd share.

Today is President's Day here in the U.S. My company had the good sense to declare a holiday, so I have been savoring my extra day out of the office. Some other things about the long weekend that brought a smile to my face:

• My wonderful husband and the nice Valentine's Day we spent together, eating Indian food and seeing a new movie in the theatre
• Reconnecting on facebook with not one, but three people from Germany that participated in a student exchange with me back in the day
• Learning that a good friend of mine is expecting
• Successfully baking for the first time, from scratch, all fresh ingredients - eggplant parmesan
• Finally taking a step toward home-reconstruction. Finally.
• Having the sun shine in a way to remind me that spring is coming soon
• Sharing an afternoon shopping trip and lunch with my wonderful sister

It's the little things that make me smile. What has made you smile today?

A Thankful Heart

This coming Thursday is Thanksgiving Day. That day also marks an important event in my family: my grandparents' 70th wedding anniversary. 70 years together. Can you imagine? In addition, both of them share the same exact birthday (same day/same year) so we say they've been together since Day 1. They actually met as children in grade school but lost touch for a number of years when my grandfather's family moved to another town. As if Fate offered a helping hand, they unsuspectingly ran into each other years later as teenagers, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Anyone who has had the pleasure of meeting my grandparents will be quick to tell you what wonderful people they are. And they are. They truly have the kindest and most generous hearts and welcome everyone with open arms. They have survived wars, the Depression, the loss of a child, taking care of eldery relatives, medical conditions, hospital stays, the ups and downs of life. Still, for all that life has thrown their way, they have remained steadfast in their love and the love they share with others.

So much of my life's happiness is wrapped up in them. To my sister and I, they have become second parents, not just grandparents, and every day I thank God for blessing our lives with both of them. So, this Thanksgiving will be extra special, for we have so much to be thankful for in our family.

From Where I Come

Ever since I was young, I have had heard bits and pieces about my ancestory - mostly from my mother's side - so I knew enough in general terms to understand (somewhat) my cultural roots. Like many Americans, my ethnic composition is a hodge podge of several groups, none of which you would immediately be able to detect by just looking at me. My family has been in the United States for a few generation now so I'm about as exotic as Wonder Bread. Because we are a nation that likes to push people into boxes to make things easier, I'm considered "white." I hate that. Yes, my skin is on the pastey side, but I'm not "white." Same goes for "black," "yellow," "olive," and so on. People are not colors. We are heritages and cultures and stories and history. If you're going to assign me to a color, at least pick a pretty one, like "rose" or "indigo."

But I digress. Back to my ancestory. So, my maiden name is not a common one, and most people really don't know where it came from. (For the sake of privacy, I will not give my last name here, but those of you who know me can follow along at home). It's Russian, folks. Or Ukranian, depending on the year you're talking about. People don't often believe the name's roots because it doesn't end in "-ov" or "-ski." I will say this - as with alot of names (just try and dispute it, government), upon entry into the U.S., someone decided to add an extra letter to the name so instead of "-alo" it became "-ailo." And so the name stuck.

Why all this talk about last names and heritage? Well, last week, I found out, under no uncertain terms, that I'm also Hungarian. Or Austrian, depending on the year you're talking about. I had heard rumors drifting in the stratosphere that I had relatives from the Austria-Hungary Empire. As it turned out, it was my paternal grandmother's mother's family. Thanks to the website Ellis Island and some help from my aunt, I saw with my own eyes the ship's record of my great grandmother's passage, who left Hungary at age 7 with her siblings and mother and sailed aboard the passenger ship Derfflinger from Bremen, Germany; her father came a few years earlier. In fact, today, October 21, is the 105th anniversary of my great, great grandfather's arrival into New York aboard the Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse.

I can only imagine the hardships they must have faced. It's bad enough to endure cramped quarters on a passenger ship for weeks amongst strangers harboring who-knows-what kind of diseases. It's downright heartbreaking to be so desperate to leave your homeland to seek a better life for your family regardless of the risk to your own; to arrive on a foreign shore not speaking the language or looking the part, coming from shear poverty into more poverty, and trying to improve your standing despite heavy xenophobia and beliefs that you are another species altogether. But they overcame those barriers, just as my maternal relatives from Ireland, Wales, and the Netherlands did. I won't get into the story of my Mohawk relatives; that will be another post.

I guess I could make several points here and go off on a diatribe comparing my relatives' story with the current immigrant situation, assimilation or lack thereof, and how xenophobia still exists and what will the presidential candidates do about it and so on. But I won't. You can do that. I'm just happy to have a connection and a tangible piece of my ancestral puzzle. It's not the only piece, and I cannot wait to learn more. I do know that many records, on both sides of my family, were destroyed either in fires or whatnot years ago, so I'm not sure how far back the trail goes. Has anyone researched his/her family ties? What sites are good? Has anyone tried the Mormon Genealogy Library?