New Backyard

Scrolling and staring, I did not expect to see a picture of my living room, all of a sudden. Our piano, with its lamp and globe, and seashells strewn across the top: just as I left it nearly 5 months ago. 

Free piano to a good home. 

I was transported to a moment, 13 years earlier, when my baby sat on my lap, pounding the keyboard with her chubby hands. The window nearby was open to enjoy some evening air, and to share her musical stylings with the neighbors.

Let me explain. The two younger kids and I have sojourned to a new continent, to see what life might hold for us in Colombia. The dad of the house, stayed with the house, to manage its transfer to a new family. He and the dog of the house are now plotting their journey to Colombia, where we hope to celebrate Christmas together in a new home.

Let me explain. This all started about a year ago. My last visit to Manizales, Colombia made us determined. We wanted to live there, I mean here. I mean, in another part of Colombia, but still.

Let me explain. Wait. There's way too much to say in one post. 

How do I sum up the entirety of growing a family in a home and feeling the myriad changes as we all bust out of that home and disperse to our respective fortunes? How to convey the feelings of nostalgia and excitement that seem to get along so well with each other in my head? How to describe the experience of taking two kids, born in the that house, so far from it we may never see it again? Seems impossible.

It might have to be enough that all of it just happened. There, in our home for 20 years, we grew vegetables, fruit, eggs, bakers, gardeners, artists, scientists, and musicians. Some of those things are still yielding bright beautiful blooms that continue to surprise us. Even though the titular backyard of this blog made most of it possible, it was never about that particular patch of ground. The same songs are being played on a different piano.

Memories are lovely, but looking forward is living. 

Which was the educational experience we've been after all along. 

Hard to Swallow

(TW: this post contains a story about choking. It was hard for me to write, and it might be hard for some to read. It's also a little gross.)

What's worse than biting into an apple and seeing a worm?"* I asked him, during snack time at my new place of employment: a bilingual school in Colombia. My student looked up at me with wide curious eyes and asked the requisite joke follow-up, "What?"

Seeing as how I was actually eating an apple at that moment, and considered it rude that I was talking to him while chewing some of it, I decided to swallow quickly before telling him the punchline. 

A second later I realized I should have chewed a little longer, but figured it was too late. I would feel that mouthful going all the way down. Not fun, but I'd survived such discomfort before; and as long as I delivered the punchline, the suffering would be my secret.

Except...

It didn't go down. It stopped. I gave a little cough to clear my airway, and realized, I could not breathe at all. I could feel the piece of apple lodged firmly in my throat, blocking my ability to breathe.

I made a "just a second" gesture and walked away from my students, seeking desperately to be away from people while I dealt with the consequences of my foolishness. Dropping to my knees behind a sign, I spat all of the apple bits out of my mouth, and tried to gag or cough up the large piece obstructing my windpipe.

Nothing. 

I started to turn purple.

A co-worker saw me and patted my back roughly, asking if I was okay. I lifted an arm and flapped it feebly.

The edges of my field of vision dimmed.

He ran for help. I was fading when I heard the school nurse shouting instructions behind me.  Her arms wrapped around my torso and her fist dug suddenly under my ribs. 

The Heimlich didn't do the trick. 

I felt her gloved fingers jam into my mouth, probing back as far as they could to activate my gag reflex. That worked. Sort of. The deadly little apple bit moved a millimeter, allowing a tiny precious stream of air to flow around it. I came back, able to breathe a little. She managed to find a ripe banana and convinced me to try swallowing a small piece of it. I did, and the apple was pushed down the right tube, on its way to my stomach, with the heroic banana chunk.

This was on the second day of school. 

Afterward, the nurse tended to me, gave me water, advice, and asked how I felt. 

How did I feel? My throat was raw, my ribs were bruised; but what hurt worse was my pride. 

I told her I was okay, but mortified. She looked horrified. "WHY?" she asked, incredulously. "All that matters is that you are safe and alive!" I agreed and felt silly for focusing on how embarrassed I was. "All that matters is that your kids' mom is okay!" Yes, yes, I knew that too. 

As the day went on, my kind and friendly colleagues, some of whom had witnessed my near demise, and some who had heard about it, checked on me frequently. Concerned faces, sympathy, relief that I was okay: I knew I was surrounded by genuine care, and all of it made me feel worse and worse. I tried to avoid people for the next few hours.

Afternoon arrived and the nurse found me, asking how I felt. I gave her a quick thumbs up, but she looked worried and started to tell me how to care for myself at home afterward. She said I should call or message her if I needed anything.

If I needed anything. 

Another lump blocked my throat, but this one was of my own making. Tears filled my eyes and I spent a second trying to figure out why.

Why, when I should have been grateful for caring coworkers, and a good end to a bad event, why was I burning with shame?

Once again, the nurse got right to the problem. "I know you have a hard time asking for help..." she started. 

My thoughts: What? You don't know me, lady! If I need help, I can ask for it all by myself, (provided I can breathe and speak.) Besides, it's not an issue because I do my best never to need help. 

I'm very independent.

Turns out, she wasn't talking about just me, but me and mine. My culture. We (and Germans) have a reputation, among people here, of suffering under the delusion that we can get through life on our own. Many of the Colombian folks I have spoken with have tales of foreigners coming here and nearly perishing from the common cold, or traveling with garbage bags, all because they were so reticent to solicit or accept help.

She asked, "What do you all think? That people who accept help are weak?"

I thought for a minute. 

In that minute, I flashed back to one of many childhood memories that is drenched in searing Oklahoma sunshine. My mom and I were on the side of a busy road, under construction; walking to school, where I had just started 3rd grade. She had decided that was the day I would walk the rest of the way to school by myself. Big chunks of upturned red earth all around, cars whizzing by, I panicked as she told me I'd be going it alone. I must have protested because I vividly remember squinting up at her as she told me firmly, "Rebekah. It is important for you to be independent." So I was. I walked along the road alone, picking my way around the construction zone without issue. I felt stupid for wishing she'd stayed with me and kept in mind that I didn't need others as much as I might think at first. 

Over the years, I had been grateful for that lesson, and tried to live accordingly. Working hard, enjoying some privilege, and playing it safe made collaborating with others purely a choice; rarely a desperate need. Making something from nothing, defying odds, standing on my own feet, with bootstraps for pulling myself up? I guess? My point is, it wasn't just my mom. These qualities are admired where I come from. She was preparing me for the life she knew I should be able to live.

Something dislodged in me as I answered the nurse, "When people need help, I want to help them. But, if I need help, all I can do is think of the mistakes I made that put me in that vulnerable situation, and blame myself for needing anyone." 

Her eyes reflected a level of compassion, mixed with revulsion at viewing oneself so harshly. She told me that I was going to have to get used to people being very involved and helpful with everyone around them here. I knew that, it's one of the reasons I wanted to live in Colombia in the first place. What I didn't know was how hard it would be for me not to hate myself for ever truly needing it. 

So, is everything figured out, fixed, all better? Not exactly, but I'll be here for at least a year. Maybe, during that time, deep programming within me will move a millimeter and let me breathe, even when I don't think I deserve to. 

*joke answer: Biting into an apple and seeing half a worm.

crackeroni

 George:

We made some mac & cheese!

Mae: They were gonna be BALLS.

ORIGINALly. They were gonna be in

BALL

FORM

George:

This was made using a recipe passed

down from our great great grandmother,

who unfortunately died yesterday. She

made them for me when I was 7, and I

REALLY LOVED them! They were my

new favorite food. She taught me how to

make them, and then I made them for a

picnic, and everybody at the picnic

loved them too! I even went to the

cooking convention with them, and won.

Mae: Grandmother!!!!@##@#@!#!#@132 

aka allrecipes.com.

 I miss her.

 she also made relly god cinnamon rolls thta were syuepr crunchy and good

. They were the best and we had them for christmas eveerry year 

and they had really good sauxe 

. we learned how to make them along with the macorini and they were so good 

and easy to make. you need butter and flour and sugar and cinnamon and wwwwow!

 i got off topic

WE NEEDED AN

AIRFRYEr

BUT it didnt have a rack for the bottom.

George:

Ummm… yeah. We couldn’t make mac &

cheese balls in the air fryer since it

didn’t have a basket. So, we just put it in

the toaster oven and ate it normally. We

had to go to that grocery store in the

mall, but couldn’t find all the

ingredients.

Mae:

The universe asked if we wanted macncheese balls and we said yes and then it said NO. there was NO PARSELY AT THE DUMB STORE. the parseley was for a different recipe. ANYWASY we ajust made cheese sause(sauce) with saltine crackers as flour instead of flour which is really cool and smart and i didnt even TELL the DIFFERENCE between NORMAL SHCEESE SAUSCWE and SALTINE CHWES SAUDWE. AND WE DIDN'T EVEN NEED IT actually it was pretty good anywas BUT WE DIDNT NEED IT FORT HE BALLS.

George:

Uhhh… yeah. What she said. All that

work for nothing. Well, actually, it wasn’t

nothing, because after all that, we still

ended up with some tasty macaroni and

cheese.

Mae:

GGGGRRRRR IM SO

ANGRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ALL

THAT WORK FOR..

NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!

George:

OK, we’re done. Blog post over.

Mae:

I dont like jenga

Our Last Morning

 TW: This post is about the passing of a young friend who lived with a terminal condition. 

I saw you alive, for the last time, fourteen weeks ago. 

It was one of those late Sunday morning visits, when I bored you by talking to your mom too much. With no other kids around, and few duties to perform, we caught up and allowed our conversation the ease we enjoy now, as good friends.

That day, something was bothering you, and you let us know. Grimaces and pained whimpers from time to time compelled us to rearrange you and tend to you, while chatting. From your little mesh chair, to a blanket spread on your living room floor, we changed your location and position when you expressed your discontent. You accepted our attention and intention and waited before complaining again. 

The mom-versation waned, and the ukulele I usually carried with me came out of its case. I lay on the floor, next to you, strumming a tune to warm up and get your attention. Your mom took advantage of a moment to work, and she stepped away. Eventually, I settled into a song you have enjoyed for years: What Do We Do With A Sleepy Pirate? (my own, kid-friendly version of the Drunken Sailor song) 

As I leaned into the "HEAVE HO and UP she rises!" you turned to me, eyes lighting up with recognition. You smiled that smile, as if to say "There we go! Keep that up." So I did, and you kept smiling. 

Once upon a time, the lyrics I invented for that song used to describe all of the things I knew you did in the morning before coming to school.

What do we do with a sleepy pirate, early in the morning?

Get her out of bed and feed her some oatmeal...

Brush her hair and make a cute ponytail...

Get her dressed and put her shoes on...

Drive her to school where Laszlo is waiting...

No thanks to MPS and COVID, your morning to-do list had changed significantly over the years. A G-tube is how you got your breakfast anymore. You spent most of most days at home, so while clothes and grooming were still a part of your day, the bother of a ponytail or shoes were no longer needed. No more drive to school, by bus or your mom's car. You had to wait for Laszlo to come to you, and when she finally did, she just sat in your living room talking to your mom most of the time. 

Knowing so little about your mornings, I floundered slightly, determined to keep singing to your smile: Come down the hall and sit in your chair? Listen to your brother talk about Super Mario? 

EARLY IN THE MORNING! 

The gusto with which I hit that last line made you smile, which kept me singing. You kept smiling and I kept singing.

Two weeks later, you died. 

When I got the news, our last visit was not my first thought; but it came to me eventually. Sort of an immutable truth, the finality of having looked into your blue eyes for the last time. 

I became acquainted with the disease that was killing you, the moment I met you. The heavy knowledge that I would likely outlive you was something I carried with me as I walked out to meet you at school each morning, as we walked around your classrooms, as I fed you in the school cafeteria, or while I drove you to the library after school. 

Over the nearly nine years I had known you, I wondered what my last living memory of you would be, and tried not to dwell on that question with every good-bye. Whether bidding you farewell before a weekend, or months of international travel, your frailty had to be held at arm's length. Otherwise, I might never have stopped squeezing you and kissing the top of your head. I might not have taken what you taught me into new life adventures.

As I think about those last moments with you, I am struck by how much it resembled most of our time together. Charged with your care and seeing to the quality of your life, I often felt inadequate for the task at hand. Nevertheless, guided by your acceptance of my efforts, Heave Ho!, I carried on. 

You helped me give up on being good enough, and just focus on being. Being loud, loving, in touch, and able to glide forward, so very imperfectly. Singing the song: loudly when I knew what to say, and softly when I didn't. 

But to keep singing.