Thoughts

Done

hannamitchell — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 16:00:30 +0000

hannamitchell — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 07:43:46 +0000

I wasn’t sure when it would be time to start writing about you. How long I needed to wait before it felt less strange. Whether it was more important that I write, than to wait until it felt less strange. It feels less strange as I write.

Your are gone. You died while I held your right hand, while Gail held your left, on May 29th at 6:50 in the evening. Your breaths were quiet and short after a long day of noisy, crackly breathing, filled with sounds which were hard to describe. Were you suffering, were you talking in whatever way you could still speak? The last time you talked to me was on Wednesday night, the 26th. I got dressed up to go to the opening of an opera. I was wearing my green dress that we both really like. You said I looked beautiful, that I shouldn’t wear my necklace, and you kissed me goodbye. Friday, you opened your eyes a few times, once more to give me another kiss, and that was it. I could barely feel your grasp when I held your hand the next day. I slept next to you, read to you, played music for you, sang to you, on your last day here. I didn’t go very far. I took my bath later that afternoon. Lay in there thinking, this would be my last bath while you were still in this world, and it was.

You are gone. It is almost 11 days. One week since we carried your coffin to your grave, placed a new pair of pumps on top with your red lipstick, sprinkled sand from the beach, and shoveled, lumpy wet earth on top of your casket. You are in the ground now. Your body is in the ground. So is your face, a face that made me, and so many other people, smile. I think you’re free. I have seen you in my head, and felt you. Felt your speed, and some sense that you are happy, if there is a happy. If happy is possible for someone when they die. If your spirit truly separates from your body, then you are off. You are off and running, and happy. Happy to be rid of the body that kept you down.

It is still so fresh, you not being here. It is a strange feeling. I knew it would be. Even though I have tried to imagine what I would feel like when you died, most of my life. I wasn’t sure what would happen to me, whether I would crack. I don’t know if that will happen. I don’t really believe in certain kinds of drama anymore, maybe all kinds. Watching you die helped me understand how normal some things are, like death. Nothing too dramatic about your last moments here, some soft breaths, your eyes open. Me checking your pulses, neck and wrists. Vibrations, but nothing solid. Rubbing your head, the top of your chest, holding your hand, putting my hand above your mouth to feel air, watching to see if your chest is still rising. Then it all stopped, you were silent. You were gone. I felt myself smiling and crying. Smiling because your days of depression, with pills to keep you functioning, and wearing a brace that you felt embarrassed by, a body that you never really liked, those days, which were also filled with lots of laughing, lots of hugs and kisses, and while you could still eat, a lot of good food, those days are done. I don’t know where you are. I know your with me for the rest of my life. You’re in my face, and my heart, you’re in my skin. If you are out there, if there is an out there, if you make it in to some other form, or if you just float out there for a while or if your just simply in the ground and in me, wherever you are, I love you. Lots of people loved you, and liked you. I think you knew that. I hope you knew that. You were a part-time mom to a lot of people over the years. It didn’t come to me until the day of your funeral, it actually came to Kim from the obituary I wrote for you. For your epitaph, “Mother to many”. You left behind a whole lot of kids who will miss you, who are missing you.

In Memory of Doris Joan Goodman

hannamitchell — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 04:24:19 +0000

Doris Joan Goodman
June 27 1935- May 29 2010
It is with deep sadness that we let the world know, Doris Joan Goodman is no longer in it. Our mother, funny, beautiful, rude, blunt, big hearted, occasionally petty, giant romantic, mother to many, with a smile that melted quite a few of the somber
grumps that crossed her path, and delighted many others, and with equal intensity possessed a glare that would shut down arrogant and misbehaving children of all ages. Our mother, our friend, our acquaintance, Doris, is finally free of the body that
has given her nothing but a hard time for the last 50 years. She is free to wear pumps, dance, swim in the ocean, ride a bike, eat anything she wants, and travel in whatever universe she exists in outside of this one. If none of that happens, if her spirit simply becomes part of the world, another guide out there, wherever people go, we are blessed to have her. Maybe she can kick us in to shape, no nonsense, get it together, do the right thing, love each other, and smile, alot, it helps with the pain.

Doris Joan Goodman is survived by her daughterʼs Gail, Sari, Rhonda, and Sharon and her Son David. Her Grandchildren, Joshua, Emmett, and Cole, and Grand-cats Leo and Lulu. Predeceased by her beloved father Louis Brody Goodman and her mother Marie Goodman. Her friends, and all the people in her neighbourhood in the West End of Vancouver who were touched by her very bright spirit, we will all miss you very much.

3′s

hannamitchell — Sun, 16 May 2010 18:56:22 +0000

I’ve been thinking about 3′s alot lately. How stories/films/documentaries- should have 3 layers, the black, the white and the grey. I always imagined I would have 3 loves of my life; the overly dramatic romantic and obsessive love, the loving love, the great love, the love you probably can’t be with, and then the one I can live with and love. The other 3 is a little harder to describe, I’m just figuring it out. I went swimming this morning and I was remembering when my mom was teaching me how to swim, and she slowly took her hand out from underneath my back to let me float on my own, I dropped, and started choking on the water. I got angry, I was angry for a while, but I ended up being the best swimmer in my family, and I’m always happiest when I’m in the water, so I guess not-so scarred. What I was reminded of with this memory, was that her dying isn’t a quick shock of death, but a gradual loss. The world- pieces of music, events, images, places that I learned about, looked at and listened to, while she was still in the world. The community around her and my myself, friends of hers, people in her neighbourhood who will grieve her, and our presence together out there, as mother and daughter, things we did together,which we will never do again, go for lunch, to the theatre, or shop. Even clear and lucid conversations are becoming more rare. We will have some more days of being out in the world together, but very few. Then there is my internal layer. The layer at my core in my heart where she lives right now. I am filled with love for her, like she is my child, my mother, my closest friend. Another 3.

Monday May 10

hannamitchell — Tue, 11 May 2010 07:16:42 +0000

11:59 pm May 10th. More sleeping and snoring from other people. I know I sleep, and probably snore a bit, but it feels so rare. The sleep. I get up every time she gets up, her shadow, so she doesn’t fall or open the front door looking for something that isn’t there. She was quite confused today, she is confused everyday. Today was more like delirium. The way she was speaking, her laughter. She did say she was hungry, wanted her honey garlic chicken wings from the pizza place next door. I went in to order them on my way back from work today. He knows my mom, and offered to deliver them to us when they were ready. I had told him she was quite sick and hadn’t eaten in a while. I met him in the hall after he rung up. His name is Taj. I heard a knock on the door after I brought the wings back in the house. Taj wanted to offer some help to my mom if she needed it. His wife has taken a residential care program and they are both at the business most of the time, so we should just call if she needs anything. I felt so touched by the offer. She has a Dr. who comes to see her at the house, and has bought her some of those chicken wings that she loves in the past. The people who run the flower shop around the corner gave me some lilies of the valley to bring to her in the hospital. I brought her around in the wheelchair to see them the other day, and they gave her a beautiful rose. Her neighbour and one of her best friends are part of the jewish burial society and will be part of the group of people who will take care of her when she dies, stay with her. She is so beautifully taken care of by all kinds of people around her. It is how it should be. All kinds of care, by all kinds of people.

Sunday May 9 2010

hannamitchell — Sun, 09 May 2010 15:41:05 +0000

8:15 am on Mother’s Day. Both my sister and mother are sleeping and snoring. Me, awake obviously and missing somebody. Some days I feel achier. Like on a beautiful Sunday morning like today, he would be picking me up around now, and we would be going somewhere, maybe a swim if it gets warm enough, anywhere. It was part of our routine. My body remembers that days like this are associated with him. Today my body will remember for the rest of my life that Sunday May 9 2010 was the last Mother’s Day I spent with my mother. Not even sure what you do with a last like that. She has all these plans for food she would like to eat today. We’ll get it, and see what holds. She has hardly eaten all week, the past 3 weeks actually. I had these strange dreams this morning that I was standing in this elevator, and I felt this wave in my body. It is hard to describe. I felt shook, like someone was measuring me on a shaker table to see how my body would hold up in an earthquake. I felt sick, it was hard to move my body in the dream. I imagined that I would feel this way many times. I will. It is a missing kind of morning. My mother who will be leaving me forever in about a month (according to her and her Dr’s and nurses), and somebody else I love, who is here, not going anywhere soon as far as I know, but doesn’t want to see me. Another ending that I have to grieve. I have been, but with the hope that something else will come in its place. Something will, it just may not be with him.

It’s all feeling so much closer, more real. I’ve been sleeping next to her, as her bed alarm until we get one tomorrow. She is confused wakes up alot and falls occasionally. I think I might stay with her even when the alarm comes. Less often, to give us both space. Some people may think we are too close, sometimes I think we are too. I don’t really care right now. The beast has awoken. My sister. Wakes up grumping around and bitching like a teenager. I feel like I need to protect my mom from her sometimes. She brings out the protector in me. That is part of our close, my mom and I. I feel like all my life, I have tried to protect her, take care of her. It is my job to protect her and take of her until she dies.

Blog entry 98

hannamitchell — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 16:36:34 +0000

I might have been wrong about the poetry. I’ll stop there for now. My mom went in to the hospital this week. My sister is here. My brother is hopefully arriving with my nephew ( my sister’s son) within the week.

2 bits I wrote at the hospital from the previous nights.

April 26- 5:51pm

I am sitting in my mom’s hospital room, where I have been all day. I am playing some classical music for her, she seems to be enjoying it, minus the bleeps from my computer to increase the volume. She is half asleep from the medication, but she is still managing to move her hands in the air, as if she is conducting or tracing the sound. Then she licks her hand. I don’t know. She moves from the poetic to the bizarre within seconds. She has been imagining her necklace today, the gold Magen David she wears around her neck. She held it in her hands and handed it to me. It wasn’t there, it’s on her dresser I told her, probably about 3 times in the last few hours. It would be so easy to pretend with her, and I did for a moment, because strangely, I felt like something was dropping in to my hands when she let me have the necklace to keep safe.

She danced with me today in the hallway on her ward, and we sang, she started “I could have danced all night”. The nurses seemed to appreciate it, thought it was sweet, and I just thought about how much I love her. She is the only mother I will ever have, the only person who gave birth to me.

April 27- 8:26pm

A little depressed right now, and struggling to leave, to write. I think my cat overdosed on greenies, and that my mom might not make it home. I am really tired, and I need someone to take me out of here, like me, but I’m so tired I would like someone to carry me. Put me to bed, and not wake me up til I’ve slept a full night deeply. I don’t want her to be alone when she dies. I think it’s why I don’t want to leave.

I think it would be good to start writing every day If I can from this point. It is my time alone- not dealing with it all, my time to process, when I don’t feel like talking.

April 28th- 8:20 am

I have an appointment right now that I forgot to cancel. A barium swallow x-ray of some kind, for unknown stomach troubles. Probably not so unknown, but I don’t really feel like swallowing chalk right now. I don’t like not calling and cancelling, I may call them later and tell them what happened. I sort of forgot, I don’t want to reschedule. I’m not holding up that well at the moment. Well at this moment, not bad. Got changed, got myself to the nice coffee shop down the street from my counsellor’s office, and writing. There are concepts I think I have understood in my head for a long time. Self care, being present, in the moment, life is a process, anything can change at any moment, and everything and everyone dies. When we were in emergency the other day, my sister described the situation were in as hell. “were both going through hell” she said. I said I wasn’t. I said it was hard, but it wasn’t hell. I didn’t say this at the time, but it is precious. Not always of course, because there really is no always, it makes me think about how our language denies death, change. Maybe there is an always, just like there may be a time for me to write poetry about my mom dying. That never and always mirror each other. I guess what I’m trying to get to, in this rambly way, is I’m getting it, beyond my head right now. I’m getting that life is a process, that I need to take care of myself or I can’t function in the world the way I want and need to. That death is scary, but it would be scarier, to me anyway If I was alone, If I was dying with no one to look out for me. I have been watching my mom over the past few days. She is in varying states of confusion, with some hallucinating. I described our conversations as having veils. She’ll sound clear, but there are layers to her lucidness. I am fascinated by what is happening to her, and I’ve noticed I look at her with more intensity right now. Noticing her withdrawal from her body, and the world. She saw “nakeds, portraits on the netting of the curtains that draw around her bed in the hospital. Her body is small, her once thick tanned, and freckled arms, are pale and thin. Her full face becoming more skeletal. In between her eyes bugging out, and the frustration and anger at her body, the medication, the people who give it, me, my sister, and whoever else that’s trying to make her more comfortable. She is still funny, softer, more affectionate, and still alive.

No poetry here

hannamitchell — Sat, 17 Apr 2010 19:57:26 +0000

I ran in to this guy I know the other day who told me I should write poetry. Less rules. I used to go to a friends Gallery space to sleep on poetry reading night. I would sit in the back, wonder what it was all about, think it was mostly too precious, and deeply boring. Good couches, dark, and quiet, so it had some value. I’m not going to take his advice about writing poetry about the process of my mother dying. It’s like writing a song about it, it seems dumb. It requires plain language, there is nothing romantic about it. It seems all fey and full of ellipses to droan on about the poetry of passing in to the next life. She is dying. She is speaking less, shaking more, eating even less, making bug eyes, can’t go to the bathroom. I hurt my back and am moving with great difficulty, my cats aren’t eating and are bleeding from the anuses. She said this morning that maybe we should all move out, at least her humour is still relatively intact.

We went to see a movie last night to feel a little normal, brought along her medication in case she got in to a lot of pain, she did, and we were able to sit through the film. The apartment will have more hospital like equipment soon, so normal things like going outside and going to a movie are important. I see her getting increasingly frustrated and depressed, reminders that she is dying, no one needs to tell her.

I’ve been starting to think about all the things she won’t get to see anymore. It’s like when babies are born, well more like when they are about 1 or 2, and they see or recognize things for the first time. It is exciting to be with them in discovery. Now it’s similar I guess. We see something we have seen thousands of times, and it may be the last time, or the thing you always wanted to see, and you don’t get a chance to. There isn’t enough time, there isn’t enough physical strength or money. It does make me feel sad, about what she’ll miss. I will miss her. I don’t know what will happen to me when she’s not here. I imagine eventually I will be okay, but I think I will always miss her.

Strangeness

hannamitchell — Sat, 10 Apr 2010 19:54:00 +0000

Not sure if it’s really a word, but nothing else fits right now. Okay, not okay, off, crushes on strangers, crying, happy, in body, out of body, eating til I burst, worn down, on auto pilot, with some shots of enthusiasm and hanging on. I’m watching my mother die, and trying to make her as comfortable as possible while it’s happening. She is so small, smaller than I have ever know her to be. Her body, which used to be big, and solid, is now shrivelling and thin. She sleeps, takes medicine, eats small bits of food, nurses come to see her, my cat won’t leave her side, he’s generally like that, but more so now, he’s practically glued to her shoulder. I check on her, and check on her, and next week my sister will come to town to take care of her for a while, and watch, and be with her. I was looking at old photos of my mom today. She was so beautiful, elegant, playful, and full of life, you could see it in her face. Any of the nurses that have come to take care of her, adore her, her matter of factness about dying, her dry sense of humour, her bluntness(lack of internal editor). I see what people like about her. A year ago I would have felt more strongly about the parts they don’t know, or what I thought I knew. Like her being passive, telling me more than a daughter should know, that her vibrancy was in her face, but not in her heart. Maybe I was wrong. Her lack of fight has always bothered me, because I felt it rubbed off on me. She’s managed, she hasn’t fought. She’s managed through a lifetime of violence, depression and bad health. What else do you do with all that, you manage, that was all she could muster, and that was clearly enough to take her this far. When I think of her face as a young woman, and all the things that have happened in her life to tear at her spirit, and knock her down, it makes me wonder what she would have been like- minus all of it. Maybe not as funny.

She’s not afraid to die. She does the casual thing about her life to make others around her feel comfortable, and I would guess, not to sink in to regrets. One of her nurses asked me today if she has anything she would like to do before she goes, anything to clear up. Two things: Find out who her real parents are and hear Barry Manilow sing in Las Vegas. She has tried to find out about her birth parents since her 20′s and since it was likely a private adoption, she has had no luck, with the exception of cryptic comments from elderly relatives, and strange behaviour from others. There is also her face, my face, my brothers face, we look like her Father’s side of the family, or maybe we don’t, maybe it’s just wishful thinking. So one last try. A letter is in process to Mr. Manilow, and at the very least, maybe he could send her a cd and a note. I think she would be happy with that.

What is real

hannamitchell — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 17:23:01 +0000

Apparently nothing. According to Buddhists nothing is real, everything is illusion. What about the stuff you can touch? Also not real, because it dies. So are things real if they are eternal? I don’t think so. Eternal is not natural, everything and everyone dies. Maybe that’s real. Why do I care about what is real anyway? I put the tag of real on my feelings, not real, real. Overblown, understated. Real is my judgment. If it is not real then it was fake, I faked it, I faked the kindness, the love, and the arousal. If it is real then I lost something valuable. Maybe I need a new word. I was talking with my friend the other day about pride and shame. How there are things that people are encouraged to have pride in because they have lived with shame around them for a good part of their lives. I wondered whether pride was necessary, and that maybe it was more about self-acceptance. I think now that the swing might be necessary. To move from shame into pride, and then into the middle where neither matter anymore. Where I/you would care about ourselves enough that the boasting, and the beating ourselves down had no significant place anymore. Real, not real. Maybe it’s both, maybe it’s neither. Maybe It’s all about how we make each other feel, and how we make ourselves feel. Feelings exist in their own places in our bodies, and it’s our thoughts that turn them in to sources of shame and pride. I want to blame thoughts now, and how they have harmed the innocent feelings. It’s so natural to go there, make victims and perpetrators of everything and everyone, as if any of us have been exempt from the others role.