Not Just Another Day

I tried to make it through September 30, 2009, as if it were another workday. I got dressed and fed myself and my cats as usual. I took the commuter bus to work in Sacramento. I had a stack of technical and policy reports to edit. I got my paycheck today and declined to contribute to the state’s United Way campaign because of the furloughs cutting into my pay.

Then my sister Black Woman Blogging sent me and the siblings her blog entry about the 11th anniversary of Mom’s passing.

With apologies to my Christian friends – DAMMIT!

The reminder was like pulling off a scab to reveal a fresh, unguarded wound. One would think that after 11 years it wouldn’t hurt. Correction: One would not be thinking, period. It still hurts. And I don’t know when it will stop hurting.

(P.S. to Black Woman Blogging: I’m not angry. You’re right to express your feelings in writing on this day. I’m just mad at the circumstances.)

My mother had Alzheimer’s disease, but it was the lung cancer that eventually took her life. She didn’t have the ability to communicate her pain and concern for her health. When she fell asleep the night of September 29, she didn’t wake up the next day. That devastated Dad and eventually the rest of us.

I think for me what hurts most is that there were things I wanted to tell her about my life but couldn’t. I wanted to explain why, 20 years ago, I was tearful and upset when Dad and she drove me to Sacramento International Airport for the return flight to Bellingham, Wash., where I worked my first job as a newspaper reporter. (I was dumped by a man who told me, with brutal honesty, “I’m not in love with you.”) I wanted to confide in her about my health problems, but the Alzheimer’s wouldn’t allow her to understand to keep my confidence. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was about the times when I was snappish with her. I wanted to tell her that I finally sought chemical and therapeutic treatment for my depression. Finally, I wanted to tell her I found a job in state government that suits my talents as a writer and editor.

But on the Sunday before she passed, I sang to her and told her, “I love you.” She responded, “Thank you, baby.”

She understood. Maybe that’s enough.

In closing, when Mom passed, there was a star in the eastern night sky that I hadn’t seen before. The night before the funeral, I had followed that star in my car all the way to Folsom before I returned to Sacramento. To me, that was Mom. And to this day, whenever I see that star, I say, “Good night, Mom.”

Writing Diva

Singleness Is Not Failure

After I turned "fiddy" earlier this week, I reflected on my life as a single woman and pondered the question if I have failed at life because I never married or had children.

I came close to marriage with one man 18 years ago. Thankfully, it didn't work out. He is a high school teacher, as he was when I dated him, with the same problems today that he had during our brief 10-month relationship.

Sometimes when I attend a singles function, I get asked by dance partners why I never married. It's a difficult question to answer in the length of a song. I made many mistakes in my dating choices, prompted mostly by my lack of self-esteem. My intuition was on target about the men I dated. The problem was, I was so desperate for companionship that I didn't listen.

Once I was in a tempestuous relationship with a man who, I discovered later, had a criminal record. Say it with me now: EEEWWWW!

I won't go into the rest of my dating failures. I find them too embarrassing to put into print. I will say that they were life lessons, for better or for worse.

My sister, Black Woman Blogging (http://www.blackwomanblogging.blogspot.com), helped put things into perspective. I should enjoy being single, she said. The grass isn't always greener on the other side.

I am free to be myself. I can listen to whatever music I choose without having someone comment on how "white"or how "urban" it is. I can sleep in on weekends if I choose. I can have two cats as my companions without someone complaining about allergies or cat hair. (One day, when I get a house with a backyard lawn, I would like a beagle, too.)

Most of all, I can appreciate men quietly without having a boyfriend, fiance, or husband give me a jealous look.

One of the good things about being African-American and my age is that I have my mother's genes. In other words, I really don't look my age. I have some gray hairs, but most of my hair is black. (Thank you, Mom!) I get a mix of wrinkles and pimples. (Maybe they should be called "pinkles"!) And I'm still somewhat slim. (Thanks, T1, for the 5-pound weights! Now I'm getting First Lady Michelle Obama's arms!)

I may find someone. I may not. But I intend to live in the moment and enjoy the good things in life and pursue my dreams with whatever time I have left.

So, I haven't failed "life" by being single. The lessons are ongoing.

Writing Diva

50

"I like to kick, stretch, AND kick! I'm 50! Fifty years old!"

Sally O'Malley (as portrayed by Molly Shannon, "Saturday Night Live." See http://www.hulu.com/watch/1504/saturday-night-live-sally-omalley)

I have no problem with sharing my age. Today, my mother Claudia "Deena" Buford Robinson gave birth to me at 11:41 a.m. PDT 50 years ago at Sacramento County Hospital, now UC Davis Medical Center. Besides, my sister, Black Woman Blogging (http://www.blackwomanblogging.blogspot.com) already gave away my age. Thanks, BWB.

My puzzle is defining what 50 is. I don't feel whatever 50 feels like. I may have a little bit of a camel hump. (No camel toes, though, thank goodness! If you need to know what "camel toes" are, watch the Hulu.com video.) But I walk every day, use weights three times a week, and perform sit-ups on my bed twice a week. I look pretty good for my age.

I read in the April 2008 issue of More magazine about second acts. I had considered a second act of starting my own editing and writing business. But now I'm actually planning it because of the three-day furloughs that Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger imposed on California state workers, myself included. I can't allow the political drama at the state Capitol to affect my plans for the next stage of my life.

As Helen Reddy sang in "I Am Woman," whatever wisdom I gained was born of pain. I don't think I would want to be young again. I didn't know as much and I was too trusting. I'm more discerning in whom I trust and I treasure the life knowledge I've earned.

I'm glad to be starting my 51st year. As my older sister "D" would say, it beats the alternative.

Writing Diva