What's in a Name?

For the last 17 years, the first Saturday in December has been set aside for a remembrance service held by the Bereaved Parent Group of Madison. The first year after Sophie's death we simply attended. Then we started contributing a song to the service: The Water Lily by Australian poet Henry Lawson, set to music by Priscilla Herdmann. We've missed just one service since Sophie died, the year I ended up in the hospital with pulmonary embolism (yuck.) I love it; it's a chance to catch up with friends whom we know only in this context and see once a year. People who speak the same language we do, so to speak. Members of the same club.

The most powerful part of the evening is when somebody reads off all of the babies' names. To hear someone else say your baby's name means so much. Last year, the people compiling the list made a mistake and got Sophie's middle name wrong, and I felt terrible. This year I checked the list to make sure it was correct. I hope I didn't seem too obnoxious.

Today brought a strange coincidence: Ed was at work and Sophie's cardiologist came in. We run into him from time to time around town, but today of all days? The world works in mysterious ways. And another year is past.

Hmmm. A Question

Is there a male equivalent of being a "crone"? Something that implies the wisdom of years? Is it "gaffer"?

Maiden, Mother, Crone

Anna, age 6, and newly-hatched Grace, 2/3/96

Yesterday I attended a "croning" ceremony for my friend Frances, who just turned 60. There were 20 or so women at the event, and I suspect I was the youngest one there, still wet behind the ears at almost-52. At one point we were invited to share stories of significant transitions in our own lives. Always slow to speak up in situations like that, the group moved on to the next scheduled activity before I had collected my thoughts sufficiently. "Transitions?" I was thinking. "Every day feels like a transition!"

Later I was thinking about one big transition which I'm still trying to navigate -- that of being the mother of young children to being the mother of a grown and almost-grown child, respectively. From the time I was 12 or so I knew I wanted babies. Badly. I wrote lists of prospective baby names ad nauseum. I bought little items of clothing that caught my eye, to put away for "when I had a baby." It was bad. Really bad.

Still, I didn't have my first baby until I was almost 30.  It was hard in all the ways you might expect, but also an incredibly joyous time. Except for the sleep deprivation, I believe I was in my element. 5 years later we had our second child, who died in infancy. I was 37 when our third child was born, and I got to experience all of the parenting a very young child again, another joyous time, though admittedly tinged by the loss we had experienced.

I absolutely loved my children's childhoods. I was the mom who knit sweaters, sewed little sun dresses and stuffed toys, froze healthy popsicles in the summer … Oh, it wasn't all a bed of roses. It was as a young mother that I was first diagnosed with low-grade chronic depression that sometimes made it hard to be the mother I really wanted to be. It also brought out some of my very best intentions.

You readers who have raised children know, I'm sure, how when you're in the thick of it you think it will last forever -- for better or worse. You might listen to the Malvina Reynolds' song Turn Around and get all sad about the future (at least I did, when my first baby was still under a year old!) but it doesn't seem all that close. All of a sudden -- WHOOSH -- they're grown up (or nearly so.)

And I'm left holding the bag. The bag of bedtime stories, little dresses, star-shaped baby dolls, plastic horses, and all of the other flotsam and jetsam of my kids' childhoods, wondering where to go from here. I'm not worried about it. There are many times these days when I revel in the freedom to just go somewhere, without either packing Cheerios and a wet washcloth or finding a babysitter (okay, I exaggerate -- I haven't had to do that in a long time.) I adore the young women my little daughters have become, even if I look askance at their fashion choices much of the time.

This is a transition that I find particularly bittersweet.

Lost

I have a recurring dream where I look at one of my rings and realize that a gemstone has fallen out. I think it is a cousin of the teeth-falling-out dream. But I was dismayed last night to realize that I had indeed lost the diamond from my engagement/wedding set. What is strange is that the stone didn't just fall out. The entire setting broke off of the ring! You would have thought that I would be aware of it catching on something for that to happen.

I am not a woman who pines for fancy jewelry. In fact, I know enough about the exploitation of workers and the environment in pursuit of the Earth's treasures, that I hesitate to buy any precious metals or gems new (as opposed to pre-owned) these days. When we had our wedding rings made, we found a goldsmith who was willing to use a combination of old rings and dental gold from both of our grandparents. My diamond was from a ring that had belonged to Ed's great aunt Mandy. I wanted to cry when I discovered that it was gone.

Then I started telling myself that it's just a diamond, expensive to replace, yes, but a small thing in light of so many other things in the world. It has no bearing on our marriage, which is strong and loving. Yeah, well … I'm still sad.

Our 23rd wedding anniversary is this Sunday. Ed's wedding band hasn't fit him for several years; perhaps my loss is the kick in the butt needed to rectify that situation. Most goldsmiths seem unwilling to make rings out of old gold that may contain impurities (or so I've been told,) but I wonder if someone would be willing to remake our old bands into two new bands for us.

My hand feels naked without it.

A Visit From My Dad

For some reason this memory of my dad popped into my head tonight.

My dad was a connoisseur of opera. Saturday afternoons the radio broadcast of the Metropolitan Opera was always on (and invariably gave me a headache, although the true cause might have been his stinky pipe tobacco.) He was especially fond of Mozart and Gilbert & Sullivan. He had no interest in the popular music of his generation and he seemed totally unaffected by the popular music his kids listened to: Herman's Hermits, the Beatles, Sam Sham and the Pharoahs … their popularity with the younger generation in our house waxed and waned, but never seemed to register on his radar screen -- except for two notable exceptions in my memory:

Sylvia's Mother by Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show and A Horse With No Name by America. There was something about these two songs that he found particularly irksome, enough to comment on it each and every time he heard them. I think he found Sylvia's Mother to just be awfully whiney. I chuckle when I think about his reaction to A Horse With No Name. I can hear his voice saying in a slightly amused and incredulous tone, "What the hell is this song supposed to mean?"

He wasn't narrow in his musical tastes. He gave me my love for Tom Lehrer and the British duo Flanders & Swann. We had Ed McCurdy's and Alan Arkin's recording of bawdy Renaissance songs, When Dalliance Was In Flower. When I was older and had discovered The Bonzo Dog Band, my dad was really taken with their song Hunting Tigers Out in India; their brand of humor was right up his alley.

Thanks Daddy, for making me smile, so many years later.

40 Years

One of my happy pastimes is going to events that mark passages in the lives of old family friends, people who I am connected to through my parents mostly. I generally go with my oldest brother Dave, though sometimes by myself. I love it -- even the funerals, sad though they may be. They connect me with my parents, who have both been gone for some time now, and with my past which, seen through the lens of 50 years is actually looking and feeling pretty happy for the most part. Attending these events, being the steward of these connections is a role I have taken on, and one that I love.

Today was no funeral, however.

This afternoon I had the honor and pleasure of going to a party to honor 40 years of marriage for old friends of my family, Charlie and Louise Uphoff. The Uphoffs and the Grindrods go way back, back to my parents' youth and their days as young Socialists. My parents frequented a place called Fellowship Farm, that was overseen by Walter and Mary Jo Uphoff, the ad hoc "parents" I guess, being a few years older. In fact, my parents were married at Fellowship Farm, under the auspices of Walt and Mary Jo (and a radical minister named Shorty Collins.) Many years later, their son Charlie brought his wife Louise to live at Fellowship Farm. It was the late sixties/early seventies. I was on the cusp of adolescence and I thought they were one of the coolest, hippest couples I had ever met. They lived in a ramshackle farmhouse with tattered peace posters on the wall. They had a chair in their living room made out of the hood of a VW Bug -- how cool is that? I'll answer for you -- REALLY cool! And then they did something even cooler -- they had a baby, and I got to babysit for her!

So now 40 years have passed and I was reflecting on all of that. We're coming up on our 23rd anniversary. I hope that we can celebrate our 40th in such style, surrounded by loving family and friends, children and grandchildren. And I hope we inspire some other young person, show them a model of a happy marriage.

And I will keep maintaining these connections as long as I can.

21 Years Ago …

21 years ago was the beginning of an incredible adventure: the birth of my first child, Anna Fiona. Being a mother has brought me unimaginable joy, and I wish this child of mine the happiest of birthdays today.

I have refrained from posting any of the naked ones. No need to thank me, Anna. Just one of the many little kindnesses I have performed over the last 21 years.

Happy Birthday to one of the Lights of my life!

She was almost a groundhog. It was February 3, 1996 around 10 a.m. when our third daughter, Grace Marguerite, entered the world. Outside was bitterly cold --  -27˚F. While in labor I made my husband and my friend Fay walk me around the block in the wee hours of morning. Twice.

I haven't looked at the photos from her birth-day in a long time. I am a little unprepared for the emotions that are welling up. Grace's birth was such an enormous joy, but -- perhaps unfairly for her -- it was imbued with an incredible mix of emotions: grief, anxiety, and hope. She was born exactly a month after my dad's sudden passing, and we were still reeling from that. Also, as many of my faithful readers know, Grace was born subsequently to her older sister Sophie's death. (It pleases me to notice that in the upper left corner of the photo of Ed holding Grace, is another photograph of Anna holding her newborn baby sister Sophie.)

Grace came and helped us heal. I smile like the sun when I think about that day. Happy Birthday, dear Grace!

Photographs taken by Fay McClurg

Life …

When you are a new parent and holding that sweet, beautiful child for the first time, that's all there is … and that's a good thing, a wonderful thing. But you are not prepared for the many small heartbreaks that come later: the hurt feelings, the pulling away, the arguments, the first time leaving home, and now, witnessing my beautiful daughter's heartbreak. I want to protect her from everything, just like I did when she was a baby, and I know that I can't, and furthermore, that I shouldn't. All I can do is all we really have the power to do ever, which is to love her.

Paul and his girlfriend Des

Apparently this eagle, Des, was notoriously cranky with 'most everybody else at the nature center, but took a liking to my brother. He always has been a bit of a ladies' man ...

Bursting With Pride!

How cool is this? Pretty darned cool! Check out the by-line on that article ... THAT'S MY BIG BROTHER!! I am very proud of him, and I forgive him for all the times he teased me and made me cry, even giving me the nickname Sig (Suzy + pig) and shining a light on me and chanting, "Spotlight on stinkbomb Suzy." And you know what? He is a really good writer! Go, Paul!

You have to embiggen this one and tilt your head to read the by-line.

Happy Fathers' Day

My dad. I miss him.

Lounging Around --A Theatah Review

Last night was opening night for Broom Street Theater's new production, Lounging Around, an original play by Siobhan Edge. For you readers in foreign parts (i.e. not from Madison,) for the past 40+ years, BST has been delighting, shocking, offending, and entertaining theater-goers with original works. Lounging Around is a comedy woven around the conversations of a diverse group of travelers stuck in an airport lounge when their flight is delayed due to heavy fog.

My younger daughter -- the daughter formerly known as "Sparkly Seacow" -- made her Broom Street debut, with 3 roles in this play: an elderly woman (82 years old, Dearie!), a Valley Girl with a cell phone, and a bratty little girl. Thumbs up for all of them! I may be a little biased, but I think she did a fantastic job and I'm very proud of her.

Photos by N-dig0 (tb3), used with permission

Thumbs up for the entire production! The dialogue was witty, the action was fast-paced, and the acting was good.

If you live in the Madison area, make this stage mama happy and go see Lounging Around!

22 Years

In what is possibly a first, Mr. Ether (a.k.a. Enriched Geranium) beat me to a blog post about our wedding anniversary. Over the years -- and particularly in the struggle for marriage equality for all people -- I've thought deep philosophical thoughts about the meaning of having the State sanction one's relationship with another person. Having it all to do over again, perhaps we would have chosen otherwise, BUT (and you know there's always a big but) even had we not gone through all of the legal mumbo-jumbo and the ceremony and the celebration (which I am sure is the only wedding in history to include a Gumby pinata and a seeing eye dog,) it would not have changed the wanting to spend my life with Ed.

To get to the point, I married my best friend and it was the best thing I ever did. Happy anniversary, Ed. I love you.

Fun With Highly Toxic Substances

I've written before about the website Boing Boing. I always find something there to delight and distract me from the woes of the world (or sometimes it helps me see something from an entirely new and different perspective.) Here is a link to a video about freezing mercury. Hmmm ... I'm looking for fun projects to occupy my kindergartners in the last week of school.

Seriously, I remember being in about 2nd grade when the scientist father of one of my classmates brought in mercury for us to play with. Yes, we handled it. It was cool how it broke up into many small blobs and then came together again into a big blob. Back in those days it was not known how toxic mercury was.

A few years ago when we were getting my parents' house ready to sell, I had the job of emptying the rusting metal shelf in the garage and disposing of the various tubes, cans, old mayonnaise jars, etc. of substances that my father had amassed over the years. (A physician by trade, he was a tinkerer by avocation, dabbling in chemistry, mechanics, physics, you name it.) So I loaded it all into the back of my station wagon and (a year or so later, after it sat piled in my driveway) hauled it over to the county "Clean Sweep" site for disposal. The woman working there was very efficient, sorting the stuff I could put out with the trash at home from the stuff they would dispose of. Then she picked up a little glass spice jar with a rubber stopper and said, "I wonder what this is? Oh! It's mercury!" I'm sure that was one she enjoyed telling at the dinner table that night!

Gosh, if I had only kept it, I could have made frozen mercury fish and turtles like in the video.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Ether!

Here's the cake I wish I could make for you. I love you! (Go wish him a happy birthday yourself, over at his blog, Enriched Geranium.)

Book Review: The Wet Engine

A few years ago my brother sent me this sweet little book, The Wet Engine: Exploring the Mad Wild Miracle of the Heart, by Brian Doyle. First, a few words about my brother Paul. He's an extremely funny and smart guy, wielding sarcasm and cynicism like a finely honed rapier. In our house there is an oft-repeated quote of his that has become something of a mantra for Sparkly Seacow: "Sarcasm in a child is an ugly thing", delivered dripping with sarcasm of course. Anyway, underneath Paul's oh so tough exterior is (and always has been) an incredible well of compassion for all sentient beings and for the natural environment. (However he doesn't suffer human fools gladly.) In short, he's a marshmallow.

Anyway, receiving this little gem of a book meant a great deal to me. Paul dropped everything and flew across the country to stay with me when our daughter Sophie died. He has been consistently attuned to my loss, and the gift of The Wet Engine was one more example of this.

Brian Doyle had twin sons. One was born healthy and whole, while the other one, Liam, had just three chambers in his heart and underwent two open heart surgeries as an infant to make his heart functional. This experience inspired Doyle to write an ode to this very essential organ, to all that it means to the human psyche, and to the doctors that saved his son and thousands of other children every year. Doyle's prose reads like poetry, by turns poignant, informative, and funny.

I've read it twice now. I will admit, it was a bittersweet read for me. Liam survived, in all likelihood will live into adulthood, and grow to be an old man. My daughter did not. But Doyle's purpose in this book isn't to celebrate a victory at the expense of all the other children who die of congenital heart defects. In fact, this book is so loving, sometimes I felt as if he was speaking directly to me and my bereavement. I often think that Sophie's death -- whatever situation led to her death -- resulted in new learning that saved the lives of many babies who came after her. Perhaps even Liam's life.

Doyle deftly interweaves his memoir with facts about the heart, some startling and some sobering. Here is a passage:

In America these days one woman dies every minute of every day from a failed heart. More women die of failed hearts than men. Failed hearts kill more women and men than the next seven causes of death combined. The highest rate of death by failed heart is in Utah. The lowest rate is in Mississippi. More than four hundred babies are born every day with flawed hearts. Eight of every thousand babies are born with flawed hearts. One percent of all babies born all over the world are born with flawed hearts. Twenty percent of all babies born with flawed hearts will die before their first birthday.

The Wet Engine is a quick read, though you might want to savor it. It's a lovely book. Highly recommended.

(Just a personal note for anyone who knows my family -- or is my family -- and is reading this. The warm embrace of family and friends, the way that Sophie has been integrated into everyone's lives even though she is not physically present, fills me with love and awe. You are amazing.)

Another Birthday

Sophie Olivia Grindrod-Feeny, March 21-31, 1994

All of these photos were taken within the first hour after her birth. We had no idea that she had a heart problem until she was one week old. It was a blessed week, just enjoying our beautiful new daughter/sister. It's very hard to believe that she would be 15 today. I miss her.

Happy Birthday!

My firstborn turned 20 today. That blows my mind just a little. It doesn't seem like very long ago that she looked like this picture. I clearly remember singing the lovely Malvina Reynolds song Turn Around, and crying because my baby was going to grow up someday. Happy Birthday, Anna! You and your sisters are the best thing that ever happened to me! (And you can thank me for not publishing any of the naked photos ...)

Happy Birthday, Sparkly Seacow!

My baby girl turned 13 today. I don't know where the last decade plus three has gone, but it seems like only yesterday that I was forcing my friends and loved ones to walk with me around the neighborhood while I was in labor in -27˚F weather. This child has brought me so much joy. Happy birthday! I love you!