Yesterday morning, I sat in front of my computer waiting for more bad news to appear in my Twitter feed. Some part of me felt it was critical to remain constantly informed, regardless of my inability to actually do anything with most the news I’m reading.
Out of the blue, it dawned on me: This is not healthy behavior! So I stepped away from the computer with the twin intentions to (1) do something kinder to myself now and (2) check news only intermittently and briefly throughout the day.
When I was about ten weeks pregnant with my older son, I started bleeding one day at work. My then manager rushed me to the nearest emergency room, from which I called my now husband, Anthony.
At the time, I was working in California’s Orange County, the county just south of Los Angeles County. Anthony was working on the sitcom The Big Bang Theory much further north, deep into Los Angeles county. His drive to reach me would be long and traffic-heavy, meaning I’d maybe be alone facing what could end up being some devastating news.
I remember calling one of my sisters while I waited, and then another dear friend. I remember sobbing on the phone. I remember Anthony suddenly being there, and the doctor eventually delivering the news: there was a fifty-fifty chance my pregnancy would last the next 24 hours. Continue reading “Today I’ll live today”→
Each anniversary of her death, I take at least a few moments to celebrate her life. I offset memories of her profound late-life mental illness and slow succumbing to cancer with joyful memories of her.
I remember her meeting her first grandson–my oldest son–and rejoice that she lived long enough to meet one of her eight grandchildren.
I remember, too, the joy of being her daughter when I was a child.
I remember her reading with me and my siblings. I recall the sense of adventure we shared as books and comic books took us places we hardly noticed our poverty prevented us from visiting.
I remember Thunder Thighs, her superhero alter-ego who battled villains with superpowers such as B.O. and the earthquake-sized reverberations created when she’d stomp for good with the might of her thunder thighs.
I remember how much she loved horror movies, and how I loved trying to sneak-watch them with her.
It’s that last remembering that’s closest to my heart today. Thanks to immersive theater, which I once dismissed as simply one of my husband’s “hobbies,” I had the irreplaceable opportunity to connect with my mom as she’d once lived and breathed.