Fish Tacos

I realize that the title of this blog is odd. Here’s how I got to Fish Tacos:

My mother was the best cook. Ever. It didn’t matter what she made, it was always amazing. Soups, elaborate 5-course meals, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Everything she created was delicious. She made a chocolate chip banana cake that was so perfect in its chip to cake ratio, people actually called her to request it for parties, or road trips that required a snack.

What was wonderful about her cooking was the joy and heart that went into it. She would dance around the kitchen to ABBA or The Beatles, singing her heart out, and cooking up a storm. Those are the moments I miss the most. I remember walking into the kitchen and having her grab my hand, spinning me around while singing “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road”. Hey, I never said she was appropriate.

When she was diagnosed with Cancer, she kept on cooking. It was her happy place, and she could zone out and not think about being sick for an hour or two. As the disease progressed, Chemotherapy and radiation made her feel sick and tired her out. Cooking for my Dad and brother became labourious, and the meals were harder for her to make. She decided then that she would make cooking easy and fun for herself, by bringing in pre-made processed foods. Not healthy, no, but it afforded her the ability to cook for the people she loved without maxing her out.

I would call her from Toronto (my family lives in Montreal), and ask her what was for dinner. It was our routine. I asked as though I was planning on showing up any minute, and she would dutifully respond with the evening’s menu, as though she had set a place for me. One night, I asked what she was making, and her response was: “I’m cooking my way through the colour palette. Tonight, we are having BEIGE.” Curious, I asked her what BEIGE food entailed, and it was the following:

1.    Tater Tots

2.    Egg Rolls

3.    Fried Rice

4.    Fish Sticks

There were also nights of other colours, but I will leave that with you to imagine. The GREEN evening was particularly gross.

About 6 months before she died, she fell in love with a meal she had created. She made it all.the.time: Captain Highliner fish sticks tossed in a taco shell with the standard taco fixings like guacamole, sour cream, cheese, salsa, etc.

When I called her to see what was on tap for the evening meal one night, she said “Fish Tacos”. My grown up response was obviously: “That’s disgusting.”

It became an ongoing joke between the two of us. When I called, she would tease me and say “We’re having your favorite tonight! Judi’s Fish Tacos!!” I would retch appropriately, making her laugh. When she went into the hospital for the final time, she asked me if I thought they made Fish Tacos. I told her I would make them for her, but never got the chance to do it. There will be a post in here someday about my few regrets in life, and that is definitely one of them. Less than 2 months later, she was gone.

When I returned to Toronto after sitting Shiva, my cousins took me to Buffalo for a weekend shopping trip, hoping to cheer me up and reintegrate me into my life with some serious retail therapy. We got up so early my eyes were burning. With our Tim Horton’s coffees in our hands, we sat in the parking lot at Target, waiting for it to open.

I sat in the back of the car, with my head pressed against the window, taking in my surroundings. Old run-down buildings, a hair salon, and an auto-repair place. Really nothing extraordinary.

That’s when I saw it: A small free-standing building, a restaurant, painted bright blue.

In red lettering, the restaurant’s name read: J’s Fish Tacos.

In the back of the car, between tears and laughter, my cousins heard me say "Hi Mom."

I couldn't explain to them why. I suppose I should send them this blog post....

Grief's Abyss

Loss comes in many different shapes and sizes, and every single solitary soul copes in a different way. Grief is like a fingerprint.

I coped with mine by pretending I was fine.

On the outside, I looked okay.

On the inside, I was completely destroyed, an empty shell.

Every day following my Mother's death was an exercise in futility. Everything was an obstacle, from walking the dog, to trying to do laundry. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get out of bed. The loss was insurmountable.  I alienated everyone.  I tried not to cry, and held it in when I could. Somehow I convinced myself that crying was stupid because she was already gone, and I had not saved her.

What I type next may upset the people that love me. For that, I am truly sorry:

August 8, 2006: “I am no one anymore.  It doesn’t matter. My soul is dead. I can’t feel it, so it must be gone. My heart is just beating out of habit. I feel cold all the time. Everyone is looking at me and telling me they think I am strong. I hate it. I want to just scream to everyone that I fucking hate everyone and myself and to just leave me the hell alone already. I hate that I am still alive and she isn’t. It feels wrong that I am alive, when she was a better person than me.  I have locked myself in the bathroom a few times now. I drink wine while sitting in a hot bath, and wonder what would happen if I drank enough to drown. I wonder how much it would take. Yesterday I held a bottle of Advil in my hand, and tried to calculate how many I needed to take to kill myself.”

There is more, but that’s enough.  It was the lowest low I have ever experienced. I would be lying to you if I said that re-reading that journal entry did not rock me to the core. It's like someone else wrote that.

Eventually, my Dad became concerned with how low I was and pushed me to get help. It was only then that I began to really deal with the loss of my Mother.

If you are reading this right now, and dealing with recent or impending loss, please consider the following things. Learn from my mistakes:

1.       Do not pretend you are fine, you don't have to be anyone's hero.

2.       Let people love you and support you, don't push them away.

3.       Ask for help.

I still remember the first time I really and truly cried for my loss. Being honest with myself and talking to someone about my pain forced me to look at losing my Mom in a raw and open way, and it was only then that I cried the real hard tears of loss.

And it happened in a Winners changing room.

Almost a year after my Mother had died, I found myself in pieces while trying on clothing. Out of nowhere, I cried heart-wrenching sobs so painful and body-wracking that the people in the change rooms on either side of me came to see if I was okay. I did not stop crying for 45 minutes. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.

When I got home, I went to bed and slept for 14 hours.

All of those tears that I had held in, the anger, the guilt, the pain, the depression….all of it came out in one huge overwhelming explosion.

Over 4 years later, I still get quite emotional when I think about my Mom. It's a given. The difference now is that I don’t feel the soul-crushing ache of loss as much as I do a ridiculous surge of joy and love. My heart explodes just remembering how amazing my mom was, and how lucky I am to have had 31 years with her as my very best friend. Choosing those feelings over the dark ones is easy now. I have a lot to live for.

I could not have pulled myself out of those dark months alone, and I know that. To the friends and family that stood by me even when I pushed them away, there aren't enough words to thank you for loving me. 

I am still here because of you.

Party Princess

It is important that I share the great as well as the devastating, so that a true picture is painted. As my friend Sarah commented in the last post, the greatest love breeds the deepest grief. Anyone who met my mother was instantly in love with her outgoing sunny personality, her gorgeous smile, and her insane sense of humour. If anyone lit up a room, it was my mother. Losing her was like the sun had just fizzled out.

There was always a great deal of hilarity that ensued with my mother. I don’t even think there are words to really describe how pee-in-your-pants funny my Mom was, because those words don’t exist in our lexicon.

Of course as a teenager, I definitely didn’t think she was so funny. Now 20 years later, I appreciate the genius of her sense of play and mischief.

When I was a few weeks shy of my 16^th birthday, I begged my mother for a Sweet Sixteen party. And by beg, I mean: “Mom you’re horrible if you don’t make me a party and I will hate you forever, and everyone else is having one so why can’t I have one, you’re so mean if you tell me I can’t have a party.”

I was a very reasonable teenager.

Wonderful and tolerant woman that she was, my Mother humoured me and confirmed she would make me a party. I was allowed to invite 5 friends over for my birthday dinner. Anyone who knows me knows I immediately negotiated. I wanted 8 friends, AND I wanted to have music. She rolled her eyes and agreed. I was a really tough customer.

As an aside, I think that was a pretty fair negotiation. I’m pretty sure if I was turning 16 tomorrow, the ask would be for 400 friends, a plethora of Cirque du Soleil acrobats hanging from the ceiling, and a red velvet cake the size of Iowa.

I dreamed about my party. I talked about it every day for 2 weeks. I drove my family crazy. On the day of the party, I helped my Mom put up balloons. I was so excited and couldn’t sit still. An hour before the guests were to arrive I went to look at the table. And that’s when the shit hit the fan.

What 16 year old Amy should have said: “Mom! That looks awesome! You’re the greatest!”

What 16 year old Amy actually said: “Those napkins are ugly. I want the special occasion napkins.”

My mother looked at me. I looked at her. It was a stand-off, and I was determined to win. After a lethal staring contest, she acquiesced and said: “Okay, you can have the special occasion napkins.”

I walked out of the room so proud of myself that I hardly noticed the emphasis she had put on the word SPECIAL.

Soon, the doorbell began to ring, and my friends were ushered in. I was so excited to see my friends that I didn’t once think of the table.  We all walked into the kitchen for dinner, and that’s when I saw what would be humiliatingly etched in my mind forever:

On the table, which was perfectly set, were “special occasion” napkins indeed. Maxi Pads. Always brand Maxi-Pads. Huge, thick, cottony sanitary napkins. She had carefully un-wrapped each pad, peeled off the paper backings, and stuck them firmly to the table, in place of a regular napkin. Each place setting had one, with a fork and knife carefully placed on top.

Naturally I freaked right out.

My mother, laughing at the prank she had just played on her obnoxious child, smirked and said: “Oh, aren’t those the special occasion napkins you wanted?”

It was clear to me in that moment that my mother was the master of practical jokes and searing wit - and I should know better than to mess with her ever again.

My Past Invades My Present

April 7, 2006: "In 10 days, I will be 31 years old. I think it is safe to say that my life, my person, my right-at-this-moment are as real as it gets.  I have always felt a little scattered, a little all over the place with my thoughts and my decisions, but right now I am in the very center of my life. It is amazing how much you can learn about yourself and your depth as a human being, when you find out someone you love is dying. Of all of the absolutes in the world, my mother dying of Cancer is one I can’t shake or deny, and I can’t sleep because all I think about is my life ending when hers does. Because without my mother, I won’t know who I am.”

April 8, 2006: "Today was hard. All of them are hard. My stomach hurts every second of the day. I am holding in every feeling I have ever had. I shut myself in the bathroom, run the tap, and cry. She doesn’t know that, but I think my Dad does. Her beautiful freckled face is twisted in pain, her eyes are tearing up and her lips are trembling. She holds my hand so tightly I actually think she will break it, and I don’t care. Fucking break it. I would not wish this on anyone…no one should ever see someone they love be totally obliterated by Cancer. It ruins you. I’m pretty sure I look as vacant as I feel.  Mom, I just want to curl up next to you on your bed, like we used to. When we watched Natalie Wood movies, and you played with my hair, and we fell asleep holding hands.  I miss the old days selfishly, because I’m not ready to lose you. I want things the way they were. “

When I look back on old journal entries, I liken it to being punched in the gut. All of those feelings I think I have sorted through, well, it’s like I haven’t sorted through a single thing. I am instantly angry, sad, and guilty.  Old notes and journal entries remove me from the present, and bring me back to a time that I don’t want to revisit.

Writing all of the content for this blog has made me cry more times than I care to count. Last night I threw a tangerine across the room, because my loss was once again so raw, and I was so angry. With no angst towards tangerines, I realized that just when I thought I had run out of tears, and lost my ability to really “feel” things, re-reading these memories and journal entries have reminded me that I am alive. And that although I will never ever get over my loss, I actually did get through it.  And that being mad and passionate sometimes causes one to throw perfectly plausible fruit.

Lilac Lullaby

My mother loved Lilacs.

In the Springs of years past, my mother would stash nail scissors in her pocket so that on our long walks together, she could sneak a snipping off of other people’s Lilac bushes. I always laughed and told her we would get caught one day. Her excuse was always the same: “Our Lilac bush never blooms. I’m just taking what Mother Nature owes me!” Our stolen blooms were proudly displayed on the kitchen table in a kitschy ceramic vase, and she inhaled deeply whenever she walked past them, sighing with pure contentment.

As she lay in her coma, I would get Lilacs from the park outside the hospital, and place them on her pillow. Although she was in a place where I could no longer reach her, her head always seemed to turn towards the Lilac bloom on her pillow, so that she could smell them.  In those moments of unconscious movement, it was like she was just innocently shifting in her sleep, dreaming of something she loved.  

After her funeral, I stood by the dining room window overlooking our sporadically blooming lilac bush. The Rabbi came over and stood with me, and I asked him if he believed in signs. Of course he did. I told him that the lilac bush we were looking at hadn’t bloomed in years. And then I showed him what I was really looking at: In the absolute center of the naked shrub, were three huge lilac blooms. There was no rhyme or reason to them, and yet there they were. He stood there, as surprised as I was, and then said: “Those are for you.”

For a long time after my mother died, I was awoken in the middle of the night by the smell of strong perfume. Sweet, cloying, but familiar. I would wake up thinking I had left a candle burning, and would get up and search my surroundings to make sure I wasn’t losing it. It was only after 3 years of these perfumed awakenings that I realized what I was smelling: Lilacs.

Writing Naked

It has been almost 5 years since my Mother died of Cancer.

In the time leading up to her death and after, I wrote. I wrote in notebooks, on napkins, on bits of paper, and on the back of magazine covers. Writing was how I survived.

All of these thoughts sat in a shoe box, until a few days ago. A new friend unknowingly inspired me to put my paper scraps and journals to use.

His blog demonstrates self-expression, and he recently challenged his readers to create something that was uniquely their own. Being unique and different is a hard sell in a world full of remakes and rewinds. Everyone has a blog, a Twitter account, ad nauseum. All this to say that I decided that I am up for the challenge: I am creating a place to house the memories of my mother, good, bad, hilarious and heartbreaking. Because I need to put those thoughts somewhere and she deserves a documented memory.

I feel like there should be a disclaimer here, because normally I’m a pretty funny person. I find humor in everything. EVERYTHING. That being said, life is what it is, and not everything is a laugh riot. All the same, my Mother was a hilariously funny woman, and it is hard to tell her story without the funny pieces. It’s just that the content of this blog is a side of me few people have seen. Writing this all out, and sharing it…well, I feel a little naked. Good thing I shaved my legs.