old flu

new flu 

red flu

blue flu 

this is all that I can muster until my skin stops hurting. 

I woke up last night to the overwhelming sense that Ali was lying next to me.  It was as though our heads were both tilted toward the center and touching.  Nothing else, just silently laying next to one another looking up at the ceiling. The experience lasted three or four minutes and then disappeared.

I even had a very clear sense of her expression...not smiling, but, the corners of her mouth turned up slightly...the way you look when you are content.  As I wrote this last sentence, chills went up my spine, because I realized that the experience felt exactly as it did the night we snuck out at 2 a.m. with two glasses of wine and a blanket and laid quietly on top of the Navigator watching a meteor shower. 

I have dreamed her before, but not very often.  Sometimes she pops up in dreams that are like every other dream and then there are those in which she seems to be standing in front of me and our conversation is in real time.  There is a distinct difference in the colors, the texture, and the clarity of what is going on.  They never last more than a few seconds and then she is gone.  I had a similar thing happen a few months after my dad died.  It was how I was finally able to properly say good-bye.

In the last dream of Ali, she looked a little older and there was a maturity about her. Her hair was the length that it was before the cancer.  She was vibrant and greeted each of us as if she had just gotten off of the subway in New York in winter…rushed and happy.

The day after she died, I was in bed resting-- on the cusp between being asleep and awake when I heard her voice very clearly as if she were in the room. It startled me and I lay there with my eyes wide open and my heart pounding. Ali was a terrible driver and in addition, always seemed to get lost.  Because of that, she generally called when she got somewhere safely. I tell you this, because when I heard her voice, it was like she was leaving a message on the answering machine.  “Hi mom, it’s me, just wanted you to know that I’m here and I’m safe…so, ok…I love you.”  

Nothing like that has ever happened again…until last night.  If it were up to me, I would invite her into my dreams every night, but that isn’t the way it works. Life and death each carry their own mystery and much like meteors shooting from their corner of the world into ours, I have come to believe that every once in a while, God allows his worlds to converge.  

To die... To sleep... no more...

And by a sleep to say we end the heartache,
and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to..
.
Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!   


To die...   To sleep... 
To sleep?  Perchance to dream! 

Ay there's the rub!  
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause...

--Shakespeare’s Hamlet

Thank you for your suggestions. I'm going to work on at least a couple of them tomorrow. In the meantime,  I'm posting a re-run from two years ago. I know it's a cop-out but, hopefully it's new to you.

THE TREEHOUSE
10.28.04 (9:43 am)

I always thought that a tree house would be a very functional piece of real estate. I never actually had one but I did imagine what it would look like. It took various forms; from a white colonial with green shutters and brass accents to a tattered Greek revival like the one we passed on the way to Grandma Lillian’s. Sometimes I would drag home pieces of wood that I found in the alley thinking that I might build one some day; but dad was very anti-clutter so it always ended up by the curb on trash day.

In a small house with four kids, quiet moments were difficult to come by. A tree house, I believed, would solve all of my problems. It would allow me a place all my own where I could drink a Pepsi, read Nancy Drew and have a penthouse view of the city… just like the one on Green Acres. Granted, we lived in Toledo, not New York, and I had no idea what a penthouse was; but, Eva Gabor seemed pretty happy with it and that was good enough for me. Strangely enough, my desire for a tree house had less to do with alone time than it did with satisfying my love affair for small, cozy spaces. My real dream (and this is somewhat embarrassing) was to be like Thumbelina and sleep in a walnut shell… but we will save that story for another day.

Today’s tale is about the tree house I never had. Maybe some day I will build one but for today it will be constructed purely within the boundaries of my imagination.

The sign over the door of my tree house reads:
ILLEGITIMI NON CARBORUNDUM. Generally translated as: Don’t let the bastards grind you down. This sentiment is self-explanatory and while I would not have thought of it when I was twelve and cannot take credit for it now... it is definitely something that I would say. Life is grueling enough. When you have taken the time to climb up a line of poorly nailed wooden boards you should be able to be left alone.

Visitors would be few; my girls, my guy, select family members, people who are bringing me a latte, and my friend Ashli who shares my love of English literature, says the most shocking things, and loves a good martini now and then.

For the most part, my treehouse would be for hiding away. I would lie on the hard wooden floor and close my eyes. Like a symphony, the sounds of life going on in the world below would gently float through the window and make their way into my consciousness. My face would automatically turn toward the rays of sunlight streaming through cracks in the wood and my stomach would growl as the scent of grilled hamburgers drifted upward and overwhelmed every other sense.

The world is magnified as I listen to the sounds below me. Bicycle tires pushing aside stones in the alley. A basketball hitting the cement in perfect rhythm and then bouncing off of the backboard with a dull thud. Somewhere a dog is barking, probably mine, it’s always mine. Like a music box gone mad, strains of three blind mice blare from the speaker of an ice cream truck and a little sister is screaming for her brothers to wait up as they rush to be the first in line. She is ultimately left alone and without any money for a strawberry shortcake bar.

The muffled cries of the little sister can still be heard as stars begin to replace the sunlight and the tree house is cloaked in darkness. Lights begin to fill the windows below and the last bike lands roughly in a garage that is much too crowded for a car to fit.

Maybe I will lie here a little longer. Perhaps someone will come looking for me. It’s a nice thing to be missed, especially when it has nothing to do with someone needing to find a shoe, your checking account number, or a clean pair of underwear. It makes no sense to hide if no one ever comes looking for you anyway.

Everyone needs a place to hide now and then. A tree house, a penthouse, or a walnut shell; it doesn’t really matter. Just a place to go where no one grinds you down. A place to sit back quietly and watch the world spin a while without you.

Note:  This photo is my most precious possession.  It goes along with the story that I am about to tell. I originally posted this in February of 2005.  I think that it’s worth telling again.  I have added some more information because the emotion is not as raw.  I hope that what you see in this is not a girl dying of cancer, but the triumph of the human spirit.  Maybe someday when you are faced with something that seems impossible, you will think of this story and understand that you are capable of enduring so much more than you ever imagined you could.

THE BEAUTY OF THE SOUL…

02.09.05 (10:12 pm)
The beauty of the soul shines out when a man bears with composure one heavy misfortune after another, not because he does not feel them, but because he is a man of high and heroic temper. --Aristotle

Last Tuesday night wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and a yellow Chrysanthemum behind her ear, Alison Haley Cloud walked into the Crossing Café with her two best friends, drank a Jones Soda and spit in the face of cancer.

Had someone told me that morning that Ali would ever again walk out our door I would have thought them cruel. Yet, there she sat, drinking a soda, radiant in her victory and oblivious to the fact that her very presence added value to the lives of everyone around her.

Ali hadn’t been able to eat solid food for nearly a month. She was extremely thin and had been barely able to speak or walk for days—not even the short walk to the bathroom.  It was about 7:00 p.m. and she very insistently asked to see her friend Gaby.  When I walked in to check on them,  I saw Ali sitting up in bed while Gaby combed her hair and applied her eye shadow.  The clash of emotions in seeing this hurt so much that I had to leave the room to regain my composure..

When I went back in, Megan was scurrying around the room for various pieces of clothing and then Ali told everyone to leave for a minute.  When the room was cleared, I said “what’s going on Birdie?”  Very slowly—trying to form her words, she said, "I need to leave this house.”
“Ali…” , I answered, not knowing if it was her or the morphine speaking...
“Mom,!” she said very emphatically, with her beautiful brown eyes pleading, “I need to leave this house.  I want to go to the crossing.”

There were a million reasons why we shouldn’t go… but they all paled in comparison to the one reason that we should.

Kayla showed up as we were getting her ready and cancelled her plans so that she could join Ali at the coffeehouse. It took two of us to hold her up and one to tuck in the tubes from her pain medication. As we headed toward the stairs, she stopped at her wall vase and asked for one of the yellow Chrysanthemums, which she placed behind her ear.

I could tell that Kayla and Gaby were working very hard to hold back their tears.

I had the car warming up and scraped the snow from the porch.  It took forever to get down the stairs and put her in the car.  Inside, I was frantic.

All eyes were on Ali as we led her slowly from the back door of the Crossing to the couch that she had set her sights on. I left her alone with her friends and went to get them a soda.  As Ali had worked at the Crossing, people who knew her began to gather around.  I stood across the room with her dad who I had called to meet us and we held back our tears as we watched our brave and determined daughter.

The Hospice nurse later told us that Ali’s trip to the Crossing had the same effect on her as running a Marathon would have on any one of us. That night, as I lay in bed next to her, she moaned and cried because her body ached. Her body ached but her spirit soared. She had done the unthinkable.

Ali’s soul has never stopped shining. Misfortune after misfortune has been heaped upon her tender shoulders and she has never buckled, never faltered, never let the light go out of her eyes. Her body was failing her but her spirit would not. Never again will I be the same. How can I ever expect to lead an ordinary life when I have been witness to a hero wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt and a yellow Chrysanthemum?