The Magic of Mayo

On my wall hangs a cross stitched verse from a song that reads:

Sometimes
Not often enough
We reflect upon the good things.
And those thoughts always center around those we love.
And I think about those people who mean so much to me
and for so many years have made so very happy.
And I count the times I have forgotten to say
Thankyou and just how much I love them.

Made by Mayo.
I am thinking a lot about my friend, Mayo.
Mayo who is everywhere I look.
On my walls.
On my shelves.
In my books.
In my kitchen cabinets.
There isn't a room in my house that doesn't have a piece of Mayo in it.
Even the guest bathroom has a watercolor from Priest Lake.
On the way to the garage there are pictures of our sons, as children in cowboy hats riding wooden stick horses and as young men ready to graduate high school.
My home is filled with pictures of our two families intertwined in good times and in bad.
On my dresser, in a small brass frame, there is a photograph taken by Mayo of my father in a familiar pose on the beach in San Clemente digging a sand castle with Mayo's daughter, Melissa who was no more than four years old.
Mayo's photographs capturing every gathering, every party, every important moment are everywhere.

Mayo was one of my first calls when Daddy dropped dead.
And Mayo was the last person with me by my Mother's bedside the night before she passed.
Mayo took the last pictures of Mother and me together.
Mayo was the first one at my door the day I got a sudden and shocking phone call that my beloved student Ben's father had killed himself two weeks after Ben had started college.

Mayo can turn a trinket into a treasure.
She helped me with every Tri-School Theatre show creating "gift items" to sell.
Countless trips to Shinodas
Inspired descriptions of keepsakes -
a Beautifully faceted acrylic violin for Fiddler.
Customized Noah's Ark gift cards for Children of Eden.

The Brian Shucker Inspiration Award was created in Mayo's living room.
Mayo's home holds memories of my first bridal shower over thirty years ago - a kitchen shower at which my ignorance of kitchen utensils became obvious with each opening. At that shower, Mayo gave me a recipe box filled with hand written recipe cards, a trifle bowl, and a cook book holder. I still use them.
My children now grown, still fall asleep at Christmas time on special personalized pillow cases made by Mayo. My Christmas tree is full of Merry Crismon ornaments.
When I put together the Beatrix Potter themed nursery for my first born, Mayo made matching accessories.
A framed cross stitched Beatrix Potter picture with the name and birth date of my daughter stitched into the image.
September 16th - a birth date shared by our two eldest.

I met Mayo in the assembly hall at Rosary High School on book buying day my Freshman year.
Turned out, Mayo was my French Teacher.
Mayo was my Drama Teacher.
Mayo was my Typing Teacher - even though Mayo couldn't type.
Mayo moved away in my junior year. My cedar chest is full of letters from Mayo.
When Mayo returned the next year, she was expecting a baby.

I remember sitting in English class on March 9, 1977 when Sr. JoAnn announced over the loudspeaker that Mrs. Crismon had given birth to a baby girl. The announcement was to the whole student body - but I knew something they didn't. That baby girl was named
Amy.

I remember getting a phone call when I was away at college, that Amy had had a cerebral hemorrhage. Amy went on to be involved in Tri-School Theatre. I sang at her wedding
I remember getting a phone call just before Mayo was headed in to have a premature C-Section on December 23, 1986.
She asked Steve and me to be baby Jake's Godparents.
Jake and Brendan have grown up like brothers.
Mayo is Brendan's Godmother.

From Clarkston to Cayucos
from Washington to Maine
from souvenir shop to souvenir shop
My life memories are melded with Mayo.

And now, my friend, Mayo, is having a double mastectomy.
Breast Cancer may change Mayo's cup size
but it cannot change the warmth of her bosom.
Mayo has three children, but
Mayo is and will always be the loving, nurturing Mother for whom we all yearn.

That is the Magic of Mayo.

BC

The tumor was a three plus. Her cancer stage two. Eighteen weeks of chemo. She will lose her hair. That hair. That thick hair. The hair I used to brush when I was a little girl. That hair that was tied in a pony tail during the "Love Story" stage. She resembled Ali MacGraw. That hair that she pulled back during the scarf and big earring stage. That was when I would babysit and would read her MS. Magazines and talk about politics, spirituality, and the meaning of life. I think I was about twelve. Always a good listener, she was my refuge, my sanctuary, and my trusted confidante through every stage of life.

Now, this is her cancer stage. At sixty-seven, she is the same age her mother was during her cancer stage.
Ironic.
She has lost her breast and now will lose her hair and I keep shaking my head saying, "I can't believe this."

I guess I am in the denial stage.

I look back over our history BC. Now, there will always be a before. Funny how before always looks so much better when there is an after. That time when we moved through life unsuspecting. Unaware of what lay ahead. As soon as there is a before, we are forced to look back to see before through the lens of after.

I look back at a lifetime of everything with her and don't want it to be after. I want it to be before. But it isn't.
It's now. And she will lose her hair.
And I must accept it.
A new stage.

One Word

I remember the song, "I can see clearly now, the rain is gone."

Webster's Dictionary defines the word clear as: bright; cloudless; luminnous; easily seen through; free from mist or haze; free from ambiguity.

The doctor's clarion call, like the bell tone of an angel, announced to us in the waiting room of Long Beach Memorial Hospital, "The lymph nodes are clear."

With that one word, the haze of fear that had descended with the diagnoses of breast cancer was lifted.

Never has a word carried such light.

Ribbons of Life

Count down. Another Friday unlike any other Friday. Surgery on Tuesday. All of a sudden pink is the color of the day. I really don't like pink. Never have. And I don't like what it has come to symbolize. I don't want a pink ribbon. I don't want to race for the cure. I didn't want the red ribbon either. I didn't want to walk. I didn't want to quilt. I don't want to be a member of this club any more than I wanted to be a member of that one. This color combination is close to the heart - pink and red - Valentine's Day - love - passion - heart ache - pain - anger. The truth is, you can never really know what it is to experience something until you've been through it.

When AIDS showed up at the door, I had no choice but to sit down with him and to get acquainted. We became quite intimate and he changed my life. Odd bed-fellows. After his work was done, he became my muse. My creative partner. For fifteen years, he and I have collaborated. Solemn Brother. We have come a long way together. We are on solid ground.

I wasn't prepared for breast cancer to come in. She was sneakier. Less obvious. When I first met AIDS he looked gaunt, grey and he shuffled. BC hid inside - disguised in strength and beauty. She walked briskly three miles a day. Until one day in the garden, she made her presence known. Sneaky sister. Ferocious female. Enemy of woman. She is a liar of sorts. AIDS at least came out of the closet. BC, was stealth in her attack. She snuck in through the back door.

I suppose I will befriend her at some point. What choice do I have? But it's too soon for me to open up to her. I am guarded. Reserved. She is unfamiliar. I do not trust her. She, too, will likely work her way into my being. There will be new knowing. Deepening. I may even see her as gift. Tied in a pink ribbon instead of red. But not today. I'm not ready to take on this relationship.

BC, Forgive my rudeness - but you can leave now. And take your ribbon with you.

The Lump

Don’t tell me not to wait for the other shoe to drop.

In my life it always does.

And it has

again.

I don’t want nor need this lesson

again.

Don’t tell me to look on the positive side.

I don’t need coaching.

I know the drill.

I’ve withstood plenty

earned my stripes

so don’t tell me it’s all going to be o.k.

o.k. would be that it not to have happened at all.

In my story

life doles out snippets of respite

moments to come up for air

but

not for too long

before

yet again

the other shoe.

I stand in the middle of the room

with no one to call

because

I would call her

but can’t

because

this is happening to her.

And

again

life comes into sharp focus.

But

I don’t need this lens

I’ve looked through it plenty.

The waves of the North Shore that come only in winter

wash over me this summer’s day.

Again.

alb7/22/09