My First Brother

I recently found a box of old photos that I had packed away in hopes that it would someday serve as just the thing to get me started recording some of the family stories just beginning to surface from the depths of my unconscious mind.  For a long time, I thought I had only a few memories. They were either really great, wonderful memories, like my love of waterskiing as a teen, flying across the surface of the water without a care in the world. Or they were just the opposite. Dark, painful ones like listening to my parents fighting in the backyard as I hid in my room. I remember thinking I heard my father throwing bricks at my mother.

Several things happened as I began going through the photos in this box.  I started remembering things that I hadn’t thought of in years and since then memories seem to keep emerging like bats leaving their roost at dusk.

I found this photo of my mother holding my first-born brother and felt a deep connection that I have never felt before. Consciously I did know about this little brother of mine, born when I was probably 3 years old. But I don’t know very much about him, because he died shortly after he was born.  My parents rarely spoke of him and I can only imagine the pain they must have felt at the time of his death.  Try as I might I cannot bring anything to mind about his death.  I remember him being there, a curiosity to me, my first sibling, but the old file cabinet in my mind reveals nothing more.  My parents are gone now and all they have left behind of themselves are some of their possessions and  the photos in the box.  They were very private people, filled with deep pain.  They kept to themselves the traumas of their own lives, believing that if things are not spoken of, the pain will disappear.

I do know this little brother died because of an Rh blood factor incompatibility between my parents.  He was weak at birth and was given blood transfusions to correct the problem, but it didn’t work out. This child was named Thomas Zabski, Jr.  after our father.   When he died and my second brother was born several years later he was given that same name.

There is no birth or death certificate.  I don’t know when his birthday might be.  I don’t know when he died and I don’t recall ever going to a cemetery to visit his grave.   It is as though he never existed even for the few days or hours he was a living being on this planet.  I find that extremely sad and in writing this story would like to honor my faint memory of him and to let the world know that for a time, he was here.  He was my brother.  I remember him.

Winter’s Healing


My First Angora Goat, Mary with her first born, Tiffany. Photo compliments of WH Rough

Being nestled in the fullness of winter here in Virginia, memory flashes of past winters have been filling my head.  Hence, my last post with the poem, Caledonia Winter.  But my rememberings haven’t stop there.  Bringing my home in Vermont to mind, fills me with more of the richness of that precious time.

A stay at home mom, I raised chickens, a few sheep and Angora goats, for their eggs, wool and mohair, which I spun into yarn, then crafted into a variety of goods … wall hangings, sweaters, purses and pillows that I sold at area craft fairs.

The cold, dark winter season, seemed to sometimes last up to six months.  One year there was snow on the ground from October 1st and it never completely disappeared until May 1st of the following year.  At Halloween, Mark and Lisa usually dressed up as ghosts … a white sheet being the only costume that would fit over a heavy snow suit.

The wind howled and temperatures were often below zero, not including the wind chill factor.  At times, snow drifts would close off our view from the picture window in our family room.  We heated our 125 year old farm-house with an old oil burner, backed up by several wood burning stoves, one in the kitchen which I cooked on during the cold months, baking bread and slowly simmering hearty stews.

Winter days were mostly gray and snowy, followed by one or two exquisitely cloudless, arctic-blue-sky days. The sun, hanging low in the southern portion of the sky would set the icicles on the eaves to dripping.  Those were favorite days.  I’d often go off on cross-country skis, finding my tracks to be the first across newly fallen snow, except for those of tiny mice, a fox or some other wild creature looking for food to bring back to its den.

Yet, I was depressed much of the time, often had cabin-fever when the weather was cruel and cold … when being outside was not a realistic option. I suffered from what is now called Seasonal Effective Disorder, which at the time wasn’t recognized as something that might cause one to think that they are loosing their minds.  One March, after the days had warmed a bit, I went out with an axe and tried to chop away a 3 inch layer of ice on the driveway.  I’m still surprised that I wasn’t hauled off to the loony bin, but I know others suffered as I did through those long, cold days and took measures of their own.

Winter, was followed by mud season during April and early May, when the snow would slowly disappear leaving many yards and dirt roads mired in mud.  When grass started sprouting in melted places, daffodils began to blossom and maple trees came into bud, I knew the long haul of winter was over and warm summer days would soon follow.

Still, one of the richest times of year for me was during March and April, when the lambs and kids began to drop … tiny, soft creatures sent from above to fill those last excruciating months of snow and ice with wonder and excitement.

As with birthing my own children, I felt these events were miracles … teachings on the essence of life, love and existence … in a scientific world, the result of sperm meeting egg.  In my heart, it was so much more.

I have never experienced such warmth and joy as when witnessing a new life being brought into the world … when a lamb or kid, slowly slips from its mother’s womb, covered in a thin, blue veil, which mom slowly removes with gentle strokes of her tongue.  The small bundle of life unfolds, bleating as it finds its legs, reaches a staggering balance and butts its tiny head in the direction of mama’s teat.

It is hard for me to find words for what seems to be a healing of the spirit.  Envisioning this newness fills me with the sweetness of life and the mystery of our being.  I find it similar to what happens when words seamlessly flow from some unknown source onto a blank piece of paper; or when a paint brush, though held by the painter, finds its own way across a canvas, bringing to life a work of art.

The Dawning Of A New Year

I’ve never been one to celebrate the New Year on January 1st.  I’ve always considered September to be the beginning of the new year.  I think it’s because when I was small, the school year started in September.  There was always a new dress or two, new shoes, notebooks with white, empty pages, colorful pens and pencils.  There were also new teachers, new things to learn and of course, new friends.

But this year is completely different.  To say that 2010 was a difficult year is an understatement, and I look forward to its passing.  But, it has also been one of the best years of my life!

We decided to sell our home of 10 years, buy another, much smaller.  My brother, diagnosed with cancer two years ago, started going down hill in the spring and died on June 1st, the same day we closed on our new house.  We moved several days later, then rushed up to New England for his memorial service.

A week or so after we got back, our small city was hit by a 5 minute microburst that left many neighborhoods, including our own, looking like war zones. We were fortunate in that we had only minor damage, but there was severe damage all over the city with roofs torn off and many homes hit directly by large, once stately trees.  The trauma of the event was held by most of us for months.  The sound of chain saws filled hot summer days.

In July we signed a contract to sell our old house and were excited that the buyer wanted to pay cash and to close by the end of August.  He never showed up for the closing and we are now in the throes of going to court so that we can retrieve the deposit and the money we’ve spent on maintenance, from the closing date until a verdict is brought forth.  In the meantime the housing market in the area has tanked big time.  It had been holding it’s own, but at the beginning of summer, what was happening all over the country caught up with us.  It doesn’t look like it’s going to get much better.  The house is still on the market, but activity is very slow, especially at this time of year.

At the end of August I had a PAP test which showed abnormal cells in my uterus.  In early September a D&C delivered the verdict that I had uterine cancer.  I was exhausted from the stress of moving, my brother’s death and the need to keep myself from drowning in my own anxiety.  In mid-October I had a laparoscopic hysterectomy … the ultimate purge.  In the hospital one day, out the next, the cancer was gone and so were my reproductive organs.  All of my doctors assure me, that if you must have cancer, this is the one to get.  I still have to be checked out every 3 to 4 months for a year or two and there is 2% chance that it could return.  But, that’s a 98% chance that it will never revisit!

Along with all the difficulty, 2010 turned into a stupendously good year.  Deep sadness has become mixed with many blessings.  My brother is finally at peace. We are living in a wonderful new home and the surgery, with the best possible outcome, has left me feeling more alive and energetic than I’ve been in years.  My recovery was fast and I’ve learned that just staying at home and creating is what my heart desires.   I’ve made my life much more spacious, with fewer distractions. The never-ending have-to-do list, is a thing of the past.  I am learning to live deliberately and slowly.

I watched my mother and brother fighting the reality of death, not gaining the end-of-life peace I had hoped they’d find.  After my diagnosis and initial series of end-of-the-world scenarios, I realized that I didn’t want to go there.  I have come to believe that my cancer was a gift, teaching me to be present in each and every moment, good or bad.  I feel that if I were to die today or 10 years from now, I have been given an opportunity to make a difference in the world in my own, small way, knowing that bringing love and happiness to the world is what my work is all about.

To all of you, friends and family, I wish a Happy New Year filled with the gifts of health, love and peace.  I am endlessly grateful to you all!

Christmas Wonderings, 2010

Zoe's Snowman

On Christmas Eve I had a wonderful conversation with my 7-year-old grandson, Noah.  The day before he had told my husband that he really didn’t like living in the small town where he’s growing up in western North Carolina.  “It’s boring and you see the same old things every day,” he claimed.   So I asked him where he would like to live and he told me he’d love to live in a city like Washington, DC or Atlanta, which happen to be the biggest cities he’s ever visited.

He went on to tell me that when he grew up, he and his best friend Sam, would move to Atlanta and be housemates.  When I asked him how they would make money to pay for rent and food, he told me they’d  sell apples and bananas.  He also said he wouldn’t be seeing much of me because we live too far away and he wouldn’t even see his mom that much after he moved.  Then he exclaimed that besides his 6 silver dollars and the allowance he’d been saving up, his parents would give them money.  When I asked him if he thought his parents had plenty of money to do that, he exclaimed, “Oh, yes!”  Then he raced off to play without another word.

Later, after our evening meal, and the kids were tucked into bed excitedly awaiting the arrival of Ole Saint Nick, we adults sat around and talked about the state of the world and education in particular. We suddenly realized all at the same time, that in 6 short years, Zoe, aged 10 and in 5th grade, would be going off to college!   And Noah would follow 3 years later.

On Christmas day after all of the gifts were opened and a delicious dinner of honey-glazed ham and Perogis was shared, we spent a bit of time outside as snow fell covering the countryside like a soft quilt.  Zoe built a snowman, made angels in the snow.  Noah didn’t want to go out at first saying, “I don’t like to play in the snow.” He did however give in, tossing snowballs at his granddad and Deena as they shoveled the driveway, using the shovelings to construct a small mountain in the flat front yard. From this pinnacle, Zoe slid over and over again, each time gaining a bit more distance.

Afterwards, cuddling together on the couch and floor we sleepily watched the movie Elf, about a human baby who finds himself at the North Pole, having crawled into Santa’s bag of gifts when Santa was making a delivery at an orphanage.  The child grows up to be an elf working in Santa’s workshop.  Because of his size and his inability to do things the way elves do them, he goes off to New York City to find his father.  He brings holiday spirit to the big city, his father is transformed from an uncaring workaholic into the best dad ever and everyone lives happily ever after.  It’ a funny, silly little film starring Will Ferrell, and is perfect for a quiet, snowy Christmas afternoon.

But the film and perfectness of this Christmas day left me wondering if we are all living in a snow-globe fantasy, imagining how perfect our lives will be in the future, that there will be plenty of food and money for all, that everyone will have a college education and that there will be peace on earth forever.

Really???

Anniversaries

My mom, during a happy day of perogi making! December,2006

We’re having a snowy day.  All of the area schools are closed and the roads are said to be icy, making driving hazardous.  But this is not Minnesota and we’re only supposed to get 3 to 4 inches.  Just enough for the kids in the neighborhood to build a small carrot-nosed snow man,  throw a few snowballs or sled down the steep winding hills that surround us.  For me, it’s a great day to settle in with a hot cup of spicy tea, a good book, forget about the Christmas Holiday ahead and just be kind to myself.

Yet a restlessness follows me through the rooms of my house like my cat,  Pepper, who shadows me as I go about my daily routines and sometimes causes me to trip as I move from one place to another.  But this restlessness is a quiet stumbling over things hidden in the passage of time.  It is the reminder that December is filled with anniversaries that can take away the pleasure from an already stressful time of year.

Thirty years ago my father died, and was buried on a snowy December day in Hanover, New Hampshire, in a plain pine box that my brother, Reid, built.  Five years ago this month, one of my most precious companions, Hannah, had a stroke, while she sat in my lap.  She was a Maine Coon cat, who really belonged to my daughter, but came to live with us and stayed, when Lisa was unable to care for her.  She had congestive heart failure and I took her that evening to the Emergency Vet and had her put to sleep.

The most difficult event occurred on the 18th of December, exactly four years ago tomorrow, when my mother, who was living with us, had a fall that marked the beginning of the end of her life.  She had recently been told by her oncologist that there was nothing more he could do to prevent her lung cancer from spreading.  Just before that Bill and I had taken away her car keys because she was a danger to herself and others on the road.

Not a happy camper, she took her suffering out on those closest to her. I was there.  Not the easiest person to live with under normal circumstances, she was narcissistic, an alcoholic and was still smoking though she knew she had cancer along with emphysema.  She was on oxygen, but would disconnect herself and step outside to have a smoke.

We’d invited her to live with us 7 years earlier when her health started going down hill.  At first she was very independent, and took care of most of her own needs.  But as time passed and she was diagnosed with cancer, I took on the role of caregiver to my parent.  It was something I wanted to do, not knowing that I was still trying to gain the love and acceptance that all children want from the person who birthed them.  Against much good advice not to put myself in that situation I began a very demanding, confusing and exhausting time.

I loved her.  I was heart-broken that there was little that I could do to help.  She was in denial about the cancer and whenever I tried to be helpful, I hit a brick wall.  She was a sweetheart one minute, a clown the next, and then a monster from hell.

I was no angel myself.  Mothers and daughters have a way of pushing each other’s buttons during the best of times. Oil and water!  She was stubborn and afraid of dying.  I was trying to help and gain her trust and acceptance, while asking her to see the truth of her situation.

On the day she fell, we had arranged by mutual consent for her to spend a few days in an assisted living situation that would give all of us some space.  With Christmas in the wings, the pressure was too great on all of us.  As she was packing, she got tangled in her oxygen hose and fell, breaking her left shoulder.  She was in a lot of pain and all she wanted to do after her visit to the emergency room was to come home.  So back she came, and we all tried to do the best we could.

Three days later, she got tangled in her oxygen hose again, and this time suffered a spiral fracture of her left femur, on the same side as her shoulder break.  This time she couldn’t come home from the emergency room.  She stayed in the hospital for several days while we were told to look for a nursing home with a rehabilitation program.  On Christmas night she called at midnight, telling my husband she needed him to come and get her, because the people there were trying to kill her.  He calmed her down and we spent the rest of night dreading what was ahead.

Finding a decent nursing home was not an easy task.  Highly recommended to us, the first one we visited smelled of urine right inside the front door.  It was obviously a poorly maintained facility with walls needing paint and doors needing fixing.  An old woman was wandering around with only a shirt on and none of the staff seemed concerned.

I was not doing well through this process … panic attacks, bouts of crying, and deeply felt grief for my mother and myself.  My husband, bless his heart, kept up the search for a facility and found one that didn’t smell, was fairly new and seemed pleasant enough.  I visited and was cheered a bit by the plate of chocolate chip cookies that greeted visitors by the front door.  The rooms were clean, the patients seemed fairly happy and it was a mere 5 minutes from our home.  Regrettably, it and another facility were to be her homes for the next five months.  She died on May 21, 2007.