Why Is It ...

… that people don’t do what I do, and stop crying about your problems on the internet and instead bottle them up inside and disguise them with dark inappropriate humor like a grownup.

… that my memory is like an Etch-a-Sketch? Every time I shake my head I forget everything.

… that, while I know my body cannot digest corn, how is possible that after I’ve chewed up the corn it comes back out in the shape of corn.

… that I don’t always have time to fold the laundry, but when I do, I don’t.

… that people must learn that the reason I don’t care about folks talking about me is because I know that when they’re talking about themselves no one cares.

… that my patience with everyone is literally at 1%.

… that people who watch my life and gossip about it should not give up because the new season is about to start streaming.

… that no one looks both ways before getting on my nerves.

… that people need to remember I am not that great in the advice business, but I am a pro at the sarcastic comeback.

Why Is it ...

… that even though they call them Stress Balls I am not supposed to throw them at people who are stressing me out.

… that I’ll eat a bowl of water with a fork before I give a rat’s ass about your opinion of me.

… that you need to know I haven’t lost my mind; half of it wandered off and the other half went looking for it.

… that my favorite part of the job is lunch break, clocking out, and pay day.

… that I often find myself lying in bed at 3AM  and realizing I should have said something else in an argument I had in 2012.

… that some people underestimate my ability to delete your number and then act like we’ve never met.

… that I ask myself, Am I perfect? And I say No. And then I ask myself if I do my best and try to keep a good attitude, and the answer is also No.

… that people don’t understand that Facetiming me is for Premium Members only.

… that when I see anyone with six piercings or more at a store it takes everything I have not to attach a shower curtain to their face.

… that the older I get the more I understand why roosters scream to start their day.

Why Is It ...

… that my favorite childhood memory is my back not hurting?

… that I want to make ice cubes from hotdog water and serve it to my guests to get them to leave?

… that when I say I'll be there in 10 minutes, you should just know that I will not be there in 10 minutes?

… that people freak out when I say that I don’t Snapchat or TikTok or Instagram, but no one cares that I can write in cursive, do math without a calculator and tell time on a clock with hands?

… that I keep telling myself not to talk to weirdoes before realizing that if that happened I would have no friends left?

… that seeing people walk out of my life makes me sad … but only because I wish they would run?

… that my Life Coach just told me that I didn’t make the team?

… that I’m not as mean as I could be and am annoyed that people aren’t more grateful for that?

… that there are no adult neighborhoods to Trick-or-treat, like where they hand out Tacos and Margaritas?

… that I only drink water, coffee or alcohol and am constantly vacillating between being over hydrated, very jittery or drunk?

… that sometimes I think I’m the problem, I instantly think, Never mind that doesn’t sound right?

Bobservations

We recently received a recall notice for our car, and so Carlos called the dealership and set up the appointment; he said, and I quote:

“They open at 7 AM.”

The night before the appointment, I reminded him we needed to leave the house about 6:45 to get the car in, and he was quite unhappy not to have a leisurely breakfast. But we got him up and dressed and ready to go and arrived at the dealership about five minutes early. The place was pitch dark, and there were no other cars around. I asked:

“Are you sure the appointment is at seven?”

“Yes, I put it on my calendar with Siri … Hey Siri, do I have any appointments today?”

“You have one appointment scheduled. 7:45 AM recall on car.”

And yes, we sat and waited the forty-five minutes so I could torture him about his memory.

Here’s another Tuxedo story, and pictures, from March 22, 2009

“A Sunday Tuxedo raises his eyes toward Heaven and prays to the cat gods that there will be fish for dinner.

And when he realizes it'll be a dish of dry stuff like every day, he pouts.

And does his best Camille impression.

Or Tuxedo of the Jungle....or Bond Tuxedo Bond.”

Sidenote: The other morning I went to the bedroom to make the bed and started patting down the covers because Tuxedo used to crawl underneath and sleep. Carlos came in and asked what I was doing and I started to say, ‘Looking for Tuxedo.’

And the tears came again.

That darn cat will always be in my head and heart.

In Denver yesterday a student shot two high school administrators, Good thing he wasn’t reading a banned book … or learning history … or saying gay … in the United States of Guns.

The Walt Disney Company will host a major conference promoting LGBTQ+ rights in the workplace in Central Florida this September, in a defiant display of the limits of Florida Governor Ron DeSantis De Fascists’ campaign against diversity training.

Joining Disney will be Apple, McDonald’s, Uber, Walmart, Hilton, Amazon, Boeing, Cracker Barrel and John Deere who are all sponsoring the Out & Equal Workplace summit.

And they will be saying Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender.

A man and his wife, along with their three small children, were checking into a hotel, and after getting the room key, the father leaned over the counter and whispered to the front desk clerk:

“I hope the porn is disabled.”

And the desk clerk replied:

“It’s all regular porn, you sick fuck.”

It’s all in the phrasing.

I haven’t talked much about our lone cat, Consuelo, since we lost Tuxedo. She’s been somewhat different; before she was a solitary cat—though she played with Tuxedo and Max when they were still with us—but she's become more social, sleeping on the floor of the living room while we watch TV or read. And while she has never been the kind of cat who likes being picked up, she has taken to letting me put her in my lap, where she will fall asleep after a while.

Still, we think she needs a companion, and after having, at one time, seven cats, having just one feels strange. So we’re getting set to look for a new cat, and a friend who works at an animal shelter was asking what kind we wanted: age, color, gender, all those questions. My only criteria: it cannot be a Tuxedo because we’ve already had the best one and anything else would be a letdown.

But we’re hoping for a younger cat that can keep Consuelo busy but will also get along with an aging tiny dog and a couple of queens.

Michigan Governor Gretchen Whitmer has signed the Elliott-Larsen Civil Rights Act which expands basic protections for the LGBTQ community, prohibiting discrimination at schools, offices, and housing, based on a person’s sexual orientation and gender identity.

Whitmer said, as she signed the bill, thanks to a Democrat controlled legislature:

“In the words of Detroit native Lizzo, it’s about damn time!”

It’s about damn time we all vote Blue to end the bigotry and make equality the law.

Thor Bulow is a former fashion model from Germany, and that’s about the end of my knowledge, so I will ask: Would You Hit It?

From Outta The Past

Mom and Dad on their wedding day … their second wedding day, June 18, 1955. They were first married in a civil ceremony on June 17, 1955, but then has a ‘real’ ceremony the next day; something to do with Dad being in the Air Force and stationed in a foreign country … or maybe it was so nice they did it twice.

Mom and Dad some forty years later. They were married 51 years until my mother passed away.

My sister Jeri and I looking thrilled at:

A] going to church; or …

B] those horrid outfits

C] going to church in those horrid outfits

A few years later, dressed  a bit more, um. ‘Christian’ for Easter Sunday.

And then this one, clearly it’s my brother’s birthday because as the gay one I’d be wearing the crown most days.

Lastly, Carlos and I on our first date … it was a long date. I travelled 3000 miles to meet him and then spent eleven days there. But, looking back, well worth it.

For My Sister ...On Her Birthday

Today is my sister Jeri’s birthday … it’s been almost seven years since she lost her battle with cancer.

SIDENOTE: It was never lost on me that the two most important women in my life, my mother and my sister, had birthdays in the same week, albeit years apart, and died in the same week, albeit years apart.

But this is about my sister, my big sister. My very first best friend; I loved her from the moment I was born, and I imagine she'd say she loved me from that second, too, even if I was 'the new baby.'

My sister, my big sister. We were very different; she was gregarious and outgoing and had tons of friends and was always doing something. I was shy, petrifyingly so — my mom used to joke that I didn't start talking until I was eighteen — and I had just a handful of friends.

My sister, my big sister. She could be as stubborn as a mule, and had quite the temper, while I always tried to please, and be the nice one, and not draw attention to myself. We were as different as night and day, and as thick as thieves.

My fondest memory of her is the day she taught me, without knowing it, how to say I love you. You see, that day she had called to chat, and we talked about everything, from what we were doing to what the world was doing and then, as we were saying our goodbyes, she said, All right then, I love you.

And I said, Thanks.

Thanks? That was my response to my sister saying I love you? I mean, I guess I meant to say Thank you for loving me but that isn't really the correct response either, is it? So, as I tend to do, I sat there after that phone call and wondered why it was so hard for me to say those words, and I realized that I come, came, from a family that didn't really ever 'say' the words. We showed our love; we knew we were loved; I guess we all felt we just didn't have to 'say' it. 

Add to that the idea that I also thought, subconsciously, at least back then, that I didn't deserve to be loved because I was the 'different' one; the gay son. I mean, my parents knew I was gay, and they were fine with it; they loved me. But I’ve always wondered if they ever hoped that I wasn't; no matter how much you love your gay children, as a parent you realize their lives would be easier if they weren't gay. So, I felt loved, but at the same time, unworthy of being loved because I wasn't the 'expected’ son.

My sister, thankfully, thought differently and could say I love you so easily and simply, without force, that it made me realize that I was worth it. And I thank her for that. After that conversation, and after my introspection, I listened to what she was saying: we all knew we were loved but she wanted us to hear it. And that made a huge difference.

Now, I didn’t change overnight and turn into one of those people that say I love you at the drop of a hat; it took time. I think the first time I said it back to her I probably choked on the words a little bit, as though they were somehow foreign to me, but it got easier and more natural.

I always knew my sister loved me, and I always will know it, it’s just that she made me realize I was worth it, and I could say it, and hear it and mean it and be it. That's just one of the lessons my sister taught me.

My sister, my big sister. My hero.

A Couple of Mom Stories For Today...

As happens, I have been thinking about my Mom a lot today and I will share two stories of what she was like …

My Mother did not swear. Ever. My Mother once said the word ‘Crap,’ and followed it quickly with, ‘Pardon my French.’ How she raised a son that swears like Cher, or a longshoreman, is a mystery, and yet I never cursed in front of Mother except one time.

I was living in California, about ninety minutes from my parents and Mom called to see if I would dog sit while she and my Dad took a long weekend away. Of course, I said; happy to di it, I said;  Just get me the dates you need me, I said.

One Friday afternoon, Mom called me to say she and dad were getting ready to go and when was I going to arrive. She had never given me a specific date and we went round and round:

I know I’ll told you the dates.

No, Mom, you didn’t.

I’m pretty sure I did.

Mom, I asked you for the dates and you said you’d get them for me,

And I got them for you.

No, Mom, you didn’t, and I need to change my schedule now, if I can—

Well, I know I told you!

Mom. That is a fucking lie.

:::click:::

I stood in my house and panicked thinking I’d just cursed in front of my Mother—and I was a grown-assed man at the time, but still—and as I freaked out, my phone rang again:

Hello.

You said the f-word to your mother?

And that was the only time I ever cursed in front of her.

 

A sweeter story without swearing … when my Mother called me or I called he, we’d always chat for a good long while, and then she would say:

All right, I need to get off here, Your Dad will be home soon.

And she’d keep taking, until:

All right, sweetie, that’s it for me. I’ll talk to you soon.

And she’d keep talking. And talking. But, when she was actually, truly, finally finished, she’d always say this:

All right, then, Goodbye sweetie, I love you.

And then she was off.

I still miss that send off.

PS That's a picture my Dad took of my Mom when they'd gone down to an inn by the sea for an anniversary weekend.

It’s With Great Sadness That I Say Goodbye ….

… to The Stud, San Francisco’s oldest continuously operating queer nightclub.

Yes, The Stud, is permanently closing its current location at Ninth and Harrison streets in SoMa amid the COVID-19 crisis:

“The Stud is the country’s only cooperatively owned LGBT venue and has been in operation for 55 years [but] because of a lack of revenue due to the COVID-19 pandemic, the historic bar will be announcing that they are permanently closing their location and will be holding a drag funeral to honor the end of an era of LGBT nightlife.”

Damn you, COVID-19!

I have many fond memories of The Stud from living out West. Dancing at The Stud; drinking way too much at The Stud; finding love for the night at The Stud. Every time I’d have a visitor, off we’d go, because it was raucous and bawdy and fun and friendly and queer and safe.

My favorite story is the time a large group of us went wine tasting in Napa and then went back into The City looking for fun; our first stop was the Paradise Lounge in SoMa; a former YMCA, the dance floor was a plexiglass slab over the empty swimming pool, and bars were set up in the locker rooms. Paradise wasn’t exclusively gay, but it was a fun place to start the night. As we entered the building, my friend Robby, straight as could be, asked if it was a gay club and I said ‘No.’ It wasn’t; it was an everybody club, so in we went. After a while we wanted to switch things up and The Stud wasn’t too far, so off we went. Robby said:

“The Stud? That’s a gay place.”

“No. That’s just the name.”

But it was deliciously gay and as we entered the building, Robby leading the way, the first thing he saw were two guys in briefs dancing on the bar. He shot me a panicked look and I assured him he’d be fine.

“But what do I do if a guy hits on me and wants to dance or buy me a drink?”

“Take the drink, and if you wanna dance, dance, if you don’t then don’t.

We practically had to pry Robby outta that place later on because he was having so much fun, being straight in a gay bar.

Who. Knew.

And now, it’s going away?

Perhaps not. After initial reports claimed The Stud would be closing for good, co-owner Marke Bieschke said they have plans to look for a new location:

“We’re still going to come back when this is over—a different space with the same lovingly outrageous vibe. … And after this is all over, a new permanent location, to help rebuild the city’s shattered nightlife scene—and continue the Stud’s rough-and-tumble legacy the only way we know how: with shots up and heels high.”

Just like I remember it.

For My Sister ...On Her Birthday

Today is my sister Jeri’s birthday … it’s been almost four years since she lost her battle with cancer.

My sister, my big sister. My very first best friend; I loved her from the moment I was born, and I imagine she'd say she loved me from that second, too, even if I was 'the new baby.'

My sister, my big sister. We were very different; she was gregarious and out-going and had tons of friends and was always doing something. I was shy, almost petrifyingly so — my mom used to joke that I didn't start talking until I was eighteen — and I had just a handful of friends.

My sister, my big sister. She could be as stubborn as a mule, and had quite the temper, while I always tried to please, and be the nice one, and not draw attention to myself. We were as different as night and day, and as thick as thieves.

My fondest memory of her is the day she taught me, without knowing it, how to say I love you. You see, that day she had called to chat, and we talked about everything, from what we were doing to what the world was doing and then, as we were saying our goodbyes, she said, All right then, I love you.

And I said, Thanks.

Thanks? That was my response to my sister saying I love you? I mean, I guess I meant to say Thank you for loving me but that isn't really the correct response either, is it? So, as I tend to do, I sat there after that phone call and wondered why it was so hard for me to say those words, and I realized that I come, came, from a family that didn't really ever 'say' the words. We showed our love; we knew we were loved; I guess we all felt we just didn't have to 'say' it. 

Add to that the idea that I also thought, subconsciously, at least back then, that I didn't deserve to be loved because I was the 'different' one; the gay son. I mean, my parents knew I was gay, and they were fine with it; they loved me. But I’ve always wondered if they ever hoped that I wasn't; no matter how much you love your gay children, as a parent you realize their lives would be easier if they weren't gay. So, I felt loved, but at the same time, unworthy of being loved because I wasn't the 'expected’ son.

My sister, thankfully, thought differently and could say I love you so easily and simply, without force, that it made me realize that I was worth it.  And I thank her for that. After that conversation, and after my introspection, I listened to what she was saying: we all knew we were loved but she wanted us to hear it. And that made a huge difference.

Now, I didn’t change overnight and turn into one of those people that say I love you at the drop of a hat; it took time. I think the first time I said it back to her I probably choked on the words a little bit, as though they were somehow foreign to me, but it got easier and more natural.

I always knew my sister loved me, and I always will know it, it’s just that she made me realize I was worth it, and I could say it, and hear it and mean it and be it. That's just one of the lessons my sister taught me.

My sister, my big sister. My hero.

Mom

February, especially right here in the middle of the month, is not a good month for me, or my family; my sister died February 15, 2014; my Aunt Pam died, February 14, 2008; my mother passed away February 17, 2007.

I kinda loathe February. But, I’ll keep that in check and remember the good days, the good times, the good things about my Mom …

I learned a lot from my Mom, and my Dad, too. I learned that roles people play aren't defined by gender; that what you do in a relationship, the part you play, can change over time. Mom's didn't just bake cookies and be a Room Mother; they weren't just Den Mother's or on the PTA. Mom's went back to school to become nurses so that Dad's could get a teaching degree after retiring from the Air Force.

And Dad's don't just throw baseballs with their sons. This son wasn't the best catch, and to this day, I still throw like a girl. But Dad's can also take their sons on bike rides; they can go to arts-and-crafts shows; they talk to them. Dad's can do the dishes and cook the meals because Mom's working while he goes to school.

My Mom and Dad are those kinds of Moms and Dads.

In early 2006, my Mom was diagnosed with lung cancer and my Dad did what he does best. He researched and called doctors and spoke to people; he took care of my mother every day from the time she was diagnosed until the day she died. And that is not the easiest thing to do, but it’s what husbands do; husbands who love their wives with all their hearts; husbands who've been married to their wives for over fifty-one years.

Carlos and I visited my Mom just after her diagnosis. It was all good spirits and a happy visit, but lung cancer casts an ugly shadow over everything. The survival rate is minuscule; surviving even two years with lung cancer is rare, but my Dad and Mom went through all the tests and the chemo; losing her hair, her appetite; the sleeplessness; the forgetfulness.

In January of 2007, my Dad asked that I come out again. It was hard for him being on-call 24/7 and he wanted a helping hand … he wanted an ear … he wanted a visitor. My Mom seemed in good spirits that week. We had fresh crab for dinner one night and she went crazy over hers. We told stories and laughed; we ate, we drank, we talked.

And the clouds grew a bit darker. A couple of weeks later Dad began using hospice to help him care for my Mom. He needed a break; it was a full-time job with no time off. I remember he gave me the name of the woman who handled the hospice care program and asked me to call her. I had been asking if he wanted me to come out and he said it was a decision I needed to make for myself. So I called that woman and she told me my father had been working so hard caring for my Mom; she told me he was reluctant to ask for help. I told her he was stubborn as a mule — a trait the entire family shares — and she said, "I can't say that, but you can." I asked if she thought I should go out there, and she said, "As soon as she can. Your mother really doesn't have much time."

Doesn't have much time. Awful, awful words.

Carlos and I flew out to Oregon. My mother seemed all right, at first. Alert. Awake. Happy to see us, all of us. My sister and brother had come up from California, so we were all together again, for a while. And it seemed as though, once she had her family around, my Mom knew she could go, that we would somehow be okay. The next few days her health began to fail rapidly; she slept most of the time, but when she was awake, she would say the most wonderful things.

My sister told a story of having dinner with our Dad while Mom slept on the couch in the next room. With the idea of death becoming clearer, my sister began talking about religion. We were raised to have our own thoughts and ideas about religion, what's right, wrong, who to believe, what to follow. My sister said something about having so many choices, what do you believe.

Mom woke up for a moment and said, "You take all the best parts of all of them."

Another time, in that week she died, Mom was asleep on the couch, and her legs slid off to the floor. My sister went and asked if she wanted to change positions and Mom said, "I'm just going to lay here and let them all watch me."

I like to think she was talking about the people waiting for her.

After we'd gotten a hospital bed for her, I was sitting by her side, and she looked through the front window and asked, "Who are all those people on the deck?"

There was no one there, but she saw them, waiting for her.

A day later she died quietly and peacefully in her home. I was sitting in the living room, with Mom asleep across the room. I wanted her to go. I wanted her to be peaceful. I didn't want her to hurt, or to worry about us. I wanted her to have her hair back and her smile; and that laugh; and the way she would say, "Oh Bobby!" whenever I said something outrageous — which was, and is, often. My Dad came out of their bedroom and went to stand by her side, and she was gone. That's a sound you don't ever want to hear, or will ever forget; the sound your Dad makes when he realizes his wife has just died.

So, that's my Mom. I was glad to be there when she died; happy to hold her hand on her last day; to send her off with the sounds of her family and her dog, her husband of so many years.

A funny side note: not long after I got home from Oregon, Carlos and I began house-hunting. Nothing seemed right. Too small; too far out; not enough trees. Then the realtor showed me a house, and as I walked in the front door I could see through the empty living room into the empty kitchen and out the window into the backyard. I saw my Mom, in one of her housecoats — she loved a housecoat — sitting at the breakfast table we would buy later that year, in that kitchen with her morning coffee, looking into the trees.

That was the house we bought. And I can still see my Mom every so often, in that kitchen, looking into my yard. I think of her every day. I talk to her every day. I cry a bit, like now, as I remember and relive those last days with her.

I've always said that it gets easier, but it never really gets better.

I miss you, Mom.
I love you.

It's Been Two Years ....

It’s still hard to believe that my sister Jeri is gone … and that it’s been two years to the day since she lost her battle with cancer.

My sister, my big sister. My very first best friend; I loved her from the moment I was born, and I imagine she'd say she loved me from that second, too, even if I was 'the new baby.'

My sister, my big sister. We were very different; she was gregarious and out-going and had tons of friends and was always doing something. I was shy, almost petrifyingly so — my mom used to joke that I didn't start talking until I was eighteen — and I had just a handful of friends.

My sister, my big sister. She could be as stubborn as a mule, and had quite the temper, while I always tried to please, and be the nice one, and not draw attention to myself. We were as different as night and day, and as thick as thieves.

My sister has cancer. My big sister had cancer. But now she doesn't, now she's safe and free and doesn't hurt and has her hair, and might be sitting with my mother right now, talking things over, and reminiscing some. That makes me feel a little better.

My fondest memory of her is the day she taught me, without knowing it, how to say I love you.

That day she had called to chat and we talked about everything, from what we were doing to what the world was doing. As we were saying our goodbyes, she said, All right then, I love you.

And I said, Thanks.

Thanks? That was my response to my sister saying I love you? I mean, I guess I meant to say Thank you for loving me but that isn't really the correct response either, is it? So, as I tend to do, I sat there after that phone call and wondered why it was so hard for me to say those words, and I realized that I come, came, from a family that didn't really ever 'say' the words. We showed our love; we knew we were loved; I guess we all felt we just didn't have to 'say' it. 

Add to that the idea that I also thought, subconsciously, at least back then, that I didn't deserve to be loved because I was the 'different' one; the gay son. I mean, my parents knew I was gay, and they were fine with it; they loved me. But I’ve always wondered if they ever hoped that I wasn't; no matter how much you love them, as a parent, you realize their lives would be easier if they weren't gay. So, I felt loved, but at the same time, unworthy of being loved because I wasn't the 'expected’ son.

My sister, thankfully, thought differently and could say I love you so easily and simply, without force,  that it made me realize that I was worth it.  And I thank her for that. See, after that conversation, and after my introspection, I listened to what she was saying: we all knew we were loved but she wanted us to hear it. And that made a huge difference.

Now, I didn’t change overnight and turn into one of those people that say I love you at the drop of a hat; it took time. I think the first time I said it back to her I probably choked on the words a little bit, as though they were somehow foreign to me, but it got easier and more natural.

I always knew my sister loved me, and I always will know it, it’s just that she made me realize I was worth it, and I could say it, and hear it and mean it and be it. That's just one of the lessons my sister taught me.

My sister, my big sister. My hero.

A Repost: Mom

February, especially right here in the middle of the month, is not a good month for me or my family; my sister died February 15, 2014; my Aunt Pam died, February 14, 2008; my mother died eight years ago today.

I think I have good reason to not be a fan of February, though I will think of the good times, and hope the sad times stay away for a while.

This is a repost, with some new thoughts … and as I say, it gets easier, but it never gets any better.

I learned a lot from my Mom, and my Dad, too. I learned that roles people play aren't defined by gender; that what you do in a relationship, the part you play, can change over time. Mom's didn't just bake cookies and be a Room Mother; they weren't just Den Mother's or on the PTA. Mom's went back to school to become nurses so that Dad's could get a teaching degree after he retired from the Air Force.

And Dad's don't just throw baseballs with their sons. This son wasn't the best catch, and to this day, I still throw like a girl. But Dad's can also take their sons on bike rides; they can go to arts-and-crafts shows; they talk to them. Dad's can do the dishes and cook the meals because Mom's working while he goes to school.

My Mom and Dad are those kinds of Moms and Dads.

My mother was diagnosed with lung cancer in the early part of 2006, and my Dad did what he does best. He researched and called doctors and spoke to people. He took care of my mother every day from the time she was diagnosed until the day she died. And that is not the easiest thing for anyone to do. But it's what Dad's do; Dad's who love their wives with all their hearts; Dad's who've been married to Mom's for over fifty-one years.

Carlos and I went to see my Mom just after her diagnosis. It was all good spirits and a happy visit, but lung cancer casts an ugly shadow over everything. The survival rate is minuscule; surviving even two years with lung cancer is rare. But my Dad and my Mom went through all the tests and the chemo; losing the hair, the appetite; the sleeplessness; the days she slept too much; the forgetfulness.

In January of 2007, my Dad asked that I come out again. He was having a tough time being on-call 24/7 and he wanted a helping hand; he wanted an ear; he wanted a visitor. I stayed for about a week, and my Mom seemed in good spirits. We had fresh crab for dinner one night and Mom went crazy over hers. We told stories and laughed; we ate, we drank, we talked. And the clouds grew a bit darker.

A couple of weeks later my Dad began using hospice care to help him care for my Mom. He needed a break every so often. It was a full-time job with no time off. I remember he gave me the name of the woman who handled the hospice care program and he asked me to call her. I had been asking him if he wanted me to come out and he said it was a decision I needed to make for myself.

So I called the woman from hospice and spoke to her; she told me my father had been working so hard caring for my Mom; she told me he was reluctant to ask for help. I told her he was stubborn as a mule — a trait the entire family shares — and she said, "I can't say that, but you can." I asked if she thought I should go out there, and she said, "As soon as she can. Your mother really doesn't have much time."

Doesn't have much time. Awful, awful words.

So Carlos and I flew out to Oregon. My mother seemed all right, at first. Alert. Awake. Happy to see us, all of us. My sister and brother had come up from California, so we were all together again, for a while. And it seemed as though, once she had her family around, my Mom knew she could go, that we would somehow be okay. The next few days her health began to fail rapidly; she slept most of the time, but when she was awake, she would say the most wonderful things.

My sister visited the month before as well and told a story of having dinner, she and Dad at the dinner table and Mom asleep on the couch. With the idea of death becoming clearer, my sister began talking about religion. We were raised to have our own thoughts and ideas about religion, what's right, wrong, who to believe, what to follow. My sister said something about having so many choices, what do you believe.

Mom woke up for a moment and said, "You take all the best parts of all of them."

Another time, in that week she died, Mom was asleep on the couch, and her legs slid off to the floor. My sister went and asked if she wanted to change positions and Mom said, "I'm just going to lay here and let them all watch me."

I like to think she was talking about the people waiting for her.

Another day, after we'd gotten a hospital bed for her, I was sitting by her side, and she looked through the front window and asked, "Who are all those people on the deck?"

There was no one there, but she saw them, waiting for her.

A day later she died quietly and peacefully in her home. I was sitting in the living room, with Mom asleep across the room. I wanted her to go. I wanted her to be peaceful. I didn't want her to hurt, or to worry about us. I wanted her to have her hair back and her smile; and that laugh; and the way she would say, "Oh Bobby!" whenever I said something outrageous — which was, and is, often.

My Dad came out of their bedroom and went to stand by her side, and she was gone. That's a sound you don't ever want to hear, or will ever forget; the sound your Dad makes when he realizes his wife has just died.

So, that's my Mom. I was glad to be there when she died; happy to hold her hand on her last day; to send her off with the sounds of her family and her dog, her husband of so many years.

A funny side note: not long after I got home from Oregon, Carlos and I decided to start house-hunting. Nothing seemed right. Too small; too far out; not enough trees. Then the realtor showed me another house, and I walked in the front door and you could see through the empty living room into the empty kitchen and out the window into the backyard. I pictured my Mom, in one of her housecoats, sitting at the breakfast table we would buy, in that kitchen with her morning coffee, looking into the trees.

That was the house we bought. And I can still see my Mom every so often, in that kitchen, looking into my yard. I think of her every day. I talk to her every day. I cry a bit, like now, as I remember and relive those last days with her.

And another odd thing I did, after Mom died, was I took a rosary that belonged to Carlos because, for some reason, it reminded me of her; it has a small cross at the end of it and I hung it from the rearview mirror in my car. I touch it every time I get into the car, and every time I see it, I think of her. Not because of its religious symbolism, but because it’s pretty and my Mom was pretty, too.

I've always said that it gets easier, but it never really gets better.

I miss you, Mom.
I love you.