Friday the 13th

I've never been terribly superstitious. Black cats, the number 13, and all of the other old wives tales haven't fazed me much. Movies like "Halloween" and "NIghtmare on Elm Street" bother me because of the ridiculous carnage, but really aren't all that creepy - mostly because they're not terribly realistic. Actually, though, the series of "Scream" movies were rather scary, and clever, which surprised me.

What I do tend to dislike are Fridays which fall on the 13th. In 1987 there were two, back to back, in February and March. I was a sophomore in high school, 19 years younger (gasp) than I am today. Amazing how when you don't sit down and think about it, calculate the number of years separating you from a memory, it seems much more recent. But then pivotal points in life are like tattoos in your memory, fresh as the day they occurred.

On Valentine's Day, a Saturday that year, I was 15 years young. I was taking driver's ed, even though I wouldn't be 16 until the summer. My mom had talked to the teacher and he made an allowance for me to take it during the school year rather than in summer school - which was totally cool. I had a leg up on all the other summer birthdays.

Meanwhile, my mom was declining in health. She hid it best as she could, with every ounce of maternal strength. I don't know if it was her beliefs, her German ancestry, the baby boomer generation, or a little of everything - but "it" wasn't talked about. So appearances were kept up as best as possible. Her blue eyes still twinkled and her dimples still framed her smile. As a young child I desperately wanted a set of dimples. I would stare into the bathroom mirror, index fingernails planted in my skin - expecting that dimples could be made with enough effort. Unfortunately the dimples never came, but I always coveted my mom's. And now, as an adult, I'm starting to have laugh lines, which are the next best thing, I think.

Since "it" was not a topic of conversation, I never expected her to die. She was all about business as usual, until her final days. On Friday, March 13th she died - in the middle of the night, a bird away from her nest.

I used to think that it was the best way - I didn't see her suffer - she died fairly quickly when "it' became more prominent. I remember that morning. It was still dark, probably 6am. When my dad told me he cried, we cried. I'd never heard a man cry like that before. Haven't since - it's beyond description.

When the sun came up, we went to a nearby park. I'm not sure why, but I think we both needed to get out, be out, somewhere. We sat at a park bench for awhile. At our appointment with the funeral home I remember the director completing the obituary ... "beloved wife, mother, daughter, sister. . . where do you want donations to be sent?" All very matter of fact. My two grandmothers were there, both widowed by then, and friends since childhood.

It's almost like I was underwater the entire morning - the tears shed with dad clogged my ears for hours, with an occasional sound bite penetrating the silence. Before we went back home to make more calls, we stopped at McDonald's. It was lunch hour and crowded. This is the last memory I have of that day. Over a burger & fries, I realized that life went on, that to everyone else it was just another day. And on some level I found that oddly comforting. My life was off track, my world spinning horribly out of control, but with time and effort it could (and would) resume.