Break Ups, Sleeping Pills and Whiskey...

I liked drinking because I thought it was conducive to me becoming a great writer. Not because great writers have been known to be drunks, though most of them are (as well as manic depressive), but because it took down walls and opened up a flood of some of the most amazing things I have ever written. The same can be said for Benedryl, but that doesn't sound as exotic and gritty.

When I first moved down to Chico a couple years ago, the guy I was seeing and I had hit a rough patch. Soon I felt it was in my best interest to leave, so I did...and though I had hoped for more of a fight on his end, it did not happen that way and in the end it just proved that he didn't like me as much as I thought he did...and that is what hurt the most: not being wanted.

It also didn't help that I was unemployed, adding fuel to the inadequacy fire. Because I didn't have a job and because he lived literally down the block from me, it was inevitable that I was not going to be able to handle the break up well. With no distractions and a broken heart, I found myself drinking more than usual. And because my mind raced because I had no money to do anything other than sit home and because I lost all my "friends" in the break up, I was left alone with nothing more than a bottle of Jameson and a couple of 1000 piece puzzles. So that is what I did. I drank whiskey and put together puzzles.

Soon I started taking sleeping pills with my whiskey to stave off the thoughts that so hauntingly cluttered my mind. The combination of the pills and Jameson was both peaceful and mind numbing. It was to the point that I was so absolutely distraught with feelings of inadequacy and failure that I could do nothing but cry myself to sleep otherwise. I had a Masters I couldn't use, a debt over my head and a rent I couldn't pay. To ignore all of that I slept through my days and partied at night...anything to ease the hurt.

I don't like emotions. I don't know what to do with emotions when I actually get them. I'm used to being cold and callus. I slept through the day my mom died and went to work the next day. Usually breakups get me for about a week and then I move on. I am a girl, so emotions are inevitable, but in the end, I am as cold-hearted as any man.

But the breakup I had that summer has lingered...for a couple years.

It finally came to head that we would stay friends. He comes over and holds me and we just sleep in the comfort of having someone there. The connection we have, both sexually and emotionally is beyond anything I can explain...and maybe that is why it hurt so much to break up. I finally had to put an end to our hook-ups because it wasn't healthy for me, or us, despite how amazing it was.

I had to move on.

And maybe in the end the drinking wasn't so much my addiction as much as it has been him. Him and the beast that we created together. Us. An "us" that neither of us can seem to quit, no matter how many times we say we have to. No matter how many times we try and walk away, someone always brings "us" back with a text. I never loved a man in my life like I had loved him. Ever. I was never so selfless and willing to drop the rest of my world to be with him.

I have moved on from that, to some degree. He was my ultimate drug. He was my beast. And maybe he still is. True love never really dies, it just sits dormant in the back of your mind, remembering what you once had and what you may never get again. And because of that, no one else gets in...and even if they do, the hurt from before was so bad, it's not worth letting go of.

Recently I was willing to let go and try again, but the person I chose was exactly like me in every way. Scared shitless. The difference is I was willing and ready to do it, despite what it might do. I was willing to fall again just to feel what it felt like to be held in strong arms. To be small and safe in the arms of a man who adored me like I felt so deserved of. I was willing to let myself fall...just to see where it went because I believed in it, and I wanted to remember how amazing it felt to be loved again. And in the end, I got hurt once more. And I learned. I learned that my beast still haunts me. I will always expect to be adored, like I once was...like I am someone's everything. And until I see that look in someone's eye, that undeniable look of love, I will never be content and I will leave...

I wish in the matters of breakups it was all completely logical: You don't like me + I can see you will not give me what I feel I deserve = we don't sleep together anymore and you don't get me. But sadly, the feelings of rejection overshadow the logic and it all becomes an emotional confusing mess. Which brings me back to: I don't like emotions.

But this time, I face them head on...no whiskey, no pills...just me. And no one understands how hard that is. I can't go out on Saturday and drink and dance the night away. Not that I would anyway because La Salles fucking blows now and everyone takes themselves too seriously. WHY?! It's Chico for God's sake...it's LAME! I mean, the place is beautiful but the people for the most part SUCK! They all do the same thing every night...gets belligerently trashed at The Banhee or Crush then go to La Salles or The Beach and get kicked out. The music SUCKS and frankly, it does nothing for me on either an intellectual level or even on an entertaining one.

It's like a constant re-run of a shittier version of Jersey shore...a really non-entertaining one. And no one is there to have fun...all anyone does is oggle chicks for a quick hook up then move on to the next. Where is the class? Where is the sophistication? Where is the fun?

Yeah, so I dress up like an asshole sometimes in a small costume and hang with my friends. How different is that from a short skirt that leaves only 3 inches of fabric from showing off your coochie? At least my efforts are to not take myself too seriously and have a good time. I think this town could use that. It used to be that way, but something happened. Something left. I think it was Matt Armstrong. That guy leaving left a hole in the heart of Chico.

But I digress. I guess my point is, I came home to find myself and in doing so, I found a clarity unlike anything I ever could have imagined. I wish everyone, every single person would just for one month stop drinking. Just stop and see what happens. Go out and socialize without it. Meet new people without the predisposition of wanting sex, but rather to just interact wholly with other human beings.

Or am I living in the wrong world for that?

I recall when living in L.A. I could go to lunch or have a drink with a man and not assume he is trying to get into my pants. I have been close with men as friends before and nothing came of it but some of the most amazingly deep conversations. My best friend Mike is practically married with 3 kids and he and I connect on the most amazing of intellectual levels...and nothing more. People lack that in this society. Honor is not up held and women do not hold on to what should be considered sacred and only valued by a man who fought hard enough to get her. Now the girls are so sad and desperate they just give it pathetically and willingly in hopes to get men. All anyone is getting are STDs.

Go Chico.

So anyway, I guess, despite my rant, I have come to see what it is I want in life and what it is I expect of anyone in it. I am passionate, beautiful, strong and smart...with a little wit to boot. I know who I am and I know it is worth holding my new found ground. I am taking flight and though I am not sure where I am going, I don't care that I don't know, so long as I make the journey worth it by enriching my life with new wonders and sights and let go of the things that hold me back and make me feel less than who I really am.

I think this Phoenix has risen...

Kayden's Toby (Sample from Chapter 5)

I reached for the doorknob but stopped mid-turn and looked down at Michael whose eyes were fixated on the door.

“Michael”, I said, breaking his concentration, “This is serious”.

Michael looked up at me. He looked both concerned and curious.

“This is something that can be extremely dangerous, so you need to be careful, ok?” I said.

Michael’s eyes slightly widened and his face went serious and he stood up a little straighter as he prepped himself for what seemed like anything…anything expect what really stood behind that door.

“I understand”, he said standing even taller. We looked at each other for a moment. I tried to read how he was going to react, but I couldn’t, so I turned the knob anyway. Michael’s eyes concentrated on the door again and a small smirk began to to grow on his face.

I turned the knob, pushed the door open and reached over and pushed Michael in the room while looking behind him for Jessica, making sure she wasn’t around. As I pushed Michael in I followed him and quickly shut the door behind us. Michael’s eyes searched the room but it was not well lit, the only source of light coming from a night light against the wall by his bed and the night sky from our large bedroom window. Toby laid motionless on my bed, still fast asleep. Michael walked the room, looking at me for some kind of guidance. As I walked in, I headed for the light and when I flipped it on, Toby’s orange coat stood out like a beacon.

Michael was still looking at me and watching my eyes. The moment I turned on the light his eyes followed my glance to my bed. As Michael looked, it took him a second to process what he was looking at until Toby’s eye’s flickered and squinted, adjusting to the light, his ears twitched. Michael paused for a moment, still processing until Toby lifted his head, opened his mouth in a wide yawn and stretched out his limbs in a full body stretch. Toby’s already large size seemed to double as he stretched a good three feet past the edges of my bed. My heart skipped for a moment as the realization that a live tiger had just taken over my entire bed seeped into my brain. I looked over at Michael who stood frozen, as if he were going to jump right out of his skin.

“Oh my God!” he cried out in excitement. I ran to shush him but it was too late. Michael was already on my bed cradling Toby’s head with joy and passion. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” Michael squealed in joy. “It’s a tiger, Kayden! Look! Oh my God it’s a tiger! Hi Tiger!” Michael said, looking into Toby’s face. Toby just sat there as Michael rubbed his face all over him, snuggling and talking babytalk, which was muffled as Michael pushed his face into Toby’s fur. I stepped back, cringing, fearful that at any moment Toby would have his fill and turn on Michael. As Michael crawled all over Toby, I watched as Toby began to purr and push his head against Michael’s hand. I looked in curiosity, my head cocked and eyes squinting, realizing Toby was actually enjoying the attention.

Michael crawled back and sat on the edge of my bed, his arms wrapped around Toby’s neck, pushing his face into Toby’s soft furry chest. I just stood there, staring in complete awe as I watched a small boy falling in love with a massive tiger. In some minuet way I was jealous. Jealous that Michael was fearless enough to give that love so willingly; and jealous of the fact that Toby enjoyed every moment of it.

“What’s his name?” Michael asked, putting his face in Toby’s. It took me a moment to respond.

“Toby”, I said flatly.

“Oh, Hi Toby the Tiger!” Michael cooed in Toby’s face as Toby’s eyes closed in pleasure while Michael scratched either side of his head. Toby’s head was a foot in diameter, twice the size of Michael’s.

As I watched Michael and Toby interact I saw them fall in love with each other. It was instantaneous and pure. Maybe it was Michael’s innocence, maybe it was Toby’s nature. Whatever the case, it was something I wanted, but I knew I could never be ignorant or trusting enough to throw my entire body weight onto a 500lb tiger, let alone put my face so close to his. I may not know big cats, but I’ve been around enough small ones to know they can turn at the drop of a hat and that was enough to detour me.

“Are we keeping him?!” Michael suddenly asked, excitedly perking up.

“What?” I asked. The question surprised and confused me. I hadn’t expected it, nor had I considered it. “I don’t think so, Michael” I looked at Toby who looked at me and his look told me I didn’t have a choice in this matter.

“Awwwww” Michael whined. He leaned in and hugged Toby who was still eyeing me. I shrugged as if to say “what?”. Toby continued to stare at me. I shook my head and it became evident that I could shake my head until it fell off…Toby was staying.

“NO!” I said out loud. Michael looked up at me, surprised as I was by my outburst. “No, we can’t keep him. It’s ridiculous…we are not discussing this…” I stood up a little taller as if it would make me any bigger, but I needed to stand my ground. Toby shifted his weight and sat up on the bed, pushing Michael to the floor. Toby was about to prove his Alpha dominance in the house. My heart beat in my throat as he stood up straight and said, “You don’t have a choice in this matter”, his voice deep and low.

“WHOA!” Michael called out as he shuffled away from the bed, his back finally running into his bed, stopping him from going any further. “You can TALK?!” Michael scrambled to get up and run to Toby. Toby just sat there stiffly, staring at me. My heart was racing and I felt slightly sick. His size alone was intimidating, let alone his deep, low, authoritative voice.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe you can talk!” Michael continued. He got to his feet and started running towards Toby but I raced to him and grabbed him, turning him by the shoulders to face me.

“Michael! Stop!” I grabbed his shoulders tighter as he tried to squirm as he looked over at Toby who held his ground. “You can’t tell anyone what you’re seeing right now! You have to be quiet! Jessica is going to come up here and you’re going to blow this for everyone and potentially get us eaten! So Stop!”

When the words “eaten” passed through Michael’s ears he instantly looked at me and froze. With the all-consuming thought of danger planted in his innocent mind, Michael paused and looked up at me with pleading, pathetic eyes.

“But Kayden”, Michael said, matter-of-factly, “Toby would never eat us”. He looked over at Toby. “Right Toby?” Toby just continued to stare me down, unmoving since the second he stood up. The room grew silent and Michael’s body became weak and defenseless under my grip, which I softened a little. The tension began to grow thick under the silence. Michael’s eyes were pleading to both me and Toby. It was sad and sweet; such a naive little boy. I almost envied him for his hope and trust.

I looked down at Michael whose eyes were pleading with me, looking for an answer.

“Michael, Toby is a tiger. You can’t trust tigers…” My voice trailed off and in the silence you could almost hear Toby’s heart breaking. It was a mean thing to say, but I felt it was true. I looked at Toby and Michael followed my glance.

“People are not to be trusted, Kayden”, Toby corrected me, breaking the silence. “Tigers don’t lie. And Michael, ” Toby said, looking down at Michael, whose face had gone from pitiful to defeated “I promise I won’t eat you”. Michael smiled, and nodded his head, his eyes closed, a look of confidence back on his face. He knew he was right. Toby looked back at me sternly, “And I am not going anywhere. I am staying right here. You are just going to have to get used to that idea, Kayden”. My heart skipped when he singled me out and I got angry.

“Are you kidding me?!” I scoffed at the notion of him thinking he would be allowed to stay, especially in my bed! “How in the world are we going to convince my parents to keep you? We can’t necessarily HIDE you! Guaranteed my dad and mom will absolutely freak out!”

“Trust me, Kayden”, Toby reassured me as he settled back into the bed, making himself comfortable. Michael wiggled from my grasp and joined Toby, snuggling Toby’s fur with his face. Toby’s gaze softened and he continued, “They’ll do it. I promise”

Just. Fucking. Say It.

Your sarcasm hides your insecurities; the fear that if you actually give a true compliment, that someone might read into it. So we stiff arm one another with harsh words and cruel jokes, following with “I was being sarcastic…facetious…I didn’t mean it”

No one ever means it.

Maybe it’s time someone said something they mean.

I like it black and white. Say what you mean. Don’t cover it up with passive statements, gaffs and jokes and insecure statements.

We are all afraid of getting hurt. People don’t compliment or let themselves fall in love because they are afraid of being hurt or rejected, so as a defense mechanism, we say sarcastic things. We belittle one another and that has become our culture.

So many people in this town are chickenshit.

Yup. I said it.

Chickenshit.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” they say. But that hurts.

Or “I don’t want to lose you, so I don’t want to get into anything with you” (bullshit)

Or even more so, they just don’t even bother. Instead they pull away, never willing to forget what it was like to hurt, and not wanting to remember what it felt like to be comfortable in their own skin and enjoy the touch of someone else’s.

And I am no better.

Behind my mask of sarcasm, joking manner and bold statements, I too am scared shitless to get hurt like I once was. Not in just a relationship, but in friendships as well. I joke, I make fun, I stay just far enough away so that you can’t know me so you can’t hurt me. I fear rejection as we all do. I love being social, I love to have fun, and I love getting others around me to have fun too.

But even in the most uplifting of times, there is always someone who is hurting, feeling left out or insecure, and in that moment they say harsh things, push others away and because they are hurting, hurt you in return.

In relationships and friendships there is always the possibility of being rejected; of being pushed away. So, to preempt that, we push first. Others feel they must have as many eggs in their basket as possible so that they have something to fall back on, never thinking that maybe they just need to be comfortable being alone.

I like attention. We all do. That is why we are on this thing called Facebook. My attention seeking is not one of drama or anything more than I want people to join my fun. I have fun by myself all the time and I honestly just want to share that with others. It is one thing to laugh alone, it’s another to laugh together. I love that. I love sitting on the floor with Sam, telling stories of our past lives, laughing hysterically. I love people, and maybe I want people to love me too. It’s human nature. I accept it. But the one thing I am having a hard time accepting is people’s inability to want to share that as well.

Fear is only a fear of the unknown. If you know your friends will be there no matter what, you are free to be yourself. When you know the person you are with truly loves you, you are free to trust them and be yourself. But when the insecurities of not knowing fall into the equation, that is when things tend to get awkward and painful.

Use your words.

I hate the passive aggressive behavior of people. JUST FUCKING SAY IT. Whatever it is, just say it. Waiting, contemplating, deciding and then maybe kind of saying something is what is creating all the hurt and insecurities.

If you knew that everyone was telling you exactly how they felt at all times, you would never doubt yourself or them and we would all just have an understanding and no one could be mad, because how can you be upset at someone who is being honest with you? If you’re mad, say it. If you’re concerned or hurt, say it. If you are not in love anymore, say it. Nothing is worse than knowing what someone is thinking, just for them to say something they feel will overshadow what they are thinking. Just so you don’t get hurt.

But that hurts.

I use sarcasm because I think it’s funny. But I am sure deep down I use sarcasm to ease people into what I really feel; that I like them; that I care for them, or that I am looking for an excuse to be a part of their life, and because I am too afraid to actually tell them that, I say something smartass and hope that they can read between the lines.

Not everyone is this way. Most of this is from people who are still in the raw stages of finding themselves or finding someone else. I am as guilty as the next person and no, I will not stop being sarcastic, but I will be aware of when I am using it and I will be honest with myself.

I guess in the end the issue with sarcasm and passive aggressive behavior is we really have no idea what people are thinking. Do they like me? Are they serious when they say that? It all becomes a stupid mind fuck. And frankly, after being in this town, I have had my share, and I’m pretty much over it. If you like me, just say it. If you don’t like me, just say it. I can’t possibly be upset that you’ve just told me the honest truth. And no one should say these things to be mean, but because it needs to be said. And frankly, it would make things much more simple…but sadly, probably not all that funny…

So I Thought I Could Dance...

I imagined my first night of salsa to be in a dark, crowded dance room; young hot bodies guiding one another to sensual music with bright lights swirling overhead. I expected to be surprisingly good for my first time, wooing men with my charms and wit, never mind the fact that it was my first time…no one would really notice, and in the end they would find it both charming and exciting that I was willing to try something so sensual and sultry, just for the heck of it.


My evening salsa dancing was nothing like that.


The night took place in a small dance room with light wood floors and dark tan silk drapes that hid the coatroom. It was brightly lit with florescent lights and while the mood was extremely welcoming and warm, I began to see the night was not going to be anything like I had expected.

For an hour we were instructed by a very small Philippine woman who wore a short, uncomfortably tight black dress with stiletto heels. She and her son guided us through a few basic moves before the social started.

Jennine did not warn me that salsa was going to be so humbling. I envisioned passionate moves and sensual rhythm. Instead I stood small and skinny among older gentlemen who were even more uncoordinated than me, but because they were leading me, made me feel awkward and clumsy. And shitty.

Salsa dancing wasn’t supposed to make me feel shitty.

When practice was over and the social started, the lights were slightly dimmed, and in the far corner a miniature party light shined bright colored orbs in a 5 foot radius, shining on nothing more than itself and the feet of a man who decided he was going to sit the rest of the night out, embarrassed about his inability to spin a girl or walk to a simple eight count. I was sympathetic on so many levels. I too decided that my atrocious dancing skills needed to be shelved.

Embarrassed I hid in the refreshment room, meticulously eating a small mandarin with my head down, avoiding eye contact. Salsa dancing was supposed to make me feel sexy and empowered. Instead I felt small and clumsy. Old men avoided dancing with me after a while. I apologized for missteps, my head constantly down looking at feet. "Look up and smile" they would say, but in reality I wanted to cower and cry. I just wanted to be left alone...or surrounded by young forgiving men who would hold me tight and move me meticulously and yet smoothly and effortlessly around the floor, their hips guiding mine through the air; the music moving my hips with its magical beat. Instead I felt heavy, clumsy, un-rhythmic and awkward.

After finishing my orange, I snuck to the coatroom to write my thoughts. I thought my sexuality, young spirit and tight pants would be enough to make me a good dancer. But no. That is not the case. I grew up in a Hispanic family...these moves should be inborn...but they aren't. So instead I hid out, letting the music pulse inside me as I dodged potential partners.

No one told me it was going to be like this. That I was going to suck. Ok, so maybe I'm not that bad, but really, I believed deep down I had the rhythm to move mountains, to rock worlds and to take down giants. Apparently I don't. So I stand and pick at my nails and tell suitors I am resting my feet when in reality I am resting my bruised ego. I came here to be set free, instead I feel trapped and pushed and pulled and I can feel their frustrations, even if they are laughing with me as I awkwardly and humbly struggle to find their rhythm.

Alone I am pulsing with passion and rhythm, wishing there was another me here to dance with because that me would be understanding, coaxing, smoldering and would know how to move me. Instead I dodge old men who smell like my grandfather’s medicine cabinet and continually look for excuses of why I don’t want to subject anyone to my pathetic and awkward movements. I wish I were in a dark room full of 80s music. I see now why no one goes with Jennine salsa dancing. "Its like this for everyone" she told me as I coward in the coatroom, sweat dripping off her brow as she reached into her cubby for water. I wasn't mad, I was disappointed...in myself. I wanted everyone to be drunk so that I could dance to the music alone, content in my own rhythm. I hate sharing myself with others for fear of rejection. I am content with me, and the last thing I want is someone I don't know who smells like cheap cologne looking at me as if I am a lower life form for not being able to follow their clumsy lead.

As the night progressed, a smooth dancing Asian man with light denim jeans, tight around his bulging athletic thighs, coaxed me into dancing as Jennine pushed me towards him saying into my ear, "He's a great lead, trust me" and so I went.

He led me, told me what I was doing wrong "stand up straight, don't duck" and he pushed and pulled me delicately and I felt light on my feet for the first time all night. His breath was bad, but I ignored it in hopes of feeling the rhythm of the night. And I did. If even for a small moment, I felt the rhythm, his guiding hands, and the magic of what salsa had to offer: subtle sensuality, light and classy, an ability to be guided across the floor and spun with ease and grace. And for one song I grasped the night and let it spin me and move me.

Later he danced with a girl whose rhythm and grace far surpassed mine, shaking my already delicate confidence. The Asian man came to me later and asked me to dance again. This time around I fumbled and lost the rhythm and began to feel self conscious over the fact that my moves and knowledge of this magnificent dance paled in comparison, and I got in my own way.

This second time dancing together was not as graceful or full of as much ease, but I was ok with it. I wasn't in the coatroom, avoiding offers to dance or in the corner meticulously peeling mandarins (which left a lingering smell as later I was asked if I had been eating mandarins from a fellow who danced the basic step the entire time the song played). Dancing so close to others is frightening, mostly because you think they can smell not only the mandarin, but also your fear and insecurities.

After the old white men left and I began to enjoy the night, the bongos and drums and maracas came out. I began to feel at home. Had there been an accordion at any point in the night I would have thought I was in the backyard of my grandparents house at one of our usual family get-togethers.

And then the young people showed up.

There is something to be said about being youthful. There is a spirit and a drive and an understanding that is refreshing and desirable. I am not sure at what point someone becomes old, but I never want to be there...not if it makes you clumsy and awkward and makes little girls feel bad about themselves.

So the young ones came and we danced. Kevin, a cute, short, sweet little Hispanic guy with moves and swagger and an ability to play the bongo that will make your thighs tingle, finally asked me to dance. I wanted to dance with him, not because he was cute, but because he was having fun...and I wanted to too.

I stepped on his feet and it took me a second to find out where he was leading me but in the end he said, “It doesn’t matter what we do, as long as we just go with it and have fun”. And I smiled and let go. Our dance was not as smooth as it was with me and the Asian man, but it was more fun, wild and free. I would have killed to have him lead me in Bachata...just to see what it would be like. But we never got the chance.

As the ballroom filled with the sounds of bongos, and maracas and laughter, I found myself lost in the night and enjoying more than just the music, but the culture, the love, the freedom and the comfort that the night brought. It was hard to leave, even though my feet ached and I was exhausted, but in a good way. As Jennine and I began to walk away, they began to play zumba music and before we knew it we were both joining in on the ballroom floor with the men and women, dancing to the beat, our thighs burning, our hearts racing, and both of us laughing, ending the night on something beautiful.

As Jennine and I walked to the car, we were buzzing with an electric energy, both of us grinning from ear to ear. We laughed the whole drive home and reflected on the night. When we got home and were changing in the bedroom I thanked her and apologized for letting my ego get in the way of the night. She laughed it off and knew exactly how I felt.

“Salsa isn’t easy”, she said, sitting at the edge of the bed, untying her ballroom shoes, and rubbing her bare feet before she placed them back on the floor. “You actually have to take classes to really be good at it,” she said, standing and walking out of the room in her bare feet.

I just laughed and shook my head. I guess maybe I wasn’t so bad at salsa after all...

I Just Don't Think I Will Ever Get Over You...ever.

I'll never forget the phone call...or the drive...or anything about that last day...

The soundtrack from Garden State always reminds me of sitting in my car outside my apartment in Oxnard, late at night, the smell of the sweet ocean air in the breeze, my body crumpled up against the steering wheel, bawling uncontrollably. A sob that escapes from so far deep inside that you didn’t know that you went that deep and it escapes from your lips in a blubber and you fall apart.

You just. Fucking. Fall. Apart.

7 years ago today I got a phone call that my mom had passed away. She finally let go of what she was holding on to. She finally accepted the facts and let go.

It was a Tuesday morning. 7am.

The significance of that is what is so heartbreaking.

I got a phone call in late February that I needed to come see mom. They brought her home from the hospital because she wanted to spend the rest of her days at home.

I drove up the next week.

Mom and I had talked and I told her that in the second week of March that I was going to come see her. On March 7th. But because of her progressing condition I bumped my visit up early.

I will never forget the last day I saw her. For the rest of my life, until the day I die, I will never forget what it was like to say goodbye, never really realizing that it was goodbye forever.

Mom sat in her bed in a white tank top and dark blue sweat pants. Her hair was short, gray and curly; a far cry from her once long luxurious red tresses. But even in this state, in her final days, she looked angelic. The sun came in soft and bright through the window. On the television she watched “The Mating Game” on the Game Show channel. One of her favorites. I laughed.

“Oh mom,” I said with a laugh, shaking my head. I spoke to her like she understood me. Like she wasn’t delirious from pain medication. Like it was any other day and not the last time I would ever see her on this earth.

She had scooted to the edge of the bed and I sat next to her. I looked at her as we sat shoulder to shoulder. Her skin was soft, like silk, pale and elegant, just like her. Even without makeup she was still the most beautiful person I had ever seen. Like Linda Carter. Wonder Woman.

She was my Wonder Woman.

And so I talked. She would nod and respond in whisper. The esophagus cancer had left her unable to speak, so she would whisper, or softly clap her hands together to get your attention. Her long elegant hands had grown thin, her rings jangling loosely as she clapped. A nurse came in and I left while she answered my mom’s request. When they were done I came back in to talk some more.

At one point in our conversation, or what little of it there was, we locked eyes.

I could have just about lost my shit at that point.

I wanted to crawl up in her arms like I did when I was younger. I wanted to lay my head on her tummy like I used to do so many times before while Golden Girls played on the television. We would be back in our old house on Newell street. I would listen as mom’s stomach would growl softly, our bodies moving softly and slowly to her breath as the water bed rocked us to sleep.

That damn water bed.

And now we just sat there, a knowing look on our faces, but I pretended like I didn’t see it. I pretended like this was just a bump in the road and once this was over it would be like it had always been. Long, drawn-out conversations over the phone; Tearful goodbyes; nights full of laughter; stories and stories and more stories. I would dance for her like I used to when Pretty Woman would come on the radio, or dance slowly with her to a sweet love-filled country song, the smell of Listerine on her breath; the soft smell of her clean shirt. The way she used to tickle my back or read me stories in bed. She was the epitome of a mother.

The greatest one on earth.

But there I sat with her, pretending like it would be ok. Pretending like I was going to come back. Pretending like I wasn’t dying inside.

All of a sudden mom broke the silence.

In a whisper, while softly touching her arm, as if feeling it like a sweater, she looked down at it and said, “Cashmere”. My heart stopped and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Yes, mom,” I said, tears began streaming down my face and I laughed, “Cashmere”.

That was my mother. Elegant, beautiful, smart, witty, sassy and bold. Only my mother would see herself wearing a cashmere sweater while sitting in a tank top and sweats. Only my mother would envision herself as elegant and pristine as she has always been. And so I cried, and I laughed and we sat in that moment for a long time. I don’t think she understood how much of an impact that moment had on me, but for the rest of my life, I will always remember her in that moment…in cashmere.

As I stood up to leave I turned around at the door frame and leaned against it, watching her as she looked ahead at the television.

“I’m leaving now, mom” I said, looking behind me down the hall at her husband, who was still holding the urn he had showed me a few minutes ago while the nurse was taking care of mom.

Fuck that urn.

I hated it. It was ugly and didn’t do mom justice. She needed to be in porcelain and gold and diamonds, not some brown urn that blended into the back ground. I turned back to look at mom as she looked my way. She was in the room in front of me, and her urn lingered behind me…the feeling is inexplicable.

“Do you want me to come back?” I asked, the words tasting bitter and confused as they left my lips. My heart sank. I think deep down I thought if I said it like that she would stay longer. That she would come back from this and it would be something we laughed about over tea, or tequila, or spaghetti. Anything, as long as we were laughing…and living.

She looked at me and slowly shook her head and I could hear her whisper “no”. And in a small way, that broke my heart because I wanted her to want me, but I understood. So I stood in the doorway and took it all in for a moment, then turned and left. I left her all alone. And I will never forget that feeling.

A week or so passed and I got a phone call on Saturday that mom had slipped into a coma and that she was to pass any day.

Sunday came, and she was still there. Waiting. Her husband had called and he didn’t know what she was holding on to. But she was still with us.

Monday came she still stayed. Patiently she waited. She held on for one more day. For one more day. For the day that I said I would come see her.

But I never did.

I forgot that I told mom I was going to be there that Monday, March 7th. She waited all day, and I never showed up. So, on Tuesday morning, she let go and left.

She left and I never really got to say goodbye. And that breaks my heart into a thousand pieces. She left and I wasn't there. She would have been for me.

For the rest of my life I will always remember the day of her wake. The sweet smell of spring and wet earth. The colors, the bright sun, the sounds, the feel…every damn thing as if it just happened yesterday.

So today I remember how magnificently beautiful it was when we celebrated her life. I miss her more often than not. I keep that to myself and love her quietly and cry to myself when I miss her most. She was my everything, and it took me losing her to really appreciate who we were, who she was. I will never be loved like I was loved by her, and I have learned to accept that. I guess the best I can do is love myself the way she did…though, if I am honest with myself, I don’t know if that is entirely possible…

I love you, mom. And for the rest of my life, I just don’t think I will ever get over you….ever.