The Final "First"

     Tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of my mother's death, and I am anxious to have the day come and go.  Over the last year I have been constantly remembering the "last" moments of our relationship.  These memories are numerous and are triggered frequently.  A seemingly insignificant action or word can now evoke a powerful emotion because it unearths a memory of the "last" time we ever did this or the "last" time we ever said that.  While these final memories can make me feel sadness, they can also soothe me with a sense of gratitude and peace.  I am deeply appreciative that I was given such a beautiful person to be my mother and I know she now lives in the paradise of heaven.

     It has been the events I classify as "firsts" that have been the most unexpected and painful to endure over this last year.  The "first" time I reached for the telephone to call my mother, as was my habit at least twice a day, only to realize that I could not talk to her anymore.  The "first" trip to the cemetery to lay flowers at her gravestone.  The "first" family gathering without her presence.   The "first" important activity or milestone achieved by one of the grandchildren not witnessed by my mother.  The "first" holiday celebrated without her. The "first" time my birthday passed without hearing her voice wishing me a happy one, the most difficult "first" moment for me by far.

      Over the last year the list of  mournful "firsts" grew and grew with only one end in sight, and that end is finally here.  Tomorrow's anniversary will not be a day when I miss her more deeply or think of her more often.  As I am mothering my own children she is never far from my mind and I will never stop wishing she was here with me.  Tomorrow's anniversary serves only one purpose.    It is the final "first."

     I remember the "last" time I spoke to my mother when she was still cognizant of my words and presence. We were in the car on a Sunday, traveling again to the emergency room, desperately seeking another miracle.  I had one hand on the wheel and one arm across her chest as she slumped forward in the passenger seat, too weak to sit up straight.  She said ,"I cannot open my eyes.  I am just so tired," to which I responded, "It's okay, Mom.  Just close your eyes and get some rest."

Autism Awareness Day

My son is highly functional, but because of his autism, his days are full of numerous challenges, unrecognizable to you and me, that he must overcome while still managing to look "normal" to an indifferent and judgemental world. Autism has shaped our family routines and defined the depth of the relationships that we have with each other, our extended family members, and our friends. Autism has often been the decisive factor in determining where we can and cannot go and if we can go, how we will participate. Autism creeps into our minds as we dream about what the future may hold. Autism reeks havoc on our expectations, forces us to adjust and accept, hardens our resolve, strengthens us and exhausts us. Autism is there when we go to sleep at night and is waiting for us when we rise in the morning. Autism is a force to be reckoned with, day in and day out, week after week, year after year. For families like mine, everyday is "Autism Awareness Day."

For the Love of Belle

I will never forget that hot summer day when my husband and I traveled to the breeder's house to select what would become our first family pet.  When we spotted one precocious puppy that climbed on the heads of the rest of her siblings and did a belly-flop into the water bowl, we knew we had found our yellow lab!  We named her Belle, took her home, and had no idea what a tremendous impact she would have on our lives.


Walking Belle for at least three miles each day became part of our daily routine.  She grew from an energetic, playful puppy to an energetic, playful, eighty-five pound adult.  Belle possessed every well-known and beloved characteristic of a Labrador retriever.  She would incessantly retrieve any object we could throw at her.  She allowed admiring strangers of all ages to pet her.  She jumped with joy at the sound of her food being scooped out of its bag and at the sight of anyone at, or near, our front door.  She sat in front of us when we needed a hug, beside us to share in our snacking, and kept us warm at night as she lay at our feet.  Belle became as treasured a part of our family as any of her human relatives.


When our son Tommy was born a few years later, Belle became a caring and protective big sister.  She faithfully sat beside his highchair at mealtime catching falling pieces of food.  She used her body to shield him from household dangers. She endured his far from gentle signs of affection.  Belle was up with my husband and me on those sleepless nights.  Whenever Tommy was upset and cried, she would always come to check to see if he was alright.  Like all labs, Belle's emotions were written all over her face and in her soulful eyes.  Her concern for him was evident.  A definite loving bond had developed between the two.  I have read stories about how loyal dogs who loved their family members so much sometimes acted heroically to save them from danger.  My story is a bit different.  In our case, Belle's love for Tommy saved her life, not his.


Like all labs, Belle loved to swim.  When she was a puppy, we trained her to retrieve an orange float toy at the beach.  Belle would sit beside us on the shore line, her full attention on the toy we held in our hand.  After we threw the toy into the water as far as we could, Belle would run into the ocean on command, dashing fearlessly into the waves.   She would paddle to the toy, scoop it into her mouth, pivot, and triumphantly return to shore with the prized possession.  She became so well-trained that her obedient retrieving routine would attract the attention of people walking by who often stopped to watch the beauty of her swimming, the one and only activity that would truly maker her tired.  In the water, Belle was in lab heaven!  She would not want to stop until we dragged her from the water by her leash.  Our beach routine was well-established, and we never had a problem with her behavior, not until one day in early June, 2001.


The weather was windy but clear as Belle began her day obediently retrieving her toy. Several family members came to the beach with us that day, and our son Tommy, then thirteen months-old, was sitting with them on shore.  I was closer to the waterline, throwing Belle's toy into the water and she was having her usual fun bringing it back to me.  For some reason on one unremarkable throw, Belle bolted rapidly into the water as usual,  but she could not see where the toy was floating.  Whenever this happened in the past she would turn around in the water, her head looking much like a periscope, until she located it.  This time, however, she simply turned toward the horizon and began a strong, swift swim out into the open ocean.  I called to her, thinking she would certainly turn around, but she did not.  I ran in the icy cold water, still calling to her, but she kept swimming away.  I walked to the location of the orange float, the water up to my chin, and I held the toy up high so Belle could see it, but she was not looking back.


As desperation and panic filled my heart, alarm also had arisen on shore.  Belle was fast becoming a yellow dot on the horizon, swimming out past the buoys.  There was no lifeguard because were were on a private stretch of beach.   A family member ran to the neighboring beach for help, but the lifeguard there said he could not leave his post.  Nobody had a boat and Belle was too far out for anyone to swim to help her.  A crowd had gathered on shore, everybody shouting, "Belle!  Belle!"  I was in the water as far as I could safely swim, calling for her to no avail.  The ripples of the water blocked my view and I could not longer see her.  I could see only the ocean.


I remember the events of the next few minutes as if they happened in slow motion.  Water was splashing in my face and I could hear the wind and the muted voices of those yelling back on shore.  I then heard a screaming that I was all too familiar with, that of my son Tommy.  He was in the arms of one of my distraught family members.  The volume of her voice yelling for Belle and the stress of the situation had scared him so much that he became extremely upset and had begun to wail.  As I turned my head to see him and make sure he was alright, I heard somebody yell, "She's coming in!  She's coming in!"  I turned my head back to the ocean and between the water splashing across my face I saw a yellow dot that became bigger and bigger as it came closer. It was Belle, heading right for me, heading for shore!


She paddled toward me I was ready to take her in my arms and help her.  After all, she had been swimming for a while and I prayed that she would make it close enough to me before exhaustion overtook her.  Much to my surprise, however, she swam to me and then past me.  She was heading for shore.  I chased after her, running through the water as quickly as I could, and saw her gallop out of the water and directly to Tommy's side.  Other than being annoyed that I would not allow her back in the water that day, Belle was unscathed.  She did not even seem fatigued, though her quiet demeanor later in the afternoon convinced me that she knew she had done wrong and was sorry.


When my family heads to the beach now we take many precautions to make sure Belle does not go on any more "joy swims."  I have shed tears thinking about what might have happened that day.  I count my blessings that Belle is here with us and pray that she will be part of our family for many years to come.  I still do not understand why she swam away from me that day, but I do understand why she returned.  Something was wrong with Tommy and she had to see if he was going to be alright.  If it were not for the love of Belle, she would not be here today.  Belle's loyalty to her little brother saved her life...and a big piece of mine as well.




This article was submitted as part of contest to Just Labs Magazine in 2006.  It did not win, but was awarded an honorable mention and was available for online viewing.


Belle never went on another "joy swim," but did enjoy many years as a loving member of the Marcello family.  

Watching David Swim

My youngest son David swims on the local YMCA's swim team.  Since joining the team in the fall of 2012, David attends practice regularly.  He absolutely loves being in the water and has accomplished much in his short career- a team record, second place in a multi-race event against forty-five competitors, and earning a chance to participate in a regional championship to name a few.  Successful swimming demands characteristics that come naturally to the quirks of David's personality- discipline bordering on obsession, precision of movement, and total body strength. 

Swimming is technically a team sport because there are other swimmers whose race times add up to a collective victory or loss for the group. The bathing suits, apparel, and caps share the team colors and logo.  The same children dive off the blocks and complete laps alongside each other at the evening and weekend practices.  The faces of the mothers and fathers become familiar staples on the poolside stands and tables and chairs behind the glass.  We sit together and cheer for each other's kids as we pass many hours at swim meets.   There is a sense of shared commitment and togetherness among the swimmers and their families.

The sport of swimming, however, is different than other sports in which my friends' children participate.  Swimming is inherently and uniquely an individual action.  The swimmer's movement in the water is a product of his and only his knowledge, technique, and effort.  Nobody passes the ball so your child can make the winning shot.  Nobody blocks the opposing team's defensive actions paving the way for your child to be the hero of the game.  Nobody can be blamed for your child's inability to make the play.  The truth is that no one can make your child look good or succeed except for himself.  The swimmer reaps the rewards he sows. 

Watching the repetitive motion of David swimming relaxes my mind and I grow pensive. Swimming is indeed a lot like life.  Time-honored maxims like "you get out of it what you put into it," and "no pain, no gain" come to mind.  We all have heard the expression "sink or swim," haven't we?  Swimming is all about embracing personal accountability, achieving goals through determination and hard work, and the unemotional and unbiased judgement of a timer.  There are winners and there are losers. 

I gaze at the water as David swims from one end of the pool to the other, and back again to repeat this action, over and over again for nearly two hours. His stroke is so smooth it seems effortless. His lean frame is graceful in the water yet he appears tall and powerful as he pulls himself out of the pool to walk to the starting block.  His strong shoulders and toned legs (carved from years of martial arts training) give him the appearance of a mini-model.  I wonder how many girls will be calling my house in the years to come!

I am at practice watching David swim for the fifth evening this week.  You might think I get bored sitting here for hours on end, but I don't.  Watching David swim is the time in my day when I am not thinking or worrying, or feeling sad or empty. I am simply watching his repetitive and beautiful motion. 

Be Where You are Supposed to Be When You Are Supposed to Be There

As a teacher I have been present for many motivational pep talks given by school administrators to an auditorium full of eighth graders.  The most inspirational messages by far were delivered by my favorite principal- Mr. D.  Mr. D was an energetic principal who purposefully walked up and down the aisles of the packed auditorium as he addressed the students.  He spoke with emphasis and feeling as he shared his three rules for success in school and in life:

1. Be where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there.
2. Bring your best self to everything that you do.
3. Treat everyone with courtesy and respect, regardless of the circumstance.

The message was simple and easy to remember.  During the years Mr. D was the principal of my school I heard the three rules repeated countless times.  I never tired of hearing them because I agreed with their widespread application and relevance to life in and out of a school setting.  I also never tired of hearing Mr. D's passionate delivery of his trademark advice.  When Mr. D retired I was asked to commemorate his career by making a video to be shown at his formal retirement party.   I filmed the testimonials and tearful goodbyes of many educators that worked with Mr. D over the years.  These colleagues shared stories of how Mr. D's warmth and wisdom had touched the lives of his students and his faculty.  When it was my turn to be on camera, I sat in the school cafeteria, reciting the famous three rules as the piece of Mr. D's legacy that I would treasure the most.  Sadly, Mr. D died from cancer within a few years of his retirement.

I thought of Mr. D often and repeated his rules to students and even to my own children.  Whenever I found myself conflicted between two commitments or attempting to decide between two options,  I would hear his voice inside my head saying, "be where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there."  Then, I let my heart and my gut take me to "where I was supposed to be," whether it was physically, mentally, or spiritually.  Making choices using Mr. D's rule assured me peace at night, knowing that the decision I had made was right for me. 

Never was living by this simple rule as powerful as it was on June 10, 2013.  It a warm, sunny Monday and I was at work.  My mother was fighting a long battle with cancer, and she had been admitted to the hospital the previous Friday.  My weekend, as had every weekend for the last eight months, was spent by her bedside, either at home or in the hospital, watching her suffer while trying to look, and stay, hopeful.  I was mentally and physically exhaused, and on this particular day being at school with my adolescent students was a welcome distraction. 

I called my sister Donna to check in on how mom was doing this morning, and was told that the doctors were going to operate at 10:00.  I knew Mom needed to have another procedure, but I was surprised it was scheduled so soon.  "She is going in shortly, " Donna told me.  "There is nothing you can do now.  Just come by after work when she is awake."  "Okay, " I responded and hung up the phone.  The day had just begun and I was nearly one hour away, at school, where leaving early unexpectedly required the logistical problem of acquiring a substitute.  I spent the weekend with my mother and would certainly spend that afternoon by her bedside.  I had been there for every procedure, major and minor.  It would be no problem to go to the hospital after work.  She would be under anesthesia for most of the day and would not even know that I was or wasn't there.

As these thoughts were going through my head in the seconds after I hung up the phone, I heard it as I often did.   The rule that had guided me in the past.  "Be where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there."  Suddenly, there was nothing to decide.  I knew what I had to do.

I quickly made the arrangements to leave school and drove as fast as I could to the hospital.  When I arrived I called my sister on my cellphone, and she gave me directions as I jogged down and around the long hospital hallways, looking for the right door to enter.  When I finally found the pre-operating room, I pushed back the curtain and saw my mother.  She was lying on the bed with my sister on once side of her and my father on the other.  She was ready for her surgery, with an iv in her arm and a cap on her head.  I remember the nurse saying, "Oh, your whole family is here."

I approached the bed and took my mother's hand.  In recent months my mother had lost so much weight that she looked frail and weak.  Some of her surgeries had left her in a confused state, something that I learned was called "icu psychosis," and weeks would go by when she could not recognize us or communicate with us in a meaningful way.  I had hardened my emotions and could tolerate seeing her in any state.  But today, I was taken aback by what I saw.  My mother was alert.  She did not say much, but she looked at me and smiled.   She looked very scared and I will never forget the fear that I saw in her eyes.  I said, "Mom, I am here now.  Good luck.   I will see you on the other side."  Then my father, sister, and I left the room as they wheeled mom to the operating room.  I was there for a total of about one minute. 

The surgery revealed an agressive and terminal cancer, and like before, mom emerged in state of confusion.  After two weeks we were told by the doctors that she would not recover and that we needed to consider letting her go.  Her mental state did improve, but she was only to learn that she was dying.  Mom went home, with more tubes and drainage bags than I could count.  She was so weak she could barely move and could barely talk.  I said my final good bye to her as she lay unconsious in a hospice bed. 

The last time I had seen any trace of who my mother truly was, an energetic, alert, brilliant woman, was  during the thirty seconds I spent in her pre-operating room before her last surgery.  That was the last time she was truly focused and aware of her surroundings, and she clearly saw me.  I take comfort in the fact that she knew I was there.  I was where I was supposed to be because I was supposed to be there.

After the video I made for Mr. D was played at his retirement party, he stood from his seat in the front of the banquet hall and turned around. His eyes found my location and he raised his hands together first to his lips and then out to me, clapping.   Despite our distance, I could see that there were tears in his eyes. I have a vivid memory of that moment between us, of the way my video captured the emotions of the room and of Mr. D's unspoken yet clearly communicated appreciation.    I wish I could  return the gesture.

Tommy

I was still in the hospital holding my newborn son when the doctor asked me what I had named him. "Thomas Joseph Marcello," I proudly answered. "Thomas Joseph Marcello," she repeated, nodding her head and smiling, "that sounds like the name of a president!" My son, I glowed inwardly, a president. Why not? The possibilities were endless for my baby!
 

The official diagnosis came three years later, but I had come to know it in my heart before I heard it spoken by the professionals- autism. I was beyond devastated. The life I had envisioned for my child was not going to happen. And so began years of research, therapies, meltdowns, Boardmaker pictures, and watching my son grow up alongside his typically developing peers in a manner that was most untypical. In one of my searches for support on the internet I found an anonomous quote that truly changed my perspective. "Love me for who I am instead of wondering what I might have been like." I let go of the concept of who I wanted my son to be and began to focus only on who he actually was.
 

What I came to realize is that my son Tommy is truly special. He has a heart of gold and a smile that warms the room. He exudes happiness and makes everyone around him smile. Tommy makes improvements every day because he always tries his best. He has earned the respect of his teachers and therapists. I wish I was half as popular as he!
 

I admire the young man he has become and I am so grateful to be his mother. While "Thomas Joseph Marcello" may never be the name of a president, this proud mother maintains that the possibilities are still endless for her son!

 

Turning Into Your Mother

I once owned a book titled How Not to Turn Into Your Mother.  I do not remember much about the book's content other than it was of a comedic nature.  When you are a young woman with hopes and dreams for your future, your last wish is to be like your mother, and the book poked fun at that dreaded possibility.  

When I was in my early twenties, I could totally relate to that premise.  My relationship with my mother had always been strong, but when you are young it is easier to notice the annoying qualities of your parents than the desirable ones. For example, when you got into trouble as a child, you vowed never to use the punishements your parents bestowed upon you on your future children because, of course, you felt they were being unfair.  As you grow older you swear never to adopt your mother's sense of fashion, which you perceive as outdated and sometimes embarrassing.   Before you have your own children you promise that you will never utter their parental phrases such as, "it's not you I worry about, it's the other driver" or  the time-honored "because I said so."  Unlike your parents, you will always know the names of the movies in the theater and the current hit songs on the radio.  You will not become outdated or old or boring.  You simply will not allow yourself to turn into your mother.

Years pass and life's rhythm takes over. You graduate from school and get a job.  You get married and give birth to your own kids.  You pay your mortgage, go to birthday parites, and learn how to reconcile your adult understanding of the world with the expectations you once held as a child.  You grow up without really noticing, and then one day it happens.  There was never really a chance it would not. One day you realize that you have turned into your mother.  

When I realized that this inevitable fact of life had come true for me, my reaction was quite different from the feeling of horror that I once had anticipated.   To understand my feelings you must get to know my mother, Janet Zurro.  Mom died of cancer on July 10, 2013.  Her life inspired mine in countless ways, obviously, but the lives of so many others as well. At her wake and funeral people would hug me and say, "You are just like your mother."   Janet's kind nature and brave battle with her long illness make her special.  Knowing that I have "turned into my mother" gives me a sense of pride and completion.   It is the highest compliment.  It makes sense to me and that is comforting.