"The Gated Community"

My mother was a character, a cross between Carol Channing and Phyllis Diller, who in her day, looked like Marilyn Monroe. She drew the spotlight wherever she went. After a full and, in many ways untraditional life, she passed away peacefully July 26^th at the age of 91. She’d been under excellent care at The Los Angeles Jewish Home for the Aging and while Parkinson’s took it’s toll on her, she hung in there, and we would continue to see glimpses of the oversized personality that we loved right ‘til the end.

Most of the arrangements had been made at the mortuary; all but one. Her epitaph.

My sister, April, and I remembered what she’d wanted, but I needed to make sure, hunting down an essay I’d written in 2010 when she’d mentioned it on a visit to Dougie’s niche on the fifth anniversary of his passing. I jotted the epitaph down on a slip of paper then reread an essay I’d written in 2005 the day after Mom and Dougie had purchased their cremation niche.  

                                   

“The Gated Community”

Mom had called me early the morning after she and Dougie had purchased their cremation niches.

“I’ve finally made it into showbiz!” she’d said.  

In my morning haze, I couldn’t figure out what on earth show business had to

 do with cremation niches.

 “Fannie Brice is buried close to ours. She has all her group reserved there, and we’ll be in the same area as Carol Burnett’s family.  But, guess who’s right across the lawn from us?”

“Who, Mom?”  Now, I was fully awake.

“Marilyn Monroe!  You know, people used to say that we look alike.  Do you realize that she’d be the same age as me if she’d lived?”

I pushed back the pillows and sat up in the bed.  “It’s hard for me to talk about this with you, Mom.  It scares me.”

“Relax, I’ll take you there next week,” she’d offered.  “Then, you can see it for yourself.   
        

“What a way to start the morning,” I said to my mother, as we drove past the intersection of Wilshire and Westwood Boulevard, supposedly, the busiest intersection in the world.  “What street do I turn on?”  

“Let me see…Glendon! That’s it!” She pointed her index finger at the next street sign on the right.  Her acrylic nail looked ridiculously long and was painted metallic gold.

I made a right and reduced my speed to a crawl.

“Turn in here!”  Mom said suddenly.    

“This leads to the cemetery?”  I asked.  “The sign says ‘Theatre Parking.’”

“That’s if you go left.  See, there’s an arrow on the right.” She pointed the gold talon again. A little diamond ornament on the end of her nail caught the sunlight.  “Plain as day,” she said. “Westwood Village Memorial Park.”

“This place isn’t easy to find.” I steered my Volvo wagon into the narrow driveway behind a bank. “I can’t believe your cemetery shares an alley with a multi-plex theatre in the middle of Westwood Village.”

“Been here for years,” Mom said. “Westwood’s a great location.  I’ll be so happy here in the middle of all these tall buildings.  And, it’s just a stone’s throw from Beverly Hills.”

The grounds were peaceful and manicured.  A variety of shade trees created a natural setting among the tombstones that were embedded in the lawn. Impatiens, azaleas, and begonias in cheery pink colors were in full bloom.

In the distance, at the far end of the cemetery, a small crowd of people gathered in a circle.  Everyone was dressed in black, except for one tall man in tan slacks and a dark blue shirt.  I looked away, to give them their privacy.

My mother, who was Dougie’s fourth wife, is a youthful seventy-seven.  And, my stepfather, Dougie, Mom’s third husband, is eighty-six. They were a pair. He’d just recovered from heart surgery and hired a “low key” personal trainer at the gym.  I was glad that Mom was so enthusiastic about their “final resting place,” but the whole idea of their dying made me uneasy.

I parked the car by a path just outside the small chapel adjacent to the offices of the mortuary.  While Mom walked slowly, enjoying the beauty of the grounds, I stepped up my pace and looked straight ahead past the open door of the chapel for fear of seeing something morbid, like a coffin.

Once we entered the office, a bland-looking gentleman, somewhere in his thirties, standing behind a high desk on the phone, motioned for us to take a seat in the foyer. “I’ll be right with you,” he mouthed.

“Let’s just stand,” I said to Mom, not missing the boxes of Kleenex discreetly placed on every tabletop. 

“Mrs. MacDougall?” the man asked my mother after he hung up the phone. His hair matched the color of his beige dress shirt; his skin, a shade lighter.  He directed us to another room and he told us to wait for Enid, the sales rep, who’d helped Mom and Dougie secure their final resting place. “She’ll only be a minute,” he said.  “Make yourself at home.”

Home? I thought, as we made our way past a large television that was playing a documentary tribute on the life of Ronald Reagan to an empty room.

My mother plopped down at the table and instantly took out a small spiral notebook, she refers to as her “Tablet,” and crossed off “Cemetery-Heather.”

I continued to stand, way too uptight to sit.  “Mom, those casket molding things,” I nodded in the direction of the far wall displaying various casts of partial caskets. “It’s like shopping for carpet, you know, with samples and all?  Weird.”

“Don’t be silly,” she laughed, “People are dying to get in here.”

I walked over to the urns on display at the opposite corner of the room.  Little white tiles with prices were placed at the base of each urn.

“Look,” Mom said, pointing to a cylindrical copper urn on the end of the bottom shelf.  “That’s ours!”

“This one?” I tapped it as if it were sizzling hot.  “The price says $450. Mom, it’s the cheapest one.”  I suggested that maybe she should have gone with the cloisonné one, or maybe the porcelain one with the roses.   

  “Did Dougie talk you into the plain one?” I asked.  She’d mentioned earlier how Dougie had unsuccssefully tried to bargain with Enid to get a discount on their plots.  He’d already purchased two for himself and his third wife, Marion. “Look,” he’d told Enid, “I don’t want to be next to her anymore.  That leaves an empty spot that you can sell again.” 

“No, I wanted the plain urn. But, wait ‘till you see our actual niche,” she said, enthusiastically. “Dougie went all out for that one.”

Enid appeared at the doorway, smiling wide.  “Good Morning, Mrs. MacDougall.  And, this must be your daughter.” Her fixed smile fixed dripped down just a hair. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

 I could tell that she adored my lively mother.  Mom greeted her with a wave of her pen, causing the red and white sequins spelling out “chic” on her blue t-shirt to shimmer under the bright ceiling light.

“I’m still looking,” she said to Enid, referring to her efforts to find a man for her. Mom was always setting people up and offering relationship advice.  “I just don’t know any single guys anymore, and with your kind of work, the timing’s all wrong for you to meet somebody.”

Enid was dressed in an appropriate somber blue skirt and blazer with a lacey white camisole peeking out from the top of her jacket. She was prim and professional, but the camisole signaled that she had a little flair. Leave it to Mom to find out that Enid was single and would love to find a mate.

“How do you deal with all the families and their grief?” I asked Enid.

“With compassion,” she answered in a soothing voice.  “There’s no real training for compassion.  You just have to have it in you.”

 “You’ll just love where we are,” Mom interrupted, too thrilled with their purchase to think of much else.  “It’s very exclusive,” she added, fiddling with her frosted bobbed hairdo. “We’re in the Garden Gated Estates!”

“Then, shall we?” Enid swept her hand toward the door.

As we headed down the path to Mom’s “gated community,” I was constantly aware of the internment at the other end of the park. 

Enid led us to a granite column about seven feet high.  “This is where your parents will be,” she told me.

I fingered the blank gold leaf plaque at the top of the monument. 

“See, we have top billing!” Mom said. 

I looked around at the bright yellow and orange marigolds and the elegant row of topiary rose bushes nearby. 

“Not bad, eh?”         

“Everything’s done,” Enid said, “Except your parent’s have to pick an epitaph.”

“She’s doing it,” Mom said, pointing to me.

“I am?”           

“You’ll know the right thing to say.”

“How about ‘Together Forever,’” I offered, remembering one of the epitaphs on display in the offices.

“No,” Mom said. “You never know what happens in the afterlife and I don’t want to be tied down.” 

Mom chatted with Enid, but I fazed out of the conversation.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of the far end of the lawn. Two gardeners had arrived on the scene, and there were some gaps in the tightly knit group now.  I hadn’t seen the casket before.  The gardeners, in their Village Memorial Park uniforms, gently lowered the casket into the ground.  Couples and threesomes embraced.         

On the way out, I drove slowly around the perimeter of the park and Mom proudly pointed out Marilyn Monroe’s grave with the ever-present fresh flower.   

“I can’t deal with all of this. I don’t want to think about your dying, Mom.”

“Look, sweetheart,” she said.  “When I wake up each morning, if there are no candles burning, and if I don’t see any flowers or hear music, I get up.”           

“But, how can you be so at ease with this?” 

“Listen, darling, I love life.  You know I do,” she explained.  “But, frankly, Heather, this is reality.”        

As soon as we turned out of the gate, Mom pulled the visor down and started to paint her lips with her favorite, Revlon’s “Crystal Cut Coral.”  She swept the tube round and round her lips.  Smacking them, she flipped the visor back up.  

“So, how about going to The Cheesecake Factory?” she asked, tossing the lipstick back in her oversized white purse.  “I love the bread there.”

                        _________________________________

                       

I looked down at the slip of paper and called the mortuary.

While on hold for Enid’s replacement, Kathleen, I thought about what Mom’s nurse, Roxy, had said to me about the day before Mom passed away. “I’ve got to go,”  Mom’d told her. She’d had her hair done and her glittery clutch bag was at her side.  “My husband is calling for me.”

“Which one?” Roxy’d asked.

“The last one.”

Feeling the grief over her passing – expected, but never fully prepared for –I smiled to myself.  Someone said to me that Heaven would never be the same. I can hear her now. “Hats and horns!”

“This is Kathleen.”

“Hi Kathleen, it’s Heather Haldeman. Ok, it’s what we thought.”

“Go ahead, I’m ready.”

“Ciao Bello.”

“Ciao Bello,” she said. “Got it.”

Dr. Jekyll Meet Mrs. Hyde

If you met me in a coffee shop, you would think I’m nice. And I am. I tip well, address the barista by name, and let that harried customer behind me go ahead in line to order.

My local teashop even knows me by name. “Hi, Heather! Iced or hot today?”

So sweet, I am…

But, get me behind the wheel of my car, I transform. It’s as if horns sprout from my head and fangs overlay my bottom lip. I’m a monster on the road.

It’s a buildup of ferrying kids across town and years of having to go from Pasadena to the Westside to visit my aging mother in declining health. “If I never see Sunset and the 405 again,” I told my sister, April, “I’ll be satisfied with life.”

Or, maybe it began back when our oldest, Allan, was eighteen months old and learning to talk. He commuted with me to my work at the Santa Monica Athletic Club across town. That Christmas we were driving to my mother’s home in Hancock Park. Hank was at the wheel when a snappy red Camaro cut him off as he was changing lanes, causing Hank to step on the brakes to avoid a collision.

Allan, seated in back clutching his gingham blanket in his car seat, called out:  “Fucka!”

Hank turned to me, “Heather, where’d he learn that?”

“Well…”

I’m not alone. There are a lot of us out there. I see them daily on my jaunts. Only they act on it, speeding, swerving and cutting in. I just swear and police in my head. Yesterday, I counted four illegal maneuvers in a two-mile stretch on the 134.

This morning on a call to April, I’m behind the wheel. She was greeted with a cheery hello and conversation interspersed with:  “No, you don’t, damnit,” as I inched my way closer to the car in front not to let in the guy in the Mustang who’d been riding the side lane that wasn’t even a lane. “I need to teach this jerk a lesson!”

“Oh, boy,” she laughed. “Sounds bad out there this morning. Be careful!”

Just then, I saw a woman zipping over two lanes across traffic to make an offramp. “Plan, ahead! You’re taking other motorist’s life in your hands, you F**er!”

“Sorry, Ape. Now, where were we?”

“Is that your sister swearing at the drivers again?” her husband, Dennis, said in the background while she had me on speaker.  “I love it when Heather swears. I can’t believe it’s coming from her!”

And don’t get me started on drivers who text. Yesterday, I saw a young guy on the 101 in the fast lane. He had two phones going - one in one hand to his ear and on the other phone he was texting. “Jesus!” I’d said aloud to myself. “How’s he steering? Frigging idiot!”

When I see an Uber or Lift driver vacillating or dropping a passenger in an unsafe corner, it’s all out. “You’re not a professional driver! You A**hole!”

This all coming from me, who at sixteen, failed my behind-the-wheel driver’s test by accidentally running over a cat that had darted out in front of me.

Who am I to swear and criticize?

Yet, I do my best to be a safe and courteous driver. No texting and I’m always “hands-free” when I’m on the phone. I’ve only had a few tickets in forty-four years of driving and, thankfully, no accidents since that fateful driving test. Perhaps, that’s why I try to be diligent out there. In the blink of an eye, anything can happen.

Becoming a monster behind the wheel can be a hazard in Los Angeles when you spend hours on the road and I’m getting worse. I mean, I’m not that person who is about to get out of my car and take a pipe to an errant motorist, but I need to calm down here.

So, I’ve taken steps. I’m leaving earlier so I don’t get revved up in snarled traffic and I’m turning to “Chill” on Sirius XM when I start to feel my temperature rise.

Has it worked? Not really. “Chill” is for the spa. Not the transition from the 101 to the 405. But, leaving early is key.

I think back to my daughter, Hilary, the ultimate in nice, a clinical therapist and social worker, when she moved back to Los Angeles. After riding the rails in New York for three years, she was ready to get back behind the wheel. “Mom,” she’d said, “it feels so good to just drive around. I miss being in a car by myself.”

Didn’t take long, though. Now, in my morning line-up of calls, I’m hearing myself back at me as Hilary and I talk while she is driving to work. “Shoot,” she’d said, the other day, “Just go ahead, mister!” I hear a honk. “Ugh, these drivers!”  Another honk. “What’d you say, Mom?”

Maybe it’s hereditary and in a matter of time, she, too, will begin to insert those profanities. It gets to one out there on the roads in this city.

This afternoon on Colorado Boulevard, I put my indicator on to slip into a coveted parking space, turning my head (I never trust the back-up camera), I slowly backed up, breaking to an abrupt stop when a guy in a grey Camry, ignoring my signal, sped up from behind and zipped into the spot.

I shook my head at him, mouthing, “Are you kidding?! You Sh**t!”

Miraculously, on this busy shopping street, another space opened up down the block. I dashed in to Bird Pic to get a quick iced tea. There, in front of me, the guy in the Camry. He grabbed his iced tea and shot me a quizzical glance. Is she the same woman…fumbling, he dropped his straw.

I picked it up and handed it to him with a smile. “Have a good day.”

The Marilyn Of Old

“You need to come now! I’m out of vodka and kitty litter!”  Shannon laughed, mimicking my mom. “I’d get these calls,” she picked up her glass of Pellegrino. “Oh my god. Driving your mother was the best.”

Shannon had come to the rescue as Mom’s driver after she’d lost her driver’s license at 83. Numerous events had called for it, the least of which was Mom pressing the gas pedal, thinking it was the brake as she entered her garage. Thankfully, the only damage she’d done behind the wheel had been merely a crack in the wall.

That was twelve years ago.

Before coming to this dinner with Shannon, I’d dreaded having to bring her up-to-date on my 91 year-old mother’s Parkinson’s and her declining health.  This past year had not been easy. It was enough to live it, but to talk about it...

Then, again, who knew that my mother would live this long anyway, given the wild life she’d led?  Three husbands. Cigarettes. Boozy nights. Partying hard in her earlier years. “Ever heard of a ‘dawner?’” she’d ask my grown children.

“No, Nana. What’s that?”

My sister, April, and I wondered if she lived so long because because she practiced a lot of self-care in between what she called “the parties and balls.”

She was diligent about weekly massages, resting up, and limiting herself to just a few errands a day. “That’s enough,” she’d say. “I need to fold my tent.” She was into “health food” way before “organic” became the craze. And managed her stress by being a master at deflection. Somehow, her problems always became ours, a sort of a shared stress as if she were delegating some of it to my sister and me. “For Christ’s sake you two, what am I going to do now?!” 

Mom’s crowning glory, the once bleached blonde bubble-do is now grey and cropped short in straight layers. Long gone is the “pouf,” she worked so hard to attain. Occasionally now, as if by rote, Mom reaches up to fluff up her hair. I’m half- expecting her to grab the tall white can of Sebastian hairspray that was never far from her grasp. Instead, she drops her hand to rest on her lap in The Jewish Home for the Aging where I visit her.

She sat at what she called her “command center” when she first was moved in -- a rolling hospital table in her room on her skilled nursing floor – with a messy array of drug-store make-up, a magnifying mirror, the combs and countless bottles of perfume littering every inch of the space, her fear of going without make-up, that she’d “look like a peeled grape without the greasepaint.” That part of her is gone.  The command center holds only a box of tissues now. Why do I miss picking up an extra Revlon “Hot Coral” lipstick at the drugstore only to find she had three already?

Meanwhile, the tabloids stack up on the chair in the corner. I haven’t had the heart to cancel her subscriptions. I show them to her, and if it’s a good day, I’ll get a flash of the Marilyn of old and she’ll make a comment about the cover. “Not much,” she’d said of Prince Harry last week. And for a fleeting moment, she’s back.

My mother’s hands look foreign to me now as if they belong to someone else. Where are those long square-shaped acrylic talons, painted to match the season, her affection for showpiece nails that drove me crazy? 

“Mom’ they’re too long!” I’d protest.

"I'll cut them short," she'd lie to appease me.

I miss them now.

Gone, too, are the wedge heels and pointy-toe shoes.  “Moon shoes,” she’d called the Velcro straps and rubber sneakers she now wears thanks to problems with balance.

No matter, though, she’s still dressed in sparkly, animal-print tops with a line-up of gaudy fake bracelets that adorn the paper-thin skin on her forearms, the fashion choices a mark of her conscientious caregivers. They long for the Marilyn of old, too. Her nurse told me last week that she actually misses finding random false eyelashes on the floor of her room.

My mother used to be flamboyant. Larger-than-life, a cross between Phyllis Diller and Carol Channing who happens to think she’s Marilyn Monroe.  But now this spitfire trio is, as Mom would say, “fading into the sunset.”

“What would Mom’s take be?” April and I said to each other recently after a family event. “I miss that phone call from her to rehash,” I sighed.

“Yep,” April replied. “She would have nailed it in one sentence.”

At dinner, I smile at Shannon and reach for my glass of wine. For this short while, she brought back the Marilyn of old in her memories of Mom, not what I’d expected, and so pleased. I’ve been so steeped in her current condition that I forgot all about these funny antics.

Shannon shakes her head with a smile and looks at her husband of eight years. “Then, her stories and advice on how to find a man.”

“Ugh,” I smile, rolling my eyes. “It was always about a man with Mom.”

“Drop a handkerchief in the travel section of the bookstore,” Mom would say. “Rich men like to travel. That’s where you’ll find one.”

“Lean in a little with the men,” she’d told our college-age daughter. “That’s how you catch ‘em.”

To a single woman at my work: “Listen, they aren’t going to come knocking on your door. You’ve got to get out there and beat the bushes to get a guy. Preferable, an Italian.”

Shannon puts her glass down. “And, then there were her one-liners: ‘Shit –toi!’”

“Oh my god, I forgot!” I sigh. “Like when she’d forget something on her market list… ‘Shit-toi!’”

“Exactly,” she laughs.

Mornings are spent in her wheelchair now. Afternoons Mom is in bed, needing rest. Earlier today, I couldn’t rouse her from her nap in her wheelchair. That happens a lot these days.

So, I sat there in her room, waiting for her to wake, to know I’m there. I looked down at her ankles. The recent swelling had gone down. I lifted her pant leg to check.

There, just above her ankle, was the small monarch butterfly tattoo she’d gotten at 85, before the Marilyn of old had faded into the sunset.

“People warn me that it’s permanent,” she’d, told us before getting it. “They say, ‘But, Marilyn, you’ll have it forever!’”

“Who are they kidding at my age?” she’d laughed. “Shit-toi!”

I smoothed her pant leg back over her ankle. “Mom, I’m going now. Love you.”

And in another fleeting moment, she fluttered her eyes open “Ciao.”

A Bit of Heart and Soul

I wrote this essay four years ago, but after seeing “I Feel Pretty” this weekend, I felt compelled to post it on my blog.  "I Feel Pretty" is a feel-good movie about a woman struggling with insecurities about her appearance.  In this film, Amy Schumer, through her humor, poignantly promotes the idea that confidence stems from how we choose to view ourselves despite the cultural standards. Confidence is key.

At 61, I’m still working on that myself.

I notice her as I place my tote bag in the locker. She’s sitting nearby on the edge of a wooden slat bench waiting to go into spin class: Early thirties, about forty pounds overweight. I take a seat beside her.

“Ugh! My hairclip. I always forget something,” I laugh, trying to establish connection. She gives me a blank stare and a weak smile. She doesn’t want to engage.

She diverts her eyes, tapping her bike shoe on the grey cement flooring. I get it: she wants to get into the dark room, do the workout spin and be done with it.  I know that look; I’d had it, too. I was overweight myself years ago, begging to be invisible, wishing that forgetting a hairclip was the biggest challenge at this venue. If only she knew.

I feel her eyes on me as I juggle my water bottle and bike shoes, dropping one of my socks, then the other. I bend down to fetch them as I make my way over to the bench. Even at the age of fifty-seven, my movements are effortless now in a slim body.

Suddenly the door to the workout room opens with a whoosh. A stream of bodies in sweat-soaked spandex pushes past. This spinning studio is in West Hollywood.  As my mother would say, “it’s a tough room to play.” Actresses, models, svelte young men and women, and buff actor-types are regular spinners. Even the aging business men and women are toned and sleek.

This is Los Angeles. The capital of image. And, this spinning studio is one of the places where many of them work hard to maintain it.

But there are also those who come here to spin, trying to change their bodies, to shed the extra weight, and to get healthy.  It’s a safe place if you aren’t ready to embrace your curves. The lighting is low. You can take a bike in the back row, or tucked away in the corner on the side. Other bodies can block your reflection in the mirror. You can be invisible no matter your size.

We stand to enter class.  I go to bike 26 and begin adjusting the seat. I keep thinking about the woman on the bench. She’s close to me. Bike 42, in the corner by the door.

It isn’t easy coming here. It’s a tough cardio workout for even the most athletic.  My eyes go to the small raised platform where the instructor sets up her bike.  The first spin class I took here was with her. She shared her story with that class at the end of the workout. “I used to weigh 220. Every day I fight it.”

SoulCycle's Heather Peggs  - "the instructor."

Her story resonated with me. 

I place my towel over the handlebars and approach the instructor who’s testing her microphone.

“I just want to tell you that I think it’s great what you do, telling us about your weight loss and the challenge of keeping it off.”

Her smile grows bigger. Her teeth are straight and white. Fingering her long hair, she thanks me.

“You see, I was fat,” I say. “Years ago. And….”

She steps back, sizing me up.  “Oh my god, but look at you now! How big were you?” she asks. “I would have never guessed. You look great!”

“I was 167 at my peak. And, I’m barely 5’3.  I did Weight Watcher’s. That’s how I lost it.”

“I never weigh myself,” she cuts in.

“Me nether!” I reply.  “Except at the doctor’s office.”

“When I get weighed there,” she says, “I look away from the scale. You never get over it.  I go up and down five pounds either way,” she adds.

“Oh, yeah, me, too,” I sigh.  “Going out to dinner.  I can’t resist the bread and butter. But I’m not going to give that up.  I just plan around it, cut back in other ways. It’s a way of life.”

We rush our conversation before class begins. We’re kindred spirits, uniting with sound bites common to those of us who have experienced the battle.

“I’ve kept the weight off for forty-two years,” I tell her.  “And it’s still an every-day thing. It does get easier, though.”

“Really? It’s just been four years since I lost the weight. Wow. 42 years.”

“It takes discipline. Healthy food. And, exercise is key. Helps keep me in balance. But, you already know that.”

She quickly surveys the room; it’s time to start.   She focuses back on me. “I’m so glad you came up to me today,” she says. “What’s your name?”

“Heather.”

She gives me a hug.  “Heather….Thank you.”

I head back to #26 and hop on. Normally, I’m in my own zone just trying to make it through the class and the arm moves. Today, though, my eyes wander.  In the first row are the regular advanced riders with “cut” bodies displaying lots of bare midriffs. Every one of them is able to follow the instructor, spin for spin, beat on beat with the music.

In row two, I see another woman around my age working it. She is holding strong, peddling hard; her over-sized t-shirt is covered in sweat by the halfway mark, while the trim man next to her in cycling shorts and tank top, reaches for his water in the holder below. He’s in his own world pumping up an imaginary hill.  Just then, the instructor gets off her bike and skips around the room to generate more energy. She passes me and presses a hand on mine gripping the handlebars.

At the end of the forty-five minute class, the instructor leads us in a quick stretch. “Clip out and extend your right leg on the handlebar,” she says, reaching up. This is when she tells her weight loss story in a few short sentences and encourages people not to give up. But this time she says more.

“Someone came up to me before class.” She gives me a quick glance and a nod. “She shared her journey with me, her success and her struggle with weight. If you have a story,” she says, “if you struggle, or if you just want to share. Don’t be shy.”

The instructor nods at me again and smiles back. The young woman on bike 42 sees the exchange. She knows it’s me.

After class, in the tight changing space I bump her, the woman on the bench – the woman from bike 42. Her arm is sweaty and slick. Her face is flushed from the workout. “Excuse me,” I say. “Sorry.”

She glances at me as the area fills up with more sweaty bodies. Someone else bumps her. But she ignores them.

“No worries,” she says to me. Her smile isn’t weak this time. It’s warm and genuine. “Tight quarters,” she adds.

“Yeah,” I say. But this time I’m the one diverting my eyes. I don’t want her to see the redness from the gathering tears.

As soon as I get in my car, it’s safe to let the tears flow. Why am I crying? What is this feeling so deep in my gut?  It’s been years! Was being fat that bad? Was the struggle to lose weight that painful? I don’t know if I’m crying for the woman on the bench or because the instructor merely understood and championed me. She acknowledged the struggle, acknowledged my success.

I’ve been thinner for a much longer period of my life now than I was ever fat. How does the overweight mindset still cloud my vision?

Perhaps it never goes away.  Or, maybe it’s a gift to be able to understand. Or, perhaps it’s still there so I have something to share with someone out there in the dark.

For Anna

I met my future daughter-in-law, Anna, when she was four years old. She was holding her mother’s hand on the cement walkway that cut through our children’s grade school.  I'd stopped to chat with her mother, Sally, after she’d dropped off her son. “This is Anna,” Sally said, after we greeted each other.

An angelic face, framed in blonde hair fastened to the side with a big pink grosgrain bow, gazed up at me. Her eyes were sea blue and sparkled. She leaned in closer to her mother and uttered a shy hello.

Just steps away, in a fourth grade classroom, her future husband, Allan, was opening a science book and chatting it up with his seatmate.

Years later, our children grown, Sally and I would meet for tea at the Corner Bakery to catch up. In our conversations, it came up that both Anna and Allan were single. “Oh, if only they could meet…” I sighed. “She’d be perfect.” 

I even brought it up to Allan. “You know, this Anna Howell, I think you’d like her…”

Ugh, every son’s nightmare.

It wasn’t me who arranged their meeting, but a Howell family friend who also knew Allan. “Morgan sealed the deal,” Sally laughed, when I called her the day after Allan confessed to me at dinner that he’d been seeing Anna.

Soon, they had jointly adopted a scrappy little terrier, Judy, and made a home in a cozy little bungalow in Santa Monica. 

Then, when Anna entered medical school on the East Coast while Allan built his career here in Los Angeles, a long distance relationship proved to be a challenge.  There was a break-up.

Three years later, "She got USC!" Sally said to me on a call. "You should see the flowers that Allan sent!" Anna had gotten her first-choice residency.

A few weeks later at the wedding of a mutual family friend, Hank and I saw  firsthand how Anna and Allan had found each other again.

At the start of that weekend, Anna invited me to meet for coffee at the Sorrento Hotel. “Let’s just reconnect,” she’d said with a lilt as she plopped down across from me at the table. Dressed in jeans and a loose sweater, a touch of mascara on her lashes, she'd whipped her blonde hair into a messy topknot and settled in. As she talked, it was clear that they'd both grown up, matured, and realized that a successful relationship meant give and take.

This past August, after Allan and Anna had just moved into their new home, our family was facing some challenges. Anna jumped in, making her and Allan a part of the solution.  Then, a couple of weeks later, on a Sunday morning, Allan asked Anna to marry him at the kitchen table over an omelet and The New York Times. It was the joy we all needed.  Newly engaged, and at a time when she could have made it all about her, Anna made it all about family. “It’s nothing,” she’d said when I thanked her for being so helpful during this time.  
"Nothing," actually, was really something. This young woman, I knew, was special.

Last Wednesday, Anna called. “I just want to spend a little time with you,” she’d told me. "I'm taking next week off, so can I come by Sunday?" 

“But Anna,” I’d told her, “you have so little time off. You don’t have to ‘do’ me. I’m fine.”

Still, she showed up. Anna always does.

This Saturday, I will watch my oldest son, Allan, stand and wait for his bride to walk down the aisle, that little blonde with the pink bow, all grown up.  She will dazzle and those eyes will sparkle.

Allan will take her hand and wed the love of his life. And I, his mother, will look on, handkerchief at the ready. I’ll squeeze my husband's hand and he will glance at me with that solid, knowing look in his soft brown eyes. Together, we’ll watch our son and his new bride, and be thankful.