Do the Math

My grandmother was 40 when my mother had me. That's four years older than I am this year, and that means when my mother was the age I am now, I was almost 16. That's a lot to digest. I'll break it down.

By 40, my grandmother had lived in three countries (China, Cuba, Texas) in abject poverty and in ample comfort. She had three children, one of whom was in college and the other two on the way there. She and my grandfather were running a successful business, they owned a home, they were becoming US citizens.

By 40, my mother was visiting me at college, grieving the loss of her father, and still working 60 hour weeks for 30 hour pay, running a law office nonetheless.

I was a good kid, I had loving and happy parents - I had access, education, and opportunity that both sets of grandparents had provided. I had no shortage of affection, and while both my parents worked, I never felt they weren't there.

But I can hardly imagine having a 16-year old as the person I am today. Of course, I would have had 16 years to become that parent. But if I were to become a parent, what kind of parent would I be? Would I be the kind of mother that my mother was, that my grandmother was? Could I even be that kind of mother, having 16 more years of experience than they did when they first gave birth? Would that extra 16 years do me any good? Or would I be a neurotic, controlling grown-up with no business having kids, like many people I know?

In some ways I envy my mother and grandmother for having done it so early. They got to grow up - sometimes the hard way - with their daughters. When I went to prom, my mom was the age I am today. I remember shopping for the dress, the jewelry, the makeup. I remember my mother buying me my first razor (that was years before prom, but go along with me here...), my first bra, going with me to my first gyn visit. It was probably terrifying for her, but she never showed it. And our trials were nothing compared to those she and my grandmother went through. When my grandmother was pregnant with my mother, my grandfather left for Cuba, looking for a better life for all of them. My mother was 5 when he came back for them. All that time my grandmother had to find food for this tiny baby girl, sometimes giving my mother the meat from the fish while she sucked the bones. Anything to survive, anything not to starve.

Knowing that, do I have what it takes? I'd be a great girl scout leader - I can show you how to paint pottery, to make pipe cleaner crafts, to make peanut brittle. I'd probably be a pretty good older sister too, revealing the naughty little secrets every girl should know. Heck, I can even put together model cars, hit a baseball, and help with a science project. But could I be the kind of mom I'd want to be for my kids? I don't think you can ever know that before you do it - it's the kind of thing you look back on years later and say, 'yeah, I think I did okay there.' I think this weekend I'll call my mom and tell her what a great job I think she did.

But wait a second, what about my dad?

In many ways, I am the person I am because of my father. Where the women in my life gave me passion, energy, and the shape of my ass, the men showed me the quiet strength of reason. Of planning, of hard work, of patience. Lots of patience. That was the side that got me to 30. As I grow older myself, wondering about my future, I see my father more for his sense of humor, for his kindness and his gentle nature. He is strong and quiet, but never unfair.

And I know that if I'm to become the person I want to be, and maybe even the parent I think I can be, I won't be doing it alone. I don't have plan. Heck, I don't even have a clue. But I'm getting there.

Huh, wait...did that just happen?

A few months ago on my way out of New York, my doctor said offhand, 'oh, you're 35. It's time for your baseline and I'm going to write you a script.' For the less fair sex reading this entry, that's a baseline mammogram. A pancake test. A true test that you've hit the age to start worrying. Just that casual comment threw me for a loop - for years I'd heard that women don't need a baseline until 40, but here I was getting written up that I needed to have one before my next birthday. For a moment it was sort of exciting - I got to go first, I get to tell the other younger women in my life what it's like, what to expect. But after that excitement faded, the subtext of what she'd ordered set in.

The script has been attached to my fridge for months, curling at the edges next to the Eat Me magnet from Crif Dog. My first mammogram. This is the gateway test, the one that starts it all. From here on out, it's colonoscopies, bone densities, and other miserable exams to prove you're not yet dying but you're on the way.

But when are all of the things that usually happen at this age going to start happening? I didn't freak out when I turned 30 - and given the circumstances I had every right to do so. That first (and as of now only) silver hair? I protected it feverishly, proud to finally have earned a stripe. But it fell out soon thereafter and I've not found another since. And what about the clock? The oh-my-god-please-don't-let-me-fall-victim-to-my-body alarm clock? That's my name for it, the phenomenon that takes perfectly rational women and suddenly makes them hormonal and unpredictable. This, to me, would be like Spock getting Bendii Syndrome (look it up in Wikipedia!) - after a lifetime devoted to study and reason, the ultimate curse is losing one's mind. I have never been able to comprehend how a woman could wake up one day and suddenly decide it was time.

And then I realized it's a slow process, losing one's mind. It doesn't happen overnight, it's not so easy to see. Somewhere along the way while you've been struggling against it, you realize the struggle is the change. And that all of the hallmarks are there, that somehow you've subconsciously made changes in your life that you think will make you happy, but they've been stepping stones on a path your body tricked you into taking. But as soon as you wrote that you think, 'but I don't really feel tricked, I am really happy.' And then you realize it's already happening. It may not be the same for everyone; god forbid I wake up thinking ineedababypleasenowihavetogetpregnant. But there's something, I know it's there.

So here I sit in my kitchen looking at the yellowing script. Mortality is a post-it on my fridge and the tone in my alarm that will never let me sleep again.

Take a moment...

It's been raining for 27 days.

You'd think that's not such a big deal in Seattle, but it's actually a little unusual. Normally it's sort of drizzly and overcast, but it's been dark and cloudy for weeks now and the rain's come down hard. Pot holes have appeared, trees fallen over and venues sparse because folks are tired of going out drenched. Today was actually the first day I woke up and it wasn't raining - the sun's shining and the air is crisp. We got up and took the dog to the Magnuson park - off-leash heaven - and celebrated with all of the other cabin-fevered Seattlites by getting out in the mud. The dogs went nuts...mud everywhere with barking and frothing and humping from the biggest mastiff to the teacup chihuahuas. There was so much life in the park this morning, I almost cried at how happy the dog looked to be running at his own pace. And then there was this moment when I watched the dog walking alongside Todd - about 25 yards ahead - I watched them walk and play and the dog looked up at him, he looked back at me...and that was it. My dog, my shadow and my security standing with my guy, my hopes and my dreams. And I laughed at it all, the sweetness and the absurdity of such happiness.

But the sun comes out only briefly.

Just two days ago I was reading a friend's blog when I stumbled on writings about his father. His dad, a young 62 (just a few years older than my dad) was diagnosed with fronto temporal dementia (FTD) in May of 2004 - and is now no longer the person he once was. This is the first Christmas that he thought of it as being without his dad, because he sits in the room but is no more. He is like a shell of the person he once was, and if my friend listens closely he can almost hear the echoes of his voice in the hollow of his chest. His writing was powerful, the descriptions of his mother unforgettable. We talked about his dad for the first time the next day at work, and listening to him reflect on death gave me respect for the struggle his family faces daily. For all that medicine has given us, it rarely treats those most afflicted - the family.

In this state of mind I found myself at lunch with an old friend whom I hadn't seen in nearly 4 years. He too was facing similar struggles - his mother had a stroke 27 months ago and his father's dementia is like a prison sentence from which there is no release. He comes to work each day so he can afford to take care of them, but at about 6 hours he starts to worry that his father might have forgotten to feed his mother, or worse yet, that he's burned down the house. His only solace from this is Moon, the Golden Retriever his brother left him during a relocation to Hawaii - and I have no doubt that this fragile balance wouldn't be possible without that dog. None but he and the dog will escape, and even they too will succumb eventually. But for now he walks for the parents who cared for him as a child, the dog keeping watch on him.

Only two months ago I was wrapped up in living in New York, my sphere concerned with survival. It's been quiet these last weeks safe from the City, hearing things for the first time - the marvelous texture that has become my life, the privilege I have in the friends I keep, their experiences a borrowed perspective that shapes the person I will be.