That song, which first appeared in 1956 in the musical comedy, "Bells are Ringing," with Judy Holliday and Dean Martin, was later popularized by Shirley Bassey.
I didn't need to write to my brother to confirm that Mom sang this song. I remember all too clearly how she would launch into the first line, and sing it over and over again. She sang it when Christmas vacation ended. And especially, when summer vacation came to a close around Labor Day. In both cases, we kids were going back to school, and we were finally "getting out of her hair," and so she was happy to see us go. But the summer's end (and the holidays' ending) were sad for us kids! Who wanted to say goodbye to warm temperatures and long lazy afternoons? Who wanted to say goodbye to Christmas?
I've written in great detail in Chapter Six how I felt growing up -- that my family didn't know how to have fun; I wrote too that I believe that my joyless childhood was a core issue in my depression growing up.
In my shamanic healing class,
I can't read about this idea that negative imprints in the luminous energy field can lead to disease without recalling what happened to me in August of 2003 when doctors were trying to decide if I needed more treatment for cancer. I've written about the miraculous blue tree, and how I believe that the healing ritual beneath the tree helped me to deal with the challenges of chemo, AND the beastly doctor at Sloan Kettering who insisted that I needed a stem cell transplant when I didn't actually need one. (For that, see Chapter Seven.)
But what is perhaps even more amazing is that on the very same day that I found out via a phone call from my wonderful doctor at Dana Farber that I did NOT need the stem cell transplant, I also learned something else, quite remarkably, from a psychic, a healer better known as a medical intuitive.
Her name was Karin N. and she lived in Stowe, Vermont. My sister-in-law Jo Kirsch told me to call Karin and when I asked why, Jo replied simply, "she will blow your mind."
And blow my mind she did. For the longer version of this story, I point you to a post I wrote years ago, called "My Medical Miracle," : which appeared on-line in NPR's "This I Believe."
Basically, the medical intuitive -- who knew absolutely nothing about me except my first name -- and who was 3,000 miles away from me when she did my reading (I was in California visiting my sister) was able to identify the one spot of cancer I had left to cure. No one except my doctors and my husband knew where that spot of cancer was. Nonetheless, Karin the psychic "saw" that the "one spot I had to cure" was located "on the left side of your chest, below your rib cage and above your diaphragm."
To say I was shocked doesn't begin to describe my reaction. But Karin went further. She asked me if my mother had had lung cancer. When I said no, she said, "Well did she have a serious lung disease?" and I said yes, she had asthma. And then Karin said, "Well that's the source of the cancer in your chest. It stems from the resentment you harbor toward your mother. You will need a little chemo and radiation to heal, but you must deal with the resentment you have against your mother."
I was speechless. This reading turned my world upside down. Never again would I look at health and disease in quite the same way.
As I was listening to Dr. Villoldo describe the way shamans can "see" the luminous energy field that surrounds us, and how they heal their clients by replacing dark patches of energy with light, I am finally beginning to understand what Karin was able to see, and what she was trying to say.
Dr. Villoldo says that the luminous energy field is "a matrix that contains information that you inherited from your family of origin regarding how you will live, how you will age, how you will suffer and how you will die." Morever, it contains "imprints" of all the negative experiences that you've ever had. In order to heal those dark imprints, the shaman performs an "illumination," replacing the dark energy with light.
Apparently, Karin the psychic could "read" the dark energy in me, specifically in my chest, and she could "feel" its connection to my mom and her asthma. Quite remarkable! As I contemplate this, I still find it a bit scary. I wonder, have I really cleared the resentment?
Am I bringing back the resentment by recalling the way she sang, "The party's over?"
I force myself to take a big breath in. I concentrate on calming myself. I remind myself that I have worked hard over the years to let go of my bad feelings towards Mom. I have tried to focus on the deep love I have for my mother.
And then I think about a question my poet friend Nancy posed last week after she read Chapter Eleven, "Springtime in the Rockies." Healing, she observed, "is a little like peeling an onion, isn't it?" Just as soon as you heal one "layer" you realize that there are deeper layers underneath that need healing.
As I said, for all intents and purposes, I have largely let go of the resentment I carried toward my mom. But here now, simultaneously, I am writing this post about the fact it still irks me that Mom seemed to enjoy being a "party pooper," as evidenced in her smiling while she sang the first line of Shirley Bassey's depressing song.
Is it possible that I'm kidding myself, that I really haven't entirely let go of my resentment? I wonder.
We kids grew up with an understanding that because of her illness, Mom was restricted from doing certain things. That's one reason why, for example, we didn't go camping. Or have any pets. But the reality was more complex: Mom as a rule did not like outdoor activities. And she didn't like animals.
In many ways, Mom did not know how to enjoy herself.
Is it any wonder why? She grew up having her fun squashed. She had a bicycle -- I think her uncle bought it for her -- until her brothers took it away and sold it so that they could buy themselves a radio. She had one pair of roller skates, too, until she outgrew them; that was it for the fun of roller skating.
I remember Mom telling me the story of an art class she had with the nuns when she was small. She painted a jar in bright yellow and black and the nun took one look at it and told her it was "ugly." Mom was crushed; many decades later she recalled that she had liked the colors because they reminded her of a bumble bee.
Mom learned early on that life wasn't something to enjoy. And that nun taught her in one swift comment that she had no artistic talent (Mom's myriad stained glass creations
Her "script" was that of women through the ages: get married, have children and be a meticulous homemaker. Which she did, to perfection. When she was just 16, her aunt Gina died, leaving a husband and two children. Mom was called on to help out in her uncle's house a lot.
Whether because of my personality, or the fact that I came of age during the rebellious 1960's, I found myself rejecting my Mom and what she stood for. I wasn't going to have her limited life choices thrust on me. I don't recall how old I was when one morning at breakfast I announced, while Mom was spooning oatmeal from a pan into several bowls: "I'm never going to cook oatmeal for my family!" It's a memory that makes me sad, because I could be such an insulting pain in the butt growing up. It also makes me chuckle, because try as I might, I actually did end up becoming a mother who made oatmeal for her family.
But in those days of my youth, I felt completely compelled to reject the notion that I would not live a life of duty and sacrifice, devoted to serving kids.
When did I soften toward mom and what she represented?
I'm not exactly sure. I tell the following story to illustrate my point: at the age of 25, shortly after I had gotten married, and when I was working for a daily newspaper, and after I had announced that I wasn't having kids, I recall my dad taking me aside and saying, "you know honey, having children is a truly wonderful thing, you really ought to reconsider your decision not to have them."
The next thing I remember, I was 35 years old, and my dad took me aside once again, this time saying, "Honey, you have three kids now, you know, I really think that's enough!"
As I look back, it seems ironic that the medical intuitive reading, in which the psychic linked my cancer to my resentment toward Mom -- came when it did, when I was about 50; I had fully embraced the life of wife and mother.
Which leads me to my main point here: healing is a very complex and inexact process. When exactly are you healed? And how long does healing last? Just because you are healed one day, from one ailment, doesn't mean you're healed the next day or week or month or year, from something else. Like life itself, healing is a fluid process, and one, I believe, that we must work on day by day.
Also, as I write this, I am reminded that "time doesn't exist,"
I'm not sure when I fully let go of my resentment toward my mother. But I think traveling to southern Italy last fall and "falling in love" with myself and my Italian heritage while in the Piazza Plebiscito in Naples (and meandering throughout southern Italy) helped a lot to scour me of all my resentment. As a result of the writing in Italian I started doing four years ago, telling stories about my ancestors, I have come to see that Mom and Dad had their shortcomings and limitations in large part because of the limitations of their own parents.
Mom and Dad did not have the luxury to travel to Italy, or at least, they didn't have the wherewithal to make it happen. They missed out, big-time. But simultaneously, I realize how incredibly fortunate I have been to travel. For that, I am extremely grateful! That gratitude has led me to become far more generous and accepting of my mom and my dad and the choices they made, or had made for them, and how all those choices affected me.
So what about this song Mom has been whispering in my ear of late? She did indeed love to sing "The Party's Over." But from this vantage point, even as I can still hear her singing it, I am nonetheless able to hold mom in loving memory. At least as often as she was a killjoy, mom could also be an incredible tease (like her father, Claude, and like me, too.)
In her vernacular, Mom was a "scootch," someone who really loved poking fun at loved ones and others, but not in a malicious way. She liked to get your goat (as my other grandmother would say.) Italians have a way of teasing each other, often by making up funny nicknames for close family members and others living in their small villages. Humor, I think, helped them cope with life.
*******
I was wondering how to end this post -- the ending came to me quite suddenly when my husband and I went out for a hike this afternoon at one of our favorite spots: Red Rocks, a remarkable formation that sits about 20 minutes from Denver. The mammoth red stone towers overhead; it is threaded with yellows and pinks and tans. It is warm and sinuous and it bends and folds and is endlessly magnificent. It's a bit like the Grand Canyon in that you cannot begin to take it in!
At least 32 Native American tribes in the U.S. consider Red Rocks to be a sacred place. It is certainly sacred for me; no matter how often we go, I never tire of being near the rocks.
"It's a river of stone," my husband said today
The answers lie in the moment by moment awareness that is mindfulness. When I'm hiking,
Of course I'm not always hiking. There are days when I don't feel up to par, and times that I start to feel swamped by negative thoughts. That's when I try to remind myself that I have a choice. I can choose to do something to change my point of view. I can go outdoors and take a walk, or I stay indoors, roll out my mat and do some yoga postures, or just stretch.
These activities give me health, moment by moment. They make me feel better. In the end, you only get the present moment, and it behooves all of us to to do whatever we can to make ourselves feel as healthy as possible as often as possible.
And so, writing this post was a choice I made, to explore some difficult memories about my mother. I'm glad I wrote it because it's left me feeling positive; I have put aside my resentment. I think about Mom right now,
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