When Neighbors Move

I don't deal well with change. I never have. It's a character flaw, I know. The worst kind of change, for me, are departures. At this point in my life I'm closer to the grave than to the cradle so, by now, you would think that I have adapted, evolved, come up with coping mechanisms. That could not be further from the truth. As a matter of fact, I think it's gotten worse.

It's rather selfish, wanting things to always stay the same. Logically, I know this. I am fully aware that I am more interested in maintaining balance in my own ecosystem than the evolution of man. To be quite honest, I completely identified with the father figure in "The Croods" and I think the family kill circle is rational mechanism of protection.

I think (and I realize that this post is full of the work "I") I take all types of change personally. For whatever reason, I just can't shake off those last vestiges of deep-rooted insecurity and when someone leaves I don't know how to NOT take it as a ballot cast in the "loves me not" bucket. Is this thinking f*cked up, rudimentary and childish? Yes.

This January we'll have lived in our current house for 16 years. All 3 of my kids have been brought home to this house, we've buried dozens of pets (not in our yard...don't worry it's not a pet cemetery out there. And mostly it's been rodents. And amphibians. And 2 dogs.) and seen countless neighbors come and go. I've lived in this house longer than I've lived any where else in my entire life. We've done 2 additions and added a swimming pool. I've rearranged furniture so many times that recently I just either threw away or donated 90% of it. Lee and I have completed fellowships, modified our careers, gone through illness, taken care of parents in the setting of our home. Our kitchen table has been the epicenter of homework, projects, mentoring, finance summits, bill paying, cookie baking, late nights with friends, tamale making, picture drawing, Scrabble competitions, sandwich preparation, bacon and chocolate chip pancake consumption, family meetings to discuss disappointments and to gather for celebrations. Our kids have learned to read, done math facts, learned Texas history, written (not enough) thank you notes, eaten thousands of chicken nuggets, gallons of macaroni and cheese, been subject to inconsistent morning devotionals, left letters and cookies for Santa Claus, formulated Christmas lists, plotted illness to skip school, taken ibuprofen for actual fevers and have transitioned from diapers to puberty in the same 3 seats.

When I came to Houston in 1991 (that's right, 23 years ago!) I never, ever thought I'd call it my home. Up to the time that I arrived here for medical school, I had moved 13 times in my 23 years of life. My first year of medical school I changed apartments 3 times because I didn't bother finding housing before I left Atlanta (a symptom of my ambivalence and depression at the onset of medical school). It wasn't until I met my husband that I began cultivating any sense of stability. I've lived in 3 different places since we've been together; the apartment I was living when we met, our first rental home and now our current home. I attended a different school for kindergarten, first grade, second grade and third grade and in 3 different states. This isn't a criticism of my parents. They were young and it was the 70s. If I psychoanalyze my husband, he'd have a similar tale to tell (but he doesn't like to be psychoanalyzed and perhaps his moves weren't so extreme-in some ways. In others they were probably worse or at least different). Nevertheless, neither one of us thought we'd be in the same house 16 years later and certainly not in Houston, TX.

In the movie, "It's a Wonderful Life", George Bailey wrestles with whether or not his existence has mattered. It's the basis of the whole movie. I've probably seen that movie about a hundred times and it is one of my all time favorites. I remember sitting in my den on the sofa in my pjs with my mom and my brother on Greenhill Drive watching it during Thanksgiving and Christmas break. I love the underlying expression of loyalty and the emphasis on what really matters. If you know me on more than just a superficial level, for better or worse, I've become attached to you-like a barnacle. You have to scrape me off and I'm old and crusty. I'm not very good at expressing my love for you and your people in a vocal kind of way, but love I do. I love the familiarity of your proximity and all the comfort that proximity brings. Do you have an egg I can borrow? Can my dog(s) camp out at your house? Should we go walk on the bayou (the cement ditch with the gnats and the homeless)? The beer bottles that stack when our men-folk talk nonsense. The running back and forth of our children across yards. There have been lots and lots of you have that have come into my life, made it richer, and then continued on your own journey. We all have a different trajectory and I mourn when yours doesn't follow mine. It's because I love you and I value you. So please don't take my sadness as rejection or judgment or irritation. It's just plain old sadness because I love you and, selfishly, I will miss the familiarity and I suck at change. But I know that you have your own story to create and your own kitchen table that will be central to that story. So, even though I'd love to envelop you into my family kill circle or trap you in my basement, it is a wonderful life. But I will miss the shit out of you.

Grandmothers

I've spent dozens of nights in the Embassy Suites in Laredo and every time I'm here I wonder it it will be the last time I get to see my grandmother. Tomorrow she turns 94 years old. Her birthday has become somewhat of an international holiday. When she turned 90 there was a celebration in Mexico. Her 91st and 92nd birthdays were more low key, a backyard fiesta in Laredo. Her 93rd we were back down in Oaxaca. Her birthday coincides with Dia de los Muertos so it's always a fun time to go to Mexico. This year it was another back yard party complete with a piñata and pineapple upside down cake. I wouldn't miss this celebration for anything and whether or not my priorities are straight, I don't even care.

Actually, I have 2 grandmothers in Laredo. The other grandmother just turned a youthful 88 years old. She is mobile and seems to be closer to 70 years old than 90 years old. She just moved into her own 4 bedroom house, drives and reads voraciously. Whenever I get an opportunity to come to Laredo, despite the 6 hour drive, I hop in my car and go. My kids love coming here too. And they love the familiarity of the Embassy Suites and Abuelita Fina's backyard and Nana's irritable chihuahua and the routine of visiting; half the day at Nana's and half the day at Abuelita Fina's.

My daughter chose to stay in Houston with her dad so she could go trick or treating and I don't begrudge her that decision. In her 10 year old mind the benefits of limitless candy outweighed the benefits of a day off of school to travel.

Fina, my 94 year old grandmother, is pleasantly demented but still quick witted and sharp tongued. She vacillates between wondering when her deceased husband will return from work to delivering a razor sharp retort in a battle of the wits. My 71 year old uncle, her oldest son, teases her mercilessly and she loves it. The night we arrived we went to visit her and she was admiring my overly priced Louis Vuitton bag, caressing and coveting it. My uncle, in Spanish (she is wittiest in her native language and I can finally understand the back and forth), tells her that he will sell her my bag for $7 to which she responds she will only pay $5. They haggle over the price for a while and then when she begins to look at the contents of my bag my uncle scolds her and tells her not to be so nosy as his mistress' panties may be inside. I, however, draw a line at my Louis Vuitton bag. No matter how much I love and adore my Abuelita, she will never get my bag! I have real reason to be concerned as she is a bit of a hoarder and a thief. My 2 year old niece loves cell phones and the other night she cried when she had to return my son's cell phone to him, "Me pona!" This is my 94 year old grandmother as she is hiding my cousin's iPhone inside a jewelry box she just received and she becomes equally irate when my aunt, her youngest daughter, tries to take it away from her. To pacify her, I hand her my iPhone which she deftly squirrels away in the small jewelry box.

Magda, my 88 year old grandmother has no memory problems and hasn't regressed into a toddler. She is knowledgable in all areas and she can talk to you about politics and current events and she always has a new book to recommend. She married at age 15 and had her first child at age 16 and like my other grandmother, she has sacrificed. She has no bitterness or regret or anger, only calm wisdom. In talking to her, it becomes apparant that in the generation preceding mine and amongst your family, a tremendous sense of duty and obligation was cultivated. There was never room for individual rights and preferences. You did and still do what is right and best for the family, collectively. Brothers and sisters don't leave each other out to dry and they don't squabble over fairness. Personal rights take a back seat to family loyalty and honor and as I listen to her I am overcome with emotion. How can so much change in one generation? Suddenly my mother and her demands and her siblings and their acts of selflessness make more sense. This is how she and they were raised. You don't question your elders and you are your brother's keeper.

Some days I get frustrated with my own mother and her seeming demands on my time and my attention but in her generation's mind, this is what they are owed. They sowed their seeds and now they want to reap the harvest. We don't live in a world of honoring your elders above all else. We have our schedules and our activities and these win our attention time and time again and now I wonder what we are loosing in the process. This is why I love Laredo and my Abuelita and my Nana and my Tias and Tios. This place and these people anchor me.