Jaki Jean on Saying Goodbye to Eli

This morning, my sister picked me up & we took Eli, the most loving wire haired Dachshund ever created, to the Park Glen Animal Clinic near Jean & Jack’s house to end his life.

In the late spring of 2000, my Omega Son Sam persisted in his pleas for another dog.  I had made the same journey I made this morning with Flash the Wonder Dog & vowed I would never again attach myself to another dog only to have to say goodbye.

At that time, I still did not understand that endings are too often an integral part of relationships.

But Sam was, even then, very persuasive & we took a trip to CAPS, Citizens for Animal Protection, in search of a puppy.  (This time, Mom, we need a boy. )  ( Flash the Wonder Dog as a female). Several of my friends had adopted animals from CAPS with fabulous experiences. 

At CAPS, Sam kept gravitating toward dogs that looked like Flash the Wonder Dog & this I could not bear.  I was with Flash when the vet put her down & her image was just too fresh in my mind.

A volunteer at CAPS suggested that we visit an adoption fair they were hosting at a nearby Petsmart.

 

And when Sam entered the store, he walked to the adoption area & zeroed in on one cage, shouting, “Dachshunds !”

In the cage were two tiny puppies.  One black male, one brindle female.  Their foster mother told me that they had been found on the side of the road by Animal Control.

A few weeks prior to our trek to find a puppy, I had taken Sam to see a friend’s newly acquired Dachshund puppies.  As he played with them he asked my friend Ira: 

What are their names?

I haven’t decided, yet, Ira replied, what do you think?

Niles & Frasier.  I think they are Niles & Frasier.

And Niles & Frasier they became.

When the puppies’ foster mom let Sam hold the little black male, she took me aside & said:

Another family has put a hold on this puppy.

I looked over at my old soul of a son & as he was interacting with that black male puppy, children & dogs gathered around him.  I thought about his old & yet so young a soul & I wondered how I was going to tell him that we might not be able to adopt his choice.

After a bit, as the children & dogs continued to gather around Sam, a CAPS representative took me aside & said,

The puppy’s foster mom has said she does not care about the hold from the other family.  She wants your son to have the puppy.

When we got home with that little black male puppy after a mound of paperwork, & a kennel & toys & food, Sam suggested a name.

And I said:

His name is Eli.

And Eli he became.

Eli was a sweet, sweet soul.  Fraught with abandonment issues.  Understandable, given the fact that he was dumped with his litter mate on the side of a road. 

Eli loved children & chasing squirrels & birds & motorcycles.  He barked furiously at anyone he thought was an intruder.  So many times I had to remind him that he was not a Doberman.

Eli loved toys that squeaked & playing ball & my brother John.  John used to say that Eli watched out of our front windows for my car & my arrival home from work.

In his youth, Eli slept on my chest.  Then he moved to my feet.  Last night, he curled up next to me & let me keep my hand against him.

It was time to let Eli go.  He was blind, still fraught with abandonment issues, plagued by allergies & in pain.  He lived a grand life.   His adorable face was etched in grey.

But he no longer chased squirrels & birds or played with toys that squeaked.  He was weary. 

Tonight, I will settle myself into the Futon next to Jean’s bed alone. 

And remember that late spring afternoon with Sam & a vision of Eli as a puppy, skipping & bouncing in the grass of Jean & Jack’s back yard.

RIP, my friend.

Jaki Jean on Catching Flies with Honey

You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

All my life, I have heard this idiom & understood that it means one can persuade another to one’s bidding by being polite rather than being confrontational.

This morning, as I dealt for the fifth time in the last twelve months with the providers of Jean’s hospital bed, I wondered about the validity of this idiom.

And I thought to myself, Who wants to catch flies?  Frogs, spiders, snakes, birds, small mammals.  But not Jaki Jean.  Flies are to be eliminated, swatted into permanent submission. 

Honey is not to be wasted on flies.

When my sons Nick & Sam were growing up & Jean thought I was overreacting to some infraction (which was often), she would say:  Save your big guns for the big battles.

Little did she envision during those years that I would need the big guns for this particular sort of a confrontation.

Taking care of Jean, spending this time with her, is not the battle.  Tending to her wound, planning & preparing her meals – none of that is the battle.  All of that is a joy.

But dealing with home health care providers, equipment providers, Medicare, insurance, doctors, pharmacies, transportation, accepting the role of advocate.  That is a constant battle.

It requires a diligence I never envisioned when Jean told me to save my big guns.

Over this past weekend, nuts & bolts & screws began to appear underneath Jean’s bed.  Every time I used the bed remote to reposition her, the bed creaked.

This morning, it dropped.

So, I called Preferred Homecare to report the problem & was put on hold.  I watched the time pass, because I do not wait beyond fifteen minutes except at a doctor’s office & that pisses me off (patience is not my strength).

I was transferred within the fifteen minute barrier to Dispatch & promptly received voice mail.

Seriously?  I just don’t fucking think so.

Of course, I hung up & called back, once again identified myself, but this time with the caveat that it was an emergency & I needed to speak to someone in Dispatch immediately.

Dispatch is in a meeting.

Seriously?  Dispatch is in a meeting?  And no one is covering the phones?

Breathing deep, using my best big gun voice, I told the operator that I needed to speak to a human being in the Dispatch department immediately & that a  Dispatch meeting did not take precedence over my mother’s care.

That voice, which is apparently my most lethal weapon, captured a human being & an appointment this afternoon to repair Jean’s bed.

No amount of honey would have given me what I wanted. 

Not to capture a fly, but to convince a provider of its responsibility to respond to my mother’s need.

Before this particular journey in my life ends, I doubt seriously that I will use honey as much as I will use my voice.

And I can guarantee that my voice does not want to catch flies.

Jaki Jean on the Day After Emily Kate's 21st Birthday

Twenty one years ago, yesterday, Emily Kate Douglas was born to my sister, Janet Ettinger Douglas & David Douglas.

Most people in my life know that my sister Janet was my Lamaze coach & birth partner during the births of both my sons.  During my son Nick’s induced birth, she never left my side, never took a break, never left me alone.  During my son Sam’s entrance, she stood by my side & told me I did not have to be so brave, I could ask for drugs & at least once told me to behave.  She was my rock & my center both times.

My sister Janet held my sons before I did.  And she has held them close in her heart all these thirty years later.

Janet knew her child would be a girl – I remember when she called & told me.  I do believe I said fuck you.  Of all of Jack & Jean’s children, I was the only one not to give birth to a girl.  A true testament to God’s sense of humor.  Or, perhaps, Her wisdom.

When Janet was in labor with Emily, I felt honor bond to visit her.  Of course, she did not need me as a Lamaze partner – her amazing partner was her loving husband, David. 

But I went in.  I stood behind a nurse as she examined Janet & I thought, Oh, my god, she did this for me & for my babies twice? 

David never stopped touching her.  He was the essence of calm & assurance & support.  So like Janet was with me, but so much more.  This was his wife, his partner, his sister in Christ, his baby coming into the world.

While I was in the room trying to focus my vision on anything but the V leading to my sister’s most personal parts, Janet asked me:

 

Is this not the hardest work you have ever done?

I told her yes, but it is work & pain with a purpose & at the end you get a beautiful baby.

She was not amused.  I will not repeat what she said to me, but it involves a word our mother Jean keeps telling me I must not use.  Although I have used it in this post.

The nurses who assisted in Janet’s labor told our mother that they had never seen a team so in tune with one another, had never seen the likes of David & Janet.

That team, Emily Kate, brought you into this world.  Not just from their lovemaking or during labor, but throughout these twenty-one years of your life (plus those nine months in my sister's uterus).

You are your mother’s only child & your father’s only daughter.  And no little girl was ever more welcomed or more loved or more cherished.

That same team that worked during labor to bring you into the world will continue nurture & sustain you.

Their love & support will never die – you will experience & appreciate & sometimes sigh over it for the rest of your life.

Janet & David gave you the groundwork, the tools, their faith & support to grow into a caring, responsible being.  I think they are the finest parents I know.

But you, Emily, you made the choice to be the amazing young women you are.

So, Emily, on this, the day after you have turned 21, I salute not only my sister & your father, but you.

I salute the wonder you have chosen to be.  

Jaki Jean on Motherhood & Shirley Temple Movies

Over the past few days, I have been thinking a lot about mothers & their roles in our lives, in our popular culture, in our political arena.

Four threads linked me to this train of thought – watching a marathon of Shirley Temple movies; reading about the wise decision to release a brain dead pregnant woman in Texas to move on to a better place; my Alpha Son Nick turning 30 & my Aunt Janette’s birthday. 

For the past few weekends, a station that my mother Jean & I watch for vintage movies has featured Shirley Temple.  Now, I have been watching Shirley Temple movies all my life.  I remember giving away my Shirley Temple doll from my childhood to a toy drive at Coronado High School one Christmas season. 

My favorite Shirley Temple movie has traditionally been “The Little Princess,” a 1939 film based on a 1905 children's novel A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett.  While I am quite sure I saw the film before I read the novel, both were dear to me growing up.

Our classic movie station once again aired “The Little Princess” & I watched it for the nth time, with the same reassurance as I feel when I read a novel for the nth time.  Knowing how it plays out, still loving every scene, enjoying the play between viewer & the visual text, the same way I enjoy the play between reader & written text.

In “The Little Princess,” our motherless heroine Sarah (played by Shirley Temple) is placed in the care of an exclusive boarding school while her father goes off to fight a war for the British.  When her father loses his fortune & is believed to be a casualty of war, Sarah faces the trials & tribulations of finding herself no longer anyone’s little princess.  Much less THE little princess.

Of course, she is restored to her daddy, order is restored to her universe, she is once again someone’s little princess.  The restoration is facilitated by a woman, Queen Victoria, who is only the Queen because her father failed to produce a viable male for the throne.

The next Shirley Temple movie featured was “Bright Eyes,” a 1934 production unknown to me until recently.  “Bright Eyes” tells the story of a little girl named Shirley, who lives with her mother in a wealthy household.  

Shirley’s mother is in America’s equivalent of “Service” to the family of the house.  Shirley’s father was a pilot who died in a plane crash.  On Shirley’s birthday, her mother also dies tragically, leaving her an orphan.

The film centers around what will happen to little orphan Shirley – will she remain in the household of her mother’s employers (who do not want her – but the resident Uncle with Daddy Warbucks Bucks does) or will she be allowed to live with her bachelor godfather, aviator James 'Loop' Merritt.

Shirley sings “On the Good Ship Lollipop,” Loop Merritt reunites with his long lost love, who just happens to be the beloved niece of the Uncle with Daddy Warbucks Bucks & order is restored to young Shirley’s lollipop world.

By the time our vintage movie station aired “The Littlest Rebel” (1935), I was beginning to sense a pattern in little Shirley Temple Movies.  Not a lot of effective mothers.

Beyond the fact that “The Littlest Rebel” should not be aired except as a study in how perverse 1930s Hollywood depicted the issues & the horrors of the Civil War, not to mention a its status as a study in the racist fantasy depiction of happy, helpless slaves on the plantation – beyond all that . . .

Beyond all that, once again Shirley Temple plays a little darling, this time by the name of Virginia, affectionately called “Virgie.”  And once again, her mommy dies.  

Virgie’s daddy, who is a Confederate spy, wants to take her to his sister in Richmond.  But though he is aided by a Colonel Morrison (aka Union Soldier/Father of a Little Girl) in his quest, he is captured by an Evil Union Soldier (lot’s of Evil Union Soldiers in this film) & everyone ends up awaiting the execution of Virgie’s daddy & the kind Colonel Morrison (aka Union Soldier/Father of a little girl) for treason.

Virgie’s “Uncle Billy,” a slave from her father’s plantation, is encouraged to take Virgie to Washington to beg Abraham Lincoln for her daddy’s life & the life of Colonel Morrison. 

Since Uncle Billy is played by Bill Robinson, aka Mr. Bo Jangles, Billy & Virgie perform several sweet song & dance numbers throughout the film, including one to raise enough funds for the trip to Washington.

Honest Abe pardons both daddies & the film ends with Virgie entertaining the troops of her daddies’ prison with “Polly Waddle Doodle.”  A little southern princess restored to the folds of patriarchal protection & bliss.

Not a woman or a maternal figure in scene after scene after scene.  And certainly no maternal figure aided in rescuing Virgie’s daddies.

Then came “Heidi” (1937).  Little orphaned Heidi, living contentedly with her grandfather, is taken by her Aunt (toxic maternal figure) to live as a companion to Klara, a “spoiled, crippled girl,” whose wealthy father has much more specific capital than Heidi’s grandfather. 

Heidi runs into conflict with Klara’s family housekeeper (another toxic maternal figure) when she manages to bring Klara out of her wheelchair & back into the world of charming little princesses.  

The evil mother/housekeeper tries to sell Heidi to gypsies, but the patriarchal powers that be resturn her to the protection of her grandfather.  Another little princess restored.

Although “The Little Princess” was not the first of the Shirley Temple movies, its theme of restoring the princess to patriarchal protection & perfection resonates in each of the movies featured in the marathon.

And the message is clear – mothers are transitory, mothers are to be grieved, but daddies or grandfathers or godfathers or daddy substitutes will restore every little princess to glory.  No mother needed.

Of course, I, like so many women who were once little girls, know this is not true.

I loved my father Jack.  And I have no doubt that he loved me.  But somehow I don’t think that he ever envisioned me as anyone’s little princess.  I think both my parents knew it was a role to which I was neither suited nor destined.

My father made me feel safe & loved & protected.  More than that, he made me feel that what I thought, what I felt, what I wanted to be, were all important.  Even when we did not agree.   

As important as my father was & still is to me, when he died, I did not feel alone.  Because there was my mother Jean.  And the siblings she & Jack gave me. 

I try to imagine how it would be to enter the fictional lives of any of the characters Shirley Temple played in the films I write about here.  And I find that not only can I not make that willing suspension of disbelief, but that I have no desire to do so.

Because mothers do matter.   I think of my Aunt Janette’s four amazing daughters.  Their father Ed is still alive & the importance of his presence & influence on the women each of them became is undeniable.  

But all four of my cousins mourn the loss of their amazing mother, whose importance & presence & influence on each of them is equally undeniable.

If it were not for my mother Jean, Janette’s youngest sister, I would not love books.  I would not have given birth to two sons without her love & care & diligence & support.  And I sure as hell would not have survived myself or by myself for this many years without her.

Mothers matter.  The representation (or absence) of mothers in popular culture & literature matters.  The maternal body, in reality & in representation, matters.  Positive representations of Mothers & maternal texts matter.

I am not through thinking or writing about the absence or dismissal of mothers & maternal text in popular culture or in literature.  I just don’t think I will be watching any Shirley Temple movies with any sense of nostalgia in the near future.  Instead, I will be watching & reading contemporary & classic texts & monitoring how past & present representation of mothers influence & fuel our political debate over the role of women.

And I think I will re-read a much loved book from my childhood.