Cheers Big Ears

I’ve often felt like it was pretty silly when bloggers take the time to apologize and explain to their readers why they’re not posting very often. I mean while I’d love to believe I’m so important that people are putting work, family and social lives on hold while refreshing their browser waiting for stories about my life – it’s probably just not so.

So there is no apology coming from me, but you know – just a nod of the head, a raise of the eyebrows and a happy smile that you’re still checking in. The thing is, the less I post on Pistols + Popcorn, the better my life seems to be going. I definitely don’t have as much time as I once did to record every day. And that’s a happy thing for me. I am a crazy kind of person, one who feels at the top of her game when slightly overwhelmed with things that matter.

That’s probably the reason I enjoy these twins so much. Shepz + Smitty often gang up on me and overwhelm me with all sorts of sensory stimulation. Whining, laughing, singing, smooshing sticky things onto my pants, daring to climb very un-climbable things and most of all demanding all the affection in the world. Which I have for them.

The serious business of eating ice cream.

This morning after breakfast and kissing Big Bro Ro + Daddy-O good-bye, I took my two boys into the backyard. While I sat on a chair, they ran after each other and played a game of throw the ball into the little house, then throw the ball out of the little house. They did this circuit of play, trade, share, grab, leave, + come back over and over. They really enjoyed being with each other. And I sat on this chair, with the sun on my face and coffee in my hand. And I thought you know – finally. I am in this pocket of time where they’re not so big that they’re getting away from me, and they’re not so small that they need me constantly. It is a really happy time. And that guilt I had with Roan at this age, that I wasn’t a fun enough play companion because I could only last so long in his 2-year-old world – that’s no where with these two. They have each other, all the time. Sometimes that makes things harder, but more and more it’s making their lives much more fun.

Cheeeeze.

So while they sleep during their daily nap, I am allowed to work on my side projects, things that have nothing at all to do with them or their bro or their dad. It’s just my stuff. And I love it. It’s a balance that has been struck, a gift that gets me out of my own head and into  a different space without even having to leave home.

But the side projects leave me less time to record all the small stories. And that’s ok. I’ve realized that not everything has to be recorded or even remembered. Living in the moment has its merits. This past weekend I went to Spa Castle with Roan. I didn’t take any pictures. I’m not going to detail our trip in writing. It was enough to just go with him, and spend hours in bubbling bade pools and hot saunas, talking about nothing. Everything. Life probably doesn’t have to be recorded. It’s enough to just appreciate it, as it comes.

So these entries will be further apart, but will keep coming. It’s a sign that life is good, that it’s being lived.

[Note: I've switched to a new computer with new computer-y stuff that doesn't always make sense to me. In doing so, I've lost the list of people who used to be emailed each time I posted. So. That's not happening anymore. Sorry.]

Today is my birthday, and I’m very clear on what I want. I want to re-write a story, I want to fix it. I want to help a woman I know, who has found herself living in a devastated and destroyed world. Her world cannot be fixed though. That is because her two children are dead, and it was by her hand. They were five years old, and four months old.

Lisette Bamenga

Lisette Bamenga was a teacher at Roan’s school. This woman has one of those faces, the kind that when you call her up in your mind there’s a big grin, always. She is a teacher who Roan speaks of with a smile, recalling how he got to meet her baby when she brought her by for a visit. Ms. Bamenga was one of his favorites. And it makes no sense to anyone who knows her, how she has ended up as the villain in this story.

This is what I know. Lisette Bamenga didn’t get help at a time when she needed it. If there was a point where she asked for it, or if there was a point where she was denied it, I do not know. And because I do not have the fortitude to tell her story, I point to this well-written article, authored by one of her fellow teachers, Olivia Ramsey, and published in the Huffington Post:

For women who are not predisposed to postpartum depression and psychosis, we can push through, unhappy with the circumstances but knowing that this is what we have to do for our babies and our families. We suffer situational depression and lean on our co-workers, families, and friends to help us through. For Lisette and other women whose mental state is more precarious, the stress of juggling sleep-deprivation, caring for an infant and an older sibling, the demands of a full time job, and holding a marriage together is more than enough to trigger an acute postpartum psychosis. Lisette will never recover from this. She has killed her babies. Her life is over.

We don’t know the details yet about all that happened, or exactly how Lisette found herself in such a deranged state. But we can know with certainty that this country’s parental leave policies did nothing to protect those poor children. We should be ashamed.

When I had the difficult discussion with Roan about these events, the first thing he said was, “I want to help Ms. Bamenga”. His impulse amazed me and inspired me. And finally, last night he talked to me about it again. There’s a group of parents and friends who are constantly fund-raising to help pay for Lisette Bamenga’s defense fund. They will be having a bake sale and yard sale later this month. Roan asked if he could make something for it, and if he could donate some of his toys.

And then he explained to me that I needed to write about it, to ask people to help her. He told me this with the assertion of an adult correcting a child. And he was right. If there is anything good that can come from this tragedy, it’s the awareness and acknowledgment that this woman deserves our help now. It’s late. The damage is done for her family. But she deserves to be defended, and to have the care now that she didn’t have access to when she needed it so critically.

So for my birthday this year, I ask that you join Roan, me, and a handful of people who are trying to help Lisette Bamenga get access to an adequate defense and ultimately the best placement for her after this tragedy. She is a woman who fell critically and desperately ill, and it went unnoticed until it was much too late. Rather than horror, there needs to be sympathy. Rather than a gawking spectacle, there should be a circling of the wagons around a mother who was failed by a flawed system. Most importantly, we should all hold tight to our own children, and be so incredibly grateful that we can do just that.

Please give $5, $10, $100 – really anything you can. Donations will go directly to Lisette Bamenga’s Defense Trust.  I will be creating a card with names of donors to give to Lisette, so she can understand that she is supported and loved. This does help. We should help now. Click here to donate using PayPal/Visa/Amex/MC/Discover.

Susan Nelson

One of the most acute losses in my life was that of my sister-in-law, Susan. Married to my brother, Elden, this woman was kind and somewhat soft-spoken, but with a fighter’s spirit and love enough to fill one thousand universes. Susan fought breast cancer for years and years, finally succumbing to it in August of 2009.

My sisters and I would take turns being with Elden and Susan’s family, to help with their four kids and care-taking of Susan’s needs. My sister Kellene did the lion’s share of helping.  I always wished I had even one-tenth of Kellene’s intuition and ability to help. Still, on one of my visits, Susan gave me a manuscript to read, and very shyly asked if I would look it over. I began reading it next to her, while she slept. After an hour or so, I moved from her room into the Family Room, and sunk into a corner on the couch. I realized I was straining to read it and looked out the window, surprised that the sun was on its way down. Hours had passed, and I was absolutely wrapped up in this story.

I woke Susan to talk to her about it. It was so well written, and I could hear her voice clear as a bell in it. Susan sat up as much as she could, and we started talking about the characters, who they were based on, and some of the references. It was a treat to talk to the author while reading her story. Even more so because this was one of our longest conversations, with Susan’s energy at an all-time high for that trip. She loved this story. She really loved talking about it. I really loved reading it.

I finished the manuscript and praised it over and over to her. She insisted it wasn’t finished and I told her I thought it was. I felt the ending was exactly as it should be, leaving me wanting more but feeling resolved. She let me put a copy of it on my computer so I could read it with Roan when he got a bit older.

I had one more visit with Susan, one more collection of days spent with her, but I do feel that the talks we had about her book were some of the last real conversations we had. Our  last days together were some of the hardest I’ve spent. I watched my brother and his children lose their wife and mother. I was there to witness them saying good-bye to her, and had no way of helping, no way of changing or buffering what was inevitable.

Available on Amazon

And now it is almost four years later, and my brother has found a way to publish this story that meant so much to Susan. The book is a wonderful read on its own, it is one I would recommend even without such a personal connection. But with the added love I have for the author, I now ask that anyone who enjoys a good read go here to buy a copy of “The Forgotten Gift”, an interrupted novel by Susan Nelson.

My brother, Elden, best describes what the sales of this book will mean to his family on his site, Fat Cyclist:

Where the Money’s Going

Last July, I was kind of at the end of my rope. My 17-year-old son — already prone to depression — had been really struggling since his mom’s illness and death.

Finally, I had found a program that was really helping, but my insurance company  was actively fighting me on whether they should have to cover his treatment. Eventually, they did cover his treatment, up to a point.

Then they stopped. And now that’s thousands and thousands of dollars we need to come up with, both for the treatment he’s had and the treatment he continues to receive.

By the way, my son is now doing great. He’s back at school full-time, and is headed off tomorrow to participate in an academic decathlon. Also, he and I are training together to run in a five-mile race next weekend.

I have to say, I think Susan would be really pleased at the idea of her novel covering the treatment that has done her son so much good.

Susan, Elden and their eldest son.

Read the rest of his entry here. And by all means please pass this story on. My sister-in-law has an amazing legacy left for her children. Hundreds of thousands of dollars have been raised in her name towards fighting cancer. Her personal battle has inspired many. And now her creative and magical side gets to shine, through this story. This is the Susan who I remember. Not the fighter or the iconic cancer-battling poster child , but the woman who was still so child-like and smiling. The woman whose eyes actually sparkled when she listened to Green Day and played Snowboard Supercross. This woman who loved being a mother more than anything, and whose children clamored to hear her read to them and tell stories. The fiction she spins is beautiful and easy to get lost in. The reality behind it is that you get to help her family by enjoying it. Click here.