43. Dream a Little Dream of Me (Tissues Aren’t a Bad Idea)
I’d venture a guess that most people think of The Mamas & The Papas when they hear this title. And I suspect many of you have taken a second to sing the opening lines, ‘Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper, I love you’ — or you went directly to the chorus, ‘But in your dreams whatever they be, dream a little dream of me.’ This song became Cass Elliot’s ‘signature’ song, but years before her cover made Casey Kasem’s American Top 40, it was released by many recording artists — but, there are two others worth note, in my opinion — Doris Day and Dean Martin.
Side step #1: I love Doris Day. I love everything about her. The years she played opposite Rock Hudson in Pillow Talk (my favorite), Lover Come Back, and Send Me No Flowers, and the two movies she made with James Garner, Move Over Darling, and The Thrill of it All, are some of the best romantic comedies EVER. She starred in many other works with all of the greats from back in the day, like Clark Gable, Jimmy Stewart, and Cary Grant to name but a few.
I just swooned a bit at Cary and my heart did a little rat-a-tat-tat. Nice to know it still skips a beat for a dude and not only because of the plethora of drugs circulating through my system.
Anyway, the song Doris Day is most identified with is Que Sera, Sera (whatever will be, will be). The tune filters through my brain a lot, mostly at night if I wake and have trouble getting back to sleep. Sometimes the ‘whatever will be, will be’ is about my future, given that it is surely limited — but so often my wondering is about Tim, and the girls, and Hadley — it’s the wondering about my girl and how she will manage all of this that’s heart-wrenching and unrelenting.
My sweet little girl is losing her MammyGrams, the woman with whom she’s lived from the minute she returned home from the hospital at birth until she and her mother moved next door when Hadley was 6 years and 46 days old, but who’s counting.
I remember nights when Hadley was an infant and I would push back in my recliner and she would sleep on my chest because Hannah was beyond exhausted. I remember smiling brightly at all of her firsts, and knew from three months old that she’d be a lefty, always reaching up from her Boppy pillow, or her play mat with that hand outstretched and grabbing at the air or some hanging toy.
I remember singing the classic nursery rhymes, and putting a few Sheryll O’Brien spins on the classics when I was tired, or just being silly. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, but even sunshine goes to sleep. You’ll never know dear, how much I need to, sleep and sleep and sleep.”
And when she was old enough and began her trek downstairs each morning, she’d call out, “I’m coming down, MammyGrams,” and I’d answer, “Thanks for the warning!” And whenever she wanted a cheesy egg, I’d drag a chair to the counter, let her choose which egg to crack, let her put a pat of butter into the pan, let her tear a piece of American cheese to little bits, and then start singing a little ditty while she scrambled the egg in her favorite mug, “You’ve got to toss it and slop and stir it up, and twirl it all around in the cup, and when you’re done scrambling, you’re gonna have a great egg.” Fridays are cheesy egg day and we’re still singing the song. The only difference now is that she and Gee (Tim’s granddad name) do the egg selection and cracking, then she comes into the living room with mug in hand and fork in mug and we sing our little ditty while she scrambles away.
There is no question that Hannah and Hadley have the best little relationship as mom and daughter. There is sheer joy and squeals of delight when they reunite, and they share the most relaxed form of sharing space and communicating. And they’ve developed a keen interest in and shared preference of music. Hannah has an antique record player and has amassed an extensive collection of LPs. She/They listen to music ALL OF THE TIME, as I once did with my girls.
Hadley knows the classics and can identify certain Grateful Dead, Marshall Tucker, Queen, CCR, Fleetwood Mac, Stones, or a Dean Martin tune with ease. The other day she came into my house singing Ophelia, by the Lumineers. And one day her Auntie J was spewing about something or other and Hadley entered the room and did a Taylor Swift on her, “Who hurt you?”
Last summer, I listened to Maya Angelou’s poem, Phenomenal Woman, on loop. Someone got the thing trending on Twitter and I could not resist listening to her fabulous voice — her throaty, luscious voice with perfect cadence. So whenever the Tweet with her poem came up, I pressed play.
As children often do in the summer, they run in to grab a jump rope, then sprint back out — then run in for some water, then back out — then in for God knows what, then back out. Hadley did the in and out with the best of them. One day she was coloring at the kitchen table and I was cooking something or whatever, and I heard her say:
“Pretty women secret lies. I’m not cute or built to size. It’s my arms, my hips, and lips. I’m a woman. Phenomenally.”
Okay, first, the child has some sort of ability to remember every word of every cartoon she watches or conversation she hears and, while her recitation of Ms. Angelou’s poem was choppy, she had the gist of the initial lines. On some level I should have figured she’d remember this and that if she heard it often enough she’d repeat it, but seriously — she was in and out. It’s not like I sat her down and did the Maya Angelou hour starting with that particular poem. BTW, that was my defense when I told Hannah this story.
Hannah is a very devoted mom who has already influenced Hadley in the importance of education, and finding out about — and respecting the world and the people who share it, near and far. If Hadley is on the internet, you can bet her mom is close by and Hadley is listening to some cartoon character explaining pointillism and that Seurat developed the painting technique, or hearing about the mummification process (which she explained in minute detail and I casually considered until she got to the organ removal part).
The little girl with waist-length blonde hair and big blue eyes that are always behind colorful rimmed glass frames — the girl who’s turned her arm into a lever to determine how many hugs she’ll get on any given day, the little girl who sits on a bench next to my chair (instead of on my lap) while we alternate reading from a Nancy Drew, Clue Crew book, is going to take my death hard.
There is no question that I am Hadley’s touchstone. She trusts and believes everything I say — right down there — in the deepest places in her heart and soul because she knows I have never and will never lie to her.
My seven-year-old granddaughter knows I am dying, and yet she has put that knowledge away someplace, and finds ways to enjoy each day with MammyGrams. She comes over every morning for breakfast, and when she’s finished, she goes on a hunt for something I’ve asked Tim to hide for her. Many days, she’s in search of a Beanie Baby that once belonged to her mommy or her auntie. Or she’s looking for a keychain that I buy in bulk because she loves the damned things. I recently had to get carabiners for her to slide the silly shaped things onto and lock them down just so she can carry them about.
When she’s visiting, it’s not all fun and games for the child. When I need to use the bathroom, she takes my blanket off my legs, uses the remote control for the recliner, moves my walker into place, puts her little hand onto one of the handles and moves slowly with me. When I go behind closed doors, she turns the walker so I can step right into it then calls out, “Let me know when you’re ready to come back!” She runs off to the living room, balls my poofy blanket into a soft landing place, climbs onto the upraised recliner and goes for a little slide off of it — over — and over — and over — until I call that I’m ready for my escort back to my perch.
She knows I’ve been recording some of our conversations and the other day she came in and said, “You might want to record this.” As soon as the red light went on, Hadley went on a tangent about a girl at school who, “Annoys me ALL THE TIME, MammyGrams. You have NO IDEA how much she hangs on me, hugs me, and follows me.”
“Have you told her it bothers you?”
“EVERY DAY. I say _______, please stay this far away. And I put my arms like this. And I say, do you see the masks we’re wearing, it’s because of Covid, and we shouldn’t be getting close. But does she listen? Nope. She just barrels in, grabs hold of me, and if my hands are free I cover my face, but if my arms are locked I have to wait until she’s done squeezing me to death.”
“Do you think you need to talk to a teacher about it?”
“I have. They tell us to work it out for ourselves. That’s. Not. Gonna. Happen.”
“So, what’s the plan?”
“I’m gonna continue hiding at recess.”
“Could work.”
“I don’t know, she’s pretty good at finding me. When we get outdoor recess again, I’m hiding behind a snowbank.”
The other day Hadley came in and told me a few things she wants on the recorder, “MammyGrams, I’m gonna go to the top of the stairs, make sure you tape this.” I knew what was in store. When she was at the top, she started our schtick, “Hey MammyGrams, I’m coming down.”
To which I replied, “Thanks for the warning.” Then she asked that I record the Wide Mouth Frog story. It’s a fun little ditty, so I’m going to include it here. For those of you who are unfamiliar, whenever you get to any of the words spoken by the wide mouth frog, you’re supposed to open your mouth as wide as possible and say them — except for when you get to the last words spoken by the frog.
The Wide Mouth Frog
One day, a mother wide mouth frog went looking for help. She’d just had babies and didn’t know what to feed them. She hopped to a tree and called up to a mother owl sitting on a branch. “Hellooooo, Mother Owl. I’m a wide mouth frog and I don’t know what to feed my babies. What do you feed your babies?”
“I feed my babies, insects, worms, spiders and mice.”
“Oh, thank you very much,” the mother frog said before hopping away. Next, she came upon a mother monkey resting on a pile of leaves. “Hellooooo, Mother Monkey. I’m a wide mouth frog and I don’t know what to feed my babies. What do you feed your babies?”
“I feed my babies nuts, fruit, seeds, and insects.”
“Oh, thank you very much,” the mother frog said before hopping away. Next, she came upon a mother snake slithering across her path. “Hellooooo, Mother Snake. I’m a wide mouth frog and I don’t know what to feed my babies. What do you feed your babies?”
“I feed my babies worms, birds, and little rodents.”
“Oh, thank you very much,” the mother frog said before hopping away. She was tired and thirsty so she hopped to the water’s edge where she saw an alligator moving slowly toward shore. She called out to the two eyes that peered just above the water. “Hellooooo, Mother Alligator. I’m a wide mouth frog and I don’t know what to feed my babies. What do you feed your babies?”
“I feed my babies wide mouth frogs.”
The mother frog pinched her lips as tight as could be and said, “Oh, crap.”
Hadley loves that story and has asked me to tell it to her countless times. I asked her a year or so ago why she likes the story so much and, out of the mouths of babes she said, “Because you say the word, crap.”
Believe it or not, that is the closest Hadley has come to ever hearing me swear.
It’s a miracle, I know.
Side step #2. I love Dean Martin. I love everything about him. The years he played straight man to Jerry Lewis’ schtick. The years he played opposite starlets who craved his attention. The years he did his variety show pissed as a fart. And especially the years he roasted the asses of the brightest stars in Hollywood.
Most of all, I fell in love with the crooner and played his CDs often enough that my girls knew all of the words to all of his songs when they were in grade school. It took me many years to settle on a favorite Dean Martin tune, but it is unquestionably, Innamorata (A woman you’re in love with, or sweetheart).
If our lips should meet Innamorata. Kiss me, kiss me sweet Innamorata. Hold me close and say you’re mine. With a love that’s warm as wine. I’m at Heaven’s door Innamorata. Want you more and more Innamorata. You’re a symphony, the very beautiful sonata my Innamorata. Say that you’re my sweetheart, my one and only sweetheart, say that you’re my sweetheart, my love. (Written by: Harry Warren and Jack Brooks).
Back to the point of this blog. Since December 1st, I haven’t had a single dream (I had a snippet once, maybe). I became aware of my dreamlessness one night when I woke. It wasn’t because I’d had a dream, but rather because I was in pain. I searched my mind to see if there was something there, some little fragment from a dream that disappeared right before I opened my eyes. There was nothing. Since then, I’ve tried to push into that space and time when I first wake to see if maybe there’s something — consistently, there’s nothing there.
I need to take a sidestep here, so you’re coming with me. I had a facepalm moment, although I no longer really do the actual facepalming for fear I’ll break something, but if ever there was cause for me to do what the emoji girl in purple does, this was it.
I’ve had a question on my mind since the oncologist said, “You have terminal bone cancer. There is nothing that can be done. You will die an excruciatingly painful death.” None of those words were particularly enjoyable to hear, but the last ones have been the ones that have caused bone crushing fear (no pun intended — okay, a little pun intended).
QUESTION: Why is bone cancer so bad?
FACEPALM ANSWER: Because there are bones from the top of the skull to the tips of the toes. Think skeleton. Apparently when someone dies from cancer of the liver, the pain will be concentrated in that area, and death by lung cancer will be painful in and around the rib cage, but Yours Truly won the jackpot! I have full body bone cancer, ergo — it’s gonna hurt like hell — everywhere. I am in no way comparing or minimizing the pain associated with death and dying from any type of cancer, it is all intense and horrible and tragic, I’m simply trying to pull the thread on why my pain will be excruciating. Okay, that’s done.
Back to dreaming — because living without them is a nightmare. Great news! I had a dream the other night. The most wonderful dream. Tim and I were dancing along the sand at the shoreline at Wells Beach. I know we were there because that is our place, and I think I recognized every grain of sand. When I say we were dancing, we weren’t Fox Trotting, or even Waltzing, we were just wrapped in one another’s arms, swaying to and fro to the sound of Dean singing my song.
Tim and I were holding hands and they were sort of tucked between us chest high, the other wrapped around our backs. I had my eyes closed most of the time, but when we turned and I knew I’d be facing the ocean, I opened my eyes and followed the moonlight trail across the inky black water. When the song ended, he and I walked hand in hand toward the far jetty.
When I arrived back to where we started our dance, I was alone — in fact the beach was empty except for Hadley who was flitting in circles with her arms wide open. When she saw my approach she ran toward me, her arms flailing with joy, and she threw herself into my outstretched arms. We twirled and twirled on the now sunny beach. When her little feet landed on the sand again, she said, “That was so much fun, MammyGrams.”
I agreed, and suggested we do it again, someday.