“We think she’s bipolar,” she tells me. I don’t really remember this about the cousin in question, but I do remember a mid-teen struggle with drugs followed by an even longer struggle to get clean.

Well, I might as well ask the question. Bait, cast, reel it in. “Did you know bipolar is hereditary? ‘Cause it is. Highly hereditary. Did you notice it in anyone else in your family? Say, on your mom’s side?”

Long pause.

“Sure. After she died, my father and I put the pieces together… I think my mom was bipolar too.”

(I so called this one. I didn’t have the language for it when I was a child, but I knew Aunt ____ was batshit crazy. And that her kind of crazy had to make it awfully difficult to be her children.)

I nodded and touched her arm as I told her I was sorry, uncertain of what else to say.

My husband and I have The Crazy on both sides. In spades (a side note to any blood relatives who might be reading this: of course I don’t mean you).

I took a lot of comfort in knowing, in this case, The Crazy most likely came from my cousins’ mother, because she was my relative by marriage. But who can say for sure? There are plenty of distant cousins, related both to me and my possibly bipolar cousin, who could also be accused of all kinds of mental irregularities. I am thinking about the second cousin who sued his mother, the great uncle who cut his nephews out of the family business when their father died, the other distant cousin with the overly-medicated child…

I look at these beautiful children of mine and wonder what’s ahead for them. The red hair? Yeah, that’s recessive. We both carry that gene. But The Crazy? Well, which kind of crazy? It comes in so many damn flavors. Some hereditary. Some recessive. Some nature. Some nurture.

I’ve always been fairly convinced it’s lurking just outside the perimeter of my consciousness, waiting for its opportunity to pierce the membrane and ooze its way in. I always wonder how it will announce itself. Panic attacks? Forcing me to act like an insolent eight year old, getting crabby and pouting when my husband tells me he’s going over to my ailing parents’ house to vacuum (because what else could that be but an indictment of my incompetence as a daughter)?

Will it be the obsessive who insists on continuing the trudge through the woods to find the next geocache while her oldest son’s teeth chatter, reminiscent of nothing so much as Karen freezing in the boxcar in Frosty the Snowman? But…but…but! There’s clearly more fun to be had here. Look, we can easily find two more before it’s so dark we won’t be able to see each other any more! Because avoiding the reality of those aging parents and the surgery my mom may or may not need immediately? It sure is easy while we’re tramping around in these woods looking for hidden Tupperware.

He finally planted his butt in the snow, fixing his rueful eyes on me, telling me in no uncertain terms that it was time to go home. Barely able to lift his legs to hike the hill standing between us and the car, I put my hands under his armpits and held him upright as we marched.

He sits a few feet away now, cheeks rosy, mental faculties returned and cheeks bright red. No longer am I wrapping my entire body around his, hunched over, doubled up, enveloping his bony frame as I wait for my husband to run to get the truck and pick us up.

It showed up in several of its flavors for me today… or did it? That’s the trouble with The Crazy. It manifests itself in whatever form it can, some diagnosable, others skirting the edges of darkness for years at a clip. Sometimes it doesn’t appear at all, but is just the passing shadow of a hawk circling overhead as it looks for other prey.

And really, what differentiates me from those who succumb? A strand or two of DNA.

I closed the folding doors to the basement and the pantry, eliminating some of the draft.  I built a fire, hoping to get the living room cozy and warm before my boys awoke to greet the new year.

Even the goodest good boy is now by my feet as I sit a few feet from the fire. Blessed with the thickest coat I’ve ever felt on a dog, he usually avoids all sources of external warmth.  He is stretched out on the rug, his broad back soaking in the glow. My husband is giggling in the next room as he reads a text (”happy new year motherfucker”) from a friend, sent long after we fell asleep with bellies full of seafood and Veuve.

Last night, I closed the door against the chill of 2008 as we indulged in part of our annual New Year’s feast: homemade buckwheat blini with creme fraiche and caviar.  Nodding to the sorry state of (our) economy but upholding the longstanding tradition, this year’s menu included an ounce of Osetra and an ounce of faux-ish American something-or-other. Delicious. Joy in the rich brine, comfort in the tradition.

I am not one to make January resolutions; instead I usually change when it’s time to change. My reactions to 2008 caught me unprepared, helpless, unsteady, unable to change. I took long months to… well, to just be.

I close the door against the chill, warm the house, build the fire. No more chill; just warmth in the new year. That’s my resolution.

Peace, joy, prosperity, health, warmth: these are my wishes for all of you.

Love,

Patty

The next time one of your sisters suggests going to the American Museum of Natural History on a day when every school in the western hemisphere is closed, get a good prescription for anti-anxiety meds before you agree to go.

That claustrophobia of yours isn’t improving with age. No, your panic attacks are now akin to a death spiral, making you dizzier and dizzier each time a new group of 10 people get on the already over-capacity elevator.

You should also get your affairs in order, because throughout the day, you will be sorely tempted to grab a chisel from the nearest paleontologist and do yourself in with it.

And if you choose to bring four children with you again? Bring the dog leashes. In fact, restraints of any kind will come in handy. You can put them in your rucksack, right next to the flask of scotch.

Love,

Me

p.s. If you really are considering going back, and if you don’t think your repeat appearance at the AMNC is a sure predictor of the end of days, remember the sight you beheld today: a labradoodle in service as a seeing eye dog. If you don’t recognize that as a sure sign of the impending apocalypse,  I’m really not sure what else to tell you.

And finally, 2008 is drawing to a close. Finally.

I’ve had so much fun.  So many of you have made me laugh (and occasionally tear up) over these past several months as I’ve read your blogs and as you’ve commented here. I’ve been so honored every time a reader comes back, so happy when anyone leaves a comment. Although I don’t blog every day (and there are times when I go weeks without so much as posting a picture), I’ve got this blog under my skin… if only, for no other reason, the freedom to use whatever words I damn well please without anyone having a hissy fit.

More 2008 in rewingdangdoo after the jump

As I look back on the words I wrote, a few things jump out at me. First, I have to cop to being nervous as hell when I volunteered to guest blog over at Whit’s place (search his blog for “We have to shout above the din of our rice krispies” and you’ll find an apt description of the pre-dawn madness at my house). I mean, the boy’s got some chops. What the hell was I doing volunteering to guest blog for him? But nonetheless I manned up and did it. I think I’m over it now. But nerves? That’s how I roll.

The second: this blog would lead you to believe I have an apparent fixation on my cats and dogs. I don’t. Well, ok, I do. I post so many pictures of them here because I am still tentative about posting pictures of my children. The human ones, I mean. Although I did post a few where you can’t really tell who they are. This is in no way an indictment of anyone who posts pictures of his or her children; the demons in my head have no idea how to get to your place. I can guarantee they will leave your children alone.

While I don’t have a huge body of work to pull from, I certainly do have a few favorites. I cracked myself up with my tales of woe from my ear infection. The trip to Martha’s Vineyard was a big source of material; I may have taken a picture or two. I wrote about why I’ll never quite make it to Mother of the Year status, and we learned how to fish. I cried once or twice. I celebrated our President Elect from a joyful distance. I made some new friends when I, ummm, vented a little about the Stamford Board of Education. And as CT Mom reminded me in the comments below, I had a beer with some great local bloggers.

Thank you, dear reader(s), for coming back to see what’s going on at the WIngDangDoo from time to time. I hope to see you again in the new year and share a laugh or two with you then.

Oh, as for the rest of 2008? You can bite me. Now get the hell out of here.

A new product launch!

Except… it’s not new. It’s recycled. And so are the words I use to describe it.

I dutifully write the copy, carefully timing my work so I send it to editing before the deadline.

There are only so many ways to describe what my product does. I recycle the words, discarding the ones that offend the people whose talents I attempt to describe.

“How can you say that I am a ______? I looked it up in the dictionary. Do you even know what that word means? Your use of that word is pejorative.”

Fine, I’ll find a new word.

A NEW WORD! I find it. I work it in. I sell it to the people whose talents I attempt to describe.Slowly, they buy it.

Shiny and new(ish), the words disappear from my screen. Attach. Click. Send.

Gone.

Until the next time we recycle a product. And the words.

This is me (on the left) and Cheryl. Speedos, hot dogs, swim club. What more could we ask for?

Wait, let me answer that question. A life-long friendship. A memorable 8th grade visit to the horrors of Nature’s Classroom. High school years when we were up to no good. College years spent sharing wardrobe staples (rather than fighting over the last Esprit long black cotton skirt in our size? We split the cost and shared it). Matron of honor duties at each others’ weddings.

But Cheryl? Dude? About that maid of honor business. As you know, I spent a good part of my night going through pictures. I found pictures of me in a poufy pink number at your wedding… and pictures of you in a sexy black sheath at my wedding. Girlfriend, what’s up with that?

Not that it matters. How can I hold a grudge when I’ve got pictures and pictures and pictures like these?

And by the way, how much do you think the City of Stamford paid us to talk about your hair? Because clearly, we were deeply engrossed in that conversation. Who can be bothered looking at the water when there’s so many important topics to discuss?

I love you girlfriend!

A look back to last fall, when the center could not hold.

Scandal and secrecy are like a blanket, covering me with the tales that aren’t mine, the secrets I’ll take to the grave. A career at perilous risk, the careening marriage, a story of heartbreak told deep in the woods as we sat on a footbridge and basked in the autumn sun. It’s safe with me. You can tell me anything; I won’t tell. It covers me, this blanket, keeping me warm against the chill as I seal my lips and keep your secrets close.

Until this secret – lighting the blanket on fire, charring my flesh and smothering everything inside. Incendiary harm. Parents who couldn’t and wouldn’t know until there was hope. A woman who needed her mommy and instead got her sisters, voices across the phone lines as familiar as the sound of rain on the roof. Sisters researching the words, deciphering while we learned. And keeping the secret.

Cardiac patients with failing hearts, cardiologists who keep our parents alive. Don’t tell, these doctors tell us. Don’t tell. Not yet. Wait. Let’s see. Wait. Until there’s hope.

I tended the secret as best I could, keeping its flame under cover as it burned me for six long weeks. My own doctor agrees: you can’t tell. Keep it, your secret, as it takes its toll on you. Get more rest, take these meds. This inhaler will help you breathe.  Hang on for the hopeful news. It’s coming.

Get it off me, it’s burning me alive – this secret I didn’t want. Mom, dad, are you home? I’ll be right over. Everything’s fine.

There’s something I have to tell you. She’s going to be fine. But, listen, it’s something. You have to know. I have to tell you. Come, sit down.

I soften the blow, telling bits and pieces. The truth, the partial truth, and nothing but the fabricated truth so help me god, because the whole story will never be told. The whole story would reveal how bad it was. It’s not in my script. That… that’s the secret that burns me like eternal damnation. You’ll never know. That secret is safe with me.

It’s in her brain. She’s responding. There’s hope, so much hope. And doctors, and a gifted brain surgeon. A brain surgeon! Am I dreaming? I can’t call him a brain surgeon so I call him a specialist instead.

Get this secret off me. Stop drop and roll in my childhood living room.

It’s one lesion. Not six tumors. One lesion. I follow the script, carefully written by three sisters as our fourth defies the odds.

Burned. I go forward. The worst moments, speaking the words I never want to say again. Your daughter’s cancer is back, and it’s in her brain. The pain etched on beloved faces, incendiary harm. I want these words back. I immediately feel the relief coming from speaking the carefully crafted truth,  and I’d give anything to take these words back.

epilogue

Give me your secrets. The routine of a risky choice, a shameful decision, an embarrassing predicament. My god, give them all to me. They have no power, these secrets. No chance to ruin me. No incendiary harm. I won’t tell. They keep me warm me as I seal my lips and keep your secrets close.

And no, I’m not at all above asking Talullah if she’s a bad, bad girl to get her to tilt her head like so.

Sure, Michael Phelps whipped Anderson’s booty, but that’s ok. AC gets mad props for trying.  Also, he’s adorable.

*For any of my swim group friends who may be reading this: I know, I know, I shouldn’t be calling myself a swimmer at this point, but I’m working my way back into the water. Encouragement and threats welcomed.