My personal snowstorm began on what seemed an auspicious note. {Theres another sneaky word. While auspicious generally indicates good fortune, its root, auspice, means *any* token of the future, and luck is not always good.} I had driven up past Ringing Rocks for a party celebrating Chris Boass birthday. Chris had been the co-founder of the original LOVE Club and he had allowed me to camp out there when I was homeless. LOVE was where I met a lot of the early players in my underground story, and that birthday party was the scene of many reunions, some with folk Id not seen in nearly three decades. One face notable for its absence was that of Lynn Wilson, and I inquired after her to her brother, Jeff. Ill be seeing her later, he told me. Lynn cant come out tonight because shes sick, significant pause, real sick....but she wouldnt want to spoil anyone elses party, Im sure. I was sure, too. Lynns smiling face came easily to mind, a feisty old broad--and a sassy, classy young one. Well, there were plenty of other party people present, along with lots of good food and far more wine than I should have consumed. A wonderful time was had by all. Three days later, the first bolt fell. On Tuesday, 11-12-13--a hard number to forget, no matter how much I might want to--my mother had a stroke. She was taken to Abington Memorial Hospital, where she remains, in the Neuro building {Widener}. She is recovering a bit more each day, regaining use of her right side through physical and occupational therapies, a minimal drug regimen, and lots of bed-rest. Luckily for this intensely verbal woman {I come by it honestly}, she never lost either her mental acuity or the power of speech. Each day, she becomes more articulate; her consonant sounds are sharper and she is able to get more volume. I can report this firsthand because I spend several hours with her each night and I am confident--as is she--that she will get better. She is a fighter. {We used to fight all the time. She usually won, of course, not because shes more contentious but because shes better at it.} She is a doer. She gets things done and shell do this, too. But, wait a minute, Rocco, I hear my imaginary audience interject, why have we not heard about this until now!? You are disgustingly confessional in these pages, and--if youve waited this long--why tell us at all? As to why I didnt say anything before...hey, shes my Mom. Very few of my friends, online or otherwise, have had any contact with her other than through my stories or telephonically. Its not that Im ashamed of her {or she, I think, of me}. I love my Mom. Im proud of her. Shes smart. Shes sharp. Shes active. It is because of her that I fell in love with language, my most enduring affair by far. Its just, well, I can be kind of whiny and Im trying to cut down on that. Besides, you had No Need to Know. As to why Im mentioning it now...this event was the first in my series, and to omit it would be disrespectful and dismissive of a wonderful woman. Besides, that Tuesday sets up the following Tuesday. The following Tuesday is just another blur to me--sleep, wake, coffee, eat, coffee, hospital, facebook, sleep--because I didnt get any news until Wednesday, when I learned that Lynn Wilson had died on Monday night, surrounded by her family and closest friends. While I dont believe there is such a thing as a good death, especially as it applies to people I know, that seems to me as not the most horrible way to go. A few hours later, I learned that Bryce T. Fabrizio, known to some as Skunk and to me as Tom Sin, had died on Tuesday...in the morning, in his apartment, in Cambodia...alone. Total suckage. I was in deep shock. Toms family had contacted a few of his friends and asked that they spread the word, albeit discreetly. They wanted some time to tell the rest of his relatives personally, quite reasonably reasoning that thats the kind of news they wouldnt want to hear first online. The word of either death would have struck me but left me reasonably intact. Each, alone, would be a stress and a strain and somewhat painful, but, together, they made for a one-two punch that stunned me into my personal version of silence. I chatted. I chattered. I cracked lame jokes. I strove--and failed--to believe in god. I didnt even cry until one night in Moms hospital room. My timing is as bad as ever. She, of course, wanted to know what was wrong. I, of course, didnt want to say because shes got enough on her plate. Still, I told and she consoled and, somehow, things appeared not brighter but not quite as dark. Mom is getting better. Im getting better, too, but Im keeping a weather eye on this coming Tuesday. Goodnight.
Posted on: Mon, 25 Nov 2013 08:47:51 +0000