There are thousands of them spilling out of a plastic bin under my desk. Ever since Gabby was in preschool and started staying at school for lunch, I have been sending little lunch notes on a daily basis. Add to those the hundreds I have sent for Zoe, and there really are thousands. These are not the pre-made ones you buy at the store or online. (I remember being absolutely appalled the first time I saw those.) Mine include photographs, hand-drawn pictures, or cutouts from magazines, all with little handwritten messages on them. It was hard for me to let go when Gabby and Zoe first started school, and making lunch notes was my way to stay connected. It was as if they were taking a part of me along with them. Neither of them was too happy about the idea of staying at school for lunch, so I thought this would also be a little something to cheer them up in the middle of the day. Mutually beneficial lunch notes. I couldn’t fault them for not being happy about lunchtime. I can count on one hand the number of times I stayed for lunch at Chatsworth Elementary School. I absolutely hated it. A long, dark (I remember navy/purple walls), windowless hallway of a room with mean lunch ladies, a closed door, and the deafening roar of dozens of screaming kids chewing with their mouths gaped open, the occasional food fight, smeared tuna and spilled milk on the table… Instead, I escaped home to our cozy kitchen (open campus in those days) where my mom would make me a BLT and let me sit at our high butcher block table and watch Don Ho on our little black-and-white television set. Once a week, she would give me $1.25 to go to the drugstore right down the block from school and order a hamburger, French fries, and a Coke. She’d usually throw in an extra quarter so I could walk the block to Penny Candy where the woman with a very tall, blond beehive, pointy glasses, a light blue polyester jacket that made her look like she should be in a dentist’s office (ah, the irony in a candy store), and bright blue eyeshadow oversaw the unending jars of candy. Each piece really did cost a penny. But I digress. Lunch notes. I make them late at night or early in the morning. Once in awhile, when I am really tired or stressed for time and my creativity is lagging, I ask the girls to make them for each other. And, on the rare occasion, I have even been known to swap the ones from the day before as long as they don’t have names on them or they aren’t tied to a specific event or day. In the beginning, I would toss the used ones in the recycling. But as age has crept up on me, I have become a little morbid and have started to think about my legacy and what memories they would have if something were to happen to me. So, I now keep the notes, tossing them in a plastic bin under my desk. The bin has started to overflow lately. But after today that might not be such a big problem. My need for note making may be cut in half. This morning, Gabby said to me, “Mom, I am too old for lunch notes.” My heart dropped a little. It isn’t the first time she has said this to me, but for some reason this time felt different. Maybe it’s because she will turn 13 in a couple of weeks. I had always pictured myself sending the notes through high school, maybe even college (pack a pile with them at the beginning of the semester and they could put them in their lunches themselves). But it looks like that wasn’t meant to be. I still have hope. Maybe she’ll come around. But, in the meantime, I have Zoe. At eight, she still looks forward to the little surprise each day. I plan to continue making and sending them as long as I can. Maybe I shouldn't have bought the balloons, the cake with “We did it!" emblazoned across the top of it in blue icing, the pricey bottle of champagne, or the sparkling cider that I planned to give my daughters in champagne flutes. Was I wrong to get my daughters’ hopes up with talk of the significance of the day and how momentous it was going to be? And how about bringing them with us to our polling place Tuesday morning and making sure that they both helped me fill in the line next to Hillary’s and Tim's names? Or what about sending them both off to school with such high hopes for a huge celebration that night and for what was meant to be one of the most significant days in American history?
I don't know if these were the right or wrong moves. What I do know is that the frosting on the cake has started to droop, and all but one balloon has fallen to the ground. This morning, Zoe, my eight-year-old, said to me, “The balloons deflated because Trump won the election." I smiled and gave her a tight squeeze. She told me on the way home from school yesterday that Devin, her teacher, was crying at one point during the day. Then, she changed it slightly. "I saw him lift up his glasses and wipe his eyes. I’m pretty sure he was crying." How could he not with those 17 defeated little faces staring up at him for guidance and his three daughters at home? She told me that she comforted him by telling him how much I was crying when Hillary was giving her concession speech. Despite the sadness, I am beginning to see little signs of hope, and I’m finding them very close to home. My older daughter goes to an all-girls' school and the plan had been for a celebratory march. The girls still marched but instead they marched for what they know is right, chanting “Together we band, together we fight, together we stand, for what’s right. What do we stand for?” Then, they took turns yelling rights for which they feel passionate. The school is located on a college campus, and they covered most of it. My daughter was so proud to tell me that many of the college students cheered them on and that some of them even joined in and everyone seemed really happy that they were there. It all sounded very uplifting and empowering. At my younger daughter's school, they had a class meeting first thing in the morning to talk about what everyone was feeling. Later in the day, the younger children gathered in front of the school’s main entrance with homemade signs filled with messages of peace, love, kindness, community, mutual respect, inclusion, whatever they wanted to include. People honked their horns as they drove by. Afterward, the children and their teachers gathered on the school's steps and sang songs that included “We Shall Overcome." I was lucky enough to be there and to soak in some of the positive energy, something I have been missing greatly these last couple of days. At my husband's school (he is a high school teacher), the students held a walkout and gathered outside for discussion, chants, and prayer. My husband was teaching a class of freshmen at the time, and he said that only a few initially got up and joined. The rest were nervous and weren’t sure what to do. He encouraged them to be part of history, telling them: "There's a lot more education going on outside than in this geometry class right now. What are you guys going to tell your kids when they ask you what you did the day after you found out that Trump was going to be your president?" For my 17-year-old niece in San Francisco, it was too hard to stay at school where “everyone was acting like everything was normal” and people were looking at her strangely because she was crying. So, she left and took a public bus to BART and headed to UC Berkeley where she joined a campus sit in. Our children are making change happen. We better get moving. I had just picked my daughter up from an ice-cream get together with some friends. And as we came out of the very tight parking lot driveway, another car started to come in, so I had to carefully maneuver my way out. Clearly, I didn’t gauge the distance between my car and the parked minivan correctly as there was that unmistakable sound of impact. There was a car behind me, so I moved out of the way and found a spot to pull over. I checked and saw that there was some paint scraping on the minivan’s already pock-marked, dinged up bumper, and maybe it was a little crooked (no way to know if I had caused that). My car, on the other hand, had quite a bit of damage, since it wasn’t the bumper but the car door and side. There wasn’t anyone in the minivan or nearby who looked like the owner, so I went back to my car. At that moment or even earlier, I could have driven away. But I didn’t and never really considered it as an option. Instead, I grabbed a gas receipt and dutifully wrote a quick apology and my name and number on the back. In other words, I did the right thing. Not just because my 12-year-old daughter was in the car, but because it was the right thing to do and I would want someone to do the same if the roles were reversed.
A couple of days later, the owner called, and we exchanged insurance information. Right away, he said that he was surprised to see the note and thanked me for leaving it. “Most people would have just driven away.” It was a pleasant exchange, and when I apologized, he said, “Things happen. That’s why we have insurance, right?” You would think that’s why. When I called GEICO to make the claim, the first thing the agent said to me was how commendable it was that I left a note as people rarely do that. He also told me that I might want to wait to get my car repaired because if the damage to the other car came to under $1000, then my rates wouldn’t go up. So I could wait and decide if it was worth it for me to get my car repaired. So I waited. I checked in with the other owner and he said that he had been busy, so he hadn’t had a chance to bring his car in yet. I waited some more. And finally after a few weeks, I got an answer: the total, according to GEICO, had come to $867, so, I was again told that if I chose not to get my car fixed, my rates would stay the same. I brought the car to numerous places, thinking I could just pay for the repair myself. But everywhere I went, I was told that it was more work to fix it than I realized. The lowest quote I got was close to $2500. And, yet again, people expressed surprise that I had left a note. The damage didn’t look that bad, and it had no effect on the integrity of the car, so I ultimately decided I would not get it fixed. That way, I would not have to pay my $500 deductible or have a rate increase, which I was told by a GEICO agent would be a couple of hundred dollars every six months and would last three years, so I would be saving thousands of dollars over the long run by not filing my own claim. And then yesterday I got my new GEICO statement. What a surprise to see that my rate had gone up a whopping 42.3%. I kid you not: 42 percent. Why? Because I did the right thing. I was surprised and mad since I had been told multiple times by GEICO’s own staff that I was in the clear since the other person’s claim was below $1000. So I called today to find out what happened and why I keep getting different stories each time I call. Well, after I was once again thanked for my 18 years of loyalty with GEICO, Melissa, a supervisor, told me that it turns out that in addition to the claim, there was also a rental car charge, and that put it over the $1000 threshold. So those other agents (there were numerous since I had called multiple times just to make sure) had told me the wrong information, according to her. Then, I asked about the 42 percent increase. Melissa informed me that there are several factors that go into rates, one of those being studies that show that when you compare two drivers, one with an accident and the other without one, the one with one is a much higher risk. I guess a 42 percent higher risk. Just curious… Did being a person who did the right thing get factored in there at all? My plan now is to get my car fixed and do the right thing by saying good bye to GEICO after 18 years of loyalty. They’ll also be losing my husband, and I have already told my mom to switch as well (I had originally suggested GEICO to her for their great customer service and rates). And I will be telling all of my friends. Just never realized that their rates are only great until you actually use your insurance. Silly me, I thought insurance was there for you when you actually need it. I am a journalist but I do not cover politics. I leave that to my amazing cousin Patrick Healy at the NYT. I am also a mother to two daughters, ages 12 and 7 (almost 8). As a mother and as a woman, I am very happy that I am able to go to the toy store and buy a Hillary “Ready for Action” doll for my two girls (Gabby saw it there first and told me about it). It doesn’t matter what my political affiliation is. What matters is that there is now an action figure out there that represents a woman who has dedicated her life to public service and, more importantly, risen to a place that, in the past, only men have achieved. So, whether you like her or not, know that her candidacy is a good thing for everyone to experience, especially for daughters like mine who need to go into this world knowing that they can truly do anything. Signing off from my soapbox now.
I came close to losing my life.
I was readying myself for the start of second grade for Gabby and preschool for Zoe. It was the end of summer, and other than some unexplained bleeding, I was feeling pretty good. I had already had an ultrasound and they had found a couple of fibroids, so I had chalked the bleeding up to that. But it was still gnawing at me: it felt like there was something more than that. But it was a busy time of year with school about to start, so I put it out of my mind. That was until early in the morning the first day of school. I woke up to the most intense pain I had ever felt in my life and quite a lot of bleeding. I didn't know what to do. After all, it was the first day of school, and the girls would be getting up soon. I woke my husband up and left a message with the answering service for my doctor's office. A doctor I didn't know (it was a group practice) called me back and made me feel like I was exaggerating and that I wasn't bleeding enough for it to be considered an emergency. She made some inappropriate joke and then told me to call back when the office opened a couple of hours later and briskly hung up. So, I waited even though I knew something wasn't right. I got the girls ready for school as best I could. Normally, we would have walked the 10 minutes to school, but there was no way I could have done that, so my husband drove us (he had called in sick since it was clear I would need a doctor's visit). I put on my best face possible as we stood and met the teachers and waited to say goodbye. An hour and a half later, we were at the doctors' office. My regular doctor was in surgery that day so they scheduled me with someone else. Just like the doctor on the phone, she dismissed my concerns and then told me that it was probably just an "incident" and would resolve itself. But I wasn't giving up that easy. I pushed for her to try and find an answer. Eventually she decided to perform an endometrial biopsy to rule out any cancer. She asked if I could be pregnant. Since I had been bleeding and getting what I thought was my period, I said no, I didn't think so. To this day, I am still not sure why she just didn't do a simple pregnancy test. The biopsy is painful at any time but especially when you are already having cramping and severe pain (a tube gets inserted in your vagina and a small piece of the lining of your uterus is clipped for sampling). It felt awful and I was so glad when it was done. The doctor told me to rest for a little while before leaving. But each time I went to get up, I didn't feel right, so I laid back down. Eventually, the nurse started coming around, trying to usher us out as we had clearly overstayed our time. So I made my best effort and got up, stopping at the bathroom on my way out. As soon as I got up from the toilet, I knew something wasn't right. I came out the door as fast as I could and collapsed into my husband's arms. When I came to, there were nurses and another doctor huddled around me. This doctor said I needed to go to the ER across the street. I credit her for saving my life. I will leave out a lot of the details of the next hours except to say that it turned out that I was pregnant -- but not in the good, happy ending way. It was an ectopic pregnancy and it had ruptured. My body was filling with blood, and that is why it didn't feel right. Another doctor went in a few hours later and removed one of my ovaries and one of my fallopian tubes and stopped the bleeding. When she came to see me in recovery, she told me that had they waited much longer, I would have died from all of the blood loss. She also said that there was so much blood that they had to turn me upside down during surgery to drain it all. I ended up needing blood transfusions and spending the first couple of days of my girls' new school year in the hospital. The reason I'm sharing all of this is that I feel it's vital for women to know the possible signs of an ectopic pregnancy (link here for those) and to trust your feelings. I knew deep down that something was wrong, that this wasn't just an "incident' as the doctor who saw me had dismissed it. Trust your instincts. They might just save your life. I wrote this almost a year ago but thought it fitting to repost today on what would have been my father's 90th birthday. Happy reading.
More than a “retired social security number” January 23rd, 2014 I Googled my father today. No big deal, right? Except that he passed away 22 years ago this month. There was something in the air this morning. I was feeling his presence even more than I usually do, and I felt the need to reach out. I can tell you now that Googling a dead person is not the answer. My dad was a techie in his days — or at least he thought of himself that way. He loved Radio Shack, a techie’s paradise back then, and tinkering with electronic parts at his worktable in our basement. When we moved from New York to Northern California in the eighties, he had to find a new place to tinker; basements out here just aren’t designed for that. I’ll never forget the look on my mom’s face when she came home one day to a large hole in the wall next to the washing machine and dryer. My dad and an acquaintance had decided to take it upon themselves to install a light switch, and things had gone a little awry. The acquaintance never did return, and a professional electrician arrived the next day to finish the job and another guy to patch the wall. But I digress. Not sure what I was expecting to find about a person who lived and died before the Internet — or at least this incarnation of it. My dad wasn’t famous. He didn’t invent anything. And his brushes with the law were inconsequential. But he sure was loved, I can tell you that. What I did find was a “death record” site that listed the dates of his birth and death and his “retired social security number.” A little irony there: we spend all our lives carefully guarding these numbers and keeping them secret, but when we die, they are splayed across the Web for anyone to see. I’m assuming they are not reissued the way telephone numbers are after a few years. I also found his name on the Rutgers’ alumni site and in a few other nondescript spots. But what I didn’t find was this. Born December 18, 1924, Vincenzo Antonio Garone emigrated from southern Italy to the United States as a small child with his parents. First stop: Ellis Island where his named was changed to Vincent Anthony Garone. Second stop: the Bronx. Or this: Spoke foreign languages like they were his mother tongue. No one could ever tell if he was a native English, Italian, Spanish, or Portuguese speaker. His ability to pick up languages was uncanny. Or this: Served in the US Army during World War II as a translator. Didn’t like that a captain had a swastika paperweight on his desk, so he pocketed it when the captain was out of the room. Or this: Instilled a love of travel and adventure in his three daughters when he took a chance and transplanted the family from New York to England in the 1970s, a gutsy move at the time. Spent five years showing them Europe and all its riches, history, and wonder. I could go on and on. These are only little snippets of my father’s life. It’s just that I want more than a death record and a few short mentions for him. Miss you, Vinnie G. It was the night before the storm. Zoe was in swimming, and Donar and Gabby were poolside. I decided to walk over to the burrito shop. As I walked back, I glanced down, and there next to a garbage can was a crumpled heart. I pulled out my phone, snapped a photo, and walked back to the pool. As soon as I got there, I regretted not having picked up the heart or saving it from a footprint or the impending downpour. The wind was already picking up, so I doubted it would still be there. I ran the whole way.
There it was, just where I had left it. I gently picked it up and put it my backpack. Taking it out now, I see it looks different in the daylight. Up close, it no longer looks like a heart but just a folded receipt with a couple of worn spots and a yellow stain. I don't want to alter it, but I am curious as to its origin, so I carefully unwrap it. No name, no store name. Just a to-go order of tea purchased at 7:10 p.m. the night before I happened upon it. I carefully wrap it back up. Another day, another heart preserved. With 100 random hearts and counting and rain outside, I thought today would be the day to welcome the world to bacionibacetti.com, home of my collection of random hearts. For the last year or so, I have been posting the hearts to Facebook as I find them. I recently put them all together on Flickr.
I appreciate the lovely friends from near and far who have posted hearts to my page as they have found them, too. I like the idea that hearts remind people of me. It just felt right to find a home for them. Yes, randomhearts.com would have been nice, but at $23,ooo, I had to give it a pass. (For details, visit my "Why bacionibacetti.com?" page.) So, here we are at bacionibacetti.com, Italian for "big kisses, little kisses." I dedicate the site to my father, Vincent Anthony Garone, and my grandmother, Mary Veronica Healy, two people who always found beauty wherever they went and always shared it with me. |
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