First of all, my mother was grossly under playing her glorious swim star reboot that evening at the public pool, but more on that later.

Money is always on the mind when you don’t have enough of it. Annual salaries and hourly rates are not the only measure of success, but they are the ones people are most obsessed with. How frustrating when the truth is our human worth is not determined by the coin in our purse, but by our overall contributions to society over the course of our tiny existences. So why does money occupy our minds so much? Simply put: in today’s systems it grants us access and opportunity. Access like the kind you get when you can afford a car, train, or trolly ride to get to an interview, and opportunity like the kind you get from being able to afford an unpaid internship. So, we need money to make money? Yes, yes we do. And that paradox is lived by people daily. On this particular day my mother found herself without access to her car, and thus no opportunity to see her son play at his game, even if it was only for :59 seconds.

Entries like the ones on Jan 7, 1994 were typical in mom’s journals. She often listed her completed tasks of the day, and I suspect she took time to reflect on them. Or, she just went to bed. With four kids by 28, and a hard working husband who’s job took him on the road a lot, mom stayed busy. In a pre-internet, pre-cell phone world, I am amazed, no, ASTOUNDED at what my mother was able to accomplish with each day. I want to shout through the pages and tell her, ”You’re doing great! Don’t put yourself down so much. Life is hard and you’re doing it!“ I want to mother my mother.

Entries like the one on Oct 10, 1994 are as heartbreaking as they are relatable. This time I want to reach through the page and hand her $20. An amount I often have on hand on any given day. A privilege afforded me by two generations of hard earned parental achievement. I benefit from two sets of grandparents and one set of parents who powered through stresses and struggles so their children could stand on a higher platform than they did before leaping into adulthood.

Mom grew up one of six Irish Catholic children with a father who did piece work installing sheet rock in new homes. Sometimes there wasn’t enough work, and money was more than tight even though pennies were always pinched. I asked her once, after she explained “dumpster diving” to me, if she was ever technically poor. Keeping her eyes on the task that busied her hands, she said ”well yes, but we never felt that way.” I think that’s because there was a lot of love in her home. And honestly, no one ever thinks of themselves as “poor” even when they are. Maybe it was pride keeping her from elaborating on what that felt like and what the details were. Was she embarrassed back then? Were her friends in the same boat, or did she have to fake it in front of them?

I wonder how she felt when her family outing would be a drive around the neighborhood after dinner on the night before garbage day to see if anyone’s trash could become their treasure. Inside their hoopty it may have been a fun game. Who would spot the diamond in the rough? The power tool that someone didn’t know how to work and thought it was broken; some slightly splintered wooden cloths hangers; a thin, decorative area rug that would do with some beating from a tennis racquet in the backyard before complimenting the living room couch. Was there a running tally between mom and her siblings from last time, a score to defend? Maybe inside that family vehicle they knew how to make the struggle a game. Just like inside ourselves we know that being thrifty and finding second lives for our furniture is not only not shameful, it’s simply economical, and environmentally preferable. But once we take a step into the systems of the outside world, it’s just dying to tell us that our trash-to-treasure game is weird, dirty, and shameful.

I know my mother didn’t deserve to feel ashamed about her past or her present. But she must have felt some kind of way when she didn’t meet my eyes answering my question about being poor. I feel her frustration dripping off the page when she finds herself still struggling with money into adulthood. I know how she feels. And I remember that rust crusted iron that left marks on our fresh white shirts the same day we needed them for work or church. I remember the stupid mailbox and how our front doorway was so rotted one year someone could have probably pushed it right in, locked or unlocked. But mostly I remember how my three siblings and I always had parties on our birthdays and presents at Christmas. We were each made to feel special in our own right. We were raised to be dreamers capable of achieving any goal we set our minds to. I remember these things most because there was a lot of love in my home.

And I for one do remember my mother to be courageous—like a lioness!

GO FOR THE HIGH DIVE

During the summers my family didn’t go on vacation, we got a season pass to the local public pool. We loved it and spent a lot of time there. Not only was it an affordable way for the six of us to have summer fun, my mother was an excellent swimmer all her life. She loved being in the water. In fact, all of her siblings and her swam competitively on the high school swim team. Each claimed their own specialty—mom’s was breaststroke. Those Irish–Lithuanian kids were such good swimmers their records were posted on the gymnasium walls for years after graduation. Though it was her chosen style, breaststroke was not the skill Theresa tapped into that sunny summer day in 1991 when 15 min adult swim was called at the public pool.

The deal was that the kids ruled the pool. We made up aquatic games, conducted cannon ball competitions, played volley ball and shuffleboard. We hustled for snack bar money and checked out who was looking cute. 45 minutes out of every hour at the pool was dedicated to these priorities. And then, the lifeguards would start to shuffle in their high seats. We could feel it coming as they handled the silver whistle that held so much power it could influence the behavior of an entire community of children. “Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!” There it was. Time for 15 min of adult swim. All the kids sadly paddled over to the side, pulled themselves out, and splatter-stepped back to the family patch of towels for sunbathing, snacking, and pool yard cruising. Most of the time my three siblings and I brought our snacks from home—pretzels and apples, etc. Sometimes we had enough money for a lick n’ dip, a big chew, or my favorite, a Good Humor Strawberry Shortcake ice cream bar.

Occasionally mom would join the other parents and old biddies in swim caps as they took advantage of the serene surface during that precious time of no splashing. She always looked good too. Nutrition and exercise was very important to her, and it showed. On this particular summer afternoon, wearing a black one-piece with white bows connecting the front, and her trademark low cut back, mom decided to do something a little more exciting, a little more thrilling than the usual, casual dip. For whatever reason, who knows what it could be, the mood struck her, she had a notion–as they say. She was gonna do flips off the high dive.

I can picture the scene in my head. She only had 15 minutes. After the children leave the pool, the noise level lowers a few decibels. The choppy surface rolls and flattens into ataraxy. The inevitable migration toward the snack bar, basketball hoops, and bathrooms begins.

As my sister and I flipped magazines on the plot of pool yard our beach towels covered, mom decidedly takes off her wide-brimmed straw hat. She stands up. Says nothing. Casually, with soft confidence, her bare feet start walking across the spongy grass toward the deep end. Short chestnut hair was slicked back from the previous adult swim 45 min ago. Her lightly freckled skin was tan and baked warm after drying it under the August sun. She rounds the corner marked 8 ft. Each bare footstep lands hard on the grey concrete poolside as she moves toward the diving boards. Now the energy of her step couldn’t dissipate in the pressed grass, it had to answer back in a pang that traveled from heel to head. She didn’t let the nervous energy escape. She didn’t throw it away by bailing into the deep end. She harnessed it. Pang, pang, pang, pang. This was happening now. Approaching her conquest head on, she sees one low dive, one high dive. No one was using either during this peaceful, no splashing time. ”Only got 15 min, go for the high dive!” she thought. Barely a pool goer notices as each hand grabs the steel ladder poles and she begins her ascent, one step over the other, her feet and her stomach butterflies climbing higher and higher. Pulling her way to the top, she took her final step, rising to stand 20 ft high on the hard, white, platform. Her sleek, 5’7″ frame paused a moment. At this height she could take in the whole campus. Through sun-squinting eyelids she sees the snack bar and burger grill sizzling away to the left. Kenspeckle orange tiger lilies lined the walkway leading toward the horseshoe pits and volleyball court. The circular baby pool at 10 o’clock. The rainbowed patchwork of huckaback blankets and shady umbrellas spread across the grass in chronological order–age appropriate to the depth of water. Families with infants and toddlers alongside the baby pool; those with young children were spread from 3–5ft; those with older children and teenagers pretending not to have parents spread from 5–8ft. But all Theresa Marie Bross, who used to race breaststroke on the high school swim team was focused on was the end of that diving board, jutting out over the bright, deep, blue below. Feeling the roughness of the board beneath her feet, she took a moment to envision the balls of her toes balancing all of her weight, with her heels spilled out over the edge. She could feel she was starting to get some attention. Why wasn’t she moving? Closing her eyes, she drew a strong breath in through the nose and her posture straightened. With her chin lifted, she dropped one hand from the railing, kept one on, took the first steps forward as her eyes popped open on instinct. One, two, three, four steps forward, spin and plant it. There, toes in position. She paused for just a moment while coming to a final determination on the dive. “Oh my god, which was it again?” She thought. “That’s right, an inward.”

Extending her hands out in a low V, she held her balance. Bobbed patiently until she was ready. Last bob down, then arms lift up with as much force as she could, bend forward as hips rise above the dive, then arms move down to touch her toes, extend the legs to a straight back, and enter the water at a slight angle. Small splash. Adult swim style. She did it. Exhaling bubbles of joy and relief, she surfaced. It worked! She hadn’t attempted this in over a decade. And the next question wasn’t should she go again, it was, what dive will she do next? Hoisting herself up out of the pool, she took swift steps, sprinkling drops of water in her wake. The adrenalin was intoxicating. She knew she could improve on her form. This time she didn’t hesitate so long at the top of the platform. Muscle memory had been ignited. She moved into position confidently and did another inward pike dive. Kerplunk! By now more than the lifeguards were noticing.

“Did you see that lady?”

“She’s doin’ jumps off the high dive…somebody’s… mom.”

Theresa stayed focused. She wanted to try another one. Something with a little more difficulty, a forward 1 1/2 pike. Would these recently revived instincts see her through it? Would it truly be, as they say, like riding a bike? Another ascent to the top of the platform, another deep breath. Pool water beaded on her goose bumped skin. This one was going in face forward. No pausing on the edge, it must be one fluid motion. She inhaled through the nose, exhaled through the mouth as she moved one, two, three, four steps forward and arms swing up with the right foot lifted, float down on the landing, and one more swing up to propel her body forward into the spin. One and a half tucked revolutions before unfolding her arms in front, extending her legs behind and driving into the water. Another calculated splash. This time it was met with applause. People were clapping and gesturing toward what was becoming the afternoon’s main event. A passing comment was now excited chatter bombinating across the blankets. The other adult swimmers paddled over to the safety rope dividing the deep end from the diving area. They took up a position where they could see best, like lining up at the front row of a concert. Again Theresa climbed out of the pool and up the high dive latter. A stranger took a picture at the next jump, moved by the excitement of the moment. The pick-up games on the courts paused. Kids were pointing, telling each other,

“Look, she’s goin’ again!”

One of them was saying it to me. My head whipped around. What? My mom? Oh, there she was… actually flying through the air! I’m not kidding, my memory of this starts with me turning my head and having to look twice, jaw dropped, to see my mother flipping through the air like a superhero. Hah! I was smiling from ear to ear the next time she climbed up the ladder, cheering when she leaped and flipped and dived again, and let my claps linger until she surfaced so she could hear the applause. We were all clapping, the whole lot of public pool goers. I don’t know for sure, but that adult swim felt extra long, maybe 20 min for the performance no one knew they needed that day.

But then, “Wheeeeeeeeeee” of the whistle. All good things must come to an end. Adult swim, and the professional diving demonstration, was over. What a triumphant walk back to our towels. Mom beamed at the young cheerleaders who lined up to watch and clap for her, thanking them for their support. Nodding to the other parents who were nodding and smiling at her. Like an effulgent olympic champion cruising though the town parade after winning the final gold medal that cinched the win for the country, ticker tapes and the sounds of cheers floating in the wind, she could have raised her hand at a right angle and did the royal stiff wave of appreciation.

My brothers and sister and I were enamored with her that day. We kept gawking, “I didn’t know you could do that! How come you don’t go off the high dive all the time?”

“Neither did I.” she said, still beaming. Adding, “Ask me how I feel tomorrow and we’ll see.” with a smirk.

After that display every kid lined up for their turn at the diving boards, attempting all kinds of jumps and dives. I had been off the high dive before and it was fun, but on this occasion I was simply entertained to see all the extra activity around the boards in the aftermath of my mother’s exquisite exposition. Everyone wanted to see what the next brave soul would attempt. Of course, nothing compared to the mastery we had just witnessed. At the next 15 min break, others looked over to see if there would be an encore. But no, mom was satisfied. She stayed on the ground the rest of the day, which turned into night for one of those rare treats when we got dinner at the pool and lingered for a “night swim.” Finally some of those sizzling burgers would be for us! We ate them as the summer sun hung low and cool air swept in. We squeezed every second out of that day in August, the last family pool day of the year before school started the next week. As the tiger lilies folded their petals for the night, and the fireflies started pulsing, we bobbed toward the exit in the mild evening water.

It thrills me to think back on the unexpected spontaneity of it all. How brave my mother was to take those first steps toward the high dive. It makes me smile because I know how many secret talents women hold in themselves everyday, never usually having occasion to display them. But when they do, watch out, step aside, and take stock. What a memory it makes!

Mom always said, “actions speak louder than words,” and I have plenty of memories banked to prove she believed it. It wasn’t much later than this journal entry that she did get a part time job at a popular florist, Royer’s Garden. A great fit since she had such a reputable green thumb in her own backyard. Later she did administrative work for a retired surgeon, and ran for vestry at our church where she was a very active participant in the Episcopal Church Women’s Group. So why was she so self-doubting? From what I can deduce the only thing she suffered from was not a lack of capability, but a lack of confidence in the workplace, or as we have more succinctly identified it in our post modern world, ‘imposter syndrome.’ Why would they want me, who am I? She didn’t know then how common that feeling is for so many, no matter our experience or background.

When I think about achievement in this life, and what advice my mother might have given me if she were alive, I think about two things, “actions speak louder than words” and the time she did flips off the high dive. Intention. Movement. Spontaneous fun.

In self doubting times, perhaps she would remind me that in 2004 I was the first person to graduate college on her side of the family. I’m humbled to think about how special that was for my Mommom and Poppop. I’m grateful when I remember how much my mother helped me traverse the college admission process (without the help of the internet). I wonder if I would have applied myself if not for her encouragement and guidance? Those collage campus visits in 1999 were some of the best times I ever had with her. I was becoming an adult, and she was becoming a friend.

Mom died of ovarian cancer when she was 43 years old. I was almost 21. A junior in the college she helped me get into. It was winter break when my parents told me this will probably be our last Christmas together.

“If that’s the case, maybe I’ll take this next semester off,” I announced. I could be there with her for whatever was needed.

“I’ll think about it,” was her reply from her hospice bed. But I knew what that meant. It doesn’t matter, it’s too late. The time is coming. And so it was, in January of 2003 she passed overnight in the house I grew up in.

It was very disorienting not to have her support after college graduation. I was like a bird in mid-flight, suddenly unsure of my course, paralyzed by indecision. At times it felt like I stumbled backwards into my nonprofit arts marketing career. But I embraced it because it gave me a sense of purpose in addition to a salary. Unfortunately, or fortunately, making a lot of money was never the biggest priority for me. Yes, I needed to pay my bills with extra for fun, but I never had an interest in mapping out a 10-year plan which would supposedly set me up for the rest of my life. In my experience, one could just get cancer and die during any one of those years, so why would I limit my options by making commitments?

However, every time I’ve hibernated, lay stagnant with insecure indecisiveness, it has eventually given way to this drive inside me. Call it a kernel, a little seed deep down, nestled in the sacrum, fused within the vertebrae. It lays dormant most years, protected by bone, connective tissue, and comfortable idleness. But when coaxed by creative quandaries, pushed by my supporters, or disturbed by our system’s failures, the drive grows like the 8ft corpse flower, Amorphophallus. Bursting through its testa the seed sprouts, germinates in my pelvic floor, roots down deep in my legs, stems up through my belly and lungs, leaves unfolding through my ear canals, and finally the bloom flowers in my brain. It invites pollination. I’ll get a motivation, a notion as they say, to do something prodigious.

This is exactly how I felt after I battled and survived breast cancer in 2021. I endured the pain and horror of that disease during COVID, conquered it, and swiftly moved on to the next challenge in my life. Propel my career forward. It was one of those times I didn’t just react, I was proactive and went for the high dive! I had enjoyed a rewarding career at a nonprofit for 15 years and I was ready to take a leap into the for-profit world of the New York City agency. I’ve never represented my self better on my resume and cover letter, or more authentically powerful in my interview. And low and behold I got the job. I had reached what would finally be the beginning of my 10 year plan. I didn’t care that I was late to that party, I was a part of it now. Age is just a number, heed the call of your next season, you can have it all! That’s what they say.

Two years later, in a real peripeteia, I was procedurally uninvited to return to the agency for the 2024 year. In other words, I was cut in a Q4 layoff scenario. Turns out I was right to make all those mistakes in my 20s. It doesn’t matter when you start a 10-year plan, you can get cancer and survive, and still find yourself thrown off course by unforeseen circumstances. Paused in mid flight with a lot of creative quandaries.

But maybe my pause is really what they call a window closing. A chapter concluding so another can begin. The Stoics endeavor to see the challenge as the path forward. The obstacle is the way. Even though it’s only been two years since last my brain was in bloom, maybe it’s not too soon for another cycle. Writing these words feels like spreading topsoil on the seed. There is always hope in this bittersweet world.

Time to feel the pang, pang, pang from my feet to my head as I walk toward the high dive, again, face forward.