Misty

by Misty May-Treanor

  More than six hundred people attended a memorial service for Mom at the Pyramid at Long Beach State. Alice printed up the invitations, calling it “Our Farewell Party to Barbara.” We asked that people dress casually, wear leis, and bring desserts and photos to share. In lieu of flowers, we suggested that they make donations to cancer charities or to the homeless. That evening I got to see the three different segments of Mom’s life—her tennis people, her paddle tennis people, and her volleyball people. I finally got to see all of the faces, and meet all of the characters in my parents’ stories, all in one place, all at the same time.

  When E.T. stepped to the podium to speak, he shocked a lot of folks in the crowd, who knew my parents once had banished him from our family. Strong, sober, and Mom’s loving caregiver until the bitter end, his presence was a powerful testament to love, forgiveness, faith, hope, and moving forward in life. All were qualities Mom embodied. His words were powerful, too.

  “We take one deep breath of life, we take one deep breath of love,” he recalls saying. “Barbara has passed the torch to Misty. She had pretty big footprints out there, and those footprints will not only be filled, but enlarged, in Barbara’s passing the torch to Misty.”

  As difficult as it was for me to get up in front of everybody, finally being able to read my letter to her out loud, finally being able to let our extended family know exactly what I was feeling, was very important to me. It did wonders for my soul and for Mom’s, too. I was so proud of my words, in fact, that I shared copies with many in attendance.

  Saturday, May 4, 2002

  Dear Mom,

  I am in San Luis Obispo right now and the time is just after midnight. I really can’t sleep, but that is nothing new. Ever since you have been in and out of the hospital I find it difficult for me to stop thinking of you so much. I have a very tough time being away from you. Even in Long Beach I feel light years away.

  I know that you have been struggling and very restless these past couple of days. Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know how you have stayed so strong throughout this whole ordeal. Mom you are an AMAZING woman, and I only wish that I had half the character that you possess.

  Well, first off, I want to apologize for getting frustrated on Thursday. I know that you may have not known it, but you are a hard one to please, even when you are sick. I am so sorry, Mom. I just feel like my whole world is slowly falling down around me. After Grandma passed, I never saw these days coming. When she passed away, it was very tough on me. I have never really been the type to easily share my emotions, but I will tell you that even today, I still cry because she is not near. …

  I know that when I was growing up, life wasn’t the easiest. We, as a family, had our problems, as well as our ups and downs. I can remember the day that you stopped drinking for the final time. I was so proud of you and still am. That was a big obstacle for you to overcome; at times, there were bumps in the road, but still you beat that disease. I thank you, not only for me, and Dad, but for yourself as well.

  I cry every night because I don’t want to see you hurt and in pain. I cry every night because I wish I never grew up, and I could just stay your little girl. I cry every night because I don’t want my season to start so that I have to leave. I cry every night, Mom, because I miss you so much.

  I often wonder why this had to happen. I blame most of it on the stupid doctors, but the other blame, I just don’t know where that lies. I believe that some things happen for a reason, but I am not so sure about this. Why????? It did bring our family closer, and I have had to grow up a lot, knowing that you are not really able to help me with all my stuff. All of your true friends have also pulled together in order to comfort you and take care of you.

  My communication with you has never really been the best, but don’t feel bad. I really can’t communicate with anyone. I keep a lot inside, which really eats me up. I still, to this day, have never really apologized for the way I treated you growing up. You always made sure I was well taken care of and always provided me with everything. At times, I was a brat, and I remember saying things like, “I hate you, and I wish you weren’t here.” That really kills me because what a little bitch I was. I am so sorry a thousand times. I wish I could make it up to you, but nothing that I would do could ever equal what you did for me. …

  I often feel like not being here anymore. I just can’t see me without you and Dad in my life. It just seems like you two are my whole world, oh, except for Gruden and Boogie. We have always been a close family, and I just can’t picture us not together.

  I am going to stop rambling on, but the main thing I wanted to let you know is how much I LOVE YOU!!! I know that we don’t say it all the time, but I do. I always want you to know how proud I am of you, and I thank you for all the wonderful years and times. I hope that I can make you as proud of me as I am so very proud of you.

  I LOVE YOU MOM!

  Misty Elizabeth May

  14

  CARRYING ON

  After Mom passed away, I experienced a downward spiral. I’m not going to lie, and I’m not going to sugarcoat it. My downward spiral was a result of my grief, and I now realize, grieving in the wrong ways. I just wasn’t myself. I didn’t get into anything bad, though.

  I found different ways to cope with my sadness. For instance, I got a second tattoo.

  I’d gotten my first after my Long Beach State number five jersey was retired. I’d had my grandmother’s initials tattooed on my lower back—BRG—on either side of a capital V, the Roman numeral for five. It was my favorite number, and I’d worn it since my sophomore year in high school. On an unofficial recruiting trip to UCLA, I attended a men’s basketball game against California. I admired the tough, relentless play of Cal’s star point guard Jason Kidd. He also wore number five. “Yes, he’s a good player, and he’s number five, all right!” I thought. That totally solidified it; I’d chosen the perfect number.

  After Mom died, on the back of my left shoulder, I tattooed her initials—BGM—a pair of angel’s wings, and a halo. That way, whenever I looked over my shoulder, Mom always would be there. My second tattoo helped me cope, too, with the pain of her loss.

  To be honest, the first few months after Mom’s death, I was severely depressed. I wanted to quit playing volleyball. I couldn’t have cared less about it. I contemplated getting off the professional beach volleyball merry-go-round and becoming a college coach. I figured I could give up playing and be fine.

  “I don’t want to play volleyball,” I told myself. “I don’t even want to see a volleyball.”

  I was angry at the sport because Mom had been such a large part of my love for it.

  “Why do I want to play, if she can’t see my success, be involved, or be a part of this?” I asked myself.

  I felt as if my purpose in volleyball, and in life, were gone.

  Dad kept trying to convince me that Mom would’ve wanted me to carry on. On May 29, twenty days after she passed away, I took a big step forward, going through Long Beach State’s graduation exercises and finally receiving my bachelor’s degree in kinesiology. It took me three years more than my incoming freshman class to complete my course requirements. I’d had to take educational leaves because of the Olympics. The biggest hurdle was completing five hundred internship hours. Between 1998 and 2002, I’d worked at Frogs Fitness in Long Beach and Verizon Wireless’s on-site health club facility in Irvine, and I’d also coached Amazon, a local volleyball club, to fulfill those internship hours.

  More than six thousand students were honored, including legendary Hollywood movie director Steven Spielberg, who’d re-enrolled at Long Beach State in spring 1998, more than thirty years after he’d dropped out, and picked up his bachelor’s degree in film and electronic arts during the College of Arts commencement. It was a day filled with mixed feelings. It was the first major moment of my life since Mom had passed away, and I kept thinking, “I wish Mom were here. She would’ve loved to have been a part of this.” Dad tried to infuse as m
uch happiness into the day as he possibly could. He surprised me with several gorgeous leis, flown in from Hawaii.

  Since Mom passed away, Dad had worked overtime trying to make me feel better. He’d been pushing me to get back out on the sand with Kerri and chase the Olympic gold medal Mom had thought was in our reach. He kept telling me that Mom would have wanted me to keep playing, that she never would have wanted her death to keep me from realizing my dreams. Well, that’s the strongest argument Dad could have made, that it was Mom’s wish. Even today, when Dad wants me to do something, he’ll say, “Your mother would have wanted you to . . .” It makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck, and I follow through with whatever it is. Sometimes, the little sneak uses that sentence to manipulate me into doing something he wants me to do, not Mom. But don’t worry, I’m on to him.

  In this case, though, Dad was right. Mom would’ve been upset if I’d given up playing beach volleyball. She knew how much I loved it, and I knew how much she’d loved it. When it had come time for me to turn professional, she’d wanted me to play beach over indoor. Eventually, I convinced myself I had to carry on, because, really and truly, I didn’t hate volleyball. I just knew that playing volleyball was going to bring up many memories for me, that it always was going to be painfully obvious Mom wasn’t there. Sadly, that would never change.

  I’ve always been one of those people who can just move forward. I’ve always been somebody who closes the door quickly and never looks back. I’ve never been psychologically traumatized by anything. As a child, I’d learned to cope with my parents’ alcoholism. As a college junior, I’d learned to cope with being sexually assaulted.

  Physical traumas never have negatively affected me either. Not injuries. Not surgeries. Not even a motor vehicle accident that has left me with a very noticeable tremor in my right hand. When I was three, a car ran a red light at an intersection in Santa Monica, smashing into the driver’s side of our van. The impact propelled me toward the windshield, slamming my face into the rearview mirror. Because there were no visible injuries, other than a mark on my lip and lower face, my parents took me home and watched me to make sure I didn’t have a concussion. A month later, my teeth turned black.

  As I grew, Dad and Mom noticed that my posture changed, with my neck dropping forward and my shoulders beginning to round. Between the ages of five and eight, Dad made me swim, to open up my shoulders. When I turned eight, he made me do exercises on the jungle gym at Muscle Beach, to strengthen my shoulders. When I was ten, Dad noticed my tremor when I was playing volleyball, seeing my right hand shake as I’d reach for the ball, or even as I was holding a sandwich at lunchtime. He just figured I was nervous, playing with older girls. But in high school and college my tremor became quite evident, especially serving the ball. It’s a noticeable shake, but once the movement starts, I don’t feel it. Away from volleyball, it’s more obvious, when I’m doing ordinary things like eating with a fork or sipping from a coffee cup. Drawing a straight line or threading a needle is very difficult for me.

  Today, Dad says he still worries about my tremor, mostly because he doesn’t want it to get any worse when I get older. However, in the same breath, he’ll call me “one of the better cockroaches around,” because of my survival skills. I’ve had my tremor checked by doctors to make absolutely sure it’s not the beginning of Parkinson’s disease, and I’ve been assured that it isn’t.

  Simply put, I’m a survivor. I’m strong inside and out. If I’m subjected to psychological or physical trauma, I’m tough enough to rise above it and move forward in my life. But Mom’s death was an entirely different story. I was having a very, very difficult time coping. I’d finally met my match.

  As it turned out, volleyball was good therapy for me. It gave me a place to work through my feelings and sweat out my tears. It helped me believe that if there were a heaven, if there were a greater power than ourselves, then Mom was up there, looking down on me, watching me play and loving every minute of it. Training, traveling, and being with Kerri was a real plus, too. She was incredible, a great friend, a strong shoulder to lean on, just a sweetheart of a girl. I never told her when I cried myself to sleep most nights, but somehow, she always sensed when I was sad, and she found ways to pick me up and keep my mind occupied. She distracted me by taking me on tours of cities we were playing in, by discovering restaurants and cafés for us to experience. She also handled the organizational details of our partnership, because my grieving left me scatterbrained. I’m forever grateful to Kerri for keeping me going.

  Because I’d spent all of the off-season and most of the preseason rehabilitating from my PCL reconstruction, and because I’d devoted a lot of my free time to being with Mom, I wasn’t in the greatest shape heading into the 2002 FIVB season. I’d gained weight due to poor eating habits, more weightlifting and less cardio conditioning, and I knew I’d really have to work hard to get it off.

  In early June, Kerri and I set off on a summer-long trip that would take us around the world. We scheduled what turned out to be the most extensive competition schedule of our partnership—eleven tournaments. I knew it would be a physical grind and an emotional roller coaster. So I decided it would be helpful to continue writing letters to Mom. That way, I could take her along with me for the ride. Most important, I could talk to her. I brought along a special journal, with a gray silk cover embroidered with purple and pink flowers. It reminded me of Mom, who was such a nature lover.

  We won our first tournament, in Madrid, Spain, June 9, a month to the day after Mom’s death. The victory prompted me to talk to her. I couldn’t wait to share my life.

  6-11-02

  Dear Mom,

  Kerri and I are traveling from Madrid to Barcelona with Lina and Petia Yanchulova, your favorite beach volleyball sister act from Bulgaria. What an experience. I really think that it would be cool with someone I love. At first, we didn’t think we would meet our train. Good thing that it was ten minutes late. Well, our friend (not really, but our driver), brought us to the train station and showed us where to get on. The sisters were in a different car than us. They had beds, which now would have been good to have.

  Kerri and I are seated in first class. You’d think first class would be luxurious and spacious. Forget about it!! There were six seats in our cabin. Good thing it was NO SMOKING! These seats were like those on Southwest Airlines, the ones that are facing each other. . . . We have three Americans and one Spaniard in our cabin. The three Americans have just graduated high school in Pennsylvania. What a great senior trip! The bathrooms are so gross, I would rather pee on myself. We leave our shoes outside because who knows what we are walking in.

  Kerri and I had been drinking in the bar at the hotel since about 6:00 P.M. We had five Cervezas. Lina had some wine, Petia had a Coke.

  I am listening to Incubus right now. Kerri is asleep. The three American high school kids are stretched out. I on the other hand prefer the quiet and listening to my music, while writing all my twisted thoughts on paper. I understand that we may have nine hours to sleep, but I would rather write in my book and listen to music. . . .

  6-17-02

  Mom,

  Boy, this traveling has been quite an experience. We have been on two overnight trains. So here we are on our third train ride, five and a half hours from Cannes to Geneva. It is much better to fly, don’t let anyone tell you different. Kerri and I were talking just the other day about getting a coach for next year. We couldn’t really think of anyone who had that much time. Kerri mentioned Dad, but I know he has to work. Well, when I talked to Dad the other day, he mentioned he would like to retire and join our traveling circus. I got butterflies and goose bumps because I really want that, but didn’t think it was possible. I am so excited! I think, too, that Dad is a bit lonely. Well, I am, too. . . .

  The next FIVB tour stop was Gstaad, Switzerland, and we won again, beating Brazil’s Shelda Bede and Adriana Behar in the final. Then it was off to Stavanger, Norway. We struggled a bit there, f
inishing fourth.

  7-06-02

  Mom,

  I miss you so much. I miss calling you for meaningless reasons, I miss seeing you and knowing that when I get home, you will be there to give me a “Hello, Poops” and a hug. It just feels totally weird. I put a family picture by my bed, and I have the picture of us also. I don’t leave home without them. I think that you would find my tattoo really neat. I love it just like I love you. I am in a slump, and I know you would know what to tell me or do. So what do I do?? When I dream tonight, please stop by and talk.

  I REALLY MISS U!!

  Mom’s death was a huge turning point in life for me: I finally had to learn to rely on myself. I had to start dealing with a lot of stuff in my life, and quite frankly, so did Dad. We both had rude awakenings. Before that, practically everything had been done for me, for Dad, too, courtesy of Mom. She was a very strong personality, and Dad and I really had to step up.

  Throughout the 2002 season, I felt Mom’s presence, especially when I was wrestling with life, struggling to handle my grief. I’d hear her whispering in my ear, giving me love, support, and guidance. On the court, I felt her right there with me, too. If the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, and one of my serves trickled to the other side of the net, I’d say to myself, “That’s Mom, pushing it over, helping me out.”

  Our fourth FIVB tour stop was Montreal, Canada, and it was good to be back on North American soil. Dad flew up to see us, and we had an awesome tournament, defeating Holly McPeak and Elaine Youngs in the semifinals, and then Shelda and Adriana in the final.

  7-13-02

  Mom,

  We won today! It was a very stressful match. Our match with Holly went three games, and the finals went two. Dad was pretty excited. I didn’t have my best match, but it is okay. It is so hard to play because I think about you all the time. I just want to be home. Toni Bowermaster wrote me a nice message, and I wrote her back. I miss you so much, and I can’t wait until we are reunited once again. I am so tired, so I will write you later. I love you, Mom. …