Blabberskipping

I guess I pictured going into my old age engaged in a peaceful passing of time with both of us sitting in rocking chairs reading, listening to music, watching television and laughing occasionally over a joke or two.  Skip would mumble something and I would respond with a word or two.  I might say something like, "What would you like for dinner?" and he might answer, "Anything is fine."    Isn't that how we picture old age?

Instead, I have discovered something I never would have expected.  My husband, Skip has gone through a huge change.  He's not the person I married.  Skip used to be an introvert, very quiet, totally cerebral.  It was a perfect match for me since I talked a lot and he was a good listener.  Suddenly, though, he is exhibiting behavior that makes me think that some alien being has inhabited his body and has taken over his brain.  When we go to parties he is the one most likely to meet and greet, to stand in groups chatting amiably about this and that...the king of small talk.  I, on the other hand, shrink off to a corner to talk to one person.  I went to a party a month ago and I literally searched for something...anything to say.  Of course, in my defense, I was sitting amongst a group of non-working trophy wives who were complaining about struggling to fit into their size 4 jeans.  One young lady actually complained that she had found a grey hair!  I would have spilled my drink on her if I wasn't consumed with getting quietly drunk and needing all of the vodka in my glass. Anyway, back to Skip, he was on the other side of the room entertaining a group with interesting trivia when I looked up to be 'saved'.  Ordinarily I would have caught his eye and even before I suggested it, he would make small gestures of needing to depart.  He would be moving towards the door while I would be wrapped in conversation.  But now, with this current role-reversal, I was wearing a hole in his side as I poked him in reminder that it was getting late and we had to go home to feed the dog.

A few months ago, when I really began to notice this change I asked him if he had been drinking (naturally assuming that it loosened his tongue and inhibitions) but in many situations he is doing nothing more than having a coffee or a glass of iced tea.  In fact, the other night, I was trying to work on a Sudoku puzzle and he wouldn't stop talking.  "Did you know that the longest word in the English language has 45 letters?"

"Really?  What's the word?"

"Hang on...oh, I can't find it.  Hmmm.  It here somewhere.  I just had it on my phone."  (I waited while he continued to thumb through the myriad posts that come to him on his newsfeed.) "Oh, here it is.  It's  a medical term."

"Of course it is!  We don't use those."  I went back to my puzzle but within seconds Skip was throwing out some political commentary from an obscure authority on the subject of the upcoming election.  I feigned interest but when he abruptly changed the subject to discuss taxes and the newest tax laws I began to yawn.  He was still talking when I began to sing a melody in my head that made me smile.  I was in my 'Happy Place' which meant that someone was droning on and on and I had stopped listening.  Finally, It came to me. 'Just be direct,' I told myself.  Then I looked him in the eyes and announced, "Skip! You are blabbering!" Granted, he was informative and interesting, he was sharing and conversational, he was being the perfect husband.  But to me, I was on noise overload.  The TV was on and he was competing with that, with my inner voice, and my puzzle-solving ability.

"What do you mean I'm blabbering? I thought that you might like knowing these things." 

"I do, I do.  But right now, you're being a blabby-butt!" I turned up the volume on the TV as Skip retreated into quiet reflection for a few seconds.  I noticed that he looked hurt and so I apologized.  "Oh Sweetheart, it's cute.  It's just so unlike you."

Skip smiled at me and encouraged by my returning smile he hit me with a full discussion of a project he's working on that involves technological tools I've never heard of.  I took a deep breath and returned to my silent song.  My Sudoku puzzle had to wait until Skip went to bed.  In the morning my husband was awake and chattering on about the latest developments in his newsfeed. ('La-la-la-la,' I sang in my head.)  Now I really shouldn't complain.  Most wives married to the same man for many years would give anything to have lots of conversation rather than spend long quiet evenings just sitting and watching TV.  But honestly, after a full day of brain activity, I just want to vegetate over mindless TV.

The other night he did it again...this time with friends.  He was on a roll and I was trying to unsuccessfully insert a comment when it hit me.  Skip was blabbering and the new term for it was born in the deep recesses of my brain: Blabberskipping!  "Skip!" I announced with dramatic flourish. "You're BLABBERSKIPPING!" So now I've coined a new word.  It doesn't help the fact that I am experiencing this metamorphosis right before my eyes, but at least I have a term for it.  You're welcome, America.

Up in the Air: Travels and Tribulations

Skip and I went to his annual company meeting in Seattle and decided that as long as we were traveling all that way from North Carolina we should definitely go visit his sister, brother-in-law and mother in Idaho.  We flew out of Raleigh at an ungodly hour to catch our plane to Chicago.

Admittedly, I am a nervous flyer.  I find it difficult to accept that it is safe to fly high up in the air, relying on people I don't know who have manufactured a mechanism that is,in my mind, too heavy to stay aloft, has too many moving parts to be certain that something will not malfunction, and has too many miles of service not to have some sort of mechanical break down.  At best, if and when that happens, we are inconvenienced with delays, but the worst...well, we know what that might be! It's that thought that keeps me awake and filled with worry.

Neither of us slept well the night before and were extremely sleepy when we got to the airport parking and shuttle service.  Thank goodness our shuttle trip didn't require a security check since I am sure that I would have had to go through the same ordeal that met us at the airport.  I made the grave error of wearing a sweater that was trimmed in metallic threads.  BIG MISTAKE!  You'd think that I was wearing an explosive vest.  I was pulled to one side and had to wait for a special agent to check me.  I was asked to remove several items of clothing, wanded, and then subjected to the whole body scan. Finally a female TSA officer walked me over to a sign with a colorful graphic of the human body.  Pointing at the sign, she explained where she would be touching me (inappropriately) and then proceeded with the examination.   I asked her if she wanted to buy me dinner first but she didn't find it amusing. She also closely examined a pin I was wearing.  She shot me a suspicious glance and rotated the pin to see if it was in fact some sort of dangerous weapon. Finally satisfied that I was no danger to anyone she handed me my pin, my scarf, and told me I was free to get my things and go to the terminal.

Once I put myself back together we hiked to the gate...a remote outpost at the very end of the terminal. Halfway there, my energy gave out and my muscles began to cramp.  I looked for volunteers along the way who might hand me a cup of water to cheer me on, but sadly, the marathon walk had no event organizers like one expects to see at most marathon events.  Evidently, we participants were on our own with the finish line still 10 or 12 gates away.  When we finally arrived at gate 3959 Z (or something like that)  I plopped down on the nearest hard plastic seat and whimpered that my most comfortable walking shoes were evidently not that comfortable any more.  My little toes were screaming at me and I was sure that there were a few raw spots on my heels.

Our airplane, a sardine can with wings, was outfitted with seat belts designed for Barbie and Ken.  Clearly, anyone over 100 pounds with an average-sized lap could not fasten this contraption without some major contortions.  I let the belt out all the way and still had to suck in my breath and tighten the glutes in order to fit the two sides together.  I watched as the flight attendant rushed down the aisle supposedly checking to make sure we all were good little passengers who had secured ourselves with our seatbelts and stowed all personal belongings in the above compartments or under the seats. She barely glanced in my direction and couldn't possibly see if I had my seatbelt fastened since it was hidden from view by my metallic sweater/exploding vest.  I finally decided that my look of discomfort was probably enough to assure her that I was wedged safely and securely in my seat.

Our pilot, an experienced man who knew how to keep me calm by not doing nose dives, loop-dee-loops and other such stunts, safely delivered us to freezing cold and snowy weather in Chicago.  I unwound myself from the cramped seat complaining that my back had a spasm that wouldn't allow me to stand up straight.  We were at Gate 1A (or something like that) and had a connecting flight at Gate 10,385 ZZZ (or something like that).  There were no carts or helpful attendants.  We had to WALK!  I don't know how other people could do it because my tongue was hanging out, my feet were barking louder than a pack of hounds chasing a fox, and I was sure that I might die somewhere between the Starbucks and McDonald's about 2 gates down from where we landed.

"Do you want something to eat?" Skip asked helpfully.
"Oh no thank you.  I'm still full from the stale cookie and cold cup of coffee they gave us on the plane," I answered sarcastically.

We had a two hour wait for our connecting flight so I was able to catch my breath and recover enough to limp to the next plane. From Chicago we had a long flight to Seattle.  The plane was full and we sat three across in seats meant for Lilliputians.  I'd like to know who the Marquis de Sade of airline seat designers is so I can personally thank him for my ever so enjoyable trip where I was so tightly ensconced in the seat that I couldn't get up or down without a great deal of effort.  Hence, I tested my bladder endurance and pushed myself beyond what most people could do.  It became my personal challenge. Could I make it to Seattle without using the lavatory?  I hate using in-air lavatories.  We always hit turbulence just about the time I walk in and lock the door. Trying to balance myself after sitting in a cramped position for several hours is bad enough, but having to engage in a half squat and keeping my focus while worrying about plunging to my death in that compromising position is even more stressful. Therefore, I try to avoid getting up from my seat to use the facilities.

Oh boy!  There was an on board movie that I hadn't seen.  I grabbed my earphones and plugged them in to enjoy watching something that should not have been shown on a small screen in a lighted cabin.  The scenes were too dark and I found that I only caught small glimpses of the action.  I missed about 75 percent of the movie and finally gave up in disgust.  It was time to close my eyes and get some sleep.  Just about then was when food service began in first class seating just in front of the flimsy divider curtain that hid nothing but the fact that we were in coach.  The fragrance of bacon and eggs assailed my senses exacerbating the fact that someone was offering me a glass of water and pretzels.  I decided to push the envelope and get another drink of water before realizing that it might make me have to go to the bathroom.  UGH!  What was I thinking?!  With another two hours to go in the air, I was beginning to feel that distinct feeling of discomfort.  By the time we landed in Seattle and taxied to our gate, I was in full panic mode running down attendants and passengers alike to get to the rest room.

The walk to the next gate involved picking up our luggage and changing airlines, so there was no casual stroll to a nearby gate.  We had to walk from one end of the airport to the other to find the remote outpost where our luggage was delivered. The airport diverted all traffic to the right wing of the terminal to take us downstairs.  From there it was another hike to the side of the terminal from which we came, just under the gate where we had landed.  I questioned the wisdom of this, particularly since we had to then hike on back upstairs to check in and go through the dreaded security check yet again.  By this time, even though I was told I had a pre-check tag that meant I didn't have to take off shoes, scarf, jewelry, etc. I knew better.  Of course I would set off the alarms. So, rather than subject myself to more humiliation I removed my offending items, placing them on the conveyor belt, and walked through the magnetic detector.  The alarm went off and I nodded knowingly.

"It's my sweater," I told the TSA security lady. She gave me a withering look and told me to walk through the body scanner.  I did so obediently and then pointed to the metallic threads. Another withering look and a pat-down then freed me to rejoin my husband who had dutifully collected my miscellaneous items from the conveyor belt and X-Ray machine.  Now came our sprint to the next gate at the other end of the world!  Oh, but that wasn't all.  Now we were told that the gate had changed and we had to walk even further.  Finally reaching the departure gate we were told that this plane could only be boarded by walking outside.  There was snow on the ground and freezing temperatures.  I bundled up in my coat, scarf and gloves as we followed the dotted lines on the outdoor boarding zone to then climb up a ramp to the airplane.  By now my feet were numb, not because of the cold weather, but because my blisters had blisters from all the walking.  I couldn't feel my toes at all which was probably a good thing, and my muscle cramps had taken up permanent residence in my calves.

A short hour later we were standing in the Spokane airport waiting for luggage yet again.  This time, the walk was in the other direction and just as long.  Fortunately, we were through with catching airplanes and only had to rent a car to drive an hour to Idaho.  I thought that a car rental service might cleverly locate just outside of baggage claim, but that would be a silly notion.  It makes far more sense for a car rental desk to be at (you guessed it) the OTHER end of the airport as far away from baggage pick up as it could be.  I do not usually use expletives, not even under my breath, but I might have thought three or four of them with every step I took.

By the time we actually got in our rented car, the snow was coming down pretty steadily and what should have been a 45 minute drive to our hotel in Idaho became a grueling stop and go ordeal of
1 1/2 hours.  I worried about spinning out on the slippery roads.  It was rush hour traffic and snow plows couldn't get through to rid the highway of the collecting snow.  We finally pulled up to our hotel to deposit our luggage, freshen up and then get back on the road to go visit Skip's family.  Needless to say, wine awaited us when we arrived.  Thankfully it didn't continue to snow until after we had left and gotten back to our hotel.

The next morning we awoke to a winter wonderland and cleared roads which made the drive back to the relatives much easier and certainly beautiful albeit freezing cold.  After two days, it was time to return to Spokane to catch a flight to Seattle and my jittery nerves returned to allow for more stress and anxiety.  Security check-in was much easier.  I wore nothing that could set off alarms. Still, my boots didn't make it through and I had to remove them because they apparently had a metal shaft.  Oh, and Skip didn't make it through with me because it seems like he had forgotten to turn in his car rental keys when he dropped off the car at the rental return.  The TSA security people didn't like this at all.  I was questioned by the agent asking who that man I was traveling with was and why did he make an abrupt departure from the security gate?  Just looking at him, one would easily be suspicious that he was a terrorist for sure.  His graying hair and open honest expression is a dead giveaway. I'm sure that both of us are now on some list.

The gate to our aircraft was located in outer Mongolia (or something like that).  When we got there we were told that the aircraft was slightly smaller and the overhead bins would not accommodate much in the way of carry-ons. They neglected to mention that the plane was an old-fashioned propeller style. The propellers were located just outside my window.  I was so nervous, I couldn't even talk.  I pointed at the propellers in shock and horror making some sign of distress while Skip reassured me that it would be just fine.
JUST FINE???!!!
I squinted and checked each bolt and blade to make sure that nothing looked like it might be loose or ready to fall off.  As the propeller blades began to rotate I cinched my seat belt tighter and prepared for take-off which miraculously couldn't have been smoother or easier.

Once back on terra firma I was breathing again and happily enjoyed a couple of days of respite before having to go through the entire flying ordeal to return home.  The hiking and hauling of luggage, the tight seats and discomfort, the security check-ins, the difficulty with gate changes, lack of sleep, no food service on the airplane and no time to eat a decent meal on the ground all culminated with our final leg of the trip from Dallas to Raleigh.  We were seated three across.  Skip was in the middle and a very large gentleman sat down on the aisle seat next to him.  I felt sorry for Skip who looked like a piece of lunch meat wedged between two slices of bread.  It turned out that our seat companion was far more interested in talking than sleeping or watching the movie.  His booming voice could be heard several aisles back and I knew that the dirty looks that we were getting came from that fact.  I tried to rescue Skip by asking if he wanted his headphones so he could watch the movie but he told me, "No.  You can use them."  (Why do I even bother trying to save him?)

When we landed in North Carolina a gave a silent prayer of thanks.  Once again we were delivered safe and sound. All in all, I can say that the next trip we take will be a driving one.  I don't care if it is 1 hour or 15 hours!  All I know is, somewhere there is a TSA agent who owes me a dinner and a flight attendant or two who owe me a very strong cocktail.

An Empty Place at the Table

This is the week that will test me.  It will be our first Thanksgiving without my mother.  I am beginning to bake and cook now.  The aromas of cinnamon, apple and sugary pumpkin fill the air.  Suddenly I remember those moments when I stood at my mother's side and stirred bubbling saucepans filled with those same fragrant ingredients. She was in charge.  She lovingly taught me her secrets to timing and technique for the perfect Thanksgiving meal. I think back to holidays past and remember.  I think about the family and friends, the poignant moments, the special feeling, the excitement knowing that soon we would hear the doorbell ring and would gather with grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. They are all gone now save a few cousins who are thousands of miles away.

When it was time, when I had a family of my own, I began to make the Thanksgiving meal. Smiling through tears I recall my mother's comments, her teaching, her patience as I attempted my first Thanksgiving dinner.  My mother assisted, taking care not to intrude.  She had passed the baton. It was my turn to become the matriarch and she stood beside me as sous chef.  We invited new people to our table.  There were our own children now.  But always...always there was a place for parents. My mother and father graced our table for each of the holidays.  As the years passed (all too quickly) a place where my father once sat was empty.

My mother's role changed again.  She had Alzheimer's and as the disease progressed she was no longer my assistant. She became an appreciative guest, happy to sit at the table and proclaim that each dish was her favorite. All too soon, the shift occurred as my mother's Alzheimer's Disease erased her memories and decimated her thoughts.  Our final Thanksgiving was devoid of her ability to taste or enjoy the food on her plate.  She ate without tasting.  She sat without seeing.  She heard without understanding.  But still she was with us.  I could look across the table and see her smile, feel her presence, assured that she was still filling a place at the table.

But now, today, as I began to place things, counting out the dishes and the silverware, I shift everything over removing the space where my mother once sat.  I will miss her smile on Thursday.  I will miss filling her plate and helping her with her napkins. I will miss pouring a tiny taste of champagne for her.  I didn't know that it would hurt this much.  I didn't know that the emptiness would be so unbearable. My grief overshadows my memories momentarily and I struggle to regain them, to once again recall the laughter, the jokes, the cheer.

Through blinding tears, I shift my gaze to the window.  It is windy outside.  The dying leaves flutter to the ground and the autumnal colors create an artist's palate that is beautiful to behold.  Everything changes.  Seasons change, people change, lives change.  I am reminded of the beauty of cycles.  Birth, life, death, birth, life, death.  I witness it in the natural things.  Our magnificent oak tree stands as testament to nature's cycles.  Always...there is such joy as after the stark winter, the first leaves emerge: the promise of new life...the fulfillment of nature's promise.  Yes, my mother is gone but there is also a promise of new things, of new experiences, of new life on the horizon.  I dry my tears and return to my work.

I stir a saucepan full of cranberries and smile to myself as I remember my mother's suggestion to add a little more cinnamon. I am so thankful for all that she was and did for me: her little reminders, her teaching, her help and her support. There may be an empty seat at the table this year, but there will never, ever be an empty place in my heart.  It is full of her grace, her beauty, her love, and her presence.  It will be a happy Thanksgiving.

No Time for Tea

She asked me to join them for tea.  My mother and father were seated at the round table in their attached apartment, napkins folded neatly, two plates placed in front of them, two cups ready to be filled with the hot liquid, and a small plate of home-baked cookies placed in the center of the table.
My father was less than enthusiastic about drinking tea, but humored my mother with her daily ritual out of love and devotion to her.  I, however, didn't exhibit the same loyalty to the practice of stopping everything to imbibe in a cup of steaming hot Lipton (my mother's personal favorite.)

"No thanks, not today," I told her.  "I need to get back to work."  I held the borrowed cup of flour in my hand ready to go back downstairs...back to my own kitchen in my own home even though their apartment was merely a doorway away from my kitchen.  I needed to finish the cooking and get the dinner started before I returned to my work projects.  Within 15 minutes I would be back at work, talking to clients, answering emails, adding notes to my files.  There was no time for chit-chat with my parents, no time to spend idly sipping tea, tasting Mom's cookies, and hearing about how she thriftily used the stale grape nuts cereal to add extra crunch.

"Well at least take a taste of my new recipe," she insisted as she held out a cookie on a napkin.

Reluctantly, I took a small nibble already detecting that once again, she had left out a critical ingredient.   The expected sweet taste was missing.  The cookie tasted like a dog biscuit.
Mom was becoming forgetful.  Her baking skills were diminished by her inability to focus.  It was begining to happen too often and I knew that soon, she might have to give up cooking altogether.  For now, my father didn't seem to notice and the two of them continued to dine in their kitchen upstairs, contented with the bland fare, perhaps remembering that Mom used to be a great baker and convincing themselves that she still was.

"Well?" She asked expectantly. "What do you think?"

"They're good," I lied rushing back downstairs.  I knew that a plateful would be delivered to us within a few hours for us to 'enjoy' at our leisure.

I left the door ajar and could hear my parents talking quietly together.  They were planning what they would watch on TV that night.  I heard discussion about eating leftovers from the night before for dinner.  Mom asked if Dad had remembered to take his pills.  There was just simple, every day, unimportant conversation and yet it spoke of the normalcy, the simplicity, the harmony and the beauty of living together so many years.

That was about two months before my father passed away.  He had Alzheimer's, a bad heart, and prostate cancer.  We didn't know at the time that he was terminally ill.  We were told that he still had lots of time left.  He was still cogent, conversant, (almost) self-sufficient, pleasant to be around.  Oh there were tell-tale signs of course!  He began mixing colors...outragious blends of maroon and orange.  He lost things.  He forgot things.  He got confused.  But still he smiled, joked, and lovingly indulged my mother and her need to sweeten each day with her baked confections.

When I think back to those days, my care giving duties were minimal.  They took care of each other in ways I never could. Their 61 years of marriage were enough to sustain them even when they began to need supervision and more care than they could provide themselves. I used to laugh about their antics, their signs of aging that were both frustrating and endearing.  They were both hard of hearing, distracted, slowing in oh so many ways.  But they smiled and laughed, remained positve and upbeat.  They loved each other like no others and set a phenomenal example for all of us to follow and emulate.  To look back at those days, to remember how they were together and with us, I feel the bittersweet lump in my throat.  It isn't regret.  It isn't guilt.  It's something else.  Maybe just a yearning to experience them once more...just for a moment...to go back to that time when I innocently believed they would live forever.

The lost opportunity to sit with my parents, to enjoy 15 minutes of relaxing, talking, remembering, listening and experiencing the activity of doing nothing more than enjoying each other's company weighs more heavily on me today.  I had a dream...a message in my sleep that alerted me to the fact that I am allowing time to slip through my fingers.  How do I stop this?  How do I seize all opportunities to cherish each waking minute.  I thought about my time caring for my parents as a difficulty, a diversion from doing my own work and exploring my own interests.  Yet now I appreciate the richness of the experience. It allowed me the time to spend with them. It gave me irreplaceable memories.

It has been 17 years since my father passed away, and one month since my mother joined him. Today I am free to do as I please without the responsibilities of caregiving.  However, the joy of having them nearby, of reaching out to touch their arms, to trace the lines on their faces, to feel the warmth of their skin, lingers in my mind and heart.  They will always be a part of me. I just wish...OH how I wish I had a chance to sit and have just one more cup of tea at their little kitchen table, hear their laughter, see their smiles, and taste the wonderfully awful grapenuts cookies.

A Mother's Day in Passing

The phone call came around the time we were getting ready to go to bed. "Mrs. Bryan?" The caller identified himself as someone from my mother's hospice service.  "I am very sorry to tell you this..."
I didn't hear much after that.  It was over.  The long journey had come to an end. The finality of it hit me immediately.  My mother was gone and I found myself unable to control my voice or my tears.  I hung up quickly and sat stunned, eyes leaking alligator tears.  Skip, my sweet husband, hugged me and comforted me but he, too was needing comforting and we clutched at each other.  Moments ticked by as we processed the information.  A loved one dies. It happens to everyone.  'We were expecting it.  It is a relief that she is finally at peace.  She's in a better place.' You know? All of the things one says...all of the things we say.

Emotion was soon replaced with rational thought.  We must tell our children, our grandchildren, other family members.  There was no time to grieve.  I called our daughter and opened my mouth to speak the words but found only a small sob.  I gulped it down and tried to speak, hesitating, telling her only the most important words and then hanging up.  Our son, who was visiting from Colorado came downstairs with his girlfriend, Christina and they hugged me, sat with me, talked in quiet monotone telling me all of the things that one says at that moment.  It seemed like a long time but in retrospect I realize that the moment dragged on as it often does when one is overwhelmed. In reality it was maybe only twenty or thirty minutes.  Soon we were reminded of funny things, memories that made me laugh. "Remember how she tried to run over Christina's cat with her walker?"
"Yeah, she hated that cat." I smiled through my tears.

I thought about all of the stories, a lifetime of laughter.  I wrote so much about my mother.  I knew when I wrote, that I would someday re-read my words and gain solace when she was gone.  Now I thought of my writing and was so grateful I had done it, so happy I had pushed myself when my eyelids drooped and I wanted to go to bed.  This was so special now.  I had memories that were permanently chronicled.  In time we'd forget the little details, the small moments.  I felt comforted by the fact that I would have a reminder.  As raw and new as the emotions were just then, I was also reassured by this thought.

I became introspective and quiet, telling myself what I must do next.  I sent everyone to bed and began my announcement which I would send out via email and social media to everyone.  I dispatched my duties quickly without focusing on how bone weary I suddenly felt.  The sadness had crept into my body and had worked its way into every cell.  I stood up and turned off the lights not even aware that my cheeks were wet with tears. I longed for sleep, to dream of happier times, of the mother who used to be.  Instead, I walked outside and looked up toward the heavens.  She was gone. She lived a long, long life (one month shy of 100 years!) but it was as one small star in the sky when one considers eternity. Still, she left an indelible mark on our hearts.

The night was clear and warm.  The stars twinkled brightly.  There were still a few remnants of a meteor shower that had passed through and as I gazed upward a small meteor shot across the sky, it's light extinguished at the end of its journey and in that I saw what I needed to see.  My mother...the bright light filled with joy, smiles, exuberance, energy, kindness, sweetness, talent, creativity, knowledge, beauty, grace, wisdom, enthusiasm, devotion and most of all love, had streaked across the sky and her light was extinguished. It was gone.

I know, I know.  Humans are not forever.  Their names and graves are soon forgotten save a few who have historic recognition. The billions who are here today will be forgotten tomorrow.  And yet, there is something to remind us of our predecessors.  They toil and teach, expand, and build upon the very foundations that created humanity.  Mothers give birth and nurture their young creating a living legacy so that when their light is extinguished there are still others like stars in the sky...billions and billions of stars in the sky.

It has only been a few days to get used to being an orphan.  Now I must face the future as the elderly parent. There has always been the older generation in the past and even as they died off, my mother remained.  Now it is different. I am the older generation.  But it was just yesterday...no...we are all just a streak in the sky.

I look at the calendar and see that it is Mother's Day tomorrow.  I haven't thought about it.  How will I feel?  I pray that I will be a strong matriarch encouraging my children and grandchildren to carry the torch into the future as my light begins to dim.  I'm not ready yet but someday...someday.  For now, I think about the mother I had and I am grateful.  Tomorrow I will pay tribute to her in ways I cannot guess yet.  Perhaps we will tell stories and share memories. We will drink a toast to her life and shed a few tears.  When they leave...when they are all gone, I will permit myself to feel the emptiness of a Mother's Day without my mother.  But that will not last.  My thoughts do not reside in melancholy.  I look around and see her incredible influence on all of our lives, and celebrate that joyous time when her light flashed brightly...brilliantly.  It lit up the room and our lives in ways that I can never truly express. She will forever be my mother...my loving, beautiful mother.  Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Never

NEVER

I used to think of it from time to time when I was young...

What if.  What if my mother and father died? What if I was all alone?

But those thoughts were cast adrift to the murky waters where I did not set sail.

"Don't worry," my parents told me.  "We won't die."

"Never!" I beseeched.

They wrapped their arms around me and I felt reassured...safe.

The parental lie we tell our children:  innocent, well-meaning.

When it happens, when we catch them in that lie we forget that they told us. 

We forgive them this untruth because we know that there was no other way...not then.

But now.  Just now, I remember.  You promised! 

You said, "We won't die!"

Now what? I feel the glimmer of the small betrayal.

My inner child remembers.

But...I reconcile and move on.

I am an adult.  I am independent, self-sufficient, secure.

My children asked.

My grandchildren ask now.

"Don't worry," I say.  "I will never leave you."

It is not a lie.  I will surround them with memories of me.  

I will give them love that will always remain.

In a hundred ways I will always be with them.

Their thoughts, their actions, their mannerisms,

Their very biology!

I realize how strong an imprint we make,

Even when we don't know it.

I look around and remember.

Here is a photo.  There is a gift.

I smile and see my father's expression in my face.

I blink and see a glimmer of my mother's eyes.
A favorite food, a flower, a painting.

My mother...my father. Everywhere.

And then I know that my parents told the truth.

Recovery

Yesterday, someone told me that I looked and even sounded different.
"Really?" I asked incredulously.
"Yes," my friend replied.  "It's like  you're lighter. You're facial expression has changed and your voice is bouncier."

I thought about it for a minute.  Had I been weighted down by my caregiving duties to the point that it had actually changed me; I who told others that the only way to care for our loved ones was to first care for ourselves; I who spoke publicly about how to nurture ourselves through stress-reducing activities and who fervently reminded others that they should be vigilant about their own mental state, had overlooked mine?

I retreated to my car and took a mental inventory.  I felt the same.  I was still caring for my mother albeit long distance.  I was still running to the nursing home to check on her, to visit, to make sure that the nurses were doing their job.  But there was something different.  That stress--that ENORMOUS responsibility had been lifted from my shoulders.  Over the past few weeks, Skip and I had managed to actually have a couple of date nights and even a spur-of-the-moment drive to get milkshakes. (Something that we considered reckless and wild.)

I love the sense of wild abandon I feel when I announce, "I'm going to run an errand." I don't have to check if it is okay with Skip that he has to stop doing whatever it is that he is doing to go into the family room and sit with Mom.  Suddenly those little things, the things we used to take for granted, the simple freedoms we had lost during the four years we cared for my mother in our home, are restored but now with a new-found appreciation.  Can I go to the grocery store? Yes...YES I CAN!  Can I sleep until 9 AM?  Yes.  Can I be gone until after dinner without worrying about a schedule or food preparation? Yes.  YES. YES!!!

Before you think me too jubilant, let me hastily remind the reader that my heart is still heavy as I worry about my mother every day when I awaken and before I fall asleep.  Being the control fanatic that I am it is extremely difficult to face the fact the my mother's well-being is in the hands of others now.  I dread each phone call hoping and praying that it isn't a nurse calling to tell me that my mother has fallen, is injured, isn't eating, has misbehaved, is sick, or has gone missing.

I think about my visits to see my mother. I am frightened.  Old memories flood into my consciousness...childhood memories of visiting my grandmother in that horrible nursing home. I was so fearful of the old people.  They reached out to me and touched me as I walked by--the wordless, wrinkled, wild-eyed or zombie-eyed strangers who followed me down the halls.  Here too they sit in the halls and await my approach. I avert my eyes when I walk into the building to see Mom, careful not to look into the blank and vacant faces of other patients.  I find my mother slumped on a bench and for a moment I only see a frail and tiny woman with deep wrinkles and wild hair. When I touch her shoulder she opens her eyes and smiles the smile she reserves for strangers. There is no recognition and my heart shatters into a million pieces.

I notice that her cheeks are sunken and her toothpick ankles do not look like they could support her.  It has only been a few days!  How could she have changed so much?!  Perhaps I didn't notice before.Suddenly I reach out to her wanting to hold this nearly helpless human and to protect her, to love her, to care for her.  I forget my fears as I stroke her head, her back and her arms.

Mom has three months to go before she is 100 years old.  I never thought that she would make it to 100 but now I am cheering for her.  "Please dear God, let her remain healthy and safe," I beseech.  Why do I pray for this milestone when just a few weeks ago I cried and carried on that this was no way to live, that she wouldn't have wanted to be this way?  Before...just a few weeks ago I cried over the unruly appearance, the lack of grooming. Now, I am amused by clothes that the nurses dress her in. They are clothes that don't belong to her.  I resign myself to the fact that she is wearing someone else's socks, that her hair is uncombed and that she shuffles around like all of the residents. Still, I sadden over her purple mottled skin that tells me her heart isn't pumping strongly enough to oxygenate her extremities.  I worry over each bruise.  I fret over her weight loss.  "It's out of my control," I remind myself.  Can others do it better (this caregiving) than I? 

Another few days go by.  I visit with heart in mouth until I see her sitting alone on a bench...the oldest resident, the ancient wizened face looks up and smiles that same sweet smile she has always smiled from the time I was too young to remember.  Only now it is not about anything in particular and maybe everything at once.  Maybe it isn't so bad after all.  Maybe she is okay.

I watch two old ladies follow each other from room to room weaving their way in and out of the doorways like a two-car choo-choo train.  They shuffle mindlessly nearly colliding with the man who comes out of one room and enters another.  There is perpetual motion and the nurses follow along guiding the patients out of the rooms.  "No Miss Emma, this isn't your room.  Mr. Smith, let's go this way," they patiently shift their trajectory to another doorway. I watch and observe them stopped at a wall like the battery-operated robot toys that move until there is an obstruction. They bump into it over and over until the nurse turns them once again.  I am fascinated by this and watch with a kind of sick curiosity no longer experiencing the shock (and yes, even a little revulsion).  I begin to find the humor in this.  I refer to this sad drama in more comforting terms and laugh at the antics.  One patient wanders from room to room picking up others' personal items and leaving them in other rooms.  It is now clear to me why my mother is now sitting in a garish pair of fuchsia and orange pants with yellow striped socks and a blue top none of which belong to her.  They were in her room and so they become hers for the moment. They were gifts from the shufflers, the choo-choo trains, the wanderers, the hunters and gatherers.

As I sit with Mom who is silent but awake on her bench, a man walks up to her and she looks at him smiling coquettishly.  He touches her knee and she signals for him to draw nearer.  The nurse tells me that she is going to kiss him if he comes closer.  He makes no move but then as I get up to leave, he quickly grabs my seat next to her and as I turn to say goodbye I see the two of them smiling at each other.  They are perhaps joined in their silence and somehow content with each other's company.  My need and desire for control evaporates in a bittersweet moment as the door closes and locks behind me.  My mother is safe for now.  She is cared for.  I am free to go home and make dinner for my waiting husband who deserves my full attention and an unburdened evening.

There is some sort of comfort in all of this.  My sadness is healthy.  There is symmetry in my emotions.  Obligation, stress, discomfort, worry are balanced with a sense of letting go, of relief, and a rediscovery of who I was before I was a caregiver. I see that this is the circle of life--my circle of life and I revel in my recovery.