Back to Normal... ?

Life goes on. Despite the urge to stop time and just be in the moment, life marches on - for better or for worse.. or for both. 
 
First week back to work has had its moments. The students were mostly glad to see me. That was both nice and surprising. Some of them gave me a hug and said how sorry they were. Once child shared how he had lost his grandmother the year before - and that he and his dad had lived with her until just before her death. Another young man said, "Hey, Ms B.. my condolences". Another child in my class lost a sister last year.. she just hugged me. I am amazed. These kids, with so many issues of their own, offer empathy and support to me - an adult. Their teacher.

 I guess I never really think about the affect I might have others. Like many folks, I am more concerned with how they affect me. I like people who make me feel good about me, about life. I like people who laugh, appreciate irony, and know when to just nod. I'm lucky. I have a number of friends who fit that description. I have friends who look out for me, check on me, and share their lives with me. I get to play with their dogs, their grandkids. I get to hang out when I get tired of being alone. And they love my irreverant comments, and laugh at my foibles - with me, not at me. But I move through life, being me, and not thinking about what my affect might be on them...

This week, however, tells me that I must be offering something of value. People have come up to offer a hug, to give one. The school nurse came out of her office, looped her arm through mine and walked me to the door at the end of that first day. She told me that she too had lost a parent. She offered condolences, kindness, and an ear if and when I need/want one. It's funny-strange. I don't know why this woman likes me. I've spoken to her only a time or two, and once was to consult on a computer problem - which turned out to really be a server issue that I couldn't fix on my end. Nice lady.  I wonder.. if things were reversed, would I offer such things? I like to think I would. I do believe I have. 

It's been a week for my dad too. I arrived home at the same time he did on Tuesday evening. It was also his first day at work. I'm sure the hugs and condolences he received affected him greatly. He too looked like he had been crying while driving. Earlier in the day he had sent me an email that made me smile and cry... almost at the same time. I love that man. I really, truly do. It's no wonder I have remained single all these years. They don't make men like that anymore.

The subject line on his email said 

I may have to start drinking

Now, my dad is not really a big drinker, though he does like a Brandy Alexander at Christmas (and he makes a damn good one too!) and a nip of good scotch now and then. I keep some on hand - as much for him as for me. We both have developed a taste for single malts. But, his subject line amused and confused me. Opening it, I see line one:

Well, the canary died... does Mom need birds in heaven?"

the insurance company sent forms, addressed to her to change the beneficiary... has she changed her mind?

 My dad has the most delightful writing style. I like to think I have inherited some of that. And, at this point, I am amused and amazed.. and laughing out loud... but the next lines.. 

took the thankyou cards to the people that rescued Dolly... wanted to ask them if they would like Dolly,..

lost my composure; tears welled up and couldn't ask

...had me in tears as well.

This man, my dad, would have loved it if I had stayed young and innocent. Given a choice - his choice - I would never have dated. At the same time, he deeply regrets that I have not found someone special, someone who cherishes me, loves me, and is willing to stay married to me! My dad has been my hero. He has rooted for me, counseled me, listened to me, and supported me - all the way, every day. I love this man. And while a piece of me wishes there was someway to ease his pain, to be there for him, I also know he just wants me to be here - in case. And here I am. He can drop me emails, stop in to visit. We can talk or just be in the same room together. We are both ok with silence. We are both ok with who we have turned out to be. Both of us are a little afraid or maybe just unwilling to break down in public. We keep our pain to ourselves most of the time. Maybe it's a midwestern thing. A local minister calls us humble folk..

What I know is this: my dad is the strongest, funniest, and most interesting man I know. I am proud to be his daughter. And I do believe that he is very proud to be my dad. 

To us! To Mom. To life. To love.

 

Dinners with Dad..

How odd that I knew my mother so well and yet knew so little about my dad. Or, maybe that is not so odd. He was never one to talk about his feelings and our time together was mostly spent while he was in his role as Mr Fix-it. Toilet broke? Dad was here. Sink leak? Dad was here. Lawnmower misbehaving? He was Johny-on-the-Spot. Since my mother's death, he has become a human being. And, an interesting guy. Last night we rode together into town to have dinner with my son and his lovely girlfriend. We talked.

My mother left behind a lot of things that interested her. She had a lot of stuff, and given that she was home all of the time, the stuff was everywhere. There is a collection of funny faced nuns sitting on the mantle of the fireplace. There are these decorative houses that are generally found under Christmas trees - she liked them so much that they sit on the shelf above the couch. There are reading corners everywhere with small piles of books, along with a kindle or two. And there is a bird - bright yellow canary - along with a psychotic dog. My dad says the dog is on probation. Dolly is the one we had to hunt down the morning of the day my mother died.

Last night's discussion, in part, included what to do with this dog. She has been lying in my dad's arms at night, as he sits in the chair that was primarily occupied by my mother. You can see that she does it under duress. Given her own choices, Dolly would stay in hiding these days - under a chair, under the couch, under a bed. He's not giving her a choice. He promised my mom that he would take care of her. He wonders if it is possible to take care of her by finding her a home where she is happier and has the company of a young child or another dog. He would like a dog that is happy to see him when he comes home; a dog that wags its tail and follows him around a bit. Dolly is not it. And you know, that's ok. The dog is not my mother. She is the dog.. and I have a feeling there is a little boy who would make her (and himself) very happy.

But, we talk. He talks about things, about ideas, about politics and life. My dad has a lot to say about things. And although I have no idea what my dad is feeling right now, he shares with me some little things - the way she left things out, the relationship she had with animals - hers and those in the wild -, his own feelings about the yard and the bird feeders and the fish in the ponds. I listen to him share ideas with my son, ask questions, and participate in the exchange of ideas. I like the way he chose to sit next to me instead of across from me at the table last night. I like seeing him with the room and space to simply be who he is, without having to be what my mother needed too. These past years have taken a toll on him, on all of us. I hope, I trust, that as my mother looks down from the heavens, that she is smiling. I hope, I trust, that she is happy to see him relieved and at peace. I trust, I hope, that he is both of those things and comfortable with himself. I'd like to keep him around a while.

 

One Week Today

How does one say goodbye? I know she is at peace. I know she is without pain. I know that heaven does have a new angel on board - a woman I know as Mom. She was my friend.

It is funny how life goes on. Friends call with dinner invitations. The bands play at the local clubs. My dad is back on the regular schedule at work, and I will go back to my students on Tuesday - taking Monday to help out a friend. Friendship. So important.How does one say 'til we meet again, when meeting again means I will also be at the end of my life?

I think about my children. They are so vital, so involved with their lives. I'm glad they have had things to do and people to see, relationships to nourish. I wonder if the powers that be had a plan for me, if perhaps this is why I am single. And, I wonder where to go from here. How to go on from here. My mom was such an important part of my life these past years. Coming home early to have dinner with her. Staying home to be on call, to be there in a storm. She was so afraid of being alone, of being stuck, of being helpless and in danger. Fear. Is that what I am feeling? Adrift and afraid? I know my mom is no longer fearful, My dad also seems at peace. Such new territory. A new world. I wonder. 

So, I say goodbye. We say goodbye. We wave to the heavens, we smile at the sky. I sing. I dance. I talk to her. I don't know if she hears me, but I do know that I still need to talk. To share. To believe. And I know that she would want me to go on, go forward to love and be loved. I know she loved my children. I know she loved my brothers, and their families. I know they will miss her to. We honor her by moving forward, into our own lives and letting go of our children so that they can live theirs. 

I'll miss you mom. Dad will too.

Healing

After the births of my children, I was granted 6 weeks of time. Time to heal, to adjust, to gain a new rhythm. Now, following the death of my mother, I wonder why bereavement isn't 6 weeks as well. It is, after all, a rebirth. I feel as if I am becoming reborn.. to a new way of looking at things, a new approach. My lifestyle is changing. My pain is going to take time to heal. Sometimes the deepest cuts are the ones we cannot see.

My dad is selling off all the signs of her illness. He placed an ad for her scooter yesterday. Sold it today. I'm thinking this is positive movement but a piece of me is worried. Is he simply taking care of business? He did show me his insurance policy and where I should look for important papers. 

I can see signs of relief on his face. He looks younger again. The toll of my mother's illness was born by all of us. It has been a very tough time, this past year or two. The past week was very intense, but we have been building to it, for a very long time. I have moments of complete clarity followed by minutes of complete pain. My mother played such an important role in my life. In his life. Such an amazing woman.

We move forward, a day, a moment. We slide back. It is the rhythm of life. I watch my friends deal with the same pain, the same moments, and then some. My best friend lost her son in August. My mom lost hers - 3 years ago this past April. My loss is no less important, yet it is much less than those. Our children should outlive us, always. Our children are our legacy, as I am my mother's. 

I sit. I mourn. I sing. I dance. I cry. Each day is an opportunity. To step up. To step out. To be. We can't help it. We move forward. 

The Morning After...

The dust settles, literally and figuratively. Brother 2 tells me brother 4 is angry with me.. feels I take over and make the rules. I have to admit, that there is something to that.. but then I am 10 years older, and have been here, with my parents next door for over 20 years. I have not had nor taken the option of not being available. This, in itself, makes me privy to things that they are not. Certainly to things he is not. I know my parents. I know the needs without being told. I have learned to step in surreptitiously and, ninja-like, help. He is jealous. He feels that it is my fault he is not in on it, that he is not the one my dad looks to, or comes to. His ego says I want to be the one that my parents look to. I can't help him with this. I have 20 years of being here. He has one week of wanting to be. And in another week, he'll be too busy again.

This isn't news to me, though everyone acts as if it should be. And, I get the feeling they want me to fix this somehow. I can't. And I'm not. Time to grow up, maybe? Me. not him. I don't need to be a hero. I don't want to be the hero. And I have no need to justify what I am, who I am, or why I am here. It just is. And I do wish he would step in, be available, be here. You know it is not about quality time. It is simply about time.

I have been blessed with time. Time to sit. Time to walk. Time to tell jokes and laugh with them. Time to talk. I had time. In the end, I made time. You can't take that back and you can't fake it. One is either present or not. 

Life is about survival until the day it is over. How we survive, who we travel with and how we travel is another matter altogether. We can be as fair as possible to one another. We can step in when help is needed, even if unasked for. We can be available.. make ourselves available. And that is all we truly can do. That is all I do.

My brother? I wish I knew.. or maybe I am glad I don't. I have, however, asked to remain uninformed in the future.. if it is not mine to fix, do not hand it over to me.. please.

Singing.. Loud and Clear

Today we gather one last time around my mother's body, if not her spirit. There'll be no grave, no graveside, and no place to go to lay flowers on birthdays or Christmas. No headstones with night lights. And yet, none of that is necessary. My mother is everywhere. And she is our night light, still.

My mom was always the one who saw the silver lining. She knew you could go through life angry and depressed over injustices or you could look for the side-door, the escape hatch, and make it better. You could cry or you could sing.. singing made it better, and roses are wonderful things to smell. Opportunity was everywhere if you just took the time to consider it. My dad is a lot like that too. 

Just before their 50th wedding anniversary and a renewal of their vows, the doctor found some lumps that were suspicious. She had lymph nodes that were swollen and hard. A few were removed for biopsy and my parents considered cancelling a trip to England and Ireland. The doctor encouraged them to take it, as they might not be able to do so again, at least not anytime in the near future. His words became prophetic. Upon their return, my mom learned she had Hodgkin's Disease. Chemotherapy was required and she would lose her hair.

We went shopping. I cannot tell you how many wig shops we visited or how many we tried on. And, I do say we; it became a bit of a game. I remember trying to talk her into a long blonde style, and a curly red one. We laughed, tearfully, as we joked about how my father could have all these different women in bed with him over the next year and months. We finally found a few that looked most like her own hair and she bought a couple of them. For my mother, losing her hair was devastating. She never liked being seen without her teeth either. I would never have called my mom vain, but self respect was very important for her. 

We went through chemo. My dad was with her most of the time as she sat in that chair with needles in her arm and fluids passing through. I sat with her too. Those were very poignant moments. She spoke with me about death and what she wanted me to do. She told me about her childhood and her parents. She told me the story of her life, and of meeting my father. She told me about us, our family, of losing a child and a home, but gaining a place near her grandchildren. She held my hand, wiped away tears, and asked me to tell her a joke, something funny.

She didn't want to die, but she was a realist. The chemo was awful. It caused pain. It caused nausea, sometimes it burned. And she did lose all of her hair. She told me she would never go through that again. It was awful. I held her hand and cried alongside her. We hugged. And we told jokes to relieve the pain. We shared jokes the day she died too.

My mother's life changed drastically after the chemo. Looking back, neither she nor my dad were certain the right choice was made. Not that we would give up one moment with my mother, but for her, life became about chronic pain and discomfort. She may have lived through the chemo and the cancer, but she lost the life she had come to know - one of hiking, walking her dogs, and playing with grandchildren. Over the next few years her world narrowed to a living room, with oxygen tubes and pain pills. Her social calendar became one of doctor visits. And yet, still, she smiled, admonished us to be nice to one another, and invited us over for holiday dinners. 

She was the bravest woman I know, and funny too. 

I'm leaving the light on...





 

Monday, Monday..

Today has become our day of rest. A day of reprieve. Nothing to do but be. All the business for tomorrow is done - with the exception of some cleaning at my house. My dad asked for my reassurance on this yesterday, three times. He needs a day. He also told me that my brother has a problem - he thinks I am bossy. And, the truth is, I am. It comes from years and years of people asking me what to do, how to act, when to go.. it's a double edged sword and it was given to me years ago. Does he want it back? Does he want it at all? I would gladly surrender it, but first you have to stop asking me what to do and telling me to decide. Not my dad. My brother.

My mother was the glue. She held us together. When I wanted to kill my brothers, she made me think twice. Behind the scenes, she was also working on them. Her last wish was for us to be together and to be nice to one another. No bickering. That is going to be a tough one. We have a a lifetime of sibling rivalry going on here. I want to smack him, and I want to do it now. My dad suggested that maybe he has low self esteem. I just wish folks would smile and nod, and stop passing such information on. It's like repeating the sky is blue, or the earth is round.. do we have to act as if it is new information and like something will change because this information has been shared? It makes me half crazy, but not today. 

Today. A day to wander. I went back to bed this morning, after one cup of coffee. Couldn't keep my eyes open, and I wandered through school. A few kids in the hallway could see me in my robe. My son came to get me, to take me back home. And home, it had an extra fireplace that was falling apart. I could see through the walls to another place, where folks played tennis, or so it seemed. They looked through the holes in the walls and waved. Was my mother there? Did she play tennis? I don't often dream, in fact, I would swear that I usually do not dream at all, but when I do, the dreams are odd and unusual. 

Today. A step away from the hustle and bustle of work. A step away from chores. A day to sit, wander, think, and reflect. A day for compassion. A day for love. A day to simply be.

Hi Mom, It's Me...

I slept last night. Deep sleep for the first time in weeks. Dad did too. It's a relief in many ways, and then guilt over the relief, and then acceptance. This is the way it is going to be for us, for a long time. Maybe forever. 

I went with my dad this morning to take care of business, the business of last residence known. The woman at the funeral home is almost like family. She took care of my grandfather. She took care of my brother. And, now she will take care of my mom. My dad tells me he wants her to take care of him on his last day too. It's a lot for me to grasp. Reality bites.

When we returned to the house, my dad asked me if we were done now, at least until Tuesday. And we are. He is. I made a trip back to the funeral home with my youngest brother - Larry wanted to take care of the final arrangement cost. My dad let him. It's odd seeing my dad let go. He always wanted to do things himself/for himself. A very proud man, he would say no even if he needed it so badly he could taste it. I wonder if he will be that way again.

Larry came back to the house, and then went to his own home. Funny how we can laugh and tease in the wake of pain. I do hope everyone finds that to be true. It's a lot like setting down grief.. that 1,000 pound weight around our shoulders... and taking a break from pain. And, you know, I have no idea what kind of marriages my brothers have, but I like to imagine they are each back home in the cradle of their wife's love. I hope they have even a smidgeon of what our parents had/have.

So, here we are. Flowers for the casket arranged. A time and place. A notice online and, tomorrow, in the paper. Phone calls made. I have taken the week off. One day. One step. One breath.

I'll Leave the Light On...

How funny it is after all these years to leave the light on when I go to bed, but you know the urge is compelling and I am going to follow it for the time being. The gut never lies.

I have lived next door to my parents for many years. In reality, they live next to me... I was here first and their home has been on my 3.69 acres, alongside my house for over 2o years... (and by a safe, private distance.. have you read my other blog?? Dating and the Middle Aged Woman?) ... And, how odd it is to think/to know! I own 3.69 acres and a good sized home. And it is mine.. Lord knows it's been tough to hold onto, but can I just say wow?! 

And, slow down there.. owning this has nothing to do with my dating adventures. Those stories might give a glimpse of my dad though.. he doesn't know details, but he knows his daughter has learned to turn single-hood into a barrel of fun, if not great story. We live sunny-side up around here. And I have been turning the light out for years.

Turning the light off means I am home safe should he awaken during the night. You know, you can never break dads of that habit.. I know. I've been working on him for years. And I know how to do that - change people's habits; but my dad? This? Never. I turn that light off, I don't care whose property it is, or how many years you spend living thousands or miles apart - your dad is your dad. You don't fight the small stuff.

 But here I am, tonight. I am leaving a light on. To honor my mother, and to show him the way to me, should he awaken frightened.  I love that man. And that man, loved my mother.

I may not be a Motel 6, but I can leave a light on.

Snapshots

My dad,  standing at the counter,  discussing catheters with my brother.  

My mom,  laying on the hospital bed,  taking leave of us, slowly but surely.

My older brother, looking at the menu of a restaurant near his hotel.

 Michael,  on a plane home.  To hug his wife and child. 

The dog..  our run away. .laying on the couch, keeping vigil.

We've been sitting shivah.. in advance of death.  Watching. Waiting. Sharing. Periods  of normalcy, punctuated by intense pain.  This is death.  This is the end. This is life. Life. From this day forward the stories we tell will be Mom Stories.  How she saved us, cared for us,  scared us, and loved us. She was our glue, the rock,  the fork in our back when we slouched.  She is the reason we are.

And my dad.. . What an incredible man.  Every man I have ever loved has fallen short.  He loves. He cherishes. He honors my mother in every way,  shape,  and form. He's my dad. He let's me hug him. He hugs  me. He and I,  a new team.  

We sit, we talk, we eat. My mother sleeps. An occasional snore. Then silence. She has passed away from us. And one by one, we come to say a final goodbye. Her body remains, but her soul is gone, soaring, sailing, and becoming whole again. She will live in all of us from this day forward. I will hear her scolds, her admiration, her encouragement, and her love each and every day for the rest of my life.

Rest in peace, mom. I love you still.   

Saturday Morning Musings...

Awakened this morning by my kitchen door opening and closing, I thought perhaps my brother, who is staying with me, went out to look at the stars. It was, after all, only 6am. But no, it wasn't that. It was my dad. The dog had gotten out of the yard and taken off. Dolly is a runner, a world class runner, I might add. I threw on some clothes and made it over there in time to catch my dad getting his car keys - and I caught the story. His mission was to drive up the road and see if she could be found.

Now, I am not a big fan of dogs that take off, but Dolly is my mother's dog and my dad is nearly apoplectic with concern over this, and who am I to argue?? The best thing I can do is support whatever needs to be done and to help in any way I am asked - short of robbing a bank, that is. That said, I nearly drove to Hagerstown last night to kidnap the idiot that was supposed to deactivate my mother's defibrillator. There are some things I most certainly will do!

I walked back to my house - and luckily we are mere yards apart, and woke my brother to stay with mom while I took a walk out back - to look for Dolly. I figured she left by the back fence and headed across the field.. and for those of you who are still wondering about the dog, she was found.  

Funny, the thoughts that cross through your mind when you are out on an early morning - before dawn, mind you, hike across a wet field....

From my mother, I inherited fierce self reliance. Though she is heavily dependent on my dad and he on her, neither of them want to be a burden to anyone else. They have always leaned on one another, and are still doing that today. I also learned that lying is never an answer. My mother always knew and still knows the truth. She may look like she is out of it, but that brain is sharp as a tack. She knew my dad lost the dog and she was ok about it. She had a certain knowledge that Dolly would be found. I am glad we had a collar on her, with our phone number.  I also realized I love sunrises - as my mother always has. I just haven't had the pleasure to be awake, walking across the field when one occurred in a very long time. 

A trip to the grocery store is now on my list.. because when all else fails, we can feed one another, tell stories, and hug. And, isn't that really all that matters? We are one. We are family. We love, laugh, and cry together and apart. I am blessed, truly.

Oh, and the defib guy? He sent a woman out.. because he was afraid of me.. go figure.

High Anxiety...

...should be the title of a movie, maybe it is.. but nonetheless, high anxiety is the phrase of the day. They tell me that panic attacks and anxiousness are a part of the end phases of life. Our loved ones want to be done, with the pain, the discomfort. They don't want to be a burden. But they are also afraid. Of death. Of dying. Of missing out on whatever is next. My mother is experiencing all of those things. 

I wonder how it came to be that I am the rock as well. More than once today I was called into service. My mom became frustrated, angry, and panic set in. My dad was flustered; he wanted to help, felt like it was his fault that she was mad, and wondered what he was doing wrong. And you know, it's not him. It is her. And I think she is trying to push him away, much like we push our parents away when we are ready to grow up and get out on our own. It's hard to leave when you love someone. And it's hard to leave when you feel like you might be breaking their heart. She hates that he ties her to earth while she also loves him so deeply, so intensely, that even she cannot let go. 

How do we let go? How do we cut the ties that bind us? My mom will eventually wear out. Her body is getting more tired. The strain of breathing is evident, and other body organs are beginning to slide away. My dad, however, is in a whole different place. He thought he would go first. He thought he would have more time. He has lived his whole life with my mother and wonders how he will go on without her. What will he do? Where will he live? No answers from me can help him right now. He knows the answers anyway. He just can't help himself, and what he really is asking is how does he let go?  I wish I knew. 

I know how important it is to listen. I know how important it is to feel heard as well. And these are things I try to do, as well as I can. My brothers sometimes get frustrated with me.. they want me to be perfect. It seems like my entire life has been filled with people who expect perfection, but I am, at best, imperfect. I do, however, have some gifts; and right now, that gift is to bring comfort to my mom and dad. I also scared a medical technician badly enough that he called his boss.. and then his boss called me. A new technician was assigned to come help my mother - and did so immediately. Apparently I have a certain gift for getting folks off their asses as well.. although not always as gently as others think I should. And you know what? I don't care that I am not gentle all of the time. I don't care that I fail to meet the expectations that others set for me. I do care about love though, and caring for loved ones. I care about getting a job done right. I care for people who care for others. I do not, however, have any patience left for buffoons or incompetent technicians who feel that I should understand their issue, believe their lies, or allow them to neglect a duty to care for their patient - my mother. 

So, yes, high anxiety is today's phrase. I hope for restorative sleep tonight, and calmer sailing tomorrow, but I am pretty sure we are not done yet... 

And I thank you, my gentle readers, for your willingness to take this journey with me.

Day 4... the story continues...

Leaving my father to his own devices, we probably would have never ventured far from home; it was my mom, apparently, that had the wanderlust. I've inherited a bit of that. My daughter has inherited a lot of it. Although she hasn't yet begun her world journey, I can feel that is she is chomping at the bit. And, bless my parents - they are full of encouragement and acceptance of this. They are not now, nor have they ever been, the kind of parents who want their children to live next door.

As we grew up, we traveled. Vacations every year to new locations. We explored the Midwest, our own state and neighboring states, in the beginning. As my dad's vacation time grew, we traveled further East - 5 kids in a station wagon, arguing over window seats. And later, as his vacation time became 3 weeks, we headed west. It would seem, in retrospect, that we were looking for our own favorite places  in the world, and certainly the U.S. became our own personal backyard. All that time I thought it was my dad that wanted to venture the country, but it wasn't. It was my mother. She was that voice we did not hear as loudly, the one that whispered in his ear. The one that said 'show me the world'. And show her, he did, along with us. The budget was tight, so we camped.

My mom and dad eventually settled in Colorado for ten years or more. I think this was the place they were happiest.. at least it was that way for my mom. My dad and I are more inclined toward warmer climates. One of my brothers stayed in that general area and still lives out west. I liked California and continued to live there sans family for many years after my parents went to the mountain top in Colorado. My youngest brother eventually joined the Coast Guard and traveled quite a bit of the world. Another brother went north to Alaska, where he once had an address at the North Pole.  My children loved his letters with the location stamped on it. He regaled them with stories of Santa and the elves, along with reindeer tricks. Michael ended up in Minnesota eventually, with a woman he loves. I married and moved east again.., to Maryland. My youngest brother, Larry, had his last tour of duty in our nation's capitol and has continued to live here in Maryland since shortly before his retirement. My parents moved here in 1992 or thereabouts. And that is yet another story worth telling, for it is the story of how my children came to love my parents as I do. 

Now I live next door to my parents - or rather they live next door to me, and it is this story I know best as it includes me, each and every day. I became a voyeur as well as a  participant in their journey toward the end days. And I am glad to have had them, along with this...


 

Peaks and Valleys...

Thursday... a day of highs and lows. My mother's request was that we all be here, and all of us who still dwell on earth are here with her, for her, and because of her. One of us resides in heaven already - my brother Jeff was the trailblazer, He passed on a few years ago. And, my mother is anxious to see him, to hold him, and to love him again. We will miss her as we miss him.

But, the story is not all sadness. The moments of overwhelming love and adoration are breathtaking. My dad, looking at my mom, staring into her eyes, telling her his love for her, his wish that she be pain free and at peace while his own heart breaks. I ask myself about these two people who raised me, gave birth to me.. where did they come from? How did they turn out to be the people they are? How did they find one another?

And that is how this story really begins. My dad was 16, my mother was 14. She was a kid. He was halfway to being a man. They both had a job at the little drugstore on the corner.  My mom worked the counter, my dad counted pills - early training for his career in pharmacology as a sales rep. And then they held hands. My mother and father have always and only ever loved one another... They found their life partner from the start. I am envious; I feel cheated in some ways. But I am so incredibly proud to know these two adults who call themselves my parents. I am proud to be their daughter. I am blessed.

My mother taught my dad to smoke cigarettes.. of course this was long before anyone told anyone else about the dangers of inhaling smoke. And she taught him to drive. I heard how he sideswiped a number of cars, taking off side mirrors along the way. They never told anyone, but the next lesson was in a more open space! When they graduated high school - or rather, after my mother did, they married and my dad entered the army. There's a story of my mom, pregnant with my brother, needing to see my dad for some reason. She and her friend decided to go find him - while he was out on a training maneuver. The commander spoke to my father the next day.. about his wife and exercising some control over her. HA! He has never had control over my mother. She got things done, had her way, and loved him unconditionally as well. They were a perfect match, a perfect compliment to one another... Less than a year later, another child on the way - that would have been me. And then 3 more. I have no idea how they survived five of us.. I had days with two that almost made me bonkers. My mother, however, was a mom. It was her calling. It was what she was meant to do.. raise us, love us, and laugh with us.

And so, this will become not only a story of end days but a story of beginnings..

 

Tuesday Morning...

On Tuesday morning, my dad met me in the driveway as I was moving toward my car. He was upset and having a little difficulty telling me what was wrong. But I knew. It's been expected for some time. We fool ourselves when a patient, a parent, a loved one rallies towards the end. I watched this with my grandfather. He was conversational, he was alert, and by morning he was dead. The folks at the hospital, and my parents had informed him that before he could come home again, he was going to have to spend some time in a nursing facility - a big man, there was no way my mother and father were going to be able to help him bathe and care for himself. He always said he would die first, and die he did. My dad thought my mother was dead.

He wasn't sure, he asked me if my mom was breathing or not. He didn't know what to do. Should he call 911 or not? Who should he call? Could I just check, see if she is breathing? Can I fee a pulse? 

My mom does wear an oxygen tube so the air he felt coming from her could have been that. He couldn't tell. But, it wasn't. She was breathing on her own, but it was very shallow. He pulse was thready and she was unresponsive. What do you do? He called 911, and the operator there took me through the paces. Having taught for the Red Cross, I knew the drill.

Other things I know: I know that my parents do not want to be hooked up to tubes and wires.  My brothers and I know they do not want extraordinary procedures involved. My mother's health has been sketchy for many years, following a bout with Hodgkin s Lymphoma just after their 50 anniversary. They have been married over 59 years now.. time marches on when we are busy doing other things, it seems. I know they don't like a fuss, and I know my father holds his independence tightly - and loves my mother above and beyond any other love. Even as children, my brothers and I knew that my parents were committed. Her children - me and them - were secondary. But what to do now? A piece of my dad wants to let go, but there is another part that screams - "Not now! I'm not ready! I'm still here!".

To the hospital we went. And a few hours later, having made the decision that it was time to stop the pain, stop the tubes, and stop the intrusion, we took my mother home. It is what she wanted, and at this point in her life, my father will tell you that this is all that matters. It is her life. It is their life. We get to gather. We get to talk and listen. We get to give my mother that backward glance at her life with children. As she informed us last night, she may not be responding, but she can hear us. She is listening.

Sixty four years with someone is more than a lifetime. It is also an incredible journey. It is one of deep abiding love and commitment. And now, as we move toward the end of existence on this planet, my mom and dad need to know it has been for a purpose. She needs reassurance that we will be ok. She needs to know my dad will be ok. She has cared for him and about him for so long. What she hates most is leaving him here. Alone.

 
What woke my father and made my mother jump up at 4:45am on Tuesday was the defibrillator, the one implanted in my mother's chest. A few years ago, following a small heart attack, the decision was made to put one in. Neither of my parents were ready at that time to say goodbye. But, it was the first time we all consider that my mother's life was not going to get better. Sure, we had good days - a lot of them - but some decisions and discussions were going to begin. The What-if was on the table now. What if? And so here we are. Having reached a decision and a consensus, today we will have the defibrillator deactivated. And as  my mother's heart slows to a stop, we will be here. Together. It may take a day. It may take a week. But I know she is ready to go and I know that I am glad to have these end days.

 

The Last Days...

To begin at the end is such an odd thing, and maybe that's why I have such a hard time getting started on that great American novel. I always want to begin at the beginning.

My mother is dying. These are her last days. As I write this, I am sad and a little scared. My mother has always been an integral piece of my life. She was, indeed, the wind beneath my wings, and I only recently learned that. But I am also learning something else on these end days. I am learning the story of the greatest love on earth. And I am so honored to not only know it, but to be a part of it. It is the story of my life too. To share with you how lucky I am to be able to be here, to listen, to sit, and to hear the bits and pieces until, like a jigsaw, an incredible picture appears is an incredible experience. They simply don't make men like my dad anymore. And we women? We're not so fiercely loyal anymore either. 

My mom and dad met in high school. And my father still smiles beautifully when he shares this story with me. Like my mother, his eyes shine. She was 14 and he was 16. At the fine age of 78 and 80, they still have that smile for one another. And there was never anyone else in between! Now, my mom has a story about some girl in a green dress at some dance, mind you... But my dad shakes his head.. there was never another girl, he tells me. He just likes that my mother gets a little riled up about it still... after all these years.

End days. Honoring life while facing death with dignity. End days. An accounting, a time to fess up, face the music, come to terms with some demons. End days; I once thought it would be best and easiest to simply have a heart attack or an aneurism, I now wonder if my mother, as always, is doing this the right way, sharing her stories and her desires and saying goodbye as she wishes. Regaling in the family she raised. Knowing my dad is loved and that she has to go ahead of him on this trip. He'll catch up.. time to let go. 

And so it begins.. the story I need to write. The one that begins at the end.