Category Archives: Grief

Resurgence of Hope

I read once that Canadian geese are monogamous, that most couples stay together all their lives. Considering the brutality of life in this wild world, I find that to be an inspiring example of devotion, applicable to the human condition, particularly in our postmodern reality.  

My husband and I have, on day 13 of the COVID-19 quarantine, brought our two goslings out to the country for a change of scenery. This is our fourth spring out at the farm. Well, that’s what we call it. Although we raise no livestock nor harvest any crops, my husband and I christened the 22 acres we bought in the rolling countryside of Steedman, Missouri “the farm.” 

It was Steven’s idea, owning property, a dream of his for years. I’m not sure what shifted from casually keeping an eye out for good deals to hunting in earnest for a prize parcel. Maybe the fact our youngest would be heading to high school or the approach of his 50th birthday, but his vision became a quest. 

Property moved quickly and several times choice lots were sold before he could make his move, so I wasn’t surprised when he called me one Sunday from an open house.

“I think this is it, but I have to make an offer now.”

“I trust you,” I said, and meant it.

Still, a purchase that large, sight unseen left me a bit unsettled. It was his dream, I reassured myself; it didn’t matter much what I thought. I knew my husband worried about pleasing me, so I was determined to reserve judgment. We wound around a rural two-lane highway for miles before turning off the asphalt onto a gravel county road. We passed the stares of grazing cattle and a herd of goats that ran for the fence. After a mile or so, Steven rounded a corner and drove up the hill to park the truck in front of a green metal house and carport which sat overlooking a grassy meadow. The view showcased an open field sloping down to a small pond flanked by walnuts and maples and oaks. Spreading out from the clearing, thickets of woods covered the swells and ravines of the terrain. In the heart of winter, the trees were bare and the forest floor, a bed of leaves. I’d adjusted my expectations, but I could not have possibly known it would feel like coming home.

That first spring, the place greened up like Jumanji as Missouri is wont to do when a sunny day follows drenching March rains. Weekends found us driving out to work on the cabin, making it livable with paint and flooring and furniture. We slept with the windows open, the cool breeze carrying in nocturnal sounds of the wildlife that seemed unperturbed by our presence. 

A pair of geese made their home near the pond, and judging by their protective behavior, closely guarded their future family. One night we were awoken by horrible, guttural shrieks. The primal quality of the squalor struck my heart before my mind was able to identify its origins. I heard ferocious terror, the sound of survival in the endlessly shrill honking. Come morning our fears turned prophetic. A predator had invaded the nest and our geese were gone. We were left wondering if the parents had been injured or even killed in the attack, but we knew for certain, there would be no babies. 

The second year Steven built a nesting box out in the pond, safe and elevated away from prowling raccoons and foxes and skunks and out of reach of foraging turtles and snakes and muskrats. But the geese missed our offer of a safe haven and rebuilt their nest in the same long grasses on the bank of the pond. That year, our anxious anticipation of babies was suspended by the sudden absence of the parents and abandoned, broken eggshells.  

Last year, we watched, hopeful the couple would discover the stilted rubber tub, but it remained empty. Neither did they return to the pond. No geese, no eggs, no tragedy. But my disappointment felt like loss. Sadness filled the void where their presence had been the two years before.

This year, busy travel schedules, illness, and weather have kept us away. Additionally, amidst global crisis, we’ve submitted to the confinement that saw our 25th wedding anniversary come and go, any plans postponed indefinitely. But in truth, the lack of overt gestures and social pronouncements pales compared to the surprising gift of this pandemic: time together.

We’ve come out to the farm with our brood to hunker down, but also to expand into our wide open spaces. We play games and solve puzzles and cook food and watch movies. We have conversations and we take walks.

As Steven and I set off this morning, he stops me short. 

“Shhhh, look!” he says, pointing down the hill to the lull of meadow between road and pond.

I squint, shielding my eyes as I make out the silhouettes of two geese. The male stands guard, stock still. In profile, his head is raised, his long neck extended. He is a sentry. The female bends over, feeding in the grass. I bring binoculars to my eyes, adjusting the dial until the image swims into focus. Two fluffy balls hop near the mother’s feet. Goslings. 

“We’ve got babies!” I say excitedly to Steven, handing him the binoculars. “They’ve got to be the same geese, right?”

Lest we doubt these geese are ‘ours’ and mistake the sight for a mere coincidence, the father, sensing our watch, suddenly ushers his little family toward the safety of home. Mama noses the little ones along, scooping them up from behind with her bill as they bob and trot fuzzily through the grass. Daddy brings up the rear and disappears into the marsh at precisely the same place as the years before, where previously the nest lay empty.  

Tears well in my eyes, a daily occurrence it seems lately. I experience a cocktail of emotions: the resurgence of hope after loss, a resilience borne of grief, holding steadfast in the face of uncertainty. The dignity of the natural world teaches me a simple lesson: Life will go on. My mate and I will follow our instinctual path. We will protect and provide for our family.

We’ll be all right, I think as I take my husband’s hand and walk down the road into the morning sun. 

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Filed under Babies, Family, Gratitude, Grief, Loss, Marriage, Motherhood, Pandemic

The Way Home

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

I went to church this morning—on my couch. A dutiful daughter, I spent the first half of my life in religious prostration, and then I left. But detachment from dogma meant disconnect from community and I wandered, people-less into my middle-age. In recent years, I sometimes sat, shyly, noncommittally, on the back row of a new church I discovered, an un-church. The Unitarian Universalists. 

The UU church, nurturing spirit and service, brings a solace of words and music and familiar faces to my living room via Zoom on this second Sunday of social distancing. Congregants come like moths to the chalice flame. Greetings scroll up from the chat box as joiners bask in the warmth of shared hearts and minds, if not bodies.

Sensitive to surrounding energy, I’m challenged at the best of times to recognize what is mine and what is not. I get that from my mother, I suppose, an empath who could not witness a child harshly disciplined in the grocery store without weeping. My body picks up stray vibrations like a musical instrument and amplifies emotions I cannot name. In this time of global crisis, the volume is deafening. 

Reverend Molly reads poetry. The words are gentle hands untying the knots that bind my chest, loosening the resolve I wear as armor. Awareness of my unawareness blooms; I’ve been holding my breath and I didn’t even know it. With room to expand, distress spirals up toward the open air and I am crying. Copious tears trace their way slowly over my cheekbones and drip off my jaw.

I cannot stop, but even if I could, I would not. This grief is my prayer. 

On day 8 our family has cut our losses, nursed our disappointments, regrouped, and hunkered down for the duration. Cancellations and interrupted routines require precarious adjustment. Intimately, we hover protectively over our own. Sydney, 20, with Down syndrome, who suffered a near fatal pneumonia when she was 2 is particularly at risk. Melissa, 35, is 3 years out from breast cancer, including the full-on assault of chemo. I worry that her immune system is not fully recovered. And Jeremy, 33, is a physician’s assistant, on the front lines, testing and treating by day, returning home to his wife and 3 babies at night. I wonder if his PPE will last and if it can protect him from harm. 

Our fears are mitigated by gratitude for good fortune and blessings abundant: the opportunity to work from home, continued income, food, and shelter, and togetherness. All shall be well for us. What I feel today is bigger than myself.

The overwhelming scope of collective human experience rises in my throat like a coyote’s mournful cry in the night.

I have become those who are ill and those whose very lives are forfeit. I am their loved ones who rail at the injustice of their loss. I am those whose businesses are failing, finances lost, futures uncertain. I am everyone who is alone and afraid. Boundaries and borders blur. I am more than the inhabitant of this one small life. I am everyone.

How can it be true that this intensity is not mine? I think perhaps it belongs to me more than ever.

For in it, I sense a seismic shift; the world will simply not be the same on the other side of this. And what hangs in the balance, could this be the answer we’ve been praying for? Might it be the transcendence we’ve searched for? The salvation of humankind? 

There’s meaning here, an invitation. As the centrifugal force pinning us to our lives suddenly stops, radical change isn’t only possible, it is inevitable. It feels like a reckoning, a nudge as we lurch and tilt toward a tipping point, hanging on by our fingernails, poised to cascade over the edge into a cavernous unknown. But in freefall, we grasp and clutch with fear only to find it is in the letting go that we are safe. And finally, fully alive.

Spirit of hope, help me.
I can’t seem to find my way back to your realm.
I’ve been wandering in labyrinths, running into dead ends,
facing down monsters, losing my way.
Ariadne’s thread only tangles my feet and leaves my fingers raw.

Spirit of hope, ground me.
I’ve lost my bearings on what’s real, who I am, how I got here, why it matters.
Unreality makes a poor compass.
I remember to look up lest I get caught off guard,
but such preparations mean little to a soul suffering vertigo.

Spirit of hope, steady me.
Maybe the only way forward is to stay still.
Perhaps if I rest my bones exactly where I am instead of
scrabbling for purchase, searching for loopholes, willing myself on,
perhaps the dust will settle enough for a path to reappear,
a path that needn’t be tended or beautiful, just barely discernible.

Spirit of hope, guide me.
You dwell in the turn around between inhale and exhale,
a moment of trust that pulls me into the future.
I’ve been looking for something more grand, more obvious,
more compelling.
Help me recognize the promise and the flickering signs of life,
of love, of hope.
Help me remember that my body already knows the way home.

Lindasusan Ulrich

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Filed under Breast Cancer, Down syndrome, Family, Gratitude, Grief, Loss, Motherhood, Pandemic, Stress

Love in the Stitches

The older I get, the more I’m drawn homeward. When the weather turns cold, my craving for soup on the stove, a fire in the hearth, and time to knit begs to be slaked. Chilly temps find me cruising arts and crafts stores, feasting on colors and textures of yarn, imagining new projects. Winter sends me digging for my stash.

On hands and knees with the bedspread flipped up, driven by this seasonal hunger, I drag out baskets and totes of knitting supplies, including fifty years of my mother’s accumulation I inherited after she died. Unlike my messy stockpile, hers is meticulously organized: stitch holders, markers, and gauge rulers, and dozens of pairs of needles—aluminum, plastic, wooden, double point, circular—all collated by size and labeled. Dog-eared pattern books date back to the 1950s. Her handwriting marks their pages. Expensive skeins of alpaca wool, unused, leave me to wonder at her plans.

I was eight when she taught me to knit, my first undertaking, a self-portrait: painstaking and earnest. My stitches were tight, my fingertips sore from pushing and prying the work tenaciously hugging the needles. Though rife with mistakes, the baby booties provided my first taste of accomplishment. Booty, that is; I never finished the pair. My mother lost the pregnancy when her fourth child, a boy, was still born. We didn’t talk about it much and it wasn’t until I was a mother of four myself that I realized the magnitude of her loss. I wish I’d asked her about it when I had the chance.

The last thing she made me was a pair of fingerless angora gloves featuring intricate latticework. With skills far surpassing my own, she remained ever my teacher, sharing new techniques like a sweater pattern with knit-in pockets, a gorgeous moss-stitched cardigan she made for her mother (a knitter, as well), who was newly widowed and alone. When my Grammy died, the sweater passed to me. I gave it to my daughter who wrapped herself up during breast cancer in three generations of maternal safeguarding.

With my derriere in the air, I reach past balls of leftover yarn to find what I’ve been searching for: a not-quite-finished, nearly-forgotten afghan I started decades ago. Comprised of individual squares with unique patterns of cable twists, tweeds, and herringbone, it is, in effect, a knitted patchwork quilt.

Threading the yarn through my fingers, I deftly cast on, sliding the right needle behind, wrapping the yarn and pulling the stitch through. Reading the pattern, I begin to knit. K4, YO, SSK, (K1, K2 tog, YO, SSK) 6 times, K3. As natural as breathing, the rhythm is soothing. My hands know the way. Like my mother’s: lightly spotted with age, blue veins under thin skin, taut tendons like a puppeteer’s strings making the fingers dance. When I knit, my mother is close. More than that, when I knit, I become my mother. I’m comforted by her presence.

I lay out the completed blocks. Placing right sides together, (unconsciously holding the darning needle in my teeth as she did), I whip stitch piece after piece together until a flowing blanket is formed, a mosaic of complexity. Like a lifetime, the whole is comprised of many parts; seasons of joy and pain, of blessings and loss, merged into a single work of art.

I stand back and take it in, gratified by having fashioned something so lovely. Aware, too, that the doing of it fulfills me as much as the finished product itself. Yet, I’m most rewarded in the giving. Creating a beautiful object that brings joy to others is immensely satisfying. An intimate expression of love, the creation carries the giver’s very essence. This afghan will keep my family warm now and long after I’m gone. My mother knew this. And she taught me well.

Published November 29, 2018 in COMO Living Magazine

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Filed under Aging, Family, Grief, Letting Go, Loss, Motherhood

Swallowed in Sorrow

In the hush of the hotel room I hear cars rushing by on the busy interstate. Above the hum of the fan, a far-off siren rises and recedes. It’s late. My teenage daughters make their cozy bed on the pullout in the other room. Their noisy whispers taper to silence then morph into the breathy sounds of sleep. Cocooned in the quiet, I listen to the rise and fall.

My husband and I detach for the moment, suspended between their sleep and ours. We recline on crisp white sheets, he with his phone, and me, my laptop. Time seems to stop, or perhaps I’m just willing it to. Shutting off his phone, my husband rolls over and reaches for the lamp. “Goodnight, honey,” he says. “Don’t stay up too late.”

In the dark, a glow emanates from my computer screen. I remove my reading glasses and rub my temples. I can’t give in. Not yet. Facing down the night, I try to stretch the hours until morning when my 31-year-old daughter will undergo a double mastectomy.

Her phone call after the biopsy replays frequently in my mind; my unsuspecting hello met with silence, then panic. “Mom! It’s CAN-cer!”, the strangled words followed by wails of anguish. Her crying was no different from the terror-filled cries at 2:00 am that sent me bolting to her crib, or the sharp, cascading screams recognizable from across a crowded playground, or the wracking sobs of a heartbroken teen, doubled over in my lap. This timeless trigger awakens my primal need to protect. But I can’t fight this.

After diagnosis, my crying jags came at 4:00 am when the world was motionless and moonlit. My fingers grasped for something to hold onto and came away with handfuls of air, like the strands of hair spooling from my daughter’s head after chemo, un-rooted. When genetic testing proved positive, sadness galvanized into anger. Cancer may take her hair, but it will grow back. Her breasts will not. The loss is palpable, maiming. “Take mine!” I screamed into the wind. “I’m old.”

As mothers, we champion our children’s cause. We’re strong, safe and rooted. If we can’t fix it, we walk with them, holding their pain. It’s never a question; we just show up. And tomorrow, I will. But tonight I am swallowed in sorrow. Tonight I long to lean on my own mother, but she died a year ago. At times like these I’d call Mom and she’d be up, her circadian rhythm peaking at midnight. She’d walk me through the long night, holding my pain. She’d show up now if she could.

I close my laptop, extinguishing its phosphorescence. Regardless of my angst, I need to rest. Burrowing under the covers, the soft light of the moon caresses my face. I close my eyes and ache, like a child, for my mom. Suddenly, quietly, she’s here. My jaw unclenches. I breathe out. An almost imperceptible weight lowers onto the bed. I feel her hand smooth my brow, fingering a curl and pushing it back. Swaddled in peace, I surrender, and drift into sleep.

Published May 30, 2017: COMO Living Magazine

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Filed under Aging, Babies, Breast Cancer, Cancer, Family, Grief, Letting Go, Motherhood

And So This Is Christmas … Let The Grief In

Image by Pixabay

It’s late December, only days to Christmas. The kids are out of school and it’s dark already at 4:30 pm. All the lights burn in the kitchen where my husband is busy making sugar cookies with our girls. Flour dusts the counters and floors. A delicious aroma fills the house. I’ve got work emails to tackle, but I’m doing it reclined on the couch while listening to Christmas music. All my albums — traditional, classical, contemporary, instrumental, pop — are on shuffle and iTunes is creating our playlist. The music stays pleasantly in the background of my awareness until I hear the opening phrase of Happy Xmas.

“And so this is Christmas, and what have you done? Another year over and a new one just begun.”

The unmistakable timbre of John Lennon’s voice causes me to pause my work. I close my eyes and listen to the familiar, comforting melody.

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Filed under Aging, Christmas, Enlightenment, Family, Gratitude, Grief, Letting Go, Loss, Memories, Motherhood

Exquisite Grief

And when she shall die, take her and cut her out in little stars, and she will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun.

William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

IMG_0593

And now it’s happened: I’ve lost my mother. She laid down her broken body — soft and comforting still, but no longer up to the task of moving her through the days — and died. She laid down her weary head, the short-circuiting neurons in her brain finally quiet, and slept.

In her own bed, under her lovely floral quilt, she drifted away and left physical concerns behind in the vessel housing them. Her breathing stretched, the silence between each ragged inhalation hung with anticipation. Her pounding heart slowed and faded to a quiver, like the fluttering wings of a little bird, until it beat no more. My sister quoted Shakespeare: “To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day.” For Mom, the pace has ceased its forward motion; there are no more tomorrows. And in retrospect, the petty becomes hallowed. “Out, out brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow . . .”

I knew it was coming, or rather, that she was going. For months, I mourned her absence even in her presence, trying to absorb everything and indelibly imprint her image on my memory. The days, finite and measured, poured like sand through the hourglass as I watched them go. I knew I would lose my mother, but I didn’t know it would bring me to my knees.

I didn’t know how heavy grief could be, that I’d drag myself under its weight from my bed each morning, pulled into motion only by the slipstream of routine. Even then, fatigue would leave me to endure the hours until I could curl up again, alone. I didn’t know the world would be too loud and too bright and too fast, its audacity for going on as if the cosmos hadn’t shifted unforgivable. I didn’t know I’d hide from my neighbors or seek solace nightly in wine or toss and turn restlessly in my sleep, dreaming of something just out of my grasp. I didn’t know it would feel like depression.

I didn’t know it would hit this hard, losing my 71-year-old mother to multiple sclerosis. I didn’t think I was entitled to the same bereavement as my friend who lost her 21-year-old son, full of potential, to a heroine overdose; or my friend, whose 5-year-old grandson was taken by a brain tumor before his life had even begun; or my sister, whose husband died of kidney cancer when he was 47, leaving a young son fatherless. Because Mom had been ill for decades and because I’d planned for the end of her life, because she’d become increasingly distraught and difficult, because she suffered, because she was at peace and ready, because I believe her death to be merely a transition — for all these reasons I thought my sorrow would be tempered. I know now, it matters not if the death is tragic or abrupt or expected, if the life has been long or interrupted; grief pierces and reverberates through all who have loved and lost.

I didn’t know it would lodge in my body, that I’d tamp down and swallow my emotions. That staying busy would be a coping mechanism. That avoiding reminders and seeking distractions would keep me functionally numb, but one handwritten note could unravel my hold. I didn’t know it would be a physical urge, this need to cry, and when unleashed, the intensity would crash over me in waves, plunging me under and washing me to shore only when the tide went out. I didn’t know I’d be a private mourner, that I’d get through the memorial with only a few tears, but in the dark of night, in my husband’s arms, I’d finally weep unabashedly, like a child.

I didn’t know people could show such tenderness, that when I returned home I’d find my friends had cleaned my house and left plants and flowers and cards and nourishing food. I didn’t know their generosity would humble me profoundly, that every thought and prayer, every gesture, every act of service would soften the pain and blur the edges.

I didn’t know I could miss my sisters so terribly, the airport goodbyes a severing. I didn’t know we would merge into the embodiment of the best of our mother, that separation would feel unnatural, impossible even. I knew the sacred experience of nurturing the exodus of our mother’s spirit from this world would bring us closer; I didn’t know escorting her body under a full moon to the teaching hospital where she would donate her brain for research would be just as holy.

I knew we’d draw comfort from each other, but I didn’t know heaving sobs punctuated by belly laughs could be so cathartic, that the somber ceremony of scattering her ashes at the ocean’s edge on a cold, overcast day could suddenly turn uproariously funny when one sister, attempting a dramatic toss into the wind, tripped and fell into the freezing surf. I didn’t know we would celebrate our mother’s magnificent life with champagne toasts, crying as we sang along to Helen Reddy and Anne Murray and Karen Carpenter.

I knew we were strong women, that working hard was inextricably woven into who she raised us to be. But, I didn’t know we could clean out her apartment in 3½ days, a whole life summarized in the boxes we carted to my sister’s garage. I didn’t know evidence of Mom’s bravery and integrity would manifest in the intimate task of settling her affairs; not only proof of her creative, tenacious resilience — the hallmark of her personality — but also, signs of her mental decline no one could see.

I knew she was loved by many, not only friends, but those to whom she bonded with fierce loyalty, her chosen family. I didn’t know I’d dread the task of calling each one to deliver the news, that the words would stick in my throat. I didn’t know that their lives would also be bereft without her and I’d be compelled to comfort them, even as my own heart was breaking.

I knew the daily texts would stop, that I wouldn’t hear her voice exclaiming, “Hi, honey!” on the other end of the phone, that when she came to visit it was the last time. I didn’t know when I logged into her account and shut off her electricity the sudden realization of its permanence would take my breath away. I didn’t know I’d question if I should have done more and agonize over whether I’d been enough. I didn’t know I’d ache for her forgiveness.

I knew she’d stay close, that we would feel her; I didn’t know she would come to me when I was exhausted and spent, in the dream-like trance of half-sleep, and spread comfort like warmth through my chest, or when I was quiet and contemplative, in a cool breeze, gently caressing my face and answering my question, “Is that you, Mom?”

I didn’t know the previous contentment with my pretty little life would now feel like complacency; that restless whispers would become clamoring discontent, catapulting me into change and insisting I choose a different path. I didn’t know this transformation was not hers alone; it was mine as well. I know now I’ll never be the same, but therein lies the gift: the pain that shattered my carefully crafted day-to-day, leaving me to ponder my purpose and revisit the very meaning of my existence, has allowed me to create the reality I was born to live.

I know now losing my mother hurts like hell; her absence incarnate is like a light gone out and it will be dark for a while. But in the darkness, I awaken. Holding hands with divinity, I glimpse that I, too am divine. My loss is not diminished by this blissful epiphany, and surprisingly, I’m glad. I don’t want its sharpness blunted. I welcome the overflowing experience, brutal one moment and glorious the next. I did not know, I could not know I would cherish my grief, a grief made exquisite because I loved her so. As I love her now. As I will forever more. This I always knew.

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Filed under Aging, Enlightenment, Family, Grandparents, Gratitude, Grief, Letting Go, Loss, Memories, Motherhood, Sisterhood

Eulogy To My Mother

When she shall die,
Take her and cut her out in little stars,
And she will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.

William Shakespeare

Wallow High School Senior Photo 1961

Patricia Ann Lyman Pullen-Jones, a 1943 New Year’s Eve baby, was from Bozeman, Montana. And Wallow, Oregon. And Monmouth and Salem and Coquille, Oregon. And Fort Collins, Colorado and Fort Meade, Maryland and Davis, California. From Phoenix, Arizona and Thousand Oaks, California, and for a short time, Taos, New Mexico. For the past 17 years, she was from her beloved Portland, Oregon.   She was from moving more times than anyone could count, except perhaps the faithful who, by her side, lifted mattresses and refrigerators and filing cabinets onto U-Hauls trucks. Pat was from making a home wherever she went; from a plethora of house plants suspended in macramé slings, sunflower artwork, ‘Bloom Where You Are Planted’ needlepoint, and The Desiderata with its burned edges, decoupaged onto a scalloped walnut plaque that hung in every living room in every house in every city. She was from a cat on her lap and a book in her hand.

Patsy was inescapably from her family: her mother, Katherine Ivannie Moore; her father, John Williamson Lyman, her big brother, J.W., who died at ten when she was only four years old, from her sister, younger by two years, Katherine Gwen and her baby sister, Doris Jane. She was from small towns and Rainbow Girls, and the newspaper her father owned (and where she worked); from a high-brow, journalistic lineage; from writers, from poets, from intelligence. She was from class.

Patricia was from skipping a grade and attending St. Paul School for Girls in Walla Walla, Washington, and from returning home to Wallowa High School and the friends she’d grown up with. From ballet and piano and theatre and baton-twirling and reporting for the school paper. From sewing her own prom dresses and covering her shoes with satin to match. She was from talent.

She was from marrying her high school sweetheart who called her Trisha, and following him across the country as he became an officer in the army, from putting him through veterinary school. And after 11 years, painful divorce. From single motherhood and singing her babies to sleep and kissing their fevered foreheads. From teaching them responsibility and manners and the names of wildflowers. She was from mama bear and don’t-mess-with-my-kid and you-and-me-against-the-world. From second chances and late-in-life babies who waited until the right time to come.

She was from three marriages and four children; Lisa Charmaine, Stephen Maynard, Heidi Ann and Sarah Elizabeth; from ten grandchildren, Melissa and Jeremy Buehner, Sydney and Haley Kent, Charles, Bronson, Isabella and Joseph Pullen, Gabriel Rabbat and Holden Collins, and one and a half great-grandchildren, Ashton and baby boy (or girl) Buehner yet to born, and with whom she dances now, whispering, “I’m your Grammy.”

Patricia was from tradition. From ham and twice-baked potatoes and peas and cheese on Christmas, from jello molds and casseroles, from lace tablecloths and felt wall-hangings. From putting in the Thanksgiving turkey and going to a movie with her kids while it roasted. She was from knitting needles and spinning her own wool; from handmade slippers and sweaters and hats and gloves. From oral traditions and stories and poetry. From re-finishing furniture and re-wiring electrical circuits and re-building computers. She was from re-cycling before re-cycling was en vogue. From flushing the transmission, replacing the starter, and installing the windshield-wiper motor on her car. From cabinets full of tools; from YouTube tutorials.

She was from Nordstrom style on a Goodwill budget and holding her chin up and pulling herself up by her bootstraps. She was from fortitude and determination and stick-to-it-iveness and elbow grease. She was from mind-your-own-business and what-goes-around-comes-around and create-your-own-reality.

She was from kisses on the lips and hugs that consumed, from frequent I love you’s and a mother’s intuition. From mothering the motherless, filling the void of their need and taking them as her own adopted children. She was from mother-love big enough to extend to her nephew, Njuguna and nieces, Randee and Cierra, acting as fierce protector and advocate, and never letting go. From making sure they stayed safe and connected, that they felt important and most of all, loved.

She was from teaching: her children, her students, her friends, and everyone around her. From standing with those who could not stand on their own. From liberal politics and feeding the hungry and sending money she didn’t have to women in war-torn and developing countries.

Pat was from loving everyone she met, and all those she met, falling head over heels in love with her. From loud, open-mouthed laughs and saying what’s on her mind and not caring what anyone thinks and swearing a blue streak. From cups of ice filled with Jim Beam and Diet Dr. Pepper, with no lid. She was from spills, and spilling over.

She was from classical music and a quiet life and simplifying. She was from tech savvy and Facebook and the internet. And texts made indecipherable by autocorrect. From many connections with many people, in her physical space and in cyber space. From loving the ones around her, and missing the ones who were not.

Pat was from MS, from nerves worn thin and the world too loud, from skin too sensitive and a heart too full, primed for love, and always broken wide open. From a cane that sat in the corner she refused to use. She was from living and dying on her own terms.

Where she was from is clear to anyone who loved her, and she will be missed immeasurably, but now, it’s about where she’s going. A place of light, brilliant and radiant, as vast as the ocean, as tall as the mountains. She’s returned to the ‘one-ness’ as she often said. She’s not left us, she is merely in non-physical form and in her death, in her own transcendence, she brings healing to her family; spontaneous, exhilarating, joyful healing that washes clean the wounds of human experience, leaving only love.

Love of a purity and magnitude beyond words. Love that is larger than we can comprehend. Love that she herself has become, encompassing and holding us in her embrace. We feel her in the breeze across our face. We feel her in the birds that swoop and soar. We feel her in the full moon as she rises over the blue planet. And if we are lucky, we see her in our dreams.

Format from the poem Where I’m From by George Ella Lyons.

The blue planet with her mountains
Now as always be my territory.
The blue planet with her rivers
Now and always be my hunting ground.
The blue planet with her cities
Now and always be my home ground.
The blue planet with all my goals
Now and always be my victory!


The Grandmother of Time, a Woman’s Book of Celebrations, Spells and Sacred Objects by Zsuzsanna E. Budapest

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Filed under Aging, Family, Grandparents, Grief, Growing Up, Letting Go, Loss, Memories, Motherhood, Parenting

Making Tear Soup

Tear Soup“Are you going to Colorado tomorrow, Mom?”

Sydney stands in front of the refrigerator and asks the question for the third time this morning.

“No, honey.  Two weeks, remember?  In two weeks.”

I gently nudge her out of the way to open the door and place the milk jug on the top shelf.

“Two weeks. Yes.” She repeats to herself. “So, not tomorrow?” she asks, stepping towards me.

“Nope.  Not tomorrow,” I say, bending around her to put the oatmeal in the cupboard.

“Where’s Dad?” she asks, following me to the sink where I rinse breakfast bowls, our conversation a déjà vu of earlier when I ladled the hot cereal into these same bowls.

“Dad’s at PaPa’s, remember?”

“At PaPa’s?”

Sydney typically wants reiteration of our comings and goings—repeating the schedule outloud makes her feel secure—but lately, she’s been needing extra reassurance that her Dad and I will be around.  Lately . . .  since her grandmother died of leukemia.

“Yes, at PaPa’s house. They’re watching movies and having dinner,” I answer, placing the dishes in the dishwasher.

“Having dinner?”  She echoes.

“Mm-hmmm,” I reply, looking below the sink for the dishwasher detergent.

Sydney clears her throat, then coughs into her elbow.

“Um, Mom?  Is Dad coming home tonight?”

I take a deep breath.  Patience, Lisa.

“No, remember?  Dad’s staying the night to keep PaPa company so he’s not sad and alone.”  I pour soap into the dispenser, shut the lid and press the start button.

“Because MeMe’s dead, right?” she adds.

There it is.  I wipe my hands on a dish towel and come close, bending down to look at her.

“Right, honey. MeMe is dead.”

Her eyebrows shoot up and her eyes open wide.  She pushes her glasses up on the bridge of her nose, sniffs, and tucks the hair behind her ears.  But she doesn’t cry.  She hasn’t cried.

Children grieve differently than adults, and differently from each other. Refamiliarizing myself with the work of Dr. Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, who in 1969 first proposed the five stages of griefdenial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance, reminds me that the phases can be in any sequence, intermittent or overlapping, or even skipped altogether. As a parent, I need to help my children with their grief work as well as tend to my own.

Both girls have been a bit stoic—they can’t possibly understand that their lives have changed irrevocably—though I expect when Thanksgiving and Christmas and their birthdays come around, MeMe’s absence will trigger a new level of realization.  And especially with Sydney, I wonder how much she can conceptualize about the permanence of death.  They both loved their grandmother and will undoubtedly miss her, but it’s been concerning to me they don’t seem more upset.

A package from a dear friend arrived like a long distance hug. Tear Soup: A Recipe for Healing After Loss, written by Pat Schweibert is a consoling story of Grandy who, after suffering a big loss sets out to make tear soup from scratch. Haley and I cuddled up on my bed and read how Grandy chose her largest pot to make her soup because she would need plenty of room for all the feelings and tears to stew in over time.

“. . .  she slowly stirred all her precious and not so precious memories into the pot. Grandy winced when she took a sip of the broth.  All she could taste was salt from her teardrops.  It tasted bitter, but she knew this was where she had to start.”

As I read this sweet but profound metaphor, my own tears began to flow.  Haley had voiced sadness, but hadn’t cried yet.

“I want to cry but I can’t.  I feel like my emotions are locked up in a drawer and I can’t find the key,” she confessed precociously.

Page after page, the book poetically and artfully validated the human experience of bereavement.  Paragraph by paragraph, the words described our unique, acute experience of losing MeMe, and as we read, Haley found her tears.  “Tear Soup is helping us cry,” she said, laying her head on my chest, letting her tears fall on my shirt.  Together, we made tear soup of our own.

As I’m putting the girls to bed that night, Haley says, “Mommy, I miss MeMe.”

Matter-of-factly, Sydney says, “We have the same name: Sydney Kay Kent, Linda Kay Kent.”

“Yes, Sydney,” I say.  “You are named after her.”

Haley asks,  “Why aren’t you sad, Sydney?” her chin quivering.

Sydney answered calmly, “Well, I feel a little bit sad.  I heard Mom cry and I heard Dad cry and PaPa.  But I heard MeMe say, ‘I love you.’  And . . . I danced for her.”

Which was true.  After two hours of greeting friends at the visitation, Sydney had kicked off her shoes and pirouetted across the room to “Wind Beneath my Wings,” closing her eyes and moving expressively to the music in front of the podium which held vases of overflowing yellow daisies, a framed picture of Mom and a small wooden box holding her ashes, beautifully hand-crafted with a ceramic angel atop it and a plaque that read:

“Linda Kay Kent,

June 25, 1944  –  September 7, 2013”

Haley’s eyes squeeze shut against her now-copious tears as she says to her sister, “Don’t you know you’ll never see MeMe again?”

I sigh thinking, no, she doesn’t know.  Sydney doesn’t understand and might not ever.

But then Sydney says this: “Mom, every morning I wait for the bus. I feel her.  MeMe’s in the wind.”

Elusive as it seems, she’s onto something.  Maybe Syd is keeping her MeMe close in subtle ways that we can’t quite grasp, sensing her presence with a calm knowing; sensing her everywhere.  Maybe she doesn’t feel the same sense of loss because for her, MeMe isn’t completely gone.

Wrapping my arms around both my daughters, I reach for the same reassurance; for myself and for them.  Although I miss her, I take comfort in the thought that if I look, I can yet find her; in the wind through the trees, in the birds as they soar, and in the sun’s glorious rays that break through the clouds.  If I listen I can hear her voice and her laugh and feel her live on in my heart.

Our tear soup will be brewing for a long time.  The loss is painful, the memories are sharp and bittersweet, but the love shared is bigger than all of it.  We’re going to be alright.

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Filed under Down syndrome, Family, Grandparents, Grief, Letting Go, Loss, Memories, Motherhood, Special Needs

The Only Way Out is Through

ray-of-light-through-storm-clouds

After

Grief lives in our house.  Among the furniture, between the windows and the walls, it sits; thick and unmoving.  Grief rides, heavy, on my chest. I can’t get a good, deep breath these days.  It weighs down my husband’s shoulders and molds his features.  Grief seeps into our nights of restless sleep and dreams of forgetting, of waking, and then remembering.

We lie on our bed listening to the falling rain.  Wet, fat drops pelt the windowpane, punctuating the silence.  He curls up behind me, concave where I am round; our bodies fit together, pieces of a puzzle.  In the stillness, the edges between us dissolve. I fade into him, absorbing his substance. A crack of thunder sounds. I inhale sharply to pull the air into my lungs.  He draws a deep breath in through an open mouth, his chest heaving.  With a sigh, it rushes out.  Together we breathe our mourning.  There is comfort in our solidarity and we close our eyes to accept the brief respite.

It occurs to me that my father-in-law will never hold his wife this way again.

Before

If anyone could cure cancer with sheer will and devotion, it would be him.  He will not leave her side.  He sits, he stands, he paces.  He drinks coffee and more coffee.  He questions the doctors and the nurses and the therapists.  He hopes against all odds.  He isn’t ready.

He sleeps in a recliner pulled up next to the hospital bed.  He covers her hand with his and they talk in the dead of night, recounting their fifty years of shared memories. He helps her try to hang on and when it becomes clear she cannot, she helps him try to let go.

Until a year ago the only loved ones I’d lost were my grandparents who had lived full lives, into their 80’s.  I still miss them dearly and lament their passing.  But tragic death, to those young and taken too soon, by illness or accident had not yet entered my experience.  Within a span of a few months loss hit hard, lodging painfully in my sternum: three deaths; my friend from childhood, my brother’s son, my sister’s husband.  And now, my husband’s mother.

I can’t bear it, but somehow I must.  Staying present to witness, this is the gift I can give my family by marriage.  I am wife, I am daughter-in-law, I am sister-in-law, but my own crisis is significant.  I am losing a mother, too.

I was twenty-eight when I met her.  Newly divorced and unable to travel to my own family far away, I faced my first Christmas without my young children.  My closest girlfriend insisted on taking me home to the bosom of her Midwestern family.  Depression had me in its clutches.  Morose and self-absorbed, I tried to decline.  I wanted to retreat from the world at large and immerse myself in desolation, but, she wouldn’t have it and dragged me across the country to Missouri.

I’d never been anywhere east of Colorado and all I knew were the clichés I’d heard.  Friendly, kind and generous, the stereotypes of folks from the heartland held true, but more than that, these people radiated joy that spread to all within reach; misery didn’t stand a chance when infected with their sunny optimism.  In a noisy house full of activity, my senses were barraged; the smell of delicious food, the comfort of homey Christmas decorations throughout rooms of quaint antiques, the resonance of children’s voices playing and adults laughing and talking all at the same time.  My mother-in-law-to-be welcomed me to her home, without conditions, without judgment, and simply loved me for being myself.  I’d landed in a Norman Rockwell painting and it felt like being wrapped in a warm blanket after coming in from the cold.

I was teased for my big hair and tie-dyed shirt and Arizona ‘accent.’  I gave as good as I got, imitating my future father-in-law’s Missouri dialect, “Well, now, you gotta take and go on past the ray-road tracks, that-a-way you’ll run right into that rest-runt.  I tell you what, have they got great Eye-talian food.  Jim-in-ey!”

We gathered around the large table as plates of turkey and ham and stuffing and potatoes were passed.  I listened to stories from the past, each memory more outrageous, each teller louder than the last, laughter erupting between the words that flew back and forth.  We played board games until midnight and imbibed in PaPa’s famous punch, a delicious concoction of fruit juice, soda and what I’m fairly certain was an entire bottle of Southern Comfort®. And on Christmas morning, when presents were doled out, I was handed more than one with my name on the tag.  Gifts bought just for me.  And not just any gifts; how this woman knew exactly what I would love I’ll never know.  The startling gesture touched me deeply.  Can you fall in love with someone instantly?  How about a whole family?  They had me at “Welcome to Missouruh.”

My connection to her continued through the darkest time of my life.  I felt doubly blessed to have my own mother to soothe my heartache and another mother figure who healed unknowingly, simply by being herself.  More visits and conversations allowed me to observe her ways; her smiling consistency and unflinching positive outlook, her effervescent energy.  I came to know her well.  And as they say, to know her, is to love her.

Three years later, as much a surprise to me as to everyone else, I discovered the love of my life right there in this family.  Her only son, the brother of my best friend, proposed to me and I became a legal in-law, but I was already hers.  I grew in devotion to her like Ruth to Naomi.  She loved my children, not just the Kent babies that came later, but those she inherited, scooping them up and adding them to her brood like they’d been there all along, too.  We were family.

Over more than twenty years and across hundreds of miles we shared happy, contented times, and the inevitable tough times brought us closer still.  But, this?  This is beyond tough.   The worst has happened; Mom is the heart of this family and losing her is unthinkable.

When the call comes it is unexpected and triggers a panic we try, and fail, to suppress.

Steven’s younger sister says, “You need to come.  Now.”

With palpable urgency we throw things in suitcases and cancel appointments and take the girls out of school, making the interminable drive to St. Louis at 80 mph.  Reeling from shock, we don’t speak, but in our racing thoughts, we reach for anything to steady the lurching shift that’s thrown the world out of sync. Mom was okay just last week.  They sent her home to recover from an arduous stem cell transplant, and even if she had a ways to go, she was definitely on the mend.   But, now we know; the transplant didn’t work.  Her body didn’t respond the way we’d hoped.  For fourteen months the cancer attacked her viciously, resisting treatment after treatment.  And now, how unfair, how goddamned cruel, that after all she’s endured—transfusions and surgeries, hospitalizations and procedures that should have granted, if not a cure, then at least more time—after all of it, she’s left with this abrupt, horrifying end.  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.  She is only 69.

The reality hits when we reach the hospital: she is going where none of us can follow.  Nearly everyone has made it and Mom is surrounded by the ones who love her most; all three of her kids—middle-aged now with kids of their own and even grandkids, her brother and sister, six of her eight grandchildren, and friends who have seen decades. Disbelief rocks us as we grope for meaning in this brutal certainty.

She’s compelled by prescience and though exhausted, will not rest until she has seen everyone, the wrenching goodbyes a sacred ritual.

Special permission is granted to our young daughters to visit.  She touches and kisses her grandchildren and with heroic effort, between wheezing breaths, she helps them understand what’s happening.

“Remember when MeMe said everyone has a time?  Well, it looks like it’s MeMe’s time.”

Her frail voice breaks and she pauses.

“But it will be okay.  Somehow it will be okay.”

They bend over, careful to avoid her central line and oxygen cannula, for the last hug they will ever get from her.  After they’ve left, she weeps, utterly bereft and inconsolable.

Her girlfriend of more than forty years braces for their final farewell, putting a smile on her face before she walks through the door.

“Hey, gal.  Whatcha doin’?”

“Well,” Mom says, barely audible.  “Looks like I’m kicking it over.”

Bantering constantly, regardless of the situation; that’s what they do.  It’s how they say, “I don’t know what I would have done without you this year,” and “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you for the rest of my life.”  They part not with ‘goodbye,’ but ‘see you later,’ and it’s not until she’s down the hall and around the corner that her beloved friend finally lets go and sobs into waiting arms.

It’s my turn.  I need to see her; I need her to know how I feel, but what words can possibly convey everything she means to me?  For Good from the Broadway show Wicked plays in my mind along with the memory of sitting next to her at a live production–my birthday present to her–lyrical voices resonating in the astounding acoustics of the Fox Theatre. If I could, I would sing to her,

I’ve heard it said

That people come into our lives for a reason

Bringing something we must learn, and we are led

To those who help us most to grow

If we let them

And we help them in return

It well may be, that we will never meet again

In this lifetime

So let me say before we part, so much of me is made from what

I learned from you

You’ll be with me like a handprint on my heart

Because I knew you . . .  I’ve been changed for good

Instead, I sit by her bed as she lies sleeping.  Suddenly, she opens her eyes and sees me.  All that’s between us shimmers in the air.  “I love you, Lisa Kent,” she says intensely.  The blessing washes over me.  She knows.  “I love you, Linda Kent,” I answer with tears in my voice.  She knows.

After her goodbyes, the process begins in earnest.  As pneumonia rages, her heart races and her breathing becomes labored—torturous even, as her body fights for each inhalation. A sip of water to moisten her parched mouth, balm to soften her cracked lips, a cloth to cool her fevered head can only ease her suffering briefly.

“Rest now, Mom,” her oldest daughter says.  “Just go to sleep.  We’ll be right here.”

But in between fretful sleeping and waking, she struggles to tell us one more thing. Though she can barely form the words, she manages to utter, “I want us to be a family.”

Worried that without her we will drift apart and let conflict come between us, she is intent that we respect her wishes.

“I want you to love each other and be happy.”

“We will, Mom,” we say in unison.  “We will.”

“Promise?” she pleads.  She cannot let go until she knows we will take care of each other.

“Promise.”

The nurses move around us now as we keep vigil.  Confined to a hospital room, a waiting room and a hotel room, perspective shifts radically and the minutes and hours lose meaning.  Has it been three days or a week? A surreal bending of space and time becomes our existence; there is no longer a world outside this place.

My husband won’t leave. By her bedside, he quietly holds her hand as she sleeps fitfully, though it’s excruciating for him to watch his mother suffer so.  She stirs and asks, in a panic. “Where is Steven?”

In a soft voice he reassures her, “I’m right here, Mom.”  He strokes her cheek with the back of his hand and she relaxes.

Each time she wakes and finds herself trapped in a body wrecked by disease her anxiety mounts.  She is ready and wants to go.  Having made peace with her fate, she needs this to be over.  Mom is leaps and bounds ahead of us in letting go.

The sedatives and pain meds help calm her and the separation begins; she drifts somewhere between here and . . .  not here.  She’s no longer talking.  She’s retreating.   Dad sits on the edge of the bed, facing her, and leans in close.

“You are the love of my life,” he whispers.  “You’ve fought so hard.”

Bringing her hand to his lips he bows his head.  Sobs wrack his body. “Wait for me, I’ll be there soon.”

I can’t bear it.  I turn away from the intensely private moment, my hand covering my mouth.  My eyes search out and find those of my own husband and we both look to his two sisters.  A swelling tide of anguish sweeps us under.

It is morning and her youngest daughter moves the bulky hospital bed, away from the wall with its monitors and machines, and angles it toward the window and the rays of the rising sun.  Peaceful music plays in the background and tranquility eases in amid the tension.

With her last bit of strength, she struggles to lift her eyelids. One shaking hand lifts off the bed a few inches before dropping.  Opening to small slits, her eyes are cloudy and seemingly unfocused, yet as we watch, it appears she is seeing the faces in the room.  Throughout the morning, she moves her hand and tracks with her eyes, lighting on each one of us; an electrical connection pings back and forth, speaking the unspoken.  She is here.  But she is going.  Soon.

It is very quiet when it happens.  Dad has left, kissing her forehead before he goes. “I’ll be right back.  See you in a minute.”

Her ragged breathing slows, and each breath lengthens a fraction.  We continue our watch, each occupied; together, but apart.  Sitting in a chair, I rest my head in my hand and start to sleep, to dream.  For hours, for days, her fight to breathe has become increasingly urgent.  The loud, rhythmic sound churns; the biological instinct for self-preservation.  Then, without prelude, silence.  Something pulls my awareness back and I hear the absence of her breathing.  I wake up and look at her.

She takes another breath.  Then nothing.  Awareness descends on us all synchronously and we spring to encircle her.

Another breath, easier this time.   A pause.   A softer breath, almost a sigh.  A longer pause.  Then another breath .  .  .  that becomes  .  .  .   her last.

“You were the best mother I could ever ask for.  I love you so much,”  Steven cries.

“You held me when I came into the world and I will hold you as you leave,” his sister sobs as she cradles Mom in her arms.

Her heart slows and eventually stops.  Then lightly, she lifts from her body and elegantly glides away.

 After

An ephemeral gap in the storm appears suddenly, allowing brilliant light to bleed through the wooden blinds and warm my face for a moment before dark clouds converge, a pall returning. I roll over to look at my husband.  Eyes closed, he is motionless; yet within, I can feel disquiet stirring; vibrations of pain course through his body.  Sadness hangs in the air.  His mother has died.  Where did she go?  I can’t find her and it frightens me.  She is gone, slipping the surly bonds of earth despite our desperate longing.  She is not suffering.  She’s with the angels now. Yet the cavernous void her absence leaves can’t be quantified.

I cup his face and smooth his brow.  He opens his eyes to look at me, and I see . . .  her.   In his eyes.  He’s always had his mother’s eyes.  I see her in his cheekbones.  And in his smile.  He has her generous nature and tender heart, too.  And brilliant mind and love of cooking.  He came from her.

My spirit soars with this epiphany.  And my babies; they came from their father.  Like Russian stacking dolls, they too, are part of her; shaped by her influence, molded by her image.  In them, she lives on; everything she was, everywhere she was from.

She was from small towns and familiar neighbors and grandma next door.  From gas at 21 cents a gallon and no indoor bathroom and a washing machine hooked up on the back porch.  She was from the chill on a fall morning in Kansas as leaves blew along cracked sidewalks and from laundry on the line, drying in the warm spring sunshine.  From playing board games inside on snowy days and riding bikes outside until dark.

She was from an absent father and an unstable mother.  From a younger brother and sister to look after and from growing up too quickly.  From babysitting at ten and Tasty Freeze at thirteen with a $.75 minimum wage.  From a dance club out of town in an old warehouse and cherry vodka.  From Jan and Dean and Ricky Nelson.

From an office job at Pittsburg State and a handsome fraternity boy from the university.  From young love they said would never last.  From a little white house and domesticated bliss and round babies that bounced on her knee.  She was from washing dishes and washing out diapers.  From friends who became family and raised each other’s kids, who made their own fun on a Saturday night when money was tight.

From the Kool-aid house where everyone wanted to hang out and the mom everyone wished was theirs.  She was from “I’m gonna come down there and spank some butts!” and “Get outta that, dinner’s almost ready,” and “Be home by midnight and don’t drink and drive.”  She was from “You can be whatever you want to be,” and “I’m so proud of you.”  She was from motherhood.

She was from crockpots and homemade macaroni and cheese and chocolate cake and Christmas braid.  From birthdays and Easters and Valentine’s Days cards with cash inside.  From shopping year-round and finding the perfect gift for the perfect person.  She was from boundless generosity.

She was from cross-stitched samplers and Precious Moments figurines and Longaberger baskets.  From Christmas trees in the living room and in the family room and in the kitchen and in the bedroom, decorated with ornaments that aged with her children, each marked with the date and holding the memory of that time.  She was from Santas; on the hutch, the shelf, the table and the stairs.  Old World Santas, black Santas, country Santas and ceramic Santas. She was from Santa himself coming in at the back door, bringing presents to the little ones on Christmas Eve.  She was from trash bags of torn and crumpled wrapping paper and delicious aromas and bellies too stuffed to move.

She was from a house bursting with laughter and life and noise, from her dream of a large family come true.   From shouts of “MeMe!” followed by torpedo hugs around the waist.  From special weekends and movies in the living room and Barbies and arts and crafts and baking cookies. She was from beautiful hands and gentle touches and soft hugs.   From open arms for everyone who crossed her threshold.  She was from acceptance and judging no one.

She was from hard work and dedication.  From eye-glasses and fittings and appointments and patients and co-workers who loved her, from knowing everyone in town.  She was from rising before the sun and falling asleep in front of the TV.

She was from retirement and Grandparent’s Day at elementary school and dance recitals and choir concerts and softball games.  She was from best friends and vacations in the Smoky Mountains and Tybee Island and Santa Fe.  From two couples traveling the country and shopping at the Lake.  From coffee on Saturday mornings and growing old together.

She was from perfume and Pandora charms and Land’s End sweaters and scarves from L.L. Bean.  From new recipes and new bedspreads and new rugs.  From gardens and bird-feeders.  She was from Mid-West Living and O Magazine.  From bookshelves and bookshelves of books.  From Kindles and laptops.  She was from photos on Facebook and photos hung on every inch of every wall.

She was from her entire adult life as wife to her husband, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.  From forgiveness and steady calm in stormy seas.  She was from dignity and grace and long-suffering.

She was from pink ball caps skewed to the side and Relay for Life and incredible courage in the fight of her life, for her life.  From comforting others even at the end of her own journey.   She was from “Everything’s going to be all right,” and “I love you so much,” and “I’m ready to go.”   She was from pure love.*

Memories and impressions of Mom flood my senses.  The sting of death remains, but I can’t lose her; she’s here.  My breath rushes in and I fill with the Essence of Her Presence.  I exhale  . . . and I begin to weep.  My husband’s arms lock around me quick and tight.  He will hold me as long as I need him to.  As long as it takes.

Grief lives in our house, but so does joy.  The world without her will never be the same, but the sun will come up and the days will go by.  The children will keep growing, and a new life will join the family when our grandson is born in a few months.  We will laugh and celebrate and dream.  And when remembrance overwhelms us, we will cry and rail and grieve again.  There is no escape; we loved her, therefore we are powerless to circumvent mourning.  I can’t bear it, but somehow I will.  By leaning into the grief and feeling it in my bones, by going about living our robust lives and by knowing that the two are not mutually exclusive.

Mom wants us to be happy; she told us that in her dying wishes.  She loved the song, You’ll Be in My Heart, by Phil Collins from the movie, Tarzan, which serendipitously came out the year her granddaughter, Sydney was born with Down syndrome.  The lyrics speak of the protective and nurturing nature of a mother—and if there is anything she was born to be, it was a mother.  I think Mom wants us to know she’s still here, loving us, mothering us and if we listen, if we look, we will always find her.

You’ll be in my heart

Always, I’ll be with you

Just look over your shoulder

Just look over your shoulder

Just look over your shoulder

I’ll be there always”

I love you, Mom.

*Format taken from the poem Where I’m From by George Ella Lyons.

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Filed under Aging, Enlightenment, Family, Grandparents, Grief, Letting Go, Loss, Motherhood, Siblings