Tag Archives: grief

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

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