Tag Archives: Husband

The Long Haul

Photo by Randee McClung

I’m washing up in a restroom at the Oklahoma City airport and for a moment I can’t place my location: hospital? hotel? restaurant? Elegant water faucets and gleaming granite countertops add to my sense of disorientation. I don’t even recognize my own hands. Looking down at the palms rubbing together, the lather foaming, I watch with detachment as water rinses the suds away to reveal age spots and scars. The shrieking of a turbine dryer cuts the air and I’m fascinated and horrified in equal measure by the effects of high-velocity air on crinkly, tissue-paper skin as it undulates against bird bones, exposing skeletal phalanges and large blue veins, tendons as taut as violin strings. These can’t be my hands.

But they are, as are the 50 years it took them to become this weathered. As is this face that looks back at me from the mirror, eyes reddened and tired, cheeks gaunt — succulent youthful flesh gone, hair a bit frizzy. I lean in closer and smooth my makeup. I reapply my lip-gloss and pat down a few errant curls.

“You’re a grandmother,” I think, scrutinizing my reflection.

Two weeks and two days ago my first grandchild was born; the son of my only son. Jeremy and his wife Carly live 7½ hours south of us. This is my second trip down. The first, an urgent drive prompted by the onset of labor was a magical drive through the night, alone with my thoughts. I wasn’t sure I’d make it, but, as it turned out, life threw the kids a few curve balls. From a long and difficult labor to an emergency C-section to a baby in the NICU, nothing went according to plan. They were thrust into an unforeseen reality both frightening and uncertain.

When it became clear the baby wasn’t going home any time soon, I stayed. It wasn’t even a choice; there was nowhere else I could be. My husband, Steven shouldered the domestic load, my colleagues covered at work, and my busy life went on without me.

After ten long days Ashton was diagnosed with a heart defect that required an immediate operation. I went home for a few days to regroup and came back for the surgery. This time, with Steven traveling on business, I took my daughters who still live at home, Sydney, 14, and Haley, 10, out of school and brought them along. On that momentous day, they sat with us in the waiting room. Headphones on, they munched on Cheez-Its and Slim Jims while I kept my hands busy knitting a baby blanket. Thoughts of the pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon operating on a tiny newborn’s heart the size of a walnut raced around my mind. I tried instead to concentrate on the prayers uttered by many to guide those skillful hands.

Time stretched then folded in on itself; surreal, interminable. Then suddenly, the gowned doctor was there and we exhaled in learning Ashton tolerated the delicate procedure beautifully. A full recovery was expected; the new family would be on their way home soon.

Heady with relief, celebratory even, we’ve come to the airport now to pick up my husband; his absence has been felt. With some logistical creativity — a bit of planes, trains and automobiles — we maneuver to get everyone where they need to be. And in the midst, our typical routine churns along demanding attention. A perpetual balancing act, it’s been the norm for a very long time. Making the choice to spread our children out over 18 years has resulted in a parenting marathon.

We have friends in the trenches of young parenthood; their lives filled with diapers, sleepless nights and temper tantrums. Friends running from soccer games to piano lessons, who help with homework and college applications. We meet them at orchestra concerts and cheer practice and neighborhood BBQs.

We have friends in empty nests; their children gone to college or moving away to embark on careers. Friends welcoming new members into their family as their kids get married and have babies of their own. We swap stories about in-laws, the cost of weddings, and the phenomena of boomerang kids.

We don’t, however, have many friends who’re in both, and who consequently experience what I call CPF: chronic parenting fatigue.

Our oldest, Melissa, was a senior in high school when we were pregnant with our youngest, a fact which repulsed her.

“Ew!” she said, “You’re going to be old parents.”

And she was right. We’re kind of old already and we’re not done yet. I often wonder what will be left of us when all the kids are gone? Who will we be by the time we get there? We are not the same people we once were, not the same couple. The idea that marriage is both strengthened by the challenges of family life and crushed under its weight seems a paradox, but it is profoundly true. Steven and I have never stopped loving one another, but this is not to say we always like each other. Stress and exhaustion make us irritable and sometimes we’re just not nice. Everyone else gets the best of us and all that remains for our beloved is the dregs: we are robbed of the person we love most.

Those are the times I miss my sweetheart. I miss the belly laughs his sharp wit never fails to provoke. I miss his pride in my accomplishments, his comfort when I’m melancholy. I miss the pleasure of his company; gourmet dinners and stimulating conversation. I miss the end of the day when our minds unwind and our bodies entangle; when we make space for each other’s innermost thoughts. I miss spontaneous weekend getaways and leisurely lovemaking. I miss his everyday kisses.

Without these things we’re great business partners, roommates and co-parents, but we aren’t the friends and lovers we started out being. Without this spark of intimacy, our day-to-day is reduced to an endless to-do list wearing us down. And out. As Garth sang, we’re “much too young to feel this damned old.” Stepping out of our responsibilities and indulging our love affair is the only way we’re going to see this through.

It’s beautiful to watch our son and daughter-in-law lean together when life necessitates they surrender control; when patience and the ability to set aside their own needs is called for. Faced with this daunting new role, I wonder if our son knows his parents grapple with the same demands and sometimes teeter on the edge themselves. I doubt he knows what’s ahead in the long haul, but I do know the richness will be far greater than he could ever imagine.

I hitch my purse to my shoulder and take one last look in the mirror.

“Not too bad for a grandma,” I surmise and turn to walk out.

Leaving the restroom my eyes cast forward down the long shiny corridor to the baggage claim where the kids have been waiting for Steven. And then I see him. I drink him in like water in the desert.

He bends over to hug Haley, and Sydney throws herself over his back. Jeremy and Carly cluster around him and everyone is talking at once. I walk toward them, unnoticed. He looks up over the top of Haley’s head and our eyes meet. I can’t help but smile as my feet lead me steadily to the arms I can feel around me before I get there.

In that moment I love every chaotic, ecstatic, dynamic morsel that makes up our life and it is all wrapped up in this man, inextricably woven into our journey together. He’s my one and only. Eventually, we’ll make it to a tropical paradise or at least to St. Louis for a weekend, but for now, this is all I need.

In the commotion, I weave my way through the kids to come in closer and stand on my tiptoes.

“Hey, Granddad,” I whisper, brushing my lips against the 5-o’clock shadow on his jaw. “Let’s go see our baby.”

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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Filed under Aging, Babies, Childbirth, Grandparents, Gratitude, Growing Up, Marriage, Motherhood, Parenting

Name Them One By One

 

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Giving thanks for abundance is greater than abundance itself.   ~ Rumi

I love Thanksgiving. It’s Christmas without the endless to-do list. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about the tree-decorating, light-hanging, mall-shopping, card-sending, present-wrapping, stocking-stuffing frenzy, it’s just I’m usually in a coma by the time the work is done. Visions of sugarplums dancing in my head are often trumped by exhaustion. But, gathering for one day with family and friends, pausing the frenetic doing to simply give thanks for our cornucopia of blessings? Nothing could be better.

I grew up in the Mormon Church. Sunday mornings found my family sitting on long wooden pews in the midst of a large congregation. My favorite part of church by far was the music. Raised by musicians, I’ve been singing since I could talk. From an early age lifting my voice in a joyful noise has been a wholly (holy), trans-formative experience. Although I no longer subscribe to the religion of my youth, the songs from childhood still sing to me. Hymns in 4/4 time still evoke the visceral memory of breathing in the Old Spice emanating from my father’s freshly-shaven jaw, his neck encircled by a white collared shirt and tie. No matter the season he wore a full suit. I’d lean my head against his strong shoulder, the fabric rough on my cheek, his solidity my fortress. In that place, I was rooted. A lifetime later, the melodies trigger deeply embedded emotions, both poignant and comforting.

One hymn in particular plays in my mind this time of year. A rousing favorite, written at the turn of the century, Count Your Blessings is a lively tune that bounces along with words of advice to rival any ‘keep-your-chin-up’ Disney song sung by cute little animals. The message is emphasized by a dramatic ritardando (slowing) and fermata (hold) at the end – ‘name them one . . by . . one . . .’ – and brought home with a snappy happily ever after- ‘count your many blessings see what God hath done.’ The simple but profound truth rings clear: hope is possible, even in the darkest of times, through gratitude.

The world is in pain. People are suffering on levels I have never known and most likely, never will. War rages the globe over. Innocents are killed. Cities are destroyed. Brutal terrorist attacks in Beirut and Baghdad, suicide bombers in Paris, Syrian refugees with nowhere to call home; despair is rampant. Homelessness, poverty and domestic violence crush the human spirit. In my comparatively safe and prosperous life, lamenting hardships feels selfish and insensitive. Yet, adversity is a human experience, no matter our circumstances.

Viktor Frankl, author of Man’s Search for Meaning, said, “… a man’s suffering is similar to the behavior of gas. If a certain quantity of gas is pumped into an empty chamber, it will fill the chamber completely and evenly, no matter how big the chamber. Thus suffering completely fills the human soul and conscious mind, no matter whether the suffering is great or little. Therefore the “size” of human suffering is absolutely relative.”

It’s been four months since my mother died.  I’ve been told the all firsts are difficult, and this Thanksgiving may be particularly hard for me. Mom didn’t have an easy life and towards the end of her 71 years, she experienced more pain than joy, and more loss than fulfillment. But she taught me that being free of suffering isn’t the point. Life is a journey of contrasts: heartaches and frustration, contentment and bliss, and to be human is to feel all of it. Viktor Frankl also said, “The meaning of life is to give life meaning.” Even as we suffer, finding what is good and right and redeeming – that is our salvation. Shining a light on our blessings warms the cold night and illuminates the dark.

My mom started a family tradition around the Thanksgiving table. Holding hands, each person takes a turn to name what they’re grateful for. Both light-hearted and poignant, through laughter and tears, our abundance becomes brilliantly clear with each link in the chain.

Today, I count my blessings out loud. Holding hands with all the world, I take my turn.

I’m thankful for the aroma of coffee that greets me, just roused from sleep. For the radiance of the full moon in a dark sky at 5:00 am, the world utterly still and hushed. For the clean bite of cold air drawn into my lungs and the vapor as I breathe out.

I’m thankful for my hands; their age spots, like a tree’s rings telling the story of years spent holding and touching. For feet that carry me, moving ever forward. For the rush of endorphins surging through my bloodstream during exercise, my heart a steady drum, beating the never-ending rhythm: I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.

I’m thankful for my mind; my intellect, and the ability to reason. For my sense of humor and the personality that’s uniquely me. And for maturity and evolution, that I’ve traveled the roads bringing me where I am today.

I’m thankful for money enough to pay our bills. For water and electricity, for heat in the winter and air conditioning in the summer, for appliances and furniture and clothes. For insurance and medical care and pharmaceuticals. For technology that makes life easier and more fun. For reliable transportation that won’t leave me stranded. For a full tank of gas.
I’m thankful for connections that reach across distances; a Facebook message from my son, a sweet text from my daughter, a phone call from my best friend far away. For the love of my parents and brothers and sisters spread all over the country. For plane tickets. For cheesy peas and cinnamon rolls made from my mother’s recipes. For tradition.

I’m thankful for the million things money can’t buy, for a mother who loved me ferociously and without restraint, who remains a part of me I cannot separate, and whose lilting voice I hear in my head. For my mother-in-law, gone two years now, and the memories of her unconditional love and acceptance that live on. For my grandson and his new brother coming very soon. For daughters-in-law and gay marriage. For divine love in the universe that I believe will prevail over conflict. Because it must.

I’m thankful for the companionship of my husband, the sudden belly laughs he provokes, and his arms that wrap me up; a fortress. For the sweet sound of my daughters’ voices, singing loudly from the back seat as I angle the rear-view mirror to glimpse their faces. For their clingy bed-time hugs as I tuck them in. For the words, “I love you, Mama.”

I’m thankful for the glorious sun as I turn my face up, eyes closed, to catch its rays. For our home – the place we go out from and come back to, for the sustenance we find in that shelter, our basic needs met and nourished. For a meal waiting at the end of a long day; for the contentment of belonging to each other.

I’m thankful for my pillow and the bed that cradles my body, formed by the years I’ve slept there, my husband by my side. For the warmth of his calf as my foot finds him. For his arm that instinctively draws me close. As I go to sleep, I’m thankful for one more day to draw breath.

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Filed under Enlightenment, Family, Gratitude, Growing Up, Marriage, Motherhood, Thanksgiving

The Only Way Out is Through

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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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Give and Take

 

handssoft

You are my love and my life.

You are my inspiration.

Just you and me.

Simple and free.

Baby, you’re everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

 Just You And Me by Chicago

 

“Al, I need ice.”

With a white Styrofoam cup in hand, he bends over and carefully spoons ice chips into her mouth, her lips parched and quivering.  A few pieces drop off the plastic utensil onto her collarbone, the skin exposed where the hospital gown has slipped off a bony shoulder.

“You’re not very good at this,” she says weakly. Her breathing is labored and shallow.  The effort of reaching for the ice and talking at the same time is too much and she lays her head back on the pillow, exhausted.

“Well, whatcha gonna do?” He replies good-naturedly.  “I am all you’ve got.”

Quiet for a few moments, eyes closed and very still, she appears to have fallen asleep. But then, my mother-in-law’s eyes open and she answers irritably, “I’m getting somebody else.  You’re fired.”

But, it’s the cancer talking. And the chemo and the side effects and infections that have devastated her body and threatened to defeat her spirit.

As my husband’s father gently wipes away the melted ice, he smiles and croons, “Oh, I’m fired, am I?  Okay, babe.  But I get to interview my replacement.”

For 50 years they’ve faced life side by side.  For better or for worse.  In sickness and in health. Strong when the other is weak, optimistic when the other is sad, calm when the other is upset.  She is devoted to him and he adores her.  Two souls intertwined; theirs is the ultimate love story.

Young lovers can’t begin to imagine what awaits them; that the family born out of their passion will test their resolve and challenge their allegiance, forcing them to redefine love as they know it.

Years ago, when we were young, I married my best friend.  It’s a cliché sung about in love songs and easily dismissed, at least until it applies to you.  However prosaic it may sound, my husband is my partner, in all things.  He is my co-parent in raising our children, he is my intellectual equal, my companion and comforter and confidante.  The love of my life.  He is my home.

Nonetheless, navigating the constant demands of family life takes a heroic commitment and requires a willingness to place another’s needs above one’s own at times, trusting that it will balance out.  Never static, the relationship is fluid, the dynamics ever-changing, and it’s precisely this ebb and flow through seasons of abundance and seasons of bleakness that secures the longevity of a marriage.

Steven and I have been doing this parenting gig for a long time and the truth is we’re tired and we sometimes take it out on each other.  It’s a known fact that parenting children with special needs can contribute to higher divorce rates, though interestingly one study found that in families who had children with Down syndrome the divorce rate was actually lower than in families with other birth defects or no identified disability.  Predictors of divorce among parents of kids with ADHD, however, showed the divorce rate was nearly twice that of the general population before the child’s age of eight.

So, statistically speaking, Haley’s special needs add more marital stress than Sydney’s. I would concur.  Haley brings an energy to our family that is amazing and astounding, but also overwhelming.

Frequently my mind will spiral into panic when tallying what needs to be done, when, how and by whom until I’m convinced that I am doing everything.  Resentment poisons my thoughts and I can’t see clearly.

“Are you okay?”  Steven asks.  “You seem crabby.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, crabby that he called me crabby.

And when my husband’s frustration mounts, his accumulating stress has nowhere to go but outward.  His patience is depleted; he is not pleasant to be around.  “Leave Daddy alone,” I tell the girls, giving him a wide berth.

Inevitably in marriage, storms hit.  Some hard.  Rain falls heavy and saturating until we can no longer buoy the other up.  A drowning person cannot save another drowning person.  Misunderstandings, unspoken expectations and harsh words flood and we are in danger of being swept apart by the current.

But gratitude is the ballast that holds fast, and forgiveness the rope that leads us safely back to each other, hand over hand.

At the end of long days I reach for my tall husband as he walks into the kitchen and wrap my arms around his waist.  It takes only ten seconds to feel the bands around my chest begin to loosen.  He rubs my back.  I close my eyes and breathe.

Then, I feel Haley dive between us, using her body as a wedge to leverage us apart, making a parent sandwich of herself.

“Group hug!” she yells, her voice ringing through the kitchen.

And . . . the moment is over.

Yet within this chaos of everyday life, our love solidifies into an unbreakable, brilliant diamond; under pressure, the mundane is transformed into the extraordinary.

I watch him from across the room when we’re enjoying the company of friends: the expressions I know so intimately; the way his lips curve up at the corners, showing his gums when he smiles; his eyebrows, animated when he talks, and the dimples that mesmerized me when we first met, still flash when he laughs.  Not as young now, but our life is written on his beautiful face.

He stands with one foot on the low rung of a stool, his legs long in slim jeans, sporting a graphic t-shirt and trendy glasses, holding a craft beer in one hand and gesturing with the other as he converses.

I fall in love all over again, but harder.  I see not only an attractive man, but a man who fixes my computer, and makes me laugh, and runs through the mud in a Viking helmet with me.  I see a father who camps in the backyard with his girls, and teaches them about fish and birds and nature, who strokes their cheeks tenderly with the back of his hand when he puts them to bed; a father who endures long hours, sacrificing his own leisure so he can pay insurance premiums, mortgages and college tuition, who generously provides the good things in life for his family, who gives and gives and gives and gives.

I hear not only his voice, but the clang of a lug wrench on concrete as he replaces the brakes on my car, the rhythm of the washing machine as he does 52 loads of laundry, carefully separating my Lululemon to hang-dry.  I hear the soft click of the bedroom door as he tiptoes away on a Sunday morning, letting me sleep.

He feels me staring and turns.  “I’ve got you,” I say without speaking when our eyes meet.  “I’ve got you,” he answers.

Ours is an ultimate love story.  Tested and true, redefining love as we knew it.

Like my parents-in-law.

Love is sleeping on a roll-away bed in a hospital room, an arm’s length from his wife.  Love is fighting the battle of a lifetime, with unending courage so she can stay longer with her husband.

“I was supposed to have more time,” she sighs.

“You’re not dying today,” he answers.  “Not today.”

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In the Love Place

sunset clouds

And so lying underneath those stormy skies

She’d say, “oh, ohohohoh I know the sun must set to rise.

“Paradise” by Coldplay

 

~For Richard, Heidi and Gabriel~

It was Sunday afternoon.  The weekend that seemed to stretch out enticingly before me on Friday was, for all intents and purposes, over.  I sat on the couch, mindlessly surfing Facebook and playing Angry Birds.  I had what we call the ‘Sunday blues;’ that restless dissatisfaction that strikes around 5:00 p.m. along with the realization that my vision of a weekend filled with relaxation and leisure . . .  well, it’s just not gonna materialize.  This happens frequently.  My days get filled with grocery shopping, running kids to activities, projects at home, work issues, and other mundane tasks and my fun gets relegated to Saturday night after the kids go to bed, but by then I’m so beat I pass out halfway through a movie.

I felt a coming shift in the weather foretold by a pounding headache that stormed my skull.  Sitting alone I looked out the window at the gathering clouds. Malaise settled in as I thought with a sigh how the girls would be home shortly.  I’d have to get up from this couch to start the nighttime routine; wrangle up dinner, corral kids into the shower and herd them to bed.  I’d go through Friday folders (Sunday night folders?) and look ahead to everyone’s schedules, gearing up for another busy week.

But that was all before I got the news that my brother-in-law had died.  Just 45 minutes earlier, while I was lamenting the end of the weekend, he had taken his last breath and given up the battle he’d waged to the finish.  He and my sister were separated, but in the end, their differences didn’t matter.  The strife and tension between them healed spontaneously on his journey from this plane to the next.  When cancer took over his body, she took him into her home and tended to his dying.  In the process she found forgiveness and focused on creating lasting memories for her son, their son.  He is seven, my nephew; much too young to lose his father.  And his father, much too young to lose his life.

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Joyride

red convertibleThe secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.

Any fool can do it; there ain’t nothing to it.

Nobody knows how we got to the top of the hill.

But since we’re on our way down,

We might as well enjoy the ride.

Sliding down, gliding down, try not to try too hard.

It’s just a lovely ride.

James Taylor—The Secret ‘O Life

I don’t always recognize I’m headed for collapse until, speeding down the freeway at 100 mph, dashboard warnings flashing, I veer off the road to make an emergency stop. I’ve gotten so good at disregarding my maintenance lights, by the time I realize I’m in trouble, I’m already sputtering and careening; out of gas, overheated, or worse, out of control, crashing and taking out everyone around me.

When we moved from Missouri back to Austin, Texas in 2003, circumstances combined to create a fusion of indescribable stress that will go down in Kent family history as The-Time-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named.   Every member of our family was a hot mess; Haley, 5 weeks old, a textbook example of a colicky infant, emitted a type of banshee wailing that could literally wake the dead, and was silenced only when nursing (constantly) or sleeping (rarely).  Sydney, 4 years old, with modulating sensory integration issues, experienced overstimulation, auditorily and otherwise. She was confused and jealous.  Her ‘elopement’ was at an all-time high and, thanks to a very ambitious preschool teacher, potty training had begun in earnest (it took two years to fully train our sweetie and it wasn’t the potty that was so much the problem).  Let that image crystallize for a moment: Clingy, wailing infant on the boob and pooping-in-her-britches toddler on the run.

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Filed under Down syndrome, Family, Grandparents, Motherhood, Parenting, Self-Care, Siblings, Special Needs, Stress