My Baby's going to College!

My Baby’s going to College!

Letter to my daughter 

My precious Lanessa,

I was 43 when you came. People thought we were crazy, and some told us so. They were right, but not in the ways they imagined.  We were crazy-in-love with you, our beautiful newborn daughter. You grabbed our hearts from the beginning. 

We already had your six siblings, each one, “one,”  unique and special. Each of your 5 brothers and only sister took turns cuddling you, falling in love with you even then.You found your place of belonging in our midst, and always will. You were wanted and loved from the start.

I did not comprehend how all 6 pounds 10 ounces of YOU would transform our world, re-define parenting, tighten the sibling bond, enlarge our friendships, and color our world. I partially understood  the “work” of having another child—more  laundry, more diapers, more sleepless nights, more demands on money and time, more schedules to maneuver, more responsibility, and the list goes on. I had an even greater understanding of the joy that could come—the awakening again of a new love, a child to hold to my heart forever.  I remember thinking “I’ll be 61 when you graduate from high school.” It seemed so far away. How did it pass so quickly? I had NO concept of how fast the day would come when you’d be leaving “home.” 

I will miss you!

18 years ago you crawled at my feet, following me wherever I went. I would bend down to your outstretched arms, pick you up and hold you close. You cried if I stepped out of sight and reached for me when I returned.

You’re the one leaving this time, and it is now my time for tears to flow, though still I smile. I will smile even more when you’re back in sight, when you return, when you come “home.” I will run for you and hug you close. You are forever cherished and loved.

Would I want it any other way? Would I want to keep you “home?” Though I’d like to capture the fleeting moments, re-live the joys of yesteryear, it’s time for you to go, to spread your wings and fly. You dream big. You dream of a vast future overflowing with love, joy, peace, beauty, and music of the soul.

As I reflect on these past years, I think of dreams I held, plans that never materialized, ideas and events that never happened. As your mother, I think of things I wish I’d done differently, or better. You’ve forgiven me for mistakes along the way, and I’m grateful for the largeness of your heart. I contemplate the things I didn’t do with you, the places we didn’t go, the people we didn’t meet, the untraveled paths that may have enriched your life in ways we’ll never know.  In the busyness of making it through the days, the weeks and years passed. 

At the same time I ponder the things we did, and we did a lot. Not often the “big” things, but a thousand small things. Ordinary stuff that maybe isn’t so ordinary. Day to day routines and rituals that glued us together—eating home cooked meals, tucking you in at night, driving you to music lessons, listening to you practice, worshiping together, celebrating holidays, knowing your friends, cleaning the kitchen and washing the car, walking the beach, hearing your laughter and wiping your tears. 

We’ve packed in a lot these past weeks. I’ve been on a frantic pace to steal every moment I can with you. Last weekend it was a long drive to the amphitheater in the Gorge for the Jack Johnson concert. A few days ago it was a trip to the orthodontist and shopping for “wheels”—a bicycle to get around wherever you need to go. Today it was church and family and pictures and goodbyes. Tomorrow we’ll begin our 17-hour drive to CalArts. I will savor each moment. The car’s packed. It’s nearly brimming over with the makings for a dorm room, a bicycle and cello and dreams for tomorrow. We’ll leave together, and I’ll return alone. 

It will be a hard good-bye.

I’m scared for you. I know too well there’s a cruel world out there. I know life can knock your socks off and leave you reeling. I know life’s hard. I long to protect you from the horrors that nightmares are made of. I want to keep you safe. I want you to keep believing dreams come true. I want you to keep your innocence and trust the world to be a kind place.  If only I could!

At the same time, I’m beyond excited for you. In a great paradox, I know the world to be warm and wonderful, a safe and good place. You will make loyal friends. You will meet people who care, people who will mentor you in the dreams you dream, people who will push you to your limits, see your potential and not let up. People who will believe in you when you doubt yourself. You will have opportunities and options. You will soar.

I will not hold you back  (though I’ve got your back!). I will do all in my power to support and encourage you. I know you’ve prepared for this day. I know you’re ready, and I know you’ll thrive no matter what.

Some say they “send off” their children when they get to your age. When I hear this, I picture a countdown beginning, just before the child rockets into an unknown universe at an accelerating burst of speed and power. Bystanders watch in awe-inspired silence, just before high-fiving each other and bursting into applause. 

Though there’s elements of this picture I resonate with, for me it’s more like a “send-on”—on to the life you imagine, an unlimited world ready to be discovered and savored. The send-on that isn’t a countdown at all, but a count-up, as we count the precious memories of the past, count your dreams for tomorrow, and count what you do best—living with lavish wonder and delight, truth, beauty, care, kindness, music and laughter, and mostly, enormous love. These are the things that fuel your send-on and will propel you forward. I’ll be cheering you on!

I’m not big on giving advice, or telling you what you “should” do. When you were little, if I demanded you hold my hand and grabbed for yours when we crossed a busy street, you’d resist. If instead I asked to hold yours, you’d eagerly reach for mine and we’d cross safely. Though there were situations when direct commands were appropriate and necessary, I discovered early that you have the ability and good sense to make smart decisions, especially when you are empowered with knowledge and get to do the choosing. You’ve had 18 years to practice. I pray you have a long and joyful lifetime to keep practicing. (I’ve had 61 years to practice, and I still don’t have it all down!)

What if I’ve missed important “stuff” you need to know! Do I trust you? (Yes!) How do I not worry? (Yikes!) You’ve never lived 965 miles away. You’ve never had a roommate. You’ve never lived “on your own.”  You’ve never been as independent as you’ll now be. You’ve lived a safe and sheltered life. What’s next?

Here’s a few tips. Maybe you’ll find something useful. And you will surely add to it!

1. Make mistakes. You don’t have to be perfect. That’s how we all learn.

a. If it hurts mind, body, or relationships, DON’T! (No-brainer).

2.  Say “Yes” and “No” with conviction.

3.  Get places early.  “You never have to apologize for being early.” 

4.  Sleep. Go to bed! You’ll sing better.

5.  Eat healthy. Fruits and veggies.

6.  Drink water. Lots.

7.  Hang up your towel.

8.  Make your bed.

9.  Know your your new “family” by name and listen to their stories

10. Keep informed with what’s going on in the larger world.

11. Keep in touch with your smaller world—call, mass text, shout, whatever, however— 

       remember the “others” in your life who love you. Set a scheduled reminder if it helps.

                  a. Me. Daddy, too!

          b. Brothers, sister, in-laws, nieces and nephew, aunts, uncles

                  c. Friends afar

12. Keep your phone charged! (Plug in every night).

13. Check your phone messages regularly—texts and voice mail.

14. Thank others often—anyone who makes your world a better place. Verbally, in 

       writing, song, or whatever way you come up with—make gratitude an art! 

15. Acknowledge and encourage the creative ability of others.

15. If your roommate’s sleeping, don’t talk on the phone.

16. Participate in a community of Faith—intentionally, regularly, and in keeping with YOUR 

      convictions. 

17. Think clearly, feel passionately, choose wisely (duh!)

18. Set goals and make a plan.

19. Ask questions.

20. Ask for help.

21. Offer help.

22. Treat others like you’d want to be treated yourself if you were them. 

23. Remember the Sabbath—worship,rest and rejuvenate!

24. Use who YOU are—your unique creative ability.

25. Don’t drink from an open container someone hands you, ever.

26. Balance your checking account

27. Know what to do if the earth quakes. 

28. Go running with someone—don’t go alone.  Be aware of your surroundings. 

29. Love God, love others, with heart, soul, and mind.

30. Have FUN!                  

OK, maybe I got a little carried away (Though I could say more!).

All this simply says, “I love you.” 

Daddy and I chuckle as we reminisce about your childhood tantrums over perceived injustices (no laughing matter then!). If I picked you up to restrain you from flailing on the floor and held you too tightly, you screamed. If I put you down, you kicked harder and screamed even louder. When I held you loosely in a soft embrace, whispering quietly, you calmed and settled in my arms. Not too tight. Not too loose. Freedom to move within safe confines of human arms and your mother's heart.

Though your temper tantrums passed long ago, your passion remains, something I would never want to change even if I could. You thrust your whole being into what you value, into what moves your soul, into what you do and who you love. And everyone knows it. You don't do it  selfishly or without consideration of others. Not blindly or without reason. You do it deliberately, conscientiously, on purpose. Passionately.

You’ll soon be at CalArts, a place committed to nurturing your creativity, to growing your abilities, to enlarging your vision, to fostering imagination and realizing possibility. And I pray CalArts will be a safe place to move freely within the arms of a shared humanity. I pray for you to remember your past as you move to your amazing future.

You go, Girl!

Always, forever, with my prayers and love,

your Mama  xoxo

POSTSCRIPT:

I wrote this mostly last Sabbath, before we left Tillamook on Sunday morning. A trip I'll always remember. Now we’re here, and I’ll soon be leaving. You’ve already found a “home.” I’m warmed by the welcome and impressed with the care. CalArts “fits” and I couldn’t be happier for you. I see your eyes sparkle and hear your excitement. Yay!

See you soon.

Mama  xoxo

Room In the Inn

                                        

I’ve known the story as long as I can remember. Every Christmas Eve I’d hear it again. As a child my family gathered in the living room after a candlelit dinner. Basking in the warmth of family, Christmas lights twinkling, and anticipating opening gifts under the tree, we’d listen as the family patriarch read the second chapter of Luke’s Gospel from the Bible. “And it came to pass in those days…”. Joseph travels with “Mary, his betrothed wife who was with child,” to Bethlehem to be counted in the required census. On the way pregnant Mary goes into labor. Her Son is born, wrapped in swaddling cloth, and laid in a manger because “there was no room for them in the inn".

In my imagination, fueled by Christmas pageants and nativity scenes, I see Joseph frantically knocking on doors while full-term Mary sits on a donkey. Finally a reluctant innkeeper is awakened, comes to the door, and agrees to let them stay in the stable. That night the angels sing and shepherds come, for the Savior is born, bringing “glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!” 2000+ years later, lights still twinkle, music fills the air, and followers of the Child come.

In the wee hours of the night I lay in bed pondering my life today, December 18, 2013. Our children have listened to the same Story, heard the same Scripture, adopted the same traditions. However, I wasn’t much thinking about the Story. Instead I was feeling sorry for myself. Thinking of what I’d be missing this year. Home and hearth. Laughter from the kitchen as we make tea time tassies and fudge. Squeals of delight as grandchildren scamper through the house. The Christmas tree we cut down the day after Thanksgiving. I played out different scenarios, mentally trying to finagle a way around circumstances to re-create the Christmas of my dreams. Searching for ways to “make it the same,” a place for family to gather and laugh and love and celebrate and make memories together.

Lee’s been in rehab for double knee replacements. Great! We planned that. He’ll be discharged today. He's doing well. In time for Christmas. Wonderful! What we didn’t plan was icy weather and spewing water pipes at home in our absence. No kitchen right now, and significant damage in the family room. We won’t be “home for the holidays” in the ways I had imagined. Although our homeowner’s insurance is providing accommodations, it’s not the same. Christmas in a motel? Right now we’re in a Residence Inn. We drove up in my Toyota Highlander and were cheerfully greeted by the hospitality team. We didn’t have to beg for a place to stay. Though I’ve been pregnant several times, those times are past. No pressing need for immediate care. Our Inn has nine floors with elevators. Clean rooms. Tastefully decorated. Comfortable. Even a refrigerator and small kitchen. Someone else changes the sheets, washes the towels, empties the garbage. There’s even a nice breakfast buffet. A swimming pool and hot tub. A place we might even dream of being under other circumstances. But it’s Christmas. Time to be home. Time to celebrate. Where will we gather?

As I lay pondering these thoughts a sudden revelation came. There’s room in this Inn! That night long ago, the reason for the season, there was NO ROOM in the Inn! I suspect the travelers on that moonlit night long ago had other plans for welcoming the Child. Plans of which we know nothing. Those plans don’t even get a note in His-Story. For the Child was born that night in a manger, and nothing else mattered. The world’s never been the same.

The Story tells nothing of despair over barnyard accommodations. It tells nothing of failed birthing plans, or plans at all, except the plan to bring peace, joy, and love to a hurting world. It tells nothing of loss and disappointment. It tells nothing of shepherds grumbling about conditions around the manger. It tell nothing of cranky angels singing in the cold night air. Instead, all eyes focus, all ears hear, all hearts worship, the Child.

Where will we gather this Christmas? My plans failed. But I know there's room in the Inn. For some, it’s a street lit night in downtown Portland, or under a bridge in Tillamook, or a refugee camp in Manyplace, Earth, or a tent behind a warehouse, or a cardboard box in places I don’t generally go. For others it’s a cozy home with stockings hung by the chimney with care, or a resort in Hawaii or a cabin at Whistler.  I’m not sure who all may show up. Our children with their children, but who else? Perhaps shepherds and wise ones? Angels? For I now remember in my nighttime musing what matters most—seeking and finding, gathering together, wherever, to celebrate the Child. 

Merry Christmas!

                 "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!"

                                                                                                                 

                                                                                                                    Luke 2:14

Orphans Now

She was ready when we arrived at Town Center Village. "Ready to go, Mom?" She looked up and smiled. With gentle hugs and misty eyes others gathered. They said their good byes. She pulled one caregiver close and kissed her cheek. She said “Thank you” to another. My eyes welled. My Mother.  In only a few short weeks she had made her mark on the hearts of those around. 

She sat regally in her wheelchair as my son rolled her from the care facility to the car and gently eased her in. Her last car ride. Home. The Home that would become ours because she was there.   90 miles later we arrived at Country Havens. Her room was ready, a place of beauty. She smiled. We went every day and stayed into the night. We, her children,  wished her good morning, kissed her goodnight, and held her hands in between. Nineteen days more. Our home--it was our  mother's heart for as long as we could remember.

Now she's gone.  I miss her. We’re orphans now, my brothers and sister and I. She never told us how hard it would be. 

60 years ago she birthed me, her first daughter, third child. She and Daddy gave me my name.  I was theirs. They held me, stroked my head, gazed into my eyes, told me they loved me. In the end I did the same for them. Now it's over. They're gone. Can it be?

Ours was a long good bye, the good bye of children for their Mother. Alzheimer’s Disease robbed her of who she was, and stole from us the Mother we had known.  Some say, on hearing of her passing, “It was a blessing. She’s no longer suffering.” Right in so many ways, dreadfully wrong in others. Conceived through love and passion for our father, we were borne of her flesh, birthed through her tears and joy, and from her deep desire to be our Mother. She gave us life. She defined us from our first days to her last. She still does, for her imprint is on us forever. We became known as “Bob and Betty’s children.”   In the beginning she and Daddy defined us. Somewhere along the way, I’m not sure when, we came to define them, in the circular paradox of the universe. They gave us our identity, only to have us give them theirs. 

Mom loved being Mother. Her heart embraced not only her own children, but the “others” who came with us. She welcomed and loved our friends.  I was 14 when I introduced her to the boy who would one day be my husband, and make me a Mother.  She loved to tell the story. With a twinkle in her eye, she would say to him, “I met you when you were 14.”  She became his Mother, too, the Mother he never had. Finally, in her last years, she believed that he was her son not only through her choice, but by birth. She claimed him as her own, and indeed, he was.

As I watched her struggle “comfortably” during her final hours, I pondered my history, and that of my brothers and sister. Mom was a determined mother. She wanted the best for each of us. She had dreams. She wanted us to have happy homes, a decent education, good jobs, health, friends, live with integrity, serve others. She wanted us to go to church and obey the rules and look good, but even more, to be good.  Encompassing all was her longing for us to love God and get along with others, and to someday be together in an Earth made new. 

Like all mothers, she made mistakes. I believe these mistakes were motivated out of her desire we grow up to follow God and love others.  She told of a time when I was a toddler. I refused to kneel for prayer at our family worship. Though I have no memory of it, she said she spanked me. She was still apologizing 50 years later. She was  quick to ask forgiveness and ready to forgive, no matter the infraction. 

She and Daddy wanted peace and sometimes relinquished their own “rights” in hopes of saving a relationship. At the same time, they had a keen sense of justice and would not tolerate meanness. We weren’t allowed to call each other bad names or to even point imaginary guns at people  (I’m not sure how well that worked--ask my brothers!). “Shut up” was forbidden, though “hush up” was an acceptable alternative. 

Mom loved hair. When I was a little girl, she braided my hair and tied ribbons at the ends Sometimes at night she’d deftly twist strands of my damp hair around her finger. She’d hold two bobbie pins between her lips and at exactly the right moment she’d extract her finger, take the bobbie pins, and pin my hair tightly to my head, until my head was covered with little mounds of pinned hair.  She’d tie a bandana over the top, then do the same to her own hair. The next morning she’d take out the bobbie pins, and we’d both have curly hair. She liked curls. During these last years,  I’d take the curling iron and do the best I could to make her hair beautiful. She was always appreciative as she admired herself in the mirror. I will miss those times.

Mom loved to sew. She didn’t buy my clothes in my growing-up years.  Instead, she bought yards of fabric and carefully fashioned my school dresses (no pants yet!). She loved pretty fabric, and even in her last months, she found contentment in holding a piece of colorful cloth. 

She baked bread and cinnamon rolls and pies. She stretched the food budget by canning hundreds of quarts of fruit, cooking beans and rice, and making powdered milk. She enjoyed her kitchen, and took pride in setting a pretty table with her fine China. She insisted on good table manners. Even more, she was a gracious hostess and enjoyed good conversation. 

There’s another empty place at the table now. 

Mom married young. 18 years old. She sewed her own wedding dress, veil and all. She became a teenage mother a year later and quit college, never looking back. But she did look forward. She returned to college and graduated from nursing school at 40.  For the next 18 years she  delighted in being a neonatal nurse.

When grandchildren began to arrive, her world changed again.  11 grandsons, 3 granddaughters. Next year, her youngest grandchild will graduate from high school. It will be the first grandchild’s graduation she won’t celebrate. She loved all her grandchildren dearly. In 2007, not even 6 years ago, she and Daddy drove alone in their own car to Vancouver to welcome their first great-grandchild. 

Mom, I found you sitting on your bed the morning after Daddy died. With tears streaming down your face, you looked up at me and sobbed, “He’s gone. He died. He’s gone now.” Then you wiped your eyes and declared, “I’ve got to pull myself together.” That’s how you lived life. Pulling yourself together when you needed to, to get the job done.

 It’s strange to talk of Mom in the past tense. “Was” and “were”  feel unfamiliar and awkward. It’s going to take a long time to change my language. 

We’re orphans now. First Daddy, now you. You’re gone. There’s much I’d like to ask. Life crept up on us all, and here we are. How was it for you, Mom? You went through the losses of your parents. I saw you cry quiet tears, not the sloppy weeping of my own grief. I didn’t see the wrenching of your hearts like I feel in my own.  I know you felt the pain. I know you missed them, for I know you loved them deeply. What was it like for you? How did you go on? Was it a resignation that life comes and life goes? Was it the assurance this life is a harbinger of the next, you would see them again, your parents were no longer in this “veil of tears”? Did you stuff your feelings? Did you lay awake at night with an inconsolable ache in your heart? Did you and Daddy hold and comfort each other when I didn’t see?  Did you trust God more? Were my eyes blinded to your grief, because you were the parent, and I was your child? The natural order seems to be for parents to comfort their children, not the other way around.  Is that why I’m missing you, because you’re not here to tell me it’s going to be okay? What was it like for you to be an orphan? I’ve had no training.

Your children watched you grow old. Not a bad thing. You lived  through countless joys and sorrows for 84 years.  In your final days  all your children encompassed you. Hospice helped manage your pain. We had time together. We said “See you in the Morning.” Horrible, unexplicable, sudden tragedies occurred last week. The Boston Marathon bombings. The fertilizer  plant explosion in Texas. Car crashes. Famines. Wars. Avalanches. Storms. More. These made headline news, while your obituary will be tucked in a back page of a newspaper. Yours was anticipated and ordinary, as deaths go. But for us, you were no ordinary woman.  You were our Mother, and there is not another you. We will miss you as long as we live. 

So good night Mom, goodnight for now.  We’ll see you in the Morning.  xoxo

Good bye, Mama

Dear Mama,

The long good bye is almost at its end, so it seems. You're in a hospital 90 miles away. They're keeping you "comfortable" (What on earth is that?). How can you be anywhere near comfortable when you can't eat, can't drink, can't walk, can barely open your eyes, and have an interminable cough? Will the sound of our voices, the touch of our hands, the "knowing" of our presence bring comfort? I hope so. 

Nearly six months ago you leaned over Daddy's lifeless form, felt his forehead, and kissed him. You turned, looked  into my eyes and solemnly whispered,  "He's gone. He died." You kissed him again, and again. You left the room where he lay and kept returning, until you finally closed the door for the last time. Your life has not been the same. It seems as though you've been racing to follow the man who stole your heart a lifetime ago.

My mind is traveling to years long ago, when I ran to keep up with you. Now I only want to run--to get there fast--so I can keep you forever. I don't want to let you go. I want to be there by your side. I want to hold your hand. I want to fiercely tell you that I love you, and hope you know. 

When I was a small child, I called you "Mother," the endearing term you had used with yours. Later you became "Mommy." During my teen years, you became "Mom," the name that stuck the longest. I sprinkled these with others: "The Hostess with the Mostest," "Madame Chairwoman," "Mother Superior." These past years your vulnerability brought me to "Mama," an endearing term that all your children now use. Though the Mother of our memories, you've become our Child. We long to protect you, to comfort you, to make the going easy. What can we do? We love you!

Mama, I will miss you, though I will keep you forever. In ways that defy explanation, I will travel beyond my memories to  a place where tears will be no more, where there will be no more sickness or dying, where all will be love and joy and peace and beauty. We'll be together again. Thank you for showing the way. 

Your daughter      xoxo

P.S. I'm on my way--please wait.

                                          Last Friday 3/15/13 at Town Center Village

Life is like a Pie

Happy Birthday, Mom. You're 84 years old today.

You always liked making pies. You were good at it. Really good.  You measured and mixed, rolled and folded,  filled and crimped. Apple. Berry. Peach. Apricot. Cherry. Pumpkin. Coconut Cream. Chocolate. Lemon Meringue. And more. Into the oven and out.  We waited eagerly for our first slice. You served it with a smile, and we all smiled back. Your pies were simply the best. Ask anyone who knows.

I see you still. You stand at the counter making pies, your hands dusted with flour. You dot dabs of butter on the crust and sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar. You place in oven and soon the aroma of pies wafts through the house. Sweet memories! Why do my eyes mist?

Today you're 84, and your pie baking days are over. When we packed up your kitchen I carefully wrapped up your Pyrex pie dishes. I gave some away. I brought some home. I kept your wooden rolling pin and gave your marble one to Josh, who gave it to you when he was 5.

I've been thinking that life is like pie. It goes so fast and tastes so good and is gone much too soon. Have you ever noticed how fast pie goes? Even 8-10 pieces? Daddy told me time flies. He was right.

You need the right ingredients, and how you mix it matters. Too much of this, too little of that, and you have tough crust or tart filling.  The rhyme, "Girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice" fit you from the beginning. Your life has been filled with "nice" for as along as I can remember. You took the ingredients you were given 84 years ago, and mixed them with the flavors of all the years that followed, and made a beautiful life. Even now, in the confusion of your mind, you graciously smile and sweetly declare, "I love you."

Mom, when you baked pies, I remember how my mouth watered as I anticipated the first bite. I'd lick my lips and wait with expectation. That first piece, so tasty! I was eager for the next, and not disappointed. You'd usually cut a pie into 8-10 slices and serve it on your China, sometimes warm,  with a dollop of vanilla ice cream (I'm getting hungry thinking about it).

84 years! 8.4 slices so far, each worth 10 years.There's nothing like the first slice.

First slice. Filled with the delight and exuberance of childhood. There's an impish picture of you at 2. I wonder who took the photo? Probably your doting Daddy or your adoring Mother.  It's apparent you relished that first slice of life, eagerly devouring each bite as you shared the pie with your two brothers. This slice still brings smiles.

Second slice. School and friends. Church and baptism. Cooking. Sewing. High school dates and graduation.  Commitment and Covenant.  Welcoming a soldier home from War. You married Daddy at 18 and a year later had your first child, a son. This slice, still fresh and warm.

Third slice. Second son,  first daughter (me!),  third son, and a driver's license. You took us to swimming lessons even though you disliked water except in a tub. You canned dozens of jars of applesauce and peaches and pears and dreamed of finishing the nursing degree you started during your second slice of life. You sewed my dresses and braided my hair. You and Daddy bought a tent trailer, a step up in our camping expeditions. Trips to the Redwoods and even one to Canada. You kissed hurts and mended hearts and loved us well. This slice tastes good!

Fourth slice. Another daughter with the first bite and daughter-in law with the last. Nursing school for you. Yours and your kids' graduations. Welcoming friends and feeding us all--often pie! Good years, they were. Yum!  This slice is full of flavor!

Fifth slice. Seasoned with weddings of children and sprinkled with grandchildren. Working as an R.N. Moving children out and parents in. Burying a father-in-law and caring for a Mother-in-law. Relishing family and anticipating the next piece of pie. This slice still delicious.

Sixth slice. More grandchildren. Travel near and abroad to hug them all. Still working. Burying your Mother. Moving in your Father. Still dreaming and scheming. This slice is going fast!

Seventh slice. You're retired! Motor home trips. Move to Tillamook. Designing and decorating a new home. New friends and neighbors. Building a new life, and you did it well. Volunteering at the hospital. Small group study.  Moving your Daddy--my Grandpa-- to a nursing home.  Delighting in visits with your children and grandchildren. Celebrating another decade of birthdays. Sharing the sweetness of this slice with Daddy.

Eighth slice. Enjoying your home on the hill with Daddy, planning, planting. Great-Grandchildren arrive. Publisher's Clearinghouse and scams. Resting in the comfort of each other (There's not many slices left).

Ninth slice. You're eating it now. It's getting old. The flavor is different. It doesn't taste like the first slice, or the second, or any of the rest. Daddy died. We helped you move to Adult Foster Care. And now, into a skilled nursing facility. You're in pain. You have a hard time walking, or even getting up. You wear a bib when you eat, and someone else serves you. You need help dressing. Your new friends  sit beside you in their wheelchairs as you sit in yours--- momentary friends, as you are for them. You  find comfort in their presence. When I walk in, you smile and reach for my hand. You don't remember the name you gave me. but you know we belong. You don't remember the flavors of the other slices that we thought you'd never forget. This slice is flavored with tears, yet sprinkled with smiles.

How many slices left? I'm not sure, but it seems as though the last is going quickly. It's hard to take the final bite. We want to savor every crumb and lick the dish and get all of you we can. There is something of YOU that your children cling to and don't want to let go. We want to touch your parchment skin and hold your hand, because you have held our hearts. We still catch the flavor, the essence of YOU, our special and beloved mother. We hope your day is happy.

There's another pie coming. It's called Heavenly. Lick your lips. The best is yet to be.

Your daughter

Sue  xoxo

                         

(Pictures coming of the slices of Mom's life......)

An Always Changing Life

Mom stands pleading, clutching my hands, eyes boring into mine. She insists, "I'm going with you. I belong with my family!"  "This is your new room, Mom. Isn't it pretty?" I ask. As she belligerently turns her back  to me, I sneak away.  Out the door and to the car. I bury my head in my husband's shoulder.  This is not how Longs say good bye.*  I cry.

YESTERDAY

It's been one month today since Daddy died. One month since Mom's world changed--and mine. Did we really say "good-bye"? Where's the "good" in any of it?   It's time to move forward, to an Always Changing Life.

Hours turn into days, and  days to weeks. Mom's needs change. So do mine. With Daddy no longer by her side, Mom becomes even more lost, more confused. She's a needy little girl, in a very old body. I explore options. How do I clone myself? What should I do? How can I manage her needs, and mine? I second guess myself, not just once, but many times. What to do? I get advice.... thoughtful, caring advice, some invited, some not. One person suggests this, and another that. Ultimately it's my decision, colored by my  family's wants and needs. I want to run. But I can't. Mom's following. She's watching every move.

I make phone calls. I hurry from place to place. Assisted Living. Adult Foster Care, Nursing Home. I ask questions. I listen. I watch. How do I decide? Will an Unknown  really care? Will an Unknown treat her gently? Will an Unknown be patient? Will an Unknown be kind?  And the elephant in the closet.....how much will it cost? How will we pay for it?

Someone tells me about someone who knows someone. I call. A soft voice  with a delightful Romanian accent answers. Veronica. She invites us to visit. I curl Mom's hair because she likes it fixed "just so" and we leave for Portland.  We meet Veronica, a lovely woman with an Adult Foster Care Home. Like me, she has a family, including husband, adult children, and teenagers. She's licensed to have two residents, and right now she has only one.

I've heard it said that Ahlzheimer's Disease is the long good bye. Although I understand the intent of the expression, I don't see anything good about it. It's a tragic disease, a tragic loss. It may showcase the  goodness in the humanity of others, as with Veronica in her caring of my vulnerable Mother. But it is not  a "good" bye. It's long and sad, bad and horrible. It's not the way it's supposed to be. My psyche rages at its destruction of my mother's identity.

Mom's on her best behavior. She charms her way into Veronica's heart. I feel it. She politely thanks Veronica for letting us visit in her "beautiful home." She comments about the pretty China in the hutch. She smiles at Veronica's kind words.

Veronica asks questions. I answer.  I try to be forthcoming about Mom's behavior. Full disclosure. Mom hides bananas in her dresser drawer. Mom doesn't like showers. Mom wakes up early---too early!  Mom wants to go to church every day. Mom opens doors and closets and rearranges other people's belongings. Mom's afraid of riding in the car, but she likes to sit in my parked car. She argues. She wants to wear the same clothes every day--black pants and pink top. She forgets names and faces and relationships and what happened 5 minutes ago. But I tell Veronica Mom is happy and pleasant. She likes to help. She likes to fold towels. She wants to "be good." She likes beauty and kindness and love. She likes bedtime prayer and to be tucked in at night.

Veronica invites us to see The Room. We walk down the hall. It's a small, cheerful room. Veronica asks Mom if she'd like to come live with her. Mom acts surprised, graciously nods her head and says, "Yes. That would be nice. Thank-you." I know she'll forget. We talk some more. I make the decision. Though a long time in coming, it seems almost abrupt. It's time. I'll trust Veronica with the care of my precious Mother.

TODAY

We return. We march to the door. Mom's new "home."  Mom once had a house full of "stuff." Now her world's reduced to a suitcase filled with  clothes, a box holding favorite trinkets, a couple of books, a few pictures, and the purse clutched in her hand.  She will live in a small room with people she's never known. They will become her new "family." I feel guilt and relief, shame and grace. A strange mixture of emotion. This will take awhile to settle. I'll visit often.

Her words reverberate in my mind on the long trip home. "I belong with my family."

What have I done?

I remind myself that my "other" Mother, the Mother of yesteryear, would urge me to make the decision I made. Yet still I struggle. I search my soul. Shouldn't I be able to manage? Am I not "good enough?" I ponder and pray. I find a degree of calm in knowing that I, too, am a mother who loves my children with a love immeasurable. I know that were my Mother's circumstances my own (a terrifying thought), I would say to my children, if I could, "Go! Have FUN! Spend time with YOUR children. Remember the good times. They were real. Make good memories. I'll be okay." And I would mean it.

Life is full of partings. When my children began venturing out on their own, I started saying when they were leaving, "Have FUN! I love you! See you soon." I still say this when we part. I've laughingly told my kids that should I ever die (which I don't plan to, but the odds are against me), I want them to imagine me sitting bolt upright, waving, and hollering, "Have FUN! I Love you! See you soon."

This parting is not easy, this leaving my Mother in the care of Another. She  won't make  ANY memories. But she will we safe. She will have fun. She'll be okay. And I do love her. I'll see you soon, Mom.

It's time to move forward to my Always Changing Life.


*Son Joseph wrote a blog a couple of years ago about the "Long Good Bye." In our  family (the Longs!), our "good-byes" are an event, not a quick, hurried social convention. I'll post his link soon.

Just before leaving one "home" for another.

Daddy's Life Sketch

How can I tell you about my Daddy? What would he want me to say? He wouldn’t say much about himself. He wouldn’t tell you about his important accomplishments or brag about anything he’d ever done. No. He’d tell you about the strangers he met at the store... or maybe even bring them home for dinner--no longer strangers, but his friends.  He’d tell you about his family. He’d tell you about his Grandma’s “snappy brown eyes,” or the antic of a grandchild. He might tell you about his love of travel and adventure,  or about the new rhody he bought for the yard. More likely, he’d ask you about you, and do the listening. It was not so much the words he spoke, but the life he lived that did the telling.

Daddy was born, as the story goes, at home during the middle of a snowstorm, on Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. February 12, 1923, in College Place, WA. He admired Lincoln, and took pleasure in sharing the day with him.

His parents, Virgil and Verda Burg Becraft, welcomed him into their hearts and did the best they knew to provide a loving and caring home for their burgeoning family. He joined brother Teddy, 14 months older.  Jaime, an older brother, had already died in infancy. Six years later sister Margaret joined the family, and after three more years sister Marilyn arrived. 

As I began this “life sketch” about Daddy, I began in  linear fashion,  from beginning to end, according to a timeline. I got stuck. As I pondered, I concluded that a sketch is not created from a starting line, but includes shades and shaping and adding detail here and there. It is with this that I continue. His life did have a beginning, and sadly, an ending--for those of us who remain. But it is not his ending, and in that, I take hope.

I’ll share some of the shading, the shaping, the detail.

Daddy was a vegetarian. His mother was, and his grandmother. To the dismay of some of the rest of us, he would hardly touch “fake meat,” especially if it resembled the “real deal.” He and Mom had some words about this on occasion. Hot dogs? What’s a picnic without? And by hot dogs, I mean Vega-links or Big Franks. He wouldn’t touch them. Tomato sandwiches with butter suited him just fine. He didn’t like mayonnaise or cheese, but he did like beans and berries and cookies, and sweets of any kind. Mom’s pies--he had two favorites: Hot and Cold. He had a sweet tooth. At Christmas time he’d reminisce about his Grandmother’s divinity fudge. He was diagnosed diabetic about 5 years ago.

Daddy loved water. Swimming. A cool dip at the end of the day. Whiskeytown Lake in the hot California sun. Mom would sit in her lawn chair and dangle her feet in the water. Daddy would immerse himself and swim for the floating platform off shore from which to dive. I think he’d have gotten a boat if Mom had shared this love. When he was 80, he came to Camp MiVoden with our family and went water skiing. Many are the water stories that we could share.

Daddy worked as an X-ray technician for the same group of doctors for nearly 40 years. My dear childhood friend, Marcia (who Daddy counted among his own),  became a radiologist and went to work where he had worked for so many years. She tells me he was legend there, in the finest sense of the word.  While working, he saw that x-ray solutions were being washed down the drain. He asked the doctors if he could save the x-ray solutions and retrieve the silver. I remember him breaking silver off the disks of his machine and filling coffee cans full of silver. He'd hide them in the back of the closet until the next trip  to Berkley to John Drew Smelting. He also received permission to cull old x-ray films from the local hospitals. We’d take trailer loads of film to the smelter as well. He helped pay for his children’s education with this side business. He taught us the value of hard work and ingenuity. Although being an x-ray tech was a respectable profession, I believe he saw himself in his earlier years as not measuring up to his perceived expectations of himself and others--doctor, dentist, preacher or missionary. I took pleasure in seeing him as he grew older in coming to a level of self-acceptance and peace in his own skin. It gave me hope.

Daddy talked fondly of hiking with his father--Mt. Rainier and other trails. He hiked Mt. Shasta at age 60. He spoke fondly of the Pacific Northwest, and as a child, I thought it must be close to heaven.

Daddy served during World War II in the army as a noncombatant. He loved his country, and he loved peace. The horrors of war grieved his soul.

Daddy met Mom, and Mom met Daddy. He fresh out of the Army and she yet a teenager. Their lives were never the same. Mom always said she “knew” immediately that he was the ONE. And he was. As the Daddy of five children, he loved and cherished each one. Each of us could shade and add detail to this sketch in our own unique ways. He unconditionally accepted and loved his childrens' choice of life partners. He delighted in his 14 grandchildren,  and his 3 great-grandchildren. Their friends became his own,  enlarging his "family."  All came under the umbrella of his love for God. This was the "stuff" of life that meant the most to him.

Always, Daddy and Mom had a heart for others. Ours was an inclusive home. Without conscious thought, so it seemed, Daddy carried a commitment in his soul to care for those who couldn’t care for themselves. My cousin says he wouldn’t be here today if it were not my father---and that includes my mother! My cousin lived in our home as another “brother” for a time. When Daddy’s sister Margaret was widowed at the age of 32 with 3 small children, she moved to Redding to be near. He loved her children, and did what he could. When his own mother and later, his father-in-law, became unable to live independently, they made their home with Daddy and Mom. I know this had challenges, but they walked their talk.

Daddy went on a mission trip to Nepal. This was a highlight of his life, and he talked about it, filled a photograph album with pictures, and longed to travel more. Going to Japan to see grandchildren were high points. His blue eyes sparkled each time he returned. I asked him a year or so ago what he wanted to do when he got to heaven, and without a moment’s hesitation, he said he wanted to travel to Pluto.

Daddy and Mom moved to Tillamook 14 years ago. This became their home. In this church and in our larger community, they found care and love. I remember the bank calling one day a few years back and saying that Daddy had walked to town, and needed help getting home. This community watched out for them, even as they had cared for others. Thank you all so much. 

As many of you know, Daddy and Mom came to live in Lee’s and my home a couple of years ago. They did so graciously, though I cannot begin to imagine the grief of losing independence. In their own home, before ours became theirs, they were neat and tidy, and things were orderly and in place. Coming to live in a home with a rowdy rambunctious bunch must have brought a longing at times for their place of quiet peace on the hill. Daddy never complained.  I count it a humble privilege that he could call our home his own.

Oh, I could say so much more!  The sketch is not nearly complete.

Daddy was a loving husband to my mother, a devoted father to his children, a loyal brother, an admiring Grandpa, a caring Uncle, a faithful friend, and a humble servant to His God. 

I miss him. I can hardly grasp that he’s really gone. I’m forever grateful I had him for my Daddy.