Ripples

Don't for a second think you don't make a difference in the lives of others. 

I just got back from the park with Andrew, where I saw a woman I recognized from my early childhood playing with her grandkids. I introduced myself, and after she got over the shock of seeing me with a 3 year old, she said:

"Your mom saved me."

When she and her husband moved to our town from out of state, she was isolated and alone with a newborn. My mother met her and said, "Come to my house on Tuesday." The woman told of babies lined up in cribs in the dining room, tuna fish sandwiches for mothers and kids, cups of coffee, and surreptitious drags on cigarettes. One Tuesday led to another and another. Later, Mom invited her to a Bible study and eventually, our church. 

I can picture our big old house with toys strewn across the floor, and pots full of inexpensive coffee. The drafty house where something always needed fixing. With 3 kids under 4 years old, Mom offered nothing fancy, just a welcoming spirit, irreverent sense of humor, and radical hospitality. With a husband who worked long hours, and all family support out of state, she may have felt frustrated and house-bound, so she invited people to come to her. 

I doubt my mother knew that what she offered this other woman would have ripples all the way to this park 50 years later. Not to be too dramatic, but I am guessing the love and encouragement that made a young mom feel less isolated and helped plug her into a faith community rippled outward for three generations, all the way to the grandkids I saw today at the park. 

My mom, who never left the country, held a fancy job or went on a real vacation, made a difference in people's lives because she made them feel special and worth it. And you know what? Everyone is worth it. If you help other people know they are worth your time, your friendship, your notice, then you too make a difference. 

This message hit home for me today because I am a frustrated achiever. I couldn't just punch a clock at Blockbuster in grad school for my $3.10 an hour; I had to be employee of the month. I couldn't just teach English; I wanted to be the best. I willingly put achievement on the back burner as a stay-at-home mom, because holy hell if you don't yet know that trying to "achieve" as a parent is an exercise in hubris and futility, you will figure it out at some point. Big-time.

I just held on for the ride and thought my 40's and 50's would be the chance to prove myself as a productive member of society who made a difference. Once I found my passion for writing and speaking, I imagined myself speaking from large stages (you win a car! and you win a car!), writing more books, and contributing to my family financially in significant ways. Instead, I found myself in the park on a gorgeous October day pushing Andrew "higher! higher!" And despite knowing how fleeting his childhood will be, I also know I'm not guaranteed a season of productivity after he's grown. We are not promised tomorrow, only today. 

Nothing I did today felt very epic. I didn't figure out how to promote my books. I failed to make childcare arrangements so I could go to a conference and learn, once again, how much I don't know about social media. I didn't even buy baby carrots.

But I did play in the park with Andrew. I did enjoy a beautiful walk with a newly-bereaved friend. This afternoon I can encourage my friend across the street that she's doing a great job with baby #2 while wrangling baby #1 (BTW, Kelly, you are!). Tonight I can return an email from a precious mama whose teen daughter died unexpectedly in September. I can try not to take out my exhaustion and peri-menopausal period on my husband when he's trying to watch the "baseball playoffs", whatever that means. 

It may not be much.

It doesn't feel like much. 

But you know what? Ripples rarely do. 

We all make ripples, whether positively or negatively. Maybe I'll never make a big splash in this lifetime, but I can try to make my ripples more helpful than hurtful. More generous than stingy. More loving than lacking. 

And even if I think tuna fish is gross, I can open my home and heart just a little bit more. 

Here, have a cheese stick.

Heirlooms in the Garage? Why Not?

So, I thought I'd update you on how the whole garage-mudroom thing has been working for us since we had it built last fall.

I love it! LOVE LOVE LOVE it!

It is wonderful to have this gorgeous, orderly wall of built-ins greet me multiple times a day. Each "locker" has ample room for multiple coats, and all of our baskets aren't even full yet.

I was hoping to improve the value of the house, and I think the project accomplishes that. The built-ins are more than we need, but I wanted to make sure it would appeal to a larger family if we sell our house at some point down the road.

Realistically, I need to tell you that the SHOES still make their way inside and onto the kitchen floor, but I'm happy they have a "home" in the garage. For sports equipment and dog paraphernalia alone, this mudroom rocks.

Earlier this week I decided to put three framed pictures on the wall. One is a watercolor my mom painted in high school of her family's home (now a bread store in Morgantown, WV). The next is a Mary Engelbreit print that reminds me of her because she had the same print (but smaller) taped to our fridge when I was growing up. The third is watercolor still life my mom painted shortly after she and my dad got married. I have the white pitcher depicted here in my dining room.

It might seem weird to have such meaningful items hanging in our garage. It might also seem that they could get damaged being so close to the elements. But two of these have been languishing in various unfinished basements over our last three moves, while the flower print was hanging in our out of the way guest room. Moving them to the garage means I see them multiple times every day and get to enjoy them! I don't think that anything will happen to them, but it it does, I will have seen them more in the past week than I did in the previous decade.

My own mom modeled this for me.

That lady was making gallery walls before any of us knew they were called gallery walls. Our front hallway was a mix of mirrors, large and small, expensive and cheap. Our tiny powder room served as a gallery for framed sepia-toned family pictures of grand parents and great grandparents in old fashioned suits and white dresses. She joked that maybe it was a little offensive to have family heirlooms surrounding a toilet, but the truth is, because she took them out of albums and hung them on the walls, I saw those photos multiple times every single day, I knew who was in them, and they  became much more a part of my childhood than they would have had they been anywhere else in our old farmhouse. Now a few of those photos are on on display here in my office, still part of my daily life.

I've been feeling pretty overwhelmed about hanging (or not hanging!) artwork on the walls in this house. I tell myself that I should paint first, and then I just put it off...again. I just can't seem to make decisions, and the sheer volume is daunting. So I'm glad I was able to quickly put something up, in the garage of all places, that makes me smile.

Choices

 

I have no control over what happened to Jack. I can only control my reaction to it. I used to whine to my mom about my sister, “Mom, Liz makes me so mad!” Mom’s annoying response was always the same, “No one can make you mad. You choose how to react.” I knew it was true, and I’m sure she did to, but that calm philosophy didn’t always work for me, and it didn’t keep Mom herself from crying in the car when the three of us kids pushed her right over the edge. “I’m just so upset! I’m sorry I yelled at you kids. I know I don’t have a u-ter-us anymore, but if I did have a u-ter-us”-- weep, gasp, snuffle—“I think maybe I’d be men-stru-a-ting right now.”

Not sure what was worse, seeing my mom cry, or having her discuss lady parts in front of my brother.  Another day we sat lined up 1-2-3 on the brown tweed couch in the living room. “I want to talk to you about something very natural called “nocturnal emissions.” They are a normal part of getting older and are nothing to be ashamed of.” I’m sure my brother wanted to crawl under the couch and die. I was confused and would spend a few years wondering if I was ever going to get what mom had told us could also be called, “A Wet Dream.”

I read a quote from a blogger Jennifer Boykin: “I am responsible for everything that stays in my life.” It reminds me of my mother telling me I can choose how to react. But to the death of my son? Hmmm. I don’t feel like there are a lot of choices here.  Sure, I chose to stay positive after my mom died when I was a teenager. I  had pushed through as “brave,” and “strong,” and "positive." I dealt with the painful secondary losses of other important relationships that followed. Sometimes I felt very much alone.

I yearned for big family reunions and multi-generational beach trips, and someone to watch my babies so I could take a class, get my hair colored, or sleep. But I knew that my ultimate goal was to have a family and be a mom, the kind of imperfectly wonderful my mom was to me. And I got that. Jack and Margaret helped redeem that early, painful loss.

It hasn’t really felt like I’ve had much of a choice in how to react since Jack’s death. It’s been more like a “hang the hell on and don’t get sucked so far into the depths that I can’t get out” kind of thing.

But I guess there always is a choice, and this path, whatever it is I’m choosing-- whether it’s called being positive, clinging to joy, or whatever-- beats the alternative.

I think of our traditional Christmas Eve movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life” and I’m taken aback by Old Mrs. Bailey who has lost her only son to an accident. She has always seemed scary, bitter, shriveled and a bit wild to me. And I know that's an option.

But I do not choose that. Not today at least.

What do you choose today?

So Much to Lose, Part 2

I flew home from Colorado and my roommate picked me up at the airport. We got to the turn off between my house and the hospital. Did I want to go see my mom tonight? she asked. It was late. Visiting hours were over. I didn’t feel like navigating the parking garage and other perceived hassles, so I declined.

“But if she dies tomorrow, don’t blame me,” I joked. Oh yes I did. That’s how far from my reality even the concept of a dead mom was. For 1/10 of a second I had that oogy feeling that comes right before a stranger yanks your purse from under your arm, or your car slams into a dump truck, but as quickly is as it came, it flitted away again.

The next day I called my mom as soon as I woke. She sounded great. “You must be tired from your big trip. Why don’t you go back to sleep?” she said. So I did.

Later, I gathered up some art books for her to look at, a camera to take pictures of us together, and headed out. I stopped at the McDonald’s across from the hospital. I did not rush. We had time.

As I walked down the hallway to her room, I could see a glassed-in smoking lounge straight ahead. Patients could still smoke inside in those days. I thought it was funny to see people clutching their IV poles in one hand, cigarettes dangling from the other. I heard one woman say, “She’s been doing that for a while; they’ll probably move her roommate out because she's so loud.” The others nodded in agreement, a silent Greek chorus.

I entered Mom’s room to loud moaning. Her head was in intense pain. Her eyes were closed. I reached out for her small, warm hand. To this day, even though her voice is lost to me, I remember the feel of her hands, the smoothest I’ve ever felt.

Without opening her eyes, she said, “Oh, Anna, you’re here. I’m sorry I’m being such a chicken liver. It just hurts so much.” I assured her that she wasn’t chicken, but I was glad her eyes were shut, because mine were full of tears.

Her roommate was moved out of the room. Someone tried to find her doctor, but he was not reachable. Anywhere. Did doctors golf on Tuesdays? Would he ever come? Now it was only the two of us.

I didn’t have much faith in the Doogie Howser interns who came to check her every once in a while. Was there a real doctor in the house? Did these people even give a shit?

My father appeared, having been called at work by someone. Was it me? My mother opened her eyes and said to him, “You have been so good through all of this.” These words--her last-- were, I believe, her gift to him. A comfort he could pull out of his pocket and remember later, when he most needed to. She’s so damn classy, I remember thinking, to reach out to someone else when she was in such pain.

Something changed. She grew quiet. A good sign? Another person, still not her doctor, checked her eyes.

Brain bleed.
Massive.
No recovery.

My dad and I walked to a waiting room to discuss life support. Everything was happening so quickly. Of course she would not want to be, as people said so callously in those days, “a vegetable.” I smiled at my dad through my tears, wanting to comfort him, wanting him to know he didn’t have to worry about me.

Inside, my mind raced. Didn’t people come out of comas, like 10 years later, finding their children grown and their clothes out of date, but none the worse for the wear? Was there hope? Should we DO something?

I wanted to fight for her, but I didn’t really know what that meant, and I felt small and tired. I mean, if I hadn’t wanted to deal with a stupid parking garage, how could I be strong enough to defy a doctor’s recommendation and demand she be put on life support?

I hugged my dad. I said nothing.

We returned to her room, joined by one of our ministers, maybe two. We prayed around her bed as her breathing became loud and labored. I wanted to shout: “Walk AWAY from the light! Stay with me!” But that seemed weird, and embarrassing, and vulnerable, so I joined hands with the others and silently prayed for peace.

And we stood for a very long time, saying nothing, as her breathing got slower and slower…and stopped.

I gathered the unopened art books, the camera, and went home.

*******
I truly believe a mom wants what's best for her kids, whether they are 4, 18, or 40. So in sharing what happened on that sad, strange, horrible day, I have regrets, but I am not paralyzed by them. Why? Well, what mom would want that for her kid? Not mine.

You were right, Mom. I did have a life and I did have things to do. But Mom, you also were my life, and I’m pretty sure you know that too.

So Much to Lose

I walked into the house and threw the keys on the long dining room table. Instead of going straight upstairs, something led me to the kitchen. My 46 year old mom was seated at the table, still dressed from a lunch out with the girls, her back ramrod straight. She said nothing. I gave her a smooch on the head and then realized something was wrong. She couldn’t talk.

Six weeks before, life as we knew it had changed. While I was sunning and funning on the beach in Key West, my mother had a brain aneurysm. I didn’t find out until later when I flew back home from Spring Break, badly sunburned but ready to dive back into my freshman year of college. This was before cell phones, and my dad hadn’t known where to reach me at the rundown motel where my friends and I were staying.

Long, scary days in ICU, then a regular room, followed by recovery at home, and we thought my mom was on the mend. My sister, brother, and I went back to college at our mother’s urging: Go, you have a life, you have things to take care of… and we did.

My mother adjusted to the new reality of giving up her car for a whole year (people who have had a seizure should not drive), scaling back her business, and focusing on recovery. She was almost herself. She didn’t like having an aide stay with her during the days, because she felt like she had to entertain her. She liked it best when her friends would come just to hang out. We never discussed my leaving school and taking care of her.

She did not lose her spunk. In language therapy, she had to write a sentence involving kittens. No “The cat sat on the rug,” for her. Her sentence read something like, “The coddled and capricious kittens constantly craved quality quilts.”

Freshman year ended and I came home. And now, after a day of shopping and spending time at the tanning booth, I found myself standing in front of my silent mother, and she needed me.

I called 911 and the ambulance arrived shortly. Four men came in the house. One said to his buddies, “Hey, we’ve been here before. This is the same lady who was yelling and screaming and seizing a few weeks ago.” I hated him. I wanted to make him pay for his insensitivity -- for planting that image in my brain—but I was 18, my mother was not acting like my mother, and I kept my mouth shut.

Back to the hospital for more tests and procedures. Within a few days she seemed like herself again. My long distance boyfriend had a week of dances and festivities at the Air Force Academy. My mother told me to go. “Just make sure your boob doesn’t fall out the side of that green formal dress,” she laughed. Go, you have a life, you have things to do…and so I did.

Dances, parties, we had a lovely time. My mom sounded like herself on the phone whenever I called. But something had changed. The word Cancer was mentioned for the first time. Biopsy. Should I come home early?

Stay, you have a life… I’ll see you when you get home. So I stayed.

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