The last six months have difficult. I watched cancer take my sister and a few
weeks later I found myself sitting in Hospice watching my mother fade. The holiday season was a blur of sorrow, a
parade of people, a constant feeling of exhaustion, and too much stress. Mom
passed away shortly after the New Year and I was with her until the end. Although I thought I was prepared for her
passing, when she left us my heart just imploded. Over the next few days it felt as though I
was navigating through a fog of sorrow making funeral arrangements and the ever
constant parade of people.
A few days ago, for the first time in months, I had my first
full day alone. As I poured my morning
coffee, I noticed that the cup I was using was one that my mother had given me
almost twenty years ago. Throughout the
day I seemed to be more aware of my mother’s influence in my life. It was a comforting feeling to know that mom
had left an imprint on my life that will never fade. I still feel sad but I am wise enough to
understand that sorrow is normal at a time like this because grief is a
process, but grief should not be a parking spot.
As I mused on how to
navigate this difficult time, I reflected back on the last few months and
realized that so many things went wrong; but just as many things went right.
There had been tension between my mother and I, but when I received that call that
she needed me I wouldn’t think of hesitating.
I was unprepared and had to learn about both Alzheimer disease and
caregiving on the fly. There were times when I felt completely overwhelmed but
the upside is that I had more than two years to reconnect with my mother. Mom was surrounded by people who cared about
her in her last days and she had a chance to see everyone before she passed
away. She even made it through one last
Christmas, although I am not completely certain that she was even aware of the
holidays this year. I had the right people
near me at the right time. Even the
things that didn’t go according to plan seemed to set a chain of events in
motion which led me to something that I needed more.
“Life is lumpy. A lump in your oatmeal, a lump in your
throat, and a lump in your breast are not the same lump. One should learn the
difference.” Robert Fulghum
This last two and a half years, as I watched as my mom
battle Alzheimer Disease, it felt as though she was fading right in front of my
eyes one memory at a time. The demands on my time and my emotions were enormous
so I began to put distance between myself and the consistent whiners. I am not
demeaning anyone’s personal challenges but I heard a motivational speaker say
once that “A lump in your oatmeal is an
inconvenience and a lump in your breast is a problem. Unfortunately, there
are folks who react to both lumps the same way.” There was a time when I
would patiently allow someone to waste my time complaining about the lumps in
their oatmeal just as vehemently as they complained about their real problems. The last two years has taught me that time is
valuable so I should not waste it listening to people who complain endlessly yet
have a myriad of excuses for not improving their situation. Time was a precious commodity so I had to put
distance between myself and a few acquaintances but these last few years also
reinforced a few other friendships and even made them stronger.
“There comes a time in your life
when you walk away from all of the drama and the people who create it. You surround yourself with people who make
you laugh. Forget the bad and focus on the good. Love the people who treat you
right and pray for those who don’t. Life
is too short to be anything but happy. Falling down is a part of life, getting
back up is living.”
Jose N. Narris Mi Vida
One of the people I don’t make time to talk with often
called me a mere hours after my mother’s memorial. I was out with family and it
took less than a minute to realize that the purpose of the call wasn’t
consolation or concern. I felt as though she saw my loss as an opportunity for shared
drama so she could begin a tirade of complaints about a “lump in the oatmeal
problem.” The timing of her call was
less than ideal but that call also helped me realize that the best way to
navigate through my pain was to focus on the memories that would keep me
smiling. After making a gentle exit from
the conversation I returned to the table with a resolve to change the spirit of
the moment. I looked around at my family
and asked, “Did mom ever share the story about the first time she changed a
flat tire?” Most of them shook their head so I told a story that my mother told
me when I was learning to change a tire in my Driver’s Education class.
“Every person passing through
this life will unknowingly leave something and take something away. Most of this ‘something’ cannot be seen or
heard or numbered or scientifically detected or counted. It is what we leave in the minds of other
people and what they leave in ours.
Memory. The census doesn’t count.
Nothing counts without it.”
Robert Fulghum,
All I Really Need to know I
Learned in Kindergarten.
When I was younger we lived in a remote area, and the trip
to our place was down a remote country road.
My dad made certain mom knew a few car basics (such as changing a flat
tire) in the event that she ever broke down on the road home. He even had her practice changing a tire
until he felt comfortable that she could manage on her own. A few months later mom was on her way home when
she had a flat tire on a remote part of the road. I remember mom telling me
that she was grateful she could change the tire herself so she “got out of the
car and just got to work.” As she was
finishing the task, someone came by and stopped to offer assistance. My mom told him “No thank you. I just finished changing the tire so I should
be all set!” The man looked a little
confused as he examined what she had done. Finally he said nodded and said, “Yes,
and you did a fine job. Perhaps I can help you change the flat tire.” Mom looked at the car and to her dismay she realized
that she had been so intent on changing the tire herself that she changed the
one she had practiced on instead of the one that was flat! My mother said she
and my dad would laugh over that story every time there was a tire issue with
one of the cars.
This story prompted others to share their stories of my mom’s
adventures and it wasn’t long until we were smiling in fond remembrance of my
petite little mother who was feisty, intelligent, loved to laugh, loved
animals, loved to garden, loved anything that was artistic, was an accomplished
musician, and would strive to teach her students a genuine love of music. My mom was independent, outspoken to a fault,
impetuous, compassionate, kind, and artistic. She could be just as stubborn and
headstrong as she was kind and compassionate which meant that she could be
frustrating at times. Yet, what I
admired most about her was the fact that she was genuine. She wasn’t afraid to take a risk, speak her
mind (even if it made her unpopular) and she would be the first to laugh at
herself when she made a mistake. .
“Remember tonight for it is the
beginning of always.”
Dante
I think grief is a byproduct of love because we only grieve losing what we care about. While grief is about mourning what was
lost, living is the fine art of balancing what was, what is, and what will be. I want to cherish my memories of yesterday
while I work on living to the fullest today so I can create a set of happy memories that my
family will smile about, and hopefully cherish, someday when I am gone.
Thank you to my mother who taught me to always be myself, the love of music, art, nature, not be afraid to take a risk, and to value living life to it's fullest.
Rest In Peace Mom. You are in my heart always.
