The Sign

My dad looked much better when I Skyped him yesterday. His color was back and his eyes were not puffy or swollen. The product of "A good night's sleep," he told me. He went swimming again too: good for the brain and the body.

In his own way I believe my dad said "Goodbye" to my mother on Christmas Day. He wasn't able to do it beforehand. Although it may seem silly, my dad needed some kind of 'sign' from my mother telling him that she was at peace in the afterlife. Until the 'sign' appeared, he wouldn't feel she was at rest. Soon after Mother died, he told me as much.

During the exact moment that my mother passed away we were gathered around my parent's dining table. We sat listening to the lyrics of the song, 'Remember When' by Alan Jackson. The music played softly from their CD player, nearby. This was my parent's special song. Their favorite song. The meaning of the words were both personal and intimate to them.

On Christmas Eve, the day before my father's 78th birthday, he went to my Aunt Mary Ann's (my mother's closest sister) for dinner before attending church. She gave him a birthday card in a plain blue envelope; asking him not to open it until the next day. In honor of her wishes my father waited until the the next morning. He was of course, all alone in the house thinking of my mother. This was his first Christmas and birthday without her. She had only been gone a little over a month. A CD played the melody, 'Remember When.'

The birthday card from my aunt sat on the kitchen counter. Dad picked it up and opened it. It was a sentimental card. Printed inside were several lines carrying messages and memories of long ago. The front of the card however, began with only two words: 'Remember When.'

My aunt knew nothing of the song that played the moment of my mother's passing. She did not know it held a personal meaning to my parents. She didn't know the music or the lyrics. She simply liked the sentiments of the card, and purchased it on a whim a few days before.

Finally, my father received the 'sign' he had been waiting for.

The Mask

I telephoned my father this morning to ask how his Christmas and birthday went last Saturday.

Together with my brother Dave, my dad went to spend the holiday with my youngest brother Dan, who lives about thirty miles north in the heart of old-town Phoenix. I am so glad Dad got out of his house during his birthday and Christmas. His home is far too full of my mother's memories which would have been particularily hard on him so soon after her passing.

The perfect Christmas tree that I put up for my mother is still sitting on the hearth of my parent's fireplace. Hanging from two separate 'snowy' pine branches are the personalized ornaments sent by my sister Brenda: the heart with all of our names on it and the silver angel engraved with 'Mom'.

For the first time in over fifty years my father didn't see any brightly wrapped presents underneath the 'perfect' tree. No wrappings of colored foil paper; no bows in assorted Christmas hues; no needlepoint stockings hung from his fireplace mantle; no enticing aromas of roasted turkey or lemon meringue pie wafted from his kitchen. My mother, his partner in life was not there to do it for him this year. She is gone, forever. I doubt if her passing had ever felt so 'real' to him as it did last Saturday, Chistmas Day.

I Skyped Dad later this afternoon. He answered, but for the first time in weeks he didn't look very well to me. The holiday season has taken quite a toll on him. More than I expected to see. His hair looked a bit grayer, his bright blue eyes a little more dull, and his face appeared puffy and tired. Of course, he did his best to act like everything was fine, but even that attempt was not up to par. There were long, uncomfortable pauses during much of our conversation. Very unusual for the two of us. Our chatting typically flows very easily.

Perhaps my dad simply needs to recuperate from all of last week's festivities. Having to celebrate such a big holiday as Christmas, on the very same day as his birthday is often weary for him in a 'good' year. Having to do it for the first time with my mother no longer alive must have been immensely trying.

Everyone else it seems, has a bright and happy face at Christmastime. I'm sure my dad did his best to put on the same for everyone around him that day. But inside, deep within his heart and soul, he must have felt very alone. Inside, he was not smiling. My dear father mearly wore a temperary mask deemed necessary for the sake of all others.

Of course my father's heart is still broken. What do I expect?

Material Gifts of Christmas

Today I couldn't help but think of the material gifts I received for Christmas. I hadn't asked for anything. Who does at my age??!! Because of my mother's death I never seemed to capture much of the holiday spirit until the very week of Christmas. Receiving gits never crossed my mind. For days I was thankful to just get through the pain and loss of losing Mom. Even today, I'm not sure if I ever really will. But, for much of that I am glad. I believe that my mother is always with me in some, small way. Never-the-less, my family together with a kind neighbor and a long-time dear friend brought me a few fabulous surprises.

From my husband, Gary I received warm and fuzzy (but very stylish) pajamas, fluffy slipper boots (I'm perpetually cold), a new Christmas CD (I love music), and a signed, First-Edition copy of a novel written by my favorite author, Dominick Dunne. I am thrilled!

In addition to the above, my son, Jayson and his wife, Nichole purchased a gift-card for me and my husband to a new movie theatre here in town. It is quite unique, with the seating arrangement reminding me of the 'first class' section found in airplanes. The theatre itself is very intimate (reservations only), and has room for only about twenty people. The rugged leather chairs recline and are heated to keep the patron toasty warm throughout the show. Best of all, a small table is placed at each 'couples seating,' allowing for food and drink. A waiter quietly waits on each person throughout the movie, whispering 'Today's Special,' in addition to serving other 'real food' such as burgers, fries, ribs, chicken, salads, and the like. Movie treats including candy, popcorn, and various drinks are also included. We can't wait to go for this one-of-a-kind movie experience! I'm sure it will be great fun, especially since we're total movie aficionados.

My youngest son, Justin gave me the most beautiful card (which would have been more than enough). In it he wrote a touching note telling me how much he loved me and thanking me for being such a great mom to him throughout the years. I cried tears of joy while reading it. Who could ask for more? He also added a Macy's gift card and two tickets to a great play next month at our local professional Repertory Theatre. A wonderful 'date night' to look forward to next month!

A sweet neighbor surprised us on Christmas night with a darling 'Santa' box filled with chocolate covered pretzels and marshmallows dipped in white chocolate trimmed with red and green sprinkles. A separate bag of treats was provided for our dog, Doodles. He's already half way through them. I'm trying to hold off (as long as I can) on the pretzels and marshmallows. I have a real sweet tooth so I know I won't last long!

Finally, a very dear friend from Junior High School sent me a new, prized possession. My friend, Rose, lives in St. Charles, Michigan. Coincidentally this is the same little town where my mother was born and raised during her early years. This special friend surprised me with a box containing numerous and orderly typed pages depicting my genealogy. My eyes absorbed this fascinating history of my past, which details the lives of my ancestors born in Whales, all the way back to the 1700's. I couldn't put it down and read much of it on the spot!

The above gift means more than I can say. My friend took her own valuable time to trudge through knee-high, crunchy snow banks in piercing cold weather to locate the graves of my past relatives who are now resting in various local cemeteries. I can picture Rose now: all bundled up in a fur-trimmed, hooded parka in the hopes of shielding herself from winter's chill. She's driving down treacherous two-lane, icy-covered roads in order to stop to wipe frosted snowflakes off ancient tombstones; trying to find the correct names that will fulfill her mission. Somehow, someway, she did it. Thank you Rose. I will treasure this gift always.

Of course, I can't possibly leave out the package I received earlier this morning. It actually arrived last Friday: Christmas Eve. But, because our mailman won't drive to our house to deliver anything, the package went directly to our local post office. I wasn't able to retrieve it until today. As soon as I returned home I eagerly ripped away the brown outer paper only to discover a generously sized bag of home-made caramel corn. What a delicious and thoughtful surprise!

The above gift came from Rose, the same dear friend who did my genealogy history. During an e-mail not long ago, she mentioned that she was about to make home-made caramel corn in preparation for the holidays. The mere mention of this delectable confection made my mouth water! Through a message back to her I relayed a true story of my one and only attempt at making the same. After what seemed like hours of manual labor and many dollars of ingredients, my caramel corn ended up all sticky and gooey: unable for human consumption. How thoughtful of her to send me her own; a true gift from her heart (and hands). I'm munching on it now and it is absolutely delicious!

It's true that material gifts are not the true meaning of Christmas, nor should they ever be. As I said before, Christmas is about the the birth of Jesus, the love of family, being together, and sometimes even miracles such as the ones I experienced for myself, last week. But together with the true meaning of Christmas sometimes comes a few material surprises.

I'm not complaining. I appreciate each and every one of them!

Christmas Memories of Mother

Christmas morning! I awoke to the sun peeking out above the snow-covered hill in our back yard. A single doe was stood very stately and looked back at me as I gazed out into the first morning light. What a beautiful and appropriate first site of Christmas morning. Pure nature: God's work. It all seemed so right.

After letting Doodles outside, I put on a pot of coffee and pre-heated the oven for my Christmas breakfast dish: a french-toast casserole recipe from my good friend, Patti. I warmed the various syrups (regular and sugar-free), and sliced the fruit. The dining table had been pre-set for Christmas brunch last night. Every thing this morning was pretty easy. After letting Doodles inside, I wiped his paws with a kitchen towel. They were full of clumps of snow from him playing in the yard. He jumped on the sofa with me while I drank my morning coffee: a brief respite before the hustle and bustle of Christmas Day began.

Soon, the kids were all up, my Grand-dog was let outside, and stockings were pulled from their hooks on the fireplace mantel. One-by-one, we emptied them of their tiny treasures; a Christmas tradition from long ago. It was fun to see what 'Santa' had brought each of us. Brightly-colored hair bands and hand lotion for Nichole, a new CD for Jayson, Justin's favorite cologne, mini-puzzles for Gary, and pretty earrings for me.

Next, I called my Dad to wish him a 'Happy Birthday.' Although Christmas is all about celebrating Jesus' birthday, it is my father's birthday too. I never forget to telephone him during the first part of the morning, before any presents are opened or breakfast is served. "Happy Birthday, Dad," I yelled into the phone. "Kim, is that you," he teased. "Thanks, Honey. How's everything going over there?" I told him all about our rare 'white Christmas' in St. Louis: the first in eight years. "It's so pretty outside, Dad. I wish you could see it."

My father went on to tell me how much he enjoyed dinner at my Aunt's house last night and how lovely his church service had been. He said he missed all of us, and went on to tell me that he put on Mom's Christmas tree lights earlier this morning, while it was still dark in the desert sky. He hadn't lit her tree since I left Arizona, and today it was appropriate. He placed his favorite picture of her next to the newly lit tree, told her 'Merry Christmas' and sat down in her favorite chair; covering his bare legs with her prayer shawl. Of course in telling me this he started to cry. My heart broke for him and I too, began to tear up. I reminded him of how much she loved him...of how much she knew he loved her. "It's okay to cry, Dad," I told him. "We all miss her, especially today."

Our breakfast brunch was delicious. Patti's recipe will be repeated next year. Every one has agreed! After clearing the Christmas china from the table, we put on holiday tunes and sat by the fire. Nichole was the designated 'Santa' this year: doling out presets one at a time to each member of the family. Not many to go around this year, but no one seemed to notice. Or, if they did they didn't mind. Every one received gifts they liked or had wished for, and all were happy in the end. Being together was extra special this Christmas. I'm not sure if it was due to the loss of my mother (my children's grandmother) just a few weeks before. Or maybe it was the possible loss of Jayson earlier in the week. Whatever the reason, we all feel truly blessed this year. Blessed to be alive, blessed to have each other, blessed to be able to celebrate the season together.

All too soon breakfast was eaten; the gifts were unwrapped; crinkled paper was thrown away; foil bows and cardboard boxes were saved for next year; time came for the kids to leave for their next round of celebration. Jayson, Nichole and my Grand-dog were on their way to her parents farm in western Missouri for a weekend of sledding, cross-country skiing, and eating more turkey. Justin was expected for an afternoon of watching football with his friends. We helped them load up their cars with gifts, clothing, and dishes of leftover food. Justin reaped the benefit of most of the food. He was the single one. After today he has enough leftovers to feed his roommates for at least a day or two. My Christmas gift to all of them!

We shut the door behind us; the sudden quietness of the house seemed deafening to our ears. Doodles looked up at us with sad eyes, already missing his play-mate. I felt sad too, as I always do whenever the kids drive away. Ever since they left the nest, it's never been the same. An occasional visit is all I get now, but for that I am thankful. I have raised them to be independent. They have their own lives to live and I wouldn't have it any other way. Gary went downstairs to watch football while I grabbed my new book to begin reading.

My mind wandered to Christmases past when I was a child. How my mother loved Christmas!!! No one ever did Christmas like Mom did. My childhood home was decorated from room to room in all it's seasonal splendor. A tall, live blue spruce tree traditionally sat in the front window for all to see. Shiny ornaments sparkled and danced on each branch with rainbow-colored lights placed perfectly between them. Miniature dolls played house on faux snow covered window sills, and Dad's boy-hood train chugged on HO tracks placed around the tree; it's whistle blowing puffs of black smoke.

My mother was very poor as a child. I think Christmas was her time to 'make-up' for what she never had, herself. Stacks and stacks of pristine wrapped presents mingled beneath our tree: too many to count. Yet, my mother always knew how many gifts she purchased. There were five of children in our family and she made sure that each and every one of us had exactly the same number of gifts. No one ever had one less or one more. She even had a specific way of displaying the presents around the tree. She presented them in such a way so that there was never a bundle of presents for one child sitting in one place. Instead, each child had gifts evenly dispersed all around (and beyond) the bottom of the tree skirt. This way, 'Santa' never had the unfortunate opportunity to give two gifts in a row to the same child. Mother made sure that everything was always equal: right down to the number of trinkets in our Christmas stockings.

Speaking of stockings, ours were gifts in and among themselves. They were always filled beyond their brim; overflowing with delightful treasures. Some inside were wrapped and some were not. Before long I learned that the 'extra-special' stocking gifts were wrapped in colored foil paper and tied with curling ribbon. How I loved to rip open the the tiny foiled boxes! To my delight, I usually found a shiny new piece of jewelry embedded with colored gemstones hidden under a square of soft protective cotton. Real or not, each and every piece was a newly cherished possession.

Oh, and there was Christmas dinner! No one ever cooked or baked like my mother. Days and days before the holiday she began to roll out dough with her red handled, wooden rolling pin. Before long, creamy colored dough rolled in white flour covered every inch of our kitchen counter tops. Dough for pie crusts, cookie dough, bread dough, and dough for noodles. My mother baked pies from scratch (freshly squeezed lemon was her speciality) and roasted range- free turkey butchered from the farm in the next little town. No one ever left the table hungry and if they did it was their own fault. Mom always had enough food for at least twenty people (usually more), and leftovers were gobbled up with delight.

I find it only fitting that this Christmas evening I'm thinking of my mother. The first Christmas I must celebrate without her. The first Christmas where I didn't call her with exciting news of presents just received. The first Christmas that I couldn't brag to her of how well her recipes turned out for me. The first Christmas I am truly missing her. The first Christmas I know she is gone; never to share the holiday with me again.

This is the first Christmas filled of memories from my childhood spent with Mother, not so very long ago. Blessings from the past. Miracles from the present. Hopefulness for the future.

Merry Christmas Mother. I love you.

It's a Wonderful Life

Christmas Eve is here! I arose early to start my cooking. My sons' and daughter-in-law will be here for our traditional Christmas dinner at 5:00 sharp. It will be a feast of my mother's home-made noodles (of course), ham, turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, salads, vegetables, rolls, and desserts. The table is all set with my prized Christmas china and matching crystal goblets; the presents wrapped; the traditional holiday music is playing for all to hear.

The door bell rang about 10:00 this morning. At the front door was a local flower delivery man with the most beautiful of Christmas centerpieces I had ever seen. The arrangement is made up of Christmas tree greenery, red & white sparkling candy canes, red roses, white carnations, and wired, decorated holiday ribbon. In the middle, a clear glass hurricane lamp covers a candy-cane striped pillar candle. I immediately filled the base with fresh water and opened the card. It simply read, "Love, the Kirks." For a moment I was confused. The only 'Kirks' left in my family (Kirk is my maiden name) consist of my father and two brothers. If my dad sent me the flowers, why didn't he sign it, 'Love, Dad,' or something to that effect?

After placing the flowers in the center of my dining room table (where it looked absolutely stunning) I called my father to thank him. "Hi Daddy, I got your flowers and they are beautiful," I told him, all excited. "I love them, and put them right in the middle of our dining room table. We'll light the candle tonight and all say a special prayer before dinner. They are from you, aren't they?" I asked.

"Sure, Honey, I sent them," Dad replied. "I tried to pick out something special that I thought you girls might like." He told me he sent each of my sisters the same arrangement which I knew they would adore. "Just one thing, Dad, why did you sign the card the way you did? I wasn't exactly sure who it was from." My father paused, carefully measuring his words.

"Because," he answered," the flowers are really from me and your mother," he continued in broken words. "But I didn't want to sign the card that way because I was afraid I'd make you cry." My loving father, having the forethought to comfort and protect me from crying, made himself break down once again. My father is such a special man. The most unselfish person that I've ever known. "Oh Daddy, that is such a sweet thing to do. In my heart I knew they were from both of you. You are so thoughtful."

This was an especially hard week for my father. I tried desperately to change the subject and to lighten the conversation. "Did you go swimming this morning?" I asked him. "Yes, I went to work-out early," he answered. "And, I'm having dinner with your Aunt Mary Ann (my mom's oldest sister) tonight before going to church afterward."

Happily, I told my dad how glad I was that he was having dinner with my Aunt and her family, and how peaceful I thought going to church would be for him. "The church will be beautiful I bet," I told him. You can just sit in peace, say your prayers and absorb all the Christmas pagentry."

Thanking Dad again for the flowers, I told him how much I loved him. Tomorrow he's going to my brother's home for dinner. How thankful I am that he won't be home alone on Christmas Day. Tomorrow also happens to be Dad's 78th birthday. Instead of celebrating, I bet it will be another hard hurdle for him to overcome. Another cross to bear. Not only is it going to be his first Christmas without my mother, but it will also be his first birthday without her. It almost doesn't seem fair. But life is not fair, is it? Sadly, there will be none of Dad's favorite home-made German chocolate birthday cake at his dining table this year. No little Christmas presents hidden by Mom, no special little birthday gifts set aside in order to make his birthday a special celebration apart from the other holiday. This Christmas is going to be hard. Everything is coming far too fast since she has passed. If only we could all have a little more time.

My children showed up at the house in all of their Christmas finery close to our projected dinner hour. They brought an extra set of clothes and toiletries in order to stay overnight: the perfect Christmas gift for me! Earlier today, I dressed their respective bedrooms for the holiday with red patchwork comforters, white lace bed skirts, and velvet throw pillows. Miniature snow-men night lights are just outside their doors, and their bathroom decor is now changed to candy-cane towels, crimson throw rugs, and peppermint soap. We will all celebrate the holiday together. Family: this is what Christmas is all about.

Before beginning dinner, I said a very special prayer thanking God for our many blessings; for our 'miracles.' My new daughter-in-law, Nichole joined the family this past summer and Justin is doing very well at the new job he started this past Spring. I thanked the Lord for the miracle He gave us in saving Jayson's life (and all of the others) from his car accident only two days before. And, a special blessing was said for the gift of Jayson's diabetic alert dog. He's family too, now. My 'Grand-dog.'

Without crying, I thanked God for the end to Mother's suffering and asked Him to keep her loved and close in his arms. I thanked Him for allowing her to be 'our' angel who is watching over us (as I truly believe), and asked for the gift of peace and harmony for my father in the coming year. My prayer continued a few short seconds to thank God for our generous bounty of food, our terrific family, and a wish for good will in the New Year. After 'Amen' we all dabbed a tear or two with our cloth napkins before toasting to our blessed, Christmas celebration.

Soon after dinner and dessert, the five of us changed into our more comfortable, 'Christmas' pajamas. I wore a cream-colored flannel nightgown trimmed in bright red cardinals: a subliminal message to my mom. Nichole changed into cotton-candy, pink thermal PJ's, and the guys all dressed up in new plaid flannel trousers made in various shades of greens, blues, and reds. Matching long sleeved T-shirts complimented their bottoms, and they all wore some kind of new slippers on their feet. I must say, we all looked good enough for a family portrait to be taken!

Gary started the fireplace and let our dog 'Doodles' out with Jayson's dog to play in the snow. For the first time in eight years we are having a genuine 'White Christmas.' It is beautiful. Stark tree branches now weighing heavy with piled snow look like picture postcards against the ink black evening sky. Next door, the neighbor's holiday lights are dancing on their rooftop, and across the street an inflatable 'Santa' is holding on tight to the reigns of 'Rudolph's sled.

Nichole and I brought out bowls of popcorn and cans of diet soda while the boys searched the hall closet for their favorite board games. For the next few hours our home was filled with laughter and cheer. Together, we all played 'Sorry,' 'Pictionary,' and 'Scrabble,' with Justin coming out on top every time. Tonight, our home felt much like the ending to the movie in 'It's a Wonderful Life.'

After all is said and done with God to thank for it, it really is a wonderful life.

In Spirit

This morning I felt exhausted from the emotions of last night. Jayson had a doctor's appointment to make sure everything was okay early this morning. About 11:00 he called with good news. No, he hadn't seen the doctor yet, but he did just hear (while in the waiting room) that he got a new job he had just interviewed for. It was the exact position he was seeking: highly sought after with tremendous competition. Best of all, the job is right here in ST. LOUIS!!!!!!!

Only this past week Jayson had interviewed for the same position in several different states from Alaska to Maine. The thought of him being separated from Nichole, even for a short time, broke my heart. This was a true blessing. Yet another Christmas miracle! I was so happy I shouted the news to Gary all across the house. Only a week before this particular job in St. Louis wasn't even available. Suddenly Jayson heard of it, applied for it, interviewed for it, and was awarded the position; all in a matter of days. Typically unheard of!

Later this afternoon, we met Jayson and Nichole for lunch to celebrate the good news. His doctor gave him an all clear and he had a new job. How wonderful! How miraculous! Yes God does work in mysterious ways. God and (perhaps) my mother. Nichole is over the moon with joy. They can finally move from their cramped apartment and begin to look for a 'real' home to buy or rent: one with a fenced yard for their dog. And now, Nichole can finish up her Master's Degree and apply for her PHD right here in St. Louis. Lucky for everyone involved!

After celebrating over lunch, I felt in the mood to write a few Christmas cards out. Usually, I write a one page Christmas letter and send it together with a card to about fifty people every year. It's something I enjoy and keeps me in touch with friends and family who don't live nearby. In fact, none of my family and most of my friends don't live nearby. Most of them live out of state. Christmas cards are an important way for me to keep in touch with them at least once a year. But, with my mother's passing and all of the other recent turmoil I didn't feel up to doing them this year. Today, I feel lucky that I'm in the mood to even address a few. I think I have about ten cards written, addressed and ready to mail. Not many, but better than none.

My dad called today. I told him about Jayson's accident and how I thought Mother had something to do with 'our' miracle. So many things could have gone much, much worse. I don't take it lightly how very lucky we all are. Hearing the story, my dad was thrilled beyond measure that Jayson and everyone else (including his dog) were all right. Still, I could hear him choking up a bit when I mentioned Mother 'helping' to save him. Dad believes it too. He is happy of course, but he misses her so.

"Yes, I looked at your mother's picture just a minute ago," he said. "I always touch her face and give her a little kiss whenever I pass by," he added. I could tell he was crying. "I know how much you love her still, Daddy," I said to him. "She knows.....she loves you back."

"I have to go," my father choked back his words with tears. "I love you and I'll call you later."

The closer it gets to Christmas the harder it is on my father. aftr all, it is only a month since her passing. One month and five days when Christmas Day arrives. My parents spent nearly 57 years together. It will take much longer than a month for his pain to lesson. Every time I hear my father's choked words, my heart breaks for him. The thought of him being home alone in his house at this time of year is gut wrenching for me. How I wish I could do something more for him.

My dad reminds me of the fact that my mother is gone from this earth but never, ever forgotten. She's here for my father and she's here all of us

In miracles and in spirit.

Chistmas Miracles

The ice has melted. I was right. It was warmer yesterday. Not enough to melt all of the snow, but enough to melt the ice. Now, the streets and sidewalks around our home feel safe again. The ice is gone, leaving patches of frosted white powder nearly everywhere we look.

My husband took me to a movie this afternoon, trying to get my mind off the sadness of not having my mother with me this Christmas. We went to see The Fighter, a terrific true-story about two boxing brothers from Boston. The actor, Christian Bale's performance was mesmerizing. Surely, he'll be nominated for all of the upcoming awards this season. We sat together all snuggled blissfully in the very back row, eating warm buttered popcorn and sharing a Coke. We felt like two teenagers newly in love. My mind was not on anything but the very present. How nice!

On the way home, our car braked at a stop sign where a deer ran across the road. I started crying. "What's wrong?" my husband asked. "The deer is safe. We weren't going to hit it." he added.

"No, it's not the deer." I answered, blowing my nose. "I want to call my mom, to tell her about the movie. But, I know that I can't." Something as little as telling my mother about a movie had taken on a whole new meaning.

At that very second my husband's cell phone rang. "Hello," he said, picking it up. "Hello, hello?" No one answered him. I'm being totally honest. No one was on the other end of the phone line. How could that be? At the very instant I thought of calling my mother, our own phone rang. I know I'm not the first person to have something like this happen.........something perhaps from 'above' or 'beyond.' It's a coincidence, I know. Still............

After dinner tonight we settled in to watch television. I don't even remember what was on. At 7:45 our daughter-in-law, Nichole called. "Have you heard from Jayson, " she asked, her voice shaking. My stomach dropped. My son, Jayson, has insulin dependant diabetes. The fact that Nichole was calling to see if we had heard from him was an instant alarm bell. No, we had not not heard from him.

Nichole went on to tell us that Jayson had called her while driving home from work to let her know that he was only about five minutes away from their apartment. That was thirty minutes before. Jayson was still not home and he was not picking up his cell phone. I told her to call the police to explain the situation and to stay right where she was. We were on our way.

On the ride to Jay & Nichole's apartment, we couldn't stop praying. There was no doubt that our son, Jayson had been in a car accident. His many years of living with diabetes left him prone to low blood sugar episodes, although never while driving a car. We had even purchased and trained a diabetic alert dog for him earlier in the year (a future blog) which has been a life saver. We knew his dog was with him so we prayed for him, too. The dog was his life-line. "Please God, let them be okay," we said in unison, over an over. We prayed for our son, we prayed for any others that might have been in the accident with him, and we prayed for our son's diabetic alert dog.

Nichole called back to tell us that the police had called her. She had heard sirens nearby. The police told her that Jayson was in an accident at a VERY busy intersection a block away from their apartment. The police told her the accident was 'diabetic-related,' but that Jayson was 'okay.' Nichole was crying. She didn't know anything more, but she was on her way to the accident site. We told her we were on our way too, and would meet her there shortly.

Minutes later we approached the accident's intersection. Red and yellow lights revolved above police cars and an ambulance. Traffic was stopped while a tall man in a police uniform directed traffic with his flashlight. Our hearts raced. We couldn't drive up to the intersection so we turned our car to go around the block. There we parked our car and raced on foot through the stopped traffic nearly the accident site. My body was running on pure adrenalin. I peered inside my son's mangled car. The front end looked like an accordion. Two more damaged cars (not nearly as bad) were stopped in front of his. The intersection's light was red.

Not finding our son, we raced to the ambulance and peered inside the back windows. Nichole was with him. He was lying on a stretcher; an I.V. protruding from his left arm. He was alive. Alert and talking. Looking good, even. We went inside to see him and speak to the attending paramedics. My whole body was shaking. "Your son had his own Christmas miracle tonight," one attendant said. "He had his seat belt on and his airbag went off to protect him. His blood sugar was, 33." Thirty-three was so very low. "He wasn't conscious when we pulled him from the car. He came around when we started the glucose into his vein. His blood sugar is 220: a little high but he's okay now," the paramedic told me.

My dog?" Jayson wondered aloud. "Where's my dog?" The EMT told us these were the first words out of his mouth as soon as he became conscious. He was worried (rightly so) about his beloved dog. The paramedics said they didn't even know a dog was in the car. He's black (a British Lab) so they couldn't see him all scrunched up in the back seat near the window. He had wet himself and was scared to death. The policeman had gently coached him from the car and walked him safely to his own squad car; putting him inside where he'd be warm and safe. Thank God. Another Christmas miracle.

We learned that there were indeed, two other cars in the accident. Jayson had passed out due to unexplained low blood sugar and rear-ended a car, who rear-ended another car. They were both stopped at the intersection's red light. We had no way of knowing how fast Jayson's car had been going. But we could see that was a major impact. His car was irreparable; the other two amazingly not so bad. But most importantly, no one in the other cars were hurt. No one even went to a hospital. Thank God. Thank God the two cars in front of Jayson were stopped at the red light. I hate to think of what might have happened had my son's car crossed through the intersection. More Christmas miracles.

Other than being sore, Jayson felt pretty good. He wanted to get his dog and go home. While his car was being towed I signed some paperwork so Gary could get Jayson's dog. He checked him over and led him to Nichole's car. Soon, Jayson was released to Nichole. We piled into her car and drove towards their apartment. Jayson started crying; he felt so guilty. So guilty of something he had no control over. He was always so very careful, especially before driving. He didn't deserve to go through this. "I just wish I could be normal," he said. In nearly 19 years I had rarely heard him cry or say such a thing. Nichole comforted him while I led his dog into their apartment. I called his doctor (his insulin pump's numbers would have to be adjusted) while Nichole began giving him food to keep his blood sugar up.

Our drive home was loud with silence. Each of our minds wrapped in their own myriad of 'what ifs'. I though of how bad the accident was and of how much worse it could have been. I thought of how my son's life (and all of the others) had been spared. I didn't cry until I crawled into bed. The tears began to flow uncontrollably. Yet, I was reminded of what the paramedic said to me earlier in the night. "Your son had his own Christmas miracle tonight." Yes he did. Thank you God. We all did.

Before long my mind wandered to the evening of my mother's passing. Soon afterward, I prayed to her: asking Mother to be my son's guardian angel from heaven. I prayed for her to watch over him and protect him. Jayson had always been her favorite grandchild, partly because of the many challenges he faced in life. That night, I prayed for her to hear me. Tonight, I knew she had.

Yes, there were many Christmas miracles tonight. I couldn't help but think that my mother had been a part of them in some small way. Perhaps in a very big way. My mother and God, of course.

Thank you Mom.

A Simple Card

My neighbor called the first thing this morning. "Don't go out if you don't have to," she said. "The streets have turned into ice." She was worried about me. That's the thing about St. Louis. Friendly neighbors still watch out for one another. I like to think it's the same everywhere but the daily newspapers tell me otherwise. Still, I believe there is some good left in this world. My neighbor tells me so.

Rarely does St. Louis get very much snow. The two or three inches that fell over the weekend is an anomaly for this part of the Midwest. More often it is ice that wreaks havoc on the neighborhood roads and sidewalks. Hopefully, it won't last for long. The weather report calls for warmer temperatures today. The sun will surely shine, melting the danger underneath.

This afternoon my husband nearly risked his life walking to the mailbox at the top of the hill. I should have listened to my neighbor. Our home is in a relatively new subdivision so all of the mailboxes are clustered together, allowing the mailman to make one stop near the entrance. Arriving back home, Gary stomped his feet on the front porch, shaking the snow and ice from his boots. I opened the leaded glass door for him. His hands carried a bunch of embellished Christmas cards. "There's one from your dad," he said, softly, handing me a pink envelope with three holly stickers pasted on the reverse side.

Sitting down on the sofa, I cautiously opened my father's card. In all my life I don't ever remember my father sending me a card. Ever. Like most relationships I suppose (mine included), it is the woman who takes it upon herself to send a card whenever the occasion calls for it. Women typically choose the cards, purchase the cards, write the inside notes, address the envelopes, and lick the stamps until we finally drop them into a mailbox in the hopes of reaching the correct destinations. So it was with my own mother. A simple thing, really. Mailing a card. Right? Maybe not.

Inside the rosy envelope that my husband handed to me was a card decorated with a pink felt mitten addressed to, 'Daughter.' The card had an old fashioned appearance and looked hand-stitched. On the front, it was decorated with white ribbon, green buttons, and a burgundy-colored heart that seemed hand-sewn. I couldn't imagine where my father had found such a card. It was a treasure of simplistic beauty. Printed inside was a rather typical message of love and yuletide. It said something to the effect of, 'Merry Christmas Because You're Such a Special Daughter.' But written below was a message atypical in its purest form. Carefully, in scripted letters were the hand-written words, 'Love, Dad.' Underneath, written in red ink, 'And, you have one Great Guy for a husband-my Son-in-Law. Merry Christmas, Gary. P.S. Thanks for ALL of your help-To both of You. With All My Love."

Wow. I was speechless. Seeing my reaction, Gary quickly reached for a tissue.. Wet tears streamed down my cheeks as I tried to be strong. Finally I just let it go and bawled my eyes out.
My dad sent me a card. A Christmas card. Although (to my knowledge) my father had never chosen a card for me (before), purchased a card, written the inside note, addressed the envelope, licked the stamp or dropped it in the mailbox...this year he did. He didn't want me to go without. This first Christmas without my mother, my father did not forget. In spite of his grief and sorrow my father somehow found the strength to take Mother's place in this often, taken for granted ritual.

Receiving this card was not lost upon me. I did not take it for granted. This first card, the first Christmas card from my father was the greatest gift he could ever bestow upon me.

A simple card.

Christmas Spirit

It snowed today. A beautiful drapery of white powdery flakes covered the sky from morning until evening. So lovely was the scenery that an overwhelming sense of Christmas spirit engulfed me. Suddenly I felt an urge to wrap the few Christmas presents I had purchased in the days before I flew to my parents house. Hurrying down to the basement, I gathered stored rolls of colored wrapping paper, shiny bows, and folded boxes. Trudging up the carpeted steps one-by-one, my hands and arms struggled to hold on to the menagerie of mismatch until I simply let everything fall to the floor.

One by one I pulled out gifts that needed wrapping. Gifts I had purchased (and since forgotten) in the days before I cared for my dying mother. Among them: an argyle sweater for my oldest son, Jayson; a Seinfeld trivia game for my youngest son, Justin, and a new, navy-blue golf jacket for my dear husband, Gary. There were little gifts for them too. The standard set of boxer shorts; packages of needed, white undershirts; and matching sets of slippers and socks. Three pairs of warm and woolly gloves rested nearby, each in a different color.

As I carefully cut and trimmed green, gold, and red foiled paper, a feeling of giddiness came upon me. Regardless of what had happened during the last few weeks, Christmas was coming.

The spirit of the holiday was upon me. How glorious!

Baby Steps

Again, I didn't sleep much last night. Oddly enough, I don't remember dreaming about my mother. In fact, I don't remember dreaming about anything. If only sleep would come! I remember looking at the florescent glow of the clock. The numbers gleamed at 1:30, 3:00 4:30 and again at 5:15. Finally, I arose from my bed to sit in the quiet of the morning and think. The room outside the bedroom felt cold and damp. Even my dog, 'Doodles' didn't follow me. He stayed snuggled in his own cocoon, lying next to my husband, Gary.

Using the remote control, I turned on our gas fireplace. Sitting down on the hearth in front of it the flames ignited, warming my body and spirit. There is something tranquil about firelight, especially in the darkness of the early morning. I find the flickering flames comforting; almost sedating in fact. They allow me to review yesterday without thinking of tomorrow. Sitting in seclusion I feel at peace. Conceivably, this is the way it is supposed to be. The way it needs to be after losing a loved one.

Dawn soon appears above the horizon but still there is no sunrise. Another day of dreariness. How I wish for the sun to shine again! The sight of it enlightens my mood; making the day brighter in every way. Perhaps tomorrow........

Tonight is my first venture out with friends since my mother's passing. I feel ready to socialize again. Not in a large group: that would be too much for me. However, sitting down in a quiet restaurant with two good friends is something I look forward to. It's time to celebrate the season; if only in a small way. My husband deserves it. So do I. The restaurant we're going to is small and quaint, converted from an old Victorian home. I already know the food will be delicious, the company delightful, and the ambiance rich and mellow.

Baby steps, right?

Twilight Zone

I slept in late today. I didn't get up until 5:30 this morning! I don't know why I can't sleep but it is frustrating to say the least. Not surprisingly, I dreamed of my mother again last night. I wish I could remember what takes place during my dreams of her, but by the time I get up I've already forgotten what they entail. Perhaps I'll put a pen and piece of paper on my nightstand so that I can write them down as they occur. Generally, I wake up several times during the night (always after a dream) so I'll have many opportunities to take notes!

The sun never really rose this morning. I kept waiting for it to appear over the hillside but this morning was only full of bleakness: all gloomy and gray. Winter has not officially begun. Yet it has made an early presence here in St. Louis. Sadly, all the glory of yesterday's sublime sunrise was non-existent today. Perhaps that is why we must appreciate beauty in life whenever possible. It's God's little way of making us seek out the wonder of our world.

We had an ice storm last evening. Piercing winds and Arctic air moved in together with frozen sheets of rain: leaving roads and sidewalks nearly impassible. This afternoon, after all of the salt trucks had done their duty, I ventured out to do a little shopping for next week's Christmas dinner. I hate crowds and would prefer to gather what I need when the stores are not hectic; nearly impossible at this time of year. I moved from isle to isle within the grocery store, staring blankly at the shelves, not really knowing what to purchase. I should have made a list, I know. But my mind has trouble focusing on many of the every day responsibilities I so recently took for granted. Is this all part of mourning for my mother?

After about an hour I was able to check-out, not really knowing what I actually purchased. I did buy enough eggs to make my home-made noodles though, so I know I've done something right. My son, Justin, will be happy! My cupboards seemed to be full after putting the groceries away upon returning home. I guess whatever is in them will have to suffice as the ingredients for our Christmas dinner. It may consist of dishes from our oven that are different than ever before, but our holiday is different this year too. My mother is not here. She has only been gone a little over three weeks. It seems like a lifetime ago yet simultaneously a mere moment ago. My timing is off. The normal register is not yet in place. Sometimes I feel as if my mind is meandering along a road with no end in sight. I can't seem to focus on life in general. Will this end at some point in time? Is there truly any closure to losing a loved one? If so, I don't feel it. I'm not there, yet.

I spoke to my father again this afternoon. He was nearly out of breath after just returning from one of his weekly swim sessions. Telling me about it, he made me smile. He's doing the best he can, I know. Although he stumbles I am sure, he still makes the effort to put one foot in front of the other in order to keep moving. He never complains: instead he chooses to try to cheer me up. Still, I can hear his voice crackle at times, especially when he speaks of Mother. For him, it's almost as if she's simply out on an errand; ready to walk in their front door at any given time. She is very much in his present. "Mom's vegetable soup is always so good," he said today. "I'm going to try to make it in the crock pot."

"I've got my ticket to come out again next month, Dad," I exclaimed. "Oh good, I'll be so glad to have you here," he added, his voice overflowing with love and anticipation. Seeing my father again is something I'm greatly looking forward to. But, the tasks that await my return weigh heavy on my mind. I've got a lot of things to do that I know will be hard on me. Sorting through my mother's clothing, cleaning out her closets, and organizing her kitchen so that it will be more conducive to my father's needs (alone now) are just a few of the many things to be completed upon my return.

Maybe that is why I feel so unsettled today. The past (when my mother was alive and well) is now gone. The present, in which I exist and live my life doesn't feel normal to me yet. And, the future (without my mother) is too painful to contemplate.

Today, I feel as though I'm living in Twilight Zone.

Dreams and Nightmares

I'm crying less and less each day now. Good memories with my mother from the past fill my head more often than the bad that took place during her final days. Like always, I still have my moments when my eyes begin to well up and sting from trying to hold back the tears. It's probably better to let them flow; a natural part of the grief process, I suppose.

This is my first time. The first time I have ever lost a a loved one so close to me. The first time I have to go on afterward. I take my steps. I put one foot in front of the other, but I don't profess to know what I am doing. There is no manual to teach me how to get through this stage in life. Sure, there are hundreds of books on death and dying. On, 'Learning to Live with Grief.' Grieving is so personal and different for each of us. Would reading a book help me? Can anyone recommend a good one? The one that would be best for me?

I do believe I'm doing better and improving each and every day. still, I dream about my mother nearly every night. Is this normal? I don't have one dream during the darkness of slumber. I have many. Typically, I don't remember any of them upon awakening. For the most part my dreams leave me feeling well. Not rested necessarily, but comforted. There is one exception to this. A dream that never leaves me.

Shortly after my mother's death, perhaps just a day or two upon my return home from Arizona, I awoke in a heated sweat from a dream. Not a dream, really. It was more of a nightmare. A nightmare that I don't understand and one that I can't seem to forget. Like a movie trailer from a horror film, it haunts me still.

In my 'nightmare' I was completely aware that Mother had passed away. The setting took place in Arizona. In my parent's house. I was still there with my father. Suddenly Mom was alive again: looking precisely like she did before her demise. Mother had just taken a breathing treatment in her bedroom. It was a painful struggle for her: horrible to see. Even after it was over, no matter how hard she tried, she still could not breathe. My father climbed onto their bed behind her like he always did, rubbing her back futilely; trying to help her win the battle.

"Help me, Kim," she said, barely audible. I stood there, rigid. There was nothing I could do to help her. Nothing. My father continued rubbing her back, tears streaming down his face. Her desperate voice repeating itself over and over. "Help me, Kim."

Analyzing the above (which I continue to do), I know that much of this nightmare is a repetition of my mother's last evening upon this earth. What obsesses me is the meaning of such. Did I do enough to help my mother during her last remaining hours of life? Obviously not. I was helpless in my efforts to do more for her. Is this nightmare trying to tell me that my mother is not at rest in heaven above? This interpretation haunts me. Or, does it simply mean that nothing would be any different had she lived? Surely if my mother were still alive today, she would remain in pain and be suffering, horribly. Regardless, the dreams of my mother continue. The nightmare has passed, but my not understanding it is still present.

I woke up at 4:00 this morning after another night of dreaming about my mother. I got out of bed, to let my precious pup outside to relive himself. Before long, I rested on the sofa in the darkness. I must have fallen asleep because I woke to the morning sun rising through our Eastern windows. Lifting the red velour throw from my lap, I got up to open the back door. Two deer (a buck and a doe) ran across our back yard and into the woods behind our house. An enormous turkey waddled in the field next door. Gazing above, I viewed puffy clouds of coral drifting across the serene baby-blue sky.

The early morning sunrise was one of the most stunning I have ever seen. A sense of peacefulness and serenity passed over me. Perhaps it was my dear mother telling me not to worry......

Is she at rest after all? It is my greatest hope.

Christmas Shopping

When I spoke to my dad late this morning he asked me about Christmas presents. "I've never done this before," he began. "Your mother always did the shopping. I don't know where to begin."

I told my father not to worry. I would shop for the presents on his list using my computer to purchase them on-line. This was a concept my dad never would have thought of, much less have known how to do. I explained to him how easy it would be for me. "I'm on my computer most of the day anyway, Dad," I insisted. "Most orders will even ship for free," I added, "and still arrive in time for Christmas." I sounded like one of the latest seasonal ads on television. But, my dad was ecstatic! "Oh, thank you, Honey, " he said with a huge sigh of relief.

Like most men his age, the thought of shopping at any time is a daunting task. This year, trying to buy Christmas presents so soon after my mother's passing is understandably, overwhelming for him. He doesn't even know where to begin. What should he purchase? How much do things cost? Where is the best place to shop? My father was scared to death!

It was a thrill for me to ease Dad's mind in regard to his shopping dilemma. How happy it makes me to be able to do this for him. Such a small offering on my part, yet an enormous relief to his wounded holiday spirit. It's something he no longer has to worry about.

After hanging up the phone with him, I actually looked forward to shopping for my dad. After all, I could do it from the sanctuary of my own home: in my warm and cozy library. Outside my frosted bay windows, the first snowfall of the season blanketed the ground in several inches of white powder. The temperature was 4 degrees with a wind-chill of minus 8. How happy I was to be inside: drinking a steaming cup of cocoa while sitting in my favorite flannel bathrobe!

Most of my family and friends would say that I'm an 'expert' shopper when it comes to using the Internet. I have to agree. My experience is unmeasurable: not something I'm necessarily proud of. Still, my 'know-how' does have its advantages. My computer mouse moved with ease from one site to another, comparing prices and seeking the best deals. Although I anticipated this virtual shopping trip to be an easy task, it took much longer than I expected. Not because my father's list of gifts to be purchased was large, but because my computer kept crashing. With only twelve days before Christmas, it seems I was not the only one shopping from their computer!

Actually, Dad's gift list was very small. I had explained to him earlier, that most of our family "cut back years ago" through an agreement with Mom. We are all grown now. Most of our own children (my father's grandchildren) are grown as well. None of us truly want or need anything. Still, there were a few people Dad insisted on buying presents for, so I gladly went along with him as he wished.

While I checked off each present from my father's Christmas list, I couldn't help but think of how different the experience was this year. Everywhere I looked my eyes seemed to gravitate toward items I would have liked to purchase for my mother. Things I new she would have loved. An Italian inlaid wooden music box playing one of her favorite themes from, Doctor Zhivago. A beautifully shaped vase made of cut glass in some of her favorite colors: various shades of pinks and blues. A white, warm and fuzzy bed jacket to keep her comfy while watching television from her favorite chair at home. I could go on and on.

As much as I enjoy Christmas shopping (even if only from home), much of the magic is missing this year. Missing......like my mother.

Traditions

Well, I did it. I forced myself to go down into our basement in order to bring up some of our family Christmas decorations. I couldn't bring myself to put up very many of them. I'm not ready yet. Our life-size wooden nutcrackers sit lonely in our basement, still. The Christmas tree rests beside them: waiting to be decorated. Not this year.

Thankfully, I managed to make our home look somewhat festive, if only for a couple of weeks. Cream colored candles adorned with golden-sprayed evergreens now sit atop our tables. Red needlepoint stockings trimmed with gold engraved names are hung from our fireplace mantle. And, a small collection of Christmas dolls dressed in all of their holiday finery appear almost alive on a window sill for all to see. In our dining room, my table is ready and waiting for Christmas dinner. It's already set with my lovely holiday china: a purchase I picked out together with my mother during a visit with her many years before.

Every where you look are reminders of my mother placed purposefully to honor her. Above the fireplace hangs a memorable gingerbread mantle scarf she lovingly cross-stitched for me as a Christmas present long ago. My dining room tablecloth is made exclusively by my mother's hands. I remember her working on it for months in advance in order to have it finished for my Christmas gift several years past. With love and dedication she toiled with her needle and kaleidoscope of multi-colored threads for hours on end until her fingers practically bled. The large white cloth depicts various Victorian Santa Clauses; exceptionally decorated Christmas trees of all sizes, colors and shapes; and borders of emerald green holly sprinkled in burgundy red berries. I use it every year on my holiday table but this year it means so much more than ever before.

I can't begin to put up a Christmas tree this year. I don't have the energy. Nor do I want to painstakingly unwrap each ornament knowing that many will remind me of Mother. I am not ready for those memories to overwhelm me this season. It's all I can do to make it through.

Some traditions can't be ignored however; Christmas dinner being one of them. My sons and new daughter-in-law will be here and expect them. My husband, Gary is happy with whatever is put in front of him. But, my boys are different. My youngest son, Justin will be looking for my 'home-made' noodles; a recipe my mother handed down soon after I was married. My oldest son, Jayson will be savoring our traditional honey-glazed ham with au gratin potatoes on the side. And, my daughter-in-law, Nichole will wait impatiently for her favorite deserts: warm pumpkin pie or cherry cobbler, or both.

In spite of my loss, Christmas will be celebrated this year, just as my mother would have wanted. Some things will be slightly different; like not having a Christmas tree. But I know I will sit with my family around our dining room table, enjoying the beauty of my mother's many Christmas tidings. We'll tell stories of long ago and share treasured memories of my mom (my children's grandmother.) Many of our family's traditions will be celebrated just like every year before: as they should be.

Tradition is what my mother was all about. She'll be proud of me; of all of us.

No Choice

I hadn't heard from my father in a day or so. I became a bit worried about him. Yesterday afternoon I called my brother in Phoenix who told me the funeral home had asked my father to pick up my mother's remains. I can only begin to imagine what a heart-ridden burden this must have been for Dad: picking up a small black plastic box filled with all that remained of my mother. I reminded myself that the box did not contain her soul.

Before I left Arizona we spoke about this particular time that would soon come upon him. Dad said he couldn't bare to have Mom's remains sitting in the house with him: a constant reminder of her passing. So, I asked my great-aunt if she would keep them safe for Dad. My dear, frail great-aunt took my hand and led me into her small library where she had lovingly arranged a special place for them. The warm morning sunlight streamed brightly through her front windows. I knew Mom would approve.

Last evening around dinner time my telephone rang. It was my father. He didn't mention the funeral home calling him and I didn't ask. I knew he would talk about it when he was ready. Instead, Dad spoke excitedly about his morning swim at the fitness club, his appointment with a trainer (complimentary), and how he was getting ready to play cards at the Elks Club later that night. He reminded me (and himself) of how much he missed my mother, and told me that he kissed her beautiful picture every night before going to bed. I envisioned him doing so; a heartfelt expression of his love and devotion.

I felt happiness after talking with my father on the phone. My heart filled with joy for him. I know he misses Mom terribly and will love her for all eternity. At the same time, he is allowing positive memories to creep inside the hole remaining in his heart. The pain inside is starting to wane a bit. This is my greatest hope for him. To live his life by putting one step in front of the other each and every day. To move forward at his own pace.

My father must must carry on without my mother. I know that he is beginning to do so. One step in front of the other each and every day. At his own pace.

He has no choice.

The Circle of Life

Yesterday afternoon I dared to venture out of my house to visit a friend. She greeted me from the door of her home: beautifully decorated for the holidays. Inside, a freshly brewed cup of coffee sat on her kitchen counter top. She gave me a much needed hug while holding her newest baby grandson in her arms. I hadn't seen the baby since shortly after he was born. How he had changed during the last few weeks! Dressed in a dapper red plaid shirt and reindeer printed corduroy overhauls, he stared at me with cautious blue eyes as if to say, "Who do you think YOU are?"

I admit it: I melt at the sight of a baby. I love them and they typically love me. I think my ease with babies stems from being the oldest of five children. As a teen I babysat for my siblings more than I did anything else (that I can remember). Sometimes I resented it. Later in life, I became thankful for it. All of that experience with babies and young children helped me slide into natural motherhood the second my own were born. I've been drawn to babies ever since; soothing them from frazzled mothers whenever the opportunity presented itself.

As soon as I sat on my friend's white leather sofa, she knowingly placed her infant grandson in my arms. I kissed his mostly bald head; feeling soft whispers of lightly tufted hair against my cheek. I inhaled the newness of him, counted his tiny blond eyelashes and nuzzled his pink pudgy cheeks. He was beautiful. I can't begin to describe the feeling inside of me as this tender infant scrunched up against my melting chest. Pure joy?

Before long my friend brought me a bottle of formula so I could feed him. The little guy latched on to the nipple and gulped frantically. His eyes opened wide. This time he looked up at me with undeniable trust and contentment. As I gazed down at this angel of wonders nestled in my arms I flushed with happiness.

The circle of life.

One Step at a Time

This morning I talked to my father on Skype. While I was in Arizona, I demonstrated this relatively new technology to him. At the time, he couldn't believe such a thing was possible. On my computer I could see Dad perfectly. Sitting in his striped pajamas, I noticed that his graying hair was tousled. Nearby on his desk sat a steaming cup of coffee and perched on his lap sat his dog, Prissy. It was good to see him up and living his daily life.

He was amazed to hear my voice through his computer. I could see it in his face! It was funny: Dad kept staring closer and closer into his computer screen. His face became larger and larger until I figured out that he could NOT see me! My dad is a bit challenged when it comes to his computer knowledge but he does better than most his age. I talked him gently through the necessary steps until my live image appeared on his screen together with my voice. My father started laughing hysterically.

"There's not enough time in the day," my dad, exclaimed. "I have to shower, buy chicken breast for the dog, boil it, work out, check my messages, do some yard work, and walk the dog. By then, the day is almost over!" he stated. I was thrilled to hear how busy he was keeping himself! I know he has his 'moments.' He tells me every day how much he loves and misses my mother. But I think he's going to be okay; he'll get there. Each day that I speak to him I become less and less worried. He's beginning to move forward through his grief, one step at a time.

Like my father and the rest of my family, I still have my 'moment's too. Yesterday, I finally unpacked from Arizona (it's been ten days). In my ragged suitcase I discovered a forgotten copy of Mother's obituary together with a few of her personal items that I chose to bring home with me. Things that wouldn't necessarily be important to anyone else, but items that are priceless to me. I carefully unwrapped Mom's sunglasses, a tube of her favorite lipstick, the comb that I used to fix her hair, and a daily prayer book that she read faithfully. I sat on the floor of my closet at the sight of these treasures and sobbed. After several minutes I placed them lovingly in the center of my favorite glass cabinet. Today I passed by them without crying. I only thought of how much I love and miss my mother. Although my mind knows she is gone, my heart keeps her very much alive.

Like my father, I'm beginning to move through my grief too, one step at a time.

The Cookie

Yesterday I finally got out of the pajamas I've worn since last Wednesday, took a bath, and got dressed! I did have a good cry but while doing so I remembered something a little funny. Something that made me smile. A small sign that maybe I'm beginning to move on?

On the day before Mom died she fell into a long, deep sleep after fighting to breathe all day. Later that night I went to check on her. She must have sensed my presence because she said aloud that she was finally able to breathe! She was so very thankful for the air in her lungs and the restful sleep that she had finally been given. I smiled with a sense of joy at her peacefulness and told her how happy I was. Suddenly, out of nowhere she asked me for a cookie!

"You want a cookie, Mom?" I asked. I chuckled in astonishment at her request. My mother hadn't eaten for several days. Nothing tasted remotely good to her. Now, she was asking me for a cookie. I couldn't believe it!

"Yes, I want a 'Mother's' brand soft, iced molasses cookie from the new bag hidden in the closet in the back bedroom," she stated, matter-of-fact. "Okay, Mom, I'll get it and be right back," I answered, kissing her forehead.

I rushed out of her bedroom and found the closet she spoke of. In the midst of a stack of new paper napkins and decorated paper plates was an unopened bag of the cookies my mother spoke of. Mom had a sweet tooth and often hid her 'stash' of cookies and candy. I gently wrapped the cookie in one of the new napkins and raced back to her as fast as I could. I didn't want to lose this moment.

"Here's your cookie Mom. Do you want a little glass of milk to go with it?" I inquired. "No," she answered. "Just the cookie." I sat on the edge of Mom's bed, amazed at her sudden strength and willpower. My mother's eyes never opened but she ate her cookie!

I know to anyone reading this it must sound silly. But to me, on that particular night, watching my dying mother eat a cookie was simply pure joy.

Tonight I feel lucky. I will forever have the memory of my mother eating a soft iced, molasses cookie.

A simple cookie.

Promises

My mother died two weeks ago today. My home is quiet except for the sound of my memories. Memories of my mother. Today, being an anniversary of sorts is hard. I suppose all of the anniversaries will be this way. Anniversaries and holidays alike. Still, I will remember my mother and get through them.

In reflecting back to the time I had with my mother before she died, I am so very thankful. I was with her for nine days and ten nights directly before she passed away. Several of those evenings I crawled into bed with her to watch her favorite 'True-Crime' shows on television: a passion I have inherited from her. I'd rub her back, apply her favorite lip balm, or gently hold her hand. Often, we spoke quietly together in the dark of the night; the light of the television softly illuminating her face. I marveled at her beauty, even then. Her illness had stolen nearly all of her body, yet her face remained softly beautiful; a water-color painting.

"I'm so grateful you're here with me, Kim," my mother repeated over and over. "I don't know what Daddy and I would do without you." The words were unnecessary. I knew. "I'm thankful to be here, Mom," I told her. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world." It was true.

As my mother's breathing grew weaker it became more and more difficult for her to speak. "You are a good mother," she suddenly said, very clearly. It was the greatest compliment she could have ever given me. "I'm only a good mother because of you, Mom," I replied, kissing her softly on the cheek. It goes without saying that she was my only teacher.

My mother asked me to promise her several things during those last few days we spent together. She was (of course) most worried about my father. "He can't even boil an egg," she said one night, with a feeble smile. "Don't worry about Daddy," I told her. "We'll all take care of him," I reassured her, referring to my brothers and sisters.

Mom reminded me of her beloved fifteen-year-old dog, a Yorkie named 'Prissy.' I promised her that I would take Prissy to the vet for a check-up. I would make sure she had all of her necessary shots and medicine. I did so in in the week after my mother died. Prissy is in good health; blind and deaf but living a good life with my father who adores her.

Mother asked me to take care of her dolls: a collection of hundreds. She didn't want my dad to be 'bothered' with them. After Mom passed away, I spent two days organizing them and discovered over 30 'play' dolls that were still in their original boxes. My dad bundled them all up and drove to the Elks Lodge where he donated them as Christmas presents for underprivileged little girls. This Christmas, special presents will be under trees all over Casa Grande thanks to my mother. For now, the rest of them sleep soundly wrapped in pink tissue paper awaiting my return.

One of Mom's final requests was for me to go through all of the Christmas ornaments she and my father had collected over the years. She asked me to organize shoe boxes full of shiny and glittery mementos. A special collection for my father, one for each of my brothers and sisters, and another for me. Someday in the future she wanted the ornaments passed down to the next generation. I have the shoe boxes ready and waiting. Time got the best of me but this will be one of the first things I do when I go back to visit my father.

My sister Brenda and I promised our dear mother that we would help her trim the Christmas tree. It sits atop my parent's fireplace hearth; the evergreen branches bathed in cottony 'snow' and brightened with creamy, white lights. Mother passed away before we could decorate the tree together. Afterwards, I felt I should do it but I sensed it was too much for my father to bare. The tree itself was a comfort to him. He knew how much it pleased Mother in her final days. She used to sit in her favorite chair and gaze at the quiet lights with a peacefulness surrounding her. After all he had been through, the festivity of adding colorful ornaments was something my father wasn't ready for. Too much, too soon. For now, I would leave the tree as is.

A few days after Brenda left for her home in Texas, a small package appeared in my father's mailbox. Inside, tucked in white tissue paper were two new Christmas ornaments. Brenda had purchased them before her trip to see Mother but in her haste to arrive she had forgotten to bring them with her.

I sat next to my father as he gingerly opened each new ornament. The first was a beautiful clear, acrylic heart trimmed with a gold cord. The heart was lined with our family surname (Kirk) together with all of our first names printed over and over in gold: Paul, Susan, Kim, David, Brenda, Kellie and Daniel.

The second ornament was a shiny, silver angel. Engraved in the middle was the name of our mother: Susan Carol. My father handed me the gold cord of the first opened ornament: the family heart. He watched me carefully hang it on a perfect green branch right in the center for all to see. Then, as if he was handling butterfly wings, he carefully placed the angel of our mother at the very top of the tree where it seemed to belong.

Together with Brenda and my father, I did help decorate the Christmas tree after all. And, because of the shiny, silver angel inscribed with her name, Mom was a very special part of it.

The tree is perfect. Just as I promised.

The Cardinal

Last night my dear neighbor brought over a delicious dinner of chicken and broccoli casserole together with a salad and a beautiful bouquet of flowers. It was so sweet of her to think of me. I am truly thankful for her food, understanding, and friendship. She is a life savor because I hadn't even opened the refrigerator to see what was in it since I returned home. Eating hasn't been on my mind although I know it is necessary. After arranging the flowers in one of my best vases, I sat down to an unexpected dinner with my husband, Gary. My neighbor is a good cook; the food tasted warm and comforting. Thank you Sandy.

I guess I'm officially in the mourning stage. Now that I am home, I no longer need to be strong. I can cry, feel sad, and remember my mother. Here at home I feel it is safe to let out my feelings. I'm trying but it is not easy. I've suppressed many of them for days.

I miss my father terribly and think of him almost every minute but I stop myself from calling him. I know he needs his mourning time too: alone. He is grieving much more than I am. I did get an e-mail from my brother today telling me that my father went swimming! I know this is a good sign but my heart aches at the thought of him putting his duffel bag together; saying good-by to the dog; driving alone to the fitness center; jumping into the pool. He is swimming bravely in a new sea of life. I know it is not one he chooses. Yet my heart sings at the thought of him striving to move on; one stroke at a time. I am proud of you, Dad.

I haven't unpacked my suitcases, combed my hair, washed my face or gotten dressed. I'm still wearing my pajamas from Wednesday night. Other than sleeping (a lot), I haven't done any thing. I feel no joy, no enthusiasm, no excitement, no 'anything.' I just feel numb. Is this normal? I'm guessing it is and my intuition tells me that I must endure it. Oddly enough, I don't feel depressed. Rather, I feel suspended somewhere in the time before my mother died and today: the present.

The doorbell just rang. A beautiful floral arrangement arrived. "Who is it from," my husband, asked. The loving arrangement of red roses, winter greenery, silver pine cones and red velvet ribbon was sent by two of my oldest and dearest friends here in St. Louis. Like sisters, we have always been there for each other; through the good times and the bad. Perched amid the rosebuds, a red feathered cardinal sat prominently placed on a spray of a silvery twig. I took this as a sign from my mother and wiped away my tears. For years Mom mailed me cardinal items; dishes, clothing, figurines, and even wind chimes (her favorite). My mother followed baseball and knew St. Louis was 'Cardinal' country. We are big fans as is anyone who lives in this city.

My mother is looking down on me. I feel her presence.

Mixed Blessings

Although I knew it would not be easy to say "Good-by" to my father yesterday, the intensiveness of actually doing so still surprised me. I thought I would be strong, if only for him. When the time came I hugged him tightly and whispered in his ear. "I love you so much Daddy. Promise me that you'll take care of yourself. I need you so."

He put his warm arms around me and he cried too. I don't know exactly what he said to me but I do remember that his words were comforting. I know he thanked me for everything I had done which certainly wasn't necessary. As I said before, the time I was able to spend with my mother at the end, and the days afterward with my father were gifts to me. None of them I could have anticipated or ever wished for in advance. Still, they were gifts that somehow God knew I needed to have. Gifts to hold in my heart and soul. Gifts given to me directly from the hearts of my parents; shared intimately with my own. Gifts that will be with me for the rest of my life. Appropriate I suppose for this Season of Joy. I am forever grateful.

It's true what people say about grief: it comes in waves. I find myself swimming in this unfamiliar sea at various times throughout each day, always unexpectedly. More since I've arrived home here in St. Louis. I no longer feel like I have to be the 'strong' one. No one ever put that upon me. I did it on my own. But now I feel it is safe to let go.

Each one of us will lose loved ones during our lifetimes. Knowing this doesn't make it any easier for me, but it does give me hope for the future. Like everyone else, somehow I will get through this.

In the end, grief is a mixed blessing.

Peace

Today I leave my parent's home. Now, it is only my father's home. It will be difficult to leave.

I am so happy that I have been able to be here for my dad, to help him transition towards his new life. A life without my mother. I was able to take calls for him, clean his house, do his laundry, cook his meals, take care of his dog, and make my mother's final arrangements with him.

This morning, I got out the dusty crock-pot from the bottom kitchen cupboard and left him the recipe book. I reminded him of the many, many times I called my mother whenever I needed help in cooking. It made him feel better to hear my 'permission' to call me for cooking tips whenever he needed.

Yesterday, my husband and I stopped at the local LA Fitness Club to purchase a membership for my dad. He expressed interest in swimming so we thought it would be a great outlet for my father. He will be able swim, lift weights, work with a personal trainer, and most importantly work out his grief in a healthy way.

Last night when we surprised him with his new gym bag and membership card he nearly broke down in tears. He's excited and a smile came to his face. To me, his expression was priceless. I know when I leave later today it will not be easy. Dad will be in his home alone for the very first time in over 57 years. Tonight when the sun sets behind the mountains and the desert becomes cold, it will be hard on him. Sounds of Dad's silent house will scream out at him, and he will grieve greatly. It is no comfort, but I know this is all part of the process. However difficult, my father must go through it.

I will try not to cry when I say "Good-by." Easier said than done, I'm sure. But I will be back to visit him soon. I know my brothers will watch over him during the Christmas season too, and on his birthday, December 25th. Every day I will call him. In my heart I feel my mother is watching over him from above.

Tomorrow may be harder for me. But today I feel at peace. I know I've done all I can.

For now.

Free to Breathe

My mother passed away on Saturday, November 20th. The day I thought she would. She was 74 years young.

Mom had more courage than anyone I have ever known or witnessed. It was obvious that her body hurt with each tiny movement. She would have been more comfortable in bed but she never left her favorite chair. Early in the day the light grew too bright for her pale blue eyes. She asked for sunglasses. Her voice quivered. My sister, Brenda gently put them on for her.

At mid-morning, Mom asked to take her pill for depression. It was hard to comprehend that only four days earlier we were at her doctor's office. He prescribed medication for depression at her request. But he did tell her that it would take a couple of weeks before it started working. I did not want to give the pill to her. It was large: much too difficult for her to swallow. I told her that her doctor said to wait. "You can take it later Mom." There was a pause. I sensed her disbelief in my answer.

My mother grabbed my hand, squeezing it tight. With all her might she willedd herself to open her eyes. She stared deep into my soul. "Kim, what would you do?" she cried out. "Would you take it?" At that moment my heart felt like it had been smashed into thousands of pieces of jagged glass. I knew what she was really asking me. She wanted me to tell her if she would live long enough for her depression pill to start working. I struggled not to shed tears for fear she might see. "I would take it, Mom," I lied to her. "Let me cut it in half so it will be easier to swallow." How could I possibly tell my beloved mother that I knew she was in the process of dying; perhaps that very day? I put both halves of the pill into a spoon of chocolate pudding and fed them to her.

Most of my immediate family was with Mom throughout the day. We did not leave her. Days earlier I promised her that I would not. She was always afraid to be alone, but even more so during her last few days. I held her in my arms and asked her if she trusted me as she became more and more agitated. In breaking words barely audible, she whispered, "I trust you, Kim."

My mother never asked for her medicine. I was careful to let her know in advance whenever I needed to open her mouth so that I could drop the liquid under her tongue. Saturday was different. She asked for it. She asked for me to give her the medicine: the only thing to ease her pain.

We all know that God works in mysterious ways. Saturday was the most beautiful day. Bright and sunny with an aquamarine sky. Not a single cloud appeared above. It's rarely breezy in Arizona. But on this particular Saturday, the wind picked up just enough so that my mother could hear her wind chimes. They hung from my parent's patio roof, just outside the open door. She loved the melody of wind chimes, and proudly displayed her collection of them where she could hear them sing. Their songs played for Mom throughout the day. At one point, I stepped outdoors to pray. I looked up at the glorious sky to ask God for an ending of her suffering. At that very moment, the wind stopped. The singing songs of the wind chimes quieted in unison. A tiny, red-breasted hummingbird swooped down near my face. The miniature bird didn't stop to eat the nectar nearby as it normally would have. Instead, I felt it wanted to let me know that it was near me: a meaningful presence of God? The hummingbird was my mother's very favorite bird.

I gave my mother her last dose of medicine at 7:00 that evening. By then she was in a coma: still in her favorite chair. No one had the heart to try to move her. Not yet. Shortly afterward my family gathered at the dining table to eat some take-out food. The stereo softly played Alan Jackson's song, 'Remember When.' It was one of my mother's favorites with lyrics that were particularly meaningful to both of my parents. My sister, Brenda said a prayer before dinner. My father reached back to gently stroke my mother's hair. She turned her head slightly but seemed restful.

I know in my heart and soul that Mom heard us around the table: each one reminiscing in our own way. We took turns sharing our family stories and were even able to laugh a bit. These were the very last sounds my mother ever heard. Heartwarming sounds from her home and her family. I know she felt safe and loved.

Mom sat very near us, but for the first time during the day no one was hovering over her: giving her medicine; stroking her; shedding tears; whispering in her ear. Mom had the space she finally needed, if only for a few seconds. I believe my mother felt at last, that her family would be okay. She knew that (somehow) we would survive her passing. Mother was finally able to quietly let us go in a way that none of us were able to do for her.

At 7:18 my brother Dan called to check on Mom's condition. My dad spoke to him while the rest of us started to clear the dining table of dirty dishes. My dad stepped over to my mother to whisper in her ear that her 'baby' son was on the phone. In that instant my father cried out. "Oh my God, Dan. I think she's gone."

Hurriedly, we rushed the few steps to where Mother was seated. As soon as we looked at her we knew. Our precious mother was gone. I heard my father and my brother, Dave cry out. Brenda put her arms around her; weeping as she held her close. I felt my knees literally buckling. I collapsed on the floor next to Mom's chair and took her hand in mine. She was still warm. I kissed her over and over and told her how much I loved her. I couldn't stop. Soon, I asked my father for permission to remove the oxygen tube from her nose.

Finally...finally, my mother could breathe!

I can honestly say that my mom's last words to me were, "I love you." She worked so very hard to get them out because she had no air in her lungs. I will never forget their beautiful sound. They are here. In my heart. Forever.

Gently, I put Mom's favorite cream on her face to soften her skin. I held and kissed her hands, combed her hair, and covered her. My dear sister, Brenda applied Mom's favorite lipstick. Our mother still looked beautiful.

I will write more soon. At this moment I am in too much grief. But I have so much more to say. So many more words of tribute to my most precious mother.

Good-by Mom. I love you and will hold you in my heart forever and ever.