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.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, December 6, 2010
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.
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.
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