As my Mother used to say...

I was reading through your 70th birthday book, Mom.  So many pictures and letters from loved ones with accolades and anecdotes about you.  Laughter a common theme.  It seems that everyone who knew you had a funny story to tell.  You always had a great sense of humor, and an infectious laugh. I used to love when you would laugh so hard that when you'd breathe in there would be a snort.  It meant you were having a good time.  I'm proud to say I've inherited that snort.

You used to tell a story about singing me to sleep.  You said  I was barely a year old and you were singing me to sleep and I told you that you didn't have to sing - "It's okay, Mommy. I'll go to sleep." Apparently I didn't like your singing.  Turns out you never could carry a tune.  Oh, the times we tried to teach you. But your voice just didn't work that way.  You humored us anyway.

Even as kids we would torment you for a laugh. Back in the day, when there were rotary phones attached to a cord attached to a wall, you would talk on the phone and we would hover asking "who is it?", "what do they want?", "who's going?", "who's in trouble?". Umm, we were once you got off the phone.  You would give us the stink eye, and then rattle a fist at us.  Or you'd ask for your cigarettes, motioning to us what you wanted, we'd get them, and hold them just out of your reach.  There's that stink eye again.  Oh, man, we had some fun, didn't we?

Remember the time there was an FBI drug bust next door?  I'll never forget that day.  A lot of the neighborhood kids were hanging out at our house that summer afternoon. I walked into the kitchen to see you headed out the back porch door.  I followed.  You proceeded to ask the two men, in suits, with guns, poised to break down the neighbors back door, "What the hell are you doing?!"  They motioned to you to be quiet, showed you their FBI badges, and the next thing I knew we were back inside with the doors closed and you yelling "Everybody get down on the floor!"  After that there was an awful lot of hoopla next door. Glass shattering, people yelling, guns firing. Then we all ran out the front door to watch the scene unfold as the drug dealer next door took off running from the feds.  I remembering you saying you'd like to get on the minibike we had in back and go after that guy.  You didn't do it, but the image of it, ah, damn funny.

I was thinking the other day of the different phrases and retorts you often used:

"Let's go, so we can get back."  I use this one all the time, only I preface it with "Well, as my mother used to say...".

Me (or any one of us):  "Mom, where are you going?"
You:  "I'm going crazy. Wanna come along?"

"Ooh, gotta go, potty, potty, potty, potty, potty!"  This is usually accompanied by half bent over, cross-kneed walking.  To this day, Mom, and probably for the rest of my life, I've adapted this one, too.  Somehow, I'm not only compelled to tell the world that I have to use the bathroom, but I have to make an impression on how urgently I have to use the bathroom, too.

"Oh, ish!"  Obviously, this was used when you thought something was gross in some way.  It's always seemed like a strange word to me.  A bit "ishy", if you will.

"Oh, shit in two!"  I never understood this.  I mean, I get it. But, literally?  Not so much.  And yet, it stays with me.  Though I use my inside voice with this one.

A lot of fun memories. We had some good times, didn't we?  I miss you so, but I'm grateful to have all these memories. To be able to look back through the sadness and longing to the laughter.

You liked to gamble.  But whenever I went along with you, you would shoo me away, telling me that I bring you bad luck.  In Vegas, just you and I, I wandered the casino most of the night while you played the slot machines.  Every time I would wander back you would send me along my way again, lest I ruin your winning streak.  It was all in fun, of course. But you were still pretty serious.  It inspired me to pen a poem about it.

ODE TO CAROL, THE GAMBLER

There once was a woman named Carol
Who dreamed of mucho dinero
She liked to play the slots and the lotto
She'd lose, then she'd win a lot, oh!

Don't give her those quarters
Don't give her those nickels
Some Saturday night
She'll end up in a pickle

Don't give her those dollars
Don't give her those dimes
Silver dollars, oh, boy!
She likes how they chime

As they drop in the slot
And the wheels go a-spinning
She can feel it deep down
She'll soon come up winning

She'll play all the day
And far into the night
You'll lose her 'round the corner
Yeah, she puts up a fight

But sooner or later
Probably later, I say
She'll come stumbling out
Somewhere about the break of day

With a hand full of dollars
Or a hand full of nothing
Her fingers all dirty
From her lottery lovin'

You might as well let her
She don't kill or steal
But watch out if you get
In the way of that wheel

(c)1997

This Mother's Day will be the first without you here, Mom.  And, like every day since you died, I'll be missing you.  We will be missing you.  But we'll be remembering, too. And, hopefully, the laughter will drown out the tears.  It is the best medicine, after all.

With lots of love on Mother's Day.

Kimberly

Three O'clock in the Morning...

That's right, here I am, 3 o'clock in the morning, and I can't sleep.  The past few days I've been sick with a terrible cold and all I could do was sleep. Now I can't seem to quell the thoughts roaming in and out of my brain. Unable to lull myself to sleep. Might as well just get up and work it out somehow. Then, maybe...

I'm feeling sad. Missing loved ones gone. Today, in particular, I'm missing Pumpkin. One of our precious parakeets.  He left us early last fall, just a week after my dear mother passed away. Two losses in tandem. Something strange about it all.  I felt so guilty. I missed the signs with Pumpkin. Didn't realize he was ill until it was too late. Though the doc says there probably wasn't much they could have done for him. Still, I feel so guilty.  But my mother was so ill and we were taking care of her, sitting by her side. Watching her fade from this earth.  When we put together the photo displays for my mom's service there was a photo of my mom kissing Pumpkin.  A sweet photo. She loved the birds. Loved my stories about them. Her mother had parakeets all the while my mother grew up, and they brought back fond memories for her.  But after she passed away, and we put that photo on the board I discovered the Pumpkin was, indeed, ill.  My sister asked me if we should take the photo down.  I said no.  And yet, a week later, Pumpkin passed away in my arms.

No more will I hear his happy singing. No longer would I see him happily close his eyes and listen to his best friend, Tori, sing to him.  Whenever I tucked them in at night I would give him lots of kisses. Not many of the birds let me do this, but Pumpkin did.  I'd kiss his belly several times. Take in a big whiff of him. His favorite seeds were anise seeds, and he always smelled of licorice. Ah, Pumpkin. I would bury my nose in his feathers and just breathe him in.  I try not to dwell on it, but I miss him.

If only we didn't have to lose the ones we love. I miss my mother every day. Think of her all the time. Think of my father nearly as often. I wish for a sign somehow. A way to know that they are okay, and that they miss us as we miss them. 

These past few days while I've been sick with this cold I've slept a lot. Yesterday, I napped in the afternoon. Couldn't seem to stay awake, though I tried to.  Google, my little angel of a cockatiel, kept watch over me. He doesn't like to be far from me. So I brought his playgym, food and water with us into the bedroom, and he hung out while I napped. From time to time I would awake to see him sitting patiently on my pillow, just watching me.  Ah, the guilt. But, also, how touching. Who would think such a creature could be so sweet and kind and loyal? 

While I napped I dreamed of more birds. That there were more birds in more cages in different rooms in the house. Though it wasn't our house but some dream world house with flowing doorways, and bright windows, and my parents and my sisters in tow.  I somehow knew that I was dreaming and kept trying to wake, but could not.  Then, I felt someone sitting on my bed. Felt them sitting down, then getting up. Then sitting again.

Mom?  Is that you?  No one there. Not that I could see.  But, was it?  Please let it be so.

And, tonight, as I lay in bed, sleep just wouldn't come. But the thoughts did come. Sad thoughts. Regret. Anxiousness and worry. About the past, about the future. Dread at the thought of losing anyone else. Then the rationale that with love comes loss, no matter who you are or what kind of life you lead, or how long you live.  And being brave enough to love, even though, at some point, you may lose that love somehow, will prove to be worth it. For, what is a life worth if there is no love in it somewhere? No matter how small, or how simple.  So, I tried to turn the tide of my thoughts from worry to gratitude. And, truly, that is no small feat when you are in the midst of a worry-tide.

But, worry be damned, I do have blessings in my life. So much to be grateful for. A husband who loves me, and tells me so every day. Sisters I love, and who love me, though we are all so different (and yet, often quite the same). Nephews, nieces, and a great-niece due just about any day.  I have wonderful friends and other relatives who have come back into our lives from a distance. In-laws who are kind and sweet and welcome me into their lives.  My beautiful birdies who bring me joy and song every day. I have memories of those that have gone, and pictures and music to remember them by.  I am blessed. Truly.

But, I'm afraid, it's not that easy. Since I was a small child I can recall lying in bed at night overwhelmed with worry. It was as if I was born worrying. I worried about my sisters. What would happen to them if we had to go to separate schools? What if they were hurt? If someone was mean to them?  What about my parents? What if something happened to them? What would happen to us, then?  I knew nearly nothing of the world yet, and there I was, spending half my night fretting about what was to come. How could that be? Maybe we really are born with those traits. Maybe I had instincts I wasn't aware of yet. Who knows.

So, I will lay in bed tonight, and in many nights to come, and I will pray. Because it's the best I can do. Pray for those that I love. For those that they love, and on, and on, and on. Eventually, I just pray for God to look after the entire world. Gee, I don't ask for much, do I?

I could try counting sheep, but then I'd start worrying about the sheep, and then the cows, and the chickens, and, well, you get the picture. I've got enough on my mind.

Sweet dreams...

At first I couldn't sleep. Now, it's all I want to do...

Six months. Goes by in a blink. So hard to believe, but she's been gone six months. Oh, how I miss you, Mom. I think of you all the time. And when I'm not thinking of you, something, the smallest thing, brings you back to my mind.

I have been prone to bouts of insomnia during times of stress. All summer long, while you were sick I had trouble sleeping. I tried relaxation, ambien, wine, walks, music. My brain wouldn't shut off, and when it finally did and I started to fall asleep my legs took over and walked miles all night.

I remember the day it changed. Your life was coming to an abrupt end. We had no idea it was going to happen so fast. You never wanted to talk about wills, or power of attorney--things like that. But now we were running out of time. I went to your house and we talked a bit about it again, and decided that I would print everything out for you to read and sign. Then I had to find witnesses to sign the papers. I remembered the name of one of the pastors at the church you and Laura attended and looked him up. Called him. He was so kind and willing to help. He and his wife came by so quickly. I brought out the papers and read them out loud to both you and the pastor and his wife. After reading the will you looked at me and you said "Very Good". One of the last coherent things I ever heard you say.

Then the pastor sat with you and read from scripture. It's not my thing, I'm afraid I couldn't tell you which bit he read. But he read it to you, and then prayed with you. He told you that you would be going to heaven, and you said you"hoped so". He said he "knew so". That's when every fiber in my being calmed. Something went click and I knew that I would actually be able to sleep that night. It was a long day and night. I didn't get home until after midnight. But I did sleep.

I went to work the next morning and by early afternoon the call came from Cheryl telling me that you were truly dying and that there wasn't much time left. I left work and went straight to Oostburg. There were no more conversations to be had. It was true. You were leaving.

And then you were gone.

Afterward I did have trouble sleeping from time to time. But once I slept it was all I wanted to do. It's all I want to do now. I've been a night owl my whole life. I like to sleep in. But it's different now. Sundays are the worst. I tell Joe, when he comes into the bedroom to see me sleeping still, "give me a reason", "what's my motivation to get up and join the world today?". Eventually, I do get up. I do what is necessary, and that's about it. Hey, the vacuuming is done, the bed is made. Whoop-dee-doo.

I'm trying. I really am. I feel ashamed. Other people, normal people, get up early. They get things done. By the time I get going (unless it's a work day) it's already noon. As if I don't already have enough guilt in my life, there's this. I know that I'll stay up late. I'll do some chores, take care of the birds, surf a little web, watch something on Netflix, crochet. But I'm missing the flame, the flicker, the gusto. Maybe it's just winter blues, maybe the spring will make it better. I hope so. In the meantime, I'm in a walking coma.

Everyone is there but Google

He was probably hanging out with me in another room when Joe snapped this photo of all 8 budgies just hanging out. The two newest inside the cage bottom right are "Widget" and "Browser". They are adapting nicely. Hanging out with the rest of the gang, chattering away, and allowing me to help them when they flutter to the floor as they get used to flying around the room.

So, we have 9 birds now. My nephew, Nathan, visited on Tuesday. When I explained that we have 9, he said that we should really get 1 more so that we have 10. "Mmmm," I said, "we'll see." I don't really think we'll be adding another for some time. But, famous last words...

I was going to log on and blog about the chaos and emotions and uncertainty of my life as of late, but it's late, and I'm tired, and all cried out. So, tonight it will just be a brief introduction to the latest version of the flock, and a wish to all for better days.

So bundle up, friends. It's cold out there. Valentine's Day is soon to arrive. Are you prepared, or are you feeling all "so what" about it like me? I actually like valentine's day. Pretty much always have. Even when I wasn't in a romance. I think it's a great opportunity to let someone in your life know they are special. Man, woman, child. Bird. But this year, I'm not feeling it. Even though I'm grateful for so many people (and creatures) in my life, I'm just not feeling it.

Maybe something will change. Maybe a wash of all gooey V-day sentiment will flow over me.
I'm doubting it. But you never know.

Maybe number 10 will show up and make my day.

Happy Valentine's to all....

Kimberly

You Can't Fool Me

Damn, I miss her. My Mom. How is it we go on, day after day, and she is no longer here? No telephone can reach her. No email, no Facebook post. No US mail, either.

It's will be three months, come Thanksgiving. We had hoped she would live to see Christmas. Maybe even the Superbowl. No such luck. She's gone, and there is nothing can be done about it.

I miss her. I've wanted to call her so many times. I've had news to share. Funny stories to amuse her with. I miss her laugh. I miss making her laugh.

Since I was a child, one of favorite things was to be able to make Mom laugh. No matter what it took. Whether it was singing a goofy song, ratting my hair out in a pseudo-fro, or dressing up in way-too-oversize overalls and talking with a bad southern accent, I loved making her laugh. If I could make her laugh, everything would be okay

Even in those last months, when things were so serious and scary, I wanted to make her laugh.
To amuse. Divert her attention. Ease her mind. Ease my own. And sometimes it worked. Laughter does heal, after all. But not enough.

I keep hoping to dream of her, at least. To have some sleep-driven conversation. To hear her laughter. Especially when she would laugh so hard it was followed-up at the end with a big, long, snort. I want to see her face. I want to hug her again. Hold her hand again. Travel cross-country with her again.

I know, I know, I can carry her in my heart. Memories will always keep her near. But you can't fool me. It's not the same. And, not for nothin', but that ain't funny.

Sadness Upon Sadness

Pretty Boy Pumpkin

8-24-06 to 9-4-10

As if my heart wasn't breaking already, we have lost another beautiful soul. My beautiful birdie Pumpkin. His illness came on suddenly. There was nothing we could do but make him comfortable. The vet tried. We tried. I held him in my hands this morning and talked to him softly as he passed away. My husband and I both cried. His playmates will miss him. We will miss him. I will miss him incredibly. He has been a spunky, cheerful, faithful friend. He was Tori's best friend. The flock will never be the same. But we will love them all. And we will talk of Pumpkin every day.

Maybe he is perched right now atop my mother's shoulder. Both gone within one week. My heart aches with sorrow.

We love you, Pumpkin.