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

Forever Changed

APRIL 7, 2010 -- The change had already begun. But this was the day when it truly became real.  The day the surgeon came to us, and with a simple gesture, confirmed that our lives would never be the same.

He used both hands to illustrate the size of the enemy. The demon that had taken up residence, and that they tried to evict. Cancer was the unwelcome guest, and my mother its unwitting host. 

That day we learned there was no going back. No way around this traffic jam. No detour. We were stuck. Worst of all, Mom was stuck.  Our lives, and, more importantly, her life, were altered forever.  She was in a war with the devil called cancer, and we were going to have to guide her through the trenches as best we could.

For years we would talk with her about her health challenges, and she refused to deal with them.  Aside from a nasty cold or bronchitis, she wouldn't charge into a doctor's office seeking help.  When we tried to convince her that she could be more comfortable, have less pain, discomfort, breathe easier with the right doctors and the right care, she would simply tell us "I'm 70!", as if that age marker meant it's all over - 70 - the end.

As it was, we were too late. The doctor's tried. She tried. We all joined in the fight. But there was no way out, and the demon, cancer, won.  And yet, she was so brave and calm, and accepting. She walked through it all with such grace. Forever changed. And now, forever gone.

Our lives are different now. Her absence always with us. Yes, her memories always with us, too. But there is no doubt about it. Nothing will ever be the same.

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.

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.

Sunrise River Farewell

It was a chilly day in October. The autumn colors vivid. The sun bright. The sky clear blue. We gathered together...daughters, spouses, sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews, dear friends. We walked onto the bridge at the Sunrise River to bid farewell to my mother. Her final wishes were that her ashes be scattered here. To the same river my father's had been scattered seven years before.

This place had been special for both of them. He grew up fishing here, hunting here, playing with friends and family here. Years later, he brought my mother here, and, eventually, all of his daughters, too. We would picnic near the river. Walk through the old Sunrise Cemetary a short distance away. It was peaceful. Beautiful. Just the smell of the place a happy memory.

And so, little more than a month after Mom passed away, we made this journey. We gathered on the bridge over the flowing river. We were more than twenty. One by one we stepped forward and gathered her ashes in our hands. One by one we stepped to the side of the bridge, opened our hands, and released the grains of a precious soul into the water. Watched her dust dance in the wind, land on the sun-dappled water and flow away.

We hugged. We cried. We talked. We shared memories. We honored her wishes. Bid her farewell. We traveled from near and far. Carried her ashes to the river, released them, then carried her home in our hearts.