Well, you knew I wasn't going to let this election nightmare slide by without weighing in, right? I've been pondering this entry for a long while. I've been trying to let the extreme emotion in my heart subside a little, and make sure that I make statements out of thoughtful reflection, rather than react out of passion.
Every time I write something on these pages, I try to recall my purpose. Since this blog went public a couple of years ago, I realize that more people than just my own children are reading them. I think sometimes I might write for an unintended audience, so I have to remember that at the heart of all of this, I'm really just telling stories to my kids.
Every day I realize the value in what I started here. I'm missing my own mother's voice in my life and I would give my right arm right now for a few dozen pages of her words to pore over. I'm hoping to leave my kids lots more than that...so I have to remember my purpose. I'm not going to address the country, or my Facebook feed, or even the Pantsuit Nation that I was privileged to be a part of (secretly!) this year. That was a delicious piece of this election, and the PN was sometimes the only thing I allowed myself to read right before bed so I could actually sleep at night.
I'm talking right now just to my children. So if you're here, and want to keep reading, go ahead. You're invited. But I'm not talking to you, just so you know.
Emma, Carys, and Cooper, I know you will remember 2016. I know you will, because all the unimaginable things have become real life this year. We moved off of the country paradise. The brilliant sunshine that was your Grandmother extinguished this year. And our country divided herself along the sharpest boundaries I've seen in my 42 years of living. This election caused you to have political conversations in your own classrooms, among your own classmates, who at 9 and 10 and 12 years old really have no idea what they are talking about, yet are eager to repeat whatever they are hearing at home.
I'm so sorry that was your life experience this year. Life was hard enough, without having to put up with all the other stuff. Your mother is pretty blue, in a whole lot of metaphorical ways. She's traveled the world, lived in other cultures, studied politics and literature, and come to a pretty liberal view on lots of issues. I'm doing what I believe is the right thing to do, and trying to lead by example as you develop your own value system. I'm trying to teach you that others are more important than yourself; that service is the path to understanding. That cultures other than your own are valuable and part of the rich tapestry that makes this country beautiful.
I believe in social programs that elevate the living experience of every human living within our borders, whether they passed a citizenship test or not. I am an idealist, and I don't apologize for it. I'm not interested in trying to explain to people why I believe my "hard-earned money" should be used in part to help those who need it, through any social program that could use it. I don't need to explain it; I just FEEL it, and that's good enough. I'm hoping to send you out someday into the big world with confidence - hoping to inspire you to travel it, see it, live it and feel it yourself.
The world is so much bigger than the town where you live. So. Much. Bigger. So when you go out and live in it, I want to send you with values that will keep you safe and make you blissfully happy. Love others. Give to others. When you don't understand them, ask questions and listen. What you reap, personally, from those experiences will be worth so many more dollars than you ever spent to get there.
I don't know what is going to happen over these next four years. I feel - and I hope and pray that I am wrong - but I feel that our nation might be teetering on a very dangerous precipice. I would have felt more safe with leadership that used diplomacy rather than scare tactics. I would have felt more secure with leadership that used the language of love rather than the language of divisive rhetoric. I would have felt more at ease with leadership that celebrated diversity rather than shunned it. So I worry.
Please know this one thing: because you are white, you will likely enjoy a privilege that you cannot ever fully comprehend. It will be a privilege you are largely unaware of unless and until you live a different life in a foreign culture. That privilege alone could make a smoother path for you than the paths of the people of color in our beautiful world. Please, please, don't ever rest on that. Acknowledge it, but never rest easy in it. Your privilege colors your view, and you must work to see past the easy envelope of its arms. You must surround yourself with diversity, ask questions, listen, and be so careful not to minimize the experiences of those who grow up without that shield.
I would not fear a Donald Trump presidency if I heard him, just one time, comment on the value of people of color. If he would, just one time, denounce the acts of violence and intolerance that white people of privilege are visiting on their fellow countrymen of color. I thought about including some news articles here to underline my point, but honestly, they hurt my heart so much to read that I can't bear to link them. Just trust me when I tell you that right now people in this country are hurting each other emotionally and physically on a terrible level, and all in the name of politics. I'm waiting for our President-elect to address it, to denounce it, to reverse his position on minimizing people of color. So far, I haven't heard that. I don't care one iota about anything else; his economics or his foreign policy, or anything else. I care about his ability to include every person in this nation in the safety and security that our military fought so hard to earn for every person standing within our borders.
We're living in a scary time. I tried to talk to you throughout this election about what I felt was at stake: human rights. For me, it wasn't about Hillary's gender. It wasn't about a glass ceiling, or the establishment, or the good old boys club. It was about which candidate made every American feel like they were equally important to each other, and it was about making our country a safe refuge for those escaping persecution. To me, that is why we were founded in the first place, and to close our borders to people who need us is unthinkable.
But Donald Trump earned his presidency through the votes of people who think differently than me. It doesn't mean they are wrong. (By the way, that was a seriously painful sentence to write, because of course I think they are wrong. WRONG.) But I have to remember that the life they led put them where they are in their thinking. It is no less legitimate than the one I led. I am genuinely surprised, though, at who some of them were...as my Facebook feed filled up with pro-Trump propaganda, I kept careful attention of who they were. It's helpful to know that, as I relate to people in real life. As hard as it was not to engage in the yuck, I really didn't. I walked away from a lot of ugly, and simply pressed the "like" button when I saw something that aligned with my views.
It's hard to love people when they are different from us, sometimes. But that's the real work - love them anyway. You must. Loving them anyway does two things: it keeps you true to your value system, and hopefully the side effect is that loving them inspires them to pass it on.
I was raking leaves the afternoon after the election, pondering the state of our Union, actually, when our neighbor came over to tell me a story. She tells me that when Cooper was hanging out at their house playing, the topic of politics came up. She shared this one-liner from good old Coop:
"I think if Donald Trump wins, we have to move to Canada. But I think that's a win-win, because of Canadian Bacon."
I'll have to remember to clarify with my little guy when I'm being sarcastic. I love the USA. I love her. I love her so much that I'll stay here and keep making her better, the only way I really can: loving and listening and learning. And hopefully, I'm setting a good example for three more little people to keep it going.
November 11, 2016
October 26, 2016
Oldies and Goodies
You don't have to know me long or well to know that I have an affinity for vintage, especially from the mid-century modern era. I don't know what it is about the 50's and 60's that draws me so close; I gravitate toward the furniture, the fashion, the colors, and just about anything else that reminds me of that era. My house is full of mid-century items, repurposed and re-used; they made things to last back then. The look made a comeback in recent years, and companies like Joybird are taking off. If I had a couple hundred thousand dollars laying around, I would be inclined to customize my entire house with furniture from that store.
It should then be no surprise that I pretty much lost my mind over my birthday present this year. My dad gave me the most exciting item that pretty much ever existed for me. Check this out:
It should then be no surprise that I pretty much lost my mind over my birthday present this year. My dad gave me the most exciting item that pretty much ever existed for me. Check this out:
Is that the most amazing thing you have ever seen? Crosley makes a record player that looks so mid-mod you would think I found it in the attic upstairs. The only feature that gives it away is the auxiliary jack that lets me plug in my phone and stream music through the player. (AS IF someone would feel the need to stream music when the best sound quality you've ever heard in your life is available to you through an np5 needle at 33rpms.)
Maybe you're like my husband and thinking, "Um, that's a RECORD player. We don't even have any records." And that would have been true, if my awesomely amazing dad had not then produced part two: a set of my parents' old vinyls, the records I listened to ceaselessly in my childhood, still in their original jackets. As I thumbed through them - The Carpenters, The Four Seasons, Janis Joplin, Carole King, The Statler Brothers, The Beach Boys, Simon & Garfunkel - it was like being transported backwards to my childhood. I couldn't get it out of the box and set up fast enough.
I've listened to each album several times through over the past few weeks. Each one does something different to me; each one reminds me of a house, a moment, an outfit, a friend - something - from my youth. Once I got through my parents' music, I found albums from my teen years: Olivia Newton John and Starship. I found the Thriller album, The Bangles and Madonna's True Blue. Some are scratched terribly, some are still in reasonably good listening condition. But even the scratched ones take me back - in my head I could anticipate each skip and rub; somehow it sounded weirdly normal.
One night, I was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, records spread all around me. As I moved from record to record, it struck me that a lot of my ideas about life and love were formed by listening to these old songs. Age and experience have changed how I interpret the words today versus age 9 when I didn't really understand what half of the songs actually meant. I think that maybe the draw to the past has more to do with a connection to innocence, to naivete, than anything else for me. Life was so much simpler when I could belt out tunes upstairs in my room and then hustle downstairs for supper, not a care in the world past whether my homework was done for the next day. Remember when your only real job was to do your homework? When you could wear whatever you want and someone else was in charge of your hair? Yeah, me too. Good times.
Dad even went an extra mile; buried among the oldies and goodies were two brand new vinyls. Chris Stapleton's Traveler, which may as well be dipped in platinum (it's THAT good) and Taylor Swift's Speak Now. That one's for my girls - we're gonna keep it on going, this appreciation for the good stuff.
I waited and waited to put Mom's Helen Reddy album on the player. I thumbed past it over and over, for no particular reason. Mom loved music - she loved it. I have so many memories of singing along to albums on cleaning days, doing the dishes, pretty much any chore that needed help getting done. We would sing The Carpenters and Dolly Parton and Anne Murray and I can hear her voice right now as I type this. But Helen Reddy - I don't know why, but that one was asking me to wait, so I waited.
Last night I came home late from Musical rehearsals. The house was quiet, everyone was asleep. I sat downstairs in the family room, decompressing from the day and eating a very late supper of cereal and orange juice. I didn't feel like television, so I leaned over and opened the record player. I flipped through the albums and paused on Helen. I looked at the songlist: I Am Woman, Leave Me Alone, Delta Dawn, I Don't Know How to Love Him...all classics. I put on the record and listened to her telling me stories. It took me back to a farm house in Wells and I leaned back, eyes closed and felt calm and collected and at peace.
Then song five came on - You And Me Against the World - a song my mother and I sang together, to each other, a hundred million times. Helen's daughter is on the track singing, and I used to just delight in that, when we would sing it together. I guess I know why I needed the right time and place to hear it. Mom was right there next to me, listening:
"You and me against the world
Sometimes it feels like you and me against the world
When all the others turn their backs and walk away
You can count on me to stay
And when one of us is gone
And one of us is left to carry on
Then remembering will have to do
Our memories alone will get us through
Think about the days of me and you
You and me against the world"
I love the old stuff. I love it. Best. Gift. Ever.
One more thing - if anyone has a stack of old vinyls out there and you don't want them anymore, don't throw them away. Bring them over to my house, please!
October 3, 2016
The New Normal
Life right now is so vastly unlike anything it has ever been before, that I hardly know myself these days. I don't recognize a single aspect of my life as my own; it's like I'm walking around in a Salvador Dali painting. Life right now can be pretty much summed up in two words: unsettling and unfair.
It is unsettling to wake up in a house I didn't plan to live in, drive to work in a car I never planned to buy, and then go to work in a classroom that I've never taught in, teaching curriculum I've never seen before.
It feels unfair that because I didn't plant anything, I cannot harvest anything, can or preserve anything, and instead I must drive to the grocery store more often than any human really should.
Unsettling, that I have children who are growing faster than the rate at which I can purchase new shoes, who alternately love each other AND want to permanently maim each other, and for whom merely a change in the weather can sway their mood in either direction.
Unfair, that I spent the last nine years writing a beautifully well-planned curriculum on the American West, the Holocaust and Media Literacy, and I had to scrap it all for a Pearson-aligned curriculum that is probably amazing but I can't tell yet because I can barely stay a day ahead of all THREE of the new classes I have been assigned to teach.
It's unsettling, that I can't predict whether a request to pick up the shoes on the steps will result in cheerful complicity or a Scarlett O'Hara meltdown.
Unfair, that somebody in the country over by Sherburn is walking on new wood floors while I'm steam-cleaning shag carpeting from 1954. (Yes, yes, the view is amazing and the floors are the next project, I KNOW, I just feel like wallowing for a little while, so let me do it please.)
Unsettling, when your nine year old is talking about maybe wearing the football jersey of a certain adorable boy in her class to the Homecoming football game.
And unfair, that when a person discovers that a bag of potatoes in the back of the cupboard has gone bad and the smell is more than a grown person can handle, there is no mother to call and complain to who will show up and clean the kitchen and make fun of how pathetically weak I still am when it comes to gross things and domesticity.
Throw into the mix a husband who has emerged as launderer of the year, (seriously, he does a load of laundry a DAY, every day...what??) and I don't know what the heck to make of this new life. When is it going to feel normal? When is that going to happen, exactly? I'm craving something solid I can stand on. Something that makes me feel like myself.
I wonder if it ever will feel like that again? Will I ever wake up again and say to myself, 'You got this'? I used to say that to myself in the mirror before walking out the door every morning. I used to walk around with this confidence of self, like I had the answers to life in my back pocket guiding me through my day.
Will it ever feel like that again? I suspect that it probably won't. I think that in the middle of all this change, I am changing too. I find myself thinking brand new thoughts, like "I wonder if Aaron will remember that the new towels need to be washed in cold water?" and "I wonder if I let Emma babysit again, will she be able to keep my other two kids from killing each other?" I also wonder if my dad is too lonely, if my kids are as sad as I am and just better at hiding it and if my mom is watching me stumble through my days saying, "Get it together, for heaven's sake, Sara Jane."
I hope it's just a passing season. I find myself fumbling when people ask, "How are you doing?"
Truly? I have no idea. I have no frame of reference for how I am doing. Still walking around, bewildered, I guess, is my best answer. Looking for the new normal.
It is unsettling to wake up in a house I didn't plan to live in, drive to work in a car I never planned to buy, and then go to work in a classroom that I've never taught in, teaching curriculum I've never seen before.
It feels unfair that because I didn't plant anything, I cannot harvest anything, can or preserve anything, and instead I must drive to the grocery store more often than any human really should.
Unsettling, that I have children who are growing faster than the rate at which I can purchase new shoes, who alternately love each other AND want to permanently maim each other, and for whom merely a change in the weather can sway their mood in either direction.
Unfair, that I spent the last nine years writing a beautifully well-planned curriculum on the American West, the Holocaust and Media Literacy, and I had to scrap it all for a Pearson-aligned curriculum that is probably amazing but I can't tell yet because I can barely stay a day ahead of all THREE of the new classes I have been assigned to teach.
It's unsettling, that I can't predict whether a request to pick up the shoes on the steps will result in cheerful complicity or a Scarlett O'Hara meltdown.
Unfair, that somebody in the country over by Sherburn is walking on new wood floors while I'm steam-cleaning shag carpeting from 1954. (Yes, yes, the view is amazing and the floors are the next project, I KNOW, I just feel like wallowing for a little while, so let me do it please.)
Unsettling, when your nine year old is talking about maybe wearing the football jersey of a certain adorable boy in her class to the Homecoming football game.
And unfair, that when a person discovers that a bag of potatoes in the back of the cupboard has gone bad and the smell is more than a grown person can handle, there is no mother to call and complain to who will show up and clean the kitchen and make fun of how pathetically weak I still am when it comes to gross things and domesticity.
Throw into the mix a husband who has emerged as launderer of the year, (seriously, he does a load of laundry a DAY, every day...what??) and I don't know what the heck to make of this new life. When is it going to feel normal? When is that going to happen, exactly? I'm craving something solid I can stand on. Something that makes me feel like myself.
I wonder if it ever will feel like that again? Will I ever wake up again and say to myself, 'You got this'? I used to say that to myself in the mirror before walking out the door every morning. I used to walk around with this confidence of self, like I had the answers to life in my back pocket guiding me through my day.
Will it ever feel like that again? I suspect that it probably won't. I think that in the middle of all this change, I am changing too. I find myself thinking brand new thoughts, like "I wonder if Aaron will remember that the new towels need to be washed in cold water?" and "I wonder if I let Emma babysit again, will she be able to keep my other two kids from killing each other?" I also wonder if my dad is too lonely, if my kids are as sad as I am and just better at hiding it and if my mom is watching me stumble through my days saying, "Get it together, for heaven's sake, Sara Jane."
I hope it's just a passing season. I find myself fumbling when people ask, "How are you doing?"
Truly? I have no idea. I have no frame of reference for how I am doing. Still walking around, bewildered, I guess, is my best answer. Looking for the new normal.
August 25, 2016
The Journey (Part Two)
Twenty-five days without you, Mom. I'm still figuring it all out. I don't have a better handle on it today than I did a month ago; I feel pretty much the same. The thing I never really understood about grief until now is how fluid it is. Someone told me (I can't remember which kind soul told me this, but it's true) that grief is a lot like sitting on a shoreline. Like water lapping at the sand, grief kind of washes over you from time to time. Some days I'm okay, some days I'm not. Some days I THINK I'm okay, and then a wave sneaks up on me and the next thing you know I"m pulling the car over on the side of the road and crying in the Bean Town parking lot.
Today I feel like talking about the alone part. Mom wanted to travel this path by herself, with only my dad, my brother and I walking alongside her. When she woke up one morning and couldn't swing her legs out of bed, Dad had to call the ambulance to come get her. She worried and worried about what the neighborhood was going to think. She preferred that any perceived weakness, physical or otherwise, be handled privately. So we did it all ourselves: trips to Mayo in Mankato, intake at Lutz Wing, therapy appointments, scans, tests, diagnoses, daily life. We did it ourselves, and it was okay. More than okay. I've been thinking a lot about that lately.
Technology today has provided front-row access to witness the lives of our friends and family at really every level imaginable. Some people crave the connections to others; they update their social media regularly and let people become part of their experience. I admire that; transparency on that level is a scary thing to me, and I'm always in awe of the people who can express that to the world. I wasn't really raised that way; the model I grew up under was very private when it came to personal stuff. I don't think there's a right or wrong, I think you do what works for you.
We did what worked for us. From the day my parents left their hometown and struck out on what would be a journey to four more cities and six more houses, we were pretty much on our own. Both of my parents came from the same small town; they both have siblings and I have a whole lot of cousins. But once we left Salem, we only visited a few times a year and only a handful came to us. I can remember packing up houses alone, moving into houses alone, and countless holiday and birthday celebrations that had exactly four attendees. This isn't a sad thing; let me clarify: it was exactly right. The few times I can remember big family reunions, there was always an undercurrent of chaos that never really felt right; like visiting someplace fun but not wanting to live there, if you know what I mean.
Mom had her own personal reasons for keeping us tightly together. I feel certain that I understood my mother on some pretty deep levels. Some things she told me, some things I just figured out on my own as I grew up and learned the extended family dynamic. Mostly, I think Mom wanted our family and her love for us to be at the very center and core of our beings. She wanted us to never doubt it; to never wonder if we were loved or where our place was in the world. No matter what came our way, what mountain there was to climb, we would always have her and would have each other.
That doesn't mean we always got along...! Mom was a strong personality with an unwavering sense of justice. She knew the difference between kind and unkind, between right and wrong. As my brother and I grew up there were the usual teenage battles; our struggle to be fiercely independent vs. her will to make sure our independence didn't come at the cost of our morality. The thing is, I could have a knock-down, drag-out fight with my mother and even when we were the most angry, the most hurt, or the most frustrated with each other, there was absolutely NO QUESTION about the love part. I don't think Mom always felt that herself growing up, and she was going to be damned sure that my brother and I didn't grow up that way.
I think that fierceness with which we love each other, the four of us, was born from the tight family unit they made for us growing up, and the way that being alone, just us, was always made to feel exactly right. We had each other, always, at the end of the day. And at the end of her days, she knew how she wanted to spend them.
I know that some of our family and friends do not, can not, understand the decision we made when it came to traveling this journey privately. The thing is, we traveled our whole lives together privately. Everything about it felt right; it just was.
And now that she, the sun around which we built our lives is gone, I think the hurt in my heart and the profound hole in the center of me, is just the price I have to pay for being loved like that. She loved us so much, she loved me so fiercely, and I have always known it. No matter how much it hurts to be without her right now, I would not trade it. I would not. Sometimes, when I feel like my edges are coming apart and my threads are unraveling and I feel like I'm wandering around without a compass, I just ask myself: would I have wanted this any other way? No.
If we had made the calls earlier, told the whole world what we were managing, we would undoubtedly have been surrounded by dozens and dozens of friends and family trying to help us carry the burden. We have felt so much love and support since Mom's passing, I have no doubt in my mind that we would have felt that love and support all along. But in our case, doing it together, alone, was the way it had always been, was the way that it was and the way we needed it to be. I know now that I couldn't have navigated Mom's illness the way I did if I had been also making time for extended family and for the hospitality I would have wanted to provide them and at the level Mom would have wanted for them.
Somehow Mom knew that this was a path for us alone; I would not have wanted to spend even one second less next to her bed, holding her hand, telling our stories, watching television, eating lunch. I would not have wanted one single second to be spent calling people and explaining things, and entertaining company and putting on my company manners. It may have been selfish of me, but I got to have all of her minutes. All of them. I'm so lucky.
Mom asked for this, she said so many times that she didn't want us to make any phone calls. I felt a little guilty at the time, but I see now what that was. I wish I could thank you for it, Mom. It was your last gift to me. I wouldn't trade those 37 days for anything in the world.
Today I feel like talking about the alone part. Mom wanted to travel this path by herself, with only my dad, my brother and I walking alongside her. When she woke up one morning and couldn't swing her legs out of bed, Dad had to call the ambulance to come get her. She worried and worried about what the neighborhood was going to think. She preferred that any perceived weakness, physical or otherwise, be handled privately. So we did it all ourselves: trips to Mayo in Mankato, intake at Lutz Wing, therapy appointments, scans, tests, diagnoses, daily life. We did it ourselves, and it was okay. More than okay. I've been thinking a lot about that lately.
Technology today has provided front-row access to witness the lives of our friends and family at really every level imaginable. Some people crave the connections to others; they update their social media regularly and let people become part of their experience. I admire that; transparency on that level is a scary thing to me, and I'm always in awe of the people who can express that to the world. I wasn't really raised that way; the model I grew up under was very private when it came to personal stuff. I don't think there's a right or wrong, I think you do what works for you.
We did what worked for us. From the day my parents left their hometown and struck out on what would be a journey to four more cities and six more houses, we were pretty much on our own. Both of my parents came from the same small town; they both have siblings and I have a whole lot of cousins. But once we left Salem, we only visited a few times a year and only a handful came to us. I can remember packing up houses alone, moving into houses alone, and countless holiday and birthday celebrations that had exactly four attendees. This isn't a sad thing; let me clarify: it was exactly right. The few times I can remember big family reunions, there was always an undercurrent of chaos that never really felt right; like visiting someplace fun but not wanting to live there, if you know what I mean.
Mom had her own personal reasons for keeping us tightly together. I feel certain that I understood my mother on some pretty deep levels. Some things she told me, some things I just figured out on my own as I grew up and learned the extended family dynamic. Mostly, I think Mom wanted our family and her love for us to be at the very center and core of our beings. She wanted us to never doubt it; to never wonder if we were loved or where our place was in the world. No matter what came our way, what mountain there was to climb, we would always have her and would have each other.
That doesn't mean we always got along...! Mom was a strong personality with an unwavering sense of justice. She knew the difference between kind and unkind, between right and wrong. As my brother and I grew up there were the usual teenage battles; our struggle to be fiercely independent vs. her will to make sure our independence didn't come at the cost of our morality. The thing is, I could have a knock-down, drag-out fight with my mother and even when we were the most angry, the most hurt, or the most frustrated with each other, there was absolutely NO QUESTION about the love part. I don't think Mom always felt that herself growing up, and she was going to be damned sure that my brother and I didn't grow up that way.
I think that fierceness with which we love each other, the four of us, was born from the tight family unit they made for us growing up, and the way that being alone, just us, was always made to feel exactly right. We had each other, always, at the end of the day. And at the end of her days, she knew how she wanted to spend them.
I know that some of our family and friends do not, can not, understand the decision we made when it came to traveling this journey privately. The thing is, we traveled our whole lives together privately. Everything about it felt right; it just was.
And now that she, the sun around which we built our lives is gone, I think the hurt in my heart and the profound hole in the center of me, is just the price I have to pay for being loved like that. She loved us so much, she loved me so fiercely, and I have always known it. No matter how much it hurts to be without her right now, I would not trade it. I would not. Sometimes, when I feel like my edges are coming apart and my threads are unraveling and I feel like I'm wandering around without a compass, I just ask myself: would I have wanted this any other way? No.
If we had made the calls earlier, told the whole world what we were managing, we would undoubtedly have been surrounded by dozens and dozens of friends and family trying to help us carry the burden. We have felt so much love and support since Mom's passing, I have no doubt in my mind that we would have felt that love and support all along. But in our case, doing it together, alone, was the way it had always been, was the way that it was and the way we needed it to be. I know now that I couldn't have navigated Mom's illness the way I did if I had been also making time for extended family and for the hospitality I would have wanted to provide them and at the level Mom would have wanted for them.
Somehow Mom knew that this was a path for us alone; I would not have wanted to spend even one second less next to her bed, holding her hand, telling our stories, watching television, eating lunch. I would not have wanted one single second to be spent calling people and explaining things, and entertaining company and putting on my company manners. It may have been selfish of me, but I got to have all of her minutes. All of them. I'm so lucky.
Mom asked for this, she said so many times that she didn't want us to make any phone calls. I felt a little guilty at the time, but I see now what that was. I wish I could thank you for it, Mom. It was your last gift to me. I wouldn't trade those 37 days for anything in the world.
August 4, 2016
The Journey (Part One)
**Because writing is my personal therapy, I spent a great deal of my summer jotting down thoughts and feelings as I navigated my mother's illness and what I knew was ultimately going to be the outcome of it. I left everything jumbled; it is a mass of scattered moments, thoughts and feelings, out of order and unedited. There are pages and pages. Rather than spend time sorting them into coherent blog entries, I will post them as is, one at a time, as I feel ready to put them out there. Please excuse my formatting; even my English Teacher Self is out of energy. This is more authentic anyway.**
Why is it so difficult for me to put words on paper when I am going through hard things? When life is good, words seem to flow easily from my fingers. When I am faced with tragedy; with stress and struggle, I sit and stare endlessly at a blinking cursor on a white screen. This summer, begun with such lightness of being, evolved into the most difficult summer of my life. And many days I sit, in front of the blinking cursor, staring.
I am losing my mother this summer. I am trying out that sentence, trying to make it feel like it belongs to me. I don't feel like I have lost her; I can't really even imagine it to tell you the truth. But I am losing her, actually, as I write this. I'm sitting in her room at Lutz Wing, in a pink corduroy recliner with my laptop open. The Mentalist is playing on the TV because Mom loves that show. She is alternating between sleep and awake, unable to talk to me, but still able to look into my eyes and curl the edges of her mouth slightly into a smile.
It's called Creutzfeldt-Jakobs Disease. At least, that's what the neurologists think it is. It's awful. I can't elaborate at the moment...that post was days ago and I still get mad when I read it so I will just let you Google it if you are interested in the details. Let me just say that it took first her balance, then her mobility, then pieces of her memory and then her speech. It hasn't taken her yet, but I know that is coming, and probably soon.
I've said all the things I needed to say to my mother...though I have to mention that I needed to say very little. The beauty of this whole experience, while hard to see sometimes through the pain of it, is that all the things that I needed her to know, she knows already.
I talk to Mom every single day of my life; I have for as long as I can remember. She knows all my stories, usually right after they happen. She knows what our routine looks like, what we had for supper, what story I read at bedtime or what argument I tried to mediate throughout the day. There is nothing that we have left unsaid, nothing left undone. I was lucky enough to share a bond with my mother that I know without a doubt is rare and unbreakable.
That's probably what is keeping me going at this point. From diagnosis to today, we have only weathered this storm for 33 days. It moved like wildfire through my mother's body, and there are moments when I can't believe how much has happened in such a short time. But even though every single one of those 33 days has been met with new challenges and limitations, we move through them more easily because of the deep bond forged over the entirety of my 41 years.
I know my mother on levels I can't even describe; she gifted me with insight into her childhood, her own life's challenges, and her personal dreams and ambitions on a regular basis. She was private to the world; she was an open tapestry to her family. As my brother and I sat with her one night in the hospital, telling stories and reminiscing with her, it occurred to me that our little family unit is interlocked so tightly together that nothing, not even death, will loosen those bonds.
I look back at some of the things I have been writing this month; lots of them are too hard for me to read. I think all the stages of grief can be found scattered throughout the entries. I am not sure yet which ones I can post, which ones I can say out loud. Maybe some, maybe none, who knows. I will let my conscience be my guide I think...they will tell me when they are ready to be told.
In the meantime, tonight I just hold my mother's hand in mine, look into those wide eyes and wait for tiny little twitch at the corner of her mouth that shows me her smile. She is preparing for what is next; I am learning how to exist without her voice. I am learning that I don't actually need it; she is in me already. I can hear it in my heart. It beats steadily in my chest, the strength and certainty of her love for me. For today, that is enough.
Why is it so difficult for me to put words on paper when I am going through hard things? When life is good, words seem to flow easily from my fingers. When I am faced with tragedy; with stress and struggle, I sit and stare endlessly at a blinking cursor on a white screen. This summer, begun with such lightness of being, evolved into the most difficult summer of my life. And many days I sit, in front of the blinking cursor, staring.
I am losing my mother this summer. I am trying out that sentence, trying to make it feel like it belongs to me. I don't feel like I have lost her; I can't really even imagine it to tell you the truth. But I am losing her, actually, as I write this. I'm sitting in her room at Lutz Wing, in a pink corduroy recliner with my laptop open. The Mentalist is playing on the TV because Mom loves that show. She is alternating between sleep and awake, unable to talk to me, but still able to look into my eyes and curl the edges of her mouth slightly into a smile.
It's called Creutzfeldt-Jakobs Disease. At least, that's what the neurologists think it is. It's awful. I can't elaborate at the moment...that post was days ago and I still get mad when I read it so I will just let you Google it if you are interested in the details. Let me just say that it took first her balance, then her mobility, then pieces of her memory and then her speech. It hasn't taken her yet, but I know that is coming, and probably soon.
I've said all the things I needed to say to my mother...though I have to mention that I needed to say very little. The beauty of this whole experience, while hard to see sometimes through the pain of it, is that all the things that I needed her to know, she knows already.
I talk to Mom every single day of my life; I have for as long as I can remember. She knows all my stories, usually right after they happen. She knows what our routine looks like, what we had for supper, what story I read at bedtime or what argument I tried to mediate throughout the day. There is nothing that we have left unsaid, nothing left undone. I was lucky enough to share a bond with my mother that I know without a doubt is rare and unbreakable.
That's probably what is keeping me going at this point. From diagnosis to today, we have only weathered this storm for 33 days. It moved like wildfire through my mother's body, and there are moments when I can't believe how much has happened in such a short time. But even though every single one of those 33 days has been met with new challenges and limitations, we move through them more easily because of the deep bond forged over the entirety of my 41 years.
I know my mother on levels I can't even describe; she gifted me with insight into her childhood, her own life's challenges, and her personal dreams and ambitions on a regular basis. She was private to the world; she was an open tapestry to her family. As my brother and I sat with her one night in the hospital, telling stories and reminiscing with her, it occurred to me that our little family unit is interlocked so tightly together that nothing, not even death, will loosen those bonds.
I look back at some of the things I have been writing this month; lots of them are too hard for me to read. I think all the stages of grief can be found scattered throughout the entries. I am not sure yet which ones I can post, which ones I can say out loud. Maybe some, maybe none, who knows. I will let my conscience be my guide I think...they will tell me when they are ready to be told.
In the meantime, tonight I just hold my mother's hand in mine, look into those wide eyes and wait for tiny little twitch at the corner of her mouth that shows me her smile. She is preparing for what is next; I am learning how to exist without her voice. I am learning that I don't actually need it; she is in me already. I can hear it in my heart. It beats steadily in my chest, the strength and certainty of her love for me. For today, that is enough.
May 13, 2016
Carys At the Bat
When we first joined the Fastpitch Softball Association in 2014, Emma was 10 years old and Carys was 7. Emma was more than ready to try competitive softball, and Carys was just anxious to be part of something like her big sister. There weren't enough players at 8U, so the younger girls were absorbed into the 10U team. This was a pretty ideal situation for our family because that meant both girls could be on the same team. They practiced together, competed together, and we had only one set of travel commitments. The thrill of being with the "big girls" was a huge draw for the little sis, and she threw herself wholeheartedly into the endeavor.
Like all of life's experiences, there was a balance of great and wonderful alongside some disappointment that year. Emma discovered a love of catching and met a whole new batch of friends through the softball program. Carys learned every word of every softball chant ever devised, she mastered the fine art of stealing home, and as a teeny tiny little 7-year-old had a strike zone small enough to practically guarantee a walk whenever she wanted one.
On the negative side, we discovered that youth softball in a couple of neighboring towns can be pretty competitive. First let me say that Fairmont's program is very healthy; they have amazing youth coaches who are in it for all the right reasons, and they are committed to skill development. We belong to a league that promotes the healthy kind of competition for young girls; I can always count on our league games to be friendly and fun.
Tournaments, however, can bring to light an entirely different dynamic. Some youth programs are in it to win it, and that is no joke. My girls got to travel with several different teams, which gave us a huge variety of experiences. We went to tournaments that required birth certificates to prove the ages of players. We played an elite team at a tournament who played rules we had never even heard of before (the Look-Back rule? Really?) and despite a 15 run lead were still stealing bases and congratulating themselves as if the national title was on the line.
It was at one such tournament when little Carys, all 45 pounds of her, went up to the plate to bat against a 12-year-old pitcher brought (illegally) down to help her 10U team win the tournament. Our coach had already complained that the girl was throwing 40 mph and was clearly not a 10U player; the opposing coach arrogantly said, "Prove it. There's no birth certificate required here, so prove it."
This mama was already getting a little hot under the collar watching this play out. Emma was a solid hitter for our team, and she was watching strikes fly by her. I expected Carys to get small in the box like she does and either get a quick walk or, more likely, a strike out. It never occurred to me that she could hit the ball. Nevertheless, she gave it a shot. She swung her little heart out and whiffed the first two in short order. Pitch #3 was low and inside. It was so far inside and coming so fast that my little one didn't have time to react. The pitch caught her squarely on the outside of her knee cap and dropped her like a sack of potatoes.
Now, as a coach, I have witnessed some real Mama-Bear mentality over the years. I have often marveled at Mamas who can go from zero to sixty in no time flat and appear to have no filter or ability to control themselves at sporting events. I never, ever, thought that would be me. Until it was. Holy cow, something comes over you when you see a baby cub hurting. I won't go into those embarrassing details here. I'll just tell you what happened.
Emma came flying out of the dugout followed closely by the coaches. Emma picked her sister up off the ground, walked next to her as she limped to first base so she could touch it and get a pinch runner, and then carried her into the dugout. There were some heated exchanges between coaches, a few parents may have had a few things to say, and then eventually we all just went home. I was very touched by the sisterly love Emma displayed, and it only took Sis a few days to recover physically.
Mentally, however, recovery didn't come so easy. Although both girls continued to play ball, Carys was never the same. She loves to run the bases and she loves to play in the field...but she absolutely dreads the batter's box. Her coaches have tried everything to get her over her fear. Literally, everything. Every single pitch, no matter who is throwing it, absolutely terrifies her. She backs out of the box as the ball leaves the pitcher's hand every time. She gets on base occasionally, when a pitcher lacks enough control to throw strikes, but last year she struck out watching more often that not. It is so hard to see that. I know why she does it; I understand completely, and I can't fix it.
We had long discussions this year about whether we were going to sign her up for the team. We explained that hitting is a huge part of the game, and she really had to evaluate whether this is the program for her. She's terribly conflicted; there are so many things she loves about it. But no amount of stealing, sliding, chanting, high-fiving or sunflower-seed spitting could change the fact that she is scared to death of the batter's box.
Carys had pretty much decided to be done when she found out that a small group of her friends were joining the team for the first time this year. She had an immediate change of heart; her social nature was desperate to have more time with her friends. I did remind her that the program is not cheap; if she was going to do it, she had to commit to learning how to bat all over again. She promised to try; and we decided to say yes and see what happens.
On Tuesday night, she had her first practice that included hitting. She has three coaches this year; Tim and Jeff have been two of her coaches for the last two years. They know all about her special circumstances. Andy is new to our team as a coach, and it just so happened that he was the one taking the girls into the cage for batting practice. I didn't say a word to him, and neither did Carys. She was one of the last ones to try, and she paced around the cages for a good five minutes waiting her turn. I've come to recognize that as her most nervous habit, but I didn't walk over or say anything. I just watched and waited.
Finally, it was her turn. She went into the cage, lined up about a mile away from the plate, and waited for the pitch.
She swung! Hard! And missed! But who cares, because she swung!
My throat was thick, my eyes were full of tears. I had the presence of mind to turn on my video camera, because we were going to have to re-live that success all night. I listened to Andy talk her through some batting tips and work on her swing and her stance. He has no idea how much of that she has completely missed because of her inability to get past that day two years ago on a hot dusty field in St. James. She finally started connecting with the ball, and suddenly she was hitting! Actually hitting!
He can't possibly know what a huge moment that was for her, and for this Mama. I probably looked ridiculous, the only mother who is video-taping my 9 year old at batting practice, for Heaven's sake. I swear I am not one of the crazies. We won't be breaking down film tonight, I promise. But I had to have that moment on camera, I just had to have it.
When practice was over, she came flying over to me and flung herself into my arms with eyes shining bright as stars in the sky. She said, "Did you see me?" Oh yes, I did.
Like all of life's experiences, there was a balance of great and wonderful alongside some disappointment that year. Emma discovered a love of catching and met a whole new batch of friends through the softball program. Carys learned every word of every softball chant ever devised, she mastered the fine art of stealing home, and as a teeny tiny little 7-year-old had a strike zone small enough to practically guarantee a walk whenever she wanted one.
On the negative side, we discovered that youth softball in a couple of neighboring towns can be pretty competitive. First let me say that Fairmont's program is very healthy; they have amazing youth coaches who are in it for all the right reasons, and they are committed to skill development. We belong to a league that promotes the healthy kind of competition for young girls; I can always count on our league games to be friendly and fun.
Tournaments, however, can bring to light an entirely different dynamic. Some youth programs are in it to win it, and that is no joke. My girls got to travel with several different teams, which gave us a huge variety of experiences. We went to tournaments that required birth certificates to prove the ages of players. We played an elite team at a tournament who played rules we had never even heard of before (the Look-Back rule? Really?) and despite a 15 run lead were still stealing bases and congratulating themselves as if the national title was on the line.
It was at one such tournament when little Carys, all 45 pounds of her, went up to the plate to bat against a 12-year-old pitcher brought (illegally) down to help her 10U team win the tournament. Our coach had already complained that the girl was throwing 40 mph and was clearly not a 10U player; the opposing coach arrogantly said, "Prove it. There's no birth certificate required here, so prove it."
This mama was already getting a little hot under the collar watching this play out. Emma was a solid hitter for our team, and she was watching strikes fly by her. I expected Carys to get small in the box like she does and either get a quick walk or, more likely, a strike out. It never occurred to me that she could hit the ball. Nevertheless, she gave it a shot. She swung her little heart out and whiffed the first two in short order. Pitch #3 was low and inside. It was so far inside and coming so fast that my little one didn't have time to react. The pitch caught her squarely on the outside of her knee cap and dropped her like a sack of potatoes.
Now, as a coach, I have witnessed some real Mama-Bear mentality over the years. I have often marveled at Mamas who can go from zero to sixty in no time flat and appear to have no filter or ability to control themselves at sporting events. I never, ever, thought that would be me. Until it was. Holy cow, something comes over you when you see a baby cub hurting. I won't go into those embarrassing details here. I'll just tell you what happened.
Emma came flying out of the dugout followed closely by the coaches. Emma picked her sister up off the ground, walked next to her as she limped to first base so she could touch it and get a pinch runner, and then carried her into the dugout. There were some heated exchanges between coaches, a few parents may have had a few things to say, and then eventually we all just went home. I was very touched by the sisterly love Emma displayed, and it only took Sis a few days to recover physically.
Mentally, however, recovery didn't come so easy. Although both girls continued to play ball, Carys was never the same. She loves to run the bases and she loves to play in the field...but she absolutely dreads the batter's box. Her coaches have tried everything to get her over her fear. Literally, everything. Every single pitch, no matter who is throwing it, absolutely terrifies her. She backs out of the box as the ball leaves the pitcher's hand every time. She gets on base occasionally, when a pitcher lacks enough control to throw strikes, but last year she struck out watching more often that not. It is so hard to see that. I know why she does it; I understand completely, and I can't fix it.
We had long discussions this year about whether we were going to sign her up for the team. We explained that hitting is a huge part of the game, and she really had to evaluate whether this is the program for her. She's terribly conflicted; there are so many things she loves about it. But no amount of stealing, sliding, chanting, high-fiving or sunflower-seed spitting could change the fact that she is scared to death of the batter's box.
Carys had pretty much decided to be done when she found out that a small group of her friends were joining the team for the first time this year. She had an immediate change of heart; her social nature was desperate to have more time with her friends. I did remind her that the program is not cheap; if she was going to do it, she had to commit to learning how to bat all over again. She promised to try; and we decided to say yes and see what happens.
On Tuesday night, she had her first practice that included hitting. She has three coaches this year; Tim and Jeff have been two of her coaches for the last two years. They know all about her special circumstances. Andy is new to our team as a coach, and it just so happened that he was the one taking the girls into the cage for batting practice. I didn't say a word to him, and neither did Carys. She was one of the last ones to try, and she paced around the cages for a good five minutes waiting her turn. I've come to recognize that as her most nervous habit, but I didn't walk over or say anything. I just watched and waited.
Finally, it was her turn. She went into the cage, lined up about a mile away from the plate, and waited for the pitch.
She swung! Hard! And missed! But who cares, because she swung!
My throat was thick, my eyes were full of tears. I had the presence of mind to turn on my video camera, because we were going to have to re-live that success all night. I listened to Andy talk her through some batting tips and work on her swing and her stance. He has no idea how much of that she has completely missed because of her inability to get past that day two years ago on a hot dusty field in St. James. She finally started connecting with the ball, and suddenly she was hitting! Actually hitting!
He can't possibly know what a huge moment that was for her, and for this Mama. I probably looked ridiculous, the only mother who is video-taping my 9 year old at batting practice, for Heaven's sake. I swear I am not one of the crazies. We won't be breaking down film tonight, I promise. But I had to have that moment on camera, I just had to have it.
When practice was over, she came flying over to me and flung herself into my arms with eyes shining bright as stars in the sky. She said, "Did you see me?" Oh yes, I did.
April 29, 2016
Things I Loved Today
1. Emma did Carys' hair in the bathroom this morning. In a kind, helpful, sisterly fashion, and neither of them got mad at each other for any reason, large or small. (This is rare.)
2. We left the house AHEAD of schedule and had time to stop for a morning treat on the way to school. (This is also rare.)
3. When we got to school, Cooper had trouble gathering his things on the way out of the car; Carys went back to lend a hand. (This is so rare I'm not sure it has ever happened before. I think her benevolence could have been a result of Emma's earlier sisterly love.)
4. I got an unsolicited hug from each child before I left them. Cooper came back for seconds.
5. We got to play video games all hour every hour in class today. (If my administrators are reading this, they were completely EDUCATIONAL in nature and I can prove it.)
6. The sun is shining, there's a home softball game after school and our Varsity Cardinals are killing it, so I am super excited to go watch them win another one.
Lucky Number 7: I found a twenty in my jeans pocket that I forgot I had.
Life is GOOD.
2. We left the house AHEAD of schedule and had time to stop for a morning treat on the way to school. (This is also rare.)
3. When we got to school, Cooper had trouble gathering his things on the way out of the car; Carys went back to lend a hand. (This is so rare I'm not sure it has ever happened before. I think her benevolence could have been a result of Emma's earlier sisterly love.)
4. I got an unsolicited hug from each child before I left them. Cooper came back for seconds.
5. We got to play video games all hour every hour in class today. (If my administrators are reading this, they were completely EDUCATIONAL in nature and I can prove it.)
6. The sun is shining, there's a home softball game after school and our Varsity Cardinals are killing it, so I am super excited to go watch them win another one.
Lucky Number 7: I found a twenty in my jeans pocket that I forgot I had.
Life is GOOD.
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