Her Peace Was Good

It is almost six years ago now that I began this blog. I needed it. It helped me. It gave me the outlet for my emotions during one of the hardest times in my life, the slow loss of my mother to dementia.

 

Caring For Generations served its purpose and I am grateful that so many people shared this journey with me, and that some of what I wrote helped others. That was the unanticipated gift of this space.

 

Six years and I find myself ready to close this chapter.

Mom will always be with me. Always. I will never miss her less.  I could never love her less. She is my mother.

 

I can think of no better way to close this today, what would have been her 90th Birthday, than with the words I spoke at her funeral. Words my sister and I put together to capture who she was. This woman who created us, who raised us, who loved us.

 

Thank you, Mom. I love you and will be with you and Dad when it is my time. Until then I will live this beautiful life you gave me to the fullest.

 

April 27, 2009

 

Today we grieve. For my family we grieve our loss of Mom, our loss of Grammy Lois and our loss of Great-Grammy Lois. You come here today to grieve with us and by that simple act our grief is lightened. We thank you for that. Over the past several days we have gathered as families do and shared our memories of Mom. Shared together what we remember of our life with her and realized all over again just how precious memory is.

I remember suppers at the kitchen table in our house on Mabel Street. Mom and Dad and Penny and I in our seats, those seats assigned long ago by an unknown method all families use. As most of you know, food and cooking were not high on her list of priorities, but Mom cooked and every night we ate together. Invariably, if my father or any one of us said the steak was tough or the pork chop dry Mom’s response was, “My piece is good.”

That comment, her comment, ‘my piece is good’ is as easily applied to her life as it was to her supper. To Mom her piece of life was good. She chose to see it that way and by her example we learned to do the same.

Mom taught us a lot about life, about friendship, about love and about faith. She didn’t do this consciously, she did it simply by living, loving us and her friends and serving as an example. She taught us how to welcome people into our lives, not just for a moment but for a lifetime. Friendship wasn’t casual to Mom. Her ‘Club Girls’, women with a 60 year history of friendship continue to support us and until just a few weeks ago Mom talked of her intent to host club one more time. Friendships like that aren’t accidental, they’re intentional.

Friendship was simple to Mom, if she liked someone she invited them into her life. Once they were in, they stayed. Her ability to welcome people extended to my sister’s and my in-laws and Mom was delighted to be connected with the Hartmans and the Smiths and considered them her family as well as ours.

I can’t speak of Mom and not mention humor. Our family has a sense of humor that rivals no other. Mom told us once during a shopping trip that she never worried about being separated from my sister and I in a large store because all she had to do was wait a minute and our laughter would direct her to us. We don’t giggle, we jump into laughter with full force.

Penny and I come by our humor rightly, Mom and Dad raised us on theirs. Dry, spontaneous and quick with a comeback Mom could crack the veneer of any serious occasion, and often did. Her humor appeared at some of the most unexpected moments surprising those around her, and sometimes even those of us who knew her the best.

There were times over the past year or so when we thought we had lost our humor. Things just weren’t very funny. But it was there and it was Mom who found it first. When Medcu paramedics lifted her off the floor of her bedroom and checked her for a head injury they asked “Do you know who the President is?” Her response, “Why, don’t you?” Last week when I bent over her bed at the Barron Center, kissed her and said, “I love you, Mom,” she looked at me and said, “I don’t blame you.”

While we didn’t always know what to expect from Mom, there were times when she was completely predictable. At birthday parties or Christmas she was the first to suggest we open the presents, usually just after she had had cake or candy. We could all count on cookies in her cookie jar and candy in the silver dish on the end table. Mom had a sweet tooth. Cookies, cake, pie, candy the form was irrelevant. She loved sweets and Penny and I often found candy wrappers or candy itself in the pockets of her sweaters, jacket or slacks. One of the CNAs at the Barron Center took me aside one day and asked if we could bring in more pajamas for Mom. I was surprised because she had several pairs there already. When I asked why she said they didn’t like to put her to bed with chocolate on her nightgown. That was Mom.

As a girl Mom and her friends spent hours at the movie theatre. Mom loved the movies and Penny and I worried that Kenny and Jim would have to pass a test on Gone With the Wind before they’d be allowed to marry us. I was named for Rhett and Scarlett’s daughter and am thankful that my father stepped in and refused to go with Bonnie Blue! Mom carried her crush on Clark Gable well into her 70s, and shocked us all when she replaced him with George Clooney.

I look around this sanctuary today and realize how much of our life is tied to this church. Mom taught Sunday school, belonged to the Women’s Federation, sold books at the Church Fair and served on many committees. Dad was a Trustee and a Deacon and it seemed like they were always here ‘waiting on tables’. Immanuel is woven into the fabric of the Cash family and extends beyond to a larger circle of family and friends. Mom and Dad were married here and raised us in this church. Penny and Jim and Kenny and I were married here as were many of the Hartmans. Our last family gathering in this sanctuary was 6 months ago today when our daughter Michelle was married. Dad’s funeral was here 25 years ago and today we bring Mom full circle.

In recent months Mom talked a lot about her faith. It was rock solid and we are comforted to know through her visits with Deborah that she was not afraid. However, once again we got the unexpected when she announced to Penny last week that Jesus was a Baptist. As if this weren’t enough, she went on to clarify that even though the Catholics tried to claim him, he was a Baptist.

Mom was a lot of fun. She stirred competition between her sons-in-law by telling them both they were her favorite. She made it even more interesting when she included Penny’s brother-in-law Greg in the running. This favorite game spilled over to her daughters and grandchildren and has been the subject of much good humored debate. Penny and I called her bluff many times when we stood before her and asked which of us was the favorite. We both were. When Bill walked into her room at the Barron Center she’d wink and smile and ask him if he wanted to be her boyfriend. She particularly liked to do this if one of the young CNAs was within earshot. She’d drop a comment about her father’s six wives into random conversations just to see people’s reactions. When Penny and I would argue, as siblings do, she would tell us she didn’t understand why we fought because she and her sister Muriel never fought once when they were kids. We were 10 or 12 before it dawned on us that they didn’t argue because they never lived together!

Mom’s piece was good. She lived by the rules all her life and had a few of her own that she left with us:

Give your children two things, roots and wings. As long as those wings don’t take them out of Portland.
Surround yourself with good people.
Love simply.
Laugh often.
Neatness doesn’t count.
Faith is everything.
Some things just have to be done.
Life isn’t fair
If it’s not one thing, it’s two.
There is no such thing as too many books.
Chocolate really does make it better.

Rarely without a book in her hand or a smile on her face, Mom lived her life with simple grace and dignity. While others rage against what life offers, Mom accepted it all with thanks and joy and carried no sorrow for long. We could use more people like her in the world.

We heard Mom say many times, many, many times, “Getting old is tough, but it beats the alternative.” I picture her in heaven now and believe she’s changed her mind.

Home Sweet Home

It looks like any house in Our Neighborhood, USA. Modest, middle class, comfortable. When you see it you think it is a nice color, the lawn and hedge well kept. When you see it you think a nice family must live there. You think all those things and you are right, to a degree. A nice family did live there. My family.

This is my childhood home. This is where my sister and I grew up. This is where we listened to the Beatles for the first time. This is where we woke up early on Christmas morning. This is where we kissed our boyfriends good night. This is where we put on our wedding gowns. This is where we brought our children. This is where we grieved our father's death. This is where we lost our mother by minutes. 

This is our final step.

This is for sale.

What is not for sale are the memories. They live with us. Every day. Every time we want them, they are there. Every one of them.

It's someone else's turn now. Another family. Another life to be lived in this house, in those rooms, in that yard.

I hope their turn is as wonderful as ours was.

A Wonderful State

July 24, 2013 Naples, Maine

Some things are good for the soul. The difficulty comes when we must recognize which things in our life are good, and which things are not so good. If we're fortunate, we have people around us who love and support us through the incongruity. I am fortunate.

A friend recently told me she wanted to see pictures in which I am happy. Pictures that reflect the me I am reclaiming.

I hope she likes this picture. I do.


 

Celebrate With Food

This may not look like much. This food couldn't be simpler...blueberry muffins, blueberries, and strawberries. But for me, to me, it is a lot.

It is a lot because unlike the majority of people, I rarely think about food. My family and friends have tired of my refrain - "I don't care about food!" - and my poor husband (who loves food and, yes, is trained as a chef) has put up with my disregard for 39 years.

I recognize the problem.

Recently I began working at understanding food and my relationship with it. While I doubt I will ever become a person who lives to eat, what I am becoming is a person who understands how important food is to those I love and because of that, it needs to be important to me, too. Or at least I need to pay more attention to it.

So, on the morning of the Fourth of July, I presented my husband with this breakfast.

He was pleased.

Small steps count.

Struggle

My thought this morning was a post on struggle. To write about the hardship that accompanies life, the pain and the sorrow we feel as we, and those we love, are faced with cancer, divorce, unemployment, financial stress, rejection, and a host of other life events that take their toll. So many of these events are present in my life right now it seemed the natural choice.

I brought all the people I love through my thoughts and gave a moment to each of them who are on the forefront of a struggle. (It took a little time to do this...but that was time well spent.)

As the parade of family and friends continued, it changed. Not the people, but the backdrop against which I viewed them. What evolved was not the slow, sad list of struggles, but the longer list of joy and fun and love that I share with each of them. I didn't see cancer and the long road ahead of treatment, I saw summer evenings on a boat. I didn't see divorce, I saw welcome smiles and time together. I didn't see unemployment, I saw opportunity. I didn't see rejection, I saw the full embrace of a loving family. As for financial stress, I saw how unimportant money really can be.

Maybe I really am a little too much of a cup half full kind of girl, but it is my choice to make and I certainly am not going to spend any time struggling to change that.

I leave you with an example of struggle. This is my granddaughter, Ryleigh (you've met her before here). Not all hills we climb are as simple as learning your first song on the piano, but regardless of the size of the hill, our struggles are hills nonetheless. The title of the song is "Love Someone". If anyone knows how to do that, she does. If I'm a cup half-full girl....she's a cup is overflowing one. Her Great-Grammy Lois would be proud.

Happy, Healthy, Birthday!

Today I am 58. An age you won't find on cards in Hallmark stores or hear of surprise parties complete with black balloons and Over the Hill gag gifts. 58 is not a hallmark age. It is not one we celebrate. But for me, 58 is a hallmark. 58 is enormous. My father was 58 when he died. My father-in-law was 58 when he died (I guess technically he was 59, but since he died early in the morning of his 59th Birthday, I have always considered him to be 58). So you can see why 58 is an age to be reckoned with.

I spent my day, my 58th Birthday, with my husband. We went to breakfast, we went for a walk, we ate lunch in the sun on the deck and I had a nice long visit with my sister.  It was a beautiful day.

I thought a lot about my father and father-in-law today and how short their lives were. I thought about all they didn't get to do. I thought about all they missed. I thought about heart disease and cancer, the diseases that took them from us. I thought about genetics (maybe I obsessed a little too much about genetics....maybe I shouldn't have ordered the bacon and eggs!). I thought about how fast 58 years goes by.

And then I thought about the future. I thought about my future with my husband. With our children. With our grandchildren.  With our extended family. With our friends. I thought about my career, where I've been and where I'll go. I thought about my health. I thought about the 26 pounds I've lost. I thought about how strong I have gotten.

I had my granddaughter take this picture of me just a few moments ago. She told me I am beautiful. I intend to stay that way for a very long time.

Improvement....

I like this picture. It was taken at my nephew's birthday celebration last month. If you compare it to the picture I posted earlier this week you should see a difference. I see it. The difference is about 20 pounds. When I look at this picture I see not only a lighter me, but a happier me (and not just because I'm in the arms of my husband!). It's not just the weight, it's who I am, or who I am becoming.

Throughout my life I have faced challenges and I don't think there are many I have not overcome. I'm sure there were, but none come to mind at the moment. The challenges in my life have been emotional, medical, social, familial, dangerous, scholarly, career, etc. The one thing they haven't been is physical.  

Now, for me, it's physical. And I'm facing it. And I'm doing it. And I'm winning.

It's April 7th...have you done your 14 crunches today?

This Is Me

This is a picture of me my granddaughter took in August. She said I am beautiful. I saw no beauty in it. In fact, I was horrified by what I saw. Somehow, somewhere (through no fault of mine, I'm certain), I gained weight. Not only did I gain weight, I got flabby. 

My blog has been about loss and grief and life events and I've been brutally honest about my thoughts and feelings through some rough spots. Really rough spots. This is another rough spot for me. I'm not happy with how I look.

 

Let me change that a little. I wasn't happy with how I looked. I gained more weight after this picture was taken and did nothing to change it. I just didn't like myself so I didn't look at myself. Just now as I looked for pictures to post, I couldn't find any. Hhmmm....wonder why?!

 

This winter I started a conversation with my friend at work. My friend who used to be a trainer. She gave me a few tips. And a few magazines. And a few more tips. And an entire meal plan. And advice on exercise. And encouragement. And a challenge. And compliments. And support. And friendship. And results.

 

Since December I have lost 26 pounds. I dropped 2 dress sizes. I got stronger. I made better food choices. I started looking in the mirror again. I worked out. I even went to water aerobics. 

 

And then I stopped.

 

For a day. Then two. Then three. Then a week. Then two. You get the idea.

 

Then my friend kicked me in the butt!

 

So here it is. April 1, 2013. One week before I turn 58, the age my father was when he died. The day I decide to challenge myself to do this. To get back on track. To work at this again. To continue getting healthy, to face my fears and challenges, and share them.

Feel free to join me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gifts

It should be the diamonds, the way the Christmas lights reflected off them this morning as I sat beside our Christmas tree, the proud look on my husband's face and our silent acknowledgement of all the years together when diamonds were not in the budget. Even the thought of them was out of the question. It should be the diamonds that brought me back to my blog this Christmas. It should be the thought of upcoming nights with these diamonds in my ears, my husband's hand in mine and adventures before us that stir me enough to write. It really should be the diamonds.

Instead it's a cat. This cat. It came wrapped in plain white paper with as much tape as a 6 year old can manage to fit onto such a small package. It was given with joy, pure jumping up and down in the living room joy.

She does this, our granddaughter. Every holiday, birthday or simply when the mood strikes her. She searches her toybox (and sometimes her brother's) or her drawers or closet for just the right gift. Just the right fit for the person fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of her love.

This morning, this Christmas morning I unwrapped her present and as I looked at the plastic cat, this brown stained stencil she told me why she chose this for me. "It's for you, Mimi, because you used to have a cat and she died and you miss her."

We should have named her Joy.

Fear and Courage

I title this Fear and Courage, two emotions or states of being I've spent time with recently, time both personal and professional. What occurs to me is to question whether they are two sides of the same coin or entities that battle as poles of a magnet. I have no answer.

I have a preference. Courage.

There is more to say, but not at the moment.

Found Tears

This is the post I've meant to write, tried to write, for 38 days...8 past my 30 day commitment theory. This is what I am blessed with, what our daughter and son-in-law brought into the world and into our family on September 4. This is Cody Jackson Beyer. This is our grandson.

So why the hesitation? Why the inability to put into words what this was like, what it was like during that day, that evening, that night. What it was like to stand by her side and watch her labor, watch her work, watch her look to her husband and her nurses and her doctor. Watch her bring her son into the world. Into our family.

I think I know. I think I know what it was, what it is that has held me back, stopped me from writing what it felt like that day. Not what it felt like to see him and hold him and hear him. That was the easy part. That was the joyous part. The hard part was my daughter. The hard part was her.

Childbirth is a universal experience. A common experience. A shared experience. But shared only to a point. A point that doesn't cross a line. A line that we hold deep within us, a line I've held deep within me.

In the moments before Cody's birth, those moments when I stood outside the door (right outside) I traveled. I traveled not from one place to another, but from one time to another. From one birth to another. From my grandson's birth to my daughter's, and in that travel, in that time I spent in her room and out of it, I had her to myself again. I had her like no one else has ever had her, not her father, her husband....no one. No one but me.

She is my first. That only happens once. She grew in my body and in my heart and when she was ready she slipped from my body and she joined the world.

I haven't cried for a long time. A very long time. Outside the door of my daughter's labor room, I cried. I cried for her pain. I cried for my pain. I cried for the loss I felt with her birth. I cried for the joy of Cody's birth. I cried.

He's a beautiful baby, our Cody. He was perfect and is perfect. They are beautiful parents, our Michelle and Jay. They love each other and love him.

I found my tears.

Monday - August 30, 2011

This is my 30 days, my 30 days of posts. I have finished what I set out to do one month ago. I hear from some of you that you are reading this, that you are enjoying what I write. I don't know if there are more of you than a few, but I have enjoyed doing this knowing you are reading and taking this journey with me.

I have a decision to make. Do I continue? Do I make myself post every day? Every other?

I will make the decision, I will post, I just don't know how often or on what subject.

Keep checking....

Sunday - August 29, 2011

We have been waiting all week for Hurricane Irene to hit Maine, to hit us with the force of a storm we haven't seen since Gloria hit in 1985. We waited, we listened to the weather, we watched the news, watched the video of wind, rain and flooding as she worked her way up the coast. We watched and we waited.

We waited, and she passed. Not without damage to Maine, but she passed without significant damage to us and for that we are grateful (we'll be even more grateful when we have our power back!), grateful for the lack of force, for the lack of hurricane force winds and floods. Grateful for her lack of damage.

Not having power for a day is humbling, it forces stillness in this era of technology. It was a good day, a quiet day, a day to be thankful for the lack of damage, a day to be thankful for the quiet.

Saturday - August 27, 2011

She makes me weak in the knees, this girl, this granddaughter of mine. Her eyes, her smile, her way of loving with her heart wide open.

There are things I want to protect her from, painful things, sorrowful things, things that make her sad. Things like losing a quarter in the grass at the Farmer's Market.

She carries a picture of my mother with her through her day and sleeps with it by her bed so if she wakes up at night my mother will be there to keep her safe.

A life as pure as this one, a love as pure as this deserves the joy she carries with her, the joy she spreads with her smile. What could be better?

Friday - August 26, 2011

Throughout my career as a nurse (and during the time I was in school) there were people rooting for me, people hoping I made it, that I achieved my goal. They cheered me on, wished me well and supported my every step.

When family does this (as my family has done without question) it makes the journey easier, it encourages you to stick with it, to work harder, to not let them down. When others take an interest in you, in your goals and your work to achieve them, their encouragement, their opinions matter. They matter because, unlike family, they don't have to care. They don't have to participate. (It's like when your mother tells you you're smart and beautiful you tend to think it may not be true, she has to say it, she's your mother. Except in my case...my children are smart and beautiful!)

Today I sat with Eloise, a woman of undaunted professional courage, a woman of personal integrity, a woman of genuine kindness and commitment to our profession. We sat in the afternoon sun overlooking harbor and talked. We talked of our careers, our work, our family and our friends. We talked of travel and adventure and career choice. We talked of giving back, of having an impact. We talked as peers.

To have this conversation, this time with her (and her wonderful husband) was a gift, just as her support and encouragement for the past many years has been. We don't know where our lives will lead us, where we will be years from now, where gifts will be found.

Today my life led me to a friend and I am thankful for that gift.

Stop the Presses

I was told when I started this job, when I took on this public role, to ignore the papers, to stop reading what others wrote. It is not so much the articles, the reporting of the stories, it's the comments people post online, the latest way people get to show their ignorance. I was told to stop reading those. I should have listened.

Tough decisions require thought, tremendous amounts of thought. We did that, we do this, this remarkable team I work with, we think, we process, we seek guidance and then act.

If only those who post, those who do not know the whys or hows, gave as much thought before using their keyboards to attack, to judge.

Tough Decisions

Each day I wonder what it is I will write about, what will occur during the course of my day that will make its way to this page, make its way to you. This morning I thought it would be the laughter that accompanied my ride to Skowhegan, laughter I shared with a friend, a new friend, a friend with a badly sprained ankle and a wedding to attend (it's her right ankle...no driving yet). Riding with her, my car filled with guffaws and smiles (particularly when she described the look she received from a friend after a comment she made..."she looked at me like I'd slept with her father"....now you understand the guffaws!).

As we drove and talked and discovered that it is highly likely our fathers knew each other professionally (they both died young) I again assumed that would be the blog post, that realization that long before we met, before we shared our writing together, before we introduced our husbands to each other, before we shared our grief, we were somehow united.

But as the day passed, as difficult decisions and tough conversations overshadowed my work, the laughter of the morning faded and the reality that the decisions I make, the choices I choose have an impact and that impact is powerful, even when the decisions and choices are the right ones. Right doesn't equal easy.

I'm glad the day is over. I'm glad the work of today is finished. I'm glad the day started with laughter. I'm glad the memory of my father surfaced....I needed him today.

Looking Forward

Americans live in the future. We look forward to what comes next, what we will do next, where we will be next. It is important to us to have plans, to be prepared, ready. I try to live in the moment and make a conscious effort to be present in the here and now but admit that more often, I join the rest of you and live in the future.

Lately, even though I love the work I am doing, I find myself looking to retirement, to those days when the alarm will not go off, the emails and phone calls will cease and the days will be mine and I will fill them with whatever strikes me as important at the time. I think about that a lot on my drive to and from work. I particularly think about it when I see a car or truck pulling a camper along the highway.

I see those campers and look forward to the day when my husband and I will take one and let it take us, take us down roads and through towns across the country where we will visit old friends, make new ones and relax and enjoy each day as it comes.

But mostly what I think of when I see those campers, is not where we will go or what we will do, but the preparation, the anticipation of the trip itself is what I look forward to. I picture us packing our clothes, carrying them a few at a time from our room at home into our room in a camper and it is that thought, the picture of that future event that makes me long for the time to pass.

We live in the future and while I do look forward to those days, I grow more conscious every day of how quickly the time is passing and how soon these days will be gone, these days of work, of emails and phone calls and meetings. Of decisions and excitement and work.

I look forward, but hope it takes a long time to get here.

Inspiration

We find inspiration in many places and through different people. It is inspiration that holds us up, pushes us to be our best. With inspiration we do better. Today I was inspired by a friend from my undergrad days, my former Biology lab partner, a Nursing colleague. Today I was inspired by Pat.

Today, throughout my day at work, a day filled with meetings, calls, e-mails and decisions, Pat was on my mind. She was with me when my alarm went off, on my drive to work, in my meetings and as I answered emails. She was with me when I checked her blog off and on all day (if they check my computer at work tonight they will find all the internet time!).

Today, Pat inspired me with her courage, her dedication, her commitment and her strength. She inspired me with her excellence. She inspired me.

Pat is in the record books now. She earned her place today. Her place among others who inspire. Today Pat did something no other 60 year old woman has done. Today Pat swam the English Channel.

Inspiration....you never know where you will find it.

My Mother's Clothes Are Not My Mother

My family is not the only family to grieve the loss of a loved one, to mourn the passing of time and the absence of someone in our daily life. My family is no different from yours. Our experience no different than yours.

After my mother died, I spent several days on the coast of Maine in the company of writers, a company I crave, a company that drives my creative side, my love of the language. Over the course of those few days I shared my grief with one of the women there. A women who was an acquaintance then. A women who is a friend now.

We talk now about a lot of things, our jobs, our writing, our husbands and our mothers. We talk about that weekend. We talk about our grief.

We shared a lot on that weekend and from that has come a friendship, a sharing in each other's lives that has gone beyond our grief. But while we have gone beyond our grief, we still carry it with us, hold it deep inside where is rests sometimes peacefully and other times enraged.

We have both used words to heal our grief, mine here in this blog, hers in a more formal fashion, a play. A one woman play that premieres next month (see the notice below and if you are in the Portland area I encourage you to attend...I've heard some of this and you will not be disappointed!).

Words hold great power. They can cause tremendous harm or bring true healing. My friend and I prefer the latter.

"MY MOTHER'S CLOTHES ARE NOT MY MOTHER" premieres at the St. Lawrence Arts Center in Portland on Sept. 15. For information, go to www.stlawrencearts.org.