Anticipation

Just when I think I have become accustomed to my mother's new life in the Nursing Home it hits me again, this overwhelming alteration in her life, alteration in our lives. Tonight my husband and I spent our evening packing for our vacation. A relatively simple task, exciting certainly, but simple nonetheless. In the midst of my choices of which shirt to pack, which pair of shoes, which necklace I was struck by the knowledge that as much as my mother loved to travel she will never again know the pleasure of this anticipation of a trip.

I took this knowledge and attempted to mold it so it would give me permission to enjoy my packing, heighten my anticipation of the week ahead. It didn't work. I still packed and I am still anticipating our time away but it is with an overlay of sadness. A sadness that I'm sure will lift once we are on our way, once the sun of San Juan rests on my shoulders, once my feet dip into Caribbean water. So now I leave for the week thankful that my husband and I have the opportunity to take this trip but saddened by the fact that when I return my mother will not remember that I was gone.

Welcome to the World

It would be difficult to post anything today without mention of the history we witnessed. History not based in the media hype of this charismatic man who now leads our country but history based in the peaceful transition of power, the passing of the torch of leadership with cooperation and participation. The transition that brought millions of people to Washington, millions more around the world and hundreds at my hospital to crowd together and watch and listen. Hundreds who stood when the Chief Justice asked us to, hundreds who applauded when the President's words evoked our enthusiasm and hundreds who, when the ceremony was over and the speech concluded willingly returned to their work, their work of caring, their work of being certain those in need of care have it, their work of healthcare.

In another hospital in my state work of a different nature was underway. The work of life, a new life, a new life for our family. As our country and the world awaited the birth of a new presidency my family awaited the birth of a child, the seventh of his generation. My sister's second grandchild, my mother's newest great-grandson, arrived just prior to the 44th presidency (a fact of his birth that will certainly bring jokes throughout his life for his Republican grandfather) and I found myself drawn to the thought of what promise and hope a new life brings. How, regardless of the struggles we face we have faith that life is good. That life brings joy. That life is worth living and we as a family will continue to grow. That we as a family will continue to love. That we as a family will continue.

My husband and I told my mother of this birth tonight. Told her the details, his weight (7lbs, 9ozs), his length (20 inches) and the fact that he has a full head of dark curls. Her smile was rich with happiness at the news that her granddaughter was recovering and the baby was healthy, her eyes bright with understanding as she asked his name again. I was prepared to repeat the news for her, to tell her again of this new life but there was no need. She remembered. She remembered not once, not twice, but several times. There seemed no end to the gifts of this day.

Today in the midst of the celebration of a transition my family quietly moved through our transition and grew. We grew by one. One life. One life who by his mere presence reminds us that our family is here and today we are stronger.

Welcome to the world little Isaac.

Pink Bricks

My mother's house has life again. I drove past it last night and in place of the darkened windows and emptiness what I saw was light and warmth and family. Through the windows the most familiar of scenes greeted me. A family at the table in the dining room sharing their meal and time together. A family living their life and building their memories, new memories in this house, in this home. New laughter for the walls to hold, new tears for the foundation to lend strength to and new love to fill each room.

As we moved through this transition my family struggled with the changes in our mother's home. We cried as wallpaper came off, carpet came up and paint went on. But when it was finished, when it was more theirs than hers, more theirs than ours, the tears dried and the smiles grew and we understood the choice was right.

The memories we have of time in that house, of family celebrations, holidays and everyday life remain. They are smarter than us. They do not constrain themselves to individual rooms or a mailing address. They live in us and remain with us no matter where we are. I do not have to see the white wallpaper in the living room or the pink bricks (yes....she had painted them pink!) around the fireplace to remember them. I can see them anytime I please, I simply close my eyes and there they are right beside the blueberries in the kitchen and butterflies in the dining room. All encapsulated with the days of my family's life.

And if those memories are lost, if my path duplicates my mother's then they will be gone from me. But for now, they remain. They remain and new ones grow, new ones like the one from yesterday when I saw joy in my sister's face as her granddaughter took her first steps. This granddaughter, this precious child walked between my sister and her mother, arms out straight, knees locked tight, eyes focused on her Grammy and walked. Walked in her new home, walked right in front of the pink bricks.

Detour

I am a guest blogger (who'd have thunk?!) this week on the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance website. Check it out at: http://mainewritersandpublishersalliance.blogspot.com/

I will try to post on both blogs, but can't promise I'll make it. It's only for a week.....

Enjoy!

A Little Chocolate

My mother's face lit up when I walked into her room this evening. I mean really lit up, not just some cliche term that finds its way in dime-a-dozen novels, this was real. Her smile reached her eyes and for a brief moment there was joy, pure joy radiating from her. "I've never been happier to see someone!" Neither have I. For the shortest time I had her with me. In full. My mother. She was there and I was lucky enough to see it.

It didn't last. I think she was still happy I was there and my sister came in just after me and Mom was glad to see her, too (so was I....I always am!). But even though it didn't last nearly long enough it lasted long enough for me to be reminded that even though she's lost so much she still has emotions, still has happiness, still has moments of joy. When I asked her if she had been lonely and that's why she was so glad to see me she told me no, she wasn't lonely. She doesn't look lonely. She doesn't look afraid. She doesn't look sad. What I see when I look at her is a settling, a degree of contentment, a level of comfort. Whew!

There are still people who work at the Nursing Home who worked there when I did. Nurses and Nurse's Aids who continue to provide care, continue to provide excellent care, continue to care. As I carried cookies to my mother one of them stopped me to ask if we could bring more pajamas in. I told her Mom had several pairs and a few nightgowns in her room. The Nurse smiled and quietly told me that Mom can only wear them for one night because invariably she sneaks some chocolate at bedtime....

I am not as sad as I was this summer, or even this fall. My mother is safe. My mother is still with us, some times she's more with us than others, but she's still here. She is cared for, not just by people who perform the tasks but by people who care, people who care about her. Tonight I know she will sleep soundly and while she sleeps caring eyes will watch over her, caring hands will help her if she needs them and the clean pajamas she put on will have have a little chocolate on them by morning.

A Few More Days....

My husband and I are counting down the days until our vacation. We call each other during the day to remind ourselves that warm breezes await us and breakfast on the balcony will be served every morning. Long days of walking on the beach, echoes of Spanish drifting in the sunshine and an after dinner stroll around the ship will join the memories we have of other vacations, other times together, away, relaxed.

When I was a little girl my parents took a few vacations without my sister and I. These were working vacations for my father, conventions held at resorts in Puerto Rico, Arizona, the Bahamas. I remember their anticipation, their preparation with my father's suits fresh from the cleaners, my mother's outfits lightweight and coordinated, the suitcases waiting by the door. Mostly I remember when they came home. The smell of smoke on their clothes from the plane (this was a long time ago!), the smiles they had for each other, our time together as the routine of our family returned.

I mentioned these trips to my mother the other day. It took her a minute but she appeared to recall the memories. Appeared to remember. As I continue to build my memories, create times and save events it occurs to me that I not only carry my memories but now carry my mother's for her. How fortunate I am to have them.

A Gift

We brought my mother to my sister's house on Christmas day where she sat embraced by her family...daughters, sons-in-law, grandchildren and great-grandchildren as presents were exchanged, children were excited and she was loved. We were loved, all of us, each in our own way and for our own reasons we loved and were loved and shared the best of Christmas with each other. I worked at not watching her, not forcing the moments of our time together on that day to burn into me so I could hold the memory of this Christmas forever. It was hard to look away.

I never knew my Grandmothers so what I know of how grandchildren love their grandmothers comes only from watching my children, nieces, nephews and grandchildren. The love I saw on Christmas came in the form of my nephews' hands extended to help their grandmother up the steps, genuine smiles, the deep from the heart smiles from 'the girls' that revealed raw emotion that most of us don't allow to surface often enough, and throughout all the food and wrapping paper and laughter there were my mother's great grandchildren, those beautiful children who wove themselves into the fabric of our family and the celebration of our time together.

We took my mother back to the Nursing Home and as she walked in I watched her greet everyone in a style becoming a reigning monarch. She drew broad smiles from staff, warm greetings from visitors and mild glances from others who live there. She announced her return to all who would listen and even those who couldn't. Her room awaited and she sat in the chair beside her bed with the same sigh she uttered when she returned to her chair in her house after an outing. A sigh that, for me, translates to a degree of comfort, a level of contentment, maybe even the beginning of satisfaction. Whatever she truly felt on that day, at that moment I have no way to know. But what I saw, what I watched, what I believe she felt was acceptance. Acceptance of her, acceptance for her and at some level acceptance of this transition in her life. This transition that has affected all of us so deeply but none more than my mother.

As she fades away from us I will try to hold fast to what I saw on Christmas day. Her ability to love and be loved. A gift that now extends to the third generation. A gift she has given freely and gladly. A gift of true value.