sunday rerun

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lunapic-122921891283600

I was thinking about Julie today and her husband’s sudden death and I remembered a post I did on my old blog. I had a tattered copy laying around and it being a lazy Sunday afternoon and all I decided to rerun it. I did the neat old movie animation on Mr. bookbabie’s photo at LunaPic.com, a fun online photo editor and animator…

On our way home from Whole Foods today, my husband and I saw an accident just minutes after it happened. A large SUV had run off the road, hit a ditch, and smashed into some trees. Several cars had already stopped to help but the police hadn’t yet arrived and we saw that someone had opened the driver-side door. Inside, a woman lay slumped and unmoving over the steering wheel. She had short blond hair like me and she was wearing a red coat with a fur collar. Maybe she was out running errands we said, or maybe she was on her way home from a holiday lunch. We tried to convince one another that she was “just” knocked out from the force of the airbag, that the front end of the car really didn’t look that bad.

As we drove, one, two, three police cars sped past us, lights flashing and sirens screaming. Then two ambulances and another police car passed us and we suddenly realized that she probably wasn’t alone in that big SUV, maybe she had a car full of friends – or children. As we opened the trunk at our house we could still hear the wail of sirens in the distance and I turned to my husband and said, “Every day when I hear you…” and that’s all I got out before the tears started and the words caught in my throat. But what I wanted to say was this, “Every day when I hear the door open and I hear your footsteps coming into the house, and I hear your tired voice call out ‘hello’, that’s the best part of my day, that’s the moment I would choose to have back one more time if anything ever happened to you.”

soul sisters

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Julie and me, 1970

At my mom’s memorial two weeks ago my cousin Julie and I found a quiet corner in the living room and talked for a long time about aging parents. She was worried about her own mother and wondering what is was like for me having to say goodbye to my mom. Julie and I were very close growing up, more like sisters at times than cousins. Yesterday my aunt called to tell me that Julie’s husband Rick Bach died suddenly Monday night of a massive heart attack. Me and Mr. B  just got home from the service. The chapel was packed with friends and family who spoke lovingly of Rick and his passion for life and sports, one of The Four Tops sang a beautiful a capella song, and my little cousin Jules is simply crushed. Before she left the day of my mom’s party we all promised to get together soon for dinner and Julie gave me a CD of a band that records at the studio she manages. I found one of their videos on youtube, hope you enjoy it.

grateful gifts

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I’ve been busy trying to catch up on holiday shopping and housework lately, doing iStock photos, and putting up a few Christmas decorations. But I’m not really in the mood to put up the Christmas tree this year, it’s a big one because we have a high ceiling in the family room.  Mr. bookbabie seems a little bummed about that idea however. I don’t think it’s a ba-humbug Scrooge kind of thing with me or depression because my mom is gone. I just think I’m worn out and putting up the tree feels like one more chore to do.

The last months of my mom’s life were pretty intense, then she died (also an intense, emotionally charged experience), and then I went right into planning mode for her memorial party. And now it’s the holidays. It seems like I could use some downtime to process this past year. My mom’s illness and death. My son and daughter-in-law losing the baby. I don’t know. Then again, maybe processing/dwelling on what’s happened isn’t really necessary. I don’t want to get stuck in that woe-is-me place where melancholy and gloom rule the day.

Hmm, okay Mr. bookbabie, we’ll put on some holiday music, light a fire in the fireplace, and put up your giant Christmas tree this weekend. Because through all the sadness and the loss of late you’ve been there by my side and for that I am truly grateful. Your love gave me a soft place to land during this most difficult year, so yes, you shall indeed have your tree my dear.

No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear;
But, grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here. ~John Greenleaf Whittier

december daydream

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faceinhole I’ve been working out lately and I’m rather proud of the results. I mean, not bad for almost fifty, right? Okay whatever, I really just ran across another website that is a complete waste of time (but kinda fun!). I’m thinking about sending this one to George. Roll back the calendar a couple of decades, throw in a few hair weaves, and I may actually be able to pull this look off;)

afterglow

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The party for my mom’s memorial was Saturday and we had a wonderful time. We had over ninety people at the open house and we were fortunate to see friends and family from far and wide that we don’t often get to see anymore. We caught up on each others lives, looked at photos and videos, and it was very healing to hear people say so many kind things about my mom.

The day before the gathering I had asked my dad if he was looking forward to the party and he said no, he was afraid that it would be too emotional, that there would be too many “sobbing people”. I reassured him that it wasn’t going to be that kind of memorial and it wasn’t. While a few tears were shed, there was mostly laughter and hugs as we all came together to honor my mother’s seventy-four years of a life well lived. The photo above is of my sister Carrie and her daughters, Emily and Jenny, and their little dog Lola. They flew in all the way from warm sunny San Diego so we ordered them up some snow for Sunday…the day after the party;)

In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on. ~Robert Frost

missing mom

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My mom’s dog Ellie on her perch keeping watch

For many months now my family has been struggling to understand why my seventy-four-year-old mother was so sick and what we could do to help make her better. She has a somewhat rare form of COPD called bronchietasis, the cause of this illness is not well understood and unfortunately the treatment for it has been limited and unsuccessful. For quite some time we have been walking that heartrending line that those with serious illness and their families must walk, that difficult path where hope and acceptance meet and retreat then meet again. My mother has grown weary of the dance. She has stepped over to acceptance and she is asking us to do the same and so we are going to begin hospice care.

I sit and talk with her about her death now. She wants to know how long it will take. I tell her I don’t know but we will do everything we can to keep her comfortable. She says there are things she wanted to do, get organized. I tell her that she is still here and we can still do them. She says she wanted to write each of her children a goodbye letter. I tell her that she can dictate the words and I’ll write them down for her. She says she wanted to clean out the desk and throw away old bills. I reassure her that my dad will take care of that. She told me that her little dog Ellie is going to miss her and I said, “Yes, you’re right mom, she really is going to miss you.”

I could add a few words of wisdom about now, something about it all being okay because it’s the natural cycle of life, or she’s crossing over to a better place, or she’s had a good long life. And sometimes that is how I feel. But the truth is, most of the time it’s not okay. My mom is dying and any way you look at it…it is simply unacceptable.

*I wrote this post the day before my mother passed away. It’s been two months now and I just came across it while cleaning up my draft files on WordPress. This Saturday we are having a big open house in honor of my mom and I really do look forward to seeing family and old friends we don’t often get to see anymore. I’m still searching for those words of wisdom that will make everthing okay, but the thing is I want to lay my head down on my mother’s lap, feel her stroke my hair gently, and hear them from her.