parents

by

Prologue       In the spring of 2007 my widowed


ImagePrologue

 

 

  
I have been absent from my Blog for a while. In this away period I have been working on editing my book in between the call of my daily life. I am including the prologue to my book, a work in progress.

   In the spring of 2007 my widowed mother left her place of birth and a lifetime of living in Indiana and moved to my home in Upstate New York.  It had been apparent to me and my siblings for some time that Mom was struggling to live on her own.  But, my mother’s independent streak and her fierce Irish-German stubbornness did not allow her to leave her residence of fifty years easily. 

     When Mom moved in with my family and me, I thought she was still grieving the death of my father, her husband of over fifty years.  I had learned Mom no longer participated in the activities she once enjoyed; she rarely ventured out of her home.  All signs of depression I assumed. Naively, I believed that once Mom came to live with me she would find a new direction in life from the love my family would give her.  I hoped that my relationship with Mom would evolve into the nurturing, mother-daughter connection I had sought for years.  Yet, after only a few short weeks it became quite apparent all of my assumptions were completely wrong.

       Learning my mother had dementia, although not truly shocking, was not the ending I had in mind for our story together.  Eventually, during the six years that she lived with or near me we did develop a new relationship.  One I had not considered, but, still based on trust and love.  Getting to that final rapport took years of struggle between us.   In the beginning it was who is the child; who is the parent?  Later, that trust was required to let a loving bond blossom into total faith that decisions made on her behalf were for the best. 

     My emotional journey also sparked a transition of my faith.  My feelings about established religion had been evolving for several years.  Soon after Mom moved in with me, I stopped my rare attendance at mass.  My choice had nothing to do with my mother.  Rather, it was a decision that had been growing within me.  I felt more in touch with my idea of God when I was out in nature, or doing an activity with my friends or family.  Mass became a ritual that I dreaded and consequently attained nothing from.  Yet, the more involved I got with Mom’s care, the more aware I became of an inner voice guiding me.  I am by character a non-confrontational person.  Still, as I heard myself questioning doctors, working with insurance companies, dealing with family members and lawyers, I found the words coming from my lips sometimes were not my own.  I had not thought to say them, yet there they were being said.  I began to call my inner guidance my Angels.  It was through this realization that my spirituality grew and I connected with these higher beings that were sent to guide and comfort me.  I believe it was my Angels who first directed me to begin writing.    

     I did not write my thoughts down immediately upon my mother’s arrival.  It was only after many months that the need to release my growing frustrations began to take shape.  I joined a writing group at a local book store because I felt driven by my inner sense, what I call my Angels, to put my feelings into written word.  During my first session I met a group of ladies and we formed a lasting bond that strengthened as we each transformed into writers.  It was this group and our instructor that gave me the courage to record my feelings.  Even then, I did not believe I would take my thoughts and turn them into the book that follows.  As my writing developed, I realized my essays could be a comfort to those walking zombie like through the days of unknown dementia care and decisions as I was.  Consequently, I continued in my pursuit of finishing this book not only for myself but for others who would walk down the path my mother had taken me.  I hope it will bring them comfort and the knowledge they are not alone in their struggles. 

     To do justice to the 85 year life my mother led I have given you, the reader, a brief history of Mom’s life.  I felt that was important so that you too can understand the sorrow I felt in watching this woman, who accomplished so much, slide into nothing. 

     The essays written about the journey Mom and I took together fall in chronological order.  It is my hope that you will garner some camaraderie from my honesty, frustration, laughter, unexpected hurt and overall grief.  This book is for all of us struggling together in what I call, The Caretaker Nation.  

 

 

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The End of an Anticipated Dream


????????The last time I wrote I mentioned my collection of quotes.  This past weekend I was reminded of yet another passage I try to refer to often.

Don’t cry because it is over.  Smile because it happened.

Dr. Seuss

With the arrival of warm temperatures snow skiing has come to an end.  There are some who will find a sunny spring day to glide down slushy slopes and one last time end their runs with a much anticipated beer on the deck.  But, I have finished for the season.  Over the weekend, my husband and I packed up all of the belongings we had managed to drag up north and moved them from our rental.  As I emptied over-flowing cupboards, filled with the generosity of visiting friends, and stuffed suitcases stretched tight against their zippers, my thoughts returned to my anxious greed in December to move into this winter haven.

The idea to return to weekends spent skiing full time at Gore Mountain and enjoying all of our winter time friends came to me as I talked with two of my sisters about our very small inheritance.  Our mother had recently passed away from her long slide into the nothingness of dementia.  We felt the money was a gift and should be put to use in a way that would honor both our mother and father.  We were in awe at the financial ingenuity of our parents, a teacher and insurance salesman.  How had they managed to raise, feed, clothe and then send seven children to college and still have enough left for Mom to be well taken care of at the end of her life?

As ideas were thrown around I came to my conclusion.  Sitting on a screened in porch on July third,  overlooking a lake in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, it was difficult to imagine the following winter.  Yet, I could feel the tingle of frost as I formulated my plan.  I knew it was very likely during the winter of 2012-13 my daughters would be living near or with my husband and me, an opportunity that may not happen again, at least for some years to come.  Our girls are young adults, in their  early twenties.  The notion of them both ending up living in upstate New York is a farfetched dream.  I did know however, they would spend time with their parents, at least for a few months, if I enticed them with the lifestyle they grew up loving: skiing every weekend during the winter.

As my idea brewed in my head, I also imagined a writer’s retreat for my group, where we could spend time doing what we all love, putting our thoughts down on paper.  Along with that, weekends of fun and laughter crowded my mental image.  With the rental, the friends I so adore and cherish would once again have a place to gather.  This spot would be an inviting sanctuary to ignore the painful truths of our lives and lose ourselves in raunchy jokes, good food, great adult beverages and the comforting companionship of dear friends.

The winter months went by, as you can guess, all too quickly.  One day it was time for the first run, the next, the annual end of the year slush cup.   When the car was packed, I wandered one last time through the living room of the chalet, turning off the gas fireplace and locking the doors.  Through tear-filled eyes I saw the smiles and I heard the laughter.  I smelled the candles as they were blown out on my daughter’s birthday cake.  I saw the realization of joy in my husband’s face when we surprised him with a family, plus two boyfriends, dinner at his favorite restaurant.  I heard the giggles of young adults echo throughout the loft and saw, once again, their card games at the big dining table.   I sensed the sound of clinking wine glasses raised in salute during the many toasts that took place as we gathered to share our meals.  I knew then, as I heard the door lock one last time, my intuition had been correct.  Renting a home in the Adirondacks was a true celebration of my parent’s gift.

I smiled, because I made it happen.

by

The Oldest Generation


As I was tooling around yesterday in the car, flitting here and there, a song I had not heard before came on the radio.  According to the DJ it was a new song by Jason Mraz, 93,000,000 miles.  I like many of his songs and this one caught my attention.
The lyrics contain the following:

oh my beautiful mother
She told me, “Son in life you’re gonna go far, and if you do it right you’ll love where you are
Just know, that wherever you go, you can always come home”

Much to my surprise, my eyes welled with tears and my throat constricted as I started to cry.  Because, it hit me, I can’t go home.  My mother passed away last February and my father passed away, on the same day 11 years before that.  In reality, I am “the Home.”  I am the parent now, the oldest generation.  There is no one I can go home to when I need that reassuring hug from mom or dad.  No one to consult for advice.  No one to remember me as a child.  No parent to share holidays with.  No one to visit and find sitting in the small home I grew up in that always felt like it hugged me as I walked in the door.
Being the oldest generation is a huge responsibility; one that my parents and generations before them endured.  Some with grace, others struggling through their whole lives.  As the oldest parent, you are shouldered with the duty of being the consultant.  The keeper of family lore.  The one who remains calm and in control in a crisis, so that others can look to you for their strength.  That is a lot to take on, even at 54 years old.  I know I can do all of these life requirements and more, after all I have been doing many of them for years.  It just makes me sad.  I never realized how much I enjoyed the comfort of knowing mom and dad were always there for me if I needed them.  And I miss that.