Retirement

 

And so begins another transition. The paperwork is in and the word is out. By the time our Christmas cards are in the mail this year, Don and I will both be footloose pensioners driving each other and our kids crazy. It’s both exciting and scary.

 

Although the idea of a slower pace with fewer demands sounds great, we have never been alone together 24-7 for more than a week. There were always parents, kids, or jobs to chop up our time and steer our schedules. I can’t imagine how this transition will play out, but it is my grandest hope that we will survive it and come out the other side still friends. I’ll keep you posted.

Noel

 
Not more than six or eight weeks old, Ellie followed Sarah home one December day and hopped on my knee as I squatted down to paint the outside of our front window. She was bright, beautiful, and impudent. She took up residence on Dad’s lap until he died, traveled with Mom, and inserted her rights and preferences everywhere she went. She adopted two other kittens and allowed them to enter her domain, albeit with parameters. She loved to play a rousing game of tag, stalk the fish in the fish tank, follow yard intruders from window to window, and wrestle no-holds-barred with Joey. She snuggled on my shoulder at night, kneading my neck, sat by us if we started coughing until we were better, dug her way into cupboards, closets, and drawers to find perfect napping spots, and thoroughly enjoyed ruling the roost when she became the matriarch of the household. I loved Ellie’s companionship, her sense of humor, her independence, and her dedication to Mom. She never left Mom’s side the day she died and she mourned for days until little Maia bustled through the doorway, insisting that Ellie accept her friendship.

 

Thank you, Noel, for your feisty love, devotion, and companionship. You are greatly missed.

 

(1996-2013)

Baby Steps

With the one year anniversary of Mom’s death last weekend, we have completed our year of “firsts” without her; the first night of sleep with the monitor off, the first walk to the car without dragging the wheelchair down the ramp, the first visit to a friend in the middle of the day, the first birthdays, the first round of holidays and holiday pictures, the first return to her home, the first outings to her favorite restaurants and stores. Don and I have even taken some short trips to test our new wings of freedom.

 

Overall, it has been a predictably sad, but positive year in that we have taken our time to adjust, heal, and look for a new balance. The surprise for me has been that I expected to feel a sense of relief beneath the sadness, but it either has not come or has been so tangled up with the feelings of loss and change that it was negligible. Although I marvel at the ease of small freedoms, that sense of relief eludes me. Even after a year I still feel like I am a step behind, trying to catch up, but catch up to what? I don’t know.

 

I think this struggle has something to do with Mom being the last of our parents and grandparents. Even though the others have been gone for a number of years, Mom’s death seems to have freshened their loss as well. I remind myself daily how lucky we were to have them for as long as we did so that our kids could grow up amid such an eclectic, loving, funny, and terrific support system. But I still miss Mom’s gentleness and unexpected laughter, Grandpa Tebedo’s corny jokes, Aunt Blanche’s and Grandma Tebedo’s spoiling, Vern’s protectiveness, Betty’s winks and friendship, and Dad’s steadfast belief in us.

 

So, this year of firsts has been slower to work through and many regained freedoms feel more bittersweet than triumphant. Yet, we have much love and laughter to remember and be thankful for and much sweetness and fun to look forward to, so life is still good. Different, but good.

One Year

One of the last things that Mom asked for was to go home to Aunt Blanche, who raised her after her mom died. I think, no matter how old we get, we always need our moms. It's true for me, anyway; even now.

 

But, when instant gratification isn't possible, the next best thing is to visit them in memory and know that they really aren't all that far away.

 

 

We miss you Mom, but we remember what you taught us. See you soon.



Finding Our Wings

Thanks to gift vouchers from family and each other, Don and I ventured out of our routine a bit this winter and spring. We began well within our comfort zones with weekend excursions to Condon, Portland, and Lincoln City, then timidly ventured into the unknown of San Mateo. Our trips were short, simple, and delineated by time constraints, but served to bring us much needed respite with a touch of adventure.

 

Although Don and I very willingly put portions of our lives on hold over the last sixteen years, it was difficult to also sacrifice visiting our kids in their own homes, some of which we have never seen. In spite of that, they went over and above in their support of us and their grandparents so we are now anxious to begin making that time up to them before we do anything else. Eventually, we will be able to touch base with the rest of our family, as well, and maybe even plan an adventure of our own, but we are quickly finding out that we have to pace ourselves and our budgets. We hope everyone will be patient with us as we play catch up.

 

 

Our trips thus far have been good learning experiences, though, which have made us more confident with airports, car rentals, and Google map navigation. I might even be able to single-handedly purchase a plane ticket now without clutching the arm of one of my kids lest they leave and I make a wrong decision. Also, once Don has retired, it will be easier to work around my subbing schedule so that we have fewer time constraints.

 

 

In the meantime, we savor what we’ve done so far and continue to budget and to plan. Our wings are a bit rusty, but they still seem to work so, look out! One of these days, probably after you’ve given up on us, we might land in your neighborhood to see what you’re up to.

Bumpy Road

Sometimes I walk, sometimes I run, but most of the time I stumble (E.B., 1981-2012)

 

Truth be told, I think this is true for most people; it certainly is for me. I’ve spent my share of time in a hurry, whether from anticipation or dread:  running after dreams, running after babies, running after love, running to make deadlines, running away from pain, running up bills. The energy and certainty of youth, knowing what I wanted and constantly working towards it with occasional, blind leaps of faith into the unknown, were what carried me through. However, although these times are memorable, they are perhaps more so because of the slower moments in between; those times when I walked through life.

 

Life just isn’t always about excitement. Sometimes it is predictable and plodding, which can be both boring and comforting. Taking care of family, working, buckling seatbelts, taking out the garbage, paying bills, going to the dentist, or walking on the treadmill are less stimulating, but very necessary parts of life. Slowing down and giving myself a break, or giving someone else a break, or taking time to think things through before plunging any further allows the chance to reflect and to plan, to forgive and to heal, to remember and to cherish; to reflect on the everyday things I am doing by rote and taking for granted. This is my opportunity to soak up experiences more deeply and let them change me for the better, to open the door to the future by dreaming a dream of what might be next.

 

And then, I stumble. I sail along thinking how easy it all is and how well I have life figured out and then I plunge headlong into those difficult moments when life is hard and confusing. That’s when I falter. I want to help, I want to hide, I want answers. Life becomes too big and I feel too small; I don’t know what to do or how to do it, yet walking away isn’t the right option either. Or is it? Self-doubt takes over. Sometimes it is as simple as needing direction or reassurance, but, never-the-less, my uncertainty makes me stumble, unsure of my footing, wondering if I can make it or do it right, wondering if everyone sees my incompetence. It hurts to fall, especially when it bruises others as well, and getting back up can be overwhelming when I feel alone. Yet, some of the very best things I’ve ever done, I did falteringly and with help; building lasting relationships with friends and family, moving to new places, taking new jobs, setting reasonable boundaries, raising kids, caring for parents, going back to school. No directions came with any of it, whether it was figuring out fair but effective discipline for children who were smarter than us or keeping a parent with dementia from slamming the dining room chair backwards into her china cupboard during dinner. And I wouldn’t change a moment of it!

 

Life certainly has its ups and downs, but we mustn’t be afraid of struggle. Stumbling isn’t a sign of weakness or incompetence but a sign of courage and fortitude, as is reaching out for help and accepting a hand in those moments. I wish everyone could know that and be certain of it in their hearts, especially when they are in the middle of doubt. Sometimes I walk, sometimes I run, but most of the time I stumble. And that’s okay. Go ahead and dare to try.

Moments in Time

I keep running across little vignettes that make it seem like she is still here, maybe just about to come around the corner and tell me something, or reach for something, or smile. Although I might have passed by these little still-life scenes twenty times already without much notice, it is that last, unexpected collision that takes my breath away like a punch in the stomach. She touched them last and they have remained so until now, as if she has just walked away and she’ll be right back to take them up again. The momentary illusion freshens the sore reality. She’s gone. She won’t be back. And, sadly, I wouldn’t wish it on her either, which means I have to cope; I have to stop a second, acknowledge my loss, and remind myself that this sadness is just one leg of my journey. It’s not forever.

 

In spite of these little bouts of reality, or maybe because of them, coming back to the home I grew up in has been a good experience. The first time back, of course, was just to bury Mom and say my second goodbye to her. That visit was sad and I was glad when it was over. The next couple trips were more healing. I came with the practical pretense of doing something, of bringing her clothes for family to go through, to check on the house, and to settle her estate; but I also, rather unexpectedly, reconnected with both Mom and Dad. I discovered bits of their history through old, forgotten photos, letters, and keepsakes and was able to mourn their passing amid comforting memories. That feeling of being an orphan softened, allowing me to move to that next step of celebrating those memories by linking them with new ones with my husband and children when we met there for Thanksgiving. Little by little, I find that things are coming full circle; from loss to reconnection, from bereavement to celebration, from reliving old memories to making them a foundation for creating new ones.

 

So I no longer enter this portal of the past, the present, and the future expecting grief or the pressure to either memorialize or make big changes. I come each time with some small goal in mind to accomplish purely for my own pleasure; cleaning out a cupboard, hanging pictures, pulling weeds. I find I cannot disturb every emotional vignette, nor do I need to. Sometimes, I can only acknowledge one with a laugh or a tear and leave it for another time and that is healing. Neither do I seek to immediately replace old with new as I sift through the past, but rather to watch for tiny memory treasures that will sustain me in barren moments and a way to re-purpose them in my life as I move forward. A bean jar stays a bean jar, an apron becomes an art shirt, coffee mugs become pencil holders, and vignettes take their places in photo albums. Then I relax and renew. I connect with family and friends, indulge in things I love to do but seldom have time for, and contemplate dreams for tomorrow.