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.

It Takes Time

I seem to specialize in stuff: personal stuff, teaching stuff, religious stuff, record-keeping stuff, computer stuff, hobby stuff, necessary stuff, sentimental stuff. No, I haven’t reached hoarder-status yet, but my basement is getting close. Ironically, I am much happier when things are tucked away in their proper place, preferably organized, alphabetized, color coded, and out of sight. But life is messy and in a constant state of flux with the ebb and flow of family, memories, and personal time so, long ago, I decided to declutter when I could, forgive the mounting stuff in the meantime, and focus most of my energy on relationships. Technically, I suppose, this means I have been frustrated with my surroundings for all but about 15 minutes of my adult life and in a state of growing trauma since 2004.

 

Lately, however, I have been viewing stuff from a different perspective. It has been both bittersweet and comforting to look through Mom and Dad’s things, evoking memories, and stumbling across new little pieces of their stories. It’s like touching them again, reconnecting; spending a few precious moments in their presence while life holds its breath. Then time starts up again and I slip back into the busy-ness of everyday.

 

Yet, while the sifting process has been comforting, the sight of the final pile that was ready to take back to Mom’s house for family to sort through left me sad. It seemed to echo the size of the emptiness I felt. Is that all that’s left of Mom and Dad; an empty shell of stuff? Is that all that we each amount to? We can’t take it with us, so what’s the point? Why do we give stuff such value? Is it wrong? And why am I grieving over this? Perhaps it is because, aside from the few treasures those of us who are left behind each pick out for ourselves to add to our own piles of stuff, we will have to let go of much of it and that feels like letting go of Mom and Dad…again.

 

I am glad for this opportunity to slowly sift and sort through things, though, touching them once again and letting the memories wash through me. It allows a gradual movement from emptiness to healing; a chance to connect, remember, and either repurpose it with value for my own life or gently let it go to someone else who will treasure it for their use. I have also come to acknowledge that the pile of things, big or small, with which we surround ourselves in the messy course of living is there to serve us while we’re here; no more, no less. If it is meaningful for someone else after we die, great; if not, at least it was there for us when we needed it. And that’s enough. I guess it has to be.

Miss You, Mom

 

Happy Birthday!



Happy Birthday Jeremy

We love you!

Finding a New Normal

We situate ourselves around the living room, comfy in our niches, lunches in our laps, while I hit “play” and start a movie on the DVD player. For several years now this has been a daily ritual for Mom and I and whoever is home to join us. Although I’ve got the back speakers playing next to Mom’s favorite chair, I haven’t turned on the English subtitles because she is no longer there to need them. Her empty chair isn’t normal, but nothing is since she died.

 

Our year of “firsts” has officially begun. The first time I set the table without her place, the first time I didn’t get up two hours early to help her get ready for church, the first time we ate at our favorite Mexican restaurant and didn’t order her pork burrito with rice and beans, the first time Ellie slept by herself in Mom’s empty room. The big things are still to come, like her birthday and holidays, but it’s the little things that creep up unexpectedly to lay us low, to start the tears. Her cup of pencils, pens, and lipstick by her chair, the half-dozen bottles of scented hand creams scattered around the house that I don’t use, the appointment reminders I forgot to cancel, her sunglasses waiting for her in the pocket of the car door. Of course, those are objects that I can sort through and put away, but the random habits and memories are different.

 

“You won’t know what to do with yourself when you no longer have to get me in and out of the car,” she said. That’s true. It’s much easier now to jump in and take off for the park or run into the grocery store for a couple things, but it’s also lonelier. I can substitute teach as much as I want, take classes guilt-free, come and go when I want for as long as I want, and hibernate for hours in my scrapbooking room, but Mom will never again be within my sight when I need her. I don’t have to include special foods in our meals, make conversation when I’m tired, empty the commode in the morning, or sleep with one ear on the monitor, but those things had become normal and I am feeling lost without them. Or is it lost without her?

 

Yet, my heart knows, despite the emptiness, that although the monitor to her room is turned off, she is not far away and we are not separated permanently. At the last she was suffering and tired and weak and ready to “go home to Aunt Blanche.” I told her to go; I whispered, “It’s ok. It’s time. Go home and dance,” and she did so now I just have to find a new sense of normal. I have to go on and live my life the way she went on and lived hers right to the end. A new normal. Not without her, exactly, but with her imprint woven in a new context within the fibers of our lives.

Happy Birthday, Sarah

Rest

And suddenly, it's over. Mom and I both let go; not because we wanted to, but because it was time. Time for her to be strong and whole again. Time for her to be free. Time for her to dance in heaven. Time for me to mourn.

To Bed, to Bed, Said Sleepyhead

I’m ready to get up.

I want to go to the toilet.

Can I have a drink of water?

What time is it?

I want to go to bed.

I want to sit up.

I need help.

Where is everyone?

I forgot.

I don’t know.

No, this is not a four-year old talking. These are the late night responses of my 98-year old mother after she has yelled for me in her barely-audible voice and I have stumbled out of bed and slid down a flight of stairs and steep wheel chair ramp in a sleepy haze to ask her, “What do you want, Mom?”

It would be funny. In another lifetime. If I wasn’t so-o-o-o tired. But that’s life around here these days and I don’t think it is going to change anytime soon. Mom has her days and nights mixed up and no matter what we do to try to fix it, I still come up short on sleep. It doesn’t seem to make much difference if Mom stays awake all day, or if she sleeps in a recliner instead of the bed, or if she takes Benedryl or another light medication recommended by Hospice that produces drowsiness as a side effect. Whatever Sundowner-type phenomenon thing is happening, this childish, illogical, sleep-challenged person that I am now sharing a bedroom with, is not my real mom during these nocturnal hours. I can’t reason, cajole, placate, demand, or even guilt her into lying still. She is absolutely driven into getting the covers off and spinning her body sideways on the bed every twenty minutes so that her legs drape off the edge before she determinedly starts screeching for help.

Of all the caregiving challenges we have faced so far, sleep deprivation has always been my nemesis; the more tired I get, the more impatient I become and that is not what I want to subject these people to, whom I love so much. So, I spend all my waking hours trying to come up with a better plan for the coming night and spend all my sleepless late night hours praying to get through this phase as calmly and quickly as possible. As I get ready for yet another long night, I try to remind myself that this, too, shall pass and I will look back with thankfulness that I had the opportunity to share the struggle with Mom and that we made it through.

Digging In: A New Patio

The back deck area is in a state of rennovation. This is Jeremy's project but Danielle has been helping whenever she gets home and, of course, there is an assortment of furry overseers who inspect the work. Even Grammy comes out or peeks from her bedroom doorway periodically to monitor and inspire progress.

As with all changes, the first step is that of evaluation and demolition. Spongy and rotten boards from the old deck were removed, some long ago and others more recently. A tree stump was toppled, plants were potted, overrun grass, weeds, and mint were dug up, pond elements were saved, and a hole was filled in. This weekend saw the transition from demolition to preparation as the ground began to be leveled and sloped away from the house. Ah, the satisfaction of back-breaking, sweat-dripping, dirt-under-the-fingernails work that measures progress in square inches of cleared ground.

And the best part? All I have to do is...watch!