I acknowledge that for much of the first 40+ years of my life, I hid behind a really beautiful mask. I might have looked like I had it all together but, as I shared in another blog, I was suffering in silence and was a pretty conflicted soul. I deeply and desperately wanted to create a life that was not an extension of my unfavorably shattered childhood, but rather, embraced and reflected the blessings of the things I learned while growing up in that fairly unenviable environment.
I know that was my intention, but it has been a difficult and arduous task, given all the baggage I have carried with me as I tried to accomplish that formidable feat. As I look back, I must concede that under the weight of those bags, I made choices that were not in the best interests of my children or my husband or even myself for that matter.
Those choices seemed really reasonable at the time, but in retrospect, some of them proved to be anything but adaptive and beneficial. I can see now, as Gordon Neufeld would suggest, that I was valiantly trying to “influence the verdict”. That is, I spent much of my life twisting myself into whatever shape and/or presentation I thought was needed for people to appreciate me, accept me, and approve of me … in order to quiet my overly kindled amygdala.
I know now that this is a primal stress response called “fawning.”The sad truth is that I spent oodles of energy trying to manipulate people’s perspectives in an effort to avoid feeling rejected. And, because it worked, I had to keep doing it. It was a never ending cycle. In retrospect, I can see that all my perfecting and people-pleasing and performing and proving were simply very misguided attempts to help me feel safe.
And, as I look back on it now, I can ALSO see clearly how my father’s alcoholism was, at it’s core, a misguided attempt to numb the shame and escape the pain and heartbreaking wounds of his own very unfortunate childhood. I’m sure his choices seemed sensible to him at the time, too. But, he often scared me. He was unpredictably angry and emotionally volatile. Unfortunately, he never found his way from the ‘mad’ (that typified his energy) to the deeper truth of ‘sad’ (that was buried beneath his hardened heart) until he was about 75 years old. It was such a gift to our relationship when he did … but … it takes courage to peek down into the most fragile, fear-filled parts of our soul. It’s necessary, though, because we can never truly ‘heal’ until we can ‘feel’ the pain beneath the anger.
And, it’s very humbling to recognize that his emotional unavailability, abandonment and neglect were no more damaging to me than my perfectionism, over-protection and overindulgence were for my own three daughters. No one intends to hurt their children. We simply get so caught up in our own pain that we can’t see beyond it. If only he and I had been better able to tend to our own wounds … sooner. We would have been so much more present to the needs of our children.
It also becomes apparent, as I look back on it now, how tortured by guilt and shame my mom seemed to be. I can see that see loved herself so conditionally. And, I learned to do the same. My mom really did the best she could given all her health issues, and I really felt her love for me (when she was engaged) and/or when I had outdone myself in my perpetual efforts to earn it. The problem was that she was not healthy enough (emotionally or physically) for me to count on her to predictably reassure my lovability. And, then she spent so much time in hospital … both medical and psychiatric. When I was in foster care, I was always working to ensure they would appreciate and accept me. And since I had very little contact with my Dad after they divorced, I honestly felt very much on my own … far too often.
As Neufeld wisely theorizes, the most healthy relationships are hierarchical in nature. You have someone assuming the alpha role of ‘taking charge’ and ‘taking care of things’ … and then you have those who are being cared for … assuming the more dependent role. Usually, it is our parents who assume the alpha, care-giving role. Unfortunately, because of my mom’s ill health, I often ended up taking charge of things that often felt way to big to handle. I ended up learning how to take care of myself instead of simply being able to trust that I could lean in and someone would be there to care for me and meet my needs.
As I reflect upon it now, I can see that sometimes I still ache for something Neufeld calls “Alpha Love”. When you are in the presence of a strong alpha love, you feel safe, protected, cared for and looked after. You trust your needs will be met. And in that space of trust, you can ‘rest’ in the presence of predictable and reliable care-giving … you can quit ‘working’ for love. You don’t feel like you have to ‘earn’ enough love to ‘feel’ safe. You don’t feel like you are in charge of the well-being of the relationship. In the presence of alpha love, you can just lean in and simply rest in the certainty that even if there are bumps in the road, … you will still be safe, loved and cared for at the deepest level.
In hindsight, I can see that I parented my children by giving them what I most needed rather than what they most needed. I didn’t have anywhere to lean in as a child … so … I was very alpha with them. Probably too much so. I not only protected, but I rescued. I think I sometimes even smothered my children in my fervent efforts to keep them safe and sound. Gah.
I’m alpha by default. I take care of people … I take charge of things. I look after whatever needs to be tended to. I even get paid to be alpha. I became a counsellor/therapist because I really want to support people. The only one I haven’t taken the best care of is me. Sadly, I have unwittingly perpetuated the pattern established in my past. I have often neglected and abandoned myself in an effort to ensure that I don’t abandon others.
And sadly, although I hate to admit it out loud … I think it is fair to say that I have not historically trusted that people would take care of me. So, until I did some deep healing, I rarely expressed my needs or asked for help. And, when and if I do so now, I sometimes have trouble resting in the certainty that people won’t drop the ball. My anxious mind falls back into old patterns and gets concerned that if I lean in too far … no one will be there to catch me. Those old neural networks of insecurity don’t take much to get re-activated.
It has taken me many years to discover that working on my own issues is the most loving and caring thing I could ever do for my family. And, I have been actively committed to my own healing for the last 20+ years. And, as a result of that, I have chosen to forgive myself for dragging my own sweet cherubs through so much because of my unhealed issues. I simply couldn’t see how I was bruising them along the way any more than my parents could see what their pain was doing to me. It’s so humbling to recognize that I, too, have caused my children the kind of distress I had trouble forgiving my parents for inflicting upon me.
And, through all my own healing, I have arrived at a place where I honestly forgive my parents … and … I honestly forgive me. We were simply doing the best we could at the time. I have humbly offered my sincerest apologies to my children and have let go of all regret that it could have been different. As Maya Angelou says, “When you know better, you do better.”
I could not see how I could only truly love them when I truly loved me. And, I could only truly love myself when I could stop my chronic efforts to earn love, approval and appreciation. Because … it is only when love feels un-instigated by ourselves that we can actually let it land in our hearts. One of the most transformational lessons that I have integrated as part of my healing journey is that love is not something we should need to work for … ever. Rather, it is something to be welcomed, received and savored.
With deepest gratitude for the shifts in my vision, 🧡 Karen 🧡
Those of you who read my “Better Because you Spared Me …” blog will already be aware that Christmas 2019 marks the 30th Anniversary of my Mom’s passing. You will also know that I didn’t even realize the loss of my Mom had remained so unprocessed … until the words, tears and unspoken grief spilled out of me while I was writing the afore mentioned blog … a blog that I thought was going to be about something else! It is amazing to recognize just how much pain we can hide from ourselves when that unwelcome darkness is pushed way down inside of us and not invited up to see the light of day.
So … that said, and aside from another blog that I dedicated to my Mom, I have come to realize that I have never sufficiently honored my Mom’s death … or … maybe even her life, for that matter. It just never seemed right to speak aloud about her passing during the Christmas Season because I didn’t want to put a damper on my family’s ‘holiday cheer’ or cause anyone any discomfort by bringing it up.
But given my line of work as a counsellor/therapist … I am also well aware that mourning is an essential part of processing and healing our grief. Sometimes the words grief and mourning are used interchangeably, but they are actually very different. Grief is the internal experience of our unprocessed emotional pain, heartache, sadness and loss …. and … mourning is the external expression of our grief. Mourning is the vehicle that helps us move through our emotions so we can grieve and heal through our losses.
I have always reminded my clients that it’s a gift to themselves to make space for mourning rituals and outward expressions of their grief, lest it gets stuck inside them. When grief goes unprocessed, it becomes professionally described as ‘unreconciled’. The research shows that ‘unreconciled grief’ can lead to all manner of depression, anxiety and varied other unfavorable emotional, mental and even physical health concerns. And so, the writing of that blog nearly 30 years after my Mom’s death, rendered visible that I still had some of my own work to do. Unarguably, it was long past time to dust up some more of that glitter … to create some space to mourn the unreconciled parts of my own grief.
“This was amazing mom. I had no idea gram loved evergreens too!! I’m going to dedicate mine to her this year ❤ … “
Something in my daughter’s words spoke right into my soul! And so, with deepest reverence for my Momma, I have decided to bring her home for Christmas this year by creating a morning/mourning ritual for the 24 days prior to the 30th anniversary of her death on December 25th. I am going to call this process my ‘Advent of Love.’ And since most Advent Calendars present us with a gift each day leading up to Christmas, I decided to invite my Momma to join me as I enjoy the tranquility of the pre-dawn hours reflecting upon the many gifts I have received in our mother/daughter relationship. 🧡
This is the scene within which this Advent of Love has unfolded. And, I have decided to outwardly express my reflections in the form of this blog so I can deepen my experience of honoring my Momma in these moments … and then … revisit these precious reflections in the years to come.
An Advent of Love … ❤
Day 1: Ornaments. Every year since my children were born I have gifted them with an ornament reflecting something meaningful that happened in their year. I would try to inconspicuously write their initials (and the year) onto the ornament somewhere. I wanted them to have a nice selection of ornaments to adorn their own trees when they moved out of our home. And well, the year my Mom passed, I scoured the stores in ruthless pursuit of “Grandmother 1989” ornaments. It was no easy task … because they were typically sold out by the time I got into the city after the funeral. I couldn’t get three of the same, but … I was relieved that I found one for each of my daughters … and … one for myself.
My daughters have all had their own ornaments for many years now. But … strangely … it was not until THIS year that I noticed some initials on one of the Grandma ornaments I was using to dress my own tree. It was then that I realized I still had a couple of my daughter’s ornaments. It seems incredibly odd that this was the only ornament I forgot to give them … but maybe it was by divine design that these very significant ornaments stayed with me until this very moment. And so, on this first day of my Advent of Love, I am delivering these precious ornaments to my daughters.
It always stirs my heart as we place our ornaments on the Christmas tree because, as I shared, they are all meaningful in some way. It is a joy to reminisce about places we have been and/or the times and occasions spent with our kids and grandkids reflected by each ornament. One of the ornaments that has no obvious meaning, but that has some special sentiment for me is this one.
I remember getting a box of these long tapered glass ornaments for my very first Christmas tree after I got married 42 years ago because … they were my Mom’s favorite ornaments when I was a child. They became my favorite too. I just loved that they were so elegant, so unique in shape and so full of glittery goodness! We used to have four of them, but now … this the only one I have left. It may sound corny, but it feels like all my best childhood memories of Christmas are honored when I dangle this sparkling gem on the tree from year to year! 💚
And … speaking of ornaments, I decided to create picture ornaments of all our departed loved ones three years ago … my brother-in-law Don, my mother-in-law, my father-in-law, my stepmom Gerri, my Dad and my Mom. And, since our tree is dedicated to my Momma this year, we have placed her at the top this year … right next to the macaroni angel that my dear friend Marion made for me decades ago. Yes … a couple of special angels set atop our tree this year.
Day 2: Sparkle. My thoughts this morning were still on the ‘glittery goodness’ of Christmas’s past. I might only have a couple of pictures of my mom and I together, and I am tickled that I have this one. It was taken 50 years ago on Dec 25, 1969. My spirit sings just a little as I am reminded of how much I loved to liberally dangle all those sparkly tin foil icicles onto the tree! I just loved the way that tinsel shimmered and shone in the light of the tree! I don’t do it anymore, but it was a custom I carried forward for many, many, many years … well after my own children were born.As I share this, I am also fondly recalling that our Christmas trees had to be tethered to the ceiling because it never failed that the tree would end up face down on the ground when our cat could no longer resist pouncing upwards to snatch a shiny temptation dangling high enough up in the branches to topple the whole tree. Sadly … those glittering icicles never weathered the tumble very well. 😏
Given that I was an only child, Christmas was typically pretty quiet … and became even more so after my my Mom and Dad split up when I was 12 years old. That said, some of my best memories were the Christmas celebrations we got to spent at my Aunt Mildred’s house. The succulent aroma of the roasting turkey or goose (occasionally offset by the stench of the traditional Scandinavian lutefisk) … all the fancy fixings (including the mashed turnips) on the sideboard … the tall, elegant tapers dribbling wax down the sterling silver candlesticks that were centered perfectly upon the festive table linens … the indoor Christmas lights tucked perfectly behind the curtain rods cascading colors down the sheers on the windows … the laughter … the love … the lamps. Ha ha, for some reason I am recalling the excessive number of lamps my Aunt Mil had in her house! Yes, there was a whole lotta light in her home … and … in her heart! She always shone so brightly!
My Aunt Mil was an incredibly warm human being, an exceptional cook and an exemplary hostess. Even though she was run off her feet making it merry for everyone else, she had a way of making you feel like your presence in her home … and in her heart … was the only thing that truly mattered to her. She was one of those angels that walks the earth … ensuring people feel cherished and precious. 💛
My Mom adored her eldest sister. I suspect she just felt so safe in my Aunt’s energetic embrace. You just knew that she loved you with unshakeable intensity and fierce loyalty. We were at Aunt Mil’s when the following picture was taken … 39 years ago. It captures my Mom’s first Christmas in her new role as “Gram” holding hands with the best gift she got in 1980! Our eldest daughter was exactly four months old here.
Day 3: Patience.It’s only the third day of this process, and I’m already surprised by the memories that are stirring within me. Something that I have always held close in heart was the infinite patience that my Mom displayed with me. My baby teeth didn’t develop with adequate enamel on them so they decayed very quickly. In order to preserve them until my permanent teeth came in, they all had to be capped with silver when I was four or five years old.
My smile here reveals some glimpses of that silver … but my memories of my time in that dentist chair with Dr. Kuzyk are nothing short of traumatic. Seriously. That horrible rubber damn … the whirr of the drill … the smell of my ground enamel … his cold, steely eyes … him threatening to send my Mother home from the waiting room if I didn’t stop crying. He should have been disbarred for the way he terrified me into swallowing my tears and silencing my terror.
I’m guessing my Mom interpreted my stoic silence as bravery rather than oppression. I honestly have no idea how she walked me through my fears time and time again … until all my teeth were done. Perhaps it was the bribery? I fondly recall her promising me to take me for “chips and gravy” at the lunch counter of the Met Department Store after each of my appointments. They were such succulent morsels … even if your mouth was frozen.
My Mom also lovingly convinced me to go to camp one year as well. Arghhh … it was entirely horrible! I was such a shy child and so desperately afraid to be sent off on my own in a bus full of strangers, but somehow she motivated me to step onto the Greyhound. Yes, over the years my Momma inspired that timid little freckle-faced, red-head to forge through many of her most formidable fears.
Most amazingly, though, is the fact that I never remember feeling forced or coerced by her. My only recollection is of her patiently supporting me to do hard things. Yes. She instilled a belief in me that we can get through any adversity that lands upon our paths. Thank you for that Momma … that belief has got me through some tough stuff in my life. xo
Day 4: Integrity.My Mom and Dad both smoked. For that matter … I vaguely remember reading somewhere that nearly 70% of people smoked four or five decades ago. ‘Players’ or ‘Players Light’ were the most popular brand, but my Momma opted for ‘Craven A’ cigarettes. Back in those days, it was still acceptable for folks to smoke in vehicles! I still get nauseous when I think of my parents pressing in that cigarette lighter into the dashboard in the car. I detested the sickening stench of it’s red hot coils.
It was so entirely offensive that I’m questioning why I ever got the notion to try smoking myself? Perhaps it was peer pressure? All I can remember is that one evening when I was 13, three of us bought a pack of Craven M (the menthol version of my Mom’s favorite brand). I got teased by the other two for calling home to get permission before I actually lit one up. Mom wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but confirmed that she’d rather I tell her I was going to try smoking than compromise my integrity by hiding it behind her back. When she realized I was going to keep smoking, she never chastised me or tried to change my mind. No. She just bought a pack of ‘Craven M’ for me when she purchased a pack of ‘Craven A’ for herself. My Mom said she couldn’t, in good conscience, promote hypocrisy by expecting me to quit doing something that she was doing in her own life.
I revered her intention to stand in integrity in that moment, and yet in retrospect, I can see clearly that there were also times when my Mom really struggled to stay in integrity and resist hypocrisy herself. While I have shared more transparently about this in another blog, I am not going to speak to any of that here. I just don’t want to leave you with the impression that she always walked her talk. She did not. And, I knew it. That said, I am not sure any one of us has successfully maintained our integrity 100% of the time.
But before you judge her too harshly for compromising her integrity and/or for allowing me to smoke, I should share that I did quit smoking of my own volition when I was 21. I had offered to support a friend who needed to quit smoking for health reasons. And, even though I had no real intention of quitting forever myself, I did keep my word to not take a puff while she was trying to extinguish the habit. When all was said and done, however, I was the only one of us who had successfully quit. As I reflect upon it all now, I don’t like to feel guilty about my choices, so I’m really glad I maintained my integrity in those moments … with both my Mom and my friend.
Day 5: Family. My Mom was the youngest of seven children. I learned on Ancestry.com that my maternal grandmother, Anna Gunhilda Nasenius (Nezenius), gave birth to 8 children in 13 years. She was 41 when my Mom, “Muriel” Pauline Star Edlund, joined their family on April 13, 1925. My paternal grandfather, Nels Fridolf Edlund, was already 49 when my Mom arrived. My Mom’s eldest brother Hjalmar Fridolf “Douglas” was born on August 21, 1914. Then came another son, Thurs “Arthur” Alexander, who was born little more than 14 months later on November 12, 1915. My beloved Auntie … Ruth “Mildred” Armida arrived on September 23, 1917 and their brother, Werner Wilfred “Woodrow” was born on the exact same day and month as my Mom … only six years prior in 1919. Uncle Woodrow was followed by the birth of another daughter, Helen “Doris” Elvera was born on March 18, 1921. My Uncle “Paul” Warren David joined their family on July 25, 1923. My Mom never even told me that she had a little brother! Joseph “Immanual” was born on October 27, 1927 but unfortunately, he died eight days later on November 3, 1927.
The legacy of loss in my Mom’s history looms large. My Uncle Douglas passed away suddenly in an airplane accident in 1947 when he was 32. My Aunt Doris died unexpectedly in her sleep in 1971 when she was 49. My Uncle Woodrow died a year after my Aunt Doris … he was only 53. My Uncle Art sustained a major brain injury in a car accident and was bed-ridden for most of his lifetime. My Aunt Mil compassionately cared for him in her home until he passed away in 1975 … just a month shy of 60. My Mom was the next to depart in 1989, at the age of 64 … followed by my Aunt Mil who passed away very unexpectedly nine months later on October 13, 1990. She was only 72. My Uncle Paul survived them all. He died in 2005 at the age of 82.
Sadly, I don’t recall spending much time with my Mom’s family members. I do have some very fun memories of riding down the stairs in a laundry basket with my Uncle Paul one time when I was young. I was staying at my Aunt Mil’s … and we went out to the farm to visit. It was entirely exuberant and really a very exceptional experience!! Neither my Mom or my Dad would have dared to do something as playful as taking a wild ride in a plastic hamper. Unfortunately, our engagement with Uncle Paul’s lovely family was deeply fractured by a heartbreaking rift over my Grandmother’s Estate. My Mom had been named Executrix. It was tragic to witness the loss of connection that my Mom endured with her brother during the years of conflict.
The precious and yet tenuous nature of family attachment has always underpinned my understanding of family. And yet, as an often lonely only child, I was always so envious of people who had brothers and sisters. I imagined it must be so incredible to be part of something bigger than yourself … to have people in your life that you didn’t have to explain things to because they already knew … because they were there from the beginning.
Its no surprise that I was quick to embrace my husbands four siblings and parents when we got married. I really relished the feeling of being part of their ‘big family’. I inherited three brothers and a little sister in the deal. Their presence in my life was elevated in my heart. And, over the years, I embraced the jubilant joys and weathered the saddening sorrows of being part of a ‘big family.’ There was no shortage of either.
Day 6: Destiny: I woke up in the night thinking about a blog I wrote many, many years ago called “Mama Knows Best”. In it, I talked about a very vivid memory I had of my Mom. It must bear repeating, because it found it’s way to my awareness during this meaningful morning/mourning process. As I shared in that blog, one of the most meaningful messages I got from my Mom did not come in words:
“I must have been about 8 years old … and … my mom wanted to take me to the movies in order to get out of the house. After consuming more 5 Star Whiskey than he could handle – my dad had, once again, passed out on the couch. She could see it coming and she had asked him (when he was still coherent) if she could have some money to take me. He had refused. I can’t remember his rationale … but …
Once he was snoring, my mom proceeded to put her hands down the cracks of the sofa around him, searching for coins that had dropped out of his pockets over time. She kept searching … and counting … until she had collected enough pocket change to get us on the #2 trolley bus … which would take us to the theater downtown. I don’t remember the movie we saw that night, but … here is what I heard her saying: “If there is a will, there is a way.”
I also heard her saying … don’t let anyone else unfavorably or unnecessarily determine your destiny. And, I wish I could say I had been better at heeding that sage wisdom over my lifetime. Unfortunately, it has taken me many, many years to really integrate that lesson into my life. And, it is still hard for the recovering people-pleaser in me to elevate my own needs if it feels like I am abandoning another in the process. But … I am ever grateful that my Momma got a bee in her bonnet every now and again … so I could bear witness to how it looks when you choose to have your own back. The real trick it learning to set strong, compassionate boundaries without needing anger to be the catalyst. I’m getting there.
Day 7: Connection.I remembered a couple of things this morning. One, it’s my Dad’s birthday. Were he still with us here in the flesh, he’d be 91 today. Happy Birthday Dad! I wish we’d been able to spend more Christmas’ together. And, although this is an Advent of Love in honor of my Mom, in this moment I am remembering my very last Christmas with my Dad. It was the best one I ever had with him. We’d finally healed our relationship and it was so good to share that unfettered space with him. It’s funny, because in the last five years of his life, I caught some glimpses of the man my Mom had so deeply loved … like the energy captured in this photo. 🧡
My husband and I had travelled to South East Asia and brought home a conical hat. I roared with laughter when my Dad tried it on. It was so out of character for him to act silly. This is one of my very favorite memories with him right here.
For as long as I can remember, we had always had a stack of index cards in the desk. We typically used them for recipes or flash cards for studying when I was in school. But, in 1987, one of those cue cards became my birthday card! I am suspecting she wasn’t well enough to get out to the store to buy me an official Hallmark card, so … she improvised.
Her handwriting was so very small, it was often very difficult for the untrained eye to read. So, I will translate for you:
“To: Karen a wonderful daughter on your 29th Birthday. This was intended for your 30th Birthday, but like most of us, it will probably be another 10 years until then!!! You are so special to me and always remember – I love you very much and pray this year will be the best one ever. Affectionately, Mom J”
My Momma had a great sense of humor. I think she was 29 for at least 20 years. And then 39 for another 10 years … at least. 🙂 But, she was very quiet and very much an introvert … so one of her favorite ways of communicating was through the written word. Her penned sentiments represent such tangible tokens of her affection. I am really glad I had the foresight to save some of the little notes that my Mom had written to me over the years.
Day 8: Time.It’s been fascinating to notice the memories that have emerged for me during this Advent of Love. I thought this was going to be a much tidier process. I expected to wake up in the early morning … and then … as I was sitting with my coffee in front of all the lights … I would invite Mom to join me and see what memories would be sparked. But no. More often than not, I have been awakened in the middle of the night with thoughts flooding through my awareness … washing warmly over the window of my soul … fostering tidal waves of gratitude. So, I jotted the ideas down for the days to come … where I could try to make sense of it all … and … feel my way into the layers of ‘why’ a particular memory was alive in my awareness.
For example … I was thinking about the twin beds in my Mom’s bedroom. I remember in my teens that I would climb into the extra bed and we would watch “The Merv Griffin Show” together. For those of you who are too young to remember, Merv had a late night talk show from 1962 to 1986. He also created the popular game shows Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune. My Mom loved spending time with Merv. So did I.
I mean … just look at that smile of his!! You can tell why we were drawn to him. You can just see the bright light of this man’s soul shining through that grin and casting a glow onto everything around him. I can see how he was likely a bright spot in many of my Mom’s long and uncomfortable days. Perhaps just knowing she’d be spending time at the end of the day with Merv gave my Mom some light-hearted energy to anticipate.
Personally, I have come to believe that having something to anticipate is one of the secrets of living a happy life. And, as a result, I make it a habit to put something into my days, weeks and months to look forward to …
Day 9:Treasures of the Heart. These first two pictures capture a snippet of Christmas on the farm in1982. Brittany had not yet arrived into our family. Sherisse was only two months old and Tiana was a lively little 28 month old toddler! My Mom was still well enough to come out for a Christmas Eve ‘sleep over.’ She always loved a nice cozy sweater. In fact, in the final few years of her life I recall her layering up … two or three sweaters at a time. She had become so thin that she got chilled very easily.
Here we are … a couple of years later … Christmas 1984. It is so hard to believe this was 35 years ago. I love seeing the delight in her energy upon receiving these photos of her littlest loves. Oh, how she adored her grand-daughters.
We were poking fun at her here because she would often be up through the nights and then sleep during the daytimes.
I had no way of knowing at the time that we were only going to have three more Christmas mornings together. I find myself wondering if I would have done anything different had I known how limited those shared moments were going to be? Maybe I would have savoured them just a little bit more? Maybe I would have made it more meaningful in a very deliberate way? Maybe I would have snapped more photos with my camera? Maybe I would have taken more pictures with my heart?
Day 10:Decorations.When I got looking through the albums in search of pictures of my Mom, I was over the moon delighted that I came upon the following photo!! I am guessing this was a year or two after Mom died. I have no idea what I was smiling about … but … my heart looks blissfully happy. 💝
I suspect this picture was taken after a gathering of friends had left … because I know those wine glasses were not all mine!! 😊
I’d like to draw your attention to Mr. And Mrs. Claus in the background. My Mom created them for me during one of her stays in hospital. I know their bodies were crafted from carefully folded Readers Digest magazines in one of groups run by the Recreational Therapists in extended care settings. My Mom always contended that she was never crafty … but seriously … look at those precious gems!!! I LOVED them and had them for years until they somehow got squished in storage. It absolutely broke my heart to discard them. I am so darn grateful that, by sheer accident, we captured their joyous little images in this photo. And … as I say that … my heart weeps with such heartfelt gratitude for the short time I had with them … and … with her.
Day 11:Liniment. For some crazy reason, my thoughts this morning are turning to liniment. The scent of A535 seems to have burned into my neural pathways. I remember rubbing my Mom’s hind quarters liberally with that topical analgesic in the hopes it would soothe her chronic back pain. And, I am humbled by my recognition that I was not the best Florence Nightingale. I am ashamed to admit that I often resented having to rub her down with this smelly substance.
And yet, as I say that … I am reminded of just how much compassion and empathy she offered me when I was, as she would phrase it … “feeling punk” or just “not up to snuff.” Her caring was filled with the most tender and unconditionally loving energy. Makes me tear up as I think about how deeply she nurtured and tended to me when I was under the weather myself.
In this moment, I am specifically recalling coming home one night from seeing the movie “Paper Moon.” I was writhing with horrific menstrual pain. My Mom sat beside my bed while I tried to distract myself through the labour-like cramps by telling her the play by play details of this lovely movie. She never once looked bored, annoyed or wishing she could escape to somewhere else. She always did her very best to help alleviate any discomfort I was experiencing … mental, emotional, physical or spiritual. I will always be grateful to you for that Mom. 💖
I was 17 in this picture. I wish I remember what was going on here … my lips are kind of smiling but my eyes are rather sad … and … my Mom looks a bit tentative, doesn’t she?
Day 12: Altruism.My parents separated when I was 12. And, after that, even though we were on welfare … my Mother would occasionally contribute to Telethons! Yes. I am serious. She gave from what little we were given. She always had such a heart for people’s suffering. Perhaps some of my penchant for social justice was inspired by witnessing her valiant efforts to do whatever she could, without excuse, to help anyone she perceived to be underestimated, marginalized or oppressed.
In so many ways, I had the childhood that nobody wanted. I have not spoken to the more unfavorable parts of my childhood here, but … there are many. And yet, in so many other ways, I had the childhood that everyone wanted. My Mom was the mom that many of my friends wanted to talk to when they were out of sorts. She was always warm and welcoming of both them and their problems. I will never forget when one of my school chums showed up at our house unexpectedly late one night after downing a full bottle of aspirins. She refused to go home and begged us not to tell her parents what she had done. She spent the night at our house … initially heaving up everything that was heavy on her heart … and then on our bathroom floor … heaving up all the contents of her attempt to end it all.
She was still vomiting in the morning when her Dad picked her up, so I went to the hospital when them. Even though she was in such a fragile state, his anger and outrage filled the car and my awareness. I’m not sure what he thought all his guilting and shaming was going to accomplish, but I felt such a sense of compassion for why she didn’t want to go home the night before. She didn’t need a lecture … she needed a soft place for her fractured spirit to land. She needed a shoulder … and … I was just so very grateful that my Mom had offered her one the night before.
Most sadly, however, I learned many years later that she had tried numerous additional times to end her own suffering … and … had finally been successful in taking her own life. Breaks my heart to know that she never found her way through the darkness that surrounded her. And, it reminds me just how transformative it can be … if/when … we have someone in our lives who adds kindling to our internal flames when they are flickering far too faintly.
After I shared my “Better Because You Spared Me” blog, I gained a deeper appreciation for how my Mom was also a source of light to one of my oldest and dearest friends. My friend Joan shared in the comments section on my Facebook page regarding my blog that my Mom’s loving energy was a safe haven for her too. Joan’s childhood was the envy of no one. Absolutely no one. And … her tender words touched me deeply:
Oh my dear friend … As I read this I was brought back to many of the times your mom was not feeling well or in pain and would still come out greet us as we came in the house after school. Even as I read this something that came back to me so strongly, maybe it is because I never had it in my own home, was the love. Through all her pain and through all her sickness your mother had a wealth of love for you. To a little girl that had none, the love in your home was palpable. I will be forever grateful that I was able to feel some of that love and I have often wondered if it is that love, that prevented me from taking a very different path in my life. So as I sit here, tears streaming, I am holding you in my arms, as a sister would, willing to share, willing to help and willing to just hold. I love you my friend and I love your mother and always have. To think that through all her challenges she had so much love to give. She was a remarkable woman as are you. You honor her everyday by sharing your loving giving spirit with so many xo🤗💞
It is not lost of me that the light of love from my Mom was perhaps what spared both me and my dear friend from taking very different paths in our lives. Joan and I both found ourselves in the field of Mental Health tending to those who are struggling. Joan is an exceptional hypnotherapist, counselor and life coach in her own private practice: Inspired Wellness and Hypnotherapy. As I responded to my precious friend:
Joan …. you are my oldest and dearest friend and I’m trying to type through the stream of tears that have welled up from my heart space and are flowing down my cheeks in streams. Your heartfelt words have triggered my memories of your very unique ‘igloo’ house …that was shaped like an ice cube … and felt even colder and icier on the inside than it looked on the outside. Your white, cinderblock house was a perfect example of that notion that our outer world reflects our inner world. Mrs. Byar [Joan’s mom] scared me with her reserved and steely demeanor. I remember everything in your experience being hard, unwelcoming and militant … everything but you. I’m honestly not sure how you survived all that you endured my cherished friend. And … I am feeling so deeply grateful that the love my mom offered so generously and freely touched into your heart in such a meaningful way. And, I am sobbing to think that somehow you chose to nourish that love and let it grow you into one of the most kind, compassionate, caring and loving souls I have ever met. From where I am looking, your commitment to heal our humanity by adding so much light to the dark parts of this world is unrivaled! You are such a glowing example of how we can refuse to be defined by what happened to us. You are a such a precious gift to me … and so many others. I am so grateful for your sharing here … you have taken this whole experience to a new level for me my friend. I can see so clearly that the gift of love … is everlasting. I knew my mom’s love spared me … and … I am so deeply moved to know that in many ways, it also spared you. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
There is nothing quite so significant as being invited to exist in someone else’s presence. To be front and center in their circle of attention and … to feel their love and affection for you. As Joan so tenderly pointed out … even when my Mom was not well, she did her very best to give me the highest priority she could muster.
Day 13: Philosophy. It’s Friday the 13th today. Many believe 13 is an unlucky number. I don’t. It’s my favorite number. I got married on the 13th. There were even 13 teensy little diamonds in my engagement ring. My Mom was born on the 13th. I had exactly 13 days to sit with my stepmom before she transitioned. It’s actually 13 degrees below zero this morning as I share this moment with my Momma in my heart space. I’m not sure why I am sharing all of this, except that it is bringing to mind how deeply our beliefs impact our experiences of things.
My mother was raised in a very staunchly religious Seventh Day Adventist Home. Consequently, she was very well-versed in the Bible and clearly understood what she was supposed to believe. After she and my Dad split up, I remember how she lit up whenever the Jehovah Witness proselytizers rapped on the door. She’d invite them in and eagerly and enthusiastically explore their tenets and unpack their doctrine. My Mom was very reclusive, and because she didn’t socialize much, her spirited engagement in these conversations about religion was interesting for me to witness as a young girl.
My father was ever curious – perhaps even skeptical – about the roots of religious affiliation. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in a Higher Power … he just questioned mankind’s manipulation of the masses through religious rhetoric. My parents never took me to church but, they never objected when I asked if I could catch a ride with my friend’s families. They never taught me ‘what’ to believe, but invited me to thoroughly explore and question any and all beliefs before I adopted them as my own.
I was taught by them that what speaks to the spirit of one soul may not be what illuminates another. Notwithstanding that, the overarching message in our home regarding religion and spirituality was consistent: God is love. So, it went without saying that if your theological orientation wasn’t leading you closer to feeling love for each and every member of our collective humanity, then you’d be wise to question your theology.
Our house during my childhood was filled with books. I was introduced to conversations sparked by some incomparable thought leaders like Herman Hess, Franz Kafka, Siddhartha Gautama, Kahlil Gibran, Napoleon Hill, Dale Carnegie, Rumi, Hafiz, Sigmund Freud, Lao Tzu, Confucius and the like. The conversations in our home certainly played outside the lines of mainstream cultural and religious norms in terms of philosophic resonance.
I fondly remember my Mom assuring me that people are innately good. She contended that even when folks stumble and fall, they are generally doing the best they can in any given moment. Her allegiance to this philosophy was reflected in her explanation of my Dad’s alcoholism, emotional verbal abuse and neglect to pay child support. She never once spoke ill of him. No. She contended that he wasn’t the best expression of himself when he was drinking … but his alcoholism did not define him. He was struggling, but beneath it all, he was still a very, good man. I believed her.
My Mom was ahead of the curve and already seemed to understand the professional wisdom we are finally coming to espouse regarding addiction; as Gabor Maté so compellingly points out in this short video, addiction (in all it’s varied expressions) is a maladaptive effort to escape the pain (physical, emotional, mental, spiritual) that folks can’t bear to be with. I do know that the traumatic legacy of my Dad’s early childhood was deeply wounding for him.
While recognizing that the adversity experienced in people’s childhoods does not excuse their ‘bad behaviour’; it can help us to better understand the roots of it. We are learning that Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) have a tremendous impact on future violence in our lives – both victimization and perpetration. We are also learning that our lifelong health and opportunities are also influenced by our ACE scores. The data shows that the higher your ACE score, the more likely you are to smoke, to become obese, to be a victim of domestic violence, to experience depression and anxiety and, even, to attempt to take your own life. The ACE study is profoundly interesting! If you would like to learn more, check it out here. But I digress …
As we evolve in our understanding of human behavior, I remain ever grateful that my Mom taught me to be generous in my assumptions of people. I’m no saint and can still get frustrated with people, but even in those moments, I like to remind myself, as Ram Dass states in a book by the same title, “We are all just walking each other home.” And, beyond the intimate connection this sage draws between loving and dying, I also interpret this to mean that we are collectively on this human journey to find more love, to experience more love …and … to ‘be’ more love.
What if our collective purpose on this planet is to learn how to personally embody the changes we want to see around us? I remain inspired by that ‘what if’ … and … although it can be so darn challenging when we are faced with difficult people, if we say we want to live in a loving world, we must require ourselves to embody, embrace and express that energy of love in our exchanges … even when it is trying for us to do so. Maybe, most importantly … when it is difficult to do so.
That said, I still shudder when I remember being emphatically corrected by another woman many years ago in a Christian Women’s Group when I dared utter aloud that I thought most everyone was doing their best given the context of their lives. She fervently countered my suggestion by arguing with unwavering conviction that my statement was “not true” … that some people are just possessed by the Devil. It was clear that she thought I was incredibly naïve to posit such bunkery.
I was effectively hushed because … in that room … in that moment, I suspected she was not alone in that belief. She had a mailbox in that Church. I did not. Even now, I can feel my breathing shallow as I touch back into the felt sense of that contentious moment. And while I concede that we must set boundaries to protect ourselves with some folks, I would like to suggest that the most vicious and perhaps villainous people who inhabit the world are/were vulnerable victims of someone/something else. I align wholeheartedly with the notion that “hurt people, hurt people.”
And while I cannot prove my perspective any more than someone else can disprove it, I am purposely, deliberately and consciously choosing to believe in the innate and inherent goodness of our Universal humanity … because … I like the way it fuels my spirit when I do.
Day 14:Character. As I awake this morning, I am continuing to recall the depth of my Mom’s character. After years of enduring the costs of my Dad’s alcoholism, she firmly required him to choose: his family … or … his bottle. Unfortunately, his addiction was more powerful than his freedom to choose otherwise. He couldn’t set the bottle down, so my Mom changed the locks on the door on August 11, 1970. I was 12. Coincidently or not … it was their 19th wedding anniversary. Unbeknownst to him, it was a gift … albeit wrapped in a very ugly package. He moved to Winnipeg to be closer to his sister, my Aunt Audrey. He sobered up. He got his life back. He even found another love … my stepmom Gerri. Although I never called her ‘Mom’, I came to love Ger too.
It breaks my heart to look back on their separation, though, because I know my Mom secretly hoped that they would reunite once he quit drinking. She never ever wanted to lose him … just his addiction. But, he was either too proud or too wounded to come back. Nonetheless, he remained the absolute love of her life. Here they are on their wedding day:
August 11, 1951 – my Dad’s sister, Audrey, and her husband Jack stood up for them.
And, I am sure memories of my Mom’s wedding day were what inspired a torrent of tears streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks at my cousin’s wedding less than a year after they separated. She was seated to my left during the ceremony and I had never seen her so emotional. I recall her scolding me for glancing towards her … I guess she was afraid I would draw attention to her with my gaze. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I recognize now that she was having a gargantuan grief burst in that moment. I get tears in my eyes as I imagine how hard it must have been for her to lose the love of her life. Here’s one of the rare photos that I have of them together … in happier times.
My Mom loved my Dad so unconditionally that she even accepted and welcomed his new partner. The following photo was taken in 1989 … the summer before Mom died … at a dinner out at Sven Ericksens restaurant. Dad and Ger had travelled out from Manitoba to visit. It was such a rare and treasured occasion when I got to spend time in the presence of both my Mom and Dad. I am not sure how my Mom held it together … but she did. Maybe it was just a gift for her to share some space with him again. She was gracious and loving and kind. That is my Dad seated beside her. For some reason, she got to sit beside him and Ger was across the table.
Day 15: Music.My thoughts this morning took an interesting turn. Mom loved Harry Belafonte. One doesn’t hear him often any more, but I grew up with my spirit being stirred by the deep sense of humanity I could hear streaming from our nice little turntable through his incredible vocals. We enjoyed this and many other of his songs on the 78 LP vinyl version we owned. Harry Belafonte goes hand and hand with my childhood memories and hearing him always, always, always brings my Mom home to my heart.
We had a whole schwack of LPs. My Mom had a broad palette for music. Another of her favorites was Charlie Pride. Oh … and Perry Como and The Platters too. She loved good music. So do I. She also thoroughly enjoyed watching upcoming stars performing on Lawrence Welk … and … Ed Sullivan. She reveled in seeing people claim and share their gifts with the world. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that were she still alive today …‘The Voice’ would be one of her favorite shows. It would be so wonderful to be able to climb into the twin bed beside her again and chuckle together over the light-hearted bantering between the coaches. She’d probably really love John Legend.
You know who else I think she’d be a bit smitten with …? Keith Urban. Yep. She’d love his long hair … his heartfelt lyrics … his empathic capacity to speak right into the sorrow within people’s hearts. He just released a new Christmas song, too, that I expect would touch deeply into her own longings. I can only imagine how deeply she ached for someone to make it all better … for someone to fuss and bother to make things special for her.
Day 16: Quilting.My heart felt really heavy as I snuggled down with my coffee in the darkness before the Christmas tree this morning. The heaviness I was feeling took to me thoughts of the heaviness I experienced when my Mom passed away … and … I didn’t have any inkling as to how I was going to hold her close. I also wasn’t sure what to do with all her belongings. It was too hard to even think about parting with anything right away, but … what to do with it all?? I’ve always had a very creative spirit. It’s making me smile as I think about it, because my capacity for creativity was something that my Momma took great pleasure discussing. She seemed very proud of it.
While my paternal grandmother was an excellent seamstress, my Mom never sewed at all. I had never enjoyed sewing in Home Economics in school, but I was 13 when I sewed up this handsome little number. It wasn’t until I got married that I really recognized the creative joys of sewing
I made Cabbage Patch Doll clothing (along with matching dresses for my daughters), I sewed Barbie clothes, I whipped up some Care Bears when they were sold out one Christmas. I got the bug for quilting at ‘Ladies Time Out’ (a group for young mothers) when I learned how to make a Christmas table runner. We still use it.
I discovered that my perfectionistic tendencies and my keen eye for detail were well suited for quilting! And then, one Autumn, my good friend Deb and I took an evening class together and created the most beautiful quilted tree skirts. I enjoyed it so much that I ended up making four of them … that way each of my daughters could have one. It was really such fun choosing the fabrics and piecing together all the colors!! I am looking forward to resurrecting my passion for quilting in the years to come! I even bought a new machine with some fancy stitches … haven’t had it out of the box yet … but I will!!
Anyway, it somehow occurred to me to take all my Moms signature fortrel pants along with the brightly-colored house coat that she always, always, always took to the hospital with her … and … create something meaningful by stitching them all together into a quilt. I even used one of the sheets from her linen closet for the backside of it. I imagined that when I wrapped myself up in that quilt … it would be like getting a hug from my Mom.
Were I to write a memory of my Mom onto each of those squares, they’d include her playing rummoli and crokinole with me when I was young. There would be one for playing hangman and other word puzzles with me way past my bedtime on school nights in my tweens … and … another for playing Spades with me and my boyfriend during my teens. One of the squares would be in honor of our bedtime activities. Mom always spent some time with me when I was young … talking, telling stories, singing silly songs. I vividly remember our animated renditions of “Going on a Lion Hunt.” Another square would be for teaching me to play cribbage somewhere along the way … another for teaching me to knit. One would represent her dozing off in the front seat of the car during the dusk to dawn movies at the Drive-In while my friends and I snacked on popcorn in the back seat. Oh … and there would be one dedicated to Scrabble. I still LOVE a good word game.
There would be a square in honor of her taking me to The Boardwalk uptown, in Edmonton, on Christmas Eve one year in my teens so I could pick out a gift for myself for Christmas … and using our grocery money to do it. Yes. Makes me tear up as I remember the red sweater I picked out for myself. Oh my … and one for the “Penuche” she used to make on rare occasions. It’s a brown sugar based fudge that I recall being so incredibly delicious. It wasn’t as sweet as you’d think. I completely forgot about it until just now, but maybe I should make some … for old times sake.
If you are interested, I have attached a recipe here! We never put pecans in it … we used walnuts because they were cheaper… but it was still really good!
I am mindful, as I reflect upon all of this, that many of my fondest memories with my Mom are not the formal celebrations or special events we expect are catalysts for making magical memories for our children. No, it’s not necessarily the birthday parties or Thanksgiving dinners that take up the most space in my heart, but rather, just those normal days. A box spice cake with the chocolate icing so chilled from the refrigerator that it has to melt in your mouth slowly. It’s the tartan skirt that she insisted on buying me in grade school that I loathed at first glance and then grew to be my favorite.
It’s those memories of walking with her to the grocery store during the cold winters when our blue and white Ford Galaxy 500 refused to start. It’s her allowing me to practice my ear piercing on her almost none existent ear lobes for the new job I got at the mall. It’s hot chocolate made with real cocoa powder and evaporated milk with tablespoons full of sugar. It’s so many small, seemingly insignificant things.
It’s humbling to recognize that many of the moments that make us miss our loved ones the most are those day to day moments that you simply took for granted … the ones you have no idea will be some of the memories you’ll hold most dear in time … those experiences you’d do anything for another opportunity to savor right now. Yep. Very humbling indeed.
Day 17: Cough Drops. My memories of my Mom would not be complete without speaking about Beech-Nut Menthol Cough Drops. They were an absolute mainstay in her life. We used to buy them by the carton and wrap them up for her at Christmas. And, then, I’d find them … sticky and half dissolved … all over the house. Honestly, I used to get so cranky about that.
And those of you who know me might be surprised by the uncanny parallel here!! I always, always, always have a package of Fisherman’s Friends in my purse. Not because I have a sore throat. No. Just because I love to suck on them. I do not, however, leave them stuck to surfaces all over the house. My favorite are the Citrus or Lemon … but I can make due with the Cherry or Mint quite nicely. 🙂
Do you suppose this kind of similarity could be hereditary?? It is a rather rare and unique idiosyncrasy that my Momma and I share. Neuroscientists are learning that many, many of our attributes (temperament, personality, abilities, fears and preferences) come via our genetic loading … but … may not be manifest until they are activated by the right environmental stimulus. Perhaps my own daughters will be epigenetically predisposed to having an affinity for cough drops too … and … their bodies are just waiting for the right brand of lozenge to render visible this part of their own DNA?? It took many years before I developed such a healthy addiction affection for Fisherman’s Friends. These days, you’d be hard pressed to find me without them. It had not occurred to me until this very moment that my Mom and I had this in common. 😉
Day 18: Miscarriage. No reflection about my Mom would be complete without honoring the fact that she had five miscarriages before I was tucked safely into her arms. She never really talked about it, but I know that she lost some in early pregnancy and some in later trimesters. After researching the traumatic impact of pregnancy loss during my Graduate studies, I am deeply aware of how gravely these losses likely impacted her.
While I defined ‘unreconciled grief’ at the onset of this blog, I learned in my studies that the grief of miscarriage/pregnancy loss goes unrecognized and is habitually silenced in our culture. And, often, these losses are quite traumatic … but … no one talks about it. No honoring of the loss through mourning rituals. No casseroles brought to your door. No Hallmark cards. No days off from work. Often … no one even knows you have experienced a loss or what that loss actually means to you.
I am sobered as I reflect upon how much loss my Mom experienced in her lifetime. Parents, siblings, babies … husband. She lost her health. She lost her career. She lost her dreams for her future. She even lost her mobility when she was relegated to a wheelchair after one of her surgeries. And ultimately, she probably felt like she lost me to some degree when I got married and started a family of my own. I find myself wondering if she ever had an opportunity to mourn all the losses she endured in her life. And, if not, I am questioning whether some of her depression, anxiety and physical ill health may have been rooted in her own unreconciled grief? Could some of her suffering have been alleviated through grief work?
I guess I will never know … but … when I look at these pictures of her in her youth … I see such vitality! I see who she was before all the illness, pain, addiction and loss compromised her capacity to live in the fullest expression of who she could be in the world.
A mother of six … who only got to know and raise one. Although you never got to hold them in your arms Mom, I know you will have held each and every one of them as treasures in your heart. I am aching as I consider all the moments you didn’t get to celebrate with my five brothers and sisters. In this tender recognition, I am joining you in grief … wishing I had got to know them too. I am wondering what our lives would have been like had our house been filled with all of us. I am guessing your life would have been very different Mom … so very, very, very different. ❤
Day 19: Chicken à la King. Wikipedia states thatthis regal dish is typically made with diced chicken in a cream sauce, and often with sherry, mushrooms, and vegetables, served over rice, noodles, or fresh bread. Uhmmmm … that is not the way it was prepared at our house. We were on welfare, so my Mom made it with canned mushroom soup and canned green peas and put it on toasted store-bought McGavin’s bread. To her credit … it was absolutely delicious. I am thinking I should make it some time … in her honor … but without the canned peas. I am not terribly fussy about canned veggies. I could safely say I am never tempted buy them. Ever.
As I share this, I am reminded that many years ago I had a psychic reading and the Medium asked “What is with the tinned vegetables? Who likes tinned vegetables?” I wanted to say “No one in their right mind likes tinned veggies” … but instead … I think I teared up, right there and then. My Momma always, always, always bought canned vegetables. I thought it was because she really enjoyed them, but … in retrospect … I am wondering if it was because they were cheaper and easier to store than fresh or frozen. We only got to go grocery shopping once per month when the social assistance cheque arrived and the only freezer space we had was a space on the top of our fridge … which got increasingly smaller as the frost built up within it.
There are lots of recipes on line … if you are inspired to try it!
Nonetheless, the fact that she could not make the ‘King’s Dinner’ the way it was supposed to be done … with dry sherry and pimentos … never stopped my Mom. I learned from her that even if you don’t have the best of things, but you can always, always, always make the best of the things you do have. And, she always did. At any rate, watching my Mom do so much with the little we had might be one of the reasons the following is one of my favorite quotations.
Some attribute this as a quote from John Wooden
Well … except maybe with parsnips. My Mom loved parsnips!! Blech. I can see no redeeming value in those veggies … despite that they weren’t canned. If you have any suggestions for how to make the ‘best’ out of parsnips, please let me know. 🙂
Day 20: Rules and Rulers.Because I had no siblings … we always had a cat. I think it was so I wouldn’t feel lonely. The first cats I remember being part of our family were Ying and Yang … the Siamese cats that we had when I was in elementary school. We finally had to foster Yang out because he was the rebellious ring leader and would lead Ying astray. Together, they reeked havoc in our home. Ying, by himself, was amazing. He was so very loving … and … even became my alarm clock. He would lick my eyelids open in the morning when it was time to get up for school. It was devastating to our whole family when Ying was killed in traffic outside our house. It took a while, but with time I welcomed some other fabulous, fluffy, furry feline friends into my heart.
One of them even had kittens! My Mom allowed me to stay home the morning she went into labor. She said that it was a beautiful learning experience for me to witness a birthing. She was right. It was sublime … except … when she started eating the afterbirth!! Gah. THAT caught me by complete surprise!!
Yes, we always had a cat … until we moved into an apartment that didn’t allow pets. And well … as much as my Mom taught me the value of integrity, she also allowed me to sneak a cat into our apartment complex! I learned from my Mom that there is no virtue in honoring the rules … if a greater good is not being served in some regard. Once again, perhaps my passion for social work, social justice and resistance to power and oppression is rooted in this learning.
I learned from my Mom that we must push back when rules and rulers need to be challenged. My Mom held such respect for rule breakers like Martin Luther King and Mahatma Gandhi, Jesus Christ, the Suffragettes, etc. Oh … and the Beatles! She loved that those exceptional musicians challenged the establishment with their long hair and that they continued raising mainstream eyebrows with their passionate platform and priceless presence on the planet … inviting us to ‘Come Together’ and “Imagine” and just “Let It Be” or maybe do “The Hippy Hippy Shake” instead! Yes. There are times when it is ethical and wise to resist the patriarchal power of the status quo.
Just because it is popular, normative or legal, doesn’t make it right. There are times when it is not only okay to break the rules, but a matter of good moral conscience. Okay … perhaps sneaking a cat into an apartment doesn’t fall into that category! 😉 I still love her for doing that for me.
Day 21: Parenting. When your children get older and have families of their own, you need to share them with their in-laws. This year was our year to move our Christmas and celebrate together early (from Dec 20-23). We opted to rent an Airbnb and have a ‘destination’ Christmas. I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage my Advent of Love time while were away, but it actually worked out well.
I woke up on our first morning there and while the rest of the family was still asleep, I found myself inviting my Momma to join me in the stillness of a new space in front of a different tree. I got thinking about her and how she might have enjoyed all the fun and festive frolic that was about to unfold with all of us under one roof for three nights. I had visions of us spending time outdoors together … maybe some skating, skiing or snowman making. It didn’t happen as I had anticipated, but we thoroughly enjoyed our time together. We played hours of board games together and ate delicious food and laughed … and … some of us even sang karaoke … and … we even bundled up and went for a beautiful stroll through the captivating light display erected by the lake.
We were missing Daniel (who unfortunately was unable to join us), Rob (who had not quite yet arrived), Graeme was back at the house with Jack (who was not feeling well) and I was taking the picture! From back left to right: Olivia, Papa, Trad, Brittany, Talaya, Tiana, Hailey, Luka … and from left to right in the front row: Sherisse, Neil, Lyla and Frankie.
Anyway, I am getting ahead of myself here. As I was reflecting upon all the beautiful souls still snuggled up tight in their beds on our first morning together, I got to thinking about myself as a wee child. As the story goes, my parents had recently hired painters to paint the living room. They had chosen a rose shade of red … if memory serves correctly. Very shortly, thereafter, both my Mom and I had laid down for a nap. One of us got up before the other. Apparently that creative spirit that my Momma so admired in me was sparked by what I had witnessed the painters doing. So, I took the pastry brush out of the drawer … not sure where I got the paint … and added a little of my own magic to the wall in the living room.
Now, I can only imagine the tongue lashing I would have given to one of my children had they done the same … but no … not my Momma. She told me later that her first thought was to grab the camera and take a picture of her little Da Vinci. Yes. My Mom had laser clarity about what was important in the parenting arena. She never sweated the small stuff … at all.
And, as I grew, she never lectured or shamed me for my mistakes. We never had alcohol in the house once my Dad was gone. So, although I had sipped on a bit of Lonesome Charlie or Moody Blue in my early teens, I had never even been tipsy until my boyfriend’s sister’s wedding … when I was 17. I got desperately tangled up with too much rum and coke. Gah. It was horrible!! To this day … I still can’t stomach the smell of either. When I arrived home, my Mom asked how the wedding was. I wasn’t the least bit scared to be honest with her, so I candidly replied, “Boy, were we sick!” and headed directly off to bed. She never said another word about it. Not even one. She didn’t choose to ensure I felt remorse or shame for messing up. She simply let the consequences of my choices do the teaching instead.
She never imposed a curfew on me either. She always said responsibility was earned … and … she afforded me as much responsibility as I proved I could handle. And, I never abused it. I honestly didn’t want to fall beneath her vision of me. She even left me her car when I was attending a French Immersion Program post high school graduation. I was only 17. She was going to be five hours away … without a vehicle of her own … but she entrusted me with it. And, even though I thought I earned it, her faith in my character was a gift that I am just realizing I didn’t really appreciate or fully understand … until right now. Sometimes we can’t/don’t/won’t see the blessings that are right in front of us.
Day 22: Entrepreneur. Although my Momma was schooled as a teacher, she was a savvy entrepreneur. She never made any money at it, but she never stopped seeing possibility. When she ended up with a colostomy, she saw a need to create more dignity for the wearer. She visualized a way to dress up a problem! She invented ‘Classic Comforts’ … ostomy bag covers. I’m not sure what happened … we had all kinds of prototypes … even a racy little red one with black lace on it! Perhaps she ran out of money? Or maybe she hit a snag with getting a patent? Or maybe she couldn’t sustain the physical energy needed to build a business? Whatever the reason, this exceptional dream fizzled. It’s too bad, because someone brought her dream to reality! I see now that you can buy ostomy bag covers on Etsy and Amazon … but nothing like that existed back then. Here is a cover letter that she used to promote her product
I always loved seeing the twinkle in her eyes when she was leaning into something that excited her!! Earlier in my life, when she and my Dad were still together, they created a temporary employment agency called “Man Friday” that was a clever play on the concept of a ‘Girl Friday’. It didn’t last long though. She also started a small business selling awnings after she and my dad divorced called Edlund Aluminum Products. Aside from a good looking letterhead, it never got off the ground.
She also dabbled with writing and submitted an article or two to Redbook Magazine … but it never lasted. She even tried her hand at oil painting … but only for a season or two. Yes. She was a remarkable soul indeed … but nothing ever really stuck.
And you know what was the most interesting … the most inspiring thing to notice? My Mom’s health was always so much better when she was excited about a project! They say that the body and mind are so deeply connected … and … I believe it.
In addition to the impact our ACE score can have on our health and well-being, there are many neuroscientists, physicians and healers who are confirming that, as Bruce Lipton‘s research has confirmed, “our biography becomes our biology” . The evidence is mounting that painful emotions are held in our bodies and expressed in all manner of somatic symptoms and behavioral responses intended to alleviate our discomfort. As Bessel A. Van Der Kolk confirms in The Body Keeps the Score:
Of course we experience our most devastating emotions as gut-wrenching feelings and heartbreak. As long as we register emotions primarily in our heads, we can remain pretty much in control, but feeling as if our chest is caving in or we’ve been punched in the gut is unbearable. We’ll do anything to make these awful visceral sensations go away, whether it is clinging desperately to another human being, rendering ourselves insensible with drugs or alcohol, or taking a knife to the skin to replace overwhelming emotions with definable sensations. How many mental health problems, from drug addiction to self-injurious behavior, start as attempts to cope with the unbearable physical pain of our emotions? (p. 76)
Further in this regard, Gabor Maté adds fascinating points to ponder in his book entitled When the Body Says No,. He, as well as many others, have noted that specific emotional issues and feelings are linked to particular physiological reactions. For example, our faces flush when we are embarrassed. Our tummies ache when we are nervous. Maté goes so far as to suggest that there are particular ‘coping styles’ and/or ‘personality traits’ that are more susceptible to particular ailments and illness. For example:
“Cancer patients, to a statistically significant degree, were more likely to demonstrate the following traits: ‘the elements of denial and repression of anger and of other negative emotions … the external appearance of a ‘nice’ or ‘good’ person, a suppression of reactions which may offend others, and the avoidance of conflict …” (p. 125-126)
Maté discusses the commonalities of folks who have colitis, Crohns, MS, ALS, Rheumatoid Arthritis and a number of other chronic conditions. When I consider all my Mom’s health concerns over the years, I find it entirely fascinating.
Louise Hay has added insights to this conversation in her book called You Can Heal Your Life. In it, she presents a chart that identifies which emotional issues are correlated to which specific somatic problems. Most interestingly, it suggests that my Mom’s sciatic pain is most likely aggravated by hypocrisy and/or the fear of money and the future. That said, I am wondering if her chronic pain was intensified in those moments when her commitment to being in integrity was compromised … and/or … when she was really feeling the most fearful about our finances and our future. In the final analysis, I will always remain curious about how all my Mom’s losses, challenges and loneliness may have impacted her health and well-being.
Day 23: Tears and Apologies. One day about a year or so before she died, I had popped in to see her. I can’t remember what we were discussing, but we were just standing in the dining room … and … she caught me right off guard. I will never forget the sadness and regret in her query when she asked, “I wonder what we did to you?”
I literally felt the weight of remorse that was anchored to her question … and … I wasn’t sure she was strong enough physically or emotionally to shoulder the truth in that moment. So I lied to her. I told her I was fine … except for my emetophobia. I told her the only unfavorable legacy of my childhood was my fear of other people vomiting … especially if those other people are drunk. I reassured her that my childhood had sparked strength and resilience and independence and capacity. And, while that was all true, I knew she knew I was leaving some things out.
It was one of those moments where I wasn’t sure telling her the truth would serve the greatest good. She was in absolutely no position to undo what had been done, so I didn’t want to pile more guilt upon her that she’d have to take to her grave. It was enough for me … that she even asked. Just in her asking, I heard her insight and her apology. Everything shapes us. She knew it. I knew it. And we didn’t need to discuss it again.
Were I’d been honest, I might have mentioned that the roots of my ‘people-pleasing‘, ‘perfectionism’, ‘performing’ and ever ‘proving’ my worth started early on. Perhaps because I was so sensitive, I was intuitively aware of peoples emotions and could literally feel it in my body when people were upset or unhappy. And, I didn’t want to see my Mom sad, so I became acutely aware of how to stay in her favor.
She was typically so generous with her praise of me … I didn’t want to disappoint her. I wish I had learned earlier in my life that “praise and blame are all the same”. As Richard Carlson contends in his book Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff … and it’s all small stuff; compliments and complaints are entirely subjective evaluations based upon the preferences of another person. As such, they do not actually define the subject of the judgment. They just tell you about the person who offers the evaluation. For example, if I tell you I like your shoes, I am not telling you anything about YOU. I am simply telling you my preferences regarding my taste in shoes.
It’s tricky though, because we tend to take these subjective evaluations to heart … as if they are some kind of truth that the teller knows about us. And with that fear, the people-pleaser becomes a chameleon of sorts … just trying to measure up to everyone’s preferences. It’s entirely futile.
Source unknown but quote is attributed to Dita Von Teese
Yeah, so you are living on a really slippery slope when you are sensitized to people-pleasing … because … it’s absolutely impossible to please everyone. Gawd knows, though, I’ve tried … my highly kindled and overly anxious amygdala rested so much easier if I sensed that people were happy with me.
It was rare, but every now and again … my Momma would say: “I have a bone to pick with you.” Gah. I trembled to the core whenever I heard her say that. I always knew I had really messed up if she felt it was important enough to take issue with me about something. Like I said, though … I really didn’t give her much trouble at all.
Notwithstanding that … there are a couple of things that I feel like I still need to apologize to my Mom for. First, my impatience with her. I wish I could turn back time and have a do-over. I recall one Christmas Eve … we were driving 80kms (50 miles) on the highway to my husband’s parents house. We should NOT have been on the road. No one should have been. There were completely blinding white outs. It was soooo dangerous. She uttered something and I came unglued upon her … very harshly. There was silence in the back seat. She just let me sit with the discomfort of my own actions. I am not sure if I ever apologized for that or not. I guessing I didn’t, because that moment still haunts me.
And … the other thing that I wish I could change is the amount of time I spent with her once I moved out of the house. I deeply regret being so wrapped up in my own parenting and responsibilities that I did not see her as much as I could have. And yet, as I say that, I realize I’m being a bit unrealistic. My children needed to take priority … and … the truth is, the amount of time we spent together wasn’t all on me. She was just not well enough for us to connect all that often.
But, that is the part that puts a gnarly knot in my gut and a huge lump in my throat right now. She was all alone … almost all of the time. She lived alone, she went to her surgeries alone, she recovered alone, she spent holidays alone. All alone.
She never complained about it though. Maybe she preferred it that way??
I guess I will never know, but even though I really love my solitude … being alone is not at all the same as being lonely. And, as I sit with all this here and now, I fear that she must have felt so incredibly lonely.
And here’s the thing … I know I don’t even need to ask for her forgiveness. I know she forgives me. I just wish that I could have a little time with her now. She’s been gone for half of my life … and … I have changed and grown. I have curiosities about her that never hit my radar when I was younger. I have questions to ask … and … hugs to give. I have the humility that comes from raising my own daughters. I see things differently. I see her differently now.
I am wondering what it was like for my Mom to be the 7th child born to a 41 year old woman during the depression. I am wondering how it impacted my two year old Mom to be a toddler, in need of attention, growing up in the shadow of her infant brother who had died eight days after his birth? I am wondering about the grief that my Grandma must have endured losing her child while trying to parent seven others? I find myself wondering if my Mom’s childhood was a bit barren of attention … perhaps she felt lost in the shuffle? I would love to have a deeper understanding of the meaning she made of her own lived experiences.
I yearn for the chance to see more deeply into her heart … to hear into her own wounds .. to honor her life experience more fully. I really only knew my Mom the way she presented herself in her role as my mother. And, it that role, our relationship was mostly about me.
At what age do we get interested in knowing our parents as people … as human beings outside the face they put forward in their parenting role?? I mean, for the most part, my daughters only know me as their mom. It’s a role I took very seriously … editing and chiseling and refining my presentation in order to reflect that of a “good mom” … but, there are many parts of me, as a woman, that they have not yet met nor have been offered an opportunity to spend much time getting to know. I guess my daughters will have a deeper sense of who I am as a woman because of my writing, but … I sure wish I could have met those parts of my Mom that went entirely unnoticed in our short time together.
For example, I am only two years younger than she was when she died. I have so many curiosities about what was going on inside of her. For example, I wish I had a chance to ask her what she was thinking about in this photo. She looks so very melancholy, don’t you think?
Day 24: Meaning Making: I woke up on the last day of my Advent of Love reflecting upon how much I enjoyed going to the Zoo Lights in Calgary with some of the family the night before! It was absolutely magical! The weather was perfect … not too cold, fresh fallen snow, no wind, a spectacular sky and the light displays were simply stunning … well beyond glitteringly gorgeous!
In the quiet of our hotel room the next morning, I was reflecting upon how I would have savored several more hours there … just breathing in all that luminous light against the backdrop of dark stillness. If you ever get a chance to go … I highly recommend it! It was hard to capture the magnitude and magnificence of it all on camera. It was absolutely mesmerizing!
And, on my final day of this morning/mourning ritual, I also wanted to spend some time revisiting a question that I have been pondering for almost the entirety of this Advent of Love. Just before I started this, I was chatting with a very dear friend of mine about my “Better Because You Spared Me” blog when Kimmy asked:
“What do you make it mean that your Mom died on Christmas Day?”
I told Kimmy that I could remember being a bit annoyed with her initially. I can recall thinking, “Mother … seriously!?! With 365 days of the year … why did you have to pick Christmas to die on??” Gah. I am embarrassed to say it, but I was grumpy with her for that.
But my friend Kimmy offered another perspective. Her teenage son, Brett, transitioned on her 20th wedding anniversary. She saw it as a gift … she didn’t elaborate in that moment, but said she had received some very meaningful messages that shifted her perceptions around it all. She sparked my interest in pondering it a bit more.
And, in all honesty, I hadn’t gleaned any real insights until I spoke with Kimmy again about a week later. I am so very grateful that my friend heeded her keen instincts in the moment and offered to email a copy of the messages she had received after her son died. I had read them many years ago, but she was sensing that there might be something meaningful in them for me to revisit now … given that I was doing my Advent of Love.
And so, I read those poignant messages again on Day 7 of my morning/mourning process. I didn’t record my thoughts on that date because I wanted to let myself marinate in the layers of wisdom contained therein … and … see what other insights might be stoked if I dwelled with it all a bit more before I wrote about it here. And, Kimmy was so right! There were a number of things that stood out. I was particularly moved by one of the messages her son had sent her saying:
“I love you. Every spark, flame, glint, glimmer, sparkle, shine and starburst – that’s me. That’s my sign to you. I love you and our love lives on …”
And, although that message came from Brett through Kimmy, perhaps it is a message for each and every one of us. Metaphorically speaking, our loved ones spark the light above us, around us and within us. Perhaps this is the reason my Mom died at Christmas? It is the Season of Light … a celebration of the light of love that was culturally and collectively inspired by the birth of Jesus on December 25th.
All the colorful Christmas lights brighten our surroundings and our hearts. It is my understanding that these lights are intended to be symbols of hope and reminders of the goodness in the world. I believe that they were also intended to guide us in following the enlightened path of Jesus … by providing light and love to others … most especially for those who are struggling and/or enduring dark times.
And, my Mom had endured so much darkness in her life … perhaps she recognized that part of our salvation is seeking and embracing light – in all it’s various incarnations – despite the sorrows and darkness that inevitably find us. I was witness to the fact that much of my Mom’s resilience was fostered by her deliberately claiming whatever dots of light she could find in her life.
One time when I was really sad, she introduced me to a book called “The Prophet” that graced the bookshelves in my home growing up. In that book, Kahlil Gibran speaks about joy and sorrow by saying:
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. (The Prophet, p.29)
And so, as I have pondered it … I like the idea that maybe my Mom left at Christmas because the dots of light … those ‘sparks, flames, glints, glimmers and sparkles‘ that Kimmy’s son spoke about … would shine like starbursts and brightly reflect back to me and my family during the Holiday Season. There is absolutely no time of the year that casts as much light as Christmas.
And so, as we all find our way through the highs and lows of our life, may we take a page out of my Mom’s book. May we consciously notice the dots of light connected to the darkness … and not just at Christmas. May we persistently seek to find a dot of delight … a dot of understanding … a dot of relief … a dot of gratitude … a dot of remembrance … a dot of acceptance … a dot of laughter … a dot of comfort … a dot of hope … a dot of love … a dot of peace. And, as I say that, it’s comforting to remember that we typically find exactly what we are looking for in life … 💗
And, if we can’t find it … may we deliberately choose to create it. May we be wise enough to light a candle ourselves and illuminate the darkness for ourselves and/or others. Yes. Let there be light to help us find our way.
Gosh, this Advent of Love has come to a close … but … the gifts of doing it will live on in my heart. It has been such a rich and illuminating experience. I typically wake up much earlier than I need to in the morning so I can enjoy my solitude. During this Advent of Love, there were many mornings that I couldn’t even wait until 6:00am to get up and illuminate the darkness with the candle lights and the Christmas lights. It was such a blessing to intentionally add some nice kindling to all that shimmers and shines within my soul.
Yes, meeting with the dark shards of my grief in these early morning/mourning hours has sparked a sublime sense of reconnection to my Mom. And, one thing I know for sure is that my Momma’s deep, abiding adoration and limitless love for me is one of the greatest treasures tucked tenderly into my heart space.
I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again … I am much of who I became because of my Mom. I can see that she always inspired me to be the best expression of myself. I am just so very grateful for all the ways my life has shone brighter because of her.
I am having trouble finding the words to describe how deeply meaningful this process has been for me. It’s been 30 years since you physically left us, but I feel your presence Momma. Thank you for meeting me in these tender moments of recollection as I sat in the pre-dawn darkness of my morning/mourning ritual with you here. I love you … and … am ever so much better because you loved me. 💖💖💖
Yes, through this Advent of Love, I am seeing so very clearly all the ways that my Mom left the light on for me … xo Karen xo
P.S. I am adding this post script on January 5th. I am STILL getting up extra early so I can maximize my opportunity to enjoy my time in front of my Christmas tree!! Very, very strangely, I have not been the least bit eager to take it down this year. Usually, I can’t wait to get it out the door … get rid of the mess and the falling needles. I’m usually tired of sweeping around it every day … and … they usually lose their lustre quite quickly. Generally speaking, the limbs of real Christmas trees are drooping so much after three weeks that the ornaments are collecting on the tips of the branches and/or sliding off onto the floor.
However … THIS tree … THIS year … is not dropping needles. It is still supple and soft and smelling good. AND … it has been up in our house for almost six weeks! Yes. SIX weeks! And, it is still so gorgeous! I did just hear something hit the floor … but … we haven’t even watered it for the last 10 days because I kept thinking I’d be taking it down. But … here I am … still thoroughly enjoying it. THIS tree has bestowed such blessings upon me THIS year. I am ever grateful for all the ‘life’ it has brought to my being … and … all the gifts I have received sitting before it. 💗
January 5th, 2020 … still glowingly gorgeous! I wonder when I will want to take it down??
Do you suppose this is true?? I am purposely pondering this possibility because … I don’t even know the man. I do know who he is, though. And because we have lived in the same small, rural community for the past quarter of a century, I have seen him out and about every now and again. That said, I don’t think we have ever spoken to one another.
Well … that is not really true. I did have some very brief engagements over the telephone with him about 30 years ago, in the form of requests … but certainly not enough connection to confirm any sense of familiarity with the man. I did sense, however, that the last time we spoke on the phone he was somewhat frustrated with me.
Most perplexingly, though … over the summer months in 2019 … our paths seemed to crossing with increased frequency. So much so that it had registered on my radar as ‘odd’. I even started to consciously question why on earth I was seeing this man so often?? And then … one day when I was out walking with my Bestie … there he was again! We wandered past him in the large empty parking lot of the Community Centre that we were cutting through on our walk. He was on his phone … not a single car or other person in the vicinity. Huh??
We started chatting about whether or not these chance encounters meant ‘something’ and/or whether the Universe was tossing him onto my path for some reason. And, because my best friend and I are both INFJ(on the Myers-Briggs Personality Indicator) we love nothing more than to overthink and overanalyse things. We are quick to explore any and all topics with endless enthusiasm … and … from absolutely every possible angle and/or perspective. And so, this conversation was no exception as we thoroughly scrutinized the various beliefs we were aware of that were publicly posited about the nature of coincidence and synchronicity.
As my Bestie and I considered whether these encounters were, in fact, trying to bring my attention to a particular facet of my life, I recalled that this man was the Property Manager of a subsidized housing complex that my ailing mother inhabited three decades ago. Way back then … and half my lifetime ago … I was 31 years old and lived on a farm in a tiny town about 30 kilometers (20 miles) from my Mom’s place with my husband and three small daughters. Due to the geographical distance between her and I, it was difficult for me to see her or check-in on her in person as often as I would have preferred.
You should know that my mom’s well-being was always a source of concern for me because for all of my life (and I do mean all of it) she experienced ill health. She had struggled with debilitating sciatic pain for the bulk of her existence despite numerous unsuccessful medical interventions and invasive surgeries attempted to relieve her pain. I was only nine months old when she underwent her first major surgery. She was returned to me in a hard, cold body cast … but the pain continued. I remember that Darvon and Valium were very critical mainstays in her existence. She even opted to endure an intrusive brain cordotomy in my late twenties that I can’t be sure ever dulled the pain, but … she came home using a wheelchair.
She also had a hereditary disease called Gardner’s Syndrome that caused polyps/tumors to grow in her intestinal tract. They had a risk of being malignant but could also be benign. Nonetheless, these growths would often lead to painful blockages. She vomited often. There was always a plastic bowl tucked under her bed in case her stomach got upset. Ultimately, they had to remove a large part of her colon and she lived with a colostomy bag afterwards. And, if that wasn’t enough, she had also been diagnosed with breast cancer and endured a double mastectomy.
Along the way, she had also been diagnosed with manic-depression (which is now known as Bipolar Disorder). Unfortunately, the various psychotropic medications they used way back in the day were not nearly as effective and led to all manner of side effects for my Mom. It often seemed to me that they did more harm than good. And, although it feels less than flattering to admit … as a result of all her physical and emotional challenges, she was consuming so many pain medications and mood altering pharmaceuticals that her capacity to engage competently and soberly in the world was often compromised. Through it all, she spent a whole lot of time in hospitals … both medical and psychiatric.
My mom was not one to complain though. I think she down-played how awful she felt in an attempt to spare me and minimize my worry. She isolated herself quite often. She spent many days/weeks/months alone in her bedroom. She said she preferred to be by herself when she was ailing. And as a result, it was really hard to determine just how poorly she was actually feeling. And so … I worried a whole lot about her. Some days were better than others, but my anxious mind rarely set her down. She did her very best to take care of me. She really did. And, all things considered, she did a pretty remarkable job. It’s just that her physical and psychological capacity was so compromised that I had to learn how to take care of me … as well as her … in many ways.
When I got married at 19 and moved out of the house, I tried to stay in regular contact with her by telephone. Unfortunately, sometimes she didn’t answer. Sleep was unpredictable and elusive for her due to chronic and debilitating pain and when she thought she could get some rest, she would turn the ringer off the phone so as not to be disturbed. If I got no answer, I would assume she was catching some much needed shut eye, leave a message and wait to hear back from her. It was an ongoing pattern that had become part of our routine. And so, if a couple of days had gone by and I had not received a call back from her, I would just try to squelch my concerns until I had the opportunity to check-in on her in person. And, because I was an only child, there was no one else to ask for help in tending to her. It all fell on me.
The truth was that by the time I had three children of my own, I was stretched too far and too thin to be as attentive as I wish I could have been. And so … I vacillated between feeling guilty for my absence and resentful for the unrelenting worry that was ever present during those in-between times.
And when I would check-in on her, it was rare for me to find her in any really emergent situation. However, I do remember a time when I arrived to find that she had fallen and was unable to get up. There was an odd occasion when I discovered her to be so ill that she needed hospitalization. More frequently, there were times when I came upon her in a highly sedated and/or compromised state of mind. Yes. Sometimes she took too much medication. I never knew if it was on purpose or by accident. Suffice to say, there was just never any way to be sure how she would be when I got there.
For a time she had lived in an extended care facility. This was such a huge relief for me because I knew someone was always watching out for her. But … she absolutely HATED it there! She despised sharing a room with someone else and begged for us to let her move out. And so, although it against my better judgment for her to be living alone, we reluctantly honored her preference. And then … it was all on me again. Gah.
And, since it was a 60km round trip for me to look in on her in person, it occurred to me that I might be able to ask the property manager to stop in, on rare occasion, when my worries escalated and I couldn’t find a way to get there in a timely fashion myself. And so, I found myself calling him on a few occasions. Maybe three?? I can’t really remember, but I know I always apologized profusely for troubling him. I tried to explain that my request was fostered by my heartfelt concern for my Mom. The first couple of times he checked on her, she called me back apologetically. I could hear in her voice that she was embarrassed and expressed sincere regret for causing me such worry. And, although I felt guilty for inconveniencing him unnecessarily, it was such a relief to be reassured that she was okay.
I believe the last time I called him … was a couple of days after Christmas in 1989. She had phoned our house at about 2:00am on December 25th to tell us that we need not pick her up to celebrate Christmas because she was not well enough to come out to the farm. It wasn’t at all unusual for her to call and beg off attending functions because she felt ill. It was, however, a bit unusual for her to call in the middle of the night … but my husband had answered the phone … so I hadn’t actually spoken with her myself. I was reasoning to myself that she must have lost track of time or had taken some meds and was hoping she would finally fall asleep. There were also occasions that she really gave it her best attempt to attend, but then by they time she got to our house she’d need to concede that she wasn’t really up for it after all … and we’d have to turn around take her back home again right away.
My mom was on my mind as I tried to stay present to the squeals of delight and joy in my daughters eyes as they tore at the wrapping on their Christmas gifts. I tried to call her once the sun was up, but got no answer. I tried to call her a little later during the day. Still … no answer. This wasn’t entirely unusual, so I tried to call her again on Boxing Day. No answer. And then, as my worries intensified, I dared to call the Property Manager again. I apologized profusely once more … but humbly asked if he might spare me the 60km round trip and check on her for me. I could sense his frustration … and honestly … I completely understood it. He’d been there a couple times before … for no reason. He was probably trying to enjoy the Holiday season with his own family, but … he was kind enough to agree to check on her when he had a chance.
And then … I waited. I was trying to be patient, but my Mom never called me back and neither did the Property Manager. I questioned whether he maybe hadn’t found the opportunity to check on her yet. I really didn’t want to pester him during the Holidays by calling again. I was really looking forward to a commitment I had to go out of town that day … the 27th of December. It was a rare treat for me to go anywhere without my three little girls in tow, and I had plans with a girlfriend and would be leaving my hubby at home with my daughters. We didn’t have cell phones way back then, so I was reassuring myself that my hubby would be getting the call while I was out … confirming that all was well … just like all the other times that Mom had rallied back from some really bad days.
And, while I was out, my husband finally did hear back. Yes. The RCMP arrived at our door to inform us that she was, in fact, not fine. No. She had really and truly … died. I had braced myself for her passing on prior occasions when things seemed really dire … and … if the truth was to be fully told … I had also wished for an end to her suffering on more than one occasion. So, I am not sure why I felt so blindsided by the news … except that she had always escaped death … until then.
I swallowed hard. I sat up in the night with tear-filled blurry eyes watching the mini-lights twinkle on the Christmas tree in the darkness … silently trying to figure out how to tell my young daughters that their Gram was gone. They were just nine, seven and almost three at the time.
And then, somewhere in the midst of it all,there was a part of me that was deeply relieved. For both me and her. There was a part of me that sighed a breath of surrender, knowing that she was no longer suffering in a bedroom all by herself … and … that I would no longer be anxiously waiting for call backs. The autopsy suggested she likely died within 24 hours after she called our house. I have always secretly wondered if she had a premonition that night that ‘this was it’. Maybe that is why is she called at 2:00am? Or … maybe she thought she’d rally back again from this bad spell too? It’s one of the many things I will never get to know …
I’ve had to battle the guilt that rears up and says I would have sensed the situation was exceptionally dire if I had spoken to her myself when she called. There is a part of me that blames myself … maybe I might have cued into the gravity of the situation if I had heard her with my own ears? It’s not that I am blaming my husband. No, I’m not … but it has been a challenge to manage the self-blame and regret that I didn’t get up and call her back, right then and there at 2:00am on December 25th, 1989.
Because we didn’t find out that Mom was gone until Dec 27th, there was some urgency for me to go through all her things and empty her apartment and clean it all up so that management could rent it out to the next person on the wait-list for January 1990. It was really rough. There was no time for mourning. No opportunity to feel into the grief. My head took over and my heart was silenced. You just do what you have to do, don’t you? Fortunately, three of our friends rallied to help us collect all her things and clear her suite. I owe a deep sense of gratitude to one of our friends for thinking to strip the bedding … to clear the space where she actually took her last breath. He spared me. It would have been excruciating to tackle that myself. And, I am also indebted to another of our friends for offering to go through her purses for me. He spared me the horror of needing to face that unfathomable reality so soon. Yes. They spared me some of the hardest bits and my heart has always been eternally grateful to them.
We laid my Mom to rest on Saturday, December 30th. It was a very small group. Forty three people joined us at 11:00am to honor the life of my Mom. My little girls were so saddened that Gram didn’t get to open our Christmas presents for her that year so, we tucked all her gifts into the casket. I’m not sure why, but it still makes me weep when I think about it. I worried that losing their grandmother during Christmas might taint the joys of the Season in the future for my impressionable daughters … so I asked the Clergy to invite my little girls to see ever-green trees as reminders of their Gram’s ever-present love for them.
I really didn’t want the grievous loss to overshadow the celebrations of the Season for my daughters, so the day after the funeral, a group of our very closest friends offered to help us ring in the New Year. They committed themselves to help us look towards the future rather than get lost in the recent past. I will be ever grateful to all of them for that. Unfortunately, however, the typical greeting right after Christmas is always: “Happy New Year! How was your Christmas?” Gah. I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable by speaking directly to the truth … so I quickly learned to sidestep their enthusiastic curiosity by saying something like “It wasn’t what we expected. How about you? ” I instinctively tried to turn the conversation away from our loss. And, as a result, there seemed to be no appropriate time to sit with my pain.
Much of that time remains a blur. And, as I said, there was little time to mourn. So much had transpired in roughly a week or two, albeit with some really long days. And, ultimately, my grieving continued to be shuttered and stalled and silenced in order to spare my little daughters from worrying about their own momma’s well-being. I knew, too well, what it felt like to be saddled with worry about your mother … so I distracted myself and stuffed my feelings until I could take my grief out for a walk and spill my tears behind some sunglasses.
And then, even as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months and people had heard about what happened … it still wasn’t discussed. I’m not even sure if I ever found the space or gave myself permission to feel all the feels that were really needed to fully honor the loss of my Mom. I’m recognizing as I write this that I am actually just getting present to some of them now. Yes. As I pen this blog, I notice an emotional ache rising within me that I didn’t even know was there.
And perhaps that is why it never even occurred to me until I was walking with my Bestie that the Property Manager had also spared me from the biggest traumatic experience of them all. I can’t know for sure because I have never spoken to him, but I am guessing that he was the one who discovered my Mom’s lifeless body. And, I hate to admit it, but in the avoidance of all things related to her death, it had never even occurred to me that this could very likely have been a very traumatic experience for him. Gah.
As my Bestie and I logged more kilometers along our path that day, my heart swelled open to this man and the way he had spared me the additional trauma of finding my mom’s corpse. I am not sure how I would have fared in life … if … I had been the one to discover my mom’s lifeless body. It makes me shudder at the mere thought of it.
Of course, I can’t know what the experience was like for the Property Manager. At the very least, I expect my call changed the trajectory of his Holiday Season too. And, at the worst, I realize that I obliviously set him up for a potentially traumatic discovery. And, I am praying that he has not carried scars of his own as a result of this. And, as I was awakened to this new perspective, I felt a sense of shame-filled curiosity about how on earth this awareness could have escaped me for almost three decades!?!
As my Bestie and I talked about all of it, I began to think about all the times I had crossed his path and never spoken to him. We wondered aloud about whether or not he knows it was me who made those calls to him so long ago. If so, I find myself questioning whether he thinks it odd, too, that we have never discussed this epic event …
I owe my deepest gratitude to this man … this man who I do not know … this man that I have not spoken to for almost 30 years. While I have been awakened to how deeply appreciative I feel for his kindness in heeding my call for help, I am also realizing I owe him an apology. I am so deeply sorry for any personal distress or emotional disturbance he may have been forced to endure as a result of honoring my request.
Yes. This awareness lands very uncomfortably in my soul. Perhaps this is why the Universe was persistent in placing us before each other? I cannot be sure of that … but I am very clear that I have some unfinished business with the Property Manager. At the risk of repeating myself, he was clearly a gift offered to protect me and spare me significant trauma. I owe it to him to express my appreciation along with my regret for not doing so earlier … as well as my compassion for what he might have experienced as a result of my request.
This Christmas marks the 30th anniversary of my mom’s passing. Thirty years! I found myself thinking that the next time we cross paths, I should approach him with my new found insight and empathy. I even found myself questioning whether it might be wiser to simply orchestrate a time to meet him so I might express both my gratitude and my regret. I knew I must not waste any more minutes, days, weeks, years or decades before honoring all of this. Honoring the man who spared me, honoring the friends who supported me … and … honoring the woman that birthed me.
And, this blog has taken me to places in my grief that I never expected to visit. I find myself wondering if I ever really knew my Mom? I wonder what the hardest parts of her life were? Was it her five miscarriages? Was it her lost connection with family due to Estate issues? Was it losing her marriage in an effort to invite my Dad to embrace sobriety? How did the deaths of four of her six siblings impact her? I wonder about where she got her resilience? I wonder what kept her fighting for a life that was so filled with suffering? And because she never complained, I question whether all of her unspoken and internalized suffering simply exacerbated her ill health? I am left with so many questions about this remarkable soul … my loving Mom.
And so … I started this blog out of my curiosity about whether my chance meetings with the Property Manager were random. And with each word, I have become acutely aware that were it not for the ‘chance’ meetings of that man that I do not know, I may never have taken this opportunity to honor all the things left unspoken … both with him and with my relationship with my mom.
It appears that those coincidental meetings have sparked some additional healing for me because they inspired these ramblings. Writing always help me get clear about what I am thinking and feeling, but I would never have expected that what started as an exploration about synchronicity would touch tenderly into the ache of a grief/loss that has been largely disregarded for almost thirty years. And so, it appears the Property Manager has spared me once again. As a result of these reflections, I will not be carrying my unspoken and unreconciled grief for another 30 years.
And so, with this blog, the need for me to speak to him landed more and more loudly in my awareness … even though I had no sense of how that would happen. And, coincidentally (or not?), I had no sooner come to what I thought was the completion of this blog, when I unexpectedly crossed paths with the Property Manager again at a community event!
I immediately thought … here’s my chance … the Universe is orchestrating an opportunity for me to speak to him right here and now. I was tempted to ask him if I could have a few minutes of his time after the presentation was complete. But then … it occurred to me that it might not be wise to unexpectedly blindside him with all of this at a public function. It occurred to me that standing before him with my both my apology and my appreciation might put him in an uncomfortable position … and/or … stir up some unwelcome memories. So, I opted not to say anything to him then. I decided, instead, that I would email him this blog instead. And that is exactly what I am going to do once I publish this.
It is my hope that my sentiments will be welcomed and received by the Property Manager with the benevolent energy within which they are offered. And, it is also my hope that by honoring and acknowledging all of this, I will be able to honor the 30th anniversary of my Mom’s death in just a few weeks with some additional peace and resolution in my own heart.
I would like nothing more than to think that perhaps these synchronicities and the heartfelt reflections I have offered in this blog could be a gift that was divinely inspired for both of us. Perhaps a welcome exchange for both of us. Fingers crossed …
With gratitude for the gifts in all this awareness … with gratitude for the space created to honor all that has not yet been spoken … and … with deepest gratitude for all the many ways I have been spared … Karen
February 5th, 2018 made it official. 60! Yes. Six decades. 6-0. I wanted this milestone to be something that really tickled my heart and kindled my spirit … and … I am delighted to report that this birthday exceeded all my expectations and fondest hopes!! And, in all honesty, I’ve been struggling to make sense of exactly what has made it so meaningful. It’s taken me a while to put a finger on it. One thing for sure is that it ‘felt’ so very different to me. It actually ‘filled’ every inch of my soul in so many touching and unexpected ways. And, it was exactly what I needed to make it the ‘best birthday ever’.
I’d like to say it wasn’t about the gifts … but actually … it some ways it was. But please, before you judge me as entirely shallow and materialistic … let me explain! 🙂
One of the gifts I received was adelicate little silver bangle with the word beautiful carved into it.
It was packaged up in a handmade wrapping created by an exceptionally artistic and talented friend of mine. Thank you Cyndy! And another friend and colleague had jotted some words on the bag that helped me identify the root of my nourishment. Thank you for that Tanie!
It wasthose words “You are loved” that caught me up short. They stirred something deeply introspective in my soul. You see, I have always KNOWN that I am loved (at the head level) … but the truth of the matter is this: I have not always FELT it (at the heart level).
And knowing something and feeling it are two entirely different things. Neuroscience is teaching us that the things we ‘know’ are stored in a different part of the brain than the things that we ‘feel’. Stephen Porges(one of the most revered neurobiologists of our time) offers an important distinction with his Polyvagal Theory. He states that ‘perception’ is when we make meaning of the world cognitively through the pre-frontal cortex of our brain. He has coined the term “neuroception” for the way our body employs our vagus nerve system to sense and interpret the world around us … through what we are seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting and touching. It’s a fascinating conversation … one that explains a lot of the complexities and contradictions we encounter as we attempt to interpret the world … both around us and within us.
For example, we can ‘know’ airplanes are safe modes of transportation, but we still can ‘feel’ scared to board one, no matter how hard we try to reassure ourselves. We can ‘know’ we have had enough to eat, but for some reason, we don’t ‘feel’ full. We can ‘know’ our boss appreciates our efforts, but at some point beyond the words we are hearing … we still don’t ‘feel’ like we are valued. We can ‘know’ our family loves us, but sometimes it is hard to ‘feel’ like that is true when we are alone, again, in the kitchen cleaning up … or … nagging, again, about undone homework, and/or struggling, again, to get through the bedtime routine. We can ‘know’ that we are kind, but we actually ‘feel’ it in our ‘beingness’ on a neurological level when pay it forward by actually performing an act of kindness. Experiencing something reaches us in a whole different way.
Yes, to cognitively comprehend something is very different than having an experiential felt sense of something. To be fair and honest … I can easily list a number of things that I not only ‘know’ but … I have also enjoyed a ‘felt sense’ of over my six decades:
Respected. Yes. I can say that I have a felt sense of being respected. I typically give 150% to everything I do and, more often than not, I do feel my efforts are recognized.
Needed. Yes. I am always ready to lend a hand (or a heart) and I feel like people feel safe to reach out to me.
Envied. Yes. Even envied. The smile on my face often belies the challenges people don’t always see circling in my orbit.
Appreciated. Yes. Most especially by my clients in my work.
But … loved? Hmmm. Not so much. And, not necessarily because people have not offered me their love. I do know that they have. But, mostly because I cannot always feel it. When I think about what it means for me to wholeheartedly feel that I am loved, I am guessing I would need to feel:
heard …. cherished , nurtured, treasured … included … precious and protected … connected … safe … and, perhaps most importantly … understood.
All I know for sure, for the most part, is that I have often felt more expendable than loved. I’m not saying that my perceptions/interoceptions/neuroceptions are true … I’m just saying it’s been my default way of ‘feeling’. We all have stories we tell ourselves. And, our stories and perceptions of the world around us are shaped by our prior lived experiences. As Ellen so aptly shared in this little clip … the power of suggestion is, indeed, powerful!
Did you see a gold and white dress … or a blue and white one? Did hear Yanny or Laurel? Neuroscience confirms that our brains actually ‘predict’ our experiences and, therefore, our inner world actually informs our perceptions of our outer world. That is, we tend to see what we EXPECT to see. And this reality informs and actually shapes our experiences in our relationships in a very profound way.
If you are inspired to learn more and/or want a more detailed and fascinating explanation of this uncanny phenomenon … you might want to check out this TED Talk by neuroscientist Anil Seth.
And, so as Anil Seth points out in this presentation … our interpretations of our outer world are depend entirely upon what our brain is primed to hear.
“The remarkable thing is the sensory information coming into the brain hasn’t changed at all. All that’s changed is your brain’s best guess of the causes of that sensory information. And that changes what you consciously hear. All this puts the brain basis of perception in a bit of a different light. Instead of perception depending largely on signals coming into the brain from the outside world, it depends as much, if not more, on perceptual predictions flowing in the opposite direction. We don’t just passively perceive the world, we actively generate it. The world we experience comes as much, if not more, from the inside out as from the outside in.”
And so … all of this begs the question for me as to whether my brain was adequately primed to ‘hear’ the love that is, in fact, infused into my relationships. Attachment theorists contend and neuroscientists confirm that the template etched into our grey matter for what we expect to see in our ‘loving relationships’ is informed by our earliest neuro-biological relationships. And so, those of us that did not get the most favorable wiring in our early years about how ‘loved’ or ‘significant’ or ‘smart’ or ‘capable’ we are … may subconsciously be primed to ‘expect’ to interpret our present day moments in the same way! It is not what is coming at us … it is what we are primed to ‘sense’ that defines our experiences. As the Yanny and Laurel experiment obviates … we can experience different things with exactly the same stimulus!
I didn’t get the very best start from my family of origin. My roots are planted in considerable dysfunction. My earlier life experience left me feeling like I was not the priority … which has led me to a life long interpretation/perception/story which ‘predicts’ that “I do not matter.” I speak more about this in another blog called ” A Tragic Misunderstanding.”
I did feel very treasured by my mom … but because of her illnesses and disabilities, she was simply not able to offer as much nurturing as I needed to feel nourished and protected. Sometimes our roles got reversed. I was looking after her, instead of her looking after me. She died when I was only 31… so I have been without her almost as long as I had her. My dad was an alcoholic. He was never much for sharing his emotions (unless he was angry!), and he and my mom divorced when I was twelve. Perhaps my fears of abandonment and neglect are rooted in those early experiences.
Not withstanding that … my mom’s oldest sister, my Aunt Mil always, always, always made me feel cherished and nurtured and precious. But, for the most formative years of my life she lived six hours away. I didn’t get to see her much, but … I never felt more safe and loved than when I was in her presence. She passed in 1990 … and … I think I grieved the most when I lost her.
And sadly, despite all of these deep and abiding relationships with these extra-ordinary people … the internally wired ‘story’ that can get triggered and flare up far too often is that “I don’t matter”. Gah. Yanny or Laurel?? The external stimulus can be exactly the same but, because of our internal wiring, we can hear different things.
I’m not sure why, but as I was typing this, I was reminded of watching Romper Roomas a young child. Any of you remember that show? At the end of the program, the hostess would look through a “magic mirror” and name all the children she could “see” in “television land”.
“I see Margaret and Diane and Hannah and Susan and Janice and Georgie ……………”
I always waited … literally aching to hear her call my name. I never, ever heard her say it. Gah. Why on earth would that come to my mind right now?? Perhaps more proof of the power of that early brain wiring that, by default, can invite me to question my significance?
Anyway, I would go so far as to say that I have invested much of my life trying to earn people’s love … through approval and recognition. And so … sadly … if/when I have ‘felt’ loved, I have often reduced it to a result of my own efforts. I’m more likely to think you love me because of what I am doing to improve your life, rather than simply because of my being. In fact, I would venture to say that I have been telling myself a story … just for most of my life … that people will not stay connected to me if I am not pleasant and helpful and supportive. Yes. It makes me uncomfortable to admit to this out loud, but it is true. In the shadows of my subconscious, I’m not truly convinced that people would bother to keep me in their world if I didn’t work hard to make myself valuable to them. And, I can painfully round up proof of many who failed to make the effort … once I quit investing in them more then they were investing in me. But … that’s a story for a different time. Let’s get back to my birthday …
And so … when I saw those words ‘you are loved’ on that bag … all of this understanding flooded into my awareness. And, in the context of all the wonderful moments packed into my 60th birthday celebration … I had a deeply ‘felt sense’ of being loved. Yes. I wholeheartedly FELT it … on so many levels. People had done so much … entirely unsolicited by me … to make sure my 60th was nothing short of amazing. And, my heart was exploding with gratitude and appreciation for how ‘loved’ I actually felt in the midst of all of it.
And so … I wanted to blog about it here … for two reasons. First and foremost, so that I can try to adequately express my appreciation to each and every individual for their kind and loving contributions. You cannot even begin to know how each thought, word and deed that you offered has been etched into the felt sense of my heart space. And secondly, I wanted to chronical the whole occasion so that I can revisit the magic of the moments – not if but when – I need to challenge and dispute my ‘story’ of not feeling loved. Yes. I needed to document each and every delight so that none of them get forgotten over time.
And so, for those of you who are still inclined to read on, here is my best recollection of how it all unfolded. The “60”celebration started with an overnight trip to the big city with JUST my daughters. It is very rare for me to have them all to myself anymore! And so, my heart smiled with unspeakable gratitude as I sipped my coffee in the mornings and listened to them chatting and giggling and sister-ing with each other in our nice hotel suite while they were getting ready for the day. And, the first night, we unexpectedly landed in a fancy schmancy bistro and enjoyed a 5 star dinner (with complimentary appetizers from the chef that he was entering into a competition) before our heavenly 90 minute massages and hot-tubbing at the Stillwater Spa!
And, the next evening, after a full day of shopping (@9 hours worth) with a couple of stops for food and drink – (we lucked out at lunch and found ourselves enjoying $5 wine and mimosas) we decided to try the new Maybelline Super Stay Matte Ink Lip Color that my youngest daughter had discovered. With Brittany and I rocking the red … and … Sherisse and Tiana sporting the dark maroon, we looked more like we should be heading out on the town (maybe in 5″ stilettos and black leather mini-skirts)! But instead, we cozied up in our jammies, pulled out the hide-a-way bed in the living room of our hotel suite and snuggled in side-by-each as we spilled some tears watching the touching movie “Wonder”.
The next morning we got semi-dressed (scrubbed off the lipstick so as not to draw too much more attention to our questionable restaurant attire) … and … entirely unpretentiously headed downstairs to enjoy our complimentary breakfast. Our footwear was nothing short of fabulous. 🙂
We followed that up by using the “Downward Dog” Yoga App on our bath towels.
And, over the weekend … no one was focused upon their phones. It ‘felt’ entirely sublime to me to have all my little cherubs under one roof with me … and … lots of time for nurturing our innermost desires. Did I mention all the fitting room fun and fashion shows we also enjoyed? I will never forget how much love I could feel in the space during those moments.
And then … a few weeks later … I was completely bamboozled. Yep. Entirely horn-swaggled … in the most meaningful and marvelous way!! I thought we were heading to the restaurant to celebrate my son-in-laws birthday … because it really was HIS birthday. But … I was in for the SURPRISE of my life! They got me … good. And the presence of the people were the very best presents of all! In addition to every single member of my immediate family, my sister-in-law flew in from Vancouver. Our dearest friends from prenatal class (37 years prior!) were there. My Bestie and her hubby and my forever friends and my soul sister were too. Some of my treasured colleagues were also able to join us. My husband, daughters and sons-in-law had planned the perfect party! And although my grandchildren knew … they kept it all a secret!! I was surrounded by people who take up the most space in my heart … and … I truly ‘felt’ the love in that space.
And the French wine flowed … and … the food was fabulous. In fact, my meal stands out as one of the top five in my 60 years! And they had two homemade cakes (made from Lucy’s special recipe – iced with the 7 minute frosting I always put on my daughter’s cakes when they were little.) It was extra special because the cakes were in the shapes of a flower and a butterfly! They resurrected the exact cake patterns I had always used for them. I could feel so much love in all the little details!
And then they dragged me into the ladies washroom … to present me with a a leather bound book of treasured ‘sharing’ from so many loving hearts … personal stories and acknowledgments and memories that brought me to tears.
And there may or may not have been some ‘helium high chatter’ before we headed home … as we were collecting all the balloons. I can neither deny nor confirm the collapse of any high flying balloons and/or and other such shenanigans transpired. All I can say is that … I felt it … all night long. The love … not the helium. ❤
And, even though it was quite late when we landed at home, I stayed up until 1:30am … filling my spirit with all the love tucked into that treasure book. Fortunately, my eldest grand-daughter had tucked a tissue into the envelope that held her meaningful message for me. ❤
And, just when I thought it couldn’t get any better … the next morning … when I decided to clean up all the bags we had just dropped into the entry way when we arrived home, I discovered there were more ‘gifts’ to unwrap. And more tears flowed. And I felt my way through it all … savoring each and every moment.
When I naively inquired about why my book would have been in with the gifts … and with a ribbon wrapped around it … my hubby said my Bestie borrowed it. Oh. Okay. How sweet of her to decorate it before she returned it. I was placing it back on the bookshelf … when my hubby suggested “there might be something in it”.
Huh?? And yes … there certainly was! There was all kinds of LOVE in it! I know it … because, once again, I could actually feel it. And, to think, I almost missed this precious offering from my kindred spirits (aka: the gorgeous gals in my ‘book club’). These precious souls had snuck off with MY copy of the book that originally inspired our gatherings and had highlighted their favorite passages and written messages on the cover and inside the margins and then wrapped it with a ribbon and tucked it in with my other gifts.
It is such a treasure … because one of my favorite things to do is have juicy, meaty, honest and authentic conversations. And … that is what we do. And, now, I have their thoughts and reflections highlighted both in my book and my heart.
And, as I continued to tidy up, I noticed a beautiful scroll tied up with some jute and a red metal heart! Within, were some heartfelt words from Jody, a prior practicum student of mine. This earth Angel has become a very dear and cherished friend … my soul sister. Her words were deeply moving … and … so are my morning emails from her. Our Gmail correspondence has become a beautiful addition and treasured tradition in our friendship.
And then … I noticed THIS very, very simple but oh so sheik and exceptionally elegant box tucked into one of the bags. And it confirmed, for certain, that the old adage is true:
“Less is More”
My fabulous forever friends … Robin and Deb … and myself have been celebrating our friendship and our ‘DRK’ birthdays together for many, many, many years. Although our lives and times have generated some geographic space over the years, we have always enjoyed some special traditions and joyful reminders of our abiding connections. And, this year was no exception. These beautiful souls arranged a number of photographs into a soft, black, handmade Italian leather bound journal … with inspiring quotes (because they know I love quotes) AND a story book length Roses are Red poem AND Deb added a whole NEW picture of the three of us. I’ll let you try to guess who is who! 🙂
And, just so you can appreciate the fullest extent of their brilliance … may I offer you just a wee little snippet of my 60th “Roses are Red” story/poem … in all its glorious grace:
And … that is just one of the pages! Yes. I ‘felt’ their love in such a big way. Just look at those gloriously gifted poets!! I am so grateful to call them my fabulous forever friends!
And then … there was MORE! I got to enjoy a trip away for the weekend with my Bestie! We had so much fun the last time we did it … so we thought we’d do it again! When I had gone to Calgary with my daughters, we had tried to get a reservation at “Ten Foot Henry” only to discover that they are usually booked up two to three weeks in advance. And so … Marie and I booked ahead and enjoyed a sublime dinner … in which vegetables are the star! We could certainly see why they are booked up in advance! If you ever get the chance, I would highly recommend it.
And … although it was in the midst of a freak snow storm, we enlisted the services of several Uber drivers to take us around and about to all the places we wanted to go. We even snuck in an Angel Card reading with Michelle at the Crossroads Market! And, in retrospect, it is entirely uncanny how ‘spot on’ her reading was for both of us.
And then … to top it all off … we arrived home to a beautiful prime rib dinner which had been prepared by our husbands. We enjoyed a lovely soup, prime rib, fancy scalloped potatoes, asparagus AND a homemade chocolate cake … made and iced by my husband!!
And, as you can see, we were also playing cards! It’s become a tradition for us to play ‘Hearts’ together. I am posting the results of our two rounds of hearts … not to gloat … but because my winning score was 60 in the first game!! Did you notice how badly I beat them the second game … 33? Okay, maybe now I’m gloating just a little … not that I am competitive when it comes to cards with these gems … 🙂
And then, on the actual day of my birthday, I got to enjoy a scrumptious lunch with my fabulous forever friends! I’ve already introduced you to them … those gifted “Roses are Red, Violets are Blue” poets! Well, we spent 6 hours enjoying lunch and laughs and conversation on my 60th … officially. Greek salad, chicken and cupcakes … and … wine. Oh, and I learned something important! Apparently, wine should be poured only to the fattest part of the wine glass. How have I lived and loved wine this long and not known that??
One would think it might have been mentioned in the fabulous “Scratch and Sniff” wine book my daughter gifted me. Such fun to read it … and … smell it! 🙂
And then in May … I received an exceptional birthday surprise! My student and soul sister, Jody, whom I introduced to you earlier had mentioned that her birthday gift would be late. She was having something made for me … and … was it ever worth the wait!! Her gift had so much heart and meaning …and came with this beautiful message.
And then in June … I had another birthday blessing. I got to enjoy the getaway that my forever friends gifted me for my birthday. And so, we set off to enjoy a day of time together. Time, after all, is always one of the best gifts we can give one another. We enjoyed a lovely, lovely lunch at one of the best restaurants in our area. And, we followed it up with loud raucous laughter when we went to see the movie “The Book Club”. It was a remarkable day!
And, to top it all off, it was nothing less than serendipitous that I should receive this card from my Bestie … on the eve of my official birthday … during the lovely dinner her husband and my husband made. How incredibly intuitive was she … ?
Yes. As a matter of fact … I am. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I remain forever shifted and transformed by all the love I felt during this exceptional birthday. It feels like my internal world has been rewired in some way … and in all honesty … as I round the corner now toward my 61st birthday … I can honestly say that I have found it so much easier to ‘feel’ the love in my presence. And THAT is the best gift I ever could have received. ❤ ❤
And, I am sending all of that love right back to each and every one of you … at least 10,000 fold, xo Karen
She’d been in my life for 43 years. For much longer than my own mom … who died when I was 31. I remember when she excitedly extended her hand to show me her rings. I had travelled 1195 kilometers to visit with her and my dad. Sick. I felt entirely sick. She never said a word, but her eyes were twinkling as brightly as the diamonds perched prominently on her left ring finger. It took everything within me to bite back the tears in order to feign ample and appropriate enthusiasm. Seriously … how could they get married without even telling me?? I never asked. Some things feel better left unsaid.
And so, I always spoke of her as “my dad’s wife”. However, some 15 or 20 years (!!) later, I actually came upon the truth. She had no idea I believed they were married. It was all a complete misunderstanding. The truth was that she had been working on him relentlessly … begging for matrimony … for years! But for reasons known only to my very stalwart father … he steadfastly refused to remarry. I could sense the pain of rejection in her heart because as she said … for a woman of her generation … it would be particularly shameful for her to die an “old maid”or “spinster”. And so, to spare herself any public embarrassment, she adopted his last name and wore her wedding rings very proudly. I got it.
All she ever wanted was to be a wife and mother. But my dad died unexpectedly without ever officially saying “I do” to her. And, although she had also pressed me to call her “mom” … I’m not sure I much embraced her as a parental figure. I guess the whole decades long belief that they had been ‘wedded without me’ had made her his ‘wife’ in my eyes, but certainly not my ‘stepmom’. Instead, I opted to affectionately call her“Ger” instead of Gerri … and … she fondly called me “Kar” instead of Karen.
In addition to my own little family, I was all Ger had left after my dad died. And, at 82, she was still living on her own. We had looked into alternate spaces, but it distressed her terribly to think of leaving the home she had shared with my dad. I had finally convinced her that she needed to wear a Life Alert because she was getting less stable on her feet and had fallen a couple of times.
Celebrating her 82nd birthday …
Ger’s health had always been tentative … and she had regularly experienced days when she was laid up … feeling “punk”. Usually it was because she had bitten off more than she could chew … trimming branches on trees, moving furniture, shampooing the carpets etc – by herself. Yes. I said by herself. When she got an idea in her head, she had no patience to wait for help to arrive. And so, she often overdid it and paid the price.
But, the malaise that preceded her landing in ER on July 31, 2017 had persisted for nearly three weeks. When I got stern with her – questioning her reticence to call her doctor – she admitted she was scared about what he might have to say. She had a stint put in some years ago, carried nitroglycerin in her purse and took baby aspirin regularly. Perhaps her ticker was acting up again?
It appears that she was very intuitive indeed … something was, in fact, very wrong.
When she got out of bed the next morning … she took a few steps and collapsed. Thank goodness for her Life Alert button! And so … we found ourselves in the ER … utterly dumbfounded … staring at each other … in wide-eyed disbelief. The sun had barely peeked over the horizon on that fateful Monday and the day had already taken some very unexpected and unfavorable turns. There would be tests and more tests.
And may I say that for as long as Ger has been part of my life, she has always caught me up short by hastily forging head-first into foreboding territory. She always dives in long before I am emotionally prepared to tackle any such precarious terrain. I am far more tentative and reflective about everything in my life. I prefer to tip-a-toe in tentatively and get a sense of things before I move forward with unfettered conviction. But not Ger … she has always preferred to swoop into action … immediately.
It was the same when my dad died very unexpectedly during a summer BBQ on July 12, 2009. He had just filled his plate … and enthusiastically declared “This is great!” And then … he was gone.
Ger needed to be ‘doing’ things to help her process her grief. I, on the other hand, needed time to simply ‘be’ with the loss before I could think about making decisions or taking actions that could not be undone. It definitely created some emotional tension for both of us as we mourned the loss of the same man. Nothing wrong with either approach … but … this particular Monday was proving to be no different.
She needed to know, right then and there … and … did not hesitate to ask the attending ER physician just how long she could expect to live. I expected him to defer by saying it would be premature to guess until the prognosis had been officially confirmed. But, much to my chagrin, he responded:
“Maybe two months.”
Whoa. What?? My mind frantically raced for some way to process this blindside. Yesterday was just a normal Sunday. We had a conversation on the phone. I was looking forward to having this particular Monday off work so I could nibble away at my ‘to-do’ list. And, in all honesty, I was still trying to process the death of my father-in-law (who had died just two months prior) . And his passing was fairly hot on the heels of the death of his wife … my mother-in-law (just 7 months prior to that). We were already knee deep … maybe chin deep … into the grieving process. I instinctively resisted.
“We can’t be certain Ger. At this point, it’s all just speculation.”
But she was already making plans. I respected the gravity of her situation enough to know that if this was going to be the last leg of her journey … I needed to honor her desires to do it her way. And so, in order to keep up, I opened a new tab in my Wunderlist App … and labeled it “Gerri”. I started making notes as she determined, discussed and directed what she wanted taken care of before she, too, departed this earthly plane. I left the hospital late in the evening, in utter disbelief … hoping that ‘tomorrow’ would be a better day.
On Tuesday morning, August 1st, I returned bright and early … and … Ger was still making plans. I promised to take her cat, Scamper, home to live with me. She gave me her banking pass code and asked me to update her bank book. I’m not sure why her finances were important in THAT moment, but she needed to be sure that OAS had given her the increase she was expecting. Can do. And … she reckoned that one of the family best take and use the expensive silky cover off her built-in vacuum hose. She’d paid a pretty penny for it … no sense leaving that gem for a renter. Okay. And … she wondered about how she would die … would she suffer? Would she suffocate, would she choke … would her heart take her? Gulp.
I compassionately searched deeply into her eyes and asked if she was scared. She confirmed that if she let herself think about it, she felt frightened. She looked down for a moment and then pensively uttered,“What if … what if I am denied entry at the pearly gates?”
For a split second, I could feel the weight of that worry hanging heavily in her heart. And then, with her next breath she moved quickly past that uncomfortable query and determined that her electric fireplace would look great on a particular wall in the spacious bedroom of her grand-daughter’s new house. Agreed. She was delighted that another of her grand-daughters could use the stand up freezer. Excellent. And the desks … she wanted me to have her antique desk and tea cart. For sure. I was squirming internally as she so casually discussed such things.
I told her it felt entirely awkward, inappropriate and insensitive to be discussing the dispersal of her belongings. Some things feel better left unsaid. She assured me that it pleased her so very deeply to know that her legacy would live on in the belongings that would be enjoyed by those she loved. And, she declared that she didn’t want a funeral. Okay. She wanted us to have a nice family dinner and just talk about her instead. Fair enough. But, I found myself offering an alternate perspective:
“Ger, let’s wait until they do more tests. They could be mistaken. The mass they spotted in your lung might not be fatal.”
How does one even begin to integrate such news when the big “C” was never ever … not for one moment … a prior concern in one’s eight decades of life. They did more tests. And more scans. They needed to consult with the oncologist and the lung specialist. She reminded me to take her ashes, her mother’s ashes and my dad’s ashes to a specified place. We ordered her a TV so she could keep up with The Young and the Restless. It occurred to me that we’d need a schedule so we could take turns watering her lawn and feeding Scamper while she was in hospital.
Wednesday, August 2nd … they did a biopsy on the tumor and were going to do a brain scan when her heart acted up again. They ended up losing her at one point. Gone. Her room was empty when I arrived to visit. After a bit of panic … they sympathetically told me that my ‘mom’ had been moved to ICU. I never corrected them. They used the paddles to revive her. It was shortly after that they got the results of the biopsy and they discovered she also had MRSA. It’s a super bug … an infection that is highly resistant to treatment. It seemed prudent to get the Power of Attorney signed. It was entirely surreal … and … unraveling far too quickly for me.
Thursday, August 3rd … the doc came in to confirm the diagnosis. Yes. Cancer. Stage 4. A small cell type that spreads quickly. They believe it started in her lung about six to 12 months prior and confirmed that it had already spread to her adrenal glands and her liver. It had also metastasized into her lymph system and likely into her bones.
No emotion or tears on her part. Just more action. She decided to sell us her car so it wouldn’t get caught up in probate. It occurred to me that I should probably take her purse home for safekeeping. I reckoned I should bring her slippers. She thought maybe an ice cream would taste good. Funny where the mind goes in a moment like that.
When the oncologist arrived for rounds, she asked again: “how long”? Perhaps two months … unless it was in her brain. She slipped up and later told someone she had two weeks. I corrected her. No Ger … the doc said two months. She second guessed me by asking if I was sure about that. Yep. I was sure. The tests had confirmed it was not in her brain.
Hmmm. She was sure she had about two weeks. The oncologist was gentle and kind and recommended palliative care. And she started planning again.
Because of the contagious nature of MRSA, visitation was counter-indicated for many. We had to mask-up, glove-up and gown-up completely to be in her presence. A few of the family came to visit, but for the better part of her hospitalization … it was mostly just me and Ger.
Monday, August 7th … Myrna (Ger’s late brother’s wife) made the long trip from Saskatchewan. I could sense Ger’s delight with her arrival. They had remained very dear friends. And, she seemed tickled with our three-way conversation. At one point … in true “Granny style” (as my girls would fondly suggest) Ger looked at both Myrna and I and fervently exclaimed:
” After all of this … if I don’t die … I’m going to be really pissed off!”
We all burst into laughter at the paradoxical nature of her comment. I suggested that maybe instead of having a dinner after she passed, maybe she could join us in a family feasting when she moved into Palliative Care whereby she could “eavesdrop” on our conversation about her. Well, she thought that would be okay … but … could we have a dinner in her honor afterwards, too? Of course.And we’ll be sure to serve Lucy’s famous chocolate cake! Lucy is my son-in-law’s lovely mother … and … her chocolate cake recipe has become a family favorite!
Tuesday, August 8th … we talked about the things she could do to decorate her new home in palliative and make it feel like home. The white shag carpet. Perhaps an armchair … if there was space? Maybe we could sneak Scamper in for a final visit? Maybe we could smuggle in a ‘go cup’ filled with her favorite Royal Red wine … aka “Granny’s swill” ? She hastily put the brakes on that idea. She was entirely averse to getting evicted from palliative care before she got settled in. We laughed … and yet … there was something sobering about the absurdity of all that we were so casually discussing.
Her decline was rapid. The very next day, she unexpectedly lost some lucidity. She told Myrna she was quite sure she had died at 2:17pm. And, by the following day, she was unable to speak with any comprehensive coherence. And, it was becoming more and more difficult for her to breathe. They cancelled her transfer to palliative.
And so, true to form, even in her dying … Ger wasted no time. Once again … her pace was far too fast for me to process comfortably. And ultimately … she was right. It wasn’t two months. It wasn’t even two weeks. It was 13 days …
At some point during our last 13 days together, Ger told me that she came into the world alone … lived most of her life alone … and … expected to die alone. In that moment, my heart ached for her … because in so many ways … she was right. Her father had been murdered. Her mother could be quite abusive. My father – her spouse – was emotionally disconnected. She had limited contact with her brother before he died young of melanoma. She had endured a whole lot of trauma and abandonment in her life. The stories she recanted broke my heart.
And … I could not deny that I, too, had contributed to her sense of loneliness. I was often too busy to make her a priority. It takes 1.5 hours round trip to get to Ger and all our family from where I live … so a quick pop-in every now and again was just not possible. I had gone back to school as a mature student to complete my BSW as well as my MSW … and … was also employed as a counselor in my community along with running a small private practice of my own on the side. I have one husband, three daughters and eight grandchildren … so … the pulls for my attention are/were persistent and plentiful. In addition to that … within the last three years … the demands on my time had become increasingly intensified as my aging and ailing in-laws health deteriorated and their medical needs and chronic crises eclipsed any predictability in our lives. I am also a landlord with four rental properties. In all honesty … I had been struggling to keep all those balls in the air and had become entirely depleted trying to do so.
That said, I did my best to ‘be there’ for Ger … but … I always knew my best wasn’t nearly as much as she wanted and/or deserved in terms of my time and attention. And, in all honesty, it troubled my heart to know I was falling short of her expectations. And so, with an ache in my heart for my inability to make the days of her life less lonely … I committed myself to being there ‘with’ her and showing up fully ‘for’ her … during her final journey home. I let her know I was “all hers” for the duration.
I spent some long days with her at the hospital. I really didn’t want her to be alone when she passed. The staff knew me as her ‘daughter’ and referred to Ger as my ‘mom’. I never corrected any of them. Some things feel better left unsaid. In fact, I could feel Ger’s heart swell with these new terms of reference in the space. And, in all honesty … it felt really good to me too.
As it turned out … she waited until I had gone home for the night on Saturday, August 12th. The nurse called me, just a couple of hours after I left, to say that my mom had taken her last breath while they were making their rounds and tending to her comfort. I was surprised by how hard it hit me. I thought I was prepared …
It was to be our 40th wedding anniversary the next day. I didn’t feel like celebrating. So we didn’t. And, although it does my heart good to know that she wasn’t actually ‘alone’ when she passed because she had the nursing staff with her … it still struck me that Ger was being a bit of a ‘stinker’ for not letting me be there when she transitioned. My daughter suggested that perhaps she waited until I was gone because she, in fact, didn’t want to leave me alone when she passed. Hmmmm … I still tear up when I think of it that way.
We hired a Life Celebrant(thank you Shelly Bassett!) who met with us in advance to gather our recollections … and … she composed a beautiful ‘life story’ honoring Ger/Granny. Shelly orated this meaningful tribute to her as we gathered in a large circle in our back yard on a very warm, sunny day. Our celebration was complete with all of Ger’s very favorite things … including taco in a bag! Her grand-daughters and I wore pieces of her favorite jewellery and we toasted her with her ‘swill’ and some Japanese ‘sake’ that she had liked to share with her grandsons. It turned into far more than just the conversation she wanted us to have about her. I recorded it … and … we have a printed copy of the ‘story’ of Ger/Granny and all she meant to us.
Ger took great pride in her home and took such impeccable care of things. I have updated my own space with so many beautiful things of hers. Her energy is now present in each room of my house. By the way, I discovered a number of ‘spreaders’ in her kitchen drawers. I took three of them home with me and passed the others on to my daughters. I figured if she had more than one, they must be good.
Well … I am not sure how I lived almost 60 years without one! Who knew they would make such a culinary difference! I bought new ones for all my daughters! I even bought one for my bestie! If you don’t own one … or … haven’t tried one … I highly implore you to allow Gerri’s legacy to touch your life too, in this small way.
As I was going through her belongings, I came across something in her most precious memorabilia. Many years ago, one of the ways I attempted to combat the commercialization of Christmas, was to have us make homemade gifts for one another and attach a meaningful affirmation to each other. I discovered she had saved them. And … I share one year of our affirmations of her with you here because they offer a beautiful snapshot of just who she was to all of us:
And, I absolutely sobbed when I came across one she had kept that my dad … the man who refused to marry her … had written:
THAT she was. My dad’s life was irrefutably better because of my step-mom. His prior lived experience had carved some pretty sharp edges into him … but she loved him unconditionally … even during the times when he could be pretty darn difficult to love. And, she cared for him tenderly and compassionately during the most fragile and unbecoming moments of his own journey with cancer. And, she tended to him with her whole heart … and … she never failed to make him her utmost priority in life. Ever.
And, I must also add, that Ger’s life was undeniably better because of him. He offered her more safety and security than she had ever experienced within her family of origin. And that doesn’t mean their relationship was all roses and sunshine. No. A union of two wounded souls cannot be without its darkness. But, in all honestly … I could see that they were unarguably, the answer to each of their prayers.
Ger and I had eight years together after my dad passed, but … I can honestly say that our last 13 days became a cherished time of deeper connection for us. We were able to meet each other in that sacred place beyond the accidental hurts, misunderstandings and unmet expectations that sometimes prickled between us. And instead … we embraced a felt sense of the unconditional parts of the love that we also held for one another.
With the deepest of reverence, I came to appreciate her idiosyncratic way of being in the world … not as my dad’s wife, but as my step-mom. Yes. It was truly a blessing to be gifted with that space and time … a divinely orchestrated opportunity to ‘be’ with each other in deep, unfettered and meaningful ways.
And so Ger … I really want to “thank you” for launching promptly into action even before they could confirm your diagnosis. Were it not for that, I would never have been so aware of all your wishes. And, I remain committed to honoring each and every one of them … except one.
Please accept my sincerest apologies … but I didn’t bring Scamper home with me the day you died … as I had promised. Through an amazing turn of events, I became aware of a youngster who really, really wanted to have him. And I suspect you will forgive me, because as I look at this picture of the two of them together, it appears to be a match made in Heaven. That said, I am wondering … if perhaps … you somehow had a hand in orchestrating this sublime alternative for your furry feline.
And ultimately … I need you to know Ger … I have been shifted and stretched to a better version of myself as a result of our precious 13 days together. You taught me that there is something deeply transformational about sitting with the dying. I erroneously assumed that being with you was going to be my gift to you … but … I can see now that … the gift was mine.
I feel so very blessed to have shared that sacred space with you and I remain humbled by the love and energy in our final moments together. Thank you for loving me … like every good mother would do. Always. In your own special way. And thank you for caring so deeply about me … as your only daughter.
My home is filled with reminders of you … and … I will carry so much of your spirit in my heart as I greet all the days yet to come. I hope I can bring some of your feisty energy with me into our family celebrations. Your generous heart will be missed in more ways than you can imagine.
Thank you again Ger … I am truly so much better because of your presence in my life … and especially … because of our precious last 13 days together, ❤ Kar ❤
For quite some time now, I have been contemplating how to best honor the depth of my appreciation for the three precious people who, more than anyone or anything, have invited me to grow into the next best version of who I can be in the world … and … who continue to stretch me beyond my own beliefs of what is possible when you open up to those places in your heart that you didn’t even know existed.
And I should share that I have hesitated to write this (for a very long time). I have been reluctant because I would hate to think that my best efforts to honor my daughters with this tribute failed to do them justice … that my attempt fell short, in any way, of what I needed and wanted and desired to acknowledge.It feels like an entirely ineffable task because there is absolutely no way that the totality of these remarkable human beings can be reduced to a paragraph or two … and because … if I concede to highlight only a small smattering of the magic in our moments, I must step over and omit countless other things that are equally significant! Hence, my resistance.
It’s a conundrum of the highest order! Even though I know there are not words … not enough words … and certainly not the right words to possibly express what being a mother to these three impeccable women has stirred within me, it also feels downright dismissive to perpetually postpone my attempt to capture what is in my heart and post it on this page.
And so, on this special day when we publicly honor and acknowledge motherhood around the globe, I am inspired to give voice (at least a small bloggable snippet) to just some of what being the mother of Tiana Terae, Sherisse Shandell and Brittany Brooke has meant to me.
But … where on earth do I start? I could begin by sharing that during my first pregnancy, I found myself thinking: “How hard could it be? People do this all the time … and more than once! If they can do it, I can do it.” In fact, it would probably be fair to depict my pre-motherhood self as an acorn laying dormant, invulnerable and completely safe in the forest. I was so damn put together before she arrived. Solid. Capable. Self-assured. Determined. In control. I was convinced I had it all figured out. Yes, I could start here … but then again, maybe I should cut right to the chase and speak about how the birth of my first daughter cracked me wide open. W–I–D–E open. Should I share how her presence rocked my world in the most magnificent and terrifying ways? I could … but … how does one even begin to describe that kind of ecstatic moment?
With her twinkling eyes and a mop of dark hair … Tiana Terae, was chubbins and chuckles and cuteness to the core. My soul tickled with delight at the sheer majesty of her beingness … and then spontaneously … the frighteningly fragile seeds of vulnerability that were tucked safely beneath my nicely defended exterior became entirely unguarded and totally exposed. VULNERABLE … an ‘all caps’ kind of vulnerable. Insecurity. Joy. Anguish. Immense gratitude. Unadulterated fear. Indescribable enchantment. Unmitigated exhaustion. I felt blessed beyond comprehension and stretched beyond human capacity.
My precious, cherished, darling first born daughter, broke me open to experiencing a kind of love I never even conceived could exist … mother love. I had never imagined such emotion was humanly possible. And it rattled me to the core. I fiercely attempted to hold it all together with some semblance of grace … I couldn’t bear the thought of failing her and falling short of being/doing all that she so richly and rightly deserved! I floundered miserably as I struggled to hold tight to that people-pleasing, high-achieving, perfectionist self that I knew myself to be.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I would never, ever, not in a million years be the same person again. I thought, in those moments, that I was losing myself but in retrospect I can see that my daughter’s inner strength actually saved both of us. I had no idea that I would only really, truly find my authentic Self after I felt like I had lost my precious first born in the teen years. But, unbeknownst to me … the very best was yet to be!
And sweetie, through it all, you were soloving and forgiving and tender and true. You were strong, caring, capable, and competent. You refused to let my mistakes mar the making of the magnificent, miraculous, munificent masterpiece that is you. You brought such light to the dark. And, you still do. You are so thoughtful, supportive, conscientious … and … incredibly trustworthy. Your loving loyalty and unwavering commitment is entirely incomparable. You speak straight from your good heart … you are candid and honest and refreshingly real. And people feel safe and secure with you … because they truly are! Because of you sweetie, I was inspired to heal the pains of my past. Because of you, I started upon the most life-altering journey of my lifetime! I was so lost and you helped me find me. I cannot begin to thank you enough. I am truly so much better because I got to be your mom. ❤
Yes, it seems sensible to start there … but then again … maybe it would serve better to start with the incredulous bliss I experienced with my second born.Sherisse Shandell arrived with much less turmoil and turbulence in my heart. I was more familiar with the landscape of motherhood … more prepared for the pearls and pitfalls of parenting. I was more savvy than the first time … except during the nights. Even though she would sleep, I would wake up and check on her … often. Ridiculously often. It’s crazy how vulnerable you feel when you are gifted with such an entirely irreplaceable joy … such a precious and cherished miracle.
Her safe arrival was such welcome relief. I had gone into labor for a few hours in my seventh month of pregnancy, and as a result, my final trimester felt somewhat fragile. There had to be stress tests because the measurements didn’t add up. And, she didn’t move much. And they warned me that she might very, very tiny. I tried hard not to catastrophize, but it was difficult to calm myself when my anxious mind taunted me mercilessly about how I dared to hold out hope that we’d get another healthy child. I was gripping her so tightly in my heart as I yearned for the moment when I would be cradling her tenderly in my arms. And so, when I found myself holding her for real … all 6lbs and 13 ounces of her … it pained me to let her go … to set her down. I was derailed by the fear of what might happen … if I left my post … if I turned my back … if I actually dozed off …………………
And despite those incessant neurotic nigglings, she sweetly and gently invited me to simply bask in the many joys of motherhood. Less frantic. More assured. Deeply blessed. Dare I say more comfortable. Yes. More confident. When her dad left to work away on the rigs for three weeks (just two months after she arrived), I remember the hours that I just sat there in solitude, during the dark of the night … swelling with gratitude as I watched her sleep. Or while she nursed … I would gaze into her eyes with absolute reverence for our seemingly clandestine, post-partum nocturnal tryst while she gripped my finger as though she would never ever let go. Surreal. Sublime. Entirely divine. Unmitigated bliss.
Sweetheart …. through the years, you inspired me to grow into a more humble and conscious parent … more responsive than reactive … more pensive than perfect. You were so reflective and considerate and open to seeing all sides of things. Your benevolent being invited me to step into being much kinder to everyone … including myself. Because of your gracious, kind and magnanimous heart, I began to realize that despite my various shortcomings, maybe just maybe … I was enough. Maybe, just maybe, I was worthy of your love. You were such an exquisite embrace of all that is exceptional, heartfelt and true … the purest essence of empathy, compassion and integrity. You would intuitively see the hearts beneath the faces and the tears behind the smiles. You still do. And I thank you from the deepest place in my being for all that you are sweetheart. I am so much better because I got to be your mom. ❤
But, then again, maybe this tribute would be better served if I began by speaking about our debate/decision to have a third child. Almost three years had quickly ticked by and although my husband was content parenting two adorable, ruffly, pony-tailed cherubs … I was not yet convinced our family was complete. So, I tendered my best argument in favor of a third … not really sure how I would actually manage it, because it was around that time that my husband had started working construction by day and was farming by night. We decided that it would only be feasible to have a third child if (s)he could arrive between mid October and the end of February (when farming was not such a demanding part of the equation). It seemed like a ridiculously short window … and so … we agreed to let the Universe decide.
I had done the math in terms of maximizing conceptual probabilities, but life got in the way and I sadly suspected that we had missed the optimal moments to conceive. So … I can assure you it felt like nothing short of sheer rapture and rhapsody when I began to feel the twinges of new little life stirring within my body. What?? Wait. No … don’t get excited. It just could not be. And when the pregnancy test came back negative, I chalked it up to wishful thinking. But … I still kept feeling pregnant. And, low and behold over time … it was confirmed that our new little love was due to arrive on February 26th … just two days before the official ‘there will only be two’ deadline. So, although our little angel was so strategically planned, she was also a magical, miraculous and welcome surprise!
Once again … I am without words to describe the abundant glow of grace that circled my heart space and nourished my soul with the news! And many asked if we were “trying for a boy”. No. Nope. Nada. Not for one little minute. The prospect of wrapping our third little cherub in pink ruffles and lace was not only practical (we had all the girly stuff) … but … deliciously delightful because we already had precious proof that we made really, really, adorable girls. Yes we did!
And, much to my surprise, mothering my third daughter took me to a whole new vista … to brand new and completely uncharted ground. I found a stronger semblance of faith in the divine order of things. Trust. Surrender. Optimism. Confidence that although I still had so much to learn, I probably wouldn’t/couldn’t mess her up completely. I trusted that she was going to soar despite me, not because of me. It was both humbling and liberating! Brittany Brooke tickled our hearts with her gregarious giggles, her enthusiastic charm and her highly determined “I do dat” chutzpah. She wore her ‘joie de vivre’ as boldly as the unique color combinations that she picked out for herself by herself. She knew exactly what she wanted and zealously pursued all her dreams, desires and delights … with the most radiant sense of abandon. And she still does.
Honey, because of your eager, energetic and enthusiastic attitude, I was witness to how you claimed and embraced the juicy joys along your path. I so admired your “all in” engagement with possibility and your persistent pursuit of whatever made your heart sing. You are the most picturesque portrayal of pure potentiality and passionate promise. With your sparkling spirit and affable attitude you adeptly demonstrated how one can proactively seek out and savor special moments rather than reactively just accepting what comes along. Because of you, I could no longer deny my own intrinsic pull towards resurrecting my dusty dreams. I allowed myself to pursue my own passions. Growing. Stretching. Blossoming. Becoming. Because of you, I continue to explore/evaluate who it is that I would most want to be and what it is that I would most love to do … thank you for that honey. I truly thank you. I am so much better because I got to be your mom. ❤
And although these reflections represent merely a sliver of what lies within each of you … and offer just a wee glimpse of the space that we share with each other, I wanted to acknowledge, in some small way, the big difference you have made in my life. You have gifted me, in terms of my own growth and evolution, in such salient and significant ways. As children, you helped me make peace with my past, find the grace and goodness in the present and shape a future that honored my deepest dreams and desires. As adults, you continue to nourish my soul and kindle my internal flame. The best parts of my being have been inspired because of you. I honestly believe that our relationships go far beyond that of mother and daughter …they represent my deepest and most meaningful expressions, experiences and examples of LOVE.
And so, on this day devoted to honoring motherhood … I am thanking my lucky stars that I got to be your mom. It remains an indescribable joy … a priceless gift that I deeply cherish. And, I must also say that my heart skips a beat when I see your own mother love spilling so richly over my precious grandchildren. The radiant and reckless abandon reflected in that kind of love tickles treasured places that are tucked deep in my soul and it takes my breath away. Every. Single. Time.
Happy Mother’s Day to my beautiful daughters… who are three of the most exceptional mothers on this planet! I love you … from those places in my heart that I never knew existed until I got to be your mom! ❤ ❤ ❤
Tiana TeraeSherisse ShandellBrittany Brooke
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This inspiring passage was my dad’s mantra for living life!
It’s my dad’s birthday today. I’m celebrating this man even though he won’t be blowing out any candles today. He was thoroughly enjoying an outdoor dinner five years ago … and just after he exclaimed“This is great!” … he was gone. His enthusiasm aptly reflected his new found intention to live such ‘a radiant life’. And he was really beginning to do so, but it certainly wasn’t always that way. His metamorphosis took the most unexpected path. In fact, it was nothing short of a miracle.
Although it’s a cultural faux pas to speak ill of the dead, my dad was a tough man to love for the first 70 to 75 years. Turbulent might be the best word to describe him. He was a really deep thinker and felt most comfortable in the cerebral, cognitive, and intellectual domain. He was very well read and absolutely brilliant, but he had some really, really, really sharp edges. In the blink of an unexpectant eye, his pent-up emotions could erupt viciously and bite right through you … yes, very turbulent.
At times, it was tempting to think him cold and hardhearted … except that he was so incredibly tender, loving and nurturing when it came to his pets. He would do anything for them! So much so that when push came to shove one year and he had to choose between spending time with me or leaving his dog behind … I lost. Truth. But we won’t get into the dismal details of that Thanksgiving occasion right now.
I inherited his propensity for living in my head and spent the first 30+ years of my life stuffing my own emotions too. It worked pretty well to avoid uncomfortable feelings, but it seems you can only stuff so much before the body says no more. I ended up in the office of an Internal Specialist. He had barely introduced himself and was still shaking my hand when he nonchalantly asked, “Did you have a happy childhood?”
What?? I was completely blindsided! This was not the line of questioning I was expecting while seated stiffly on the four foot gurney covered with the paper sheet. I flushed bright crimson with embarrassment when I spontaneously started crying. He compassionately apologized for sparking my upset, but added that he was collecting mounting evidence to suggest that people with gastrointestinal issues have unresolved emotional wounds. His own informal research was confirming his suspicion that “the gut is the barometer of the soul”. Hmmm …
He ordered all the necessary tests, but in the same breath, asked if I’d be open to seeking some counseling.Yes. Yes I would. And, just as the good doctor had suspected, the tests confirmed that physically, I was just fine. That was the good news. The bad news was that I was booked with a counsellor and was going to have to move out of my head and into my heart.
And so began the best excavation of my life. The hardest … but the best. I didn’t have a clue what to do with all of the emotion that was percolating up inside of me, so as part of my own healing process, I put it on paper. I wrote a long letter to my dad … calling a spade a spade … fastidiously acknowledging all the parts of my pain that were connected to him. I had no plans to send to him that tear stained letter … but in a moment of blind instinct,courage faith … I did.
I never received a direct response from him, but very shortly thereafter, I got a frantic call from my step-mother. An ambulance was en-route the hospital … with my father in it. Apparently, she and my dad had been talking about my ‘letter’ over lunch and right there and then, he had a heart attack. A heart attack! Had my letter inspired a heart attack?? I felt entirely sick.
As I sped to the hospital, I was fully intent on apologizing … determined to retract my ‘truth’ in favor of his well being … fully intent on re-burying the pain between us. I was beyond stunned to find my internist standing at the nursing station. What on earth was my internist doing in the ER room?? By some strange coincidence (or perhaps by divine design?), he was the ‘on call’ doctor and had just examined my father. He pointed back to my father and incredulously inquired: “Is that YOUR dad?” My heart was heaving with regret that spilled more tears down my cheeks as I solemnly nodded and explained what had happened.
He re-aimed his pointed finger straight at me. I inhaled deeply – emotionally bracing myself – but he blindsided me again! Instead of blaming me for causing my father’s plight, he looked me square in the eyes and said: “Don’t you let him off the hook.”
What?? I trembled at the thought. How on earth did he know what I was thinking? He shook his head and very kindly but firmly repeated himself. “Don’t you let him off the hook.” My heart was pounding out of my chest. My mind was reeling … did I dare to heed his directive?
And so, I reached out to my dad, but did not retract my ‘truth’. Ultimately, he survived … both the heart attack and my heart-aching honesty. Ironically, by not retreating from that transparent space of truth, my dad gained an opportunity to apologize to me. And, it turned out that he was finally able to trash a different letter that I had written when I was 14ish (also calling a spade a spade). I had no plans to mail him that letter either, but I learned that without my knowledge, my mom had sent it to him. I found out that he had been carrying it around with him for almost four decades –in his wallet – so he could pull it out and beat himself up on a regular basis. I never knew …
We were learning a lot about each other and healing some things when he got prostate cancer. And the radiation treatments burned his intestinal track. He developed colitis. It was so downright shitty for him (please excuse the tactless pun). He was relegated to wearing a diaper and made countless trips to the toilet around the clock. Between the endless runs to the toilet during those sleepless nights, he distracted himself with a book I had loaned him called A Course in Miracles. It’s a deep and challenging text, but my dad was able to stick with it … and … things began to shift in a most miraculous way.
And so, for about the last five years of his life, he became the father I always longed to have. He lived his life ‘radiantly’ … in a profound state of grace that was both inspiring to experience and amazing to witness. His sharp edges were replaced with a loving energy that infused his words and landed joyfully in the heart of whomever he engaged with. He met each day with infinite love and gratitude. He ‘radiated’ this joyful spirit and offered unlimited love and acceptance wherever he went. It was entirely sublime … and … often seemed totally surreal. We even took a trip to Phoenix (leaving the dog behind) to a Celebrate Your Life Conference so we could hear some of our favorite writers and spiritual leaders in person! It was phenomenal to share that time together with him. All in all, I found myself in a perpetual state of awe and wonder often questioning “Where the heck did my dad go?”
When we celebrated his 80th birthday, I decided it would be nice for all of us to pay tribute to him and let him know how much his new found ‘radiance’ had touched all of our lives. When it was my turn to share, I read from the card I had written to him:
“So, Dad, I’m not sure where our story together began … but it seems that two very left-brained, intellectual souls made a commitment to stretch one another to a greater level of love … to help each other learn through the joys and sorrows, trials and tribulations of this ambiguous journey we’ve been on.
One of the things you and I have enjoyed the most is our conversations and discussions … deeply reflecting upon the words and thoughts of other people. I want to acknowledge how much our relationship has grown and flourished over the past few years and how grateful I have been for the times you have been there to support me.
You put no fences around my thinking and made no effort to direct my life for me. I always knew you would listen without judgement and stretch me to a new way of seeing things. You convinced me that whatever I could conceive of, and believe in, that I could achieve. I credit you with the resilient attitude I have developed over the years. I always knew I could re-gain my own strength by connecting with you.
And so, here we are … you are 80 and I am 50, and although there has been a lot of space in our togetherness over the years, we’ve made up for a lot of lost time. Somehow , we have found a semblance of peace in the chaos … some sense of meaning in the meaningless … and a deep sense of love and loyalty has emerged from all our painful stories of the past …
Here’s to many more years … I love you Dad.
I had no way of knowing that I was only going to get a few more months with him, but I’m sure glad we took that opportunity to share our sentiments with him. It seems that more often than not in life, we don’t make the effort to tell people how we feel about them while they are still alive to hear it. (One of the reasons for this blog.)
Ultimately, my dad fulfilled his intention of living a ‘radiant life’ … and … we were all witness to a real life miracle. I never would have believed the man I called dad for the first 75 years was the one I said good-bye to 5 years later.
A celestial benediction has been defined as ‘an invocation of a blessing’ and Longfellow contended that the trials and tribulations of our lives are really celestial benedictions in dark disguises sent not to try our souls but to enlarge them. I can see that now. We had no way of knowing that my ill health was actually the catalyst that would spark our reconnection. Who could have guessed that my internist was placed in my life to invoke my emotional healing instead of my physical well-being. We could never have predicted that my dad’s heart attack would spark his emotional transformation either! And, we certainly couldn’t see at the time that my Dad’s nocturnal ‘suffering’ was the ultimate celestial benediction! It turned out that his ‘radiation’ treatments really were the ultimate invocation to live a ‘radiant’ life! We had no way of knowing that all those trials were actually the blessings in dark disguises that would lead us to the most miraculous moments we had ever shared as father and daughter. We were truly witness to a miracle! It seems crystal clear in retrospect …
And so, I amwriting this letter and intentionally sending it out to the ether because I want you to know Dad that I am so much better because of your presence in my life! And not just for those ‘radiant’ years. I can see so clearly now that our life-long relationship was truly a beautiful miracle in the making! I’m still unwrapping the blessings …
With a radiant glow in my heart, Karen
One of those miracle moments during last Christmas together … 2008
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Everyone needs someone in their life who enthusiastically invites them to exist in their presence. Thank you, Aunt Mil, for your warm welcome into the world. You were holding my newborn self in this picture … and … little did I know, but you would continue to hold me in so many ways significant ways over the years to come.
Thank you Aunt Mil … for the light in your eyes and the love in your heart that eagerly rolled out to greet us when we traveled six hours to see you. I will never forget how your arms were so enthusiastically out-stretched (as far as they could possibly reach!) to embrace us as quickly and tightly as humanly possible! It makes my heart smile when I recall you saying … with heartfelt and joyous conviction “Get IN here!” I really needed to hear that passionate invitation to exist in your presence and you offered it … over and over and over again. Thank you for inviting me to feel like it really mattered that I was on the planet.
Thank you for all your unspoken understanding. Thank you for holding me, holding my heart and being the loving spirit I needed when my mom (your little sister) was simply not able to be there for me due to her mental, emotional and physical ill-health. Thank you for seeing the ‘truth’ of my childhood experience despite my best efforts to conceal it … and … inspiring me to create something better (without ever actually uttering a word to me about it). I treasured how your eyes would always greet my heart with such exuberant energy. Maybe you knew how much I needed that too. Thank you for giving the kind of hugs that made me feel like you really meant it!
Thank you for your energetic radiance … and for daring to live ‘bigger‘ than you were ever supposed to … especially as a woman – way back in those days. Thank you for boldly setting the bar higher for who and what all women could actually consider doing and becoming. You bravely traded the image of ‘poor widow’ in exchange for ‘brilliant, capable and competent business woman’. And you did it with such panache … such bold, charismatic and elegant flair! Thank you for inspiring me to believe I could take whatever life dished out … and … transform it into something better! Thank you for teaching me that we should never let life’s challenges dictate our outcomes.
Still Fabulous @70 years of age
Oh my … you brought so much light to the world! My heart cherishes so many special memories of you and with you … including:
Coffee persistently boiling over on the stove. You said it wasn’t sufficiently “dee-lish” until it bubbled up and over onto the burner and left a big ole mess to wipe up … or not.
The numerous summers I spent with you … amusing myself while you worked your fingers to the bone at the Early Dawn Poultry Farm. One of my favorite pass-times wast decorating your basement as if I were a bonafied ‘interior decorator.’ And I remember my delight, when upon completion, you would nod your head slowly – while meticulously inspecting every nuance of my newest design with just the right measure of good-natured approval!
All the food in your fridge that had expired and was long past the ‘best before-date‘. I never understood why it took you so long to tend to such things. Now I get it. You had your priorities straight! There were things in your life that were infinitely more important. You got around to it when you got around to it. When I find expired and furry items in my own fridge now … I am affectionately and fondly reminded of you 🙂
Devouring your delicious Christmas feasts … complete with Swedish Lutefisk (which stunk to high Heaven!) and turnips served on the sideboard. ALWAYS with the good china and real silver candlestick holders! And … with the warm ambiance created by the Christmas lights strung up behind the curtain rods so the light cast down the sheers in amazing beautiful cascades of color. I’m not sure how you did it, but you always left us feeling we were worth all that extra effort …
And … for setting such an example of unconditional love as you cared for your brother – my disabled Uncle Art – who sometimes frightened me. He was bedridden, brain-damaged and disabled by an accident. I watched as you cared for him for countless years with such dignity and respect and you never asked for a speck of recognition.
Hosting my wedding … for the endless hours and limitless love you put into making my day meaningful and memorable. Our budget was so meager, so you offered up your backyard. I had no idea how much I would appreciate all the little extra bits of love you wove into the tapestry of that day … including unexpectedly hiring the 2 piece band that played in the grass while the dancing heels aerated your grass. I still laugh when I think of you being bold enough to ask the Town Council of your small, rural home town to close down the public pool (located directly behind your fence) for 30 minutes so our outdoor nuptials would not be interrupted by the wet and wild Saturday afternoon swimmers.
Discreetly paying for my mom’s cemetery plot because you knew I had no way of affording the cost myself. Most people would never have even thought about it … but somehow you did.
Somehow straddling the heart-breaking family divide and tragic triangulation that resulted over your parents estate. You managed to provide a loving refuge for my mom … and for each and every other family member … despite the forever fractured family dynamics.
And, lest I forget, for teaching me the importance of moisturizer. I don’t use Pond’s Cold Cream, but … because of you, I always smear on a whole schwack of moisturizer. You’re right, things just seem smoother that way. 🙂
You truly were my rock … my stability in a world run a muck … and … I think you knew it. But you never said a word. You just loved me and unselfishly filled in the gaps. I miss you. I really, really, really miss you. And, I really, really, really thank you. You were hundreds of miles away for most of my life … but … only inches from my heart. You still are. It’s been 24 years since you unexpectedly passed, and yet, you remain unmistakably ‘felt’ within every aspect of my beingness.
Aunt Mil, I am so much better because of you … and your love … and the beautiful light in your eyes which invited me to embrace life and shine on and be courageous … regardless of the circumstances! Thank you for being a model of energetic potential and enthusiastic possibility. Thank you for that. Really. I really needed that … but, then again, somehow you always knew what I most needed.
In honor of Mother’s Day, I thought it would be nourishing, inspiring and downright heart-warming to open up a space for us to share some of the ‘nuggets’ that we remember from our mother’s guidance and wisdom!
I hope you will join me in honouring these special women by posting a ‘reply’ with one of the things you will never forget her saying!
I’ll go first … I thought about sharing some of the things she said most often:
“A change is as good as a rest”
“There is no virtue in suffering”
“Your dad is a good man … the alcohol is the problem.”
“Never mind … I can do it” (this one was laced with a subtle splash of guilt)
“Always do your best.”
BUT … as I pondered the question for a moment … it occurred to me that one of the most meaningful messages I got from my mom did not come in words …
I must have been about 8 years old … and … my mom wanted to take me to the movies in order to get out of the house. After consuming more 5 Star Whiskey than he could handle – my dad had, once again, passed out on the couch. She could see it coming and she had asked him (when he was still coherent) if she could have some money to take me. He had refused. I can’t remember his rationale … but …
Once he was snoring, my mom proceeded to put her hands down the cracks of the sofa around him, searching for coins that had dropped out of his pockets over time. She kept searching … and counting … until she had collected enough pocket change to get us on the #2 trolley bus … which would take us to the theater downtown. I don’t remember the movie we saw that night, but … here is what I heard her saying:
“If there is a will, there is a way.”
If you really want something, think outside the box.
Don’t let someone defeat your dreams and goals without first exhausting ALL possibilities
Don’t give up your power in the presence of limitation.
Be brave in the face of your dreams, delights and desires.
Such sound advice mama … thank you. Resilience is born of messages like that one! I had no idea how often I would draw upon the wisdom of those words – never uttered aloud – but deeply heard in my heart.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom … xoxo Karen
P.S. Please join me in honoring our moms most memorable words! It’s no fun to celebrate alone. Be sure to post a little something you remember your own mom saying so we can collectively revisit those memories. It will be fun to see the messages we recall – the most common ones, the most unique ones, and of course, the funny ones … 🙂
It’s my mom’s birthday today. She would have been 89 today … well, unless you asked her. Then she would have been 87. I found out after she died that she had been fibbing about her age … but just for all of my life. I thought my aunt made a mistake when she cited her birth date in the obituary. I guess back in that day, you didn’t want your fiancé to know you were older than him, so she claimed the birth year of her baby brother who deceased at 8 days of age. I found out a lot about my mom after she died …
I am a bit ashamed to admit that much of the time, I didn’t really appreciate her. I was aching to be one of the girls with the ‘white-picket fence’ moms. You know … the ones who baked cookies, had ‘sit-down’ suppers, attended the PTA meetings and took their daughters shopping for grad dresses. I was so envious of the girls who had mowed lawns, and siblings (especially the ones with older brothers who watched out for them). I wanted to be one of the girls that didn’t get their winter boots with a welfare voucher. And … I desperately DID NOT want to be the girl who found out their mom had been picked up for shop lifting. I hated being her. I know ‘hate’ is a strong word … but it really fits right here. I also hated that I got the mom that was found wandering aimlessly on the other side of town, crying and confused and they had taken her to the psyche ward. I didn’t want to be the one going to foster care … again. I wanted to be the one feeling sorry for the one going to foster care …
As I got older, I wanted the mom who made you chicken soup when you were sick, quilted baby blankets and brought casseroles for your freezer to celebrate the arrival of your new little cherub. I think I would have given up chocolate to have a mom who babysat your kids for you. I wanted the mom who would ‘be there’ when you didn’t think you could be a mother for even one more minute without hurting someone. I didn’t want the mom in a wheelchair. I wanted to be the girl that received calls offering to help instead of requesting it.
I really do miss what I wish it could have been. BUT …
If I step out ofTHAT pity party for long enough, I can only feel so deeply blessed for all that we DID have. I had a mom, who gave up the very little that she did have to make sure I got the 36” bell bottoms from Black Sheep Boutique that all the two parent kids were wearing. God only knows what she went without and/or had to finagle so that could happen …perhaps this is where the shoplifting comes in? I had the mom who slept in the front seat at the drive-in so my friends and I could eat popcorn in the back seat. I had the mom who talked with me for endless hours (even on school nights!) about deep philosophical subjects. I had the mom who read cutting-edge books on psychology, religion, and new-age spirituality. She invited me to read them too. She never once judged me for reading The Happy Hooker either.
And … what about God, Heaven and Hell? I had the mom who equated God with LOVE. She said you can’t find God in a moment devoid of LOVE. I believe her. She told me that Heaven isn’t a place you go when you die … it’s an energy you experience when you are serving the greater good. She said Hell was the opposite. Hell was when you were out of integrity with your soul. It was when your spirit was suffering. That is pure hell. I believe her.
I had a mom who agreed to let me smoke at the age of 13 so I wouldn’t have to lie, sneak or betray my integrity about it. With her permission, I bought my first pack of smokes with two girlfriends. It cost us 20 cents each. (I forget who got the one cent change). We each got eight ‘Craven M’s and we smoked them over tea and peanut buttered toast in my friend’s upstairs bedroom. I had the mom who trusted me to set my own curfew. And I came home on time. I had the mom who would put a few dollars (that she didn’t have to spare) into my wallet. I would find it later, when I was out with friends. I had the mom who never chastised me for getting puking drunk on dark rum and coke at my boyfriend’s sister’s wedding … she let the consequences teach me instead. I had a mom who bought ‘abstainers’ insurance instead, explaining that it was the best option given our meager budget. If I wanted to drive, I had to promise I wouldn’t drink. She trusted me. I was worthy of it. I had the mom who left that car with me for a summer college class five hours away from home. She, despite her disabilities, opted to take the bus herself instead.
I had a mom who adored me. She made sure I believed in myself … and … she cheered me on the very best she could. I had a mom who I KNEW BEYOND A SHADOW OF A DOUBT that she LOVED ME to the depths of her being. I’m not sure who I would have become had it not been for her unfailing love of me. Despite all her challenges … and … all the ways she was unable to ‘be there’ for me, I always, always, always KNEW she loved me. And yes … LOVE bridges darkness.
I really am so very grateful for all that we DID have. I’m not sure I ever told her.
So, today, I am celebrating my mom because the light of her soul is still etched into my heart. And … her undying love is probably responsible for inspiring the very best parts of my humanity. There is no doubt about it Mom … I am so much better because of you… XOXO
Happy 89th 87th Birthday Mom! And … thank you. I mean it. XO Karen
I am deeply grateful for the opportunity for this essay and I to be part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!