Dreaming Dreams Of What Used To Be

I never really spent much time considering my mother's funeral in terms of what it would be like. I suppose that's mostly because it wasn't something I wanted to think about for any damn reason, ever. That's probably dumb, because most people end up burying their parents so it's probably a good thing to have given it some thought. I on the other hand only ever knew one thing about my mom's funeral.

We had to play the song.

Since I was a small girl, when the song came on the radio my mom would say "When I die, I want this song to be played at my funeral. I want it to be LOUD - I want the church to SHAKE. And everyone has to sing and dance and celebrate me. I LOVE this song."

The song was SPIRIT IN THE SKY. What that meant was for the past 40 something years any time that song came on I'd get a lump in my throat considering the mortality of my own mother. It never really seemed possible. My mom wasn't going to die, I certainly wasn't going to play that damn song.

And then our mom did die.

This is our "we're smiling bcse we're not sure what to do" funeral photo of us all together.

We went with cremation and while I was ambivalent but OK with it when Matt and I discussed it, I realized how much that decision helped me when I walked into the church. I've been in funeral homes and churches many times with the dead. Sometimes they were people I loved. Sometimes they were random people my Grandma or Grandpa knew and we were "calling" because that's what you do. But having said that, and seen all that, I know that had I been required to stand in a room with my mother's dead body I would probably have had a nervous breakdown. I slip close to a breakdown when I even consider it too much.

The home where Dad lives arranged for him to be able to be there with us.

We got a quick pic of him with us and his girl grandchildren when he arrived. He did a great job really, despite being sad. He recognized people and had conversations with everyone. I was so glad he was there, it seemed unnatural to me that a husband not be at his wife's funeral. I guess this is something that nursing homes have to deal with and getting him there wasn't a problem at all.

The people who came were the people we loved. There were pictures for everyone to see of her with her family and this great slide show with so many wonderful pictures. Those of us in the know howled because there were some great pictures included, they just happened to be photos from "the camp" where dad was for a few years. We called those "awkward family photos" since not everyone has family photos taken inside a federal prison facility.

Yes we were actually laughing at the funeral. It was oddly wonderful like that.

Some of my best friends in the world were able to come, I didn't get a photo of everyone but after the family dinner I got one of three of the people who aren't friends, but the family I choose. They're people I have known since forever and who maybe see me once a year although Jeff hasn't seen me in years and years. They're the people I still love fiercely, and who know me better than people who see me every day. When we sat down to eat Tim looked at me and said "You're shaking eat some protein." It's probably been 20 years since we've talked about my low blood sugar. I was amazed.

I had warned everyone I knew about the playing of the song, and after the lovely doddering old minister who was a bit Pythonesque (honestly I loved this dude, if I dropped dead right now I'd want him because he was both sweet AND funny) and the case of the dangling repairman's legs out the window (thanks for doing work during my mother's funeral) I stood up and announced that we were going to honor our mother's wish.

She'd told me when I was home that she though April's church might be a good place to do her funeral because of the sound system. She'd given me the thumbs up sign and a smile when she said it. So there we were on a early Friday afternoon, and I stood before a gathering of friends and family and announced that we were going to dance and sing - and I gave the guy in the alcove the thumbs up.

He didn't disappoint.

My entire life I thought that dancing and singing upon my mother's death wasn't something I could or would ever do. There are all sorts of funeral rituals around the world and I've read some weird things people do to honor their parents. I've always wondered how they manage, how do you do it? How can you do ANYTHING when your parent has died?

What I learned is that when it's the last thing you can do for them, it's not so hard. I danced, I sang, I cried a little but very little. I made Pete dance with me. It's what my mom wanted. She spent our whole life preparing us for the day that we had to deal with her being dead, and she gave us a song to celebrate her life and to make it a moment where we smiled and laughed.

The song wasn't for her. It was for us. I never once realized that until it was over. It was the last thing she ever gave us as our mother, but it was powerful and important. It changed the day into a sad but also somehow wonderful day, it was an amazing gift.

After we ate a meal prepared by Christian women (nod to Steel Magnolias) the family ended up wandering into the church's gym and then something else wonderful happened. Everyone ended  up playing volleyball.

Everyone laughed and squealed and played, and it was just this amazing thing that wasn't planned but just happened as naturally as can be.

With that we'd done our obligations as children, as humans, as residents of this planet, by honoring our mother the best we could and giving her what we promised. I realized much later she had said she wanted balloons and I totally forgot all about it. I figure she'd forgive me. We'd hugged the people we loved and had been reminded what family means to us. And we played the song.

The song that was for us, and not actually for her at all.

I share it with you now. It's the best thing my mother ever gave me.
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Dreaming Dreams Of What Used To Be

I never really spent much time considering my mother's funeral in terms of what it would be like. I suppose that's mostly because it wasn't something I wanted to think about for any damn reason, ever. That's probably dumb, because most people end up burying their parents so it's probably a good thing to have given it some thought. I on the other hand only ever knew one thing about my mom's funeral.

We had to play the song.

Since I was a small girl, when the song came on the radio my mom would say "When I die, I want this song to be played at my funeral. I want it to be LOUD - I want the church to SHAKE. And everyone has to sing and dance and celebrate me. I LOVE this song."

The song was SPIRIT IN THE SKY. What that meant was for the past 40 something years any time that song came on I'd get a lump in my throat considering the mortality of my own mother. It never really seemed possible. My mom wasn't going to die, I certainly wasn't going to play that damn song.

And then our mom did die.

This is our "we're smiling bcse we're not sure what to do" funeral photo of us all together.

We went with cremation and while I was ambivalent but OK with it when Matt and I discussed it, I realized how much that decision helped me when I walked into the church. I've been in funeral homes and churches many times with the dead. Sometimes they were people I loved. Sometimes they were random people my Grandma or Grandpa knew and we were "calling" because that's what you do. But having said that, and seen all that, I know that had I been required to stand in a room with my mother's dead body I would probably have had a nervous breakdown. I slip close to a breakdown when I even consider it too much.

The home where Dad lives arranged for him to be able to be there with us.

We got a quick pic of him with us and his girl grandchildren when he arrived. He did a great job really, despite being sad. He recognized people and had conversations with everyone. I was so glad he was there, it seemed unnatural to me that a husband not be at his wife's funeral. I guess this is something that nursing homes have to deal with and getting him there wasn't a problem at all.

The people who came were the people we loved. There were pictures for everyone to see of her with her family and this great slide show with so many wonderful pictures. Those of us in the know howled because there were some great pictures included, they just happened to be photos from "the camp" where dad was for a few years. We called those "awkward family photos" since not everyone has family photos taken inside a federal prison facility.

Yes we were actually laughing at the funeral. It was oddly wonderful like that.

Some of my best friends in the world were able to come, I didn't get a photo of everyone but after the family dinner I got one of three of the people who aren't friends, but the family I choose. They're people I have known since forever and who maybe see me once a year although Jeff hasn't seen me in years and years. They're the people I still love fiercely, and who know me better than people who see me every day. When we sat down to eat Tim looked at me and said "You're shaking eat some protein." It's probably been 20 years since we've talked about my low blood sugar. I was amazed.

I had warned everyone I knew about the playing of the song, and after the lovely doddering old minister who was a bit Pythonesque (honestly I loved this dude, if I dropped dead right now I'd want him because he was both sweet AND funny) and the case of the dangling repairman's legs out the window (thanks for doing work during my mother's funeral) I stood up and announced that we were going to honor our mother's wish.

She'd told me when I was home that she though April's church might be a good place to do her funeral because of the sound system. She'd given me the thumbs up sign and a smile when she said it. So there we were on a early Friday afternoon, and I stood before a gathering of friends and family and announced that we were going to dance and sing - and I gave the guy in the alcove the thumbs up.

He didn't disappoint.

My entire life I thought that dancing and singing upon my mother's death wasn't something I could or would ever do. There are all sorts of funeral rituals around the world and I've read some weird things people do to honor their parents. I've always wondered how they manage, how do you do it? How can you do ANYTHING when your parent has died?

What I learned is that when it's the last thing you can do for them, it's not so hard. I danced, I sang, I cried a little but very little. I made Pete dance with me. It's what my mom wanted. She spent our whole life preparing us for the day that we had to deal with her being dead, and she gave us a song to celebrate her life and to make it a moment where we smiled and laughed.

The song wasn't for her. It was for us. I never once realized that until it was over. It was the last thing she ever gave us as our mother, but it was powerful and important. It changed the day into a sad but also somehow wonderful day, it was an amazing gift.

After we ate a meal prepared by Christian women (nod to Steel Magnolias) the family ended up wandering into the church's gym and then something else wonderful happened. Everyone ended  up playing volleyball.

Everyone laughed and squealed and played, and it was just this amazing thing that wasn't planned but just happened as naturally as can be.

With that we'd done our obligations as children, as humans, as residents of this planet, by honoring our mother the best we could and giving her what we promised. I realized much later she had said she wanted balloons and I totally forgot all about it. I figure she'd forgive me. We'd hugged the people we loved and had been reminded what family means to us. And we played the song.

The song that was for us, and not actually for her at all.

I share it with you now. It's the best thing my mother ever gave me.
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...but I Don't Know Where To Start

There's a lot of work to do to get ready for a funeral. There's the funeral work. My brother did that. He asked me a lot of questions, getting my opinion. Luckily, being raised by the same mother we're in sync with so many things that it wasn't a battle or an ordeal. He'd call and say "I'm thinking this" and I was so thankful he'd thought of something I didn't find any reason to find fault with it.

I'm grateful for that. I know some people have to deal with their grief in addition to sudden battles over burial or cremation, viewing or not, what prayers what songs, what what what what? It becomes a power struggle. Maybe it's an ego struggle as everyone pushes their own agenda. I don't know because it wasn't my experience. My brother had good ideas as we walked toward this new experience together and I was grateful for them.

On my end there was the travel. There is the travel prep and then there is the travel itself. I'm not sure which is more tiring.

We acquired dresses and suits and ties, and checked the tires. Preparations were made of various sorts as we got ready to head north.But most importantly, we had to tell our kids.

Everyone knew that Grandma was very sick and wouldn't live long. I suppose that's the reason no one questioned this sudden flurry of shopping. But my brother and I had agreed to tell our children at about the same time before we did a general announcement in the land of social media and as the sun set I got his message that he had told his children.

My turn.

We were sitting in Chilli's having a typical sub-par meal and so at one point I shared the information with them. I felt numb as I said the words. "Grandma died today."

They stared at me with blank faces, but the calm might have been more disturbing than a huge outburst. They acknowledged what I had said, and seemed sad but at the same time I don't know what I expected. A friend of mine recently said "Dammit feel my shit the way I want you to" as a joke. But that's how I felt. I wanted someone else to feel as gutted as me and I felt guilty for wanting it to be my children, I guess I just wanted to not feel so alone in this pain. I worried and worried about how they would take it. Then they took it with sadness but calm and I felt like they didn't seem to care as much as I wanted them to.

Then I felt bad for feeling like that.

I remember when my Grandpa died, with whom was I was very close. My mom was her Daddy's girl and by the same token so was I. When he died I was devastated. I remember crying and crying when my daddy told me. But then after that I don't remember really crying again in the immediate days after. I remember getting a new dress at Newkirks which was the best shop in town. I remember being very impressed by this dress.

I remember the spectacle of it all being actually quite fun, so many people and so much visiting plus all the food. It wasn't bad. It was happy because of all the love and family being around.

I suppose that then it shouldn't have surprised me that despite my own sadness, my children found fun and activity on the way there.

There was coloring and laughing at dinner on our stop and I couldn't any fault with that at all.

Julia made a treasure map to get to the funeral. All maps are treasure maps it seems. I can't find any fault with that either.

We crossed rivers and states and traveled north to the land where our people live and our people have died. It was a long drive and it was past bed time when we rolled in.

Nickajack is always one of my favorite views on the trip. At least the trip is scenic.


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...but I Don't Know Where To Start

There's a lot of work to do to get ready for a funeral. There's the funeral work. My brother did that. He asked me a lot of questions, getting my opinion. Luckily, being raised by the same mother we're in sync with so many things that it wasn't a battle or an ordeal. He'd call and say "I'm thinking this" and I was so thankful he'd thought of something I didn't find any reason to find fault with it.

I'm grateful for that. I know some people have to deal with their grief in addition to sudden battles over burial or cremation, viewing or not, what prayers what songs, what what what what? It becomes a power struggle. Maybe it's an ego struggle as everyone pushes their own agenda. I don't know because it wasn't my experience. My brother had good ideas as we walked toward this new experience together and I was grateful for them.

On my end there was the travel. There is the travel prep and then there is the travel itself. I'm not sure which is more tiring.

We acquired dresses and suits and ties, and checked the tires. Preparations were made of various sorts as we got ready to head north.But most importantly, we had to tell our kids.

Everyone knew that Grandma was very sick and wouldn't live long. I suppose that's the reason no one questioned this sudden flurry of shopping. But my brother and I had agreed to tell our children at about the same time before we did a general announcement in the land of social media and as the sun set I got his message that he had told his children.

My turn.

We were sitting in Chilli's having a typical sub-par meal and so at one point I shared the information with them. I felt numb as I said the words. "Grandma died today."

They stared at me with blank faces, but the calm might have been more disturbing than a huge outburst. They acknowledged what I had said, and seemed sad but at the same time I don't know what I expected. A friend of mine recently said "Dammit feel my shit the way I want you to" as a joke. But that's how I felt. I wanted someone else to feel as gutted as me and I felt guilty for wanting it to be my children, I guess I just wanted to not feel so alone in this pain. I worried and worried about how they would take it. Then they took it with sadness but calm and I felt like they didn't seem to care as much as I wanted them to.

Then I felt bad for feeling like that.

I remember when my Grandpa died, with whom was I was very close. My mom was her Daddy's girl and by the same token so was I. When he died I was devastated. I remember crying and crying when my daddy told me. But then after that I don't remember really crying again in the immediate days after. I remember getting a new dress at Newkirks which was the best shop in town. I remember being very impressed by this dress.

I remember the spectacle of it all being actually quite fun, so many people and so much visiting plus all the food. It wasn't bad. It was happy because of all the love and family being around.

I suppose that then it shouldn't have surprised me that despite my own sadness, my children found fun and activity on the way there.

There was coloring and laughing at dinner on our stop and I couldn't any fault with that at all.

Julia made a treasure map to get to the funeral. All maps are treasure maps it seems. I can't find any fault with that either.

We crossed rivers and states and traveled north to the land where our people live and our people have died. It was a long drive and it was past bed time when we rolled in.

Nickajack is always one of my favorite views on the trip. At least the trip is scenic.


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How Fragile We Are

On September first I woke up at six am and saw multiple phone calls plus a text from my brother to call him. There were from 4:15 in the morning.

I knew what that meant.

On August 31st I had this thought, "My mom just needs to die." She was suffering, in a coma, she was drugged but in obvious distress. My brother made sure she got more medication to calm her. I sat at my desk and realized that my mother not only was going to die, but she NEEDED to die.

And die she did.

My mom died. In a facility, alone, exactly how she wanted to go so that she wasn't a bother to her family, so that medical professionals could handle the unpleasant side of her death, my mom's heart stopped probably from a build up of ammonia and other toxins. She fell into sleep then coma, and drifted away from us forever.

My mom died.

It's exactly one week later and I can't quite get my mind around it. I'm wearing her wedding ring, and my grandmas engagement rings stacked with my own and I still can't get over it. It's one thing to intellectually know that your parents are going to die some day. It's another thing for you to know your parent is terminally ill and see how ravaged they are by what is killing them. Its yet another thing to hear them talking about their funeral, seeing them and knowing they are totally ok with this death thing that's coming.

And when they die, it is yet STILL another thing and it's possibly the worst thing ever.

What puzzles me is that this pain, this grief, isn't unique. I know so many people whose parents have died and I amazed at how they are upright and functioning humans. How is it possible that a grief this wracking, this soul searing can fade? How does anyone recover from this?

You just do.

I don't know how yet. I know people who lost parents as children, and as old people, and they all still function so I know you do. Somehow we go on and life continues. I know for me I went to work about 2 and a half hours after learning my mother was dead. I went to have conversations and gather things and send messages and tidy up what needed to be sorted. I found having occupation kept me moving forward. Had I stayed home and done nothing I might have collapsed on myself like a neutron star. The weight of this grief is still oppressive, pressing down on me as though I weigh 500 pounds.

I came home from work and ate junk for breakfast.

Grief loves carbs.

There are major milestones in all lives. I just crossed one of the bad ones. And now I move forward into the rest of my life, using everything she ever taught me to be the person I am.




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How Fragile We Are

On September first I woke up at six am and saw multiple phone calls plus a text from my brother to call him. There were from 4:15 in the morning.

I knew what that meant.

On August 31st I had this thought, "My mom just needs to die." She was suffering, in a coma, she was drugged but in obvious distress. My brother made sure she got more medication to calm her. I sat at my desk and realized that my mother not only was going to die, but she NEEDED to die.

And die she did.

My mom died. In a facility, alone, exactly how she wanted to go so that she wasn't a bother to her family, so that medical professionals could handle the unpleasant side of her death, my mom's heart stopped probably from a build up of ammonia and other toxins. She fell into sleep then coma, and drifted away from us forever.

My mom died.

It's exactly one week later and I can't quite get my mind around it. I'm wearing her wedding ring, and my grandmas engagement rings stacked with my own and I still can't get over it. It's one thing to intellectually know that your parents are going to die some day. It's another thing for you to know your parent is terminally ill and see how ravaged they are by what is killing them. Its yet another thing to hear them talking about their funeral, seeing them and knowing they are totally ok with this death thing that's coming.

And when they die, it is yet STILL another thing and it's possibly the worst thing ever.

What puzzles me is that this pain, this grief, isn't unique. I know so many people whose parents have died and I amazed at how they are upright and functioning humans. How is it possible that a grief this wracking, this soul searing can fade? How does anyone recover from this?

You just do.

I don't know how yet. I know people who lost parents as children, and as old people, and they all still function so I know you do. Somehow we go on and life continues. I know for me I went to work about 2 and a half hours after learning my mother was dead. I went to have conversations and gather things and send messages and tidy up what needed to be sorted. I found having occupation kept me moving forward. Had I stayed home and done nothing I might have collapsed on myself like a neutron star. The weight of this grief is still oppressive, pressing down on me as though I weigh 500 pounds.

I came home from work and ate junk for breakfast.

Grief loves carbs.

There are major milestones in all lives. I just crossed one of the bad ones. And now I move forward into the rest of my life, using everything she ever taught me to be the person I am.




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On Any Other Day

Saturday started out with a trip to the Farmer's Market with my Sister in Law.  It was a little weird, this tiny little hamlet that I grew up in, that I couldn't wait to get away from my entire childhood has grown into this interesting little place with lots to make it not only palatable - but actually enjoyable.

She bought me a raspberry tea that was fresh and amazing. I bought some cake balls that were equally amazing. I got mom a carrot cake one that she never felt well enough to eat while I was there. 

It's weird how when someone you love is deathly ill, you can still go out and do things like the world isn't ending. Mom was really looking forward to some Cinnamon twist things, she grinned and licked her lips like a little kids when she was promised them. We acquired those, and eggs, and treats for the kids before we left. 

Back home Mom was still Mom. Not well at all. But my Aunts came and visited and we all sat and told stories and laughed for a long while. Mom talked about her funeral with them, just casually, like she was talking about a gathering she was planning. Well, I guess that is exactly what it is. She made sure they also knew that she wants Spirit in the Sky played loudly, and everyone has to sing. Matt and I laughed about how that song has been ruined for us forever. Mom got worn out very easily by so much talking, and we decided to go out for a couple of hours to let her sleep.

The Beer and Bluegrass festival was going on in downtown Franklin so Matt & I took the girls and met up with the Aunties. 

The town I grew up in was uptight. We didn't walk around downtown and drink beer. In fact, you didn't drink in bars downtown. You joined private clubs and drank there so you didn't have to drink with the Riff Raff.  Listening to music while trying new to me beers from various beer trucks on the courthouse square was both surreal and a sort of amazingly therapeutic. I was home, in a home that never was, and I was with lots of people I love. There was music and beer and for a while nobody was sick, it was just a small town full of people who's last names I know and quietly judge them for.

Sorry I can't help that - that habit was bred into my bones.

My mom wasn't great when we got back. Too tired, drifting when we talked, hands bouncing - a sign of ammonia building up due to her stupid liver not doing it's job. 

You had one job, liver. You asshole.

I laid down in bed and surfed the net and thought about the fact that despite the reality that I wanted to go home, I also never wanted to leave. I wanted to go into Mom's room and talk nonstop. I was sorry I moved away. I missed so many years. I should've been there, with my parents as they aged. 

Except that isn't who they raised me to be. 

When I was 7 my mom nearly died giving birth to my sister, who did die during delivery. My mom says that while she was bleeding out, and they were hanging more and more blood trying to save her, she looked over in the corner of the delivery room - knowing her baby was dead, thinking she was about to die, and she saw my grandfather standing there in the corner.

She said she wasn't scared, she wasn't even worried. She said she knew I was strong and smart, and that I would be just fine. She said she wasn't sad that the baby was dead because she believed Grandpa would take the baby and that if she died she'd go with them and it would all be ok.

She didn't die, but she truly looked like she was nearly dead when next I saw her two weeks later. 

It seems wrong to consider that it's only been 39 years since that happened. Almost exactly 36 years, as it was August 16th - they day she almost died. I can't get my mind around the idea that my mom is going to die soon, and she only lived another 39 years from the day she almost bled to death. Is 39 years a long time in those terms or not? I don't know. It seems too small to me. 

I didn't take any pictures of my mom or my dad when I was home, which seems weird if you know me. But I don't want to remember them declining and dying. I want to remember them full of life - my parents who weren't being betrayed by biology.

But I have probably one of the last great pictures my mom took before her illness took such a grave toll on her, and even then she wasn't well at all.

It was last year in September that we rushed home, because my mom's condition had become so serious. 

I feel like I wasn't prepared for what serious is. 

Now we're in it. I'm still not prepared.

On Any Other Day

Saturday started out with a trip to the Farmer's Market with my Sister in Law.  It was a little weird, this tiny little hamlet that I grew up in, that I couldn't wait to get away from my entire childhood has grown into this interesting little place with lots to make it not only palatable - but actually enjoyable.

She bought me a raspberry tea that was fresh and amazing. I bought some cake balls that were equally amazing. I got mom a carrot cake one that she never felt well enough to eat while I was there. 

It's weird how when someone you love is deathly ill, you can still go out and do things like the world isn't ending. Mom was really looking forward to some Cinnamon twist things, she grinned and licked her lips like a little kids when she was promised them. We acquired those, and eggs, and treats for the kids before we left. 

Back home Mom was still Mom. Not well at all. But my Aunts came and visited and we all sat and told stories and laughed for a long while. Mom talked about her funeral with them, just casually, like she was talking about a gathering she was planning. Well, I guess that is exactly what it is. She made sure they also knew that she wants Spirit in the Sky played loudly, and everyone has to sing. Matt and I laughed about how that song has been ruined for us forever. Mom got worn out very easily by so much talking, and we decided to go out for a couple of hours to let her sleep.

The Beer and Bluegrass festival was going on in downtown Franklin so Matt & I took the girls and met up with the Aunties. 

The town I grew up in was uptight. We didn't walk around downtown and drink beer. In fact, you didn't drink in bars downtown. You joined private clubs and drank there so you didn't have to drink with the Riff Raff.  Listening to music while trying new to me beers from various beer trucks on the courthouse square was both surreal and a sort of amazingly therapeutic. I was home, in a home that never was, and I was with lots of people I love. There was music and beer and for a while nobody was sick, it was just a small town full of people who's last names I know and quietly judge them for.

Sorry I can't help that - that habit was bred into my bones.

My mom wasn't great when we got back. Too tired, drifting when we talked, hands bouncing - a sign of ammonia building up due to her stupid liver not doing it's job. 

You had one job, liver. You asshole.

I laid down in bed and surfed the net and thought about the fact that despite the reality that I wanted to go home, I also never wanted to leave. I wanted to go into Mom's room and talk nonstop. I was sorry I moved away. I missed so many years. I should've been there, with my parents as they aged. 

Except that isn't who they raised me to be. 

When I was 7 my mom nearly died giving birth to my sister, who did die during delivery. My mom says that while she was bleeding out, and they were hanging more and more blood trying to save her, she looked over in the corner of the delivery room - knowing her baby was dead, thinking she was about to die, and she saw my grandfather standing there in the corner.

She said she wasn't scared, she wasn't even worried. She said she knew I was strong and smart, and that I would be just fine. She said she wasn't sad that the baby was dead because she believed Grandpa would take the baby and that if she died she'd go with them and it would all be ok.

She didn't die, but she truly looked like she was nearly dead when next I saw her two weeks later. 

It seems wrong to consider that it's only been 39 years since that happened. Almost exactly 36 years, as it was August 16th - they day she almost died. I can't get my mind around the idea that my mom is going to die soon, and she only lived another 39 years from the day she almost bled to death. Is 39 years a long time in those terms or not? I don't know. It seems too small to me. 

I didn't take any pictures of my mom or my dad when I was home, which seems weird if you know me. But I don't want to remember them declining and dying. I want to remember them full of life - my parents who weren't being betrayed by biology.

But I have probably one of the last great pictures my mom took before her illness took such a grave toll on her, and even then she wasn't well at all.

It was last year in September that we rushed home, because my mom's condition had become so serious. 

I feel like I wasn't prepared for what serious is. 

Now we're in it. I'm still not prepared.

Caught Between The Scylla and Charybdis

Lately it feels like it's a nonstop conversation about which of our parents is in the hospital, between my brother and I. Now it's Mom, again to have fluid drained out of her, again to have batteries of tests. She was weak and unwell again, so back in to the IU Med center she went. Liver failure is one hell of a thing.

My mom is trying to get on the transplant list, and I'm cautiously hopeful it can happen. When they've had her in the hospital and gotten her drained, she sounds like herself, like my mom. When she sounds like my mom, relief washes over me. Things are better. I continue to hope.

My dad though, my dad is a different story. If liver failure is one hell of a thing, dementia is it's drunk, bastard uncle. He can be belligerent. He can be childlike. He's sad a lot. He almost seems to be in a fog, I wish I knew what was in that fog with him. I'm hoping it's not despair and loneliness. I talk to him nearly daily, probably every three days is the longest stretch I ever go unless he's in the hospital. Add to it a host of medical problems of varied, nebulous nature. It's not a good combination.

Our conversations are often very short, but usually I can engage him in at least one or two real things. He likes to hear about my kids, and I tell him the simplest version of whatever we are talking about as he struggles with his attention span. He asks me about my pool. He is enamored of the fact that my brother and I both have a pool, this was always a dream of his. He asks me if I am traveling, he likes to hear about where I am. I tell him if we are doing anything special. I tell him happy things.

Today I talked to him about Mom being in the hospital, and I assured him I had JUST talked to her and she sounds great. I tell him they drained a liter off her lung and she feels much better. He agrees that this is good, but his voice is weak, distant. I ask him how he is today, and he says "I'm pretty far down." I ask if anything is going on that's wrong and he says no. I tell him I have a flight to come home next Friday and I will be coming to see him, and he says "Ok we'll see if I have time."

Ominous portent or dementia? Or both?

I'm glad I made up with my dad. Over five years ago we had a terrible confrontation. I realize now that even then, dementia was taking hold of him, as he was irrational. He had told me I was dead to him, my children weren't his grandchildren and other sundry, horrible things that no parent should ever say to their child. It was so crazy that I was terrified for my mother at that time. That was his response to being asked not to say racist stuff. That was actually the second time we'd had that SAME confrontation with him, and each time after being asked not to say racist stuff he would explode in this absolutely insane rage, exploding with hatefulness at me and kicking me out of my own family.

I forgive him because as I look back, and see how irrational it all was, I see it as steps on the path to where we are now. I forgive him because when I was little he took me to ride my Big Wheel at the college where they had huge long sidewalks. I forgive him because when I was 5 and inside the Jaycee's Haunted house, I became afraid and went and hid - and they had to shut it down and send my dad inside to fetch me - and he did & wasn't mad. I forgive him because he would go on Brownie day trips with us, and sing "Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley" loudly in the back of the bus. I forgive him because he was the President of the PTA, and made sure we got new playground equipment. I forgive him because he punched a guy in the face who called my grandpa a crook the week after he died. I forgive him because he's the one who told me our baby died, and he's the one who told me my grandpa died, and he's the one who told me Grandma Daisy died. I forgive him because my entire life he felt bad that he didn't let me go see Shawn Cassidy when I was six like I really really really wanted to.

I forgive him because he's my dad. I forgive him because children of alcoholics accept the unacceptable,but also mostly just because he's my dad.

So I'm gonna fly home next Friday. I hope he's got time on his calendar to see me.


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Caught Between The Scylla and Charybdis

Lately it feels like it's a nonstop conversation about which of our parents is in the hospital, between my brother and I. Now it's Mom, again to have fluid drained out of her, again to have batteries of tests. She was weak and unwell again, so back in to the IU Med center she went. Liver failure is one hell of a thing.

My mom is trying to get on the transplant list, and I'm cautiously hopeful it can happen. When they've had her in the hospital and gotten her drained, she sounds like herself, like my mom. When she sounds like my mom, relief washes over me. Things are better. I continue to hope.

My dad though, my dad is a different story. If liver failure is one hell of a thing, dementia is it's drunk, bastard uncle. He can be belligerent. He can be childlike. He's sad a lot. He almost seems to be in a fog, I wish I knew what was in that fog with him. I'm hoping it's not despair and loneliness. I talk to him nearly daily, probably every three days is the longest stretch I ever go unless he's in the hospital. Add to it a host of medical problems of varied, nebulous nature. It's not a good combination.

Our conversations are often very short, but usually I can engage him in at least one or two real things. He likes to hear about my kids, and I tell him the simplest version of whatever we are talking about as he struggles with his attention span. He asks me about my pool. He is enamored of the fact that my brother and I both have a pool, this was always a dream of his. He asks me if I am traveling, he likes to hear about where I am. I tell him if we are doing anything special. I tell him happy things.

Today I talked to him about Mom being in the hospital, and I assured him I had JUST talked to her and she sounds great. I tell him they drained a liter off her lung and she feels much better. He agrees that this is good, but his voice is weak, distant. I ask him how he is today, and he says "I'm pretty far down." I ask if anything is going on that's wrong and he says no. I tell him I have a flight to come home next Friday and I will be coming to see him, and he says "Ok we'll see if I have time."

Ominous portent or dementia? Or both?

I'm glad I made up with my dad. Over five years ago we had a terrible confrontation. I realize now that even then, dementia was taking hold of him, as he was irrational. He had told me I was dead to him, my children weren't his grandchildren and other sundry, horrible things that no parent should ever say to their child. It was so crazy that I was terrified for my mother at that time. That was his response to being asked not to say racist stuff. That was actually the second time we'd had that SAME confrontation with him, and each time after being asked not to say racist stuff he would explode in this absolutely insane rage, exploding with hatefulness at me and kicking me out of my own family.

I forgive him because as I look back, and see how irrational it all was, I see it as steps on the path to where we are now. I forgive him because when I was little he took me to ride my Big Wheel at the college where they had huge long sidewalks. I forgive him because when I was 5 and inside the Jaycee's Haunted house, I became afraid and went and hid - and they had to shut it down and send my dad inside to fetch me - and he did & wasn't mad. I forgive him because he would go on Brownie day trips with us, and sing "Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley" loudly in the back of the bus. I forgive him because he was the President of the PTA, and made sure we got new playground equipment. I forgive him because he punched a guy in the face who called my grandpa a crook the week after he died. I forgive him because he's the one who told me our baby died, and he's the one who told me my grandpa died, and he's the one who told me Grandma Daisy died. I forgive him because my entire life he felt bad that he didn't let me go see Shawn Cassidy when I was six like I really really really wanted to.

I forgive him because he's my dad. I forgive him because children of alcoholics accept the unacceptable,but also mostly just because he's my dad.

So I'm gonna fly home next Friday. I hope he's got time on his calendar to see me.


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We Had to Do ALL The Things

But FIRST we had to do the important things. Important being hugs with Grandma and Grandpa - or Papa as Julia has decided to call him. We'd never been to their new place and it was an adventure of things to do, as Grandma's houses always are.

Grandma had COLORING BOOKS! Who KNEW other people could have things like COLORING BOOKS?? And she had lots of them.
We had dinner at one of our favorite chains from back when we lived there, and I swear I don't recall the food at all. Was it because it was just average or I was just so excited to see my parents? I don't know. It was Max and Erma's and we got burgers but eh, it's just a burger.

The twins thought Grandpa was awesome. We had to wait a while, which went really well, oddly. the waitress brought us sidewalk chalk to entertain little people.

We aren't good with waits usually, as Miles and Charlie won't tolerate them well but this time it all went well.
Of course the best part of any trip to Max and Erma's is the Sundae Bar. Right?

I wish my kids could've seen the OLD SUNDAE BAR because it was AWESOME. Max and Erma's has cheaped up the Sundae bar for sure, but hey, the kids didn't know the difference. It was still fun.

Julia thought it was awesome, obviously.

We decided that it wouldn't be right to come to Indy without heading for the Children's Museum, so we made that our plan for the next day.

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We Had to Do ALL The Things

But FIRST we had to do the important things. Important being hugs with Grandma and Grandpa - or Papa as Julia has decided to call him. We'd never been to their new place and it was an adventure of things to do, as Grandma's houses always are.

Grandma had COLORING BOOKS! Who KNEW other people could have things like COLORING BOOKS?? And she had lots of them.
We had dinner at one of our favorite chains from back when we lived there, and I swear I don't recall the food at all. Was it because it was just average or I was just so excited to see my parents? I don't know. It was Max and Erma's and we got burgers but eh, it's just a burger.

The twins thought Grandpa was awesome. We had to wait a while, which went really well, oddly. the waitress brought us sidewalk chalk to entertain little people.

We aren't good with waits usually, as Miles and Charlie won't tolerate them well but this time it all went well.
Of course the best part of any trip to Max and Erma's is the Sundae Bar. Right?

I wish my kids could've seen the OLD SUNDAE BAR because it was AWESOME. Max and Erma's has cheaped up the Sundae bar for sure, but hey, the kids didn't know the difference. It was still fun.

Julia thought it was awesome, obviously.

We decided that it wouldn't be right to come to Indy without heading for the Children's Museum, so we made that our plan for the next day.

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Welcome To Atlanta - Have You Seen Our Dinosaurs?

Grandma, Aunt Suz and Debbie rolled into town on Thursday. You KNOW we had to take them down to the Fernbank to see the Dinos!



We took them to the IN THE DARK EXHIBIT and made them try to do projects blind.
Heehee! There is no escape until you solve our puzzle in the dark!

It's fun to bring your family to town and then make them do puzzles. While I was looking at these pictures I was thinking "BEFORE YOU LEAVE ATLANTA YOU MUST SOLVE MY RIDDLES MORTAL!"
I dunno, it just made me laugh.

Don't forget to pop over to Props and Pans to enter to win some PIN UP BALM! Totally the best lip balm I have ever used in the history of the world.

Welcome To Atlanta - Have You Seen Our Dinosaurs?

Grandma, Aunt Suz and Debbie rolled into town on Thursday. You KNOW we had to take them down to the Fernbank to see the Dinos!



We took them to the IN THE DARK EXHIBIT and made them try to do projects blind.
Heehee! There is no escape until you solve our puzzle in the dark!

It's fun to bring your family to town and then make them do puzzles. While I was looking at these pictures I was thinking "BEFORE YOU LEAVE ATLANTA YOU MUST SOLVE MY RIDDLES MORTAL!"
I dunno, it just made me laugh.

Don't forget to pop over to Props and Pans to enter to win some PIN UP BALM! Totally the best lip balm I have ever used in the history of the world.