We're feeling especially introspective this year, for several reasons. Steve has a few, but I can definitely point to the moment of my mom's death as mine. That moment marked a major turning point in my life of not caring about Stupid Stuff. Not sure how long that will last at full-throttle, but I can't imagine it won't permanently affect my perspective long-term as well. Knowing that some day, I might be on a hospital bed with only moments left makes me realize I need to make life worth it.
We made our Bucket Lists on the drive home. What do we want to do before we die? I want to finish up those last few credits of my second Masters, because it irritates me to have to say 1 and 9/10ths of a Masters. The lack of closure and complicated explanations on my resume are part of it, but I also love education and want to have that be a major tentpole in my life. Get my PhD. Start a non-profit foundation. See the Wonders of the World. Make it to all 7 continents.
Both of us realized that most of our bullet points revolved around travel. That was one reason we decided to call our family complete at 3 kiddos, as the 4th one (previously planned on) seemed like it would change the flavor of our family. There were a lot of reasons we decided we were complete, but one reason in particular: We wanted to move our brood into the Older Kid stage, so we could take camping trips and travel abroad. Adding on another child seemed like Jack was starting to miss out on some childhood by having a pregnant mama (or new babe).
Our trip to Netherlands and the UK taught us (resolutely!) that we will never, ever, ever do International Toddler Travel again. Ever. But I can't wait until our kids are a bit older and we can rent an RV and go across the US or Europe. By then, I hope I'll have Steve convinced that this is actually a good idea. ;) The RV, not the travel. He's on board with that. I suspect the reservations about the RV are that he'd be stuck driving it while the rest of us have fun in the back. Neither of us would trust me with an oversized vehicle like that. My sense of space isn't that good, so it could be a disaster. So I could play Monopoly in the back with the kids, while Steve drives. Heehee.
Steve wants to do Ironman qualifiers all over the world. Apparently, those triathlons are the window into his "travel bug," and I'm delighted that his Bucket List had as many world destinations as mine did. Russia. Scandinavia. China. This is quite a shift from the Steve with whom I fell in love. When we were engaged, I asked him if we could do a honeymoon in Cambodia and Vietnam. When he realized I wasn't joking, he replied: "I've never left the United States. Let's start with Italy."
It's funny how people merge in marriage, isn't it? Or is it just us? I was the flighty vagabond when we met, and he wanted to stay in the Midwest and lead a stable existence. By the time we moved to Virginia Beach 7 years later, we couldn't tell whose idea it was in the first place. Steve wanted the adventure of a new place (and living close to the ocean), and I wanted the stability of picking our "perfect place" to spend the rest of our lives. It was interesting how our Bucket Lists were almost uncanny in our travel plans.
Now, we just need to get our kids old enough to carry their own suitcases. ;)
We both came back from Minnesota deciding to take life by the horns. Steve suggested getting the kids in bed and opening up that rum bottle I'd been carrying around with me since I went to Nicaragua. To put it into perspective, that rum was purchased prior to my relationship with Steve (about 12 years). I'd be too embarrassed to tally up how many moves I've had, where I packed up that rum in tissue and brought it to the next address. Definitely more than 10 moves. Yikes. What was I saving it for? We decided to use it for rum and cokes to toast our new Meaningful Life phase. We both hated the rum/coke combo (not that great), but it was still liberating to decide that we could make a special occasion anytime we wanted. What better use for that ancient Nicaraguan rum than to shift our lives towards more prioritization to the Important Things?
I think this is going to be a great year. My mom would be so happy to see how her life inspired me, even after her death.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Sweet Simone
There's something especially magical about knowing Simone is my last child. I savor the scents of her sweet little head. How silky baby skin feels. The awe that my Last Baby is mobile and can't be left unattended on the bed. Her sweet little chubby arms and roly-poly belly. And those wondrous eyes. She's so breathtakingly beautiful. Her little baby mouth. That tuft of hair that sticks up on the top of her head. Everything about her just seems like perfection and the miracle of new personhood.
When she was born, I was struck by her calm sense of peace about her. Such a gentle spirit. That's become even more notable to me now, as she was the perfect baby to be born into this time of loss. She has this look of "knowingness" about her. When I look at her little sleeping self, I just know that everything is going to be great. That life is about loving and doing and squeezing everything we can out of it. That giving this little person a childhood of love and hugs and giggles is the best way to bring meaning to life. And meaningful life seems like the best way to make sense out of any death, even the "good" deaths.
When she was born, I was struck by her calm sense of peace about her. Such a gentle spirit. That's become even more notable to me now, as she was the perfect baby to be born into this time of loss. She has this look of "knowingness" about her. When I look at her little sleeping self, I just know that everything is going to be great. That life is about loving and doing and squeezing everything we can out of it. That giving this little person a childhood of love and hugs and giggles is the best way to bring meaning to life. And meaningful life seems like the best way to make sense out of any death, even the "good" deaths.
Blogging about death
In the midst of my writings about the end of my mom's life, this woman was journalling about her own last days. She died in the same week as my mom.
I would have loved to know this woman.
lemmondrops.blogspot.com
I cannot even fathom knowing I was going to die while my children were still tiny. Unthinkable, that heartbreak. I was reading it tonight, and cried so hard when she talked about giving her son a pacifier for the first time - that nipple confusion was the least of his concerns at this point. Oh my. To look into my babies' eyes and know that they'll live their childhood without a mom?
I'm reminded about how grateful I am for the way things went with my mother's muscular dystrophy. We got more time than we were expecting with her. Craig commented that he was glad she didn't die in our childhood, and I do feel such a blessing that her passing was after we'd all moved out. Craig just went to the Group Home recently, and before that, her loss would have been more as a mothering figure than as the person we loved.
Death comes in so many ways.
I would have loved to know this woman.
lemmondrops.blogspot.com
I cannot even fathom knowing I was going to die while my children were still tiny. Unthinkable, that heartbreak. I was reading it tonight, and cried so hard when she talked about giving her son a pacifier for the first time - that nipple confusion was the least of his concerns at this point. Oh my. To look into my babies' eyes and know that they'll live their childhood without a mom?
I'm reminded about how grateful I am for the way things went with my mother's muscular dystrophy. We got more time than we were expecting with her. Craig commented that he was glad she didn't die in our childhood, and I do feel such a blessing that her passing was after we'd all moved out. Craig just went to the Group Home recently, and before that, her loss would have been more as a mothering figure than as the person we loved.
Death comes in so many ways.
Dear Mom...
This is the letter I wrote in lieu of a eulogy at my mom's funeral. I knew I couldn't get up and speak, as I'd cry so hard that no one would be able to understand what I was saying. Steve and I joked it would be like that scene with Will Ferrell in the phonebooth in "Anchorman," talking about his dog. I decided a letter photocopied would be better, so there was no threat of incoherency.
Dear Mom,
This is a letter I should have written earlier, so you could read it. You would finish it and say, “So you must have thought I did a few things right!” …and I’d laugh and say: “One or two.” Oh, Mom. You did so many things right.
I think of you often during the day. You once told me that kids will eat anything with a toothpick, and you were so right. I’ll add “with ketchup” and pass it along to my children when they’re parents. You taught me that babies love being stroked down the bridge of their noses. Once again…you were right. When I stroke my children’s faces before bed, I can distinctly remember how it felt to be tucked in by you. “Sleepy eyes,” we called it. I felt wrapped in this warmth as I snuggled into sleep, with a comfort only a mom can give.
Some things, much to your chagrin, I tossed off to the side as I grew up. I do wear white after Labor Day, I’m afraid. And, yes…I cut more than 4 pieces of meat at a time. I like mixing my food all up, and you hate that.
I swear now. You roll your eyes and assure Steve you never taught me to talk that way, and then you two smile at each other about my refusal to be lady-like. And eye-rolls aside, I always felt like you loved that streak in me that couldn’t be contained. I got that from you. And I love it about me. You tried to be conventional most times, even if it didn’t always work. And then showed up wearing hot pink pants to the birth of your grandson, which pretty much sums it all up.
And yet, the most important Mom-isms stuck. I write thank you cards. I put a dollar in the Salvation Army box every time I see one. I make dinner for anyone who had a baby or lost a loved one. I learned that from you.
My children will get sick of seeing me at school just like we did with you. You were at everything, even when I begged you to stay home from watching my sport games or spelling bees, in typical teenager form. But you refused to miss anything, and I suppose I never really wanted you to stay home. Remember that time you took a caffeine pill to stay awake during my band concert and still fell asleep? Oh, you hated those band concerts! It took me years to confess that after the first year or two, I basically lip-synced the flute. Thank goodness you found it as funny as I did, in hindsight.
You always tried to be home when we got home from school, and I came to rely on that consistency. If I’d had a bad day, I knew you’d sit at the kitchen table and talk it out no matter how long it took. As a parent, I wonder now if you fretted about getting dinner ready or all the things you needed to do. I never sensed that about you. There was no internal timer going off. You just sat and chatted and listened.
You gave me the love for writing that has underscored everything in my life. If I couldn’t write, I’m not sure what I would do. You read all my stories as a child, even the ones with no plot or climax of the story, and told me how much you loved my writing. What if you had told me I needed more plot? Less description? Perhaps I wouldn’t have writing in me anymore, because it had been criticized away. I really love how you believed in me.
And perhaps the greatest gift you passed on? That you did things. This is no small statement, as you had three children and we all ran in different directions. I never thought anything of the fact that you’d take the whole family to the movies or concerts or three-week road trips in the summer. Now I see how much effort you put in to raising children who loved to do things. How hard it must have been to have three children in the Minnesota winters, and bundling us up to go experience the world. You taught us to experience things. And I now pass that on to my children, and think of you every time I pile the kids in the car to hunt down some new discovery.
You will be missed more than words could possibly express, but you will always be remembered. I’ll tell stories of my mom’s crazy antics, like when you quoted Jesus as saying “Never judge a man until you walk a mile in his shoes.” (Umm…it was Elvis). Your quirky confusions gave us plenty of fodder to tease you, just as my children will no doubt love making fun of me. It’s part of the package. We all love those “Remember that time when Mom…” stories. Like the one about driving back to get your black pants? Classic.
I will think of you every Christmas as I write my Christmas letter. Hang my ornaments. You loved Christmas so much, and it seems tragic and yet meaningful to me that your death is now permanently tied into this season. That every year, I will decorate my tree and think of That Christmas when I lost you. But also, all those other Christmases when you made it magical for us. Your snow village houses. Decorating the tree the day after Thanksgiving. You loved creating those memories.
I love you, Mom. I hope you are at peace. And that you know how loved you are. I’m so proud to be your daughter.
Dear Mom,
This is a letter I should have written earlier, so you could read it. You would finish it and say, “So you must have thought I did a few things right!” …and I’d laugh and say: “One or two.” Oh, Mom. You did so many things right.
I think of you often during the day. You once told me that kids will eat anything with a toothpick, and you were so right. I’ll add “with ketchup” and pass it along to my children when they’re parents. You taught me that babies love being stroked down the bridge of their noses. Once again…you were right. When I stroke my children’s faces before bed, I can distinctly remember how it felt to be tucked in by you. “Sleepy eyes,” we called it. I felt wrapped in this warmth as I snuggled into sleep, with a comfort only a mom can give.
Some things, much to your chagrin, I tossed off to the side as I grew up. I do wear white after Labor Day, I’m afraid. And, yes…I cut more than 4 pieces of meat at a time. I like mixing my food all up, and you hate that.
I swear now. You roll your eyes and assure Steve you never taught me to talk that way, and then you two smile at each other about my refusal to be lady-like. And eye-rolls aside, I always felt like you loved that streak in me that couldn’t be contained. I got that from you. And I love it about me. You tried to be conventional most times, even if it didn’t always work. And then showed up wearing hot pink pants to the birth of your grandson, which pretty much sums it all up.
And yet, the most important Mom-isms stuck. I write thank you cards. I put a dollar in the Salvation Army box every time I see one. I make dinner for anyone who had a baby or lost a loved one. I learned that from you.
My children will get sick of seeing me at school just like we did with you. You were at everything, even when I begged you to stay home from watching my sport games or spelling bees, in typical teenager form. But you refused to miss anything, and I suppose I never really wanted you to stay home. Remember that time you took a caffeine pill to stay awake during my band concert and still fell asleep? Oh, you hated those band concerts! It took me years to confess that after the first year or two, I basically lip-synced the flute. Thank goodness you found it as funny as I did, in hindsight.
You always tried to be home when we got home from school, and I came to rely on that consistency. If I’d had a bad day, I knew you’d sit at the kitchen table and talk it out no matter how long it took. As a parent, I wonder now if you fretted about getting dinner ready or all the things you needed to do. I never sensed that about you. There was no internal timer going off. You just sat and chatted and listened.
You gave me the love for writing that has underscored everything in my life. If I couldn’t write, I’m not sure what I would do. You read all my stories as a child, even the ones with no plot or climax of the story, and told me how much you loved my writing. What if you had told me I needed more plot? Less description? Perhaps I wouldn’t have writing in me anymore, because it had been criticized away. I really love how you believed in me.
And perhaps the greatest gift you passed on? That you did things. This is no small statement, as you had three children and we all ran in different directions. I never thought anything of the fact that you’d take the whole family to the movies or concerts or three-week road trips in the summer. Now I see how much effort you put in to raising children who loved to do things. How hard it must have been to have three children in the Minnesota winters, and bundling us up to go experience the world. You taught us to experience things. And I now pass that on to my children, and think of you every time I pile the kids in the car to hunt down some new discovery.
You will be missed more than words could possibly express, but you will always be remembered. I’ll tell stories of my mom’s crazy antics, like when you quoted Jesus as saying “Never judge a man until you walk a mile in his shoes.” (Umm…it was Elvis). Your quirky confusions gave us plenty of fodder to tease you, just as my children will no doubt love making fun of me. It’s part of the package. We all love those “Remember that time when Mom…” stories. Like the one about driving back to get your black pants? Classic.
I will think of you every Christmas as I write my Christmas letter. Hang my ornaments. You loved Christmas so much, and it seems tragic and yet meaningful to me that your death is now permanently tied into this season. That every year, I will decorate my tree and think of That Christmas when I lost you. But also, all those other Christmases when you made it magical for us. Your snow village houses. Decorating the tree the day after Thanksgiving. You loved creating those memories.
I love you, Mom. I hope you are at peace. And that you know how loved you are. I’m so proud to be your daughter.
Perfect Funeral
After my Grandma Nell died, I remember my mom saying after the service: "I loved her funeral. It was so beautiful." I thought that was strange at the time. How can you love a funeral? Now I get it. I absolutely loved my mother's funeral.
I don't understand how people can do a 3-day turnaround on funeral planning. Because of the holidays, we planned it for 10 days after her death. And we used almost all that time to make it exactly right for Mom.
I'm the "words" person, so I poured myself into the bulletin, a letter to photocopy for everyone, and finding verses and poems. My dad went through all the albums and made photo boards. We pulled framed pictures of her off the wall and set up a table of favorites.
We made an enlargement of her obit photo and framed it for the front of the service. It was a 20 x 24 picture, enlarged at Sam's, and Craig asked if he could put it in his room at the Group Home when we were done. I found that funny, but told him it was all his. My mother's giant face peering down at him while he slept? I love my mother, but that would be weird.
It was a relief to me to see how little I cared about the stressors of it. I spent hours (and hours) on that bulletin, but it didn't seem stressful. I knew it would be perfect to me just because of those hours, even if no one else cared about the particulars of it. I loved that little photo of my mom as a little girl, and spent about an hour figuring out how to do an oval cut-out of it instead of a rectangle. For some reason, this really mattered. And I knew it was time well-invested when I finally got the oval cut-out to work right, and teared up with joy.
Would my mom care about all those details? I'm not sure. She'd be most worried if people showed up, but there was no need for concern. The place was filled with people. So many people! Faces I'd never met before. From all over the country. I started crying the "ugly cry" when one of the women told me she used to sit next to my mom at Craig's Special Olympic games. For some reason, this was intensely beautiful to me and I could hardly speak through the tears. I guess people expect that from the daughter of the deceased, but it took me by surprise. I wondered what they'd talked about. What side of my mom this woman might have seen. And picturing my mom sitting in the bleachers watching Craig just seemed to sum up who my mom was as a mother.
My Dad's father sang. My mom always asked him to sing her Happy Birthday over the phone, and we joked that he should have sung that instead of "One Day At a Time." Candy sang "The Lord's Prayer," which was at both of my mom's parents' funeral. We were going to have the congregation sing "How Great Thou Art," but then we realized that my mom hated group hymns. She couldn't sing, so she'd just lip sync, and she couldn't stand well. So we axed that out of the order of service in her honor.
She'd wanted "You Raise Me Up" played as a tribute to my dad, as he helped her physically as she was getting weaker. Betty and Clay said they wouldn't be able to do that range, when she'd asked them to sing. We decided to play the CD, so that it was the same version we'd hear on the radio - and would bring back the memory of hearing it at the funeral. When the song started, all three of us kids started bawling. It felt really, really good to play the song my mom chose.
I'd had on my To Do list to buy yellow napkins, because she loved yellow. And while no one else would care, I knew I'd find some joy in those yellow napkins at the luncheon after the service. That in some small way, it was like my mom was there. That probably sounds silly. Sharon Beyer was doing the decorating, and emailed me to find out my mom's favorite color. My dad told me it would be in good hands with her, so I crossed off the napkins from my list. When I saw her centerpieces and the yellow flowers and tulle, I was so choked up. It was perfect.
When I graduated college and was looking for jobs, my mom took me shopping for interview clothes. She loved the brown blazer and skirt outfit, and I wore it to every job interview I've ever had. I called it my lucky suit, because I never interviewed for a job where I didn't get an offer. I was scared it wouldn't fit, since I still have a few pounds to lose after Simone was born. But even with the extra few pounds, it fit just perfectly. Strange. I wore her pearls and tennis bracelet, and kept touching her pearls during the service. Wondering where she'd worn them, and feeling really moved by the connection to her throughout the service.
A perfect funeral is one that just oozes the spirit of the person you lost. I loved the eulogies. The huge yellow sprays from Dad's siblings and parents. The perfect yellow roses from Cindy. So many things. It's impossible to get it all down.
There's such healing in a meaningful service. In the midst of the funeral planning for Mom, I interviewed both of my brothers about what they'd want for their own funerals. David wants to be cremated and in a blue urn. Craig wants to be buried in a Vikings jersey and helmet, and all the songs at the funeral should be hymns sung by Oak Ridge Boys. I took careful notes and will file them away...as I can see how honoring the wishes of the person feels good on so many levels.
It was a really beautiful way to say good-bye again to my mom.
I don't understand how people can do a 3-day turnaround on funeral planning. Because of the holidays, we planned it for 10 days after her death. And we used almost all that time to make it exactly right for Mom.
I'm the "words" person, so I poured myself into the bulletin, a letter to photocopy for everyone, and finding verses and poems. My dad went through all the albums and made photo boards. We pulled framed pictures of her off the wall and set up a table of favorites.
We made an enlargement of her obit photo and framed it for the front of the service. It was a 20 x 24 picture, enlarged at Sam's, and Craig asked if he could put it in his room at the Group Home when we were done. I found that funny, but told him it was all his. My mother's giant face peering down at him while he slept? I love my mother, but that would be weird.
It was a relief to me to see how little I cared about the stressors of it. I spent hours (and hours) on that bulletin, but it didn't seem stressful. I knew it would be perfect to me just because of those hours, even if no one else cared about the particulars of it. I loved that little photo of my mom as a little girl, and spent about an hour figuring out how to do an oval cut-out of it instead of a rectangle. For some reason, this really mattered. And I knew it was time well-invested when I finally got the oval cut-out to work right, and teared up with joy.
Would my mom care about all those details? I'm not sure. She'd be most worried if people showed up, but there was no need for concern. The place was filled with people. So many people! Faces I'd never met before. From all over the country. I started crying the "ugly cry" when one of the women told me she used to sit next to my mom at Craig's Special Olympic games. For some reason, this was intensely beautiful to me and I could hardly speak through the tears. I guess people expect that from the daughter of the deceased, but it took me by surprise. I wondered what they'd talked about. What side of my mom this woman might have seen. And picturing my mom sitting in the bleachers watching Craig just seemed to sum up who my mom was as a mother.
My Dad's father sang. My mom always asked him to sing her Happy Birthday over the phone, and we joked that he should have sung that instead of "One Day At a Time." Candy sang "The Lord's Prayer," which was at both of my mom's parents' funeral. We were going to have the congregation sing "How Great Thou Art," but then we realized that my mom hated group hymns. She couldn't sing, so she'd just lip sync, and she couldn't stand well. So we axed that out of the order of service in her honor.
She'd wanted "You Raise Me Up" played as a tribute to my dad, as he helped her physically as she was getting weaker. Betty and Clay said they wouldn't be able to do that range, when she'd asked them to sing. We decided to play the CD, so that it was the same version we'd hear on the radio - and would bring back the memory of hearing it at the funeral. When the song started, all three of us kids started bawling. It felt really, really good to play the song my mom chose.
I'd had on my To Do list to buy yellow napkins, because she loved yellow. And while no one else would care, I knew I'd find some joy in those yellow napkins at the luncheon after the service. That in some small way, it was like my mom was there. That probably sounds silly. Sharon Beyer was doing the decorating, and emailed me to find out my mom's favorite color. My dad told me it would be in good hands with her, so I crossed off the napkins from my list. When I saw her centerpieces and the yellow flowers and tulle, I was so choked up. It was perfect.
When I graduated college and was looking for jobs, my mom took me shopping for interview clothes. She loved the brown blazer and skirt outfit, and I wore it to every job interview I've ever had. I called it my lucky suit, because I never interviewed for a job where I didn't get an offer. I was scared it wouldn't fit, since I still have a few pounds to lose after Simone was born. But even with the extra few pounds, it fit just perfectly. Strange. I wore her pearls and tennis bracelet, and kept touching her pearls during the service. Wondering where she'd worn them, and feeling really moved by the connection to her throughout the service.
A perfect funeral is one that just oozes the spirit of the person you lost. I loved the eulogies. The huge yellow sprays from Dad's siblings and parents. The perfect yellow roses from Cindy. So many things. It's impossible to get it all down.
There's such healing in a meaningful service. In the midst of the funeral planning for Mom, I interviewed both of my brothers about what they'd want for their own funerals. David wants to be cremated and in a blue urn. Craig wants to be buried in a Vikings jersey and helmet, and all the songs at the funeral should be hymns sung by Oak Ridge Boys. I took careful notes and will file them away...as I can see how honoring the wishes of the person feels good on so many levels.
It was a really beautiful way to say good-bye again to my mom.
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