We Weren't Done [June 21, 2016]

I wrote this in the days after my mother died in 2016 but never hit publish.  I'm hitting publish now, because I don't want to lose it.
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I sat down earlier today to write my mother's obituary and I couldn't do it.  I pulled up templates and googled "good obituaries" and found lots of suggestions, but no help.  I could list my mother's family, her place of birth, her death - but it was the life in between, what could I say?  Too much.  There is too much to say.  So I walked away from it and like I have done many times and for many things during this last week and asked for help - Joel wrote her obituary for the paper. He did a wonderful job. But it was mine to do. And I couldn't do it.

The thing about writing an obituary is that it's a place to list your earthly accomplishments, which in my mother's case was easy - first in her family to go to college, first in her family to get a Master's Degree, first to get a PhD.  She owned her own business.  She raised a daughter. She moved from Knoxville to Kentucky to pursue her dream of being a college professor.  She was loved everywhere she went.  And then.  And then. And then she was diagnosed with MS.  Twenty three years she lived with her MS.  And at the end of that time it could be easy to look at only what she lost - her career, her mobility, her memory, her beautiful handwriting.  But her life was full and I can say that she was content. She had my father, she had Joel and me, she had a small circle of friends and family who saw her on a regular basis here in Nashville. And she had Owen and Sarah.

And as I sit here I'm just floored at how life has turned out. How is it Joel and I have both lost our mothers and that Owen and Sarah have lost their grandmothers.  A life with no Grandmother in it. The grief tonight is physically unbearable.

I'm trying ro find that grace and peace I felt in the hospital, but now that I'm home and just realizing all the life altering decisions that have been made in the last two days, it's hard. There's no grace or peace on this side of her death.  There's just empty. And pain.

She was only 74.  I say "only" because she comes from a gene pool where the women have long lives.  Her mother, my grandmother was 88 when she passed away. I've heard several times already that is was her time.  She was tired. That she's better off because her struggle is over.  The thing about that is - all those helpful comments make me angry.  Furious. Raged.  People commenting on her struggle who didn't see her contentment. And yes, her life may have looked smaller, more narrow from someone who didn't interact with her on a regular basis, but her life was full. She reveled in her grandchildren,  She may not have known the day of the week or who the President is, but she knew her grandchildren and lit up when she was with them. 

I sat with her by myself for quite a while after she died. I sent everyone home and it was just the two of us.  I wanted to memorize everything about her that I could. Her beautiful hands most of all.  I didn't want to leave her.  I wasn't ready for her to go.  I needed more years of Sunday lunches.  I needed to see Owen take her for a drive in the car.  Watch her watch Sarah graduate from Saint Bernard.  We all needed more hugs, more love, and more time. She was only 74.  We weren't done.

7 months

It's been seven months today since my mother died. Grief is strange and exhausting and at this point in my life it feels physically heavy.  I'm worn out by the end of the day from the effort of it all. Yes, I'm sure I'm depressed, but I'm trying to work through it.  I mean after all, my mother died - some sorrow/depression/melancholy seems appropriate, if not altogether fitting.  I made a comment to a close friend the other night that things really aren't that bad, most everyone goes through this sooner or later - losing a parent.  And she was kind enough to say, no, not everyone goes through this.  Not everyone loses a parent this way.

So, starting very close to the end of the story, going from the day of her death backwards, when someone you love (like your mother) has an illness like MS that lasts decades, you, as their daughter, get to watch their illness progress and their world contract. All of it happens slowly, but it happens. Relationships and mobility and her once sharp mind - all lost to MS.  In truth, it all changed so incrementally that there weren't big heartbreaking moments along the way.  Just a gradual loss. Of almost everything. Which is to say that nothing about my mother's MS ever seemed urgent.  It was chronic, ongoing, something to live with, but not urgent. Until it was, right at the end.  She was here, she was here, she was here - she was gone. Like spending twenty years walking down a hill wondering where the bottom was, then falling off a cliff. Boom. Over.

I've thought about finding a grief counselor, but I'm not sure that's the way for me.  I spent a few days with a palliative care team when my mother was in the hospital and they were wonderful and lovely and supportive, but I left every conversation feeling like I'd overshared, like I'd said too much.  I'm just not sure I'm a therapy person.  At least not right now.  But writing helps.  Getting things out of my head and down on paper so I can see how things are.  That helps.  Of course I also like to write things that people want to read and I'm not sure how many folks want to read about grief on a regular basis.  So maybe I'll write that closer to home, in a journal.  I do miss writing out loud though, where people can read it. But it takes courage and brainpower and the belief that I have something interesting to say.  Which is hard right now.

7 months without my mother. Grief is hard.

thirty + fourteen

We brought Owen home from the hospital on a Sunday.  It was just the three of us driving home to Bellevue - Joel in the front seat and Owen and I in the backseat.  I couldn't bear the thought of him sitting in the back all alone, so much so that I rode in the backseat with him for all the weeks that I was restricted from driving and for many months after that when the three of us went places together.

Our first afternoon home with him was overwhelming.  I had no idea [NO IDEA!] what I was supposed to do.  He was a troublesome mystery in that way that all new babies who come home with first time parents are troublesome mysteries.We had yet to figure out his disdain for eating or his love for sleeping anywhere anytime as long as it was on somebody.  Put him down, he wouldn't sleep.  Pick him up, out like a light. I wish I could go back and do it all again knowing what I know now.  I don't wish I could go back and do it all again as a first time mom.  That was terrifying.

He was a beautiful baby and so tiny (like all new babies are). As Joel unloaded the car, Owen and I sat in a plaid chair (that once belonged to my great-grandmother) and I remember thinking, "now what?" This was the beginning of the months and months of my life where I couldn't put him down and walk out of the room without my heart breaking. Friends who knew me then that still know me now will tell you that the last sentence is not an exaggeration. Could. not. put. him. down.

Tonight, Owen and I are home again - just the two of us.  In a somewhat strange turn of events, Sarah headed out to see the Avengers movie with her dad and Owen stayed home with me.  He's cleaning his room and doing his homework and wandering up and down the stairs and in and out of the living room talking about school and comic books and plans for the weekend.  He turned fourteen last Sunday.  He was confirmed Wednesday night and tonight, fourteen years to the day after we brought him home from the hospital he's helping me celebrate my birthday again. These last fourteen years have been amazing.  And hard. But mostly amazing.  I'm doing my best to pay attention to these moments - part of the reason I'm writing this down.  It goes so quickly.  Cliche, but true.  

Hello Sweetheart

L.J. and Cleo Hurst
with daughters Norma Jean and Sarah Catherine
Late summer 1944 in Union County, Tennessee

I have a notebook of letters that my grandparents wrote to one another when my grandfather served in WWII  in 1944 and 1945.  He joined the Army on June 21, 1944, was sent overseas in late November, went to the Belgian front on December 28, was wounded January 1, then spent three days trapped in a foxhole behind German lines before he was found.  He recuperated in hospitals in France and England before returning to the United States in June 1945.  On this November 11th, I am grateful that my grandparents' letters survived and have been entrusted to me.  It's a window into a time in their lives that they didn't talk much about.  

Wednesday Night

Forest Avenue

Hello Sweetheart:

How does this find u tonite? We are okay. Norma has played out and gone to sleep and "Cat" is still up playing.  I've been listening to the supper time frolic and thought I'd write to you before I went to bed as you are on my mind.

I kinda looked for a letter from you today but didn't get one, hope I get one tomorrow.  I'm sitting on the bed and Catherine's jumping up and down on it so much it's hard to write.

Well, honey I don't know anything to write you tonite. I thought when I started to write you I could write three or four pages but I think its all blown over so will just call it a nite and try to snooze a little.  I hope you get to snooze too.

So goodnite and sweet dreams.

Lots of Love

Bye now

your old lady

Monday Noon

Hello Honey,

How are you today?  For me, o.k.  Still blue and lonesome. Guess I'll always be that way if I'm not with you and the babies.  Honey, I'm sending my slippers and some extra things home.  Can't take them with me.  It sure looks bad.  Still don't know where I'll go or when but soon, I think.  They made us put on our heavy underwear.  Seems like we're going where it's cold and I have to wear overcoats.  It's pretty cold here but not that cold.

Honey I've had two letters already today, one this morning and one just a few minutes ago and boy was I glad to get them.  Sure helped me a lot.

Well Honey, I had to stop there but I will try to go on.  Will have to stop again soon I think but maybe I'll finish sometime today.  Honey, you asked how I like Fort Meade.  It's as good as any army camp I guess but I don't like any of them although they really are good to us here and Honey my watch is doing fine, not had to set it since I set it at home. They have eastern standard time here and its not a minute off.  I dropped it one day and thought I broke it but it didn't seem to hurt it at all.  I'm really proud of it but not half as proud of it as I am you because Honey anybody could be proud of you.  Well, I've got to go now.  Hope to hear from you soon.

Bye Honey

Love always, L.J.

over

Honey send pictures of you and Babies as often as you can.

I Blinked

It's true, I didn't cry on Owen's first day of Kindergarten.  What I did do was exhale - overcome by an enormous sense of relief as he was walked into a classroom that I knew was going to be a good fit for his then stormy and determined approach to life. Exhaled because the road to Kindergarten admission was a long one and included a notification that he was  "not a good fit for our program" from the school we planned for him to attend [so sure were we that our children would attend that school that our names are engraved on the big donor plaque that hangs outside their gymnasium].  Lo these many years later I am grateful [with a hint of grudge] that what we thought was our first school choice didn't work out, because while no school is perfect, I do believe that St. Bernard has been the perfect school for Owen.  I'll resist the urge to brag [in detail] about him, but he's done well at SBA in all the ways that I prayed that this child would do well in school. And I prayed for that. A lot.

And now, apparently, I've blinked and I find myself here - sending him off on his last first day at SBA.  The last first day. If this morning is any indication, this is the year that I'm going to say over and over and over again,"Good grief, how did we get here so fast?" Eighth grade. Eighth grade!! It's the top of the heap and the end of the line all at once. And I know [I.know.] that I will spend this school year weepy  [#cryinallthetime], emotionally fermenting in that heady blend of parental pride and nostalgia that watching your older child reach milestones seems to stir up. I wish I could think of a better way to say "it seems like only yesterday", but I can't. Seriously though, it does seem like only yesterday that we were walking a reluctant Owen into his first day of Kindergarten.  Where oh where does all the time go?

Joel and I sat with Owen on Sunday night, trying to impart some parental wisdom about his upcoming 8th grade year (because that's what we're supposed to do) and I hope he heard some of what his dad was trying to tell him - that he should jump in with both feet and enjoy this year.  Friends, classes, experiences both new and familiar - all of it. Because what I know in my momma heart is that even though he's thirteen and technically already a young adult, this is truly his last year of childhood. Big changes are on his horizon and I know that when the time comes, he'll be ready for them.  I also know that I'll be hovering somewhere, smiling and crying and smiling some more because that's what this momma does. Eighth Grade. Good grief, how did we get here so fast.

Salad Bar

I'm sharing this story because of a conversation I had on Facebook last night.  The topic was Promposals (not gonna google how to spell that word because it's a ridiculous word that I shouldn't have to worry about spelling correctly) and how over the top the once simple tradition of asking someone to the prom has become.  Listen, I was an average high school kid with an average high school life (read completely insecure with everything about myself) who was just hoping as the spring season of my junior year rolled around that I would get to go to the prom.  I just wanted to go.  And guess what, I did.  And I'm pretty sure it was fun - the going.  The pictures show lots of smiling kids (babies, really - oy, we were so young).  The same was true for my senior prom.  I wanted someone to ask me so that I could go.  Someone asked.  I said yes.  We prommed (yes, I made up that word, but someone made up the word promposal - so, whatever).  And that was the prom.  Two nights out my high school career that did not suck.  At all.  It was fun.

Disclaimer: The fact that no date is pictured should not be taken as a sign that I did not have a date to either prom.  I did,  I just don't feel like I should share other people's prom photos without their express written permission and I've got about 10 minutes to hit publish here so I'm kind of working on a deadline.  

Prom 1988 and Prom 1989.

I look like the cast from Wicked.

So, prom - who really cares right?  Right.  But I shared the above because in the discussion of the ridiculousness of the promposal, I mentioned that Joel proposed to me [PROPOSED] over lunch at the Ruby Tuesday's salad bar.  I was wearing umbros and a t-shirt.  There are no pictures because nobody walked around with cameras in 1995 taking endless photographs of their shoes or their lunch or their engagements (why yes, I do photograph everything now but it's with my phone and not with a camera and I may or may not have a serious problem - I digress #6845photosonmyphone).  I couldn't even tell you the date he proposed.  I think it was in August (because he used the money he'd made clerking in Clarksville all summer to buy my ring) and I'm pretty sure it was on a Saturday.  He asked me to marry him.  I said yes.  We finished our lunch, walked around the mall feeling all engaged and special for a while then I went home and called everyone I knew (#landline).   It's our story.  And I love it.

A Tale of Two Seasons

I'm writing this today [now] before the universe realizes that my son's school soccer team is winning games and decides it needs to set things right in the world of parochial league athletics and smack a big ol' loss down on top of their heads. Brief back story - Owen spent the last two winters playing basketball for his school, and in those two seasons the teams he played on won a total of 2 games.  And no, I didn't leave off a zero. Two games - one in each season.  And it was more than just losing so many games, it was the fact that many of them were lost in a crushing and humiliating manner.   Crushing and humiliating. Both at once.  To add to the good times that were parochial league basketball, Joel coached one of those seasons. It's not much of an over-exaggeration when I tell you that parents, aunts and uncles, grandparents, and even friends and neighbors of players all crossed the court at the end of one game or another to give Joel and his co-coach feedback on their coaching abilities. If you want to see people's frustrated true colors, coach a team of kids through a losing season of basketball.*  And so it was that basketball provided us with an abundance of character building life lessons about losing - with grace.  Yes, losing with grace (I always forget that part). Also, lesson learned.

But now we are in soccer season, and because we're playing in the same parochial school league we find ourselves facing off against those same schools who beat us so resoundingly during the dark days of basketball (our sport season of discontent, if you will).  The biggest difference between soccer season and basketball season is that we are winning game[s].  Winning!!  The school we played yesterday (and beat by a score of 9-0)  is one that fields a notorious "no mercy" basketball team, so it was more than a little satisfying when Joel told me that towards the end of the game their coach was voicing his dissatisfaction in what he saw as an attempt by our team to run up the score, which Joel and his co-coach were most certainly trying  not to do (sincerely, they don't coach that way).  At the end of the game, as I watched the parents from the other school fold up their chairs and gather up their belongings, I so wanted to yell across the field at them "That was for basketball!" - but I didn't. Instead, I walked to my car and drove the short distance home feeling like a bit of parochial league prairie justice had just been served.  And for the record, I understand that it's not supposed to be about whether you win or lose, the focus is supposed to be on how you play the game, but if you play the game and you win, well that's waaay better than playing the game and losing. Trust me, I've spent enough time on both sides of the scoreboard to know.

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*That air of bitterness you may be detecting is all mine by the way, not Joel's.  He's a lighter happier soul who moves more freely in the world , unfettered (as I am) with memories of the [perceived] wrongs that I have carefully catalogued ponder from time to time.