I'm surprised when people will ask "What did your parents die from?" Some may take it as a crass statement, but I truly do understand the intent and take no offense (although I do find it a strange question).
So to that question I will reply, "Hmmm. Let me think. Dad was 90 when he died and Mom was 92. I think it's safe to say they died of old age."
Yes, I wish they could have both passed away peacefully in their sleep. Dad spent a week in intensive care because his heart was tired of pumping. So I suppose, technically, he died of heart failure. I do maintain he had an old heart and it was through working.
Mom's body outlasted her mind, but it wasn't the dementia that ended her life. Like Dad, her body was tired and ready to quit.
There were many people at Mom's funeral who expressed surprise Mom lived another three and a half years beyond Dad. Mom and Dad had been married 65 years when Dad died and theirs was a deep, loving and committed relationship. To be honest, I think had Mom been in her right mind she may have died from grief. Her first few months alone without Dad were heartbreaking to watch. Mom simply did not know how to live without him.
Then the dementia began to progress. It became clear Mom could not live alone. Not just for the loneliness, but for simple every day things she could no longer handle. She went first to live with my younger sister and then, later, she came to live with King and I before her needs became greater than any family member could provide.
But in those months she lived with one of us Mom would often become melancholy and sob, "I miss Daddy." We all missed him. We all miss both of them now.
But as Mom's dementia progressed further she began to forget. Or if she did remember she had no words to express how she felt. Toward the end she didn't talk much. There were huge smiles when we came to visit and a lot of hand holding, but few words . . . other than "stay," when it was time for us to leave.
In one of her last conversations with my sisters she pointed to a photo of Dad and asked, "Do I know him?"
We were never certain how to feel about that. Was it good she couldn't remember the man she grieved for? Or was it a blessing that she didn't remember him? Most likely it was a combination of both.
But memories are a funny thing.
Monday marks the 90-day anniversary of Mom's passing. As as the days progress I remember less and less of the mother who sat in the wheelchair, speaking little, wanting much. Instead I remember the mother who stood at the kitchen sink in the morning as we came in from doing chores (feeding the horses). I remember the mother who brought trays of cookies and lemonade out to our screened porch to serve friends who were over swimming. (It was also -- I now realize -- a signal it was time for them to go home).
I remember Dad pulling in the driveway after work and everyone scrambling to help Mom set the table and get supper ready.
It is those memories -- the little things -- that I hope I can keep forever in my heart.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Sunday, July 12, 2015
A rare day alone
Today I find myself having one of those rare days alone. It doesn't happen very often. King is off playing golf with one of our sons and I have six glorious hours before I have to leave for work. I have all kinds of plans that don't include those time-wasters Facebook or Candy Crush Saga.
My kids gave me a sewing machine for Mother's Day and I plan on making good use of the free time I have. But first I have to go to the store to purchase a fan. I've created a workspace in our upstairs attic/bedroom and it gets incredibly hot up there. So for a few minutes I will be a woman on a mission and then I'll be free to create/play.
When we were growing up Mom did all her sewing at the kitchen table. The sewing machine was kept in the space between the washer and the refrigerator. It was an old metal Singer that Mom used for years and years, finally donating it to me after King and I were first married. When the belt on it finally broke and could not be replaced -- unless I wanted to hunt one down in an antique store -- I got a new sewing machine. Hindsight is always 20/20 and I would imagine today -- with the advent of the internet -- it might be easier to find a belt for it. Unfortunately that old Singer disappeared about 12 moves ago.
Mom had a dedicated sewing room after they moved to Grand Haven and I've fashioned my sewing room after hers. Mine will never be as neat and tidy as hers, but I have never been as fastidious about cleaning as she was. My hope is someday the dog hair will miraculously roll across the room and out the door on it's own.
By the time Mom and Dad sold their home in Grand Haven and moved into an apartment, I don't believe Mom did much sewing. I don't think she could have remembered how to thread the machine. Routine things had simply started slipping away. I recall how after they bought a new car Dad thought she should know how to drive it. By that time he was doing the majority of the driving, but he thought she should at least know how to drive the car -- just in case.
It was a dismal failure. Mom, who had been driving for years, could not remember which was the brake and which was the gas. Dad was incredibly irritated -- and probably just a little frightened. How horrifying that must have been for both of them.
Dad would say, "She just isn't trying." Unfortunately we now know she was trying. She was trying to hide the fact she couldn't remember things. She was trying to hide the fact that simple tasks were no longer simple. She was trying to continue to take care of Dad the way she always had. Her mind simply was not working.
So in a few minutes I will leave for the store, driving a car that I take for granted I know how to operate. I will purchase a fan and put it upstairs in my sewing room. I will thread my sewing machine and work on another project. But I will no longer take for granted that I can do those things. And I will hope and pray that the time will never come when I can't.
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| My attic sewing space. |
When we were growing up Mom did all her sewing at the kitchen table. The sewing machine was kept in the space between the washer and the refrigerator. It was an old metal Singer that Mom used for years and years, finally donating it to me after King and I were first married. When the belt on it finally broke and could not be replaced -- unless I wanted to hunt one down in an antique store -- I got a new sewing machine. Hindsight is always 20/20 and I would imagine today -- with the advent of the internet -- it might be easier to find a belt for it. Unfortunately that old Singer disappeared about 12 moves ago.
Mom had a dedicated sewing room after they moved to Grand Haven and I've fashioned my sewing room after hers. Mine will never be as neat and tidy as hers, but I have never been as fastidious about cleaning as she was. My hope is someday the dog hair will miraculously roll across the room and out the door on it's own.
By the time Mom and Dad sold their home in Grand Haven and moved into an apartment, I don't believe Mom did much sewing. I don't think she could have remembered how to thread the machine. Routine things had simply started slipping away. I recall how after they bought a new car Dad thought she should know how to drive it. By that time he was doing the majority of the driving, but he thought she should at least know how to drive the car -- just in case.
It was a dismal failure. Mom, who had been driving for years, could not remember which was the brake and which was the gas. Dad was incredibly irritated -- and probably just a little frightened. How horrifying that must have been for both of them.
Dad would say, "She just isn't trying." Unfortunately we now know she was trying. She was trying to hide the fact she couldn't remember things. She was trying to hide the fact that simple tasks were no longer simple. She was trying to continue to take care of Dad the way she always had. Her mind simply was not working.
So in a few minutes I will leave for the store, driving a car that I take for granted I know how to operate. I will purchase a fan and put it upstairs in my sewing room. I will thread my sewing machine and work on another project. But I will no longer take for granted that I can do those things. And I will hope and pray that the time will never come when I can't.
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Gardens of delight
We have been without internet for the past week. I am amazed how much I rely on it for a plethora of things. Sadly, the internet will be the demise of the profession I love -- journalism. It was Woodward and Bernstein and their Watergate investigation that sent me to college in 1974 to become a reporter -- much to my father's chagrin. The media was much too liberal for him. But times they are a changing. Advertising dollars are disappearing -- why buy a print ad when you can generally find what you need on the internet? Revenue is gone and newsroom are shrinking. Reporters are expected to do more with less at a pay that is less than that of a first year teacher's salary. (The pay has always been lousy). As a fellow reporter said years ago, "It's got to be a vanity thing -- to see your name in a byline -- it certainly can't be the money."
However, I digress. On with today's post.
I stood in the rain this morning and picked snap peas. King absolutely hates peas. If I buy any type of pre-packaged dinner and there are peas in it, he will eat around them and I will find a small pile of peas left on his plate.
But my son mentioned he liked snap peas and I was thinking of him when I picked them. I will drop them off as his apartment later today -- after my hair dries.
Mom never grew peas in her garden. I'm never quite certain why. In fact, I can think of a handful of vegetables that she grew -- tomatoes, cucumbers, butter beans, corn and maybe a few peppers. I'm not certain why that was the extent of her garden, but it was. She told me once about how her mother used to grow eggplant in their market garden. She said grandma wasn't certain what to do with the eggplant, but every night before they took their vegetables to the market, Grandma would polish them with a rag until they were quite shinny.
I have been told that when my parents first moved to Hamilton they had a garden in the corner of the muck where our neighbor grew celery. I think I may remember bits of it, but I can never be certain if my memories from that young an age are real, or just things I think I remember because I've heard the stories. At any rate, when our neighbor stopped farming Mom didn't move her vegetable garden to our backyard right away.
She told me Grandpa told her she should have a garden but she insisted the ground was not conducive for growing anything. I remember her telling me Grandpa said with all the horse manure we accumulated anything she planted would grow. Grandpa was right. Mom eventually did plant a garden in a corner of one of our pastures and her garden flourished. Years later she told me she regretted not planting a garden while Grandpa was alive. I think we all have those kind of regrets.
In all their homes since moving from Hamilton, Mom never again grew vegetables, but she would spend hours and hours in her yard, planting flowers, making shade gardens, moving bird baths, and trying different varieties of flowers. I would always supply her with the horse manure to make things grow. It became a standing joke ... she could count on me to bring her a large load of horse sh-- for Mother's Day. And she would oohhh and ahhh over it much the same as she did with the macaroni necklaces we made for her as kids.
In the few years before Mom went to live in a nursing home, she spent many hours with me in our gardens. And we have huge gardens. After King retired as a school administrator I answered an ad in an alternative newspaper to be caretakers on a hobby farm. The gentleman who owns the farm lives in the city and comes to Michigan on weekends. We take care of his yard and gardens during the week in exchange for a free caretaker's home and free utilities. It's a lot of work -- especially since I still work full-time -- but it is something we can check off our bucket list. We've never been exactly mainstream.
With as many gardens as we tend, the weeding is endless. When Mom was with us I would bring lemonade and a big beach umbrella to the gardens and try to get her to sit in the shade and watch me work. Within minutes she would be along side me pulling weeds. At the time Mom was pushing 90. I did not want to have to write an obituary saying she died weeding her daughter's garden. . . although in hindsight it might have been better than her wasting away in a nursing home.
In the backyard of the tiny caretakers cottage where we live I've created a memory garden for our parents. I am definitely my mother's daughter. I've made a shade garden, I've moved bird baths, I try different varieties of flowers. I think Mom would be pleased.
However, I digress. On with today's post.
I stood in the rain this morning and picked snap peas. King absolutely hates peas. If I buy any type of pre-packaged dinner and there are peas in it, he will eat around them and I will find a small pile of peas left on his plate.
But my son mentioned he liked snap peas and I was thinking of him when I picked them. I will drop them off as his apartment later today -- after my hair dries.
Mom never grew peas in her garden. I'm never quite certain why. In fact, I can think of a handful of vegetables that she grew -- tomatoes, cucumbers, butter beans, corn and maybe a few peppers. I'm not certain why that was the extent of her garden, but it was. She told me once about how her mother used to grow eggplant in their market garden. She said grandma wasn't certain what to do with the eggplant, but every night before they took their vegetables to the market, Grandma would polish them with a rag until they were quite shinny.
I have been told that when my parents first moved to Hamilton they had a garden in the corner of the muck where our neighbor grew celery. I think I may remember bits of it, but I can never be certain if my memories from that young an age are real, or just things I think I remember because I've heard the stories. At any rate, when our neighbor stopped farming Mom didn't move her vegetable garden to our backyard right away.
She told me Grandpa told her she should have a garden but she insisted the ground was not conducive for growing anything. I remember her telling me Grandpa said with all the horse manure we accumulated anything she planted would grow. Grandpa was right. Mom eventually did plant a garden in a corner of one of our pastures and her garden flourished. Years later she told me she regretted not planting a garden while Grandpa was alive. I think we all have those kind of regrets.
In all their homes since moving from Hamilton, Mom never again grew vegetables, but she would spend hours and hours in her yard, planting flowers, making shade gardens, moving bird baths, and trying different varieties of flowers. I would always supply her with the horse manure to make things grow. It became a standing joke ... she could count on me to bring her a large load of horse sh-- for Mother's Day. And she would oohhh and ahhh over it much the same as she did with the macaroni necklaces we made for her as kids.
In the few years before Mom went to live in a nursing home, she spent many hours with me in our gardens. And we have huge gardens. After King retired as a school administrator I answered an ad in an alternative newspaper to be caretakers on a hobby farm. The gentleman who owns the farm lives in the city and comes to Michigan on weekends. We take care of his yard and gardens during the week in exchange for a free caretaker's home and free utilities. It's a lot of work -- especially since I still work full-time -- but it is something we can check off our bucket list. We've never been exactly mainstream.
With as many gardens as we tend, the weeding is endless. When Mom was with us I would bring lemonade and a big beach umbrella to the gardens and try to get her to sit in the shade and watch me work. Within minutes she would be along side me pulling weeds. At the time Mom was pushing 90. I did not want to have to write an obituary saying she died weeding her daughter's garden. . . although in hindsight it might have been better than her wasting away in a nursing home.
In the backyard of the tiny caretakers cottage where we live I've created a memory garden for our parents. I am definitely my mother's daughter. I've made a shade garden, I've moved bird baths, I try different varieties of flowers. I think Mom would be pleased.
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