"Blame the alcohol, not the person". I have heard this phrase from many people over the years in reference to my mother's disease of alcoholism. In my earlier post I had written about the fact that I feel as though I was robbed of some the special mother/daughter bond that many women have with thier mothers. To credit psychology, there is a reason that the joke is that when going into therapy the first thing that a psychiatrist will ask you is "Tell me about your mother". A mother can affect a child more than any other adult in their life. For instance, Adolf Hitler's mother was extremely controlling and over protective of him, leading him to become very self concious and schizophrenic. When she passed away from cancer, the doctor who could not save her was Jewish. Ironic? No, merely a transfer of aggression from the loss of his mother onto an entire race being blamed for an act of God.
Children aim to please thier parents, and specifically thier mother. This is true of all children, not just the ones who grow up in an alcoholic family. When a child can not appease thier mother by any means, they turn against themself with blame and ridicule. The damage can be done at a very young age and the scars will remain until death.
I can not blame the alcohol for my mother's alcoholism. No matter how many people tell me that she loved me, and that she had good intentions for the 25 years that she drank and was emotionally absent from my life. I simply can not blame a substance for her negligence. I realize that blaming her and repeating my aggressions toward her and the awful memories I have surrounding some of my childhood, could make me bitter. My theory is that I can not be bitter, with God on my side.
There is no one on this earth that can tell me that the alcohol that my mother ingested day after day after day, was done against her will. The bourbon didn't just jump into her class of cola every day at 5:30. It had to be bought. I was sent into the ABC store on many occasions as a child from around the age of 8-13 to buy her Canadian Mist. The clerks in the ABC store knew me, and mother would sit in the car, a drink already made and read the newspaper as I ran into the ABC store to pick up her bottle. This would probably not happen today, but we lived in a small town where just about everyone knew each other and that was many years ago.
Whether mom's friends and relatives want to believe it, she CHOSE to drink. The bourbon didn't choose her, she chose it. She chose it over me, over my dad and over her family. It ruled her life, and she let it. Saying that alcohol controls an alcoholic is like saying a car controls the driver. The driver has to purchase the car, get a drivers license, put the key in the ignition and press the gas pedal. A car can't drive itself, unless of course it is Kit from Night Rider. The same is true for alcohol. It has to be bought, and opened, poured into a glass or drunk from a bottle or can. The alcohol does not just magically appear in someone's blood stream. There is a premeditated process that a person has to go through to drink the alcohol.
My mother knew that it was killing her and she chose to drink it anyway. Although I do not think that she ever understood the brevity of our situation, or the neglect that she showed to me and my dad. Even after God had seen to saving her life, she would not talk about her alcoholism, but instead would say, "Let's not bring up the past" or "Well you eat like I drank and that is why you're fat". Thus ending any sort of conversation that I could have had in order to gain closure.
So, if I hear one more person telling me that she was just sick, or that it was the alcohol that caused such hell in our lives I will quite possibly kick punch them, or the air around me. You can't protect me now, those reassurances do not help. I know too much to understand the cold hard truth and that is the fact that I came second to a bottle of Canadian Mist for 25 years.
Imagine how it felt to need to talk to your mother when you were away from home in college or anywhere, and knowing that if you called after 7:30 she would be incoherant. Imagine watching helplessly as your mother passed out in the recliner with a cigarette dangling from her hand,dropping dangerous ashes onto the carpet. Or waking up in the middle of the night to find that your mother had fallen down the step in the den and broken her ankle bone in half. I was alone with her on that particular night. My parents were divorced by then and she wouldn't let me call my dad. I had to call my cousin and then we had to drag mom out to the car to take her to the ER. Then I had to sit there while the doctor, who happened to be the father of a cheerleader that I knew from another school, asked my mom if she had been drinking before she fell. Mom's reply was, "Maybe a little." and he said, "Maybe a ton. If you drink that much every day you will kill yourself." I was so embarassed that I could have crawled under the bed.
No child should ever have to go through any sort of mental or physical abuse. There are millions of children everyday who face the demon of an alcoholic parent every night. Some are beaten, some are killed, some are so neglected that they just leave or are sent into foster homes. All of this happens right under our noses every day and all we can say is, "It's the alcohol, not the person." Whatever. We were given free will by God, and we choose to use it every second of every day.
I was lucky because I had a good father who provided for us and supported me through my mom's "illness". I was able to put up a front in school, and the only people who knew my mom drank were my close friends. If they thought anything of it, they loved me enough never to say a word. My house was like a constant party, not a home. Can you blame that on the alcohol as well? No, you can't, but you can blame it on selfishness, and irresponsibility on the part of my parents.
My children have never seen me drink a drop of alcohol, and if I have it my way they never will. I will never allow myself to be inebriated in front of them, ever. Our house will be a home. A safe haven for them to come home to every day. A place of comfort and happiness that they will build lasting memories in. Even if it takes me putting on my happy face for them everyday. Even if my heart is broken and I am hurting so bad on the inside I want to scream, I will never let them see. For these boys are a gift from God to me. They are not truly mine, but His and He chose to lend them to me in order to raise them and teach them about Him. That is my mission, that is my goal. When I see God's face in Heaven I want him to tell me, "Good job". I want to make Him proud, because I love Him with all of my heart and I am so thankful to Him everyday for saving me from a future that could have been terrible and giving me a life full of love and joy.
Don't ever tell a child of an alcoholic that it was not the parent's fault. Just own up to the fact that it was, and leave it be. Because they already know the truth.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Pieces of my puzzle
I got a sweet email from one of my mother's friends the other night. She was just emailing to check on me and see how I was doing. I also recieved a card from one of her friends that she worked with for 30 years and then my Aunt Net (mom's sister) called me today to check on me. I feel as though all of these precious, loving women, are trying to hold me up and I appreciate them so much.
As I have written before, my mom was not the best "nurturer". In fact, she was more like a sibling than a mother. I took care of her, not the other way around. Her friend Patsy told me about how she attends both of her grandchildren's baseball games most every Saturday and I immediately though, "Wow, that is great!" My mom never saw Tucker play a single game, and he started playing soccer at 3, basketball at 4 and flag football at 6. There were hundreds of opportunities for her to watch him play, but she never came. My dad and stepmom came all of the time, and my husband's parents drove two hours just to watch him play for an hour and then turn around and drive back, many, many times. Why didn't my mom make this effort? I will never know.
What I am going to write tonight has caused me to feel a deep sense of guilt for many years. I have always longed for a true "mother" figure in my life. I never realized what I was missing in my mother until I got to college. There were mother's that sent thier daughters goody bags to the dorms during rush, showed up on bid day and gave them flowers. Mom's that would drive from 8 hours away just to take their daughter's shopping or to get a new hair cut. My friends got care packages and clothes all of the time in the mail. My mother only saw one apartment that I lived in the whole time I was in college. I went home on the weekends a lot just to keep her company because she would make me feel guilty if I didn't. She never took me shopping as a teenager. She would give me money and I would shop with a friend on Friday nights at the mall or my daddy would take me. She never helped me fix my hair for a dance or cheerleader tryouts or a football game. She never gave me make up tips, or took me to get a mani/pedi. When I look back at my childhood and my teen years, I am not really sure where she was. Mother did not even attend my college graduation ceremony, which was one of the proudest days in my life. Thank goodness my dad and Jackie were there for me. All of my memories of her are of parties with mom and dad's friends at our house or on our boat.
I am sad that I did not get to have those mother daughter experiences. I am insanely jealous of my friends who have these wonderfully supportive and nurturing mothers. When my mom stopped drinking and got healthy we would meet for dinner and did go shopping a few times. Even those times could not make up for a lifetime of missed opportunities.
Throughout the past 15 years I have wished to be adopted by someone else's mother. I feel guilty writing that, because I feel like mom can hear my thoughts now. God blessed me with wonderful women in my life.
My stepmother, Jackie was sent to my dad by God, there is no doubt in my mind. My poor daddy was broken down and lost after dealing with my mother's drinking for 25 years. Mother was mean to him during the divorce and tried to turn me against him. Then daddy met Jackie and she changed both of our lives. They were married my senior year in college. I was so proud of them both and extremely happy for my dad. When I graduated and moved to New Orleans daddy and Jackie moved me. I will never forget that when we got to my apartment, Jackie took a broom, mop, bucket and Comet and went to work cleaning my apartment from the top to the bottom. She lined my shelves, she helped me arrange my kitchen, and the best thing of all; Took me shopping!! I was awestruck the entire two days at her generosity. She bought me a cooking set, a few pieces I still use today. She bought a vacuum cleaner, dirty clothes basket, bath towels, dish towels, cleaning products, everything that I would need to set up an apartment. I remember thinking, "Wow! Is this normal?" and that I would love this woman unconditionally for the rest of my life. She is truly an angel on Earth to me. Her daughter Natalie lives 15 hours away and I know she misses her very much. I often feel like an ursurper because I get to spend more time with Jackie than Nat does. Fortunately, Natalie is one of the kindest people I know and she has never showed any anymosity towards me and my relationship with her mother. When mom was alive, she hated Jackie, she would threaten me not to get close to Jackie and be upset with me if I bought Jackie a more expensive birthday or Christmas gift. At my wedding, I wanted Jackie to be led down the aisle after my mom and to sit beside my dad. This enraged my mother, and she was so mad and ugly to me that I cried half the night before my wedding. I was determined to give Jackie that walk down the aisle, she had deserved it. In the end Brad had to have a talk with my mother, one of many that would follow throughout our marriage, and mother left me alone about it. Jackie was escorted down the aise and sat beside my dad. After the ceremony Brad and I presented our mother's with a red rose. I gave one to my mother first, and then one to Jackie. My mom later told me that she threw hers away because the gesture was void after I had given one to Jackie. I didn't care, my heart was full.
My Aunt Margaret, who is not really my aunt, but she and her husband were close friends of my parents. I spent so much time around her when I was little that I just dubbed her "Aunt Margaret". Once, a few years ago, when mom was getting her life back together and going to church, I had a work trip that sent me to Aunt Margaret's home city. I was able to spend the night with her and Uncle Forrest. It was one of the best nights of my life! We sat up and had girl talk until two in the morning. She listened as I talked about mom, and my frustrations, and heartache over her past transgressions. She would ask meaningful questions that let me know that she was truly interested in learning how I felt, not just trying to make me feel better. She and uncle Forrest came to mom's funeral and I was able to spend some time with them then. She also sent me the most beautiful daily devotional. Aunt Margaret has truly been a blessing to me and I am so thankful to her.
Then there is my friend Callie's mom, Mrs. Dianne. She is so thoughtful and full of life, that she makes me smile just thinking about her. During college she would drive up with Callie's dad, to see Callie and I would race over to the apartmen as soon as they were in town to hug Mrs.Dianne's neck. Every year in college during spring break, we went to Callie's house. I couldn't wait to see her parents, I love them so much. The rest of our friends would be out back having a party and I would be in the kitchen talking to Mrs. Dianne for hours. The next day I would be laying on the couch reading a book while Callie's dad sat in his favorite chair and read the paper. We would both be drinking coffee while my friends were passed out or nursing hangovers. He would ask me questions about Callie and try to dig for dirt on her. Then he would always ask me to take care of Callie for him, and I did. He passed away four years ago, and Mrs. Dianne gave me some of his books, Historical novels and Biographys,which I cherish.
Then there is Mrs. Patsy, my friend Margaret Ann's mother. She is a wonderful, Godly lady, and so loving and generous with her time, it amazes me. We go to the same church, and I look forward to seeing her every Sunday. I have to have my weekly hug from Mrs. Patsy and Mr. Bill or my week won't go well! I also have this desire to please Mrs. Patsy because I think so highly of her. A few months ago something was posted on my facebook wall and it was offensive to her. I was crushed. I was so afraid that she would think bad of me for this post. She never mentioned it to me, and I still get my weekly hug. I have looked over at her during church and often wondered what it would be like if she adopted me? I know that I would learn to sew, and cook and be a better wife and mother in her care. Marge and I are basically like sister's anyway, so that could work!
I also have Mrs. Prissy. She is our pastor's wife, and I adore her. She is gorgeous, yet humble, funny, but serious and can brighten a room with one laugh. She is another one that I love to get a weekly hug from. If I don't see her on Sunday I miss her. She is a very strong woman as well. She lost her father and simultaneously had to nurse her husband, Pastor Ron to health during a bad sickness that he suffered from for months. Through it all she remained upbeat on the outside, never showing her worry or pain. Instead she gave out love and warmth to the entire church when we needed it the most. I would love to be adopted by her as well.
There are so many others, Mrs. Beth from Columbus, Brad's mother's friend who is so sweet to me and good to my boys. Mrs. Betty, Brad's friend Walter's mom, who is just so sweet and nurturing you couldn't ever imagine a harsh word coming out of her mouth. She has always loved on me since we dated and I loved every second of it. My mom's friend Patsy, who I wrote about before, who knew me as a baby and prayed with me at mother's bedside the day that she passed away.
I am attracted to these wonderful strong women and mother's because each of them has something inside of them that I am missing. A piece of my puzzle that I so desperately wish could be complete. I know that there are millions of girls in worse situations than I am who have lost thier mother, or thier mother has left them, or just didn't care about them growing up. I know that these girls also share this longing, for a maternal figure to take care of them, to hold them when they need it even though they are grown with kids of thier own. I pray for those girls, because we are all part of a different sect of women. I pray that these girls will see their mother's faults, like I have, and are hell bent on changing the course with thier own kids. Since Tucker was born, I have made sure to do everything my mother never did and I will continue to do so. One day I will have a daughter in law, and I will do my best to love and nurture her as well.
All this is to say that if you are a mother, PUT YOUR KIDS FIRST. And if you are a daughter who has one of these mother's that I have longed for, HUG THEM AND TELL THEM THEY ARE WONDERFUL! I have come to realize while sitting in church wondering if I could be adopted by one of these great women, that even if they took me in, they could never take the place of my mother. Flawed as she was, she will always be my one and only mother. I guess I will just have to keep making do with what I had and make sure that my boys have more love than they know what to do with.
As I have written before, my mom was not the best "nurturer". In fact, she was more like a sibling than a mother. I took care of her, not the other way around. Her friend Patsy told me about how she attends both of her grandchildren's baseball games most every Saturday and I immediately though, "Wow, that is great!" My mom never saw Tucker play a single game, and he started playing soccer at 3, basketball at 4 and flag football at 6. There were hundreds of opportunities for her to watch him play, but she never came. My dad and stepmom came all of the time, and my husband's parents drove two hours just to watch him play for an hour and then turn around and drive back, many, many times. Why didn't my mom make this effort? I will never know.
What I am going to write tonight has caused me to feel a deep sense of guilt for many years. I have always longed for a true "mother" figure in my life. I never realized what I was missing in my mother until I got to college. There were mother's that sent thier daughters goody bags to the dorms during rush, showed up on bid day and gave them flowers. Mom's that would drive from 8 hours away just to take their daughter's shopping or to get a new hair cut. My friends got care packages and clothes all of the time in the mail. My mother only saw one apartment that I lived in the whole time I was in college. I went home on the weekends a lot just to keep her company because she would make me feel guilty if I didn't. She never took me shopping as a teenager. She would give me money and I would shop with a friend on Friday nights at the mall or my daddy would take me. She never helped me fix my hair for a dance or cheerleader tryouts or a football game. She never gave me make up tips, or took me to get a mani/pedi. When I look back at my childhood and my teen years, I am not really sure where she was. Mother did not even attend my college graduation ceremony, which was one of the proudest days in my life. Thank goodness my dad and Jackie were there for me. All of my memories of her are of parties with mom and dad's friends at our house or on our boat.
I am sad that I did not get to have those mother daughter experiences. I am insanely jealous of my friends who have these wonderfully supportive and nurturing mothers. When my mom stopped drinking and got healthy we would meet for dinner and did go shopping a few times. Even those times could not make up for a lifetime of missed opportunities.
Throughout the past 15 years I have wished to be adopted by someone else's mother. I feel guilty writing that, because I feel like mom can hear my thoughts now. God blessed me with wonderful women in my life.
My stepmother, Jackie was sent to my dad by God, there is no doubt in my mind. My poor daddy was broken down and lost after dealing with my mother's drinking for 25 years. Mother was mean to him during the divorce and tried to turn me against him. Then daddy met Jackie and she changed both of our lives. They were married my senior year in college. I was so proud of them both and extremely happy for my dad. When I graduated and moved to New Orleans daddy and Jackie moved me. I will never forget that when we got to my apartment, Jackie took a broom, mop, bucket and Comet and went to work cleaning my apartment from the top to the bottom. She lined my shelves, she helped me arrange my kitchen, and the best thing of all; Took me shopping!! I was awestruck the entire two days at her generosity. She bought me a cooking set, a few pieces I still use today. She bought a vacuum cleaner, dirty clothes basket, bath towels, dish towels, cleaning products, everything that I would need to set up an apartment. I remember thinking, "Wow! Is this normal?" and that I would love this woman unconditionally for the rest of my life. She is truly an angel on Earth to me. Her daughter Natalie lives 15 hours away and I know she misses her very much. I often feel like an ursurper because I get to spend more time with Jackie than Nat does. Fortunately, Natalie is one of the kindest people I know and she has never showed any anymosity towards me and my relationship with her mother. When mom was alive, she hated Jackie, she would threaten me not to get close to Jackie and be upset with me if I bought Jackie a more expensive birthday or Christmas gift. At my wedding, I wanted Jackie to be led down the aisle after my mom and to sit beside my dad. This enraged my mother, and she was so mad and ugly to me that I cried half the night before my wedding. I was determined to give Jackie that walk down the aisle, she had deserved it. In the end Brad had to have a talk with my mother, one of many that would follow throughout our marriage, and mother left me alone about it. Jackie was escorted down the aise and sat beside my dad. After the ceremony Brad and I presented our mother's with a red rose. I gave one to my mother first, and then one to Jackie. My mom later told me that she threw hers away because the gesture was void after I had given one to Jackie. I didn't care, my heart was full.
My Aunt Margaret, who is not really my aunt, but she and her husband were close friends of my parents. I spent so much time around her when I was little that I just dubbed her "Aunt Margaret". Once, a few years ago, when mom was getting her life back together and going to church, I had a work trip that sent me to Aunt Margaret's home city. I was able to spend the night with her and Uncle Forrest. It was one of the best nights of my life! We sat up and had girl talk until two in the morning. She listened as I talked about mom, and my frustrations, and heartache over her past transgressions. She would ask meaningful questions that let me know that she was truly interested in learning how I felt, not just trying to make me feel better. She and uncle Forrest came to mom's funeral and I was able to spend some time with them then. She also sent me the most beautiful daily devotional. Aunt Margaret has truly been a blessing to me and I am so thankful to her.
Then there is my friend Callie's mom, Mrs. Dianne. She is so thoughtful and full of life, that she makes me smile just thinking about her. During college she would drive up with Callie's dad, to see Callie and I would race over to the apartmen as soon as they were in town to hug Mrs.Dianne's neck. Every year in college during spring break, we went to Callie's house. I couldn't wait to see her parents, I love them so much. The rest of our friends would be out back having a party and I would be in the kitchen talking to Mrs. Dianne for hours. The next day I would be laying on the couch reading a book while Callie's dad sat in his favorite chair and read the paper. We would both be drinking coffee while my friends were passed out or nursing hangovers. He would ask me questions about Callie and try to dig for dirt on her. Then he would always ask me to take care of Callie for him, and I did. He passed away four years ago, and Mrs. Dianne gave me some of his books, Historical novels and Biographys,which I cherish.
Then there is Mrs. Patsy, my friend Margaret Ann's mother. She is a wonderful, Godly lady, and so loving and generous with her time, it amazes me. We go to the same church, and I look forward to seeing her every Sunday. I have to have my weekly hug from Mrs. Patsy and Mr. Bill or my week won't go well! I also have this desire to please Mrs. Patsy because I think so highly of her. A few months ago something was posted on my facebook wall and it was offensive to her. I was crushed. I was so afraid that she would think bad of me for this post. She never mentioned it to me, and I still get my weekly hug. I have looked over at her during church and often wondered what it would be like if she adopted me? I know that I would learn to sew, and cook and be a better wife and mother in her care. Marge and I are basically like sister's anyway, so that could work!
I also have Mrs. Prissy. She is our pastor's wife, and I adore her. She is gorgeous, yet humble, funny, but serious and can brighten a room with one laugh. She is another one that I love to get a weekly hug from. If I don't see her on Sunday I miss her. She is a very strong woman as well. She lost her father and simultaneously had to nurse her husband, Pastor Ron to health during a bad sickness that he suffered from for months. Through it all she remained upbeat on the outside, never showing her worry or pain. Instead she gave out love and warmth to the entire church when we needed it the most. I would love to be adopted by her as well.
There are so many others, Mrs. Beth from Columbus, Brad's mother's friend who is so sweet to me and good to my boys. Mrs. Betty, Brad's friend Walter's mom, who is just so sweet and nurturing you couldn't ever imagine a harsh word coming out of her mouth. She has always loved on me since we dated and I loved every second of it. My mom's friend Patsy, who I wrote about before, who knew me as a baby and prayed with me at mother's bedside the day that she passed away.
I am attracted to these wonderful strong women and mother's because each of them has something inside of them that I am missing. A piece of my puzzle that I so desperately wish could be complete. I know that there are millions of girls in worse situations than I am who have lost thier mother, or thier mother has left them, or just didn't care about them growing up. I know that these girls also share this longing, for a maternal figure to take care of them, to hold them when they need it even though they are grown with kids of thier own. I pray for those girls, because we are all part of a different sect of women. I pray that these girls will see their mother's faults, like I have, and are hell bent on changing the course with thier own kids. Since Tucker was born, I have made sure to do everything my mother never did and I will continue to do so. One day I will have a daughter in law, and I will do my best to love and nurture her as well.
All this is to say that if you are a mother, PUT YOUR KIDS FIRST. And if you are a daughter who has one of these mother's that I have longed for, HUG THEM AND TELL THEM THEY ARE WONDERFUL! I have come to realize while sitting in church wondering if I could be adopted by one of these great women, that even if they took me in, they could never take the place of my mother. Flawed as she was, she will always be my one and only mother. I guess I will just have to keep making do with what I had and make sure that my boys have more love than they know what to do with.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Full Moon
I have always made references to how insane people act during the full moon. Anyone who has ever worked with the public can tell you that during a full moon, the crazies come out of thier shells. Thankfully I do not have to interact with the public on a day to day basis. I have little patience for dealing with irrate individuals that want to blame me for everything going wrong in their lives.
All this to say that I can now tell how the full moon seems to affect me. I have realized that during the full moon phase, my creative juices start to flow and the urge to keep working on my manuscript comes back to me. My mom actually asked for me to bring her a copy of my book before she passed away. I wish that I had taken the time to print it out. It was odd that she requested to read it, because I had not mentioned it to her in a long time. Odder still, when she asked to read it, a light bulb went off in my head that she was getting close to dying.
I graduated from college in 1999 and moved straight to New Orleans to work. One would think that a new grad would be itching to enter the party lifestyle and New Orleans would be the place to do just that. My experience in NOLA was not good. I missed my parents, my home state, and my friends. I detested the smell of the city that I thought I loved, and felt an eerie sense of darkness everywhere there. I wasn't just suffering from "girl from a small town syndrome" because I had also lived in New York, and New Orleans was like another world. Before moving to New Orleans, I loved the city's mysteries, the history of voodoo and most of all my all time favorite author Anne Rice. Living in the famed city as an outsider, not a native, was a whole different ballgame than just being a tourist. I met some interesting individuals though, and there are times that I want to go back and visit with my husband in tow. I want to show him the little wonder spots I found scattered around the District and the historical sites of the city. I digress, my point is that I went to one of the biggest party places in the US and hardly had fun at all. I ended up moving back home after 6 months. I moved in with my mother because I was worried about her drinking. I was only able to take living with her for two months before I left there and moved in with my dad and stepmom. Then I started driving back and forth to hang out with friends in Birmingham. It was during this time that I met the love of my life and have been married to him for almost 10 years!
The full moon makes me feel reckless. I had reckless moments in between my move from Gadsden to Birmingham. I look back now and know that I was mad at my mom for trying to drink herself to death. I was only 22 and had the world at my feet, but I ran from it instead of embracing it. For about four months I lived night to night, drink to drink, dance to dance with my girlfriends. I fell in a gutter in downtown Birmingham, and almost lost my Steve Madden shoe. I drank a bottle of wine by myself before going out at night and could shoot tequila better than any man in the bar. I ran every day, hang over or not, and was in the best shape of my life. What I didn't know was that I was in pain,and no running or drinking could help me. It wasn't until I met my husband and started going back to church that the pain dissipated. All during college and for the year after I had graduated I had held God back at an arms length. I prayed to Him daily but would not give in to His silent urging for me to come back to him. I tried to hide, but He found me. I can still remember the night that my dad called me to tell me that they had found my mom unconcious in her kitchen, blood everywhere from where she had cut herself in a drunken stupor. "You have to come home," my stepmom told me on the phone. I was standing in the parking lot of a local bar, getting ready to go inside with my friends. I told her that I would be there tomorrow and hung up. I closed my mind, and my heart that night and walked into that bar with my head held high and a twenty dollar bill in my hand and bought a round of shots for my friends. Later that night I ran from our apartment to the tennis courts and sat in the dark with a beer bottle and wept. I laid myself flat on the court and screamed to God. I asked him "Why??" "Why me? Why now?". I don't know how long I had been there when I heard my friends yelling for me. They were worried because they didn't know where I had gone. I was trying to escape everything, and I had no idea that what I needed was right there with me. God gave me and my mother another ten years after that. I was baptized that same year and have not been the same person who laid on that tennis court since. However, there are nights like tonight, with the moon full, that I feel the pull of restlessness. Thank the good Lord, that I belong completely to Him and know that He alone can calm the storm within. My prayer is that everyone can come to know His grace as I do. There are so many souls in this world who are desparate for solace. I pray that they let God into their hearts. I pray that they open their hearts and mind completely to Him, and that they will no longer suffer.
All this to say that I can now tell how the full moon seems to affect me. I have realized that during the full moon phase, my creative juices start to flow and the urge to keep working on my manuscript comes back to me. My mom actually asked for me to bring her a copy of my book before she passed away. I wish that I had taken the time to print it out. It was odd that she requested to read it, because I had not mentioned it to her in a long time. Odder still, when she asked to read it, a light bulb went off in my head that she was getting close to dying.
I graduated from college in 1999 and moved straight to New Orleans to work. One would think that a new grad would be itching to enter the party lifestyle and New Orleans would be the place to do just that. My experience in NOLA was not good. I missed my parents, my home state, and my friends. I detested the smell of the city that I thought I loved, and felt an eerie sense of darkness everywhere there. I wasn't just suffering from "girl from a small town syndrome" because I had also lived in New York, and New Orleans was like another world. Before moving to New Orleans, I loved the city's mysteries, the history of voodoo and most of all my all time favorite author Anne Rice. Living in the famed city as an outsider, not a native, was a whole different ballgame than just being a tourist. I met some interesting individuals though, and there are times that I want to go back and visit with my husband in tow. I want to show him the little wonder spots I found scattered around the District and the historical sites of the city. I digress, my point is that I went to one of the biggest party places in the US and hardly had fun at all. I ended up moving back home after 6 months. I moved in with my mother because I was worried about her drinking. I was only able to take living with her for two months before I left there and moved in with my dad and stepmom. Then I started driving back and forth to hang out with friends in Birmingham. It was during this time that I met the love of my life and have been married to him for almost 10 years!
The full moon makes me feel reckless. I had reckless moments in between my move from Gadsden to Birmingham. I look back now and know that I was mad at my mom for trying to drink herself to death. I was only 22 and had the world at my feet, but I ran from it instead of embracing it. For about four months I lived night to night, drink to drink, dance to dance with my girlfriends. I fell in a gutter in downtown Birmingham, and almost lost my Steve Madden shoe. I drank a bottle of wine by myself before going out at night and could shoot tequila better than any man in the bar. I ran every day, hang over or not, and was in the best shape of my life. What I didn't know was that I was in pain,and no running or drinking could help me. It wasn't until I met my husband and started going back to church that the pain dissipated. All during college and for the year after I had graduated I had held God back at an arms length. I prayed to Him daily but would not give in to His silent urging for me to come back to him. I tried to hide, but He found me. I can still remember the night that my dad called me to tell me that they had found my mom unconcious in her kitchen, blood everywhere from where she had cut herself in a drunken stupor. "You have to come home," my stepmom told me on the phone. I was standing in the parking lot of a local bar, getting ready to go inside with my friends. I told her that I would be there tomorrow and hung up. I closed my mind, and my heart that night and walked into that bar with my head held high and a twenty dollar bill in my hand and bought a round of shots for my friends. Later that night I ran from our apartment to the tennis courts and sat in the dark with a beer bottle and wept. I laid myself flat on the court and screamed to God. I asked him "Why??" "Why me? Why now?". I don't know how long I had been there when I heard my friends yelling for me. They were worried because they didn't know where I had gone. I was trying to escape everything, and I had no idea that what I needed was right there with me. God gave me and my mother another ten years after that. I was baptized that same year and have not been the same person who laid on that tennis court since. However, there are nights like tonight, with the moon full, that I feel the pull of restlessness. Thank the good Lord, that I belong completely to Him and know that He alone can calm the storm within. My prayer is that everyone can come to know His grace as I do. There are so many souls in this world who are desparate for solace. I pray that they let God into their hearts. I pray that they open their hearts and mind completely to Him, and that they will no longer suffer.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
A Chasing after the Wind
"To the person who pleases him, God gives wisdom, knowledge and happiness, but to the sinner he gives the task of gathering and storing up wealth to hand it over to the one who pleases God. This too is meaningless, a chasing after the wind." Ecclesiastes 2:26
King Soloman was such a wise man. I enjoy reading the book of Ecclesiastes more than any other book in the Bible. One reason I enjoy it so is because Old King Sol is blunt. He gets right to the point, and leaves no room for romanticism or optimism. The first time I read this book of the Bible I thought, "This is one seriously depressed old king who needs a Zoloft, stat!" I imagine King Solomon, old, and fat, with a long white flowing beard, dressed in his fancy tunic, lounging on a chase with a cup of wine in one jeweled hand and a pen in the other as he writes this book. By the end you feel as though he's looking to find the closest cliff to jump from or to get his hands on a poison readily available to drink and end the nonsensical life he lives.
However, once you get past the brute force of his words, you realize how these words transcend over thousands of years to reach back to us today. I read Ecclesiastes in the months that Brad and I were trying to decide if I could quit working full time to be at home with the boys. It was a hard decision, one that we were even lucky to have gotten to consider. We worked over our budget spreadsheet hundreds of times, had late night discussions of our goals and dreams and what we thought was the right life for our kids. First and foremost we wanted to know what would be right for our family in the eyes of God. To get this answer we turned to the all encompassing James Dobson. About as blunt as King Soloman but with a grasp on what the small man faces. We decided to make the jump and two and half years later we are still standing. Poor, but standing.
In each family there is usually a saver and a spender, sometimes you have a family where both parents are spenders, or savers. Brad is a saver, I am a spender. My mom was a saver like no one I have ever known. My dad was a spender. I'm sure that Brad wishes that I had inherited this saving trait of hers. She could turn one dollar into a hundred in two weeks, one hundred dollers into a thousand in a month, etc. She never over spent, she never bought anything that wasn't for a practical need.
Last Sunday Brother Ron, our minister, who Brad and I admire and adore, preached on giving. Brother Ron, much like King Solomon gives it to you straight. The money in our hands does really not belong to us, it all belongs to God. He only requires 10% but He expects much more from us, not just in monetary means. Brad and I were touched as we always are by Bro Ron's sermons and are going to cut a few things out of the budget to give more offerings.
The other question that was raised in one of the sermons is what are you saving for? If you hoard all of this money, which really isn't yours to begin with, when are you ever going to make use of it? My mother did this. She hoarded her money and was stingy with it until toward the end. I never wanted her money, I just wanted her time. Money was everything to her though, and it means very little to me. I don't care if a person has one dollar to thier name, if I love them and want to spend time with them I will make it a point to do so.
Mother also hoarded paperwork, reciepts, doctors reciepts, notepads with notes written on them, I even found a check that my granny had written my mom back in 1989 in a stack of paper on a desk in her house. Brad and I had gone to start cleaning out Mom's house last Sunday. We are trying to get it ready for the market and will hopefully have it listed soon.
My precious stepmom and my dad had already cleaned out the refridgerator and pantry for me so when Brad and I go there with a huge box of industrialized trash bags we got to work. Every drawer was jam packed paper, from years back, bills, reciepts, doctor's notes, you name it, it was in these drawers. It took us 4 hours and eighteen industrial size garbage bags to get the house to a point where it can be cleaned.
On one hand I was glad to have Brad with me, he helped me stay the coarse, kept me moving so that I wouldn't get mired down in the memories that were strewn all around me.
Since the day that I had gone to pick mom up from her house to move her into the Point at Goldenrod, I had not touched her bed. The sheets were still laying as she had left them. Her brush was on the table along with tissues, her glasses and various books. When I had woken her up that morning her 02 was low, and I could tell this as soon as she woke up. I was trying to rush her hoping that if I could just get her to the assisted living they would know what to do. I didn't want to call an ambulance and have her wind up back in the hospital from where she had just returned the night before. She sat up on the side of the bed and said she felt sick. I got her a towel and gave it to her as Connor came running in. I had to shoo him back outside to the yard where my dad was respectfully waiting on me to bring her out to the car. Once she threw up I got her a glass of water. Her hands were unstead and she dropped it on the floor. I refilled it and gave it to her, helping her bring it to her lips. She drank the whole glass and sat it on the table. The glass is still sitting there. I wouldn't let Brad touch that table or the towel, or the brush. We had to undo the bed and throw out the matress and box springs. I threw the new sheets that I had just bought her, that she had been sleeping on, out with it as well because we now know that she had a staff infection.
Throwing that bed out of the house was ceremonious in a way. That bed was basically her death bed. She had laid dying in it for the past six months. There was a part of me that could have layed in her spot, and wrapped my arms around the covers and never moved. But the rational part of me knew that it needed to go. Rationalization and grief do not mix well. In fact those to emotional factors are on opposite sides of the caring spectrum. How can one be rational in thier greif? How can greif come across as rational to an ungreived person? There is no meeting of these two, they stay on the opposite sides of the valley of death.
As I continued to go through all of her crappy cooking supplies and tupperware I kept thinking about all of the nice things that she could have had, but never had bought in order to save money. Save money for what?? She's gone now, and the money is left but she can't spend it on anything. While she lived, she squandered her cash, and saved to go boxes as tupperwear. She bought most of her groceried from the dollar store because it was so much cheaper than walmart. We always went dutch when we met for dinner, she had a set amount to spend on the kids at holidays, which was well and good. Why didn't she take some of that squandered money and take the kids on a vacation with. Why didn't she spend the extra two dollars to drive to our house instead of meeting us for dinner fifteen minutes closer to her? I guess she was always afraid that the money would run out before she did. She was wrong.
I look back at her house and her lifetime of saving and hoarding things that were of really no purpose in this life. Then I look at the time she missed with her grandchildren, the soccer games she never made, the basketball games she never saw, the flag football games she never attended and I realize that she had already missed out on some of the best days of her life. Why? Because we lived too far away, a whole hour, and because most of the games were played in the morning, before her normal wake up time of noon.
I wonder if she is looking back at her life while in the present heaven and seeing all of these missed opportunities. My children remember Nana, and Connor especially has a fondnest for her. But what they remember most about her is the things that she did buy them because they were so precious and far between.
I don't want to be remembered by an inatimate object that will eventually be placed in a box because someone is no longer playing with it. I want to be remembered for being there. For being tangible, attached to the wants and desires of my children and one day my grandchildren. I want to be remembered for not chasing after the wind, but by being blown along through life by a zephyr wind picking up memories as I go.
King Soloman was such a wise man. I enjoy reading the book of Ecclesiastes more than any other book in the Bible. One reason I enjoy it so is because Old King Sol is blunt. He gets right to the point, and leaves no room for romanticism or optimism. The first time I read this book of the Bible I thought, "This is one seriously depressed old king who needs a Zoloft, stat!" I imagine King Solomon, old, and fat, with a long white flowing beard, dressed in his fancy tunic, lounging on a chase with a cup of wine in one jeweled hand and a pen in the other as he writes this book. By the end you feel as though he's looking to find the closest cliff to jump from or to get his hands on a poison readily available to drink and end the nonsensical life he lives.
However, once you get past the brute force of his words, you realize how these words transcend over thousands of years to reach back to us today. I read Ecclesiastes in the months that Brad and I were trying to decide if I could quit working full time to be at home with the boys. It was a hard decision, one that we were even lucky to have gotten to consider. We worked over our budget spreadsheet hundreds of times, had late night discussions of our goals and dreams and what we thought was the right life for our kids. First and foremost we wanted to know what would be right for our family in the eyes of God. To get this answer we turned to the all encompassing James Dobson. About as blunt as King Soloman but with a grasp on what the small man faces. We decided to make the jump and two and half years later we are still standing. Poor, but standing.
In each family there is usually a saver and a spender, sometimes you have a family where both parents are spenders, or savers. Brad is a saver, I am a spender. My mom was a saver like no one I have ever known. My dad was a spender. I'm sure that Brad wishes that I had inherited this saving trait of hers. She could turn one dollar into a hundred in two weeks, one hundred dollers into a thousand in a month, etc. She never over spent, she never bought anything that wasn't for a practical need.
Last Sunday Brother Ron, our minister, who Brad and I admire and adore, preached on giving. Brother Ron, much like King Solomon gives it to you straight. The money in our hands does really not belong to us, it all belongs to God. He only requires 10% but He expects much more from us, not just in monetary means. Brad and I were touched as we always are by Bro Ron's sermons and are going to cut a few things out of the budget to give more offerings.
The other question that was raised in one of the sermons is what are you saving for? If you hoard all of this money, which really isn't yours to begin with, when are you ever going to make use of it? My mother did this. She hoarded her money and was stingy with it until toward the end. I never wanted her money, I just wanted her time. Money was everything to her though, and it means very little to me. I don't care if a person has one dollar to thier name, if I love them and want to spend time with them I will make it a point to do so.
Mother also hoarded paperwork, reciepts, doctors reciepts, notepads with notes written on them, I even found a check that my granny had written my mom back in 1989 in a stack of paper on a desk in her house. Brad and I had gone to start cleaning out Mom's house last Sunday. We are trying to get it ready for the market and will hopefully have it listed soon.
My precious stepmom and my dad had already cleaned out the refridgerator and pantry for me so when Brad and I go there with a huge box of industrialized trash bags we got to work. Every drawer was jam packed paper, from years back, bills, reciepts, doctor's notes, you name it, it was in these drawers. It took us 4 hours and eighteen industrial size garbage bags to get the house to a point where it can be cleaned.
On one hand I was glad to have Brad with me, he helped me stay the coarse, kept me moving so that I wouldn't get mired down in the memories that were strewn all around me.
Since the day that I had gone to pick mom up from her house to move her into the Point at Goldenrod, I had not touched her bed. The sheets were still laying as she had left them. Her brush was on the table along with tissues, her glasses and various books. When I had woken her up that morning her 02 was low, and I could tell this as soon as she woke up. I was trying to rush her hoping that if I could just get her to the assisted living they would know what to do. I didn't want to call an ambulance and have her wind up back in the hospital from where she had just returned the night before. She sat up on the side of the bed and said she felt sick. I got her a towel and gave it to her as Connor came running in. I had to shoo him back outside to the yard where my dad was respectfully waiting on me to bring her out to the car. Once she threw up I got her a glass of water. Her hands were unstead and she dropped it on the floor. I refilled it and gave it to her, helping her bring it to her lips. She drank the whole glass and sat it on the table. The glass is still sitting there. I wouldn't let Brad touch that table or the towel, or the brush. We had to undo the bed and throw out the matress and box springs. I threw the new sheets that I had just bought her, that she had been sleeping on, out with it as well because we now know that she had a staff infection.
Throwing that bed out of the house was ceremonious in a way. That bed was basically her death bed. She had laid dying in it for the past six months. There was a part of me that could have layed in her spot, and wrapped my arms around the covers and never moved. But the rational part of me knew that it needed to go. Rationalization and grief do not mix well. In fact those to emotional factors are on opposite sides of the caring spectrum. How can one be rational in thier greif? How can greif come across as rational to an ungreived person? There is no meeting of these two, they stay on the opposite sides of the valley of death.
As I continued to go through all of her crappy cooking supplies and tupperware I kept thinking about all of the nice things that she could have had, but never had bought in order to save money. Save money for what?? She's gone now, and the money is left but she can't spend it on anything. While she lived, she squandered her cash, and saved to go boxes as tupperwear. She bought most of her groceried from the dollar store because it was so much cheaper than walmart. We always went dutch when we met for dinner, she had a set amount to spend on the kids at holidays, which was well and good. Why didn't she take some of that squandered money and take the kids on a vacation with. Why didn't she spend the extra two dollars to drive to our house instead of meeting us for dinner fifteen minutes closer to her? I guess she was always afraid that the money would run out before she did. She was wrong.
I look back at her house and her lifetime of saving and hoarding things that were of really no purpose in this life. Then I look at the time she missed with her grandchildren, the soccer games she never made, the basketball games she never saw, the flag football games she never attended and I realize that she had already missed out on some of the best days of her life. Why? Because we lived too far away, a whole hour, and because most of the games were played in the morning, before her normal wake up time of noon.
I wonder if she is looking back at her life while in the present heaven and seeing all of these missed opportunities. My children remember Nana, and Connor especially has a fondnest for her. But what they remember most about her is the things that she did buy them because they were so precious and far between.
I don't want to be remembered by an inatimate object that will eventually be placed in a box because someone is no longer playing with it. I want to be remembered for being there. For being tangible, attached to the wants and desires of my children and one day my grandchildren. I want to be remembered for not chasing after the wind, but by being blown along through life by a zephyr wind picking up memories as I go.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Now It Begins
Today Connor and I were eating lunch together at our favorite place, Moe's. As usual, Connor was eating, bouncing in the booth, and talking up a storm. Not good table manners I know, but he's so darn cute. Anyway, a little boy and his mother came in and sat a few booths behind us. All of a sudden the little boy stood up and yelled, "Nana!". Connor stopped in the middle of a bounce and looked right at me. For a minute he stood still and my heart started to beat as I wondered what might be going through his three year old mind. Calmly he said, "Mommy, I wish God hadn't taken MY Nana to heaven. I wish she could come and eat with us at Moe's" My heart sank into my stomach and I looked down at my salad, willing myself not to cry.
This week has been extrodinary. Every day, I have had a sudden, sporadic, body shaking, episode of weeping. I guess I have finally began to realize what was, will be no more, and that there is not going to be any turning back. My mom is gone. For the rest of the time I reside on this Earth, I will be without her. I have pushed my emotions as far down inside of me as they will go, and it seems as though they are breaking free, quite without my permission. Thankfully as I feel the tears creeping up on me I have been able to run to a safe place, a place where no one can see me, especially my boys. I want to be strong for them. I don't want to bring up Nana to them for fear of making them sad, yet I don't want them to forget her either.
One image that I have pushed back into my mind is the last one that I have of seeing my mom alive. It was the Wednseday night that I moved her into the assisted living facility. That night was the first of what was to be several ice storms that we have had lately. I had gotten to the hospital to pick mom up around three. She was mad because as I had brought her a change of clothes up to the hospital to change into, I had forgotten to bring up a pair of underwear. I had the underwear and everything else that I had bought and brought from Birmingham to move her into her room that night. They were all packed in my car, and my car was way down in the parking lot of the hospital. It was freezing outside, I didn't have a coat, I had worked that day and was tired, and it was sleeting. As soon as she found out that I had forgotten the underwear she got mad at me, in the way that she always did and then I got mad back. I was tired and frustrated, it had been a LONG two months worth of driving back and forth from Birmingham to Gadsden. I had found her unresponsive at home twice, and had to force her to go to the hospital twice. On top of this I had spent two weeks finding a place for her to go that was not a nursing home, that would be nice and like home for her because I knew that she didn't want to leave her house. I had spent the Sunday before at Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, and JC Penney buying her new clothes because all of her old ones were too big, as well as buying things to decorate and fix up her new room so that it would be nice and make her feel better about being there. The week before when I had driven her to the assisted living to move in, I had to take her back to the hospital where I was picking her up that Wednesday. The fact that she was mad over underwear flew all over me. However, I went back down the elevator and out to my car to get that underwear because I knew it was the right thing to do.
By the time I had gotten mom moved into her room it was getting close to 8:00 and there was ice on the sidewalk and parking lot at the assisted living. I was worried about driving back to Birmingham. I had to work on Thursday and then I was taking my dad to Atlanta to pick up my half sister and neice from the airport. They were flying in from London, and it had been two years since I had seen either of them. All that to say that when I was with mom that night, I thought I would be coming back the next week to see her for Christmas, and I was ready to get her settled and have a normal life again. The sweet ladies brought her vegetable soup and cornbread to her room and I sat with her as she ate dinner. I made sure her comforter set was on the bed, her clothes, that I had rewashed to make them smell fresh, were placed neatly in her drawers. The new towels were washed, folded and hung in her bathroom. Her room looked nice, and she seemed pleased. She thought that she was only there temporarily, and I was playing along with her explaining that if she ate well and took her medicines and got stronger, she may be able to go back home. While she was eating and I was sitting on the bed she asked, "Why is this happening to me?" and I said, "Why is what happening to you?" she said, "This." and pointed around at the room. I started to speak and she said, "And don't even say its because of my smoking because I will start in on your weight. I couldn't be in this shape from smoking. Millions of people smoke and aren't in my shape!" I wanted to say that she had also drank more than she had eaten for twenty five years but I didn't. I just nodded my head and told her that she was just lucky to be alive and that she was blessed that we had found The Pointe at Goldenrod, and this nice new room. Then she said, "You know, I have been thinking and I want to be cremated." I was shocked and said, "What? Why?". She said, "Because I don't want to have bugs crawling all over me and inside of me. What difference will it make anyway?" I waved her off and said that I didn't want to talk about that right then. The assisted living had an open house that night and there were homeade brownies and chocolate covered pretzels in the lobby. I went to get her some of those and a big glass of milk. I walked back up to the kitchen and when I came back in her room she was laying on the bed, eating her brownies and watching the news. She told me that I had better get going if I was going to go because the roads were freezing. She stood up and told me thank you for buying her all of those nice things (with her money) and that she loved her new clothes. Then she gave me a hug. If I could go back in time I would have stood there and hugged my mom for an hour. If I only knew that was the last hug that she would give me. Instead, I barely hugged her because I could feel every bone in her back as I hugged her and it made me cringe. My last image of my mother when she was alive is her standing in the hallway, wearing the new white shirt and khaki colored velour pants I had just bought her, blowing me a kiss and waving goodbye.
Oh, if only I could run back down that hall and wrap her in my arms. I would tell her that I loved her over and over and never leave her side. Now I have the questions that inevitably would have come to me: Why didn't I stay longer that night? Why didn't I get to the hospital earlier to pick her up? Why didn't I sit down on the bed and talk to her instead of making sure her room was just right? Why, why why????
I know that there is no way that I could have known that would be the last time I saw her while she was concious. I also know that she is in a much better place now, and that I will spend eternity with her. So why am I tormented by the "What ifs" and "I should haves"??? This life on earth is cruel. I am so thankful that I know what lies ahead and that one day I will be sad no more. Until then, it has begun, this horrible down swift current of regret. Thankfully I have God by my side as I ride this current, and I know that He will see me safely to calmer waters. I just wish that I could get there fast.
This week has been extrodinary. Every day, I have had a sudden, sporadic, body shaking, episode of weeping. I guess I have finally began to realize what was, will be no more, and that there is not going to be any turning back. My mom is gone. For the rest of the time I reside on this Earth, I will be without her. I have pushed my emotions as far down inside of me as they will go, and it seems as though they are breaking free, quite without my permission. Thankfully as I feel the tears creeping up on me I have been able to run to a safe place, a place where no one can see me, especially my boys. I want to be strong for them. I don't want to bring up Nana to them for fear of making them sad, yet I don't want them to forget her either.
One image that I have pushed back into my mind is the last one that I have of seeing my mom alive. It was the Wednseday night that I moved her into the assisted living facility. That night was the first of what was to be several ice storms that we have had lately. I had gotten to the hospital to pick mom up around three. She was mad because as I had brought her a change of clothes up to the hospital to change into, I had forgotten to bring up a pair of underwear. I had the underwear and everything else that I had bought and brought from Birmingham to move her into her room that night. They were all packed in my car, and my car was way down in the parking lot of the hospital. It was freezing outside, I didn't have a coat, I had worked that day and was tired, and it was sleeting. As soon as she found out that I had forgotten the underwear she got mad at me, in the way that she always did and then I got mad back. I was tired and frustrated, it had been a LONG two months worth of driving back and forth from Birmingham to Gadsden. I had found her unresponsive at home twice, and had to force her to go to the hospital twice. On top of this I had spent two weeks finding a place for her to go that was not a nursing home, that would be nice and like home for her because I knew that she didn't want to leave her house. I had spent the Sunday before at Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, and JC Penney buying her new clothes because all of her old ones were too big, as well as buying things to decorate and fix up her new room so that it would be nice and make her feel better about being there. The week before when I had driven her to the assisted living to move in, I had to take her back to the hospital where I was picking her up that Wednesday. The fact that she was mad over underwear flew all over me. However, I went back down the elevator and out to my car to get that underwear because I knew it was the right thing to do.
By the time I had gotten mom moved into her room it was getting close to 8:00 and there was ice on the sidewalk and parking lot at the assisted living. I was worried about driving back to Birmingham. I had to work on Thursday and then I was taking my dad to Atlanta to pick up my half sister and neice from the airport. They were flying in from London, and it had been two years since I had seen either of them. All that to say that when I was with mom that night, I thought I would be coming back the next week to see her for Christmas, and I was ready to get her settled and have a normal life again. The sweet ladies brought her vegetable soup and cornbread to her room and I sat with her as she ate dinner. I made sure her comforter set was on the bed, her clothes, that I had rewashed to make them smell fresh, were placed neatly in her drawers. The new towels were washed, folded and hung in her bathroom. Her room looked nice, and she seemed pleased. She thought that she was only there temporarily, and I was playing along with her explaining that if she ate well and took her medicines and got stronger, she may be able to go back home. While she was eating and I was sitting on the bed she asked, "Why is this happening to me?" and I said, "Why is what happening to you?" she said, "This." and pointed around at the room. I started to speak and she said, "And don't even say its because of my smoking because I will start in on your weight. I couldn't be in this shape from smoking. Millions of people smoke and aren't in my shape!" I wanted to say that she had also drank more than she had eaten for twenty five years but I didn't. I just nodded my head and told her that she was just lucky to be alive and that she was blessed that we had found The Pointe at Goldenrod, and this nice new room. Then she said, "You know, I have been thinking and I want to be cremated." I was shocked and said, "What? Why?". She said, "Because I don't want to have bugs crawling all over me and inside of me. What difference will it make anyway?" I waved her off and said that I didn't want to talk about that right then. The assisted living had an open house that night and there were homeade brownies and chocolate covered pretzels in the lobby. I went to get her some of those and a big glass of milk. I walked back up to the kitchen and when I came back in her room she was laying on the bed, eating her brownies and watching the news. She told me that I had better get going if I was going to go because the roads were freezing. She stood up and told me thank you for buying her all of those nice things (with her money) and that she loved her new clothes. Then she gave me a hug. If I could go back in time I would have stood there and hugged my mom for an hour. If I only knew that was the last hug that she would give me. Instead, I barely hugged her because I could feel every bone in her back as I hugged her and it made me cringe. My last image of my mother when she was alive is her standing in the hallway, wearing the new white shirt and khaki colored velour pants I had just bought her, blowing me a kiss and waving goodbye.
Oh, if only I could run back down that hall and wrap her in my arms. I would tell her that I loved her over and over and never leave her side. Now I have the questions that inevitably would have come to me: Why didn't I stay longer that night? Why didn't I get to the hospital earlier to pick her up? Why didn't I sit down on the bed and talk to her instead of making sure her room was just right? Why, why why????
I know that there is no way that I could have known that would be the last time I saw her while she was concious. I also know that she is in a much better place now, and that I will spend eternity with her. So why am I tormented by the "What ifs" and "I should haves"??? This life on earth is cruel. I am so thankful that I know what lies ahead and that one day I will be sad no more. Until then, it has begun, this horrible down swift current of regret. Thankfully I have God by my side as I ride this current, and I know that He will see me safely to calmer waters. I just wish that I could get there fast.
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