Surprising Lessons...Unexpected Teachers

I try, usually anyway, to be aware of what I am teaching my kids, especially the lessons they might be learning form my example.  I suspect I often fail--when I get angry over little things or frustrated with all that is beyond my control, the way I worry too much and probably laugh too little.  I have to wonder what they have learned form me when I am not being so careful, when the emotion of the moment is too hard or too high for me to sensor myself in any way.  It's something that I think about from time to time, and I rarely come up with any hard firm answers.  Then, when I least expect it--they knock my socks off with the people they are becoming.  Today was one of those days.

There was a candlelight vigil this evening for my son's friend who died yesterday, organized by his friends and the community.  There was a huge turnout.  Hundreds of rough and tumble teenagers stood side by side with community police officers and parents and spoke eloquently about the friend the still love so dearly.  Tough local teens who usually sport no-care attitudes cried openly for the loss of their friends.  Kids who had in weeks past sworn they hated each other apologized tonight and joined together in their grief and shock at the loss of a kind, sweet young man.  They spoke to the news anchor about a sixteen year old boy who had no enemies and made all of his friends smile.  One said that he felt the best thing they could all do to remember Hank was to always wear helmets while riding and skateboarding.

My son has more poise than I would have ever imagined.  Somehow, someway he has learned to avoid the cliches of grief and to reach out through his own sadness to genuinely comfort others with sincere words and hugs from the heart.  He seems also to have found a wisdom beyond his years that lets him know when no words are necessary and silence is the biggest comfort.  They are skills so many of us adults lack.  They are things that he and his friends have in spades.  It was a day for the parents to learn from the kids.

Fast and Furious

I used to be so organized.  This isn't my first blog.  I used to write daily and post a couple of times a week--writing that felt strong to me and carried my voice to the page.  I am trying my best to find that rhythm again, but with no luck.  Lately it has been as though life is rushing at me going something like 80 miles an hour with no brakes.  Crazy pieces of road debris and madness are slamming into me causing a sadness and confusion that I can't seem to begin to describe even though I am desperate to.

My older kids lost a good friend today.  In some house less than a mile from where I sit typing in the quiet still of the evening there are two parents going through a kind of hell I cannot even imagine.  While I was hugging my boy in the kitchen, and wishing my eighteen year old daughter still lived at home, they are struggling with the fact that they will never get to see their sixteen year old son grow up.  My struggles are nothing compared to theirs.  I cannot even imagine the starkness of a world that was missing one of my children, even less can I imagine losing an only child.

Under the best of circumstances parenting teenagers is hard.  The sharp blast of their music grates against the edges of my raw nerves.  I find myself second guessing every small decisions I make in regard to new freedoms, independence, choices made on their own and consequences tended to.  I am completely uncertain how I am going to handle contrast between meeting the needs of a newborn next spring and at the same time working my way along the process of letting go of my older children as they grown into adults.  This baby isn't even here yet and already I feel their different needs wrenching me in a dozen directions at once.  The strange thing is that even the painful uncertainty feels like a gift to me lately and especially today.  I am well aware of how incredibly lucky I am to be moving towards this sweet final refrain of baby days and childhood.  The experiences of raising my older three children have taught me well the value and flying speed of time.  I am relieved that as my first baby leaves to test her wings, I have the security of knowing that I will likely have at least another eighteen years before my nest is completely empty.  It is as though I have won some small victory over the passing of time, temporary though it may be.

I am undeniably proud of my son today.  He visited his friend in the hospital shortly before he passed this afternoon.  He spent the afternoon with their friends at the park, crying and reminiscing and grieving together.  Then on his way home he stopped at his friend's house and with more courage and maturity than I could have imagined, he visited with and tried to comfort Hank's parents.  At fourteen I have raised a a boy, a young man really, who is kind and open-hearted and understands about reaching out to others even when he has his own pain and sadness.  I have seen those same traits in my daughter as well.  I have no way of knowing if it is something that I taught or modeled, but I am so terribly grateful and proud to see it and I hope with all of my heart that I can replicate those lessons as I raise my younger two children.  I am  lucky in a million different ways tonight and on top of that I am lucky enough to know it.

Tonight I will go to sleep wishing some delicate and lasting peace to Hank's parents, in whatever possible way they can find it.  There are no words for the  depth of my sorrow for their loss.  The best way I can think of to honor their son is simply to hold my own children a little tighter for as long as they will let me.

My Boy--More grown than I want to admit.  

Bumbling Beginnings...or Endings...Maybe Both.

It was my intention to start this blog off again on some strong, resilient feeling initial post.  But...Surprise--I feel like a dishrag today and the inspiration just isn't coming like I want it too.  I started this week with a lot of really great and highly motivated intentions.  Yet it is Thursday already and all that I really have going on is this feeling like the time has gotten badly away from me and not in a direction I am terribly happy with.  This is not to say that things are looking bad necessarily, but not good in all the ways I had hoped for.  I suppose I had better explain some things about myself if I would like you to understand.
I am currently 13 weeks pregnant with a very unexpected, but terribly wanted baby.  This little one will be number 4 for me (I know, I'm crazy...but just wait because you haven't even touched upon the extent of my crazy yet.)  but only number 1 for my dear sweet husband.  My older kids, who are my heart and have been my life for more than 20 years now are as follows:  My daughter Cait- 18, son Rob-14 and littlest guy Zack-9.  Last but not least I should mention the three years I parented free-lance with my step-son Josh (24) before I had my own little crumb-crunchers.  Did I mention the crazy part yet?  That would have to be the fact that I found out I was expecting this last little wonder the week I planned my daughter's graduation party, (from high school--she was valedictorian of her class!  Yay!!!!!) , that my youngest is NINE years old, that I always swore I would be done having babies by 30 because I started young and didn't want to spend my entire life raising kids--and oh, did I mention I am 37?  and that the fertility specialists we saw after the miscarriage in 2009 felt we weren't likely to have another baby with out serious, expensive fertility treatments?  So, yes, currently I am more than just a little crazy.
I am getting excited about this baby.  I relish the idea that having come along at a time in my life when I KNOW the value of time in ways I had never before been aware, I will be able to slow down and ENJOY this baby.  At the same time I am grieving, but not about this particular baby.  It is about my first baby.  My baby that turned eighteen and graduated this year and then this week, in a fit of righteous teenage indignation about being made to clean up after herself, moved out, to live with her boyfriend and his parents.  I am not ready.  I suspect that she is not ready either, but that I am keeping to myself, because I do understand her need to try.  But that doesn't make me hate it any less.

Finding My Way Back

How do you explain depression to someone outside of it? It seems unlikely that words exist to describe the way it can creep up on you over the course of a lazy Sunday afternoon, in total absence of anything really going wrong. True, some days it's shadow is present from the moment you open your eyes. Other days that shadow is weighty as concrete, pressing hard against you even as you sleep. But the most frightening times it comes seemingly from nowhere. It starts as the slightest twinge of discomfort, almost like an itch you cannot reach to thoroughly scratch. At first you try your best to ignore it, to simply proceed with the activities of your day as though all is well within your own mind, hoping beyond hope that the feeling will recede. When it doesn't, when in fact it just grows in the tiniest of increments you find yourself trying to rationalize it away. “I am having a good week, a good day. This is silly. Everything is just fine. I am beating this thing....it can't come back right now.” You doggedly attack your to do list. You check off item after item. You make yourself a sensible dinner as you remind yourself that for your mind to be healthy your body must have good food to work with. All your efforts fail and you find yourself falling off task, staring at the wall or out of the window, giving in to the dull ache in your chest, letting the fear wash over you, each wave larger than the last until the tears come. Then, if you are lucky, he will notice and stop to hold you for a bit if there is time. You let him wrap you in his strong arms and you curl against his chest with your ear against his heart., the warmth of his breath against your forehead.

I know that is is a good sign that the last few days have felt carefree and easy like days used to. I know that means that I am starting to beat the depression back once more. I also know that it will be a process of stops and starts, more and more good days mixed in with a few here and there that still carry with them that unbearable hurt. I am so grateful on those days that I can still nestle into his arms and let the steady drum of his heart lull me off to sleep, feeling safe as long as he is nearby.

Dear Mom,

Dear Mom,

It's been three months. Three long, crazy months. I miss you like mad but I guess that goes without saying. Everything here has changed so much without you. Not just bad changes either, lots of good things too, but I'd trade it all to have you back. One of the hardest things is not being able to tell you how excited I am about this new stuff. Every time something new happens I catch myself thinking, I CAN'T WAIT TO TELL... and then my heart breaks all over again because I can't. So I'll have to settle for telling you here and hope it helps to ease the ache of not having you with me.

I think you would be proud of me, of all of us really. The kids miss you, but have handled themselves like real champs. Every one's behavior has been tip top since school let out, not perfect, but not all that craziness we had for so long. R got all caught up in school and has been so polite and kind these last weeks. K doesn't argue so much anymore and Z is still, well, Z--smart and scary and awesome.

I'm starting back to school in the fall. It's time to finally get that degree you always wanted me to have. It turns out I only have ten classes to take to finish up, so I'll be a college graduate by next spring. It seems crazy to me that losing you was the only thing that made it possible for me to do the things you dreamed of me doing. I hate that-- that you won't be there to see me finally succeed after screwing up so much, even so it feels good to be going back. Next fall I'll start nursing school and with a little luck in a few years I'll have my RN and my masters. I figure why do it halfway--this is my big chance and I want to do what would have made you proud of me. Don't get me wrong, I know you were proud of me, but I know I gave you a lot of reasons to worry too. I'm glad you knew about B and I before you got sick. I know it meant a lot to you to know we had each other and that the kids and I had someone who would take good care of us. he's one of the best things ever to happen to the bunch of us. he has us acting like a family again. We've been doing a lot of fun stuff with the kids and we'll be spending Labor Day weekend in our favorite spot again this year ( my only regret is that you won't make it there with us.)

B and I have been heading out camping almost every weekend the kids have spent with their Dad. It's been good to have the freedom to travel so much and so cheaply this summer. It makes me feel young again and less like I missed something by starting a family right after high school. You were right about a lot of things, but it all seems to have turned out for the best anyway. I've been scattering your ashes with Dad's, a little bit in every beautiful place we go. We even rented a boat a few weeks ago and the boy's helped scatter some out in the middle of the lake. P will be helping out by taking you to Ireland when they go next week.

I guess the biggest news is about the house. We just can't stay here. It's far too empty without you and every detail of every room is yours. I think you'd like the house we found though. It's in the neighborhood you chose to raise me in. There are memories of you and Dad there, but not such painful ones. It's just big enough, with good sized rooms and lots of light...It will be so hard to leave here in September, but I think it's what will be best for us all. I will carry all the best parts of you with me--in my heart of course. It will be good for B and I to have a fresh start in a house that is ours together with no memories in it of anyone but us.  I'm looking forward to a good night's sleep in my own bed again, because it seems like lately the only time I sleep straight through is if we are bedded down in our little tent in some state park far away from the place where I lost you. When we are at home and everyone finally settles in for the night it seems my thoughts always drift to those last moments with you and with Dad. They haunt me, make my heart ache for all that I have lost in this house. It will be good to move on.

Well, it's late and it's my turn in the shower, but I'm sure I'll write again--there just so much I wish I could tell you....

Love,
me

The Longest Week of My LIfe...

The last time I wrote here I was so happy that Mom had been transferred from ICU to the step-down unit. Unfortunately the move was not the good news we anticipated. When I arrived at the hospital Sunday afternoon to visit her condition had declined significantly, and in keeping with her wishes we opted not to return to ICU. Instead I began working with Hospice to arrange to have my mother brought home to spend her final days here in the home she enjoyed with my father and her family, surrounded by the people who loved her the most. It took all of Sunday evening and most of the day Monday to get everything in order, but by six o'clock Monday evening my Mom was back in her own bad talking clearly with myself and her twin sister for the first time in four days. What follows is a collection of thoughts I had and wrote in bits and pieces over the past week and a half. They are not continuous or all inclusive, but they are significant and it is important to me to record them here. My mother didn't have many clear moments after Monday and after Thursday morning she didn't regain consciousness again. She passed away at 12:35 AM on Friday, April 24,  2009, lying peacefully in her own bed, with her sister and I holding her hands and my fifteen year old daughter lying beside her. My husband rubbed my back as she took her last slow breaths and my middle son lay sound asleep on the floor of her room in the corner. Strange though it may seem, it was tragic in it's enormity and beautiful in it's simplicity all at the same time. Our house feels empty without her and my heart aches for my amazing mother...but there is peace in knowing that I made her last moments on this earth as free of pain and and fear as I possibly could.

Monday, April 20, 2009--12:30 am

I can't believe this day. Bart and I are here waiting with Mom to be transferred upstairs to the palliative care floor in anticipation of her discharge to home hospice care later today. Just twelve hours ago I was thinking we had turned the corner, that we might have bought some time at least. When we got here about one o'clock yesterday afternoon though it was obvious that things were in decline again. Mom's mental status was unclear and confused again, indicating a worsening of the pressure and damage in her head. Now she has a fever they can't find the source of and bleeding in several places due to her low platelet counts. The problems she is fighting are many and seem to be multiplying by the hour. It is apparent now that they are simply too numerous for her to overcome, and when she is conscious it is only to say that she has had enough and wants to go home with me. I'm terrified--of losing her at all, but also of not getting her home in time, being unable to give her that most simple of things-- the comfort of her own home.

I am amazed by the quiet of this tiny corner of the hospital, with it's hardwood floors and flat-screen TV's, devoted only to the care required for maximum comfort, no efforts made to cure or treat. I have stood here at the dark window for more than an hour now watching the street lights blink yellow all the way down Main Street and Liberty Avenue. Here I sit in the silence watching over the sleep of the man I have always loved and the woman who has always loved me. I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders and in only a few more hours, with no sleep in more than twenty four, I will spend hours on end in a frantic flurry to accomplish everything necessary to get her home again, because I promised.

11:50 pm

It's done. She is home and resting quietly next to my aunt. Her meds have been picked up from the hospital and supplies have been ordered. We talked a bit before she faded off to sleep. She knows she is home and in my hands now (as precarious a situation as that seems to me, it seems to comfort her knowing that I am now in charge, not the doctors who don't know her or nurses with other patients to care for.) We have said a preponderance of "I love yous." I am overwhelmed but calmer than I have been at any other point today because at least I know my promise has been kept. I brought her home and now whatever happens I will know that I have done all that I could. I have done all that she taught me by example when she did it for my father just five short years ago. So now I will sleep, restlessly I'm sure, but finally, just sleep.

Thursday, April 24, 2009

There have been no good moments today as there have been the past few days. No moments of awakeness, no requests for food or chapstick, no complaints of thirst or discomfort, not even any restless turning in the bed, despite a bath and my efforts to let her know I am close by. Her breathing is growing more labored and ragged as the evening stretches on, and I know from experience that the end is close by, that she will not likely see the dawn of another day. Under the instruction of the hospice nurse on call her doses of liquid oxycodone and ativan are given closer together to alleviate the anxiety of being unable to catch her breath, if she is able to feel any anxiety at all now. I spend most of the evening brushing her thinning hair from her face and whispering my love close to her ear.  The oxygen concentrator thumps steadily in the background of everything we do this evening. My two oldest children have fallen asleep on either side of her in the big queen-size bed. As the night stretches on we move my ten-year old son to a pile of blankets in the corner and my daughter awakens to spend these last few hours with her beloved Nunny. I am restless myself but the last moments come just after the birth of the new day and are anti climatic, quiet. My mother's dear friend of forty years ( and a nurse for hospice) comes and performs all of the necessary tasks-- the pronunciation, and the phone calls, gently wiping her friends face and later telling me it was an honor to perform for my mother those final necessary tasks and to know that there was great dignity in her passing.

I stay with her body while the funeral home wraps and carries it from the house. I could escape to the upstairs but I feel I need to see her out, to assure that I have followed everything through to its endpoint, to know that my job is done a thoroughly as I know how....

But now I am lost, completely lost, an orphan of sorts.....

GOOD NEWS!

Mom made it out of ICU and was transferred to the step-down unit!!!!! YAY!!!!!