Being an Easter Person

Ever since napalm was suddenly dropped on my very orderly and contented life last June 16, I'd known this holiday was coming.
Easter. It was " our" holiday. The one we really celebrated with joy and presents and the realization that Easter is what it's all about; what WE were all about. We were Easter people; aware of God's grace in this life, and the promise of the resurrection in the next. Because of Glenn's calling and my upbringing,  I've always done the whole Lenten, Good Friday watch and that would make Easter morning all the more special. As many Christians proclaim on Easter morning, "He is Risen...The Lord is risen indeed", so did we start the day every year with that proclamation as we awoke.

I didn't do the journey this year. I just didn't have it in me. But, I knew I would be in an Episcopal church this morning, with renewed knowledge of what it means to be an Easter person. And the one I attended this year has special meaning to me. You see, my son Chris was always the church kid in our family; proud of Glenn's vocation and active in many diocesan youth programs. When he went to college, he majored in history and religion, and essentially scholarized himself out of a belief system. When Glenn died, he told me that he realized that that part of his life, which had once been so important to him, was missing. He intended to find an Episcopal church, where he could be comfortable. He made sure I knew he had no plans to go every Sunday or join the Vestry and that he still isn't "touchy-feely about it." At the time, I chuckled, thinking it was a reaction to his grief. But, he did it. He did his research and found a beautiful church home where the clergy are young and of his ultra-liberal  ethos, and where he and Rianna are both comfortable and are now members. So, although my sojourn as clergy spouse is done, I do have a wonderful place to worship with my family on occasion. Grace and promise. Being an Easter person.

The Reverend Jered Weber-Johnson ( you know he's young ...his name is Jered...and he hyphenates his wife's name and his:)) preached about being "Easter people in a Good Friday world."  Wow. That so spoke to me. I've had a Good Friday YEAR.

There was a wonderful article in a recent issue of The New York Times by David Brooks. He reflected on suffering, and the article was quoted in the sermon today as well. He says in it that often when people emerge  from suffering, they are not healed completely; they are just different.

There is truth in that. I am not the same person I was ten months ago. Glenn's sudden traumatic death, and my mother's recent death were defining moments of grief and sadness in my life. They left scars.

But he went on to say in his sermon, that although the wounds may still be visible, they do not have to define us; that by the knowledge that there is grace in this life and the next, through the risen Christ, we can have hope.

My wounds are still there. Visible in my tears sometimes.  But, being an Easter person , I know that I am also stronger, more aware, more grateful for the people in my life who I love, and full of promise and hope for the future. And assured of the next one.

Remaining an Easter person.
On the journey.

A Different Journey

This has been a journey within my journey.
My mother fell critically ill while I was on vacation in Mexico in March. The day after I returned, she was returned to her assisted living facility under the care of hospice. She knew, and we knew that it was the end.  I made the conscious decision to stay with her for her final journey, and I did , with help from my brother and friends. At the very end, at 1:53 a.m on March 24, she gave " the whisper of death" as I sang every hymn she loved,, and prayed every prayer I could find, and held her hand. And  although it was not a surprise, it still was. I went home numbly.  It was such a different experience than Glenn's death that I wasn't sure how to respond or how to feel.  I spent many hours reliving his death and loss again mixed with pure grief for my mom. It was hard to tell where one stopped and the other began.
We decided for many reasons to wait almost three weeks for her funeral and burial in Milwaukee.
During those weeks, it was incredibly hard to carry on in life and work as if everything was normal. Apparently my brother had the same experience. He would awaken in the night and hear the Louis Armstrong songs we played for her in his head, over and over.
She had left such explicit directions of what she wanted, and what hymns were to be sung  and where she wanted the service, and what was to be done with her cremains,  that it became part of the journey to make sure it all happened as she wished. I was committed to honoring her final wishes.
And so, on Thursday afternoon I stopped by the funeral home and picked up her cremains, lovingly put them in my carry on (yes I checked with the airline) and began the journey that I considered to be taking her physical self home to rest in eternity with my dad. I believe her spiritual self is already there, of course. On Friday morning my brother wanted a turn carrying the box too as went to deliver them to be comingled with my dad. He felt the same sense of a journey I think.
But, if there  is such a thing as a joyous, or "fun" funeral, this was it. It was a service of celebration and remembering,and the time leading up to it, and afterwards were times of laughter, and remembering and quality time spent with lifetime friends and family. Ryan and Henry were on " hug alert" in case Grammy got sad and needed one.  I'm humbled by the effort that my friends the Boos' and Erica and her mom made by driving from Brainerd, and by my oldest and dearest friend Sue Moynahan by flying in from California.
I expected it to be difficult because it was held in the church Glenn and I married in, the church where he did hundreds of services, and I did choke up a bit. His absence was felt when I walked in.  But so was his presence. And hers. They were both there.
And when I look at the pictures I took,  everyone is happy and smiling and celebrating her life.
Which is exactly, exactly what she would have loved. Every now and then I kept expecting to turn to her and say, " Isn't this great?" And when I got home, I wanted to call her and tell her what a wonderful weekend we had for her. Those will be my new normals to adjust to.
My mom sincerely believed that she had been blessed above all and that she had had a perfect life. That's why she told me not to grieve for her. That's not possible, but the whole weekend reminded me of her favorite saying. She had a big sticker on her mirror in the apartment where she lived before assisted living.
It said, " LIFE IS GOOD."
Yes it is. It is indeed. You taught us what that meant.
RIP Mom.
On the journey.

The Safe Spot.

I've been diving three times. This does not make me an expert at any level. But, I do know that there is a spot before emerging and breathing independently, where a diver must pause for a bit in order to release the nitrogen build up. I believe it is called the "safe spot."

I am in that spot right now. My mother has been dead for more than a week. And yet, her funeral is still nine days away. Last Friday night my children and I hosted a reception in her honor for her local friends. She would have loved it, but it wasn't the finale. 

And so I have been back at work, because truly, what else is there to do? My friends helped me put the rest of her things  in storage tonight, so there is no need to revisit that anymore. But, although I am physically at work,  I am mentally absent. It is not a good feeling. Especially as I prepare for state testing next week. 

I'm not very connected to life right now.

I'm not sure where I am, but I haven't emerged to the surface yet. I am still underwater. 

I've had recurrences of the physical ailments I encountered from stress last summer; rashes, stomach pain, anorexia etc. Everything feels so raw.

And I've realized that loss is cumulative.  Her death compounds Glenn's death which compounds every other hurt and loss I've had. It is hard to separate them, one from another. 

And so I wait in this "safe spot". And I hope that as we complete and celebrate her life on this earth with family and friends coming from near and afar next weekend, I will emerge and take that one life affirming gasp of real air, such as happens when emerging from the deep.

Waiting.

On the journey.

Sad Eyes

Bad day. Actually a rock bottom day. Today I was at the bottom of that abyss I swam over in Mexico, but this time I was without air. It caused me to stay in the fetal position most of the day.

Too much loss and betrayal in 9 months. I screamed, " Uncle!" "Life!You win!"

Watching Glenn die so violently and so unexpectedly last June was such a trauma. The last time I saw him at the ER, no one even bothered to take the trachea tube out of his mouth or clean the cut on his lip. I held his body which was packed in ice. There was little dignity offered to him in death.

I replayed that today over and again. He deserved so much more. 

Watching my mother die last week,was not so surprising, but traumatic nevertheless. Five days, nearly round the clock, and I couldn't help but notice that, when she died, just how ugly death is. It is not pretty.

It is lonely and traumatic, even when peaceful. 

But unlike Glenn, she received every dignity.  She was cleaned, changed and positioned to honor her self as a human. She would have liked that.. 

Early this afternoon in a casual text exchange with Sandy, I mentioned that I was rolled  in a ball, just hoping to die. Her response? , " Nope. Not gonna happen with my new dive buddy." Be over soon." 

And there she was. And I unrolled a bit. She left, I remained in the curl, but a little hopelessness left me.

Chris and her wife Karole instructed me to " come over  in PJ's and with Boo" I did. Surrounded by love and empowerment.

My friendships are biblical. 

My son Chris called my friend Chris this evening,  concerned over my well being, knowing I was with them.

I think she said that I wasokay, but that I had sad eyes.

I do. 

Sad eyes.

On the journey.

There will be peace

What a difference a day makes.

Last night I wrote about anger and frustration that my mother was losing dignity on her journey out of this world. It was writing born of grief, exhaustion and ultimately, love for my mom. I concentrate on being authentic in all parts of my life, but especially here, a written record of this magical year.
My friend pointed out that we get so caught up in watching the clock, instead of relaxing and realizing that the forces of nature will  prevail when the time is right. She will cross over when it is meant to be over.  "Enough is a feast", in the words of the late  Rev. Deb Celley.
My sense of spirituality does not believe that we are puppets on God's strings. God  will welcome us with wide open arms when we cross over, but until then, our imperfect bodies will determine when and how. It is part of my belief in the ultimate gift of free will.
And so today was a blessed day. Blessed. Peace filled.I will never forget my brother suggesting that we hold her and pray the Lords Prayer. We aren't that kind of family. We have private faith traditions. It was so powerful. And how he waited until the absolute last minute to go before he had to say his final goodbye to our mom. It was crushingly tender to witness. The three days that we spent together were a precious time , where we were just those two kids eating Butterfinger candy bars again, and laughing at ridiculous things. It was sacred time that will never be repeated. 
Tonight I came home at a reasonable hour. Before I left I sang my mom out the door if she chooses to go while I'm away. Being a church organist's daughter I know all her old time favorites I grew up hearing. I truly believe she heard me. I do. It was sacred.
So, tonight, rather than feeling angry about my mom's struggle, I am treasuring it. I've had lots of time to work through her loss while she lies unresponsive. Hers will be a beautiful death, if there is such a thing.
Some of her last words to me were that I shouldn't grieve for her; I said "As if". Hah! But I understand what she means. Her death will be correct and in order and grace filled.
Peace.
On the journey.

Snake Belly Night

The other night I wrote about my mother leaving this life graciously. She was headed that way. She was ready. The stages were coming in order. I honored her after she became non verbal by making sure she had every comfort that I could provide. She even smelled like her for Pete's sake.. You see,every day at 4:30 my mother would completely change her clothes, reapply fresh make up and spray on Shalimar in preparation for my dad's arrival home from work. It was a different era. But that is what she always smelled like, and it is comforting to us all.

I said everything I needed to say. My daughter rushed up to say one more goodbye and support me on Wednesday.  I told my brother on Thursday as he traveled that he probably wasn't going to make it in time, but he did. We settled in in tears and with the desire to make our precious mother's passing the way she lived in life.

We played her music. We gave her permission. We thanked her. We reminded her of funny childhood stories. We assured her of our belief in life eternal and that all her trials would be over. We told her to look for our father, and Glenn and her parents and especially Jesus. We celebrated that she lived for 3 weeks shy of 90! What a great, productive life she had. Over and again. Last night we even treated ourselves to a drink of Kentucky bourbon in her honor (her birth place) in her presence, and brought up memories of her precious parents. We reminded her she would soon join them.

But tonight, as Glenn used to say, "I'm lower than a snake's belly."( He had a cache of sayings like that.) And my brother Chris, my childhood pal and protector, is suffering too. He has to leave tomorrow at 4:00 . It feels incomplete for him, and he feels badly leaving me here to work through the final moments and events alone.

Part of my sadness is that I'm worn down. I can't tell if my tears are from exhaustion, pity or grief. And yet, I believe strongly that a loved one's going out should be everything the living can practically provide,  to make it as intimate as it is to be born into this world. And part of that is going out surrounded in love.

I'm home tonight because we have reached the point that we believe she is gone somewhere already. Her essence is missing. And it hurts to watch that more than it will when her body is completely gone I think. I will go back if they call tonight and certainly I will return in the early morning.

 But right  now, my proud  beautiful mother looks  like a marionette doll that is waiting for the puppeteer to bring life back to her.
 Her face is lifeless and limp, but her body continues to breathe. It is completely breaking my heart to see her like this.

Tonight I feel raw and slightly angry at the process. At this moment, even though it is as sacred  a time as it can be, imminent death that drags on and on or unexpected death pisses me off in its seemingly careless abandon.
Irrationally I know, it feels that one should get to direct one's own damn death when the time is at hand. Like we've earned a shot at how we go out.

Yep. Snake belly night.
On the journey.

Graciously going out

My mother is dying.

I'm working valiantly on accepting the invitation to stay in the moment with her. These are, after all, the last moments I will share with her forever. And for real this time. I realized that writing would help me in that pursuit, since it is ultimately how I process my life and my thoughts most effectively.
The act of dying is such a mystery to me. Some  of us, like Glenn, complain of nausea and just die without warning, within an hour.  Others, like Momo come up to the precipice so often, and despite numerous health issues, step away from the ledge and continue on with life. That is, until this time. This time she will step over and ascend to a place of glory. It is no longer if, but when. Even she wants to know when.  When? She asks me with her eyes, or occasionally in a whisper. And when is the hardest question. My daughter Emily, used the analogy of watching a pot of water boil. You want those bubbles to appear, but when they do, the shock will still be palpable. Emily wisely told me to try to enjoy the water while waiting. Stay in the moment.

I think however, that my mother is fortunate to be going out more slowly, hard as it is. Hers has been a life well- lived , and an orderly death, of almost 90 years. The tears that have been shed from near and afar are witness to that. There is simply nothing left to say but goodbye.
 And thank you.

The hospice company left a little booklet, with helpful hints I guess, about the end. One thing that it said was to talk about what you will miss most about your loved one. I realized and told her, that I would miss having someone love me so unconditionally. Recently she always greeted me with, " I'm so glad you're here. I just like to look at you." Thank you for loving me so completely Mom, through all the journeys of my life so far. And some of mine haven't always been easy for you, I know.

My mom is one of the most gracious women I've ever known. She has spent her life inviting people into her life, and then treating them with warmth and love. She is going out in the same way she lived her life; graciously. Yesterday, while still verbal, she asked me if I didn't want a glass of wine. I declined for many reasons, not the least of which was that it was 11:00 in the morning. (Snarky friends decline your jokes:))But that is Momo. How can I serve YOU?

My friend Sally just called; of all my Brainerd friends, she knows my mother the best. She said
"Your mother is a grand lady."
Indeed she is. She is very grand.
In the moment. On the journey.