So . . . hmm.
Last night, I took the kids to Johnny's NY Pizza to meet up with my uncle (my mother's brother) for dinner. He wanted all of us kids to gather there to talk with him about my parents, their (delapidated) house, their (dwindling) finances, etc.
We all gathered there, me and my kids, my sister and her family, one brother, his kids, and my uncle brought my mom. It's not often that we all gather together, and I can't remember the last time all 6 of my mom's grandkids were in one spot at the same time.
When the food starts to arrive (calzones, spaghetti, and pizza for most, Greek salad and some kind of low carb chicken wrap thingy for me, not bad), the conversation turns to me, and not in a good way.
"You know, you can cure that diabetes with deep breathing and lots of drinking water," Uncle announces to me and the rest of the table. He goes on in this vein, making me feel like, evidently, I have failed to care for myself properly, and with a few obvious changes that I should know, I could be restored to perfect health.
This, embarassingly enough, spins into a discussion about weight management there at the table, which feels strangely familiar to me. For whatever reason, my family has always felt free to discuss me in this way whenever we have gatherings; I can't ever remember it being any different. Being a fat girl in an normally-weighted family is no fun, trust me.
Sometimes the discussions start out on a good note ("Hey! You've lost weight!"), and sometimes they start with a confidential whisper ("Rita, you have to try this new diet that my best friend's mother's hairstylist found.) It's a strange thing to be dissected that way by people that are supposed to love you, but I figured that was just my penance for being a fat girl in a thin family.
He said some other stuff between bites of pizza that I wasn't really listening to, because I was thinking about when he would come to visit us when I was a little girl; he would produce a portable minibar out of the trunk of his Cadillac, and he would have a (nearly) permanent glass of some concoction or other in his hand for the entire visit. I always looked forward to his visits; he lived in Florida in a beautiful house with an indoor pool, played golf, had lots of money, and was always the life of the party. Very Rat Pack. Very charismatic. It dawned on me that even though I admired him, I never felt very good around him.
He was still lecturing when I started thinking closely about my mother's siblings. While he wasn't diabetic or heavy, he was an alcoholic. Ditto for one of my mother's sisters. Two of her brothers were diabetics (one also alcoholic), both ended up on dialysis, losing this or that limb as things progressed. Their offspring (my siblings and first cousins) are comprised of a fairly high percentage of regularly-weighted alcoholics and addicts (my oldest brother included in that count.) In the entire family, there really is only one other cousin that is heavy like me, and like me, he becomes the center and focus of most of the family's clucking and fingerpointing. He just had a quad bypass last month, and everyone down to a person seemed to openly blame him for his poor health, but never mentioned his brother, who has been a longtime addict and alcoholic. Interesting.
It didn't dawn on me then, but it was crystal clear to me last night, sitting in that pizza joint, picking at salad, and listening to a sermon: no one really ever discusses the rampant alcoholism, drug addiction and diabetes in my mother's family, but discussing weight is fair game.
I also realized that maybe my dad wasn't the only one in my family deep in denial. Taking a closer look, it might be the whole damn bunch.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
Getting by with a little help from my friends . . .
So, some of you know, some don't (the ones of you that DO know are probably tired of the complaining), but I am a newly diagnosed diabetic.
After a really wierd woozy reaction at a Braves game a few weeks back, I visited the doctor when I was still feeling wierd a few days later. It didn't take him very long to find the culprit, and just like that, I was given the news.
It took a couple of weeks to stop cursing God, Dairy Queen, Russell Stover, potato farmers, my potato famine-surviving ancestors and their fucking "thrifty" genes, people who have ever caused me any stress at any point in my life, my parents, my ex-husband (the rotten bastard), my CURRENT husband (poor guy, putting up with my bullshit) and my damnable luck and tendency to forlornly turn to Chunky Monkey like a smack addict when I am feeling the pressure, but I think I have reached a place of acceptance and have started forming a battle plan.
It hasn't been easy, trust me. Counting calories, planning out meals and snacks (planning? what is this planning you speak of?), incorporating regular exercise into my day (what?!?) and eliminating as much stress as possible from my daily routine has been like being a stranger in a strange land.
I have pretty good incentive to stick to the straight and narrow, though. Unfortunately, along with my sarcasm and sense of humor, I have also inherited my sketchy sugar management from my dad. Family lore is that my grandfather (my father's father) would often be caught in the pantry sneaking spoonfuls of jelly and other sweet treats. He dropped dead at 55, in the midst of a screaming match with my uncle's (now ex) wife. My dad, every bit his father's son, is a "diabetic in denial". I guess if he had ever bothered to actually GO to the doctor, he would have probably been diagnosed several decades ago, but instead, we watched him suck sugar like a Hoover vacuum. He held his own until his early 60s, when everything started to go to shit. He has lost most of his eyesight (common complication of poorly managed diabetes), and he is wheelchair-bound, unable to walk at all now (ditto).
Based on that kind of history, I am not 100% shocked with my diagnosis. I have had doctors give me the stinkeye for years because of my weight, and because the law of averages states that someone that has my history would certainly BE diabetic, but I would gloat every time my blood tests would come back normal, inviting fate to pucker up and kiss my chubby round ass, feeling like I had escaped the clutches of death for one more round.
It's been a long, hard chase, but I have finally been caught.
Sooooooo . . . in the interest of breaking the family cycle of denial and bodily failure, I have decided to fight back. I have loaded my quiver with a few good arrows. Luckily for me, I recognized the patterns a while back, and I had made some changes that may have given me a leg up. Along with changing up the diet, adding a handful of vitamins, reading books and online info, I have formed a grudging respect for MyFoodDiary.com, the online place of reckoning for what goes into my mouth all day long. Like a daily confessional, I throw myself at the feet of Saint FoodDiary, and await the penance or the reward.
Another member of my taskforce is MapMyRun (http://www.mapmyrun.com/index.php ). This thing lets you click on maps of your neighborhood to chart your walk/run paths, lets you save the paths, and provides the distance of the walk, etc.
At this point, its a crapshoot. I could be a model patient and reverse the trend. I could do everything right, and still end up being a human pincushion, shooting insulin all day long. Time will tell.
______________________________________________________
After a really wierd woozy reaction at a Braves game a few weeks back, I visited the doctor when I was still feeling wierd a few days later. It didn't take him very long to find the culprit, and just like that, I was given the news.
It took a couple of weeks to stop cursing God, Dairy Queen, Russell Stover, potato farmers, my potato famine-surviving ancestors and their fucking "thrifty" genes, people who have ever caused me any stress at any point in my life, my parents, my ex-husband (the rotten bastard), my CURRENT husband (poor guy, putting up with my bullshit) and my damnable luck and tendency to forlornly turn to Chunky Monkey like a smack addict when I am feeling the pressure, but I think I have reached a place of acceptance and have started forming a battle plan.
It hasn't been easy, trust me. Counting calories, planning out meals and snacks (planning? what is this planning you speak of?), incorporating regular exercise into my day (what?!?) and eliminating as much stress as possible from my daily routine has been like being a stranger in a strange land.
I have pretty good incentive to stick to the straight and narrow, though. Unfortunately, along with my sarcasm and sense of humor, I have also inherited my sketchy sugar management from my dad. Family lore is that my grandfather (my father's father) would often be caught in the pantry sneaking spoonfuls of jelly and other sweet treats. He dropped dead at 55, in the midst of a screaming match with my uncle's (now ex) wife. My dad, every bit his father's son, is a "diabetic in denial". I guess if he had ever bothered to actually GO to the doctor, he would have probably been diagnosed several decades ago, but instead, we watched him suck sugar like a Hoover vacuum. He held his own until his early 60s, when everything started to go to shit. He has lost most of his eyesight (common complication of poorly managed diabetes), and he is wheelchair-bound, unable to walk at all now (ditto).
Based on that kind of history, I am not 100% shocked with my diagnosis. I have had doctors give me the stinkeye for years because of my weight, and because the law of averages states that someone that has my history would certainly BE diabetic, but I would gloat every time my blood tests would come back normal, inviting fate to pucker up and kiss my chubby round ass, feeling like I had escaped the clutches of death for one more round.
It's been a long, hard chase, but I have finally been caught.
Sooooooo . . . in the interest of breaking the family cycle of denial and bodily failure, I have decided to fight back. I have loaded my quiver with a few good arrows. Luckily for me, I recognized the patterns a while back, and I had made some changes that may have given me a leg up. Along with changing up the diet, adding a handful of vitamins, reading books and online info, I have formed a grudging respect for MyFoodDiary.com, the online place of reckoning for what goes into my mouth all day long. Like a daily confessional, I throw myself at the feet of Saint FoodDiary, and await the penance or the reward.
Another member of my taskforce is MapMyRun (http://www.mapmyrun.com/index.php ). This thing lets you click on maps of your neighborhood to chart your walk/run paths, lets you save the paths, and provides the distance of the walk, etc.
At this point, its a crapshoot. I could be a model patient and reverse the trend. I could do everything right, and still end up being a human pincushion, shooting insulin all day long. Time will tell.
______________________________________________________
I am surrendering to gravity and the unknown
Catch me, heal me. . . lift me back up to the sun
Help me survive - I want to live
Gravity / A Perfect Circle
(thanks for turning me on to this one, Jimbo. It's become a mantra.)
Catch me, heal me. . . lift me back up to the sun
Help me survive - I want to live
Gravity / A Perfect Circle
(thanks for turning me on to this one, Jimbo. It's become a mantra.)
Monday, September 11, 2006
Remembering 9/11
Everyone that I have ever discussed this with has been able to tell me exactly where they were, what they were doing, how they felt . . . .
I remember hearing about the day John Kennedy was shot. It happened before I was born. My family was living in Orlando, FL, and my sister remembers the teachers quickly herding the kids onto buses in the middle of the school day and all of the kids cheering on the bus - they got to go home early. She remembers the bus pulling into their neighborhood, a gathering of cookie cutter tract homes on treeless lots, and seeing all of the mothers outside, crying, waiting for the bus to bring their kids home to safety. She didn't really understand what had happened, she just knew that she got out of school early and that Mama was crying. She remembers seeing John Jr. on the black and white television, saluting. She still didn't understand, but the memories are clear.
It's like that with 9/11, I think.
I can pinpoint the second I realized what was happening. I had just dropped my daughter off at her church preschool, and I was exiting the carpool line, heading back home, my baby boy happily watching the world pass by from the safety of his carseat. I remember noticing as I waited for my turn to exit the parking lot that it was a beautiful day, one of those kind of Atlanta mornings where you begin to feel the coolness of fall approaching, yet you still thank the fading summer for providing flawless, cloudless blue skies . . .
I remember still looking at the sky when my cellphone rang. I dreaded hearing it; it was usually work, and early calls meant problems or firedrills. I was a bit relieved when I heard my friend Frankie on the other line. Frankie was a writer hired a few monts previously, and she and I worked closely together, covering for each other, and we had become good friends. She was a pistol; she was in her 60s, looked way younger, sang torch songs in clubs around Atlanta for fun, and was a conscientious worker that could be counted on in a pinch.
"Rita, have you heard the news this morning?" was the first breathless sentence out of her mouth. Oh shit, I thought . . . layoffs. Before I could answer, she was telling me something crazy about an attack of some kind, and that I'd better not try to come into the office, that I should just get home as quickly as I could. I was kind of stunned . . . surely, she was mistaken. I was thinking about the Oklahoma City bombing, wondering if it could have been as bad as that.
One thing I didn't waste a minute on was U-turning right back to the preschool.
I hadn't been gone 5 minutes, and when I got back, it was a madhouse. Church be damned, people were grabbing their kids and making a run for it. I was still stunned, and little Rachael, so much slower than the other kids, was being jostled by kids and parents alike. I nearly got into a fistfight with one dad that knocked her off her feet, and in true SuperMom style, I grabbed her up with one arm, holding my still calm, chunky baby boy in the other. I didn't really know WHAT the fuck was going on, but I was getting home pronto. People were acting CRAZY.
Once I hit the house, I deposited the kids on the family room floor with toys and Cheerios and clicked on CNN. There it was . . . . over and over . . . the buildings being ravaged by small airplanes . . . unthinkable. And the builings were collapsing, and I couldn't believe my eyes, but it looked like people were jumping . . . that couldn't be, it just couldn't be . . .
It was just surreal. I was alone at home, with the kids, and I was petrified. What if they had targeted other cities? Atlanta's Hartsfield airport was one of the largest in the world, not to mention Lockheed (where they manufacture military aircraft), the World Congress Center, the huge airbase, and several other wide open targets near my house . . . my mind was clicking away at the possibilities. Watching it all unfold on CNN made it feel close, like it was right in the backyard. It wasn't so much fear as self-preservation that seemed to kick in and I wanted my husband home. NOW.
I called him, and he had no idea. His work area was a bit sequestered, and he had just been immersed in his morning's work. He hadn't been there long, and seemed flustered that I was demanding that he leave that moment and come home. I begged him, asked him to just trust me and leave . . . He didn't want to, he hadn't heard anything. I told him that in 30 minutes, the Atlanta highways would be impassable, to leave now and floor it. By the time he got home, the phone was ringing off the hook, and our family was a mess. Hell, the whole fucking country was a mess.
So, here I sit, 5 years later. The radio stations here are all re-broadcasting the 9/11/01 tapes, I'm not really sure why. Do I need to hear them to remember? No, not really. Does it help anything to relive it? I guess it helps those of us that are here to feel as though we are paying respects to those that died, and those that were left behind by those who died.
Anyway, wierd day. Just thought I would comment and commemorate.
I remember hearing about the day John Kennedy was shot. It happened before I was born. My family was living in Orlando, FL, and my sister remembers the teachers quickly herding the kids onto buses in the middle of the school day and all of the kids cheering on the bus - they got to go home early. She remembers the bus pulling into their neighborhood, a gathering of cookie cutter tract homes on treeless lots, and seeing all of the mothers outside, crying, waiting for the bus to bring their kids home to safety. She didn't really understand what had happened, she just knew that she got out of school early and that Mama was crying. She remembers seeing John Jr. on the black and white television, saluting. She still didn't understand, but the memories are clear.
It's like that with 9/11, I think.
I can pinpoint the second I realized what was happening. I had just dropped my daughter off at her church preschool, and I was exiting the carpool line, heading back home, my baby boy happily watching the world pass by from the safety of his carseat. I remember noticing as I waited for my turn to exit the parking lot that it was a beautiful day, one of those kind of Atlanta mornings where you begin to feel the coolness of fall approaching, yet you still thank the fading summer for providing flawless, cloudless blue skies . . .
I remember still looking at the sky when my cellphone rang. I dreaded hearing it; it was usually work, and early calls meant problems or firedrills. I was a bit relieved when I heard my friend Frankie on the other line. Frankie was a writer hired a few monts previously, and she and I worked closely together, covering for each other, and we had become good friends. She was a pistol; she was in her 60s, looked way younger, sang torch songs in clubs around Atlanta for fun, and was a conscientious worker that could be counted on in a pinch.
"Rita, have you heard the news this morning?" was the first breathless sentence out of her mouth. Oh shit, I thought . . . layoffs. Before I could answer, she was telling me something crazy about an attack of some kind, and that I'd better not try to come into the office, that I should just get home as quickly as I could. I was kind of stunned . . . surely, she was mistaken. I was thinking about the Oklahoma City bombing, wondering if it could have been as bad as that.
One thing I didn't waste a minute on was U-turning right back to the preschool.
I hadn't been gone 5 minutes, and when I got back, it was a madhouse. Church be damned, people were grabbing their kids and making a run for it. I was still stunned, and little Rachael, so much slower than the other kids, was being jostled by kids and parents alike. I nearly got into a fistfight with one dad that knocked her off her feet, and in true SuperMom style, I grabbed her up with one arm, holding my still calm, chunky baby boy in the other. I didn't really know WHAT the fuck was going on, but I was getting home pronto. People were acting CRAZY.
Once I hit the house, I deposited the kids on the family room floor with toys and Cheerios and clicked on CNN. There it was . . . . over and over . . . the buildings being ravaged by small airplanes . . . unthinkable. And the builings were collapsing, and I couldn't believe my eyes, but it looked like people were jumping . . . that couldn't be, it just couldn't be . . .
It was just surreal. I was alone at home, with the kids, and I was petrified. What if they had targeted other cities? Atlanta's Hartsfield airport was one of the largest in the world, not to mention Lockheed (where they manufacture military aircraft), the World Congress Center, the huge airbase, and several other wide open targets near my house . . . my mind was clicking away at the possibilities. Watching it all unfold on CNN made it feel close, like it was right in the backyard. It wasn't so much fear as self-preservation that seemed to kick in and I wanted my husband home. NOW.
I called him, and he had no idea. His work area was a bit sequestered, and he had just been immersed in his morning's work. He hadn't been there long, and seemed flustered that I was demanding that he leave that moment and come home. I begged him, asked him to just trust me and leave . . . He didn't want to, he hadn't heard anything. I told him that in 30 minutes, the Atlanta highways would be impassable, to leave now and floor it. By the time he got home, the phone was ringing off the hook, and our family was a mess. Hell, the whole fucking country was a mess.
So, here I sit, 5 years later. The radio stations here are all re-broadcasting the 9/11/01 tapes, I'm not really sure why. Do I need to hear them to remember? No, not really. Does it help anything to relive it? I guess it helps those of us that are here to feel as though we are paying respects to those that died, and those that were left behind by those who died.
Anyway, wierd day. Just thought I would comment and commemorate.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Top 10 Important Things
My phone rang pretty early Sunday morning. It was my Uncle Bob, calling to wish me a Happy 40th birthday, which was very sweet and unexpected. He was waxing philosophic about milestone birthdays, remembering his angst at turning 40 (he is in his late 70s now), and he said a very interesting thing. A few interesting things, actually.
He remarked that he makes it a habit on milestone birthdays to make a mental journey to examine all of the knowledge that he accumulated over the previous decade, and take time to appreciate the growth that he had accomplished. He also said that he once read that with the passing of any person, an entire library of information and knowledge is lost with the passing.
He's a smart man, and am going to take his advice. So, in no particular order, here is the summary of knowledge gained in my last decade of life:
He remarked that he makes it a habit on milestone birthdays to make a mental journey to examine all of the knowledge that he accumulated over the previous decade, and take time to appreciate the growth that he had accomplished. He also said that he once read that with the passing of any person, an entire library of information and knowledge is lost with the passing.
He's a smart man, and am going to take his advice. So, in no particular order, here is the summary of knowledge gained in my last decade of life:
- If you work for a company, and said company has a meeting to dispel all rumors of layoff, you are getting laid off.
- Buy one, get one half off isn't really as good a deal as it sounds. It really means 25% off.
- When you have a baby, you will need half as many baby clothes, but twice as many diapers as you imagine you will.
- Children have some kind of internal switch that gets thrown that makes them do naughty things when you are on the phone.
- When you leave an emergency room in the middle of the night, relieved that your kid can breathe again, nothing else really seems to be all that important.
- No matter how many promises kids make to take care of puppies, the puppies WILL become your responsibility.
- Ditto for parakeets, hamsters and fish.
- When you start wondering why the family traditions are slipping, its time for you to take them over.
- Solemn, Southern graveside funerals are NO PLACE to learn that your dearly departed uncle has a biracial daughter exactly your age, standing right beside you
- Unfortunately, not ALL people get smarter as they get older.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
The Long Goodbye . . . revisited
My aunt passed away this weekend.
I said all of my goodbyes when I penned the piece below a few months ago.
Rest in peace, Aunt Marge. You were loved.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Yesterday, I took my mom to visit her sister Marge. Marge is moving to a nursing home facility in Birmingham today, and we went yesterday to pack her things and say goodbye.
Marge is the oldest of all of my mom's 6 siblings. 15 years older than my mother, Marge was more mom than sister. She never had any children of her own, but she had a very exciting life, traveling the globe with her husband, living in foreign countries for most of their married life, and finally retiring to Florida, where they both enjoyed golf on a daily basis.
I guess it was around 1988 or so that things started to slip for Marge. She was caring for her husband at their home, and becoming more and more reclusive. He and she were inseparable, and when he finally passed away, she was nearly inconsolable. She said over and over that she was supposed to die with him, that her life was caring for him. We all thought that was an initial reaction, that she would get over it in time.
That depression stuck around, and brought some dementia along. Marge began to forget where she was, who we were, what she was doing . . . all signs of Alzheimer's. Over the years, she has gone from living on her own, to living with my Aunt Rita, to living in an assisted living faciliy, to living in a nursing home near my mom. Her progression has been agonizingly slow; she is such a healthy person that her body seems to live on and on and on, but the lights of recognition in her mind have slowly, slowly dimmed, leaving her bedridden, unable to speak or do anything for herself.
Before my dad got sick, my mom went to the nursing home every afternoon to sit with Marge and feed her dinner. I'm not sure that Marge knew who my mother was, but it was a comfort to my mom to hold Marge's hand, comb her hair and to see Marge smile, which she often did. Mama would talk to Marge about Anniston, AL, and there would be flickers of recognition, but none so bright as when Mama would talk about Chet, Marge's husband. Those brought the biggest smiles of all.
Since my dad has been sick, my mom has only occasionally been able to get to the nursing home. Then of course, SHE got sick, and for the past 3 months, she hasn't been able to go at all. I have tried to go as often as I could, mostly to ease my mother's worries about Marge, but I have been too busy to go more than a time or two myself. To their credit, the nursing home has taken excellent care of Marge, and that has been an enormous comfort to my mother through all of the trials of this past year.
My uncle in Florida, my mom's oldest living brother, is the executor of Marge's sizeable estate. For years, he has carefully managed Marge's affairs, paid her bills, and planned her estate so that she would have continual care, and she always has. He and I spoke a couple of months ago, and at that time, I offered to help relocate Marge closer to me, or arrange for Marge to move closer to my mom's sister, Rita (my namesake) in Birmingham. My cousins and my aunt realized pretty quickly that my sister and I had our hands full with Mama and Daddy, so the decision was made that Marge would be transferred to Birmingham, and it has taken about this long to get things organized.
Yesterday, as I packed Marge's clothes, I could see my mother's hand in everything. Every flannel gown had been handpicked by my mother, every little pair of socks had been carefully labelled with Marge's name in my mother's careful print. Every pretty picture, every little bit of cheer in the dismal nursing home room was my mother's attempt to make things nice for Marge.As I packed, my mom sat beside Marge's bed, holding her hand, sweetly talking to her, encouraging her to wake up. Most of the time, Marge appears to be asleep, although with encouragement, she does "wake up" temporarily, make eye contact and smile.
As she stroked Marge's short silver hair, my mother began to tell me, "You know, when we were growing up, we never celebrated birthdays. There were too many of us, it was the Depression, and we just never had celebrations. But I remember that Marge bought me a pocketbook for my birthday one year. I must have been about 6 or 7, and she made a cake and had a little party for me and the other kids in the neighborhood all came over . . ." She kind of trailed off at that point, and I was biting my lip, still folding clothes silently, not wanting to cry. "You know, there aren't very many happy memories from back then," she continued, "Daddy was a sorry drunk, and Mama was always so sick, we were poor as dirt, but Marge always took such good care of us . . ."
I couldn't even see by then, and I was trying so hard not to sob. I just kept blinking, trying to catch the tears streaming down my face with the tip of my tongue so that she wouldn't spot me wiping them away with my sleeve. I kept folding the little clothes, placing them in the cardboard boxes, and willing the lump in my throat to allow some air through.
It dawned on me that this would likely be the last time my mother would ever see Marge. Birmingham's not far from Atlanta, but as sick as she has been, my mom hasn't felt well enough to travel 20 miles to see Marge, never mind 250.
I finished my task and turned to see my mother quietly sitting alongside Marge's hospital bed, still speaking to her in quiet tones, looking for signs of awakening. Seeing her there, my mother, in pain even then, knowing that she has cancer, and seeing her lovingly stroke Marge's hair, her sister, here but gone, passed away but still alive and breathing, was almost more than I could bear. Finally, my mother stood from her chair, still holding Marge's hand, and leaned over the hospital rails to kiss Marge's cheek. Quietly sobbing herself, my mother seemed so, so, frail to me, and it was the most heartbreaking and most loving sight I think I have ever seen.
"I guess this is goodbye," my mother said quietly as she laid Marge's hand back onto the bedcovers, stepping away, wiping away tears. She was so small as I held her there, quietly sobbing. She has lost so much weight, she feels like a child in my arms now. I wanted to just hold her there, and I did, wanting to protect her from the pain, from losing Marge, from the cancer, from her fear, from it all.
And I can't.
I said all of my goodbyes when I penned the piece below a few months ago.
Rest in peace, Aunt Marge. You were loved.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Yesterday, I took my mom to visit her sister Marge. Marge is moving to a nursing home facility in Birmingham today, and we went yesterday to pack her things and say goodbye.
Marge is the oldest of all of my mom's 6 siblings. 15 years older than my mother, Marge was more mom than sister. She never had any children of her own, but she had a very exciting life, traveling the globe with her husband, living in foreign countries for most of their married life, and finally retiring to Florida, where they both enjoyed golf on a daily basis.
I guess it was around 1988 or so that things started to slip for Marge. She was caring for her husband at their home, and becoming more and more reclusive. He and she were inseparable, and when he finally passed away, she was nearly inconsolable. She said over and over that she was supposed to die with him, that her life was caring for him. We all thought that was an initial reaction, that she would get over it in time.
That depression stuck around, and brought some dementia along. Marge began to forget where she was, who we were, what she was doing . . . all signs of Alzheimer's. Over the years, she has gone from living on her own, to living with my Aunt Rita, to living in an assisted living faciliy, to living in a nursing home near my mom. Her progression has been agonizingly slow; she is such a healthy person that her body seems to live on and on and on, but the lights of recognition in her mind have slowly, slowly dimmed, leaving her bedridden, unable to speak or do anything for herself.
Before my dad got sick, my mom went to the nursing home every afternoon to sit with Marge and feed her dinner. I'm not sure that Marge knew who my mother was, but it was a comfort to my mom to hold Marge's hand, comb her hair and to see Marge smile, which she often did. Mama would talk to Marge about Anniston, AL, and there would be flickers of recognition, but none so bright as when Mama would talk about Chet, Marge's husband. Those brought the biggest smiles of all.
Since my dad has been sick, my mom has only occasionally been able to get to the nursing home. Then of course, SHE got sick, and for the past 3 months, she hasn't been able to go at all. I have tried to go as often as I could, mostly to ease my mother's worries about Marge, but I have been too busy to go more than a time or two myself. To their credit, the nursing home has taken excellent care of Marge, and that has been an enormous comfort to my mother through all of the trials of this past year.
My uncle in Florida, my mom's oldest living brother, is the executor of Marge's sizeable estate. For years, he has carefully managed Marge's affairs, paid her bills, and planned her estate so that she would have continual care, and she always has. He and I spoke a couple of months ago, and at that time, I offered to help relocate Marge closer to me, or arrange for Marge to move closer to my mom's sister, Rita (my namesake) in Birmingham. My cousins and my aunt realized pretty quickly that my sister and I had our hands full with Mama and Daddy, so the decision was made that Marge would be transferred to Birmingham, and it has taken about this long to get things organized.
Yesterday, as I packed Marge's clothes, I could see my mother's hand in everything. Every flannel gown had been handpicked by my mother, every little pair of socks had been carefully labelled with Marge's name in my mother's careful print. Every pretty picture, every little bit of cheer in the dismal nursing home room was my mother's attempt to make things nice for Marge.As I packed, my mom sat beside Marge's bed, holding her hand, sweetly talking to her, encouraging her to wake up. Most of the time, Marge appears to be asleep, although with encouragement, she does "wake up" temporarily, make eye contact and smile.
As she stroked Marge's short silver hair, my mother began to tell me, "You know, when we were growing up, we never celebrated birthdays. There were too many of us, it was the Depression, and we just never had celebrations. But I remember that Marge bought me a pocketbook for my birthday one year. I must have been about 6 or 7, and she made a cake and had a little party for me and the other kids in the neighborhood all came over . . ." She kind of trailed off at that point, and I was biting my lip, still folding clothes silently, not wanting to cry. "You know, there aren't very many happy memories from back then," she continued, "Daddy was a sorry drunk, and Mama was always so sick, we were poor as dirt, but Marge always took such good care of us . . ."
I couldn't even see by then, and I was trying so hard not to sob. I just kept blinking, trying to catch the tears streaming down my face with the tip of my tongue so that she wouldn't spot me wiping them away with my sleeve. I kept folding the little clothes, placing them in the cardboard boxes, and willing the lump in my throat to allow some air through.
It dawned on me that this would likely be the last time my mother would ever see Marge. Birmingham's not far from Atlanta, but as sick as she has been, my mom hasn't felt well enough to travel 20 miles to see Marge, never mind 250.
I finished my task and turned to see my mother quietly sitting alongside Marge's hospital bed, still speaking to her in quiet tones, looking for signs of awakening. Seeing her there, my mother, in pain even then, knowing that she has cancer, and seeing her lovingly stroke Marge's hair, her sister, here but gone, passed away but still alive and breathing, was almost more than I could bear. Finally, my mother stood from her chair, still holding Marge's hand, and leaned over the hospital rails to kiss Marge's cheek. Quietly sobbing herself, my mother seemed so, so, frail to me, and it was the most heartbreaking and most loving sight I think I have ever seen.
"I guess this is goodbye," my mother said quietly as she laid Marge's hand back onto the bedcovers, stepping away, wiping away tears. She was so small as I held her there, quietly sobbing. She has lost so much weight, she feels like a child in my arms now. I wanted to just hold her there, and I did, wanting to protect her from the pain, from losing Marge, from the cancer, from her fear, from it all.
And I can't.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
