You know those blankets you buy at Wal-Mart?  Not the super cheap ones in a bin, but the kind of nice ones?  They come folded in a square with ribbon buttoned around them.  They are made of that plush stuff that feels like velvet. Around thirty dollars?  I bought my mom one.  It was a couple of Novembers ago. It is those deep warm colors that mean Thanksgiving is coming and Christmas soon after.  Mom loved it.  She wanted it all the time.  She curled up in it to watch Blue Bloods and politics.  She drug it with her to all her chemo appointments. She loved it.

So, on that quiet early morning when she died and the two young girls who came to take her asked me, “Is there a special blanket you would like us to wrap her in?”  I gave them that one. That blanket.  The one that was mass-produced and meant nothing to me except that it was soft and I knew Mom liked it.  That blanket became the one that I tucked and smoothed around her while the young girls stood silently waiting in the next room. That blanket became the one they folded her into and took her away in a car that nobody needed me to drive. That blanket began my life without my mom.

A week later, on a hot June day, we had her funeral.  Afterwards, my sisters gave me a bag.  A Wal-Mart bag funny enough. Inside was something velvety soft and harvest colored. That blanket.

“The funeral home washed it and gave it to us and we thought you should have it,” said my sister.

I watched her mouth move, but I had no concept of what those words really, truly meant.  Now, seven months later, I do.

That blanket is my snuggly, fake-fur covered heartache.  It has its’ very own spot in my linen closet, because how do you stack towels next to the blanket you wrapped your mom in?  It will never get used, because how do you choose that blanket when you are cold and need something to wrap up in?  For that matter, how do you live in the same house with it? And how could you ever, ever pack it away? What would it feel like to open those doors and not see it there peeking from a corner? Am I supposed to store it in a box in my dusty attic where I’ll seldom see it?  How could I do that? How can I not?  What do I do with that blanket?

On some level, I’ll be honest,  I kind of  feel like I don’t give it enough honor. I think there are people who would frame it or something equally as magnanimous.  Are there those people?  Maybe?  Honestly, I don’t know. Truthfully, a lot of the time I just want to get rid of it.  I want it to magically disappear from my linen closet.  I want to open those white doors and see nothing but red and blue towels, but I also know it would completely destroy me if it happened.  I would tear my house apart until I found it and it was safe in the linen closet again.

Right now, I’ve just accepted that I need it? I mean it’s a reminder of a time when Mom was here. A bridge back to then.  A life when I could call and ask what mom was doing and my sister would say, “She’s wrapped up in that blanket you gave her taking a nap.”  And, I would hope. Hope so big. Hope that maybe she was going to get better.  Hope that that one particular nap would restore her and give her the strength to fight.  Or other times when Mom would get on the phone and tell me she had the blanket covering her feet and was watching TV and eating something and it was, “de-lish.”  How beautiful and amazing was that freakin’ life?

I get it. I really do.  I’m not dumb. I used to watch Oprah.The blanket represents my grief.  Grief with homespun plaid and blanket stitching and velvety Fall colors. It is the one thing I hate and want to get far away from and the one thing I want to envelop myself in completely.  It is the push and pull of letting go.  Of moving on.  Of feeling happy again.  Of being ok with any of that.

So, I’m just passing days. And I’m ok with that I guess. Maybe, on a cold blustery day in the future, I will need just the right blanket to cover up with to watch a Hallmark movie and mom’s blanket will be carefully packed away and I’ll be ok with that. I’ll pick a blanket from the big basket by the couch and I’ll settle in to watch a Hallmark movie.  Maybe that car won’t cross my mind and maybe even if I think of Mom it will just be to remember how much she loved that blanket. On the other hand, maybe next time you visit me it will be displayed across my wall with floodlights accenting it.  I really don’t know.  This is an ongoing process.

 

 

 

My birthday hurt.

The holidays will be hard.

Mother’s Day will bring me to my knees.

But, more than those times, I will miss you in the margins. Those little places in life that shouldn’t matter, but they do.

When I’m walking to the parking lot and I don’t have to slow down to make sure you’re ok–that you are behind me and making progress. Knowing that if I stop to wait you will also stop and glare at me until I go again. No special treatment for you. No acknowledgment that your steps are slowing. That I might not have you forever.

When I’m shopping and wishing I had just lost you in the aisles like so many times before. Desperately hoping to find you around the next corner enraptured with an olive bar or a new kind of cheese. Or talking to some stranger about Le Mis.

When I’m in Hobby Lobby and I want to call and tell you the thing I just saw is perfect.  Perfect to make us smile.  Perfect to make Amy smile.  Just perfect.

When I see someone wearing an outfit and I want to turn around and raise an eyebrow and then watch your eyes search the crowd until you find the outfit too. I want you to mouth, “Who wears that?” I want to shrug and grin and pull you away before you embarrass us.

I want to hear your phone ring and I want you to answer. I want to take a few minutes to talk about you and then I  want you to let me whine.  Just for a minute or two.

” Things are moving too fast.”

” My feet hurt.”

“I know I’m supposed to like her, but I don’t.”

All the little things you only tell your Mom.  I realize more and more how much of me you absorbed.

All my pieces that don’t please.  That aren’t charming. You took those and sent them back to me smoothed out.

I was always likable when you were in the room.

I really, really miss that.

 

I can’t tell you what it felt like to watch my Mom die.  I thought about writing it another way.  Say goodbye.  Leave us.  Slip away.  But none of those feel like they carry enough weight for what we witnessed.

I can’t tell you how precious this picture is to me.  One of her friends posted it for us.  I had never seen it.  I love her dangly earrings and her grin.  It’s another side of Mom I was thrilled to meet.

I can’t tell you what it felt like to have the arms of Mom’s friend and others hug us and let us be weak for just one more moment before we had to let go and be on our own.

I can’t tell you how wonderful it felt to see all the people who loved her.  Friends from when she was a little girl. Friends from her marriage.  Friends that started out ours, but fell in love with her too. Friends she carried through life with her.

I can’t tell you why there was laughter scattered among the sobs. Things were still funny.  Mom’s sense of humor was still ours.  We laughed and it felt right.

I can’t tell you why some people will come through in a big way in those times and some will disappoint you in ways you didn’t know they could.

I can’t tell you why my best friend and I left at 5:30 in the evening to make a nine hour trip home after Mom died. Maybe, if I had to guess, it was because forward movement was the only thing that made sense.  I also can’t even begin to tell you how many songs we sang that night.  Milli Vanilli made a come back.

I can’t tell you how bad it hurt to see my brother cry.  Or my husband.  Or my sweet girl.

I can’t tell you how proud I am of my brother and sisters for taking care of our mommy.

I can’t ever tell you how bad it hurts that she is gone.  Sandra.  My pretty Mom.  She who knew me, and looked out for me, and made sure I got the curtains I would never buy for myself.

I can’t tell you what it felt like to walk away from her for the last time.

Really, I can only tell you one thing for sure.

I wouldn’t be breathing if I didn’t know that she is safe now.  I can picture her.  I think she is barefoot with that mischievous look in her eyes that I loved so much.  I feel certain she is laughing.  I know she’s not hurting.  She is with Dad.  She is with God.  She is home.  I do not wish her back.

I can tell you that.

My husband and I went to church last Sunday.  We usually do.  But, sometimes it just hits me harder than others.

Sometimes, the sermon hurts.  And not in a good way.

Last week,  the earnest young preacher talking was sharing a story about his health.  He has congenital heart failure.  He’s doing all he can to deal with it, but his doctor wanted him to do more.  Not medicine.  Not surgery.  A diet.

A vegan diet to be precise. For 60 days!

Seriously?  I mean who asks their patient to participate in that kind of craziness?

My reaction fit in nicely with the next part of the sermon.  The minister said it didn’t take him too long without meat or dairy to realize that he was running to food for comfort way too often.   Maybe, even more than God.

Ouch.

That’s when the hurting started.  I sat there in those overstuffed gray chairs and realized that God is not always my first thought in times of happy or sad.  He’s just not.  I want him to be, but I figure He’s way further down the list than any creator of the universe ought to be.

There’s my husband.  I am 100% crazy about my shy, sweet, best friend of a guy and he knows exactly what to do to make me feel better.  Sorry Preacher,  but it sometimes involves ice cream.  On a bad day ice cream and pizza.

Then,  there’s my kids.  They are truly magic and I show up every day to get a front seat to their lives. Any bad mood I tumble into can usually be solved with a few minutes talking to them.

Heck,  there is even just the  experience of living life.  I love it.  I love how a clean house feels and the way people greet each other after a long absence.  I love how puppies nuzzle your cheek and the way ice cream melts down your hand.

If I am upset, or sad, or happy, or mad God is not always my initial go-to.  I’m sorry God.  I really am.  You created all this crazy stuff I love and yet I give it more credence than You.  I’m not sure why.  I just know I do.  Maybe, it’s because I can taste ice cream and hug my husband and feel the prickles of grass  when I walk barefoot in the summer.  You really made things difficult when You made yourself so silent. I sometimes feel like You are the test case for playing hard to get.  How much more simple would this faith thing be if there were literally signs. Just little yellow post-its stuck against the blue sky that said, “Hey, don’t forget I’m up here.” No brainer.  Cut and dried. Easy.

I’m not sure what I will do with this new found revelation that I am seeking mint chocolate chip before our Heavenly Father, but I suppose I’ll think about it a lot.  I’m sure God will use those same thoughts to grow me up a little bit more and I am absolutely certain I will write about the whole thing.  Writing is always a way for me to process and relax and—-shoot.  I think writing might be on the list too.

 

 

This post is a thank you note to Rachel.

I don’t know her, but we shared the aisles of my local grocery store on Valentines day.   I wasn’t there to shop for chocolate or flowers or even a card.  I was there for groceries.  Laundry soap, batteries, butter.  Honestly,  I was feeling a little jaded.  Lately, people have been making me tired.

What has happened to America?

It’s a question I hear ringing out everywhere.

When did we become a country who can’t listen to someone with a differing opinion?  What happened to our ability to just disagree without hating?  I feel like we have been separated into shirts and skins. We are no longer Americans first and then everything else second. You remember don’t you?  We used to be united in spite of our differences.  Now our differences trump everything.  We have our own news stations and agendas and talking points.  We are as separated as the girls and boys at the spring fling.  You go to your side.  I’ll go to mine.  Don’t cross the line in the middle.

This is how I was feeling Valentine’s Day in the grocery store.  The official day of love and I wasn’t feeling it.  It’s an election year and quite frankly I felt like just giving up.  What is the point? Then, I saw Rachel.

She was’t extraordinary in any way. Short, shiny bob.  White tennis shoes with springy laces and a little flouncy skirt with X and O’s decorating it.  She was pure kid.  It was obvious she was excited.  It was Valentine’s Day.  There was probably sugar in her history.  And her future.  She was intent on hitching a ride on her Mom’s cart. You know how to do it.  We all do.  She was normal.  Just a kid.  In a grocery store.  Doing things we’ve all done. Secure in the knowledge that the grownups are handling things.

Oh Rachel. I wish that were true.

I feel like we are dropping the ball for you and I don’t want to .  I want you to get to grow up happy.  I want you to feel safe at school and the movies and in the grocery store.  I want someone to teach you it’s ok to disagree and that being kind is easier than being mean.  I want you to have what we all had.  I want you to grow up American.

I know we aren’t perfect. I know we make mistakes.  But, I believe in us.  I don’t think everyone on the other side of the aisle is evil.  I don’t think people who disagree with me are bad.  I think there are things to be learned from each other.  I want us to start questioning the people who say we can’t come together.  I want us to question articles and ideas and smear campaigns before we forward them.  I want us to remember our humanity.  Our decency.  I want us to do it for you.

So, thank you Rachel.  I wish I was a better wordsmith to convey what you reminded me of in that store.  Otter-pops and days spent in the sprinkler.  Getting a spanking for littering.  Standing up for our pledge.  Hearing the national anthem as tv programming ended every night.  Being astounded that you might catch a glimpse of our president no matter which party he was from.  Understanding that we are all a part of something bigger and that we all have a responsibility to make sure it continues.

I will keep trying Rachel.  I will listen to people I don’t agree with in hopes that I might learn something.  I will never, ever, ever forward something until I have researched it and made sure it’s true.  I will always choose kindness when I can and I will be the best American I know how to be.  I will do it for you and for every other kid hitching a ride on Mom’s grocery cart.

I am a grown-up and I got it.

I confuse myself.

I am a grown-up. I watch the news. I know that people commit horrible crimes.  Crimes that make my heart shrink away in horror.

“How on earth could anyone do that?”

“Honey, are you hearing this? It’s horrible.  I can’t believe it!”

“Why?”

These are often the questions falling out of my mouth as I watch our polished newscasters lay out the facts of the latest horrific event.

I  get mad. I grieve. I want justice for the victims. I should be a slam dunk vote for the death penalty.

That would make sense.

Except I’m not.

Because I’m not, and because I don’t even understand it myself,  I recently drove five hours to hear a man speak about it.  He was a warden on death row for decades. He presided over many, many deaths.  He got paid for it.  I could not imagine what he would stand up in front of a room and say?  I thought I might hear regret or a well-honed defense.  I thought he might say something that would sway me one way or the other.  I had questions and I wanted answers.

I got none.

Instead, I can tell you that this man raised his children in the shadows of a prison. I can tell you that death row inmates in my state don’t get a last meal anymore.  But, when they did, it evolved from fried chicken and mashed potatoes twenty years ago to cheeseburgers and fries more recently.  I can tell you that of the eighty odd men and women he saw die only three put up any kind of struggle.  I can tell you that this retired warden said he prayed for his charges. I can tell you that sometimes the prisoners cracked jokes in the last moments and that almost always there were witnesses for both sides.  The victim and the perpetrator.

I came home and posted on my Facebook page that I was more confused than ever.  And, I am.  However, I am sure of one thing.  Whatever it is that made us establish a death penalty is the same thing that makes us want to know it is done humanely.

I rage against the crimes I see on the evening news.  Punish evil.

I’m disheartened that inmates no longer get a last meal before we execute them. A juicy cheeseburger.  Really? That’s a bad thing?  What does that say about us on the other side of the needle?

The whole subject is conflicting for me.  In the end, all I can say is I believe in evil and I believe equally in life.

Maybe, I am not unlike the warden.

Maybe, I could give a man a piece of candy before I had to carry out his death sentence because that little act would save both our humanity.

Maybe, if I ever join a picket line, it will be to bring back a last meal to prisoners I believe deserve to die for taking someone else’s life.

I’m a mixed up girl.

 

 

 

 

I went on a short road trip this week to see my daughter at college.  It was fun.  Two days of restaurant choices and conversations about shoes and girls not as cute.  I felt young.  Included.  Part of that weird morph that doesn’t stress over tomorrow.  I was sad when I had to leave.  I gassed up my car and drove out of town.

I thought, maybe, I could hang on to the feeling for a little while, but my phone started ringing as soon as I blew a kiss to the city limit sign.  Someone wanted to schedule an appointment to update my alarm system.  My husband needed me to proofread a document.  Family members called to see how the trip went.

I felt myself segmenting and a part of me I enjoy start to disappear.  I say that because I have an uneasy feeling I am not fun in my everyday life.  I will be in the middle of a discussion with my daughter and I’ll hear myself.  Bossy.  Self-certain.  Too controlled.

” Whoa.  I don’t like that person.” I’ll think.

I will correct and then promptly forget.  Five minutes later I’ll do the same thing with my husband.  My friends.  The nice lady trying to squirt me with perfume at the mall.

I made a conscious effort to try and take some of my daughter’s lightheartedness home with me and stopped to get a drink.  Something I saw advertised.

A strawberry, vanilla Sprite.

I’m just going to tell you.  It’s delicious. It tastes like summer vacation and I am addicted.  The best part of it is the little bits of strawberry.  Sometimes, they are so big they clog up the straw and you have to blow big bubbles to get them unstuck.  It’s almost impossible to feel serious while doing this.

So, there I was enjoying this little moment of fun when I realized it was over.  The drink was gone.  My phone was ringing.  Me dissipating.

I took the lid off hoping to delay the end and found the entire bottom of my cup covered in gorgeous red strawberry pieces.  I was determined to get every last one.

75 miles an hour and no spoon.

I did it though.  It involved tipping the cup and giving it enthusiastic taps on the bottom.  It was tedious and probably unsafe, but it worked.  I got them all.

And then– I was ok.  I returned the phone calls.  I acted responsibly for everyone who needed it from me and I tried not to be the un-fun version that seems to show up way too often.  It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I had strawberry juice on my sunglasses.

Maybe, that’s the secret to everything.

We had cracks in our ceiling.

They started as little toothpick sized black marks in various places and over the past few months raced across our living room in a mad dash to connect.  I don’t know what would have happened if we had let them.  All I know is two weeks ago when I got a phone call saying my Mom was back in the hospital I had had enough.  I couldn’t fix any of that, but those cracks were done having the run of our ceiling.

In the time it took Richard to run an errand I had everything off our walls and all of our furniture moved into another room.  When Richard came home he deposited everything on the table and came to the middle of the room and wrapped his arms around me.

“I can’t do these cracks anymore honey.  I really, really can’t.”

So, on top of everything else going on we began a major remodeling project.  There has been scraping and putty knives and texture. There have been numerous trips to home improvement stores and a lengthy conversation with Walt who had just taken a second job selling light fixtures. It has been the exact thing I needed.  When I’m scraping and sweeping and fetching I don’t feel so helpless.  So, yesterday, when Richard asked me if I would dig the caulk out of our window frames I agreed readily.

Then, my phone rang.

It was my Mom.  She was home from the hospital, but so miserable.  Bloated and hurting and done.  She is done with having cancer.  She is done with people poking and prodding her.

She is done.  And, I don’t want her to be.

I want her to fight through this.  I want a million more phone calls that end with “I love you crazy mama.”  I want her opinion on politics and my daughter’s new boyfriend and whether or not I should buy a new car.

I’m not done.  I’m not done at all.

It was these emotions I was working through as I savaged the caulk around our windows. Richard found me crying, again, and trying to change the course of mom’s illness with a razor knife and a screw driver.

He left me alone to finish the job, but not before issuing a gentle reminder that whatever survived had to be able to withstand the next hurricane.

Good Lord.

The next hurricane?