A Lesson I learned the Hard Way

A lesson I've learned the hard way is that you may not have the time you think you do with the people you love. I watched it happen in other families, someone died suddenly, but I never really understood the gravity of that statement until it touched me directly in such a devastating way. To have this type of loss so close together has been life changing. Losing my mom and brother so quickly left absolutely no time for the type of good byes or acceptance I had, I guess, imagined. To lose a mom and brother twenty-four days apart in such tragic ways has changed how I look at life. It has caused regrets. My mom always talked of having none...but I wonder how that is, because gosh I sure have them!

I am learning to say yes more often.  

I am learning to make the effort, do the thing, love the people.

I am learning to ask the questions, have the conversations, make the peace.

I am learning that there really are no do overs.

I am learning that all that petty stuff never mattered.

I am learning that God's plans make no sense to me, but He is going to make them regardless.

I am learning to let people be who they are and love them regardless.

I am learning that self preservation is okay and protecting my peace is crucial.

I am learning to do better.

I am learning to be better.

Papa

Our papa may have been a man of few words, but his life was a living example to us.  He was a doer by nature. He was  a hard worker both on the job and at home.   

He was busy doing dishes, or sweeping floors, doing yardwork, piddling away in the garage, or taking us out on cardboard hunts. The station wagon, a back yard perfect to get lost in, and a bar with slippery floors for spinning were a kid’s delight.  Growing up, his bark was way bigger than his bite. He teased us, he gave heavy handed birthday spankings and if you passed by him too closely, you might get a, “skeetz. . .”  

Papa was present in all the moments that mattered most to us.  I remember fondly the day I gave birth to Anjalene, his first great grand-daughter, named in part for his love, Angela.  He sat in the waiting room until after midnight to welcome her into this world. And my brothers would agree, he was at birthday parties, games, confirmations, graduations, weddings, and births until his knees started slowing  him down.  Alan and I will always have the memory of vacationing in Hawaii with him.  Seeing Pearl Harbor after years of hearing his war stories was a moment we won’t soon forget. There were always stories of serving in Italy with John Wayne told time after time. Papa’s love of westerns ran deep and were often playing when we stopped by for a visit. It was easy to get lost in a “shoot em up cowboy” movie with him. 

But in the end, it wasn’t Papa’s service that made him one of the bravest men we knew. At 91, he  willingly and confidently stared death eye to eye day in and day out over the last couple of years.  Bravery became waking up each day and still being here, despite a set of knees that were becoming increasingly uncooperative and were limiting his ability to get out and socialize. To be brave is to confidently know where we are going when this life is over, palms uplifted, to offer ourselves as the sacrifice.  That is bravery.  And there he was, glasses on, prayer book in place, rosary in hands: praying.  His very life had become a living prayer.

His body ached and the only thing that probably brought any type of real joy to his confined life the last four months was the hope of heaven.   We didn't see fear when we looked into his eyes. There was  a peace about him because he knew what awaits.  He knew there would be a grand reception and his soul would be set free from the body that was failing him in his old age.   He was ready.  He wanted to be called home.  He wanted God to usher him into the promised land. 

So from bed, he prayed diligently.  He prayed with a steadfastness and conviction that only comes from knowing and believing in our God.  He didn’t fear his death.  He welcomed it.  And that brings us comfort. . . that God would guide papa to the ultimate peace, the peace we have looked for our entire lives, but could not be found until our final moment on this earth.  His homecoming, surrounded by all of our love and prayers, was a beautiful moment.

The last words he spoke to me mid-week when I asked, “How are you?” was his traditional response, only this time whispered, “Still here.”  It was in that moment that his answer became the window into his soul.  He had poured into our lives in his own silent, strong way since the day of our births.  The power and depth of his words weren’t lost on me.  He will always be here, in our hearts for as long as we live and his legacy will be his love.

If Only. . .

If I want to write, I have to write. . .even if it means I have nothing to write about. With the ending of 2022, it would appear I have much to write, but just as I felt I was experiencing life in a fog like vapor, the night she passed away, the fog hasn't lifted. . .yet. I am however plotting my course, digging into the tools that provide me with the roadmap to dissect my grief, deal with it, and move through it, albeit slowly. The bible, my gratitude journal, therapy-these are the tools I tuck away in my tool box that I carry with me around the clock now. These tools are my safety net in a world that feels anything but.

Going back to that night, October 1st isn't something I am ready to do. My hands start to shake, my heart races, the dread of that night returns with just a thought. A single flicker is all it takes to take me backwards, and I am determined to heal whole. My husband and kids deserve the best parts of me, not a shell of the person I was before mom died. Looking back, I was already moved out of the house when my mom's mom died. Her struggle with cancer was swift. My grandma knew what she was saying yes to when she refused treatment and six weeks later, December 27th she went home to heaven. Even the night before she died, my memories of my mom losing her mom were stoic. She did all the things a loving caregiver would do. They had said all that needed to be said. There was a very evident peace between them. I remember so clearly crawling on to my grandma's bed reading aloud from, Love You Forever,  by Robert Munsch. I choked through the ending bringing both my mom and I to tears. It was a moment I will treasure forever. Three generations on one bed, together one last time. I always envisioned having the long good bye with my Mom. I was so very, very wrong.

My mom is one of the strongest women I have ever known, especially in the area of caregiving. She cared for both her parents and father in law up until their deaths. The emotional and physical toll that would have on her body was not evident at first. There were many times  in her life that I would watch her and think to myself, "I could never. . ." I actually feared her getting older because of the responsibilities that might one day come. She would joke back, "That's why we have long term health care," and that crutch made me feel a little bit better.  I have always known what a gift her level of care was, but now I see how she willingly sacrificed pieces of herself to care for each of our loved ones. 

As much as I envisioned the long good bye, maybe it simply wasn't long enough because in some ways I guess I had it. I just didn't realize that is what it was. Shortly after losing her dad in 2004, my Mom was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer. I was pregnant with my second child at twenty-nine years old. I remember clearly calling out to the Lord to save my Mom, to heal her, and give us all the gift of more time. At barely fifty-one years old, having cared for and losing both her parents, working in the dark environment of a prison, and a marriage that was struggling, I wanted her to experience joy and the fullness of life that I thought she deserved. Selfishly, I needed her here. My kids needed to know her love as their grandma because there would be nothing else like it. She went on to survive cancer, but the journey was an arduous one, and the fear of its return was always tucked away in the back of her mind. She never wanted to endure a cancer journey again. This we did talk about from time to time. We received seventeen extra years: years that would bring about the things of life: Love, saddness, divorce, change, and lastly growth.

If only I had known that day would be her last.

If only I had asked all the questions.

If only I had fully appreciated who she was in life.

If only I could hear that laugh and see her smile again.

If only. . .

If only. . .

If only. . .

My Miracle

It's a beautiful thing when things go even better than you expect.  It doesn't surprise me; it just stops me in my tracks to praise Him.  Earlier this week Janessa's Nina and I headed out to UCLA for a check up on Janessa's hips. Baby bird was born breech, had little movement in the womb due to low amniotic fluid and was born with hip dysplacia.

Leg warmers were her BFF's back in the day to prevent chaffing.

I doubted she would ever catch up with babies her own age.  But she crawled when they did--it was an awesome army crawl she mastered.  She walked when they did, with legs wide apart but walking nonetheless.

The doctors were right, she would find a way and not fall behind.  She never did.  I'm so grateful for our Dr. at UCLA who said let's just let her develop. Let her run wild, plie in ballet slippers, shuffle ball chain in tap shoes, kick with no abandon. . .and see what happens this year.  So we did.

We prayed, of course. That was our first line of defense while we waited to see. But we let her be and put it in God's hands.  And Thursday's xrays were absolute perfection.  The discrepancy between her socket and hip were no more.  It's as if there was never even a problem. God is good and so faithful.  He shows up and still works His miracles in His time, for His glory.  For this I am very thankful.

In the scheme of things, this was such a small issue to contend with over the course of the last four years.   But it was something that was not the norm.  I was reminded as we drove the hour and a half away, stuck in traffic, how many people made this same trek with diagnosis' so much worse.  Lives were changed because children were ill and as parents we will do whatever we can to heal them.  So at the end of this, I became thankful for hip dysplacia.  Thankful for the extra time with my girl, thankful for Drs. with her best interest at heart, thankful for car drives with talks and movies and music playing-even the one that involved vomiting into a coffee cup with no change of clothes.  These small annoyances were gifts.  Her healing a gift.  Saying good-bye to the place that treated us so well but was a heck of a long ways away. . .a gift.

Every day. . .a gift.  Closed doors. . .a gift.  New beginnings. . .a gift.

Every little thing, good and bad, eventually becomes a gift.