Flowers from a friend. A well of gratitude and appreciation.
Flowers from a friend. A well of gratitude and appreciation.
Now isn’t so different from this time last year.
We had masks by the front door, which visitors had to wear if they wanted to come in, and Dad had to wear on the rare occasions he went out. I had gloves that I donned whenever I helped Dad with his dialysis. I washed my hands every day until they were chapped. The smell of antimicrobial liquid soap still makes me gag. Dad was going through chemotherapy and we were doing everything we could to protect him.
And now is so completely different from this time last year.
Now we’re not protecting one person; we’re protecting all people.
And I still grieve for Dad. Last year, I told myself that I was making decisions so that I wouldn’t have any regrets. I moved in with Mom and Dad. We talked. We did NY Times Minis together. We played Scrabble together. We solved jigsaws together. We planned renal diet friendly menus together. We talked some more.
Is it regrets I have? Or is it simply longing? Wishing I could have one more conversation with him. Wishing we could have one more hug before bedtime. Wishing we could reminisce about each of our childhoods.
It sounds so strange to say, but one of my favorite memories from last year is when we were waiting in the Emergency Department for his treatment. It was just the two of us. We talked about him trying out for the AAA baseball league. He had been a successful high school pitcher and was invited to tryouts. He confidently approached the day and said he left barely being able to move. We talked about his career as a sports writer. And how he built the cabin in the mountains. And the afterlife. And Cherie Berry (NC elevator queen) announcing that she wouldn’t run for re-election. I asked him why he changed his mind about letting my try out for Little League (in the first year girls were allowed to play, 1974). He said that when we approached the sign up table, he saw there were no other girls, and how the organizers sneered at me. He didn’t want to subject me to that at six years old. We talked as we waited for almost eight hours.
It was a small room. With fluorescent lights and the smell of disinfectant and a flimsy curtain masquerading as a wall. I pulled a chair close to his hospital bed and held his hand as we talked, and talked, and talked. I was sad when they shared he would be transferred to ICU. I didn’t want the night to end. They said I couldn’t see him until they got him settled. So I waited in the ICU waiting room, across from the Pepsi vending machine, wondering how there could be so many flavors of Mountain Dew.
I’m hoping now I’m living so that I won’t have regrets.
I just couldn’t throw away the Christmas wreaths. I knew I needed to, and each time I walked out my front door, I inhaled the lovely evergreen scent and told myself I’d do it tomorrow. Throwing them away wasn’t a simple act of just throwing them away (although I suppose it could have been). I planned to put the boughs in the yard recycling bins, but that meant clipping them from the wire framing they were attached to. So week by week passed as I breathed in the deliciousness of fresh pine and Fraser Fir as I left my house.
There were two wreaths. One, brought from my Mom’s apartment on Dec 26 (“Christmas is over; I don’t want to see any of this anymore.”) and laid on a table on the porch, and the other, mine, hanging on the wall beside my front door.
As I sat on the porch this weekend, in 90 degree weather, I noticed that even though they still smelled yummy, the wreaths weren’t looking so great. They had lost their ever-green, and were more ever-brown. As much as I hated doing so, I pulled out my garden shears and started clipping the boughs and tossing them into the yard recycling bin. First, I worked on Mom’s. Clip, toss. Clip, toss. After about 20 minutes, all that was left was a bag of clipped boughs and a metal frame.
I went to the wall to pull down my wreath. Something was strange. Why was there mulch in the wreath? I absentmindedly thought that maybe a recent storm had blown debris onto the porch. And then I noticed it!
A bird had built its nest in the hole in the wreath! That was it; I couldn’t disrupt a bird’s nest. Happily, I sat back in the swing, read my book, and hoped that one day I would see the inhabitant of the nest.
Today I am thankful for the daffodils.
My team at work is simultaneously enamored and repulsed by my love of Peeps. There’s something about them – the soft marshmallow, the neon colored sugar, the two-bite size – they’re really the perfect food.
I wasn’t feeling great last week. Super tired, coughy, achy, run-down, and simply no energy at all. To lift my spirits, my team sent a Peeps-a-licious! cookbook (who knew there was such a thing!) as well as four packages of Peeps – traditional yellow, pink, purple, and blue. I was delighted and amazed. The next day, I got another box. I opened it, and inside were six individual packages of Peeps:
(I know! I was astounded, too, that there were so many flavors I never knew about!)
The way I’ve listed them above is the order I prepared to eat them, from the flavor I thought I’d love the most to the flavor I thought I’d love the least. Because even a not-my-favorite flavor of Peep is still a Peep and I knew I’d enjoy it. And here’s what I discovered. I’m now on Fruit Punch and I love each new flavor of Peeps even more than the previous!!!
There’s probably a life lesson in there somewhere. I’m just not quite sure what it is. Be open to new possibilities? Past performance is not indicative of future results? You only think you know what you want? Eat more Peeps?
Whatever it is, I’m grateful for my team, and I’m grateful for a stockpile of Peeps. And I’m definitely feeling better.
I have been known to procrastinate. One of my first jobs was as a writer for the local newspaper and there was a thrill of turning something great in, right at the deadline. There is one major exception to my habit of procrastination. Taxes. I relish filing my taxes as soon as possible. I sat down this weekend, determined to have all the requisite paperwork to the accountants by Monday. This year, however, I had two sets of taxes to prepare. Mine, and my parents’. I probably should have done mine first. But for some reason, I didn’t.
As I worked through the organizer my Dad’s accountant sent me, questions stabbed me.
“Change in marital status?” Yes, J deceased in April 2019; S widowed in April 2019.
“Sale of residence?” Yes, after my Mom could no longer live on her own.
“Medical receipts?” So. Many. Medical. Receipts. As I organized them by month, the painful memory of each individual receipt overwhelmed me. Trips to the Emergency Department. Prescriptions in the hospital pharmacy. Waiting at the cancer center pharmacy. Trip after trip after trip to the local CVS, filling prescriptions for drugs that didn’t work.
I couldn’t breathe. I was back in 2019, back hoping that each proposed treatment would allow Dad to continue to live the life he wanted to. Not aware that he would leave us so soon. Gullible and believing him when he said that he would get better. And then I was sad. So incredibly sad that he wasn’t able to live the life he wanted to for as long as he wanted to. That he’s no longer here.
A friend invited me to join her for a special Fat Tuesday dinner tonight. The restaurant was serving special New Orleans cuisine and a jazz band played throughout dinner. Gold, green, and purple beads hung from the fixtures. She talked about going to New Orleans with her brother, and how he went to bed so early and they didn’t get to experience the late night jazz New Orleans is famous for. And just like that, I was overwhelmed with memories of my first trip to New Orleans.
I had just graduated from college and Dad said we should take a trip, just the two of us. I suggested New Orleans, and he booked everything. We saw all the historical sites during the day, and at night we ate great food and listened to so. much. music. I’d suggest going to one more bar to hear one more band, and he was always up for it. Our agreement was we could stay out as late as I wanted, but we had to be up at 8 am (ouch) the next morning to tackle the historical sites.
As I listened to the band tonight, I know that I’m forgetting parts of the trip. I so desperately want to remember every detail. When I returned home, I pulled out a box of pictures from that time (back when we still printed pictures from a roll of film at the local drug store) and looked for a picture of us from that trip. I couldn’t find any of us together. There were pictures he took of me, and pictures I took of him, but we hadn’t had the foresight to ask someone to take one of us together. And then I was sad again.
“I have something for you.”
Mom often has things for me. Receipts from the dollar store. Magazine renewal notices. Donation requests. Generally, things I recycle as soon as I get home.
We walked into her bedroom. “I got this for you.”
It was an objectively ugly representation of Ruth Bader Ginsburg on a keychain. Part of the “string doll gang” – her face was made of string wrapped around and around and around a ball. She had a tag attached that said, “Women belong in all the places where decisions are being made.”
Then I noticed two other keychains. One a “Dharma Queen” and one a fluffy white puppy. “Who are these for, Mom?”
“Oh. The dog is for Ashley and the other one is for Anne.”
I stood there, dumbfounded.
Somehow she had picked the exact correct keychain for each of us. My sister, a dog lover, and Anne, a hippie at heart.
“Mom, did you pick these out on your own?”
“I love it. Thank you.”
And with this gift, I realized she still knows the essence of each of us. I could barely keep from crying. Weekly, I’ll sit on her couch with her and she’ll turn to me and say, “Do I have any children?” I nod my head and say, “You do.” “How many children do I have?” “You have three. You have a son, Greg, who lives in Winston-Salem, a daughter, Lori, who lives here in Asheville, and a daughter, Ashley, who lives outside of Atlanta.” “Are they big children or little children?” “They’re pretty big.” She’ll nod her head and stare into space. And a little part of me dies inside.
And today, I realized that she might not remember I’m her daughter, but she knows who I am.
I called Mom this morning and asked if she’d like to go to breakfast together. “Hm. Have I had breakfast yet?”
“I don’t know. Did you eat anything this morning?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you like to eat something?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes and we’ll go to breakfast.”
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”
I laughed, “Sure.”
I picked her up ten minutes later.
“Why are you here?”
“I thought we’d go to breakfast.”
“Okay.” Pause. “What day is today?”
“Do I go to that place today?”
“Not usually. We can go if you’d like to.”
“No. I only go M, T, W, Th. What day is today?”
“Do I go to the Y today?”
“No. Want to go to breakfast?”
We were handed menus.
“I can’t read this.”
“Do you have your glasses with you?”
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
I read the things I thought she might like. No, no, no, no. I asked her what she’d like.
“A piece of toast and some fruit.”
“Would you rather have toast or a biscuit?”
She looked at me plaintively.
“Toast is a piece of flat square bread. A biscuit is round, and a little fluffier.”
“Oh. A biscuit sounds good.”
The food arrived and we ate. I asked her how she liked her breakfast.
“Well, it’s not Tiffany’s. But it will do.”
And she laughed.
I was dumbfounded. Humor is hard. It’s one of the hardest things to master when learning another language. And yet, even though she can’t master time, or remember what we said a few minutes prior, and is losing the ability to pair the abstract word with the concrete thing, she can still make jokes.
And I laughed, too.
I experienced my first traffic jam in Asheville today. As I was returning from running errands, I noticed the car in front of me was stopped. It didn’t appear anyone was turning. As I got closer, I realized the neighborhood wild turkeys were in the road. Just hanging out. Not crossing the road, just standing there. So we waited. I was impressed that no one tried to inch further, potentially hurting a turkey, no one honked, everyone just waited until they eventually left the road. Patience is a virtue.
I’ve just eaten the traditional New Year’s lunch of collard greens with bacon, black eyed peas with ham, and cornbread. Supposedly this will bring a year of wealth, fortune, and prosperity.
2019 was perhaps my most difficult year yet. Witnessing my Dad’s health decline, and his passing, was heartbreaking. Moving my Mom to Asheville, out of what she considered her forever home, was heartbreaking. Watching her cognitive struggle as Alzheimer’s progresses is heartbreaking. Grieving for a co-worker who passed; grieving for a friend’s spouse who passed. Grieving for the state of our nation and the hate that has rooted. It’s felt as though the year was overshadowed by loss.
And for all the grieving, and difficulties, and losses, there was incredible joy as well. I work with a team who are simply amazing. They are smart, compassionate, supportive, and bring a smile (and usually a guffaw) to my face every day. I visited friends in San Francisco multiple times. I celebrated milestone birthdays with friends I’ve know for decades. I witnessed the investiture of a dear friend onto the North Carolina Supreme Court. I visited Cape Cod for the first time (and ate my weight in lobster). I completed so many jigsaw puzzles (an activity which brings me overwhelming feelings of calm and peace). I completed a Sunday New York Times crossword without relying on any hints. I spent time in person with Mom several times each week. I celebrated EJI’s 30th anniversary and heard Bryan Stevenson speak in person. I saw Elton John in concert. I witnessed two dear friends get married in a stunning ceremony in the UK. I celebrated a bat mitzvah with dear friends who feel more like family. I welcomed many visitors to Asheville, making my cozy house feel more and more like home.
May 2020 be as joyful.