Last hours

When my mother died last year, it was a tragic experience for me even though she was elderly and had been sick in recent months. I lived 10 hours away and didn't realize how quickly her illness had progressed. She was good at keeping secrets about herself right up to the end.

I got the call that she was in the hospital on a Sunday afternoon. She'd been in the hospital several times in the past couple of years, but usually released fairly quickly. This time seemed different. I didn't take any chances and threw essentials into the car and headed north. I felt frantic that I wouldn't make it in time. No one had said she was dying, but I think I felt it sort of like a distant ache. The thought of not being able to see her made me feel completely desperate. So I drove as fast as I thought I could get away with on I-75 and prayed hard through my tears. I hoped that she knew I was coming.

I made it to the hospital in the wee hours of the morning. One sister was there and one was still on her way. There was no way to prepare for what awaited me in my mother's room. She looked like a child. She had been diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis only six months earlier and now could barely breathe. I tried not to appear shocked, but I was. It was all I could do not to sob for her right there.

Instead, I walked over and took her hand and said, "I'm here now, Mom. I'm here to stay with you." I spent the next several hours making sure her oxygen mask stayed put, helping her brush her teeth, wash and brush her hair, take small sips of water and small bites of food.

I hadn't slept in over 24 hours and my brain just couldn't believe this was real. I kept thinking that the doctors are going to tell me I can take her home soon. I was trying to figure out which room in my house to put her in that she'd be comfortable. I vascillated between knowing she was close to death and thinking she's gonna be fine just like always. I didn't want to see the signs that this was it. I also wondered if she knew how bad her condition was. I didn't want to upset her, so I didn't say anything. I didn't say anything I wanted to say. If I'd known these were truly her last hours on this earth, I would have. There were so many things I wanted to ask her about.

My mother, in a last burst of energy, had sent me on an errand to get some things for her from her house as if she believed she'd be fine, too. I was coming back to spend the night with her again. When I returned to her room, the nurses were all quiet just outside her room and they said they were sorry. It didn't register for me. I just smiled politely and moved toward her room. I found my sister holding my mother's hand, but the oxygen machine was silent. A priest was in the room. Mom was gone.

That scene still haunts me. I never thought it would be so hard when my parent died. We think to ourselves all along that when our parents die it will be natural because they will be old and will have led a good, long life. We think it'll be sad, but death is a part of life, right? No. It's much more impactful than that. It's hard to reconcile that my mom isn't here at all anymore. I missed my chance to say what I needed to. She'll never know.

While my sisters and I were cleaning out my mother's house, I found a picture of my mother as a cheerleader for her high school. It is the best picture of her posing with her fellow cheerleaders with their arms thrown up in the air and they have big smiles on their faces. I realized I hardly know anything about that young girl in the photo. I wish I'd asked.

I know you've heard it before, just like I'd heard it before. But, here's hoping that this time you'll really hear it. Tell your loved ones again that you love them. Listen to your parents' stories about their lives before you came along. Don't wait to say what you need to say. What if those last hours come before you're ready and then they pass you by?

Oh, that photo of my mother is sitting prominently on a table in my living room. That young girl has a smile like mine. I see her every day. I think she knows.

Happy New Year, Everyone!

I, personally, am hoping for a better year myself. 2009 was a tough one. I know I haven't posted in a long time, but I was rather busy. My mother passed away last July and it's taken this long for me to come out of the fog of grief. Following my mother's death, I left my wonderful job in Florida as a Licensed Mental Health Counselor and moved back to my hometown in Georgia. I miss my job, but I really needed the break.

Florida and Georgia don't reciprocate licenses, so I can't practice here until I take the GA state test. I'm feeling unmotivated to do that right now, so I'm doing something different and am enjoying it. I get to stay home like I've been dreaming of for the past couple of years and I get to spend more time with my family.

Speaking of family, I have two sisters who live relatively close by and we have begun to relate on a deeper level in the past year due to my mother's illness and subsequent death. Sibling relationships can be so complicated, but as time goes by we begin to realize how important we are to each other. We are the only ones who can really understand and appreciate where and what we've come from - and, overcome. I feel lucky to have them now more than ever.

This past year has given me a lot of material that I'd like to expand upon in future posts. Topics like grief, sibling relationships, parent/child relationships, loss of parent, and so on.

I look forward to sharing with you and hope you will eventually feel comfortable commenting on my topics or asking questions. Until then, may common sense be your guide and peace of mind follow close behind.

Center Stage

Last month my family experienced a bit of medical drama. My son was playing second base during a very intense baseball game. The score was 3-2 in our favor in the 4th inning and all of us in the stands were cheering for our boys to hold their opponents back.

The other team has a great player who stepped up to bat and we were all nervous about him hitting a homerun. Instead, he hit a high pop fly between the second baseman (my son) and right field. My son backed up intending to catch it, but didn't call it out. The right fielder rushed forward with the same intention and didn't call it out. The inevitable occurred and my son fell backward and hit his head on the right fielder's knee. He got up a bit dazed but seemed to be okay. In an extaordinary feat, the right fielder actually came up with the ball and the play was saved! We groaned and then cheered in unison. The coaches ran out and asked all the right questions and my son gave all the right answers and the game resumed.

Another batter came up and popped another fly ball to my son who caught it for the third out - like a pro! The crowd was ecstatic! Then, suddenly my boy began to cry and appeared to be in distress. The coaches all ran out and talked to him but couldn't make sense of why he kept talking about what he'd forgotten.

The parents around me were all expressing concern, so I went to the dugout to see what the hullabulloo was about. I admit to thinking that my boy was over-reacting as he usually does as an 11 year old. I was ready to tell him to "man-up"! But, I quickly assessed that he didn't know what he was talking about and his brain circuits seemed to be on standby. His team mates could see I had suddenly gotten serious. They packed up his gear for him as I questioned my son and then I stood up straight and announced quickly that we were leaving for the hospital.

I couldn't walk fast enough as my mind replayed the recent tragedy about that actress, Natasha Richardson, dying of what seemed like a minor head injury on the ski slopes. I can't explain the way all my motherly instincts kicked up a notch when I realized my child may really be in danger. I had horrible visions of a tiny blood vessel in his brain leaking slowly as we raced toward my car. Everything seemed to move in slow motion although I was told later that I had moved myself and my son out of there with lightening speed. My heart was in my throat as my baseball friends helped me get our stuff in the car and wished us God Speed as I spun out of the parking lot.

My son continued to sound like a broken record all the way to the hospital. He kept repeating, "Did I get hit by the ball?", "Where are we going?", and "Are we going to the game, now?" til I thought I'd scream in frustration. I started off answering his questions truthfully, but when I realized he wasn't retaining my answers, I just started saying "yes" to all of them instead of wasting my breath. It turned out, after spending four hours in the emergency room with some strange people and $1700 later, that he had a mild concussion with amnesia and was going to be just fine. He has never remembered the actual incident, but since it's not necessary for college, I figure that's alright.

The lesson here: In baseball, always call, "I've got it!" when going for the pop fly. And, try to avoid the ER on Friday nights if at all possible.

Most of our friends expressed appropriate concern by calling or texting the next day to make sure our son was alright. However, there's always those one or two people who get all caught up in other people's drama and insist on making it there own. The coach, for a short time, blamed himself for letting my son continue to play after the collision. Guilt, Guilt, Guilt! I was able to convince him finally that he needn't lose any more sleep about it.

Another parent (I'll call her Patty) apparently was crying at the field after we left it - as if my son had died. She made up a story that my son had hugged her in his delirium and lamented to her about how he couldn't remember anything. (He was never anywhere near her during the whole incident.) Patty also told several people (not present at the game) that my son had been violently ill on the field after his fall. (Not true and ewwww!)

I began to feel like our experience had be intruded upon and made a spectacle of by someone else's unwarranted needs and behaviors. Granted, it was a disconcerting situation, but it was not tragic and I resented anyone trying to make it so. For the next two weeks, every time we ran into someone from our baseball field, I found myself subjected to the most bizarre rumors.

Most of us appreciate a little sympathy or empathy, but stealing another person's drama to gain center stage...oh, please! If you find that you are one of these people, try noticing the reaction you truly get from those who have known you a while - averting or rolling eyes, stepping away, mumbled "oh, really's"- to your seemingly amazing stories. Is that really what you are shooting for?

The lesson here: Being on center stage when you haven't been called there can have the effect of making you an outcast.

Redneck Whisperer

There's the Horse Whisperer, the Dog Whisperer, the Sales Whisperer, and now...the Redneck Whisperer!

My husband and I practice a rather disconcerting method of communication. Disconcerting to others, at least. For us, it is just our way. We have been together for most of our lives and have always bantered with teasing and incessant sarcasm. I imagine, to others, that it must sound like we are always on the verge of a major argument, but a major argument between us is rare. We know where the lines are drawn and are usually careful not to cross over. When it does happen we are quick to address it and all is well.

One day, we were bantering about the traditional roles of men vs. women regarding the household chores - an age old argument. I was trying to help him understand that I am tired of working outside the home and doing everything inside the home on top of it. A woman can only do so much before cracking up and I was feeling fairly close to going on a major shopping spree for therapy! So, we were discussing the benefits of his helping out and it went something like this.

Me: "I am feeling overwhelmed lately with the housework and would really appreciate some help from you."

Beloved Spouse: "Uh, huh." As he stares at his computer screen.

Me: "Hello! Did you hear me?" Looking a bit peeved.

Beloved Spouse: Looking up at me finally, "Sure, Honey, what was that again?"

Me: "I said I would really appreciate it if you could start doing your own laundry seeing as how you work from home and all. It would be easier for each of us to do our own laundry and that way you can't complain about the moldy smell when a load gets left in the washer too long. You'll be here to get it done yourself."

Beloved Spouse: "Um, yeah, I guess so. I'm just so busy, though. But, I see what you're saying." He smiles wryly at me then and adds, "Maybe I could get my girlfriend to help me out..."

Me: "Uh, huh. Tell her while she's at it she can do mine, too." Not the least bit phased, "And, maybe I should get out the old iron skillet and knock it upside your cheatin' head." (Imagine what you will.)

Beloved Spouse: "That's my little Redneck Whisperer!"

I have to admit that I like the title! It made me smile and, as I said, all is well. He's doing his own laundry, sort of, and I'm happy with his effort.

What a Woman Wants?

I've been reading a book of essays, Women in a Man's World, Crying, and it is really making me think. Some of the essays are about how women have fought to be equal and the effect it is having on us now - both good and not so good.

I admit to feeling proud of our hard fought almost equality, but also admit to wondering how much good it's done for us in the end. I love being able to have a career, but there are more days now when I would love to just stay home and spend time decorating my home, taking my child to school, picking him up from school, having time to actually fold laundry before putting it away, ect.

Instead, I run to work, work, then run from work to school activites, then to sporting events, making dinner somewhere in between, picking up the living room in between that, and finally climbing into bed to read a good book only to fall asleep in the middle of the third paragraph from exhaustion. The next day looks pretty much the same. I wonder...is this what our predecessors intended?