I finally got to talk to the primary doctor who worked with me through the pregnancy yesterday. He clarified for me that what had happened in my case was a partial mole--an abnormality with the placenta--which means two sperm fertilized the same egg, but instead of forming twins, something went wrong, resulting in one baby with an extra set of chromosomes that almost never manages to live to birth. Ours made it almost 8 weeks.
In a way, this is encouraging news, because the prognosis is better, but since I hadn't been sure which sort of problem I had for the last few weeks, it was somewhat comforting to think that perhaps it was a complete mole, because in that case there is no baby to lose--only a cluster of grape-like abnormal placenta cells. The damage was done in that regard already, because I had been mourning one way or the other, but my brain had an easier time sorting out "something went terribly wrong and there was no baby at all" than it did with "something went terribly wrong and instead of twins you got one very unusual baby who couldn't survive." I'm not sure what to mourn, in a way. Twins that failed to form as they ought to have... the single chromosomally abnormal baby that did... the death of my expectations and hopes for this pregnancy?
While I am at increased risk to have another molar pregnancy (1% chance as opposed to .01% in someone who hasn't had one before), there's very little likelihood of malignancy with a partial mole. Cell regrowth after surgery is about 20% with complete moles and less for partial moles. So, the chances that I will need chemo are very low. They are watching me through mid-August as a precaution, but they don't expect any problems. Assuming nothing strange happens in the interim, at that point we're free to try again.
Here's hoping I don't defy the odds yet again. Molar pregnancies usually occur after prior miscarriages or ectopic pregnancies (this was my first, ever), in women who are 40 or older (I've got a few years before I reach that particular milestone) in women who are non-white (that doesn't describe me) and who live in certain geographic regions (in which I don't). Goes to show you that God's will transcends the odds, I guess. Here's also hoping his will has a somewhat more "normal" outcome in mind next time. :D
Friday, April 11, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
My Plate Overfloweth
For those of you who worry when my blogging becomes less frequent, I provide this reassurance... this time, at least, the silence doesn't mean more sadness. This time it is actually somewhat exciting, and I'm ready to share some of it here.
I've been given the full promotion to Editor-in-Chief of the magazine I work for, which means managing a small staff and a budget. It also means fuller creative control. It also means more reporting, analytics and responsibility for long-term product vision and planning. Since this was part of a larger company restructuring, I have a new supervisor and a somewhat altered staff. The changes are exciting and fun, but they are also requiring me to reexamine how things get done, who does them, and what use I can make of the resources I have. Additionally, formally or informally, I have been given more responsibility for making sure that the website with which the magazine is associated has new content on a regular (daily) basis.
I'm looking forward to the time when the huge planning/reorganizing crunch that I have found myself in over the last couple of weeks settles down and I can find something more like equilibrium. Dan's busy with extra rehearsals for his next concert, so I've taken advantage of the evenings alone to get more work done. I've felt great about how much I have been able to accomplish, and I have really enjoyed many of the aspects of the new arrangement, but my to-do list is still taking up the better part of two sheets of notebook paper.
In other news, Dan and I head to California in less than 2 weeks. It's a working trip for both of us -- I'll be in the office some and Dan will be teaching liturgical music to some new members of our old church. That should be fun, if busy, and I am really looking forward to seeing both of my sisters again as part of the trip. Something tells me will also be celebrating 2 milestone birthdays while we are there, since both Mom and Dad turn 60 this month.
I return to the OB/GYN today to have a physical and, I hope, to learn more about my molar pregnancy and what the future holds for me. For the most part, that fact is just fading into the fabric of my life, but days like today I have to (and get to) think about what it means. There's nothing fun about physicals, but it is comforting to know that we'll soon have a better assessment of my health.
We've made something of a habit of going ice skating on the weekends. It's handy that there are ice rinks all over the area here. We have about 4 to choose from within a reasonable drive. That's been fun, and we sometimes take friends along. I enjoy the physical activity, but I also enjoy the feeling of increasing comfort that I get each time I step onto the ice. First thing, you learn how to stay upright and in motion on the ice. The next step is learning how to stop moving without ending up plastered on the boards or the ice. I've been working on that, and I am getting quite close to being able to snowplow stop without killing myself. That's also a nice feeling.
I've been extremely busy indoors, but I have also found time to get outdoors and explore the glory of springtime. The trees have leafed out, and the sun is starting to radiate a gentle, soothing warmth. As Dan put it, today is a "glorious" day. I have more pictures, but I will save them for later. One of my favorite aspects of this week of spring (each one seems to feature something new and wonderful) is the breathtakingly invasive wisteria in bloom. I get the feeling that it is a mixed blessing, in that it seems to have taken over some of the area trees, but there is something quite astonishing about the grape-cluster flowers draped like snowy violet curtains in the woods.
That's it for now... except that I have neglected the meme that LL invited me to do. So... here goes.
Apparently, I'm supposed to:
1. Write about the Strangest Job I Ever Had and tell what I learned from it.
2. Link to other "Lessons from Odd Jobs" posts.
3. Tag my post "Lessons from Odd Jobs".
4. Tag other bloggers.
5. Link back to the Lessons from Odd Jobs page and and email this month’s host at that site.
I may not make it all the way down to number 5, but I will at least get started!
Odd jobs? Well... allow me to digress and come back to that. Before the Carolina Hurricanes broke my heart, I was in the habit of watching hockey games quite frequently. I may warm up to watching the Stanley Cup playoffs playoffs given another week or two to heal, but in the meantime, hockey is a bittersweet memory. And it is relevant, too. Why? Well... the Boston Bruins, who DID manage to make the playoffs, have a very tall and well-loved player in Zdeno Chara. While watching a Bruins game, I heard a commentator remark on the fact that Chara had claimed, perhaps in jest (I hope), that he was so tall as a kid, that he had a job at the local zoo washing the necks of giraffes. I promise, I have never had a job quite that strange.
However, I have done some rather odd jobs. Not odd in the sense that nobody else does them, but odd in the sense that they have some rather extraordinary aspects. I guess I will just pick one. How about the first?
The job I consider to be my "first" job was care-taking and housecleaning for a 50-something year old woman, Darlene, who had suffered severe brain damage after heart attack several years prior. To be precise, she had *died* at least twice, and both time she was resuscitated at the insistence of her heart-broken husband, Joe, who had quarreled with her earlier that day and, I think, carried a huge burden of guilt from that moment on. I qualified for the job by admitting to a) not having a boyfriend (the last girl had a boyfriend and ditched work a lot to go see him) and b) knowing how to load a washer. I was 16 at the time, and the job required me to spend 4 hours each day of my summer break from school at their house up the street.
I learned a lot about myself, and a lot about human nature, that summer. I learned that I could not load a washer to Joe's satisfaction. I learned how to bathe and dress Darlene and how to change her soiled sheets every morning. I learned the power of jealousy when there is no good sense to balance it out; Darlene accused me daily of "wanting" her husband. How confusing for her -- she knew I was young and, I suppose, attractive in my way -- and in her house every day without her consent. I couldn't convince her that her rather tired, run-down 60-something husband could have no possible appeal for me. I witnessed awkward moments that went beyond what my life experience could explain, like when Joe had to explain that to her again that their relationship wasn't sexual anymore when she indicated interest. I learned to listen to things that didn't make any sense to me, like Darlene's chatter about the "H" and the "J" ... in fact, I learned that if I listened to her, I could figure out that she was talking about the kids walking home from school when she rattled off letters. She had been a teacher, and she remembered them, even if she couldn't articulate what she wanted to say about them in a way I could understand. I learned that I was clumsy. I broke a glass display case just trying to dust it. Joe docked my $5/hour pay to replace it. I discovered that guns scared me when I found Joe's gun strapped to the back of his twin mattress while I was changing the sheets one morning. I learned that guilt is an invasive vine that chokes out the tree of proffered forgiveness that would otherwise rise above the hurt and grime of the earth and point to the heavens.
I've had several other jobs since then. Some of them paid, some of them volunteer. Somehow, I always end up in jobs where there are hurting people who need a gentle hand. I'm afraid mine is rather rough and calloused... but I have learned that it can be outstretched to others, if I am willing to take a chance.
I wonder if Joe and Darlene are alive today. I kind of doubt it, but I think I owe to them some of the paltry insights I may have into life and marriage today. Was it an odd job? Perhaps. Was it important? Absolutely. Was I glad when it came to an end? Without a doubt. Do I regret it? Not in the slightest.
So... Ashleigh, Mom, Erin and Angie, consider yourselves tagged.
I've been given the full promotion to Editor-in-Chief of the magazine I work for, which means managing a small staff and a budget. It also means fuller creative control. It also means more reporting, analytics and responsibility for long-term product vision and planning. Since this was part of a larger company restructuring, I have a new supervisor and a somewhat altered staff. The changes are exciting and fun, but they are also requiring me to reexamine how things get done, who does them, and what use I can make of the resources I have. Additionally, formally or informally, I have been given more responsibility for making sure that the website with which the magazine is associated has new content on a regular (daily) basis.
I'm looking forward to the time when the huge planning/reorganizing crunch that I have found myself in over the last couple of weeks settles down and I can find something more like equilibrium. Dan's busy with extra rehearsals for his next concert, so I've taken advantage of the evenings alone to get more work done. I've felt great about how much I have been able to accomplish, and I have really enjoyed many of the aspects of the new arrangement, but my to-do list is still taking up the better part of two sheets of notebook paper.
In other news, Dan and I head to California in less than 2 weeks. It's a working trip for both of us -- I'll be in the office some and Dan will be teaching liturgical music to some new members of our old church. That should be fun, if busy, and I am really looking forward to seeing both of my sisters again as part of the trip. Something tells me will also be celebrating 2 milestone birthdays while we are there, since both Mom and Dad turn 60 this month.
I return to the OB/GYN today to have a physical and, I hope, to learn more about my molar pregnancy and what the future holds for me. For the most part, that fact is just fading into the fabric of my life, but days like today I have to (and get to) think about what it means. There's nothing fun about physicals, but it is comforting to know that we'll soon have a better assessment of my health.
We've made something of a habit of going ice skating on the weekends. It's handy that there are ice rinks all over the area here. We have about 4 to choose from within a reasonable drive. That's been fun, and we sometimes take friends along. I enjoy the physical activity, but I also enjoy the feeling of increasing comfort that I get each time I step onto the ice. First thing, you learn how to stay upright and in motion on the ice. The next step is learning how to stop moving without ending up plastered on the boards or the ice. I've been working on that, and I am getting quite close to being able to snowplow stop without killing myself. That's also a nice feeling.
I've been extremely busy indoors, but I have also found time to get outdoors and explore the glory of springtime. The trees have leafed out, and the sun is starting to radiate a gentle, soothing warmth. As Dan put it, today is a "glorious" day. I have more pictures, but I will save them for later. One of my favorite aspects of this week of spring (each one seems to feature something new and wonderful) is the breathtakingly invasive wisteria in bloom. I get the feeling that it is a mixed blessing, in that it seems to have taken over some of the area trees, but there is something quite astonishing about the grape-cluster flowers draped like snowy violet curtains in the woods.
That's it for now... except that I have neglected the meme that LL invited me to do. So... here goes.
Apparently, I'm supposed to:
1. Write about the Strangest Job I Ever Had and tell what I learned from it.
2. Link to other "Lessons from Odd Jobs" posts.
3. Tag my post "Lessons from Odd Jobs".
4. Tag other bloggers.
5. Link back to the Lessons from Odd Jobs page and and email this month’s host at that site.
I may not make it all the way down to number 5, but I will at least get started!
Odd jobs? Well... allow me to digress and come back to that. Before the Carolina Hurricanes broke my heart, I was in the habit of watching hockey games quite frequently. I may warm up to watching the Stanley Cup playoffs playoffs given another week or two to heal, but in the meantime, hockey is a bittersweet memory. And it is relevant, too. Why? Well... the Boston Bruins, who DID manage to make the playoffs, have a very tall and well-loved player in Zdeno Chara. While watching a Bruins game, I heard a commentator remark on the fact that Chara had claimed, perhaps in jest (I hope), that he was so tall as a kid, that he had a job at the local zoo washing the necks of giraffes. I promise, I have never had a job quite that strange.
However, I have done some rather odd jobs. Not odd in the sense that nobody else does them, but odd in the sense that they have some rather extraordinary aspects. I guess I will just pick one. How about the first?
The job I consider to be my "first" job was care-taking and housecleaning for a 50-something year old woman, Darlene, who had suffered severe brain damage after heart attack several years prior. To be precise, she had *died* at least twice, and both time she was resuscitated at the insistence of her heart-broken husband, Joe, who had quarreled with her earlier that day and, I think, carried a huge burden of guilt from that moment on. I qualified for the job by admitting to a) not having a boyfriend (the last girl had a boyfriend and ditched work a lot to go see him) and b) knowing how to load a washer. I was 16 at the time, and the job required me to spend 4 hours each day of my summer break from school at their house up the street.
I learned a lot about myself, and a lot about human nature, that summer. I learned that I could not load a washer to Joe's satisfaction. I learned how to bathe and dress Darlene and how to change her soiled sheets every morning. I learned the power of jealousy when there is no good sense to balance it out; Darlene accused me daily of "wanting" her husband. How confusing for her -- she knew I was young and, I suppose, attractive in my way -- and in her house every day without her consent. I couldn't convince her that her rather tired, run-down 60-something husband could have no possible appeal for me. I witnessed awkward moments that went beyond what my life experience could explain, like when Joe had to explain that to her again that their relationship wasn't sexual anymore when she indicated interest. I learned to listen to things that didn't make any sense to me, like Darlene's chatter about the "H" and the "J" ... in fact, I learned that if I listened to her, I could figure out that she was talking about the kids walking home from school when she rattled off letters. She had been a teacher, and she remembered them, even if she couldn't articulate what she wanted to say about them in a way I could understand. I learned that I was clumsy. I broke a glass display case just trying to dust it. Joe docked my $5/hour pay to replace it. I discovered that guns scared me when I found Joe's gun strapped to the back of his twin mattress while I was changing the sheets one morning. I learned that guilt is an invasive vine that chokes out the tree of proffered forgiveness that would otherwise rise above the hurt and grime of the earth and point to the heavens.
I've had several other jobs since then. Some of them paid, some of them volunteer. Somehow, I always end up in jobs where there are hurting people who need a gentle hand. I'm afraid mine is rather rough and calloused... but I have learned that it can be outstretched to others, if I am willing to take a chance.
I wonder if Joe and Darlene are alive today. I kind of doubt it, but I think I owe to them some of the paltry insights I may have into life and marriage today. Was it an odd job? Perhaps. Was it important? Absolutely. Was I glad when it came to an end? Without a doubt. Do I regret it? Not in the slightest.
So... Ashleigh, Mom, Erin and Angie, consider yourselves tagged.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
North Carolina in Bloom
I'll be posting my second meme soon, but I wanted to take another photo break. This time, I'm sharing some of the beauty of North Carolina spring. All of these images were taken in the last week here in the Triangle area.
These here are just a preview. The full set is here.
Oh yeah... and I got my hair cut. It's still long, but much more curly with layers. That was my last act in California before driving to the airport.
These here are just a preview. The full set is here.
Oh yeah... and I got my hair cut. It's still long, but much more curly with layers. That was my last act in California before driving to the airport.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Meme, the first.
Okay, so I am really slow getting to them, but I have been tagged for two memes. This tag came first, so I am going to do it first. The other will come shortly. :D
1) One book that changed your life.
Grand Duchess Elizabeth of Russia - New Martyr of the Communist Yoke by Lubov Millar
I'd say this was life-changing because in this biography I saw a passionate love for Christ and other people in the amazing life of a woman of privilege who lost everything she loved and still forgave and loved and gave until her very last breath. There is something real and immediate about her that resonated deeply in me and made me believe that deep personal holiness isn't a thing of the distant past.
2) One book that you have read more than once.
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
I don't know why, really, but this novel is one I must have read 20 times over the years. I must like it or something.
3) One book you would want on a desert island.
Remembrance of Things Past or In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust
I enjoy both the appropriateness of the title given what I am likely to be obsessed with during my stay, and the fact that it ought to keep me busy for a good long time. Described as the "Longest conventionally-read novel." It contains nearly 1.5 million words and holds the Guinness record for the Longest Novel. I appreciate the practicality of people who choose books designed to aid survival or escape, but I would probably prefer to hunker down and wait for rescue. ;)
4) Two books that made you laugh.
1. Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss
What can I say? I'm an editor.
2. Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach
I have to concur with Ashleigh on this one. I read it on a train to San Diego for the first time and laughed out loud, repeatedly. It was mildly embarrassing to draw attention of fellow passengers, but it was totally worth it because I couldn't put the book down.
5) One book that made you cry.
A Grief Observed, by C.S. Lewis
So heartbreaking and haunting... it sticks with me.
6) One book you wish you'd written.
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
In spite of my answer to #3, I have a practical side. As one of the wealthiest people in the world, J.K. Rowling now has the luxury of writing whatever she wants without having to worry about her bottom line. That, I covet.
7) One book you wish had never been written.
Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
Perhaps this makes me some kind of monster, but I cannot remember ever having such a violently visceral reaction to a book as I had to this one. What many people seem to think of as a life-changing reflection on life and spirituality struck me as something, well... Let's just say I really didn't like it.
8) Two books you are currently reading.
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen
Never Let a Fool Kiss You or a Kiss Fool You by Dr. Mardy Grothe
(It's a word-nerd book about Chiasmus, and quite silly fun... but more of a dribs and drabs read.)
9) One book you've been meaning to read.
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Uh, yeah... just never quite got around to that. But I have watched the BBC miniseries at least 5 times a year for the last several years, so I think I really ought to break down and read it.
***
For the 1-2-3 meme, the directions are:
1) Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2) Open the book to page 123.
3) Find the fifth sentence.
4) Post the next three sentences.
5) Tag five people.
The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd
"That night, when the darkness was weighed down with singing crickets and Rosaleen was snoring right along with them, I had myself a good cry. I couldn't even say why. Just everything, I guess."
Tagged: Mom, Angie and Susan
I'm only tagging three. I've always been one to buck the rules!
1) One book that changed your life.
Grand Duchess Elizabeth of Russia - New Martyr of the Communist Yoke by Lubov Millar
I'd say this was life-changing because in this biography I saw a passionate love for Christ and other people in the amazing life of a woman of privilege who lost everything she loved and still forgave and loved and gave until her very last breath. There is something real and immediate about her that resonated deeply in me and made me believe that deep personal holiness isn't a thing of the distant past.
2) One book that you have read more than once.
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
I don't know why, really, but this novel is one I must have read 20 times over the years. I must like it or something.
3) One book you would want on a desert island.
Remembrance of Things Past or In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust
I enjoy both the appropriateness of the title given what I am likely to be obsessed with during my stay, and the fact that it ought to keep me busy for a good long time. Described as the "Longest conventionally-read novel." It contains nearly 1.5 million words and holds the Guinness record for the Longest Novel. I appreciate the practicality of people who choose books designed to aid survival or escape, but I would probably prefer to hunker down and wait for rescue. ;)
4) Two books that made you laugh.
1. Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss
What can I say? I'm an editor.
2. Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach
I have to concur with Ashleigh on this one. I read it on a train to San Diego for the first time and laughed out loud, repeatedly. It was mildly embarrassing to draw attention of fellow passengers, but it was totally worth it because I couldn't put the book down.
5) One book that made you cry.
A Grief Observed, by C.S. Lewis
So heartbreaking and haunting... it sticks with me.
6) One book you wish you'd written.
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
In spite of my answer to #3, I have a practical side. As one of the wealthiest people in the world, J.K. Rowling now has the luxury of writing whatever she wants without having to worry about her bottom line. That, I covet.
7) One book you wish had never been written.
Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
Perhaps this makes me some kind of monster, but I cannot remember ever having such a violently visceral reaction to a book as I had to this one. What many people seem to think of as a life-changing reflection on life and spirituality struck me as something, well... Let's just say I really didn't like it.
8) Two books you are currently reading.
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen
Never Let a Fool Kiss You or a Kiss Fool You by Dr. Mardy Grothe
(It's a word-nerd book about Chiasmus, and quite silly fun... but more of a dribs and drabs read.)
9) One book you've been meaning to read.
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Uh, yeah... just never quite got around to that. But I have watched the BBC miniseries at least 5 times a year for the last several years, so I think I really ought to break down and read it.
***
For the 1-2-3 meme, the directions are:
1) Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2) Open the book to page 123.
3) Find the fifth sentence.
4) Post the next three sentences.
5) Tag five people.
The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd
"That night, when the darkness was weighed down with singing crickets and Rosaleen was snoring right along with them, I had myself a good cry. I couldn't even say why. Just everything, I guess."
Tagged: Mom, Angie and Susan
I'm only tagging three. I've always been one to buck the rules!
Sunday, March 23, 2008
The Bright Side of Life
The last couple of posts have been heavy, but, fortunately, that's not all there is to life.
Here's a selection of the photos from my trip to California.
Of course, I have high-res copies for family members who may want them. :)
Here's a selection of the photos from my trip to California.
Of course, I have high-res copies for family members who may want them. :)
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
As a Thousand Years
I like to think that there are moments in life when God may give us a glimpse of his view of time. Those are the tiny eternities when it feels like so much gets crammed into an hour or a day or a week or a month that you could swear you have spent at least a year (or five) living it all.
I've had a couple of those weeks lately.
Just over two weeks ago my grandmother died. It was completely expected and completely unexpected. She had been suffering for a while, but she always managed to hang on. I think part of me half-way expected her to just go on hanging for another several years. That, however, by he grace of God, was not meant to be. Further surprising me -- I should add that I take great pains not to be surprised by planning for ever imaginable contingency -- was the fact that I had a strong, immediate urge to go back home for the services, and a much deeper emotional reaction than I had anticipated after waiting in what felt like limbo for her to pass from this life for so long. Lately, however, I think God has been reminding me in a variety of ways that there are things I simply can't plan for, anticipate and control. Thankfully He has also given me mercy to handle most of it somehow without coming entirely unhinged.
Two weeks ago Thursday I flew out to Southern California to be with my family for my grandmother's funeral. The family time was largely great. We sat over boxes of old photos for hours, ate at nostalgic places and saw extended family that I hadn't seen in years. Grandmother's service was small and respectful, and it was a labor of love for my dad, in particular. My sisters and I sang "Be Still My Soul" together, in what was, I think, our first appearance ever as a trio. Mom has had visions of that particular trio decades ago, so I imagine it was a particularly nice moment for her in the midst of the sadness and busyness that comes with the loss of a loved one.
We even managed to find times to laugh. Those of us in the house when Mom took a speaker-phone call from a telemarketer will not soon forget her comments: "Hi! We were just singing together. Would you like us to sing for you?" Or the way we subsequently sang for the bewildered caller. We'll especially not forget the way that Mom, just a little tired and overwhelmed, then proceeded to mixed her phrases and announce to the still more confused telemarketer that we were, at this "unusual family time" ... "celebrating a death." In all the laughter than ensued, we were clearly celebrating life.
The family weekend was sandwiched by work. I was asked to stay a few extra days at the office, so my return trip was delayed. Work itself was unusually heavy. Changes were made that meant saying goodbye to people we had known and loved, and other changes were made in company structure that meant some further unhappiness for a few who stayed. My own new position in the "org chart" is exciting, but it hasn't come without challenges, some of which I doubt my readiness to handle in my weaker moments. I came away feeling very positive, and exciting about the ways I have been invited to grow, but also absolutely sapped of energy.
The whole trip was made more difficult by the fact that I traveled alone. I missed Daniel's companionship and presence, and we kept up some sense of normalcy through frequent short phone calls.
Even the lighter moments of the trip were heavy in unexpected ways. Case in point, I went to a rehearsal for the choir we belonged to in Mission Viejo. That was wonderful and I really enjoyed it. However, that visit also brought me news that one of my friends in the choir -- someone close to me in age -- had died under mysterious circumstances just before Christmas. Nobody had thought to tell me at the time, so even though it was not fresh news, it was new to me. I knew enough about her situation to realize that she had probably taken her own life, which added to the pain of discovery.
There were definite highlights... such as the rental car company running out of mid-size cars and giving me a convertible Mustang for the same price, dinner with dear friends, a visit to In-and-Out Burger, and liturgy at St. John on Sunday in their new, larger space... but by the time I sat in the airport and waited for my flight home, I was, so to speak, out of gas.
Little did I know that the trip wasn't over yet, and I needed all the fumes that were left.
I made it to Atlanta without a problem, but once in Atlanta everything started to go just a tad wrong. First the flight attendants were late so we couldn't board the plane. Then they didn't show up at all, and new flight attendants were called in (from home, I presume). When the new attendants arrived and we got on the plane, we were delayed a bit because of a back-up on the runway due to earlier storms. Then the captain announced that the smell of exhaust coming in through the ventilation system was "somewhat normal" and that we shouldn't be alarmed. A few minutes later he announced that we were 4th in line and cleared to go when our turn came. However, he then turned off the engines and announced that we were no longer cleared to go until the storm that was currently pummeling Atlanta had moved on. Said storm would be the tornado that flattened part of downtown on Friday night.
When we finally did leave, the smell of exhaust was stronger, and my grasp on reality was slipping, between the fatigue and the heaviness I had been carrying. I determined that I would remain awake (unlike most of my fellow passengers), because I wasn't about to die of CO poisoning if I could help it after all that I had been through. I started to make contingency plans... like trying to figure out if the air in my half-empty water bottle could somehow be useful to me in the event of the worst. Meanwhile, the air was so turbulent that the flight attendants had to stop peanut service at the third row. I was, needless to say, further back than that, and rather crammed into my window seat as the two larger men next to me had opted not to use the armrests and were spilling into the seats in my direction. Starving by now, I found some pulverized Ritz crackers in my purse and washed them down with the water I had brought from the terminal. We were only two hours late getting in, but it was Saturday by the time we touched down.
Let's just say that I was very, very glad to get home. I was so glad, and so hungry, that I was even willing to eat from the only fast-food restaurant that is open 24 hours near us: McDonalds. Eeeew.
Further complicating matters, I had begun to get sick about mid-week, and by Saturday morning, I was truly ill. I have been enjoying what I can only think to call post-nasal ooze, and I slept the majority of the weekend, just trying to feel something like physically normal again. My first outing once home was on Saturday. Daniel and I went to get veggie burritos at a local Mexican place. As we were leaving, we got out onto a narrow highway that winds through about 10 or 15 minutes of nothing much -- no gas stations or restaurant or offices, for sure. As soon as we were on the road and stuck behind a car that wasn't moving very quickly, my nose began to bleed profusely. I quickly ran out of napkins and finally resorted to holding the clear plastic cup of ice left over from lunch up under my chin, but my white shirt didn't escape unharmed. It was one of those moments when I wanted Daniel to "do something" and there was precisely nothing (aside from offering me his shirt, which I refused) to do.
By yesterday, I was significantly less exhausted (and much less bloody), but still decidedly sick.
I had just decided that I could live with this nasty cold/infection, and that the semblance of normal life I had adopted since my return was good enough, when I got the call from my OB/GYN office. My pregnancy was molar (happening in about 1 of 1,000 to 1,500 pregnancies), which means, in short, that what developed in my womb had an extra set of chromosomes and was not capable of coming to term. The abnormal tissue either overcomes a normal embryo, if there was one, or it develops instead of a normal embryo. We're not sure which is true in my case, but either way it brings with it further worries. I had to start testing immediately. I must avoid pregnancy for at least 6 months, during which time I will be subject to further testing, because that abnormal tissue (essentially a tumor) can return (it does in 5-20% of cases), and it can sometimes become cancerous, as it did in the case of a loved one.
Best case, the surgery I already had will have done the job and in 6 months to a year, we can try to conceive again. Worse case, the tumor will return, requiring another surgery. Worst case, and the odds are slim, the tumor will become malignant and can spread outside the womb. In that case, I would require further surgery and chemotherapy, and could result in an inability to carry children in the future. I'm genuinely scared of that outcome, because both of the women I know who have had molar pregnancies were unable to have subsequent pregnancies.
The fact is that I don't know yet how it will work out. All I can do is wait and trust that God knows better than I do what I need and that his plan is bigger and better than mine. I feel like I have been handed a choice: go to pieces, or find peace outside myself. Thankfully, He genuinely does offer peace if we are willing to surrender the worries about the known and the unknown. I chatted with a my dear trooper of a friend whose own personal story has had more challenges than my own. She told me I had been ushered into a special sisterhood of women who have the opportunity to bear heavy things, and then to pass on our strength to others when their moments come. We are, she said, to be mother angels to each other. I can only hope that she is right. She usually is.
It's all very hard. I won't lie about that. I cried over onions in a pan on the stove one morning this week, and the onions were only partly to blame. My eyes are misting now as I write. I find it very difficult to trust God through the various twists and turns in the road without asking a whole lot of "why?". However, there's a part of me that remains firmly convinced that this, too, all has a purpose. He for whom a day like this is as a thousand years will see me through... even if it takes a thousand days like this one.
I've had a couple of those weeks lately.
Just over two weeks ago my grandmother died. It was completely expected and completely unexpected. She had been suffering for a while, but she always managed to hang on. I think part of me half-way expected her to just go on hanging for another several years. That, however, by he grace of God, was not meant to be. Further surprising me -- I should add that I take great pains not to be surprised by planning for ever imaginable contingency -- was the fact that I had a strong, immediate urge to go back home for the services, and a much deeper emotional reaction than I had anticipated after waiting in what felt like limbo for her to pass from this life for so long. Lately, however, I think God has been reminding me in a variety of ways that there are things I simply can't plan for, anticipate and control. Thankfully He has also given me mercy to handle most of it somehow without coming entirely unhinged.
Two weeks ago Thursday I flew out to Southern California to be with my family for my grandmother's funeral. The family time was largely great. We sat over boxes of old photos for hours, ate at nostalgic places and saw extended family that I hadn't seen in years. Grandmother's service was small and respectful, and it was a labor of love for my dad, in particular. My sisters and I sang "Be Still My Soul" together, in what was, I think, our first appearance ever as a trio. Mom has had visions of that particular trio decades ago, so I imagine it was a particularly nice moment for her in the midst of the sadness and busyness that comes with the loss of a loved one.
We even managed to find times to laugh. Those of us in the house when Mom took a speaker-phone call from a telemarketer will not soon forget her comments: "Hi! We were just singing together. Would you like us to sing for you?" Or the way we subsequently sang for the bewildered caller. We'll especially not forget the way that Mom, just a little tired and overwhelmed, then proceeded to mixed her phrases and announce to the still more confused telemarketer that we were, at this "unusual family time" ... "celebrating a death." In all the laughter than ensued, we were clearly celebrating life.
The family weekend was sandwiched by work. I was asked to stay a few extra days at the office, so my return trip was delayed. Work itself was unusually heavy. Changes were made that meant saying goodbye to people we had known and loved, and other changes were made in company structure that meant some further unhappiness for a few who stayed. My own new position in the "org chart" is exciting, but it hasn't come without challenges, some of which I doubt my readiness to handle in my weaker moments. I came away feeling very positive, and exciting about the ways I have been invited to grow, but also absolutely sapped of energy.
The whole trip was made more difficult by the fact that I traveled alone. I missed Daniel's companionship and presence, and we kept up some sense of normalcy through frequent short phone calls.
Even the lighter moments of the trip were heavy in unexpected ways. Case in point, I went to a rehearsal for the choir we belonged to in Mission Viejo. That was wonderful and I really enjoyed it. However, that visit also brought me news that one of my friends in the choir -- someone close to me in age -- had died under mysterious circumstances just before Christmas. Nobody had thought to tell me at the time, so even though it was not fresh news, it was new to me. I knew enough about her situation to realize that she had probably taken her own life, which added to the pain of discovery.
There were definite highlights... such as the rental car company running out of mid-size cars and giving me a convertible Mustang for the same price, dinner with dear friends, a visit to In-and-Out Burger, and liturgy at St. John on Sunday in their new, larger space... but by the time I sat in the airport and waited for my flight home, I was, so to speak, out of gas.
Little did I know that the trip wasn't over yet, and I needed all the fumes that were left.
I made it to Atlanta without a problem, but once in Atlanta everything started to go just a tad wrong. First the flight attendants were late so we couldn't board the plane. Then they didn't show up at all, and new flight attendants were called in (from home, I presume). When the new attendants arrived and we got on the plane, we were delayed a bit because of a back-up on the runway due to earlier storms. Then the captain announced that the smell of exhaust coming in through the ventilation system was "somewhat normal" and that we shouldn't be alarmed. A few minutes later he announced that we were 4th in line and cleared to go when our turn came. However, he then turned off the engines and announced that we were no longer cleared to go until the storm that was currently pummeling Atlanta had moved on. Said storm would be the tornado that flattened part of downtown on Friday night.
When we finally did leave, the smell of exhaust was stronger, and my grasp on reality was slipping, between the fatigue and the heaviness I had been carrying. I determined that I would remain awake (unlike most of my fellow passengers), because I wasn't about to die of CO poisoning if I could help it after all that I had been through. I started to make contingency plans... like trying to figure out if the air in my half-empty water bottle could somehow be useful to me in the event of the worst. Meanwhile, the air was so turbulent that the flight attendants had to stop peanut service at the third row. I was, needless to say, further back than that, and rather crammed into my window seat as the two larger men next to me had opted not to use the armrests and were spilling into the seats in my direction. Starving by now, I found some pulverized Ritz crackers in my purse and washed them down with the water I had brought from the terminal. We were only two hours late getting in, but it was Saturday by the time we touched down.
Let's just say that I was very, very glad to get home. I was so glad, and so hungry, that I was even willing to eat from the only fast-food restaurant that is open 24 hours near us: McDonalds. Eeeew.
Further complicating matters, I had begun to get sick about mid-week, and by Saturday morning, I was truly ill. I have been enjoying what I can only think to call post-nasal ooze, and I slept the majority of the weekend, just trying to feel something like physically normal again. My first outing once home was on Saturday. Daniel and I went to get veggie burritos at a local Mexican place. As we were leaving, we got out onto a narrow highway that winds through about 10 or 15 minutes of nothing much -- no gas stations or restaurant or offices, for sure. As soon as we were on the road and stuck behind a car that wasn't moving very quickly, my nose began to bleed profusely. I quickly ran out of napkins and finally resorted to holding the clear plastic cup of ice left over from lunch up under my chin, but my white shirt didn't escape unharmed. It was one of those moments when I wanted Daniel to "do something" and there was precisely nothing (aside from offering me his shirt, which I refused) to do.
By yesterday, I was significantly less exhausted (and much less bloody), but still decidedly sick.
I had just decided that I could live with this nasty cold/infection, and that the semblance of normal life I had adopted since my return was good enough, when I got the call from my OB/GYN office. My pregnancy was molar (happening in about 1 of 1,000 to 1,500 pregnancies), which means, in short, that what developed in my womb had an extra set of chromosomes and was not capable of coming to term. The abnormal tissue either overcomes a normal embryo, if there was one, or it develops instead of a normal embryo. We're not sure which is true in my case, but either way it brings with it further worries. I had to start testing immediately. I must avoid pregnancy for at least 6 months, during which time I will be subject to further testing, because that abnormal tissue (essentially a tumor) can return (it does in 5-20% of cases), and it can sometimes become cancerous, as it did in the case of a loved one.
Best case, the surgery I already had will have done the job and in 6 months to a year, we can try to conceive again. Worse case, the tumor will return, requiring another surgery. Worst case, and the odds are slim, the tumor will become malignant and can spread outside the womb. In that case, I would require further surgery and chemotherapy, and could result in an inability to carry children in the future. I'm genuinely scared of that outcome, because both of the women I know who have had molar pregnancies were unable to have subsequent pregnancies.
The fact is that I don't know yet how it will work out. All I can do is wait and trust that God knows better than I do what I need and that his plan is bigger and better than mine. I feel like I have been handed a choice: go to pieces, or find peace outside myself. Thankfully, He genuinely does offer peace if we are willing to surrender the worries about the known and the unknown. I chatted with a my dear trooper of a friend whose own personal story has had more challenges than my own. She told me I had been ushered into a special sisterhood of women who have the opportunity to bear heavy things, and then to pass on our strength to others when their moments come. We are, she said, to be mother angels to each other. I can only hope that she is right. She usually is.
It's all very hard. I won't lie about that. I cried over onions in a pan on the stove one morning this week, and the onions were only partly to blame. My eyes are misting now as I write. I find it very difficult to trust God through the various twists and turns in the road without asking a whole lot of "why?". However, there's a part of me that remains firmly convinced that this, too, all has a purpose. He for whom a day like this is as a thousand years will see me through... even if it takes a thousand days like this one.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Airmail
Grandmother,
I can't find my favorite picture of you. Do you remember it? It's quite old and faded and black and white, and you kept it on display in the hallway of the Whittier house. You told me it was taken when you were 19. I think the photo was snapped in Arkansas, but I thought it might have been taken on a movie set, because to my childish eyes, none of the Hollywood starlets of your era had anything on your dark eyes and perfectly coiffed hair and beautiful smile. To me, you were much more than the Home-Ec. -studying daughter of a car dealer in the South. You were grace and beauty embodied. Granddaddy must have agreed, because he claimed your hand and your heart.
Before long the two of you had set up house in a quonset hut (in Texas, wasn't it?) with old army mattresses heaped up in different configurations to suggest a couch, a table, a bed... It certainly wasn't your dream house, and it wasn't worthy of your elegance, but you were loved, and in love, and when you talked about that time later with a hint of scorn, I could also detect a genuine fondness in your tone. You were so young and lovely, but your swelling belly suggested that the rest of your life was at the threshold. Soon, your two-days-long labor turned into decades of investment in those you loved.
I'm quite sure you lost your cool once in a while over the years. Three boys trying to make it to adulthood in one piece will do that to any woman. Dad tells me you once managed to break a broomstick on his backside trying to straighten him out. He couldn't tell the story without giggling. I can only imagine what you must have done at the time. For all your occasional prickles and gripes and gossip, you clearly loved your own, and that love was stronger than broomsticks or any of the troubles your family could cook up.
By the time I was born, you and granddaddy were ripe for the picking, much like the sweet, squishy apricots that littered your yard. I never felt anything but love and generosity from you, and some of my fondest memories are of times we all shared... holidays, a black-eyed pea picking expedition, family vacations, Christmas eves, lazy afternoons on your backyard swing.
You may have had sons, but you were every inch the lady--from your overstuffed closets and makeup drawers, to your manicured nails and salon hair. You had at least 3 sets of china and plenty of pretty trinkets. You wore your gold and diamonds regally, and you promised bits and baubles as part of our inheritance.
Perhaps what I remember most is the music of your home. Granddaddy didn't talk much... but he could play and sing. And he did... often. My wonder would multiply when Granddaddy's fiddle that his father made would be brought reverently from its case, and I would be permitted to touch it. Music made life full, beautiful... and it connected us to our past. Music is still one of my greatest joys, and it is one you helped to give to me.
As I grew, I hoped I would grow to be as beautiful as you were. I looked forward to every visit to your house that might mean the gift of some new shade of Estee Lauder lipstick that came free with purchase and didn't appeal to your sensibilities. I also looked forward to the food I knew would adorn the table--from pecan pies, black-eyed peas, and Granddaddy's secret recipe creamed corn to homemade jams and jellies and even the strawberry Jello salad with the Cool Whip topping I despised. If I was lucky, there would also be a box of See's candy somewhere in the house... it was just a matter of finding it and batting my eyelashes a bit.
Of course, you remember better than I do the car accident that injured you so badly when I was just a child. It scared me, perhaps more than it did you. They told me that your seatbelt had saved your life. I don't think it was just an argument to get me to wear mine, either. But you bounced back. You and Granddaddy were invincible. You were part of my life. You always would be.
Or so I thought at the time, but things changed. You would always be here, just not always in the way I would wish.
When Granddaddy went home for the last time, our world crumbled. He was the calm in the eye of our storm, and when he was gone, all that was left were the gales that scattered us. But you and I were thrust together for a month there, before we all gradually drifted apart. Thrust together in a loss we both felt so keenly in our own ways.
When I came to live with you so you wouldn't be alone in the house you had shared with him, I think I began to understand you for the first time... your depth of feeling, your history, your loss. I would lie awake in your huge king bed at night, while you would cry quietly in the guest room, and I would wonder how all of us had been reduced to sobbing and wishing and pleading and feeling that we had been torn from our roots and thrown to the wind. You were there, trying to be strong for my sake. And I longed to be strong for yours, but he was everywhere in our histories, in our lives, in that house. We each had to be strong for the other, though neither of us felt our own strength.
Were we strong? I think so. We each made our ways through life without Granddaddy, and we were together again in your house the next time my world fell apart. When I felt more alone than ever, your doors opened to me again--the petulant teenager who had worn out her welcome at home.
You, against your protestations, even found love again. I remember my astonishment when I sat with you and Bob at the airport early in your courtship. The two of you were like a couple of teenagers--giggling, smiling, cooing. I couldn't help but giggle to watch you.
I found love, too... though I think some part of me looked for Granddaddy in every man I met. Mostly, I got it wrong. Except for the one I kept, none of them were worthy of his memory. His shoes were hard to fill.
I know you felt that way, too. I felt it keenly when you cried in your den as I sang for you "At Last," which you told me had been one of your favorite songs so long ago, and was one of my favorite big band songs to perform. You had found love, but you were always so careful to distinguish that your new love was never to be a dishonor to the old. True love is honor.
Clearly, we didn't always see eye to eye. For a while I was only welcome to come over if I would help with the dishes. Me? Help with the dishes? One would think you had asked me to build Rome in a day. But I knew you still loved me, and I think I have improved with age.
As the years went on, we didn't even see as much of each other. Both of us were busy for a while... making new connections, looking for happiness, finding our ways in life. Towards the end, I'm not sure if your wasted body and retreating mind still allowed you to know me at all when I would come to visit--your mind had wandered.
Sometimes I wondered where you were, and if you were happier there. Still, I looked at you and held your hand and told you I loved you. You told me you loved me too... and I knew it was true.
I started saying goodbye to you a couple of years ago. Sometimes it felt as though you were already gone, because what you had been reduced to in the end was not the Grandmother I had known--the woman too youthful and proud to be called "granny" or "grandma." It was "Grandmother," no discussion, while you were that woman. But that's not the woman who lay quietly in the nursing home where your own mother had spent her last years.
I think I knew in my heart that the last time I stood by your bedside before I moved thousands of miles away was our last visit on this earth--that goodbye was the last one I could utter to your face. Still, part of me clung to you, clings to you.... you as I remember you so many years ago: full of life, spunk, pride and immaculate beauty.
Now I know where you are. I can let go of the wasted frame, the depleted mind that were yours at the end. It's that other you that I don't want to let go of. I want to hold you here, to tell you one last time how much it meant to share with you some of the most painful and the most joyful moments of my life. To tell you that I loved you then, though I didn't show it as I ought to have done, and that I love you now. And, as I am sure you know, I'm not sure I quite know how to say this last goodbye.
I take some comfort knowing that you by now must know my heart. You surely know my regrets, and I am quite sure you'd wipe my tears away if you were here in body as I know you are in spirit. I take great joy to think that you are with granddaddy again, and that you are no longer suffering. I can't help be sad for myself, though... and for all of us who loved you and who would have chosen a different ending to our story together. Life is such an amazing gift, but its end is so wrenching, so hard to comprehend.
Give granddaddy a hug for me--give one to him and one to all of the others who have gathered beside you on that other shore, where, as each of you leave, more and more of my heart resides.
May you find mercy in your Savior's face, and rest in his strong, gentle arms. And ask him, if you would, to leave a door open for me--your loving, petulant grandchild, His unworthy child--when I have worn out my welcome on earth and want to run to my Grandmother's house... in our heavenly Father's Kingdom.
I can't find my favorite picture of you. Do you remember it? It's quite old and faded and black and white, and you kept it on display in the hallway of the Whittier house. You told me it was taken when you were 19. I think the photo was snapped in Arkansas, but I thought it might have been taken on a movie set, because to my childish eyes, none of the Hollywood starlets of your era had anything on your dark eyes and perfectly coiffed hair and beautiful smile. To me, you were much more than the Home-Ec. -studying daughter of a car dealer in the South. You were grace and beauty embodied. Granddaddy must have agreed, because he claimed your hand and your heart.
Before long the two of you had set up house in a quonset hut (in Texas, wasn't it?) with old army mattresses heaped up in different configurations to suggest a couch, a table, a bed... It certainly wasn't your dream house, and it wasn't worthy of your elegance, but you were loved, and in love, and when you talked about that time later with a hint of scorn, I could also detect a genuine fondness in your tone. You were so young and lovely, but your swelling belly suggested that the rest of your life was at the threshold. Soon, your two-days-long labor turned into decades of investment in those you loved.
I'm quite sure you lost your cool once in a while over the years. Three boys trying to make it to adulthood in one piece will do that to any woman. Dad tells me you once managed to break a broomstick on his backside trying to straighten him out. He couldn't tell the story without giggling. I can only imagine what you must have done at the time. For all your occasional prickles and gripes and gossip, you clearly loved your own, and that love was stronger than broomsticks or any of the troubles your family could cook up.
By the time I was born, you and granddaddy were ripe for the picking, much like the sweet, squishy apricots that littered your yard. I never felt anything but love and generosity from you, and some of my fondest memories are of times we all shared... holidays, a black-eyed pea picking expedition, family vacations, Christmas eves, lazy afternoons on your backyard swing.You may have had sons, but you were every inch the lady--from your overstuffed closets and makeup drawers, to your manicured nails and salon hair. You had at least 3 sets of china and plenty of pretty trinkets. You wore your gold and diamonds regally, and you promised bits and baubles as part of our inheritance.
Perhaps what I remember most is the music of your home. Granddaddy didn't talk much... but he could play and sing. And he did... often. My wonder would multiply when Granddaddy's fiddle that his father made would be brought reverently from its case, and I would be permitted to touch it. Music made life full, beautiful... and it connected us to our past. Music is still one of my greatest joys, and it is one you helped to give to me.
As I grew, I hoped I would grow to be as beautiful as you were. I looked forward to every visit to your house that might mean the gift of some new shade of Estee Lauder lipstick that came free with purchase and didn't appeal to your sensibilities. I also looked forward to the food I knew would adorn the table--from pecan pies, black-eyed peas, and Granddaddy's secret recipe creamed corn to homemade jams and jellies and even the strawberry Jello salad with the Cool Whip topping I despised. If I was lucky, there would also be a box of See's candy somewhere in the house... it was just a matter of finding it and batting my eyelashes a bit.Of course, you remember better than I do the car accident that injured you so badly when I was just a child. It scared me, perhaps more than it did you. They told me that your seatbelt had saved your life. I don't think it was just an argument to get me to wear mine, either. But you bounced back. You and Granddaddy were invincible. You were part of my life. You always would be.
Or so I thought at the time, but things changed. You would always be here, just not always in the way I would wish.When Granddaddy went home for the last time, our world crumbled. He was the calm in the eye of our storm, and when he was gone, all that was left were the gales that scattered us. But you and I were thrust together for a month there, before we all gradually drifted apart. Thrust together in a loss we both felt so keenly in our own ways.
When I came to live with you so you wouldn't be alone in the house you had shared with him, I think I began to understand you for the first time... your depth of feeling, your history, your loss. I would lie awake in your huge king bed at night, while you would cry quietly in the guest room, and I would wonder how all of us had been reduced to sobbing and wishing and pleading and feeling that we had been torn from our roots and thrown to the wind. You were there, trying to be strong for my sake. And I longed to be strong for yours, but he was everywhere in our histories, in our lives, in that house. We each had to be strong for the other, though neither of us felt our own strength.
Were we strong? I think so. We each made our ways through life without Granddaddy, and we were together again in your house the next time my world fell apart. When I felt more alone than ever, your doors opened to me again--the petulant teenager who had worn out her welcome at home.You, against your protestations, even found love again. I remember my astonishment when I sat with you and Bob at the airport early in your courtship. The two of you were like a couple of teenagers--giggling, smiling, cooing. I couldn't help but giggle to watch you.
I found love, too... though I think some part of me looked for Granddaddy in every man I met. Mostly, I got it wrong. Except for the one I kept, none of them were worthy of his memory. His shoes were hard to fill.
I know you felt that way, too. I felt it keenly when you cried in your den as I sang for you "At Last," which you told me had been one of your favorite songs so long ago, and was one of my favorite big band songs to perform. You had found love, but you were always so careful to distinguish that your new love was never to be a dishonor to the old. True love is honor.
Clearly, we didn't always see eye to eye. For a while I was only welcome to come over if I would help with the dishes. Me? Help with the dishes? One would think you had asked me to build Rome in a day. But I knew you still loved me, and I think I have improved with age.
As the years went on, we didn't even see as much of each other. Both of us were busy for a while... making new connections, looking for happiness, finding our ways in life. Towards the end, I'm not sure if your wasted body and retreating mind still allowed you to know me at all when I would come to visit--your mind had wandered.
Sometimes I wondered where you were, and if you were happier there. Still, I looked at you and held your hand and told you I loved you. You told me you loved me too... and I knew it was true.
I started saying goodbye to you a couple of years ago. Sometimes it felt as though you were already gone, because what you had been reduced to in the end was not the Grandmother I had known--the woman too youthful and proud to be called "granny" or "grandma." It was "Grandmother," no discussion, while you were that woman. But that's not the woman who lay quietly in the nursing home where your own mother had spent her last years.
I think I knew in my heart that the last time I stood by your bedside before I moved thousands of miles away was our last visit on this earth--that goodbye was the last one I could utter to your face. Still, part of me clung to you, clings to you.... you as I remember you so many years ago: full of life, spunk, pride and immaculate beauty.
Now I know where you are. I can let go of the wasted frame, the depleted mind that were yours at the end. It's that other you that I don't want to let go of. I want to hold you here, to tell you one last time how much it meant to share with you some of the most painful and the most joyful moments of my life. To tell you that I loved you then, though I didn't show it as I ought to have done, and that I love you now. And, as I am sure you know, I'm not sure I quite know how to say this last goodbye.
I take some comfort knowing that you by now must know my heart. You surely know my regrets, and I am quite sure you'd wipe my tears away if you were here in body as I know you are in spirit. I take great joy to think that you are with granddaddy again, and that you are no longer suffering. I can't help be sad for myself, though... and for all of us who loved you and who would have chosen a different ending to our story together. Life is such an amazing gift, but its end is so wrenching, so hard to comprehend.
Give granddaddy a hug for me--give one to him and one to all of the others who have gathered beside you on that other shore, where, as each of you leave, more and more of my heart resides.
May you find mercy in your Savior's face, and rest in his strong, gentle arms. And ask him, if you would, to leave a door open for me--your loving, petulant grandchild, His unworthy child--when I have worn out my welcome on earth and want to run to my Grandmother's house... in our heavenly Father's Kingdom.
----------------------------------
In Loving Memory of Charlene
+ March 1, 2008
In Loving Memory of Charlene+ March 1, 2008
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