Heavy

Going along and going along...and then wham. Today I was tired and my back was sore. Mid-morning I couldn't be up any longer, so I laid down on my bed just for a moment. I fell asleep for an hour. I can't remember the last time I laid down during the day without being sick. I only do that when there isn't anything else I can do. And today was one of those days.

I've been meaning to look through the books I have of Mary Oliver's poetry because the perfect one always shows itself. Tonight was no exception.

Heavy

by Mary Oliver

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,

and I did not die.

Surely God

had His hand in this,

as well as friends.

Still, I was bent,

and my laughter,

as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.

Then said my friend Daniel

(brave even among lions),

"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it--

books, bricks, grief--

it's all in the way

you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,

put it down."

So I went practicing.

Have you noticed?

Have you heard

the laughter

that comes, now and again,

out of my startled mouth?

How I linger

to admire, admire, admire

the things of this world

that are kind, and maybe

also troubled--

roses in the wind,

the sea geese on the steep waves,

a love

to which there is no reply?

Scrapbooks, Photo Albums, and Memories

* In 2008 and 2009 I wrote posts for a collaborative blog called "50-something moms blog." The blog as it was cannot be found online, but I found a link to one of my posts in an early post here and the link still works. I never set up a category on my sidebar, I don't know why, so they are not readily found on this site. I did save copies of what I wrote in a  folder on my desktop - though why I thought of that I don't remember. Anyway, I am going to post them here when there is a topic that fits what I am writing about. This is my first attempt at making this work. I will make note when I get to the post I wrote all those years ago*

Yesterday I sat down on the floor and went through the envelopes, albums, and boxes of photos I brought back from my mom's house. I have been through them a dozen times in the past year, pulling out photos to share with siblings and getting those sent off. I have pulled out photos with no names and/or dates if I cannot identify the subjects, and there were dozens and dozens of those. There is no sense in perpetuating the handing down of photos that have meaning for no one. If I want to save photos to pass down, they have to be organized and readily accessible. What the kids do with them after I am gone is up to them, but I want to give them the option to keep or throw.

I wound up with the bulk of the photos because my siblings do not want them. Years ago my mom shipped me all my dad's slides, thousands of slides with some in slide holders that fit in a slide projector that would no longer move through the slides, which she had also shipped to me. Three years ago Ken and I spent long summer nights going through box after box of slides; I would pass him a slide and he would fit it into the projector so we could see it on a wall in the living room. Hours and hours over the course of several days we went through every box of slides, setting aside ones of my family. There were also hundreds of slides taken on my dad's work trips and of people I did not know. Then we pieced together a chronological order based on the dates on some slides and comparing to photos I have in albums from those years long ago. Then I sent the slides off to a company that scanned them, in the order I sent them which was a huge bonus, on a CD and made multiple copies that I shared with family members. My mom loved having all of those photos in one place and rotated the photos as the background on her computer. That alone made it worth the time and effort it took to accomplish the task.

I come from a long line of photographers on my dad's side so there are lots of photos of family get togethers at my great-grandmother's home in Toledo, Ohio in the summers of the 1960's. I started taking photos with my own camera when I was still in elementary school. I labeled and dated photos and put them in an album, grateful now that I started that habit young.

On my mom's side of the family there are formal portraits in sepia tones of her ancestors, taken either in a studio or when a photographer came to the house. Her generation and the generation before her were generous with their picture-taking, so there are many photos of her, her family, and her friends through the years. Most of those are dated so I can piece together a timeline even for the ones that are not specifically labeled.

When my brother started making trips to my mom's trailer last summer to try to make sense of what was there and all that needed to be handled, he commented to me that, "There are so many photos!" I told him that I had been sending Mom photos for over 40 years. When my kids were young and I had a 35 mm camera, I would send off a roll of film and get double prints so I had photos to share with my mom and Ken's family. The sharing of photos continued through my life with grandkids and right up until my mom's death. My family is well documented.

Maybe some of what I just wrote will be repeated in my post from January 2009, but I don't want to edit what I wrote then because I'd like to save it as I wrote it.

*Posted on the 50-something moms blog January 6, 2009:

I have a scrapbook that my mother started for me when I was a young child.  It holds birthday cards, photos of my friends from kindergarten, letters from relatives and friends, and my first library card.  This scrapbook has survived a life on various closet shelves and numerous moves, one of the few things that remain from a childhood that started in the mid 1950s.  It means a lot to me.

 
I have a photo album that I started when I got my first camera, over 40 years ago.  The square, black and white photos that fill the first pages hold memories of early friends and Christmas celebrations.  I  have photos from when I graduated to color film and a photographic record of when I had my hair done for my first prom.  These photos provide a priceless component in the historical record of my life.  It was fitting that I would want my children to have a comparable record of their childhoods.

   
The tradition started with baby books for each one of my children.  The overflow of cards and photos needed a home, which led to the start of a scrapbook for each child.  As they got older, my children selected the photos they liked and decided what mementos they wanted to save.  Their scrapbooks are filled with birthday and vacation photos, cards, awards, postcards, and graduation programs.  A scrapbook is the perfect reminder when a child is tempted to say, "I never went anywhere."  Oh, we went places and there is physical evidence to prove it.

Our family photo albums serve as an archive of people, places, and events that we have known and enjoyed.  The photos remind us of where we've been and who we've known. They serve as a resource  when we try to remember when we traveled to Memphis or who attended Grandma's wedding.  My children love to show off the family photo albums when a friend visits and expresses interest.  Some photos are good for a laugh.  Others elicit oohs and aahs as the pages are turned.

I sometimes wonder if my grown children appreciate the memories that have accumulated over the years.  Then one of them will ask, "Mom, is there room for these ticket stubs in my scrapbook?"  I smile and respond in the affirmative.  For all their digital photos and computer files, my children still appreciate a scrapbook they can hold open on their lap to remind them of the special events in their life.  For all that my children no longer need me to do, I can still track the passage of time and keep the family archives for the sake of history and the generation to come.

Memory Boxes

In May, on our return trip from Philadelphia, my daughter and granddaughter and I stopped over at my older son's house to stay Saturday night with his family. Sunday morning my younger son and his wife and son came over for breakfast. We were all together, and I had something to share with each of my children: a memory box. In April I decided I wanted to do something concrete sooner rather than later, in addition to a family gathering later this summer. The Sunday before Mothers' Day, when we were all going to be together, seemed like the perfect time.

I had bought three decorative boxes about the size of shoe boxes. I had set aside two or three cards that I found among my mom's papers that each of my kids had sent their grandmother. I started filling each box with those cards and the small album I had created for her of each of her great-grandchildren in their baby & toddler years. From her stash of photos I selected a half dozen photos of her as a child and young woman for each of them, as well as a few photos of her with each of them when they were babies and teen-agers; I made small albums for those photos and attached on the last page a copy of the notice of her death I submitted to her local paper last August. Also in the box I placed a solar collector in the shape of a butterfly for their garden. The finishing touch was a small two-inch hoop with a piece of lace from her wedding gown and tied on top with a pink ribbon to hang in a window or as an ornament. 

The creation of the boxes was a process that I could not complete all at once. I set aside the cards one day. Another day I went through photos, and it took a few times through over a course of days because it was emotional for me. I had seen all the photos many times, even several times over the last year, but I hadn't looked at her life from age 5 to age 20 all at once. She was beautiful with the most wonderful smile, truly happy. I wished I had known her then; I wished she had been that happy when she was my mom. I was glad to have photos of her with my kids because they didn't see her often for a variety of reasons; when the kids were old enough to say what was true they coined the phrase "fly-by visit from Grandma" because she would come for a visit and in a couple days she'd be gone. I was glad there was a record of some of the time they had with her.

It was meaningful for me to give the  memory boxes. My children listened to my explanation of each item. We had time to talk a bit about what they remembered. Now the memories in each box may sit on a shelf for a while, and that's okay because what mattered to me was the giving of the opportunity to remember.

And I still have lots of photos to finish sorting, organizing, and preserving for future generations.

The journey continues.... 

Living and Dying

 A designer, an organizer, and a psychologist walk into a house....

No, this is not a joke. This is the basis for a new show on the Peacock channel [streaming for a fee which is well worth the money] called "The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning." What in the world?! It is narrated by Amy Poehler, which just added to the questions I had. I watched the preview and was intrigued. If nothing else, I wanted to know more about it so I started watching. 

I have now watched each of the eight shows at least twice. Real stories with real people, all in Kansas City in these episodes, that have in some way dealt with death. Each situation is different. There are tears and laughter and poignant moments that touch me every time.

This is not a show about death. It is a show about living, how to continue living when you lose someone close to you and/or how you make room for living in a cluttered life. 

I have to admit that I was also in a place to receive the wisdom of this show in April. It was a comfort to see people working through a really tough time with the gentle, which is a key word in their practice, help of three professionals trained for just this situation, a time of being stuck and in desperate need of someone(s) who knows what they are doing. These three Death Cleaners are all about life, and they make it clear that it is not their job to make anyone get rid of their stuff. Just the opposite. They see their mission as helping people find their own way beyond the place where they find themselves.

So many of the stories spoke to me about what I've been doing in the past year ~ cleaning out my mom's trailer and storage unit; bringing home the things that have meaning for me and integrating them into my household so they are in use; clearing out the things in my house that no longer serve a purpose for me or my husband; and organizing what I keep so I can find things when I want them. Truthfully I have been working at most of this for two years, and it was easy to get rid of things in the back of the closets or buried in boxes that haven't seen the light for years. It gets harder to pare down what you don't use or don't really like but hold onto for sentimental value. 

After my mom's death it was time to get down to the nitty gritty. The bottom line is that I will not leave a mess for my children to go through and clear out.

That is some of what "The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning" is about, thinking about what you will leave behind. It is also about what has been left to you, how you feel about that, and what to do about that after you are aware of/process those feelings. 

The three Death Cleaners are gentle and honest, good listeners while able to get to the heart of the matter with compassion and humor.

One aspect of the show that caught me off guard is the element of celebration of the person who has died. I feel emotional now just thinking about it. I realized that I had not celebrated my mom's life. 

In WV before and after my mom's death I was with one or two siblings but never with all three at the same time. We were all coming from away, and we all had commitments. My older brother made two round trips to/from eastern Virginia. My sister traveled across an ocean. My younger brother drove into a terrible storm in a car he wasn't sure would make the trip in the first place. There wasn't anything that any of us could do once our mom was is hospice. We said our good-byes when my older brother left for home and work, and I didn't expect to see him again; his plate was full with the legal and financial obligations in his role as executor.

There was no time to plan any part of what happened after my mom fell. It was all unexpected and things happened too quickly. All we could do was react.

So we didn't have the time together to celebrate our mom's life. At the time I talked about finding a way to gather in the summer of 2023, in eastern Virginia, where my mom talked about wanting to live. I had the idea of putting a bench in a park or garden and inviting family and friends to gather with us to remember Ellie. Last June there was no interest from the others in planning anything, which I understood because a year seemed a long way off. My kids liked the idea and were talking about planning some vacation time so they could make the trip to Virginia.

So in January this year I mentioned it again to my brother so family and friends could begin to make plans. He is not interested in that idea. Then I mentioned that I want to do something in Maine with my kids and grandkids in my own yard with flowers and a granite stone. He said to let him know and maybe he will make the trip north....

There is an episode about the topic of celebration, and I cry each time I watch it. The person was caught up in the immediacy of what was happening; and on top of that they were dealing with their own health crisis. It didn't occur to them that they hadn't taken time to celebrate...because really, who thinks of a celebration while you are in the midst of grief.

The Swedish Death Cleaners think about that and so many other important aspects of living and dying. I am grateful that they've found a way to share their wisdom with the world.  

The Final Family Piece Falls In Place

June 10 of last year was my 13th day in Morgantown, WV. It was the first time I would see my younger brother in twelve years, not since my older son's wedding in Boston. That was the last time all of us had been together. I am grateful we took advantage of the photographer's set-up for family photos ~ we enjoyed the time together that weekend and it shows.

It was only big events that brought us together once my mom married Charlie and moved to WV in 2003. We all made it to their wedding, another happy event as everyone there was glad for them. I was especially glad to see my mom happy. They lived in a small town in the mountains of eastern WV, not an easy place to get to from any direction. From my house it is a 15 hour trip, whether I drive or fly into a city that is still 3 hours away. There was no room for guests in their small trailer, which meant a stay in a run-down motel down the road. It was much easier for us to get together when she lived in Maryland, just outside D.C.

So I was glad my brother made the trip. I wanted to talk to him to see how he was doing. He has had serious health challenges and all I knew I had heard second-hand. It was good to hear his voice. We all sat and talked for a long time.

My sister decided to stay through the weekend because my brother and his partner were staying. She could stay in their room. I was leaving for Pennsylvania. I needed a solid night's sleep in a good bed and time to rest. I had one clean change of clothes and new socks and underwear from Target. 

It was bittersweet to say good-bye. I was glad I had had time with my brothers and sister. I didn't know when I would see them again. At the same time I felt okay about leaving. I had done what I came to do, and while the outcome was not what I wanted, I had done all I could do.

I was 250 miles from the hotel in central Pennsylvania, an easy trip all things considered. My friend was driving an hour from her home Saturday morning and would stay the night at the hotel. We would have a good old-fashioned sleepover. I hoped she remembered the wine.   

The Day After

Often the day after someone dies there are things that have to be decided and arrangements that have to be made for a funeral or memorial service, visiting hours or a gathering of sorts, burial or provision for ashes, and a reception. One year ago on this date my siblings and I did not have any of those responsibilities because Mom had donated her body to the medical school; they took care of every single arrangement. In 18-24 months they will send her ashes to my brother. Then he can decide what to do.

I helped with calls where I could. My brother was executor and had access to all the accounts, so he needed to make the bulk of contacts. I did make calls to a small group of people to share the news and left a message for my younger brother. I talked to my mom's friend who offered to continue taking in the mail and watering the plants. When someone had information to share or offered to help, I said yes. My feeling was that it was important to let people help in ways they could. We didn't need to do everything ourselves.

Mid-morning my older son called. My kids had talked about how the next week might play out. I told him I was going to make my stopover somewhere in Pennsylvania like I had on my trip down to WV. He offered to fly to meet me and drive with me back to his house in the Boston area. I was touched that my kids had considered what the next days would hold and how they could help. I thanked him and said I had plans to catch up with my friend on the weekend, the one person outside of family that I had spoken with every day since the day my mom fell. We have been friends since junior high school and made our way together through everything life has thrown at us. My son understood and said to let him know if I wanted to stop in Boston on my way home. We would talk next week about Fathers' Day weekend.

My sister spent some time figuring out the best way to schedule her trip home to Scotland. It was complicated. We were both exhausted and needed to get to bed early. Anything left to do could be done on Friday.

We were all but tucked in when my phone rang at 10:00. It was my younger brother. He was at the hospital. It took me a moment to collect myself and consider my words before I told him Mom had died. He said they knew and were determined to finish the trip regardless. They ran into last night's storm and had to stop in Maryland to stay the night. They could find directions to the hospital but didn't know where we were staying, and they wanted me to come so they could follow me to the hotel.

On our way out the door, my sister and I stopped at the desk to get them a room. Then we headed out into the night and back to the place we thought we had left for good. We found their car out front, glad to see them and sad about the circumstances. There was a tearful reunion and a brief summary of what had happened in the last 2 days. We planned to meet in the morning for breakfast.

I have thought a lot about how differently each of my siblings and I dealt with my mom's hospitalization, death, and what came after. There is no right or wrong way. I think what matters is that we have been respectful of each other and what we each needed to do. That hasn't always been easy for me, but in each instance I come back to the fact that I am responsible for myself...only me. 

I am obviously still working through my grief, which doesn't move in a straight line or at the rate that I want. My back still hurts, and today my massage therapist worked out the kinks in a major way.

The journey continues....

The Final Day

One year ago today the day started just after midnight when my sister and I got back to the hotel. My brother's son and his wife had arrived; they had called ahead to reserve a room and had driven the four hours from home after work. My brother had been in touch with his youngest son, much like I kept in touch with my kids, with daily texts and phone calls. We said our hellos and enjoyed light conversation for a bit; then my sister and I needed to get to bed. She had been up more than 24 hours and I had plans to officially start the day at 6 a.m.

Before I left the hospital late the night of June 7th I stopped at the nurse's station to ask if I could come before visiting hours the next morning. I was given permission and the same nurses would be on duty the next morning to answer the call from the visitor desk. I knew that the day would be busy with making arrangements for what came next for my mom. She was only allowed two visitors at a time so we would play change-the-nametag game throughout the day. I wanted a chance to talk to my mom alone in the calm of early morning, and I didn't know if I would get another chance.

When I arrived at 7 a.m. the parking lot was nearly empty at the large university hospital. The front desk called up to the SICU and I was given a name tag and permission to go upstairs. It was a relief to see my mom awake and looking like herself. She was still on oxygen and pain meds, but the other machines had been removed. I told her that her grandson had arrived with his wife and they would be over to visit. She smiled. We talked about my kids and grandkids, and she said that all her children and our families were her legacy. I reminded her that I had talked to my younger brother the night before and that he was on his way. Throughout the day she said more than once, "You know I love him." We all knew she loved all of us, but it was good to have her say it out loud about my brother who hadn't talked to our mom in months and hadn't yet arrived. Her mind was as sharp as ever. She talked about things that happened when she was a child, how much she loved her grandmother and aunt who took care of her after her mother died, and how she always felt loved and taken care of. My mom had regrets about how much responsibility fell to me as the oldest child; we talked about how hard life was in our household and how we survived. She was proud of the four of us, the lives we had made for ourselves, and the people we had made a part of our lives. It was one of the best conversations I had ever had with my mom.

Then it was visiting hours. I got the call to come downstairs so two others could come upstairs. I told Mom I would see her a bit later and the nametag rotation began. It gave me a chance to sit outside and catch up with my nephew and his wife. I told them how much it meant that they came. The suspicion I had about their trip was accurate: yes, they wanted to see Grandma Ellie, and they also wanted to check on my brother. They knew he was taking all of this very hard. It was important they were present to support him.

Around 11:00 we got word that Dr. Navia and  his team were prepared to meet with Mom and then with my brother, sister, and me. It had been cleared that the three of us could be on the floor at the same time to meet in the waiting room. It was a very difficult meeting, especially for my sister. She had been in town for only 12 hours and she was hearing that our mom was ready to die. My brother and I had been witness to what Mom endured and how hard she tried to keep going. She couldn't do that any longer and she was ready to let go. We were each asked to voice our support for our mom's decision to enter hospice care. Then the Support Team went into action to have her moved to the hospice floor.

The day before my mom, my brother, and I had met with a social worker to go through the assignment of my brother as Mom's representative if she was unable to make health care decisions for herself. I was designated to step in if necessary. It was never necessary to have anyone but my mom make decisions.

The other thing the social worker was able to accomplish the day before was to track down the paperwork my mom had signed several years before to have her body donated to the medical school at WVU, on the very campus where she was hospitalized. She and the man she married in 2003 had set that up; Charlie, who died four years earlier, was from West Virginia and they both liked the idea of being of use in the training of medical students. The problem had been that my mom's wallet with the donor card had been lost between the ambulance ride to her local hospital and the trip to Morgantown. My brother had tried unsuccessfully to talk to the right person to find the document on file; the social worker was able to straighten that situation out with one phone call. 

After the meeting with the Support Team, I went to get lunch, and my brother and sister went to be with my mom. She was moved to the hospice floor in the early afternoon, to a small room at the end of the hall. She was on oxygen and a small dose of morphine. That was all. There was not a light to be seen or a beep to be heard.

I went into the hall to call my younger brother with an update. I had not heard from him since he told me he was coming. There was a storm headed across the state and we didn't know how that would impact travel. I left a message.

Mom was settled in and resting. I called people to let them know. I left my number on the board in her room so the nurse could call if anything changed. I could call the nurses' station any time.

My sister and I were staying in town. In the evening my brother headed across the mountain to try to beat the storm, and my nephew headed home as well. We would stay in touch.

Later that night the storm hit with full force - thunder, lightening, wind, heavy rain, hail, and tornadoes. We learned the next day that there was a swath of damage and power outages across the state. 

At 11:40 my brother texted that he had made it home despite the terrible weather. Shortly after there was a tremendous flash of lightening out our hotel window, and the cable went out. My sister and I looked at each other in awe at the sight of the storm outside. 

I am convinced that that was the moment that my mom passed. I love the image of her riding out on a lightening bolt. She "knew" that my brother was home safe and it was okay to go.

My phone rang at 4:30 a.m. It was the charge nurse with news that my mother had died. She had called my brother but he didn't answer. It was not the kind of news you leave in a voicemail. She was delayed in calling because there were downed trees blocking her route to work. They were calling the time of death just after midnight because that was when Mom was found to be unresponsive. However, I count June 8 as her final day.

Then I called my brother. We would talk later in the light of day.