We Want to Know We Mattered

My mother’s day was made over the weekend by a visit from an old friend of my brother’s and his wife. While my brother hasn’t seen this friend in decades, my mom had seen the couple off and on through the years about town – or stopping by in her car to say ‘hello’ if she saw either of them in their yard. She thought the world of them but didn’t necessarily expect they felt even remotely the same.

When Christmas rolled around this past December, and they didn’t receive a card from my mom, it made them consider the last time they had seen her. Several things happened in the aftermath that kept her top of mind. Finally, my brother’s friend drove down by her house and knew immediately that this was no longer my mother’s home.

He went home and got online, started tracking down my brother, who owns a business, and managed to get his contact information. He made a call and they caught up over a 90-minute conversation with the vow of getting together soon. Next up was visiting my mom, now that they knew where she was.

Over the past year and a half, my mom’s life has changed radically. She got hurt, badly, in a fall at the beginning of 2017 and what started out as a simple lunch out with a friend resulted in my mother never going home to live in her house again. Can you imagine? You go out the door for lunch with a friend and never get to live in your house again. And the life you once had, the car you drove, your furniture, a ton of your possessions no longer is yours and, for the most part, because you can’t use them and don’t have space for them anymore.

With all of the changes – and just the process of growing older – I know my mother sometimes questions, like many of us do, what her place in the world has been. How much of what she’s done over the years mattered, and to who? Did she make an impact on anyone? How will she be remembered?

When life grows long and the world grows smaller, it’s hard not to focus on these things. We all want to feel that we have value and matter to others and that we’ll be remembered for those things.

Earlier this year, at a post-holiday gathering, some friends were discussing the passing of so many people that we loved. One friend said that she had been thinking lately about her mortality and what she would want after her death. Whereas once she was in favor of cremation, perhaps with her ashes scattered, she had now changed her mind. She wants a burial, even if it’s to be just her ashes, with a headstone to mark that she had once lived. Otherwise, who would know she had been there?

It was a thoughtful conversation and one that made me think once again about our legacy, our understanding of who we had influenced in some way or made a positive impact on – universal thoughts for sure. We want to know we mattered.

I think back on the weekend. It’s hard to describe the joy that transpired, not just for my mom, but really for me as well, which surprised me. I happened to be on my way down to visit my mom when her surprise guests came to her door. They were kind enough to wait for me to arrive so I could see them, too.

The effect their visit had on my mom, particularly as my brother’s friend recalled times at our family home so many years before, when he’d run into her at the supermarket or when she stopped by their yard, was transformative for her. It allowed her to see that regular daily interactions in her life had become good memories for others, for people she thought so much of and it made her happy.

That they took the time to seek her out, find out what had happened that made her move from her beloved home, came to visit and brought beautiful flowers and shared memories of my brother, of my father and mother, and me as well, made her feel such appreciation and so much joy.

For me, it was emotional as well. The years somehow seemed to melt away. I’d hazard none of us really saw what we look like now but rather someone we remember from so long ago. There was a lot of laughter and a lot of memories regained in just a short time.

I see how much moments like this mean to my mom, who has been blessed by kindness and care from people she’d never realized she’s touched in her life. She continues to make a difference in the lives around her. The former principal of the elementary school, where my mother served as a paraprofessional and substitute teacher at until she was 80, was a resident for a while at the assisted living my mother lives at now. I think my mom’s presence brought this 100-year-old woman to a more present state than she had inhabited for some time, perking up to share stories and memories of a different time in both of their lives.

An old friend of mine’s mother-in-law also came to live at the assisted living and in the short time before her death; she and my mother became good friends. Over a several-months-long span, the two were nearly inseparable and my mother spent time at her bedside in her final weeks. Since that time, her daughter-in-law and son have been extraordinarily thoughtful, sending my mother flowers and letting her know they care about her. It’s thoughtful beyond words – and so unexpected and appreciated by my mom.

These days, this is what matters most to her. Human connection and knowing she matters still – and always has. She’s not much different than most of us.

Next time you’re thinking about someone and what they mean to you, take a minute and let them know. You can’t imagine how much it will mean to them.

Confessions of a Dating Neophyte

Screen Shot 2017-11-26 at 4.33.03 PM.png Once upon a time, many years – heck, decades – ago, I was a teenager dating and I wasn’t particularly good at it. I had a couple of boys I dated for a decent length of time and a handful of guys I went out with once or twice, but I suspect I was a bit more forthright than expected at times, quite a bit of a smartass a good deal of the time and independent enough to not necessarily want a boyfriend all of the time. Come to think of it, it’s pretty much who I still am today.

Like my friends, I had romantic notions of soul mates and everlasting love, but I did not plan to get permanently attached to anyone until I was at least 30. I had things to do. Yet a month before my 17^th birthday, a few months into my senior year of high school, I began dating someone I met through a part-time job I had and soon became engulfed in a relationship that would be the pivotal one throughout the majority of my life. He was eight years older than me – a friend of my brother’s – and had just returned to school for his master’s degree in counseling psychology. How this came about and why my parents hadn’t firmly put their collective feet down on such an age difference is still beyond me, but I sense given my rebellious nature and a stubborn mind of my own, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference.

After dating for a couple of years, he proposed to me and I didn’t accept. Fast forward a year later to another proposal and this time I said yes. A lot of people, my father included, doubted it would last. But it did, for 24 years, until physical and mental illness and circumstances far beyond our control took their toll and divorce became the only feasible course of action – yet one that didn’t break the bond we had or the influence we had on each other’s lives. He remains, in fact, the only man I have ever loved and perhaps his death earlier this year has brought the thought of dating back to the forefront once again.

That’s not to say I haven’t considered it intermittently but it’s been far from an earnest effort. As a mom of four now-grown kids, my primary focus since their father became ill when they were still quite young was on being the best parent I possibly could be for them. While that’s true for most of the parents I know, my situation felt a bit different because I was all they had really. Their dad, as much as he loved them, became incapable of truly being a parent at all and there was no shared custody, no shared responsibility, nothing that either the kids or I could rely on from him. Taking care of us and dealing with everything else in my life, from work to the kids and more, became my focal point.

Some friends and acquaintances touted online dating as the way to go. While I saw plenty of success stories based on meeting that way, I heard lots of horror stories, too, and some pretty darn amusing tales, too. But the thing that bothered me most was putting myself out there on display publicly (kind of funny given I have no problem writing about my life in blog posts and articles for anyone to see). It just didn’t feel cool. It still doesn’t in spite of giving it a whirl a few times. The profiles seem generic, the questions asked don’t offer responses that are relatable to me and everyone seems to be pushing for things that, to me, should be a natural transition.

I’ve often compared looking for a job and interviewing to dating. That it’s not about someone choosing you to fill a need, but rather both an organization and an individual getting to know one another and seeing if it seems right. But it’s a lot of work even getting to that point, a lot of auditioning and a lot of time spent trying to dazzle someone enough to get to that interview. I’ve gotten several jobs because people knew me and thought I’d be a good fit – it wasn’t an audition; it was organic and natural and it led to some very good professional experiences. I’ve also run the gamut of the countless resumes and cover letters, the multi-layered interview process and incremental exchange of important information. I don’t care much for the latter. Perhaps it explains a lot about how I feel about dating.

I don’t want the process. I want organic. I want someone to meet me somewhere in the regular course of my life, get to know me a bit and think, man, she’s someone I want to know better. A natural transition and it goes both ways. I don’t want to comb through profiles, create outreach messaging, answer or pose carefully chosen platform questions and the rest that goes with it. It just doesn’t interest me – and I’m someone who absolutely loves meeting people and hearing their stories, just not in this context. I’d rather meet someone, find myself a bit fascinated and take it from there – and maybe I will.

I’m not alone in this either. Friends in long-term relationships shudder at the idea of starting all over again and many that are now single, whether it is through divorce or a partner’s death, wouldn’t even consider dating again. They wouldn’t know where to start or whether they’d even want to open their lives again to someone. For them, it’s too much at this point to make that kind of change or even want it. Our lives are good – we’ve worked hard to achieve what we have with the people we most care about already and our lives are full.

My own life has been so busy, what with family, with finishing my bachelor’s and getting my master’s over the past five years, with friends and volunteer projects and work, I feel like I would have had time to carefully schedule someone in maybe every two weeks.

I hear so much of the same from friends – life is definitely good and we feel blessed with what we have, but every now and then, we think, what if? What if we met someone to add to the mix, to bring some extra fun, someone really special to share good things with?

I’ve struggled with that myself, eventually realizing that like anything else, there’s a natural flow that broadens our world and allows what we want to fit in. I just haven’t made a goal of pursuing it or, to be honest, putting myself out there to see what might transpire.

Perhaps part of it is not wanting to be that vulnerable and part of it is that I like my life as it is, but it feels like I might be ready to see what might unfold if I actually let it. I guess I’m opening myself to the possibilities.

Time will tell.

In many ways, I’m no different than I was so long ago, a bit more forthright, yet understanding; still a smartass, but with a real appreciation for other smartasses and a great sense of humor, too; a little too independent for my own good sometimes, but vulnerable as hell. I’m far more confident, more accomplished and experienced in living life, conquering challenges, loving with all of my heart and having street smarts and sass and loyalty that can’t be beat.

I remain the real deal, and I guess I’m open to someone who’s the real deal, too. No bullshit, no auditioning, just someone who cares for and appreciates others, wants to help in whatever ways he can in this world, can laugh at himself and laugh with others, and embraces adventures and magic and the best in those around him – and appreciates independence and music and quiet times, too, and gets how important my family is.

That may be a lot, but it doesn’t seem like too much to me.

What We Never Leave Behind

This past weekend, we did the final cleanout of my parents’ house – my childhood home – and while I knew it would be emotional, I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I would be. What was toughest to deal with was seeing my dad’s garage empty, devoid of personal items. Funny, it’s been 16 years that he’s been gone, but I still think of the garage as his – and for a man of few words, someone rather hard to know actually, that garage provided a glimpse into who he was and what mattered to him. And as my eldest son dismantled that world, bit by bit, ever-so-careful about what would be kept and what would be discarded or donated, it was if I was losing my dad all over again and what felt like, finally, for good. I know he’s in my heart, and always will be, but the last tangible evidence is now gone and it hurt.

FullSizeRender-8 At first glance, my father’s garage was a hodge-podge of things. In a home meticulous throughout, the garage had a bit more clutter than anywhere else, although neatly placed with purpose and order. There was just a lot of stuff in tiny containers, in covered glass jars, on shelves and in cabinets, and finally, atop the handmade workbench with its handcrafted drawers filled with a lifetime of collected tools. Most of the garage contents were of a practical nature; outdoor tools, household tools, nuts and bolts, screws and nails, cleansers and auto care products, so many of the things that kept the rest of the house and property maintained and in such incredible shape.

There was his radio, of course, still there attached to a small speaker. Whenever my father was in the garage, he had music on or talk radio — perhaps the game; and when he went up to shave each evening, his radio came, too.

It was the walls, however, that told the tale of my father and what he held dear. There was a series of license plates, one from 1928, which he found somewhere and kept because it was the year of my mother’s birth. He kept a small assortment of plates, including two from my brother’s motorcycle and miniature bicycle license plates bearing my name and my brother’s. A hand-lettered sign was affixed to a wall – in fact, we couldn’t even remove it because it had been so solidly placed. My dad had made that, proudly, when my mother ran for office as a town meeting member in our town. When I say hand-lettered, it’s important to note how perfect each letter was, as it spelled out Eileen Cotter for Town Meeting Member. My father was an engineer and he was precise in every thing he did.

There was a hand-hooked rug bearing a likeness of the Old Salt. My parents loved nautical things – and my father was always so proud of anything my mother created. He had a paint-by-number picture she did on another wall, side-by-side with a painting I had done freehand of a barn on a country lane. Across on another wall was an amateurish effort I had painted of a sailboat at sunset, lots of vivid orange, yellow and red hues in the most rudimentary of styles. There were various handmade wooden pieces, each of which he made, along with a variety of patriotic things, including a simple decoupage of George Washington mounted on a square of wood.

All the light-color spots on the walls are where things were removed.

Then there was the once-white metal cabinet, home to countless little jars, containers and tubes of products. Against all of his better judgment, I’m sure, he allowed me to paint it in neon colors, all in crazy free-spirited shapes abutting each other. I did this as a young teen, sitting cross-legged on a much smaller workbench before the garage was built and he moved the cabinet later from our laundry room/work space to the new garage where the paint eventually chipped over the past 40 years, although brightly colored remnants still remain.

There were quirky items, like a little sailboat made from Pepsi cans, the sails covered with vinyl contact paper – and wooden items he made with his jigsaw, from doorstops to an elephant, a birdhouse and more. A sign bearing the name “The Cotters” hung for many years at their camp in Henniker, N.H. This was a place where they created countless memories after my brother and I moved away, and the sign was been taken by niece, who had many memories of time at the camp. In the weeks prior, we each made claim to some small items, from practical things like gardening tools to precious keepsakes, and yet on that last evening so much still remained.

As my son asked me about some of the final pieces, I struggled not to take everything that held memories. The old lawn cart, metal, chipping away paint from many, many layers of different colors and so many years of constant use, seemed silly to take – I had a brand new one of my own. I thought of the role that lawn cart played throughout the years – rides in it as a kid, using it for outdoor chores that I hated; more than that, this cart was a fixture throughout my entire life – and in the end, I couldn’t take it or throw it away. We left it for the new owners, hoping even in spite of its age, they’ll find it useful and if they don’t, I’ll never know.

In the midst of this, as I packed up remaining outerwear, I picked up one of my father’s jackets. We hadn’t kept his clothes after his death, but this jacket had been special. A proud patriot, and former Navy sailor, he delighted in wearing his royal blue VFW jacket with his name on the sleeve. As I held it in my arms, looking around at what little was left in the house, of a lifetime – my childhood – spent in that home, I clutched that jacket tight and sunk to the staircase in tears. These past few months, especially, were fraught with so much. Hard things were experienced, hard decisions were made, and throughout it, I kept thinking that my father would want me to do all that I could to ensure my mother was safe and taken care of as best as could be done.

And now, those decisions had been made, and all we had to do was finish packing. Everything I had held in started to let go. My son walked in and together, we sat on the dining room stairs, his arm around my shoulders, sitting quietly for a while before getting back to the business at hand.

Last night, we celebrated my mother’s 89^th birthday, which is actually today, this year on Father’s Day. She is in better spirits, better physical shape and in a better place overall than she’s been in quite some time. The woman she was prior to the past six months becomes more evident with each day. We hadn’t seen her in some time.

So today is her birthday – and Father’s Day, too. There seems like some strange correlation this year. Her life has greatly changed, and we’ve closed an important chapter. Over the past month our family has gone through my parents’ life together in ways we had never done before. We remembered things almost long forgotten and took possession of precious memories and special mementos and perhaps most of all, realized the powerful past we shared.

We keep moving forward, from one cog to the next in this ever-moving circle of life. We may fall off the wheel at any time, unexpectedly, and the rest of us have no choice but to continue onward. It’s just the way things are.

On Father’s Day and my mother’s birthday, I am cognizant of what’s gone and what we still have and appreciative of the value of each.

What We Didn’t Know

We always knew this would end badly; there were no good solutions and never the promise of a cure.

What we didn’t know was how it would come about or when the end might be.

Death is tricky, and even in days of waning health and absolute signs of what was to come, strength can arrive from seemingly nowhere and final days sometimes become final months.

We knew it would be hard, knew it would be painful, knew it would release feelings that had been buried for years, and recognized that we didn’t know what else might erupt.

What we didn’t know was just how much it really would hurt.

We knew it was for the best. There were too many years filled with too much suffering, too many tears – his and, of course, ours – the pain of his illness and our collective loss, of seeing a life taken away from all that he loved. We wanted to ease his pain, perhaps to ease our own.

We just didn’t know how hard it would be to say goodbye to someone who left us so long ago.

What we really didn’t know, didn’t even suspect, was that with his death, John would suddenly become himself again – the person we knew so well, missed so much and hadn’t seen in so many years.

When someone is sick, like he was, for such a long time, life becomes reactive, a series of phone calls, medical and managed care facilities, emails, solving problems, taking care of needs, dealing with issues and never feeling like you can ever possibly do enough. Mostly because you can’t. So you do what you can and take care of what’s in front of you and all the best parts of a life you once lived become background noise, seldom listened to, examined even less, because it hurts too much and there is too much in the present to attend to.

What we didn’t know is that in the end, there was nothing else to focus on, except the life we once lived – together – and the memories, and the pictures; so many pictures, bringing back sensations and smiles and the recognition of a life once lived with joy, with a lot of love, lots of laughter and the chaos of many kids and too little time. Yet we didn’t know then how little time we really had, but even if we did, I don’t think we could have cherished it any more than we once did.

We knew once John was gone, we could finally begin to grieve, but we didn’t know what form that grief might take. So tonight, out of nowhere, I wept in earnest, the first time with no restraint, for the husband that’s gone, the life we led, the family we had together and the father and grandfather that would have loved it all so. I miss him so much and have for so long.

What we didn’t know, although we thought we did, was that somewhere inside of us, we clung to the hope that someday he’d be back, be part of our family again, even if we had to have known it would never be. Illness can delude you, give you a glimpse now and then of the person still there. It’s brief and it’s painful because it offers hope where none should really be.

We knew we had lots of love surrounding us – from family, friends that feel like family and even people we barely know well. We could feel it, even before this, and it magnified as the days blended into one.

And as that last day began to come and we finally knew that this was really it, not an illusion or one more close call, what we didn’t know was that almost 20 years would somehow melt away and the worst of it all didn’t matter anymore. Here we were all these years later, remembering decades ago as if they were yesterday.

In death, John became ours again. In life, we’ll miss him every day.

My Family is My Home

heart-home Over the past decade, I’ve become increasingly detached from my home, particularly more so in recent years. I’ve found this curious, given that I’ve lived there for 30 years now. When I moved in, as a young woman in her mid-20s, with a three-year-old son and ready to give birth to my second child, a daughter, in the month ahead, I saw this home as nothing more than space for us all – albeit temporary. We had the makings of a beautiful yard, in a great neighborhood in a small town we loved. The house itself though was an end to a means. We needed more space for our soon-to-born child, and this fit the bill. Never did I imagine two more children would follow and be raised in this same house – nor did I ever think 30 years into the future it would still be my home.

With six of us for so many years in this not-so-big house, along with an ever-changing menagerie of pets, lots of toys, sports equipment, personal memorabilia and all the fundamental elements of a well-lived family life, we pushed the boundaries of our limited space to the max. I had been sure our family wouldn’t live in this house for more than a few years before moving on to something larger. As circumstances in our personal lives unfolded, it wasn’t meant to be.

So in time, the house that was rather snug became one that I was grateful to afford, especially on my own. Our family dynamic changed and I became engulfed in a new reality I hadn’t imagined as a single parent. Anything larger would have become a tremendous burden, economically and bandwidth wise to maintain.

Kids changed bedrooms, redecorating as they went, as ages and interests transitioned forward. Every parent knows, as children grow, rooms begin to feel smaller and hallways are suddenly shrinking when six-foot children make their way through the house. At times it felt as though the house might simply burst. Boyfriends and girlfriends joined the mix and quite often stayed at our house, and there was activity everywhere throughout our home. We often joked at any given moment someone in our family would be up and doing something, regardless of the time of day or night. It still proves true. We’re just not all in the same place.

Then suddenly, my oldest was off to college, and the house seemed a bit emptier. I remember sitting on his bed, in a half-empty bedroom, after dropping him off freshman year at college and suddenly sobbing, as I realized nothing would ever be the same again. The years spiraled forward at breakneck speed. Each of my four children became increasingly independent, off to explore new adventures and the family ebbed and flowed with who was at home still and who wasn’t. There were far fewer pets as the household size decreased, too. What had once been a house bursting at the seams was now a home with a lot of empty rooms – devoid of people, at least, much of the household items shifted there, not used.

I once said – and I still feel it’s true – that for many years our house was this giant, rollicking party, not all fun and games, but lots of energy and activity. The house began to feel as if I was living in the aftermath of that party, treasuring what had gone before, but left with the remnants of many years of hard family living – and an aging house to deal with just the same. I don’t spend as much time there as I once did. Life is pretty busy, and when I am home, it seems I’m rushing around to complete as much as I can in a finite time – or just not interested in accomplishing much at all. I’ve certainly learned the value of unwinding and enjoy my time on my own.

As the last of my children explores his next adventure, which will take him out on his own, it hit me last night exactly why my detachment has grown. It was never about this house. I didn’t move into it as my dream home or a place I coveted for any reason other than it was for my family. Our home sheltered the people I love most and wherever they go, wherever we all are together, is what matters most to me. I always wondered why I didn’t feel more of a sense of connectedness to my home, but at long last, I’ve realized that I’ve always seen it exactly as it has been. When it was filled with family, it had a lot of meaning, but without them, it’s merely walls, floors and rooms. I could be anywhere, but when I’m anywhere with my family, that place quickly becomes home.

On the Precipice

This has been a difficult week.

In most ways, it’s been no different than any other. Each of us in the family went to work, took care of personal responsibilities and even had a bit of social time together. We made plans for a family dinner over the weekend, and perhaps even an afternoon at a N.H. fair.

But in between, there have been tears – and a few adult beverages. There have been hugs that felt tighter, laughter that seemed a bit too necessary and memories shared and sometimes quickly swept away. It hurts less if we don’t think too much.

Yet, we can’t stop thinking about what’s going on. Can’t stop thinking about what’s been – and most of all, we think about how much longer this all will be and how it will end.

Here’s the thing – when someone in your family is gravely ill, the kind of sickness that’s gotten significantly worse over the last decade, when you witness what life has done to him and wish there was a way to make it all stop, even when that person is in hospice care, there is no guarantee that person you love will soon have any peace.

In early June my children’s father entered into hospice care, a bit surprisingly, at least to us, even though we had been watching his agonizing decline for such a long time. This past winter brought a fairly severe injury and surgery, and he’s been increasingly less active since. What we see now is barely a glimmer of who and what he once had been – and with each day, there’s a bit of improvement, a bit of decline, a bit more decline, then perhaps a better day, although at this point, what really can be considered better?

We’ve been in a holding pattern for so many years. No one but our immediate family can even imagine it all – and we share it with each other in ways that run deep and run strong.

The greatest tragedy of our collective lives has not been just losing this person, but losing him incrementally over the course of so many, many years. He’s been gone for us for so long, yet his physical presence, while just barely, is still here.

Earlier this week, we met again with hospice care providers, who offered kind words, spoke of discontinuing medications, procured funeral home information and yet, none of us have a window into the length of this journey. This man is stubborn, but he may finally be ready to let go in the months ahead.

As a family, we may soon face that final loss, the acknowledgment perhaps of what we’ve felt for so long. We’ve never truly had a chance to grieve as we experienced one thing after another over the past 20 years, focusing instead on holding things together, finding solutions and pushing emotions as much as we could to the side. That’s not to say emotions haven’t run strong; that we haven’t had our own mini-breakdowns and crises of the heart. To feel anything at all sometimes is to begin to feel it all – and to get through it has almost pushed us to the point of desensitization.

That seems melodramatic, but it’s been 20 years of appointments, of medical tests, of more and more medication, psych evaluations, cognitive testing, of medicine mismanagement and misusage, of supportive devices and therapies, hospitalizations and adult daycare, of increasingly difficult behaviors, of safety issues, of car accidents, of impairment, of anxiety and physical harm, of managed care facilities, of brain surgery, of a family pushed to the very limits of love and acceptance and a man who was loved dearly who never accepted his illness or realized that no matter what happened to him he was someone of great value to this world with so much still to contribute. The list could go on and on, and the heartache could match it along the way.

There have been countless discussions around long tables, with caregivers and caretakers, with medical and mental health professionals, with good people often doing the best they can, with little to offer that could ever change a thing – and we’ve told his story, told our stories, offered medical history, becoming a bit more jaded and disheartened each time.

This past week has been a difficult one – one more table, one more discussion, some tears, another emotional visit and time together as a family. We’re on the precipice now, holding our breaths not sure when the ledge will break. We know all too well how painful the plummet will be.

Indisputable Proof

I’ve been doing a lot of cleaning and reorganizing lately, some of it because I have a little bit of extra time on my hands and even more, because it’s way overdue. It’s easy to get in a rut maintaining a household, not making too many changes and yet as time goes by, there’s so much less that I need. What’s most amazing is no matter how much I clean and discard, there is still so much more to deal with – it’s incredible how much one accumulates over 30+ years with a family.

As part of the process, I’ve been cleaning out old photos, and coming across lots of slides. Early on, long before digital cameras, we took a ton of photos with a Minolta camera and generally shot slides since processing was so pricey. The best ones we made prints from and put them in albums, but all these years later, even the marginal shots are precious and worth saving. So, I’ve been scanning slides, saving them digitally and even introduced my mom to the effort to help. Sadly, there were many slides that haven’t withstood the years, which makes it even more important to capture what I have while I can.

Just as I accumulated a ton of material items over the years, I have even more in the way of memories. Some have lain dormant until the visual reminder sparked those memories. Like many of the objects in the house, filed and boxed away for safekeeping or convenience, I did the same with many of the things that came my way – putting them in boxes to unwrap later, I guess, for when I had the detachment of time to take them all in.

I’ve grown so used to life as it now is that I sometimes forget what my life once was – and as I scanned slides and viewed many of the images with my mom this past weekend, so many memories came alive again.

I often tell myself that while my life had been pretty special when my kids were young, I also know that the distance from those years often lends a rosier vantage point than maybe it really was. But as I looked at pictures from my late teen years, from the early days when I was dating my one-day husband and the earliest years of our marriage, the proof is indisputable. It wasn’t just pretty special – it was extraordinary in so many ways.

A truth I can’t dismiss is this: I had a genuine love story. So many happy times and so much love. It wasn’t perfect, but it was perfect for us. And out of that love, our story grew to encompass four kids that brought such joy to us – and we had so many adventures together for so many years.

I think I pushed some of this away for a while; it doesn’t hurt as much if you lessen the magnitude of the loss. I made up scenarios in my head that told me that had some of the heartbreaking stuff – illness, issues related to that, separation and more – not happened, it still didn’t mean that our lives would have continued to be as good as they once were. But it’s hard to know that, hard to guess what two people might have been like in the future based on whom they were once upon a time. So it was easier to second-guess who we had been, what we once had.

But there we were, once upon a time, in full color across my laptop screen. Pictures don’t always show the truth, but these have back-stories to corroborate what had been hidden away in boxes, in a dark closet at the end of the hall.

And as I remember it all, I can now smile as I do. Life seldom unfolds as we planned, but I am blessed to have all that I had and still do.

The Best-laid Plans

I had a planned vacation day today, one which initially I thought would be a beach day. Seeing how the weather was not supposed to be favorable, rain off and on throughout the day, I decided to do something I seldom do: plan a day at home to actually accomplish some well-overdue household tasks. It was a practical sort of day – one that would leave me feeling just as great as a day at the beach and with far more of a sense of accomplishment. Man, the things I was going to get done…

I got a letter in the mail last Friday, from my doctor’s office, saying it was time to schedule an annual blood test, one that I’d need to fast for. Great, I’ll schedule it first thing Wednesday and then go out to breakfast after. I’d start the day accomplishing something immediately.

Last night, I had a meeting after work, and grabbed a yogurt parfait for a quick snack prior, thinking I’d pick up some dinner on the way home. I already had a chicken satay from a particularly favorite restaurant in mind. The meeting ran long, and I lingered after. It was past 9 pm and I was on my way home, talking on the phone to my mom, when I realized, shoot, I have to fast for 12 hours and I’m already at the 12-hour mark. UGH, and I was starving. I considered rescheduling the appointment and then kept thinking, no, I really need to get this out of the way. I had a very small snack when I got home thinking the world wouldn’t end if I fasted for eleven-and-a-half hours instead of 12. I’d go to bed early and not think about being hungry.

Except one of my dogs decided he’d stay out longer at his last call for the evening outdoor trip and I ended up trying to doze on the couch so I’d hear his front-door bark to come back in. And that lasted a while. And then he decided to wake up and need to go out a couple of times during the night, and as I kept trying to fall back to sleep in the muggy, muggy night air enveloping me, the well-rested night turned into a very drowsy awakening. I set my alarm early and had a back-up alarm an hour later – which apparently I shut off and went back to sleep. Until 9:03 am. As I gazed, glassy-eyed, at my phone, the time quickly registered and I jumped up and immediately called the doctor’s office to see if I could still come. Turns out that although I was given an appointment, I didn’t really need one. Fabulous.

I got ready quickly, ran out the door, and went back to ensure I locked it. Well, locked it I did and with my car keys on the table next to the front door. I reached for my phone to call my son, who had slept elsewhere the night before, and saw that I was dangerously low on battery power, nearly ready for complete power loss. My car doors were locked and I had no spare key on me. Fortunately, my son answered on the first couple of rings, but had to find a ride to get to the house. And he did, finding my situation kind of comical (although I’m sure not when I woke him up).

I got to the doctor, signed in at the lab, only to find I had to actually go upstairs and someone would take care of me there, not the usual procedure, but at least I was finally back on track. By this point, I was unbelievably hungry – and the sun was shining. It was pretty darn near a beach day for a while. Nevertheless, I persevered. I was ready for breakfast and then a day filled with tasks crossed off the list.

I ordered a delicious breakfast, and took real pleasure in every bite, applying apple jelly to every crumb of the toast and savoring each home fry with my omelet. As I finished up, the server brought my check, saying to take my time. Not me, I was on a mission today, and quickly reached into my purse for my wallet – except, it wasn’t there. My bag is deep yellow, as is my wallet. I was sure I missed it. I looked again, digging deep this time, and suddenly flashing on my wallet sitting on my kitchen table. I had laid it there as I pulled my phone charger out of my bag before leaving the house. For a minute, I wondered if my debit card was still with sunglasses in the case in my bag – and remembered that after having it there all weekend during beach days, I thought it prudent to return it to my wallet yesterday. What to do?

Fortunately, I was familiar with the owner, a former classmate of one of my kids, and asked if I could speak with him for a minute. I told him how embarrassed I was, but I didn’t have my wallet, and would gladly write a check if he wanted or could return to pay the check. He agreed to the latter, telling me if not, he had plenty of dishes to wash. When I got in the car, I again called my son, who was nearby and asked if he had cash on him. He didn’t, but was planning to go to the same restaurant in a short while and would take care of the check, which I now had in my purse. I told him I’d drop it off and would text him when I got to where he was.

As I approached the house, he walked from the backyard, smiling. He said, “It’s like you and I have changed places today.” And I had to agree. I handed off the check and said that I was pretty sure that my wallet was on the kitchen table and he looked very amused and told me that maybe I needed to be a bit more responsible with my things – a statement said many times by me to him over the years. Once again, I couldn’t help but agree.

When I got home, I decided to read Rolling Stone for a bit, which had arrived earlier in the mail while I waited to get back in the house to get my keys. I settled in to a big leather chair that I bought months ago and seldom just relax in. I thought, you know, it’s a day off, relax for a while, actually take the time to read more than one quick feature and run off to do something else. Take the time. You’ve got the whole day (well, another half a day at least).

At one point, still feeling hungry, I got up to grab a bag of crunchy veggie sticks, and as I set myself back down in the chair, I realized the pillow that I had behind my head in the recliner had slipped. I reached up with the hand with the bag of veggie sticks to straighten it, and as I did, I saw the contents were dropping out across the floor. Why this didn’t dawn on me immediately to use the other hand is beyond me, but it was pretty much typical of the day thus far and I burst out laughing very loud.

And I thought about all I planned to accomplish, staining woodwork, perhaps painting something, thinking about the muggy weather and the amount of time it would need to truly dry in this weather – and I wondered about whether I should touch anything today that might prove to be really messy. And I did some housework instead. I tidied up, did some laundry, cleaned the bathroom, sorted out mail and generally kept away from anything I could get into trouble with. I didn’t accomplish a lot, but I did accomplish some things, and I got in some time to relax, watched a movie, read a magazine, got a jump on two new courses I start next week and caught up on a lot of email correspondence. They might not be huge things, but I got them done just the same. So much for the best-laid plans.

As My Daughter Turns 30

30 years ago today, ten days overdue, I wondered if my soon-to-be-born baby would ever arrive. I wasn’t feeling great, but had been told by an OB/Gyn standing in for my own doctor that day that I most likely had a stomach bug. “No, I had similar symptoms when I went into labor with my son.” He wasn’t buying it. And I wasn’t buying his response either.

However, I went home and sat on the couch that evening, no labor in sight – some stomach cramping, but nothing that stopped me from polishing off half a pint of Haagen Daz sorbet. My son was asleep and my husband taking a bath. I remember shouting from the living room around 10 p.m., “I feel like these stomach cramps have some sort of pattern to them.” Per usual, he didn’t think I was in labor. (This reaction became consistent behavior with all four births). A half-hour later, he was calling his parents to come watch our son and we were on our way to the hospital shortly thereafter.

My labor, at the hospital, consisted of me running to the bathroom several times while contractions increased rapidly. I had momentary fear I’d be become one of those moms who actually gave birth on a toilet (insert your own shudder here). Not more than a few pushes later, my beautiful, 10-lb. baby girl arrived. At the time, women were still moved from labor rooms to delivery. Ridiculously, we traveled over quickly, I was hoisted on the delivery table and Marissa Skye made her debut in what seemed like moments later, Even at nearly 11 days overdue by this hour, I never imagined I’d give birth to a child that looked at least two weeks old – and she was perfect. I’m sure the other babies in the nursery were wondering, “What’s up with this toddler? Why’s she here?”

Her birth was indicative of her life thus far as a daughter. Not a lot of fuss or drama. Throughout the years, I’ve heard any number of horror stories about arguments and sass, tears cried (by both parties) and how rough it is to raise a daughter. I don’t have much to add to that conversation, except this: The toughest part of raising my daughter is knowing what the world can sometimes be like for a woman – the expectations, the disrespect and the vulnerabilities she’ll experience. The most tears I’ve cried are in knowing I’ve sometimes failed her – in spite of my best intentions – and in preparing for her to move out in her senior year of college. I cried for me, not her, because she had become this incredible adult I was so proud of and loved so much, but time moved far too fast for my liking. She was ready, and already older than I was when I left home, but I knew how much I was going to miss her.

Throughout the years, she’s welcomed me in her life, even during the far more private teen years, and I feel so blessed by how much I’ve been able to share of her life, even now as she approaches 30. She’s made wise choices, worked hard to earn her bachelor’s – going to school three days a week and working full-time the other four, married the person who she’s loved since she was 16 and earlier last year, became a mother.

As often happens, her birth experience was not quite what she expected and she learned the day prior to his birth that her overdue son was following in her footsteps – yet he was topping the scales at over 11 lbs. A C-section would follow – and it was in the hours after that I marveled at how natural it was to see she and her husband as parents. I was humbled in the days to come by her resilience, her lack of complaint when surely she was in great pain and how brave she had been throughout the week prior.

It has been amazing to watch her become the mom she has to my beautiful grandson. For someone who never had much interest in children, it’s like she has been doing this all of her life. Her love for her son has amplified all of her best qualities and added a confidence to her personality of which she probably isn’t even aware.

So she is about to turn 30, and it tugs at my heart. It’s bittersweet as I miss the girl she once was, but I’m so excited for the woman she now is and the possibilities ahead of her. As any parent will say, time goes by too quickly, far too quickly. Yet, I remember so many moments, many that she may never recall – and those are the moments that sustain me as time continues to spiral us forward. I still see her sweet smile – mirrored always in her eyes, too – and the little ponytails, and the love for every new pair of sneakers. Sometimes her long hair is in a braid and I can’t help but reach out and feel its texture, hold it for a second in my hand, remembering all the mornings braiding her hair so long ago. I see the care she takes in choosing new sneakers, even now, and how her smile is still one of my favorite things – and especially now seeing it in her son too.

I’m so very proud of the woman my daughter has become. She’s stronger than she knows, smarter than she realizes and so very capable of handling whatever life brings her way. She has taken on far more than many women twice her age – acting as a guardian for a chronically ill parent and taking on the role of the family organizer so much of the time. I rest easy knowing that she is the next generation foundation that will always keep our family close.

Happy 30^th birthday, Marissa Skye! It is such a privilege to be your mother. I love you so much.

Looking for Motivation Today

For many, many years, my life revolved around the needs of a family of six. With four children, the youngest to oldest a little over a 10 years apart, there was a lot of parenting, a lot of mothering in those years – and still is, although quite different in those needs. In fact, there are far fewer needs – and for me that means success. My kids have grown to capable, caring adults, who have full lives that they are dealing with quite well. And while we remain a tight-knit family, and I am a very independent woman, there’s still a sense of loss that every parent feels at this stage of the game – as well as a sense of pride.

There’s also that sense of opportunity – what’s next? I am greatly involved in any number of things, the first beyond family and work being school. Three years ago I made the decision to finally return to school and get the bachelor’s degree I began more than 30 years ago – and that’s wrapping up finally in the fall. It’s been a long haul and not always highly enjoyable, even though I have a real sense of accomplishment each time I complete a round of courses. My plan is to start my master’s come March of ’16 and get that done as quickly as possible – and then have some time once again to really do more than I can now. I want to teach eventually, and look forward to that possibility.

I made a conscious decision many years ago to dedicate my life to helping others whenever I can. While I’ve managed to align myself with some very worthwhile nonprofit activities and organizations throughout the years, I know there’s so much more that I want to do – so much more I can do.

As I look around this house – there’s no shortage of things I need to do – seriously need to attend to. I find that I don’t have the motivation I once did to get things done here. I think a major component of that is that I’m here on my own most of the time. In the past, there was always someone here to lend a hand, to join in, or at the very least, to motivate me to do stuff. I wanted to accomplish it for someone else. So now, it’s a chore to motivate myself, although I’m always psyched when things are done.

So that’s my challenge to myself today. Get motivated. Get moving. Stop thinking and start working on something new. With a cool breeze moving through the house via fans and the beautiful sunshine pouring in, I’m doing my best to convince myself that this makes for optimal workflow. Somehow the couch and a good book sound far more appealing. Let’s see which wins!

Fourteen Years Gone

My father passed away fourteen years ago today, and it strikes me that he has now been gone more than a quarter of my life. Something about that is beyond bizarre to me, and yet his influence is felt every single day. I feel him in my attitude, the way I talk, and the manner in which I approach life itself.

So much has happened since he died – so many things I wish I could tell him. He wouldn’t say much in response. Never a big conversationalist, he would most likely nod or smile, or scowl dependent on the subject matter. He could get exasperated pretty easy, but I like to think he would have mellowed a bit more with age.

My mother always says that my father would never have survived in these times. He’d find them too upsetting, the world too crazy. I don’t know – he was pretty realistic. As an engineer, he looked at life strategically and was a straight shooter in his response to what life handed him. Or maybe she just knew him so much better than me and perhaps his failing health was in response to the world around him and his internal strife in viewing it.

Maybe I just idealize the man that has always meant the most to me. Continue reading “Fourteen Years Gone” →

Outnumbered: Five to One

I often arrive home from work and realize that I’ve spent a good half hour dealing with pet-related necessities before even I’ve even given anything else a thought. Or stayed up extra late because I hadn’t been home much that day and felt that it hadn’t been fair to the dogs if I went to bed early since they had been cooped up in their crates most of the day (although truth be told, they aren’t exactly doing much of anything more exciting when they aren’t in them most of the time). And I greet them far more pleasantly each morning than I’ve ever greeted any mammal of the human variety. If any of this sounds familiar to you, then you are most certainly a pet owner.

As I was getting ready to settle back down on the couch one night recently, after finally putting dinner in the oven, thinking I’d do a little writing – and maybe about the animals I live with and the shenanigans we encounter together – I walked across the living room and stepped in something wet. I was hoping it was cold wet, as in perhaps some snow came back in the house with one of the dogs, but quickly realized it was warm wet. Warm, never a good sign, and now my deliciously comfortable, fleeced-lined trouser sock was also warmer and yes, wet. With a sigh, I peeled it off, took a quick whiff to confirm what I already knew to be true and shook my head in disgust, for about the millionth time this past year while I broke out the floor cleaner and then the Wet-Jet. Continue reading “Outnumbered: Five to One” →