My sisters and I buried our mom in 2005 after watching her waste away from cancer. She was 65. Our dad developed Multiple System Atrophy, a form of Parkinsonism, and was diagnosed the next year. We spent the past five years watching him slowly lose his jovial personality, his laugh, the sparkle in his eyes. As his world grew smaller and smaller, our responsibilities grew larger and larger. We counted out medication for him to take each day, drove him to doctors' appointments, brought him dinner, helped him with his laundry, paid his bills. When it got too much for us to do and take care of our own children, we persuaded him to move from our family home where he had lived for 42 years and move to a house down the street from me. He left his church, his volunteer work, his penuchle club. We watched as he forgot the words for things and called the "exit" at the grocery the "going out place" and the deli the "cheese place." He struggled to express himself until he just got frustrated and sat in a chair and didn't speak.
The hardest thing for me to do was to take away his keys when the doctor told him he couldn't drive anymore. This was a man who had worked for Chevrolet Motor Division for 30 years. He drove for a living. He drove us to Florida, to Michigan, to Cape Cod, without cruise control, without a relief driver on our vacations every year. He drove us to ball games and the skating rink and drove me to Texas when I moved away. I had to take away his keys like he was a reckless 16 year old who had gotten one too many speeding tickets. He was angry, but more than that, he was hurt. He didn't speak to me for 3 weeks. He didn't tell me he loved me or ask me how my day was or tell me he understood why I felt I had to strip him of his last bit of independence.
When I left for vacation, my thoughts were, "What if something happens to me or Dad while I am gone, and we've left with him not speaking." I went down and tried to make amends. I don't think he forgave me, but he did tell me he loved me, so that was something.
While I was away, Dad ended up in the hospital. From there, he went to rehab and then to a nursing home for more rehab. My sisters and I did his soiled laundry and washed feces off his shoes when he couldn't make it to the bathroom and brought him deodorant and Wint-O-Green Lifesavers and got him coffee from the nurses' station and watched as the man who was our dad, our hero, the man who loved us best in the world, struggled to get up out of his chair and walk with a walker without losing his balance. We wanted to help, to lead, to share our strength, but he would push us away as if to say, "I've lost everything else, at least let me walk by myself."
Dad died in July. He had written a Living Will along with a DNR. When the time came for us to decide in the emergency room if we wanted to override Dad's wishes (you do have that option, you know), we had to decide together to honor Dad and let him go in peace. We told the doctors that we wanted him comfortable but not kept alive by extraordinary measures. We gave him medication to ease any anxiety. We gave him oxygen so he wouldn't feel like he was drowning. We made him comfortable and waited.
Dad lingered for five days, and even when we knew, we KNEW, that this was the end, we kept holding on to every breath, every rise of his chest, every twitch of a leg, because as long as he was breathing, he was ALIVE, and we weren't alone.
These last six months have been a blur, a whirl of going through, passing out, moving on. We've sold his house and distributed his possessions. We've cashed in insurance policies and closed bank accounts and had his headstone etched with the date of his death. The only thing left to do is pay last year's taxes and close the estate and then all traces of Dad alive will be gone. It is a lonely feeling, and nobody tells you how much this sucks.
In my mind, I am still a teenager, way too young to be parentless, and I am so very sad.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Friday, September 6, 2013
To Be Continued
So I'm leaving Locust Grove last night after a Costumed Interpreter meeting. We have been going through huge changes in the CI program, and it has been very painful. For awhile, I didn't know if I even wanted to be an interpreter anymore, but since I have so much time and money invested in this, and because I love history and Locust Grove so much, I decided to give the new program a year and see how it went.
At times I've had to choke back tears, and many times I was unsuccessful. At times, I've choked on my words, and other times, they have spewed out like so much bitter bile. I have not liked the changes. I have not agreed with many of them. I have resented the people brought in as "experts" to tell us what we needed to do to improve our program and our characterizations of the people we portray. I felt insulted and diminished. I have had deep seated feelings of betrayal and, I admit, jealousy, and it has been hard for me to be nice.
But I have continued on, hoping it would get better, because I love Locust Grove.
So anyway, last night as I'm leaving, I'm walking out with Emily behind some of the younger people now in charge when I had an epiphany. It was seriously in a split second that I came to the realization that will take me a minute to articulate, but bear with me while I try and explain it.
What I realized was this:
For a thing, anything, to continue, it has to be passed on. The people in charge have to nurture younger people in loving and caring for this thing. The people in charge have to make the thing worth investing resources in. The people in charge have to let the younger people have some kind of ownership in the thing or else there will be nobody to pick up the mantle when the people in charge can no longer be in charge.
So for the younger people to be interested in the thing and want to continue investing their own resources in this thing, they have to want to be there. They have to see value in this thing. They have to have some kind of ownership in this and they have to envision themselves in its future. For that to happen, the people in charge have to yield some of their ownership of the thing, to give up some of their control, and when they do, the new owners of this thing might see it in a different light with new possibilities. The younger people may want to try something different or stop doing something the same way it has been done for years. They might want to tweak something a little or completely overhaul it. Just because their vision is different from the vision of the older people, doesn't mean that it's wrong; it just means it's different.
But what it does mean is that there is a vision of the future, and this thing is in that vision, which means it will continue.
So, do I like the changes at Locust Grove? Not particularly. Do I think that the implementations of the new changes were handled poorly? Oh, my yes. Very, very poorly. But with some perspective and last night's epiphany, I see that the changes are good in a way because they are creating ownership and investment in Locust Grove by its next generation of caretakers. And that can only mean one thing...Locust Grove is "to be continued."
Thursday, July 25, 2013
The Green Beans on My Shelf
I just put 24 jars of canned fresh green beans on my shelf today. I love seeing all of the jars lined up with their various sizes and colors. It's quite a mosaic, edible art, if you will.
My mom put up green beans every year. I only got to can my own beans with her once before she died, but I remember helping her for years before that. I hated it.
Dad always grew beans in his garden, and whenever she'd have enough to fill the canner, she'd put them up. Sometimes, though, Dad would bring home a bushel from one of the Chevy dealers in the country or he'd go to Huber's and pick them, then we'd spend a sticky evening on the patio snapping green beans and swatting flies and mosquitos until the whole box was ready for the canner. Once I remember Granny helping us, and that night was actually pretty cool. The three generations sitting around, talking and snapping beans. Still, I never really liked it, so I'm not sure why I CHOOSE to do it now, but I do.
Whenever I put the weight on the vent pipe of the pressure cooker, and it starts rocking with the steam, I have flashbacks of being in Mom's orange and yellow kitchen, jars everywhere, beans soaking in the sink, a pan of hot lids on the stove. Mom was militant when she canned, as I wrote about in my post "Snapping Beans." I was canning by myself for the first time this year, and while I wasn't too militant, I did make sure the kids stayed out of the kitchen as much as possible and away from the stove at all costs. They hated the SSSS SSSS SSSS SSSS sound of the canner as much as I did when I was there age.
I wonder if any of them will ever put up food. If they do, I hope I am here to help teach them and revel in their wonder at what they have painted.
My mom put up green beans every year. I only got to can my own beans with her once before she died, but I remember helping her for years before that. I hated it.
Dad always grew beans in his garden, and whenever she'd have enough to fill the canner, she'd put them up. Sometimes, though, Dad would bring home a bushel from one of the Chevy dealers in the country or he'd go to Huber's and pick them, then we'd spend a sticky evening on the patio snapping green beans and swatting flies and mosquitos until the whole box was ready for the canner. Once I remember Granny helping us, and that night was actually pretty cool. The three generations sitting around, talking and snapping beans. Still, I never really liked it, so I'm not sure why I CHOOSE to do it now, but I do.
Whenever I put the weight on the vent pipe of the pressure cooker, and it starts rocking with the steam, I have flashbacks of being in Mom's orange and yellow kitchen, jars everywhere, beans soaking in the sink, a pan of hot lids on the stove. Mom was militant when she canned, as I wrote about in my post "Snapping Beans." I was canning by myself for the first time this year, and while I wasn't too militant, I did make sure the kids stayed out of the kitchen as much as possible and away from the stove at all costs. They hated the SSSS SSSS SSSS SSSS sound of the canner as much as I did when I was there age.
I wonder if any of them will ever put up food. If they do, I hope I am here to help teach them and revel in their wonder at what they have painted.
Friday, July 19, 2013
July 19, 2011
There are days in your life when everything changes. Pivotal days when something happens, and you are never, ever the same...the day you meet your future spouse or the day you learn you are pregnant or the day you find out someone you love has cancer. Sometimes these changes come easy and are welcome and, looking back, make you smile to think how different your life is now.
Sometimes they come at you like a brick through your window and land in your lap, bringing shattered glass and splinters, and no matter how much time has passed, you still have the scars and the sliver of wood under your skin that just won't go away.
Today is that day for me.
Today is a day that is seared in my brain like a hot brand on leather. I can't tell you anything about earlier in the day, but I remember vividly pulling in the driveway about 6 p.m. and seeing Kirk talking to neighbors, inviting them in to continue the conversation, and then answering the phone a few minutes later. It was Mr. Kresse from St. X. Kyle was on a mission trip to Appalachia, and the first thought that came to mind was that he had broken something and I was going to have to go get him. Would that it had been that simple.
I remember Mr. Kresse's voice on the other end, measured, quiet, saying, "There has been an accident at Glenmary. All of the boys from St. X are okay, but one of the students from another school has drowned..."
I remember the waves of relief that washed over me in that split second...first, that Kyle was okay, and second that all of the St. X boys were okay. Then I felt the anguish of the parents who were getting the phone call that it was THEIR child who had died. I remember thinking, "How would you make that phone call?"
Mr. Kresse said that some of the St. X boys had witnessed the drowning, but he didn't know who, and I prayed, prayed, that Kyle had not been there, even though I somehow knew it in my heart that Kyle had seen it.
The boys were coming home tonight, he said, and we were to meet them about 11 at the school. A sick sense of dread washed over me. My ears began to ring; my skin to crawl. My heart began beating in my throat. I was singularly focused on fixing it so that Kyle had not seen anything. I started praying, "Please, God, don't let Kyle have been there. Please, God, don't let Kyle have been there. Please, God, don't let Kyle have been there..." And because we had 4 hours or more until they arrived, I went back, explained the situation, and finished the conversation with the neighbors, screaming silently, "Would you please go the hell home???"
About 10, Kyle called from the road. "Hi Mom," he said.
I cried silently with relief, "Hi Buddy. How ya doing?"
"Umm, yeah, okay," he replied.
"Were you there?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, "I was there."
"I am so sorry, Kyle. I have been praying you weren't. Are you okay?"
"Not really," he answered. "I can't really talk now. I'm in a car with the other guys. I'll tell you when I get home. Okay?"
"Sure. No problem. I'll see you in a bit," I said, and when I hung up the phone, I just sobbed.
I drove to St. X early in case they arrived before 11. It was pouring down rain. Lightning. Thunder. Wind. Awful, awful storm that mirrored my anxiety. I waited in the parking lot, praying, praying, praying, watching for them to arrive. I drove from one side of the school to the other not sure which lot they would go to. I ran into Mr. Kresse who said they were actually going to meet over at the Speedway across the street for the shelter from the rain, so I drove over there and waited. I saw other anxious parents waiting in their cars, and we gave each other wan smiles as if to say, "Thank God it wasn't us."
The boys pulled in about midnight, delayed by the rain and the wind. They were all exhausted and hyped at the same time. I hugged Kyle, but not too much, and we loaded his things into the van and headed for home. He didn't talk much. He only wanted to tell the story once, so we waited until we were in the family room with Kirk, and then he broke down and sobbed, telling us the story through his tears. Details would continue to come out over the course of the next year, but we heard enough to know that this day would have a profound effect on us. And it was then that Finoy Lukose entered our lives and changed us forever.
Sometimes they come at you like a brick through your window and land in your lap, bringing shattered glass and splinters, and no matter how much time has passed, you still have the scars and the sliver of wood under your skin that just won't go away.
Today is that day for me.
Today is a day that is seared in my brain like a hot brand on leather. I can't tell you anything about earlier in the day, but I remember vividly pulling in the driveway about 6 p.m. and seeing Kirk talking to neighbors, inviting them in to continue the conversation, and then answering the phone a few minutes later. It was Mr. Kresse from St. X. Kyle was on a mission trip to Appalachia, and the first thought that came to mind was that he had broken something and I was going to have to go get him. Would that it had been that simple.
I remember Mr. Kresse's voice on the other end, measured, quiet, saying, "There has been an accident at Glenmary. All of the boys from St. X are okay, but one of the students from another school has drowned..."
I remember the waves of relief that washed over me in that split second...first, that Kyle was okay, and second that all of the St. X boys were okay. Then I felt the anguish of the parents who were getting the phone call that it was THEIR child who had died. I remember thinking, "How would you make that phone call?"
Mr. Kresse said that some of the St. X boys had witnessed the drowning, but he didn't know who, and I prayed, prayed, that Kyle had not been there, even though I somehow knew it in my heart that Kyle had seen it.
The boys were coming home tonight, he said, and we were to meet them about 11 at the school. A sick sense of dread washed over me. My ears began to ring; my skin to crawl. My heart began beating in my throat. I was singularly focused on fixing it so that Kyle had not seen anything. I started praying, "Please, God, don't let Kyle have been there. Please, God, don't let Kyle have been there. Please, God, don't let Kyle have been there..." And because we had 4 hours or more until they arrived, I went back, explained the situation, and finished the conversation with the neighbors, screaming silently, "Would you please go the hell home???"
About 10, Kyle called from the road. "Hi Mom," he said.
I cried silently with relief, "Hi Buddy. How ya doing?"
"Umm, yeah, okay," he replied.
"Were you there?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, "I was there."
"I am so sorry, Kyle. I have been praying you weren't. Are you okay?"
"Not really," he answered. "I can't really talk now. I'm in a car with the other guys. I'll tell you when I get home. Okay?"
"Sure. No problem. I'll see you in a bit," I said, and when I hung up the phone, I just sobbed.
I drove to St. X early in case they arrived before 11. It was pouring down rain. Lightning. Thunder. Wind. Awful, awful storm that mirrored my anxiety. I waited in the parking lot, praying, praying, praying, watching for them to arrive. I drove from one side of the school to the other not sure which lot they would go to. I ran into Mr. Kresse who said they were actually going to meet over at the Speedway across the street for the shelter from the rain, so I drove over there and waited. I saw other anxious parents waiting in their cars, and we gave each other wan smiles as if to say, "Thank God it wasn't us."
The boys pulled in about midnight, delayed by the rain and the wind. They were all exhausted and hyped at the same time. I hugged Kyle, but not too much, and we loaded his things into the van and headed for home. He didn't talk much. He only wanted to tell the story once, so we waited until we were in the family room with Kirk, and then he broke down and sobbed, telling us the story through his tears. Details would continue to come out over the course of the next year, but we heard enough to know that this day would have a profound effect on us. And it was then that Finoy Lukose entered our lives and changed us forever.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
4 July 2005
 |
| Arriving at the Magic Kingdom. |
It was a very hot and very sticky July 4. We were in Disney World and had spent the very early morning and well into the afternoon standing in line, peeling our legs off of the seats of rides wet with other people's sweat, and spraying ourselves with our fan spritzers looking for some relief. About 2 o'clock, we decided to hang it up and spend the rest of the day at the pool, just "chilling" in the 88 degree water.
We headed back to the room, and it was cool and dark, and the beds were so inviting that we all laid down and immediately fell asleep for about an hour. Around 4, we put on our swimsuits and made our way through the labyrinth of sidewalks to the pool, where everybody was leaving to get ready to go to the Magic Kingdom for the fireworks display. I knew it was the 4th of July and that the fireworks would be especially glorious because it was the 4th, but I also knew that it is traditionally one of the most crowded days of the year at Disney World, and it was really, really hot, and I was happy to just hang out in the water with the kids and relax.
About an hour later, Kyle said, "Mom, can we go to the fireworks too?"
I said, "Well, if you want to, we can think about it, but it is going to be REALLY crowded and we'd have to get out and get ready and take the bus over to the Magic Kingdom and we'd have to get out pretty much right now in order to make it in time..." trying my best to come up with every good reason to stay cool and calm and relaxed right where I was.
"Okay!" he replied. "I don't care! Let's do it..."
And then he uttered the words that made me move, "...because when are we ever going to be at Disney World on the 4th of July again?"
I looked at Kirk, and he shrugged like "what can I say to that?" And since he's always game for anything, I dragged myself out of the pool, and we made our way back to the room where we dried off and got ready and made our way back over to the Magic Kingdom.
I was wrong when I said it was going to REALLY crowded. It was REALLY, REALLY, REALLY crowded, but we were lucky enough to be able to find a small piece of sidewalk to park ourselves and wait until dark. Emily was 3 1/2 at the time, and while she was very, very good, she got bored and she didn't want to sit any longer. I had to think of a way to occupy her, so I started doing "See, See My Playmate" with her. Then we did it again. And again. And again. Then I got Claire and Emily to play with each other. Claire taught Emily another hand game and that worked for awhile, but soon they were bored, and it was still pretty light outside. So I started singing to them, quietly at first, and they joined in.
We sang "Grand Old Flag" and "God Bless America" and "My Old Kentucky Home" and "Yankee Doodle" and "My Country Tis of Thee" and every other old timey song I could think of. Then we sang them again and again. Pretty soon, some people around us joined in, and the singing spread, and we found ourselves on Main Street U.S.A. in front of Cinderella's Castle singing patriotic songs with total strangers on the 4th of July while waiting for the fireworks to start. Talk about magic! And I thought to myself, "Thank you, Kyle, for pushing us to come tonight because when are we ever going to be at Disney World on the 4th of July again?"
I wonder if there is anybody else out there who still remembers a desperate lady trying to entertain her little girls who moved a crowd to sing as one.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Sometimes It's the Little Things
Today it was my dad's shoe brush. An old, wooden handled, well-worn, hog bristle brush that I can't get rid of.
I took it when we cleaned out his house after he died. It lived in a red wooly mitt along with a well-worn and deeply stained toothbrush, strips of old tee shirts, and various shades of black, brown, and ox blood shoe polish. Ox blood. I always found that curiously morbid and pictured bowls of blood being reduced into shoe polish and deposited in metal cans and ending up on the end of that toothbrush as my dad slathered it on his shoes of an evening. That wooly red bag of shoe care sat in the floor of the right side of my dad's closet. Sat there for as long as I remember, coming out once in awhile when my dad polished his wing tips.
I was always excited when Dad would get out his shoe kit. I loved watching him polish his shoes. He'd twist the top of the Kiwi can so that the lid popped off and then he'd take that toothbrush and swirl it around in the polish. The toothbrush allowed him to get in every nook and cranny of the shoes where he would clean off the dirt and scuffs. Then he would set the shoes on a newspaper on the hearth to rest for a bit before he got out the brush.
Once the polish had had a chance to soak in, Dad would put his hand up in the shoe, with the palm of his hand against the inside bottom of the shoe and begin brushing. SWOOSH, swoosh, SWOOSH, swoosh, SWOOSH, swoosh. I can hear the brush as it went back and forth against the leather. SWOOSH, swoosh. Back and forth until Dad was satisfied the shoes had been brushed clean. Then he would take a strip of old tee shirt and polish the shoes to a high gloss. Usually he'd let me put my hand inside the mitt, which he rarely used, and "help." I was always disappointed that the inside of that polyester wool wasn't soft at all, but I loved to smooth around the curves of Dad's shoes and watch them glow.
By the time my dad had moved three years ago, it had been a long time since he had polished his shoes. It had been a long time since he had worn wing tips with any regularity. He was mostly a tennis shoe guy by then. Same pair in various stages of wear sat in his closet and on the floor of the garage, but the wing tips had fallen dusty under the bed, and he rarely got them out anymore.
Still, we packed the polishing kit and moved it with him, and put it on the floor of his new closet, where it sat, unused, until he died. Then when we were packing up, I took the brush. The red wool bag was in a terrible state of disrepair, and the toothbrush was falling apart. The cans of polish had long since dried up, but the brush was still in tact, a rich patina on the handle from so many polishes. I put it in my utility closet where it sat until today, when I saw it again, and traveled back 40 years in time to my family room floor.
SWOOSH, swoosh, SWOOSH, swoosh, SWOOSH, swoosh...
Saturday, March 2, 2013
The World Is Too Much With Us
I don't remember bad things happening to people when I was a kid. Did they still, and I just didn't know it? I don't think my parents sheltered me from much, or maybe it didn't register, but I just don't remember the tragedies that have occurred within my children's circles of life.
When I was a kid, I didn't really know anybody who died young. I only personally knew one man who died of cancer, and he was old and unmarried and lived with his mother. All my friends still had their grandparents mostly, and if they didn't the grandparents had died long ago, and the ones they did have were still pretty young and hung around throughout our formative years. My best friend's dad had died when she was four, two years before I met her in first grade, so he was just this person who was. I don't even think I ever saw a picture of him. Another classmate lost his dad when we were in second grade. My mom took me to the funeral mass, and I felt very small. Several months later when we were in third grade, and I remember it like it was yesterday, the boy turned around when we were in line waiting for lunch, and said, "Thank you for coming to my dad's funeral." I wondered how long he had wanted to say that.
But nothing, nothing happened to me like what my children have experienced. Is life just more now?
Our tragedies started with the death of my mom from cancer when my kids were 9, 6, and 3. She had had her first surgery for cancer (whose mom had cancer in our day?) when my son was born. She lived well with it until the last couple of years when it "woke up" and made her life miserable. When she died that sunny September Saturday, it began a sequence of sad events that have tagged along behind us like a pesky dog that won't go away.
My middle child, Claire, was introduced to loss three times during her first grade year. First with my mom, then with her teacher, who she loved, who died suddenly of an asthma attack that February. Then over Spring Break that year, one of the sweet little girls in her class and on her soccer team died from the flu after going in for surgery for recurring cancer (and what kid did you ever know who had cancer?).
Claire was clingy and sad and a Mama's girl for a long time after that, when she realized that death is real. That it can claim you if you are sick or healthy or young or old. It didn't matter. Nobody was safe, and that was hard for her to get her mind around.
A year or so later, my husband's 37 year old sister, our kids' sweet Aunt Krissy, was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer. She had surgery and despite all of the doctors' best efforts, Krissy died two years later. We made the best of the time we had with her, going to visit, spending time at their cabin, going on a dream trip to Disney World, but she still died, leaving two children my kids' ages behind, once again, reinforcing that death can call at will.
In 2008, my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's Syndrome and began his slow decline. My children watched him loose his independence, his house, his ability to drive, his will to live.
The week before he died, my son, then 15, was on a mission trip in Appalachia and watched a healthy, athletic 17-year-old boy drown in front of his eyes, never dreaming that what he was seeing was actually happening. By the time he realized that the boy was not coming back up, it was too late, and he was gone, my son wracked with guilt that he watched somebody die and couldn't do anything to help.
Three days later, my dad ended up in the emergency room in respiratory distress after aspirating intestinal fluid that had backed up in his stomach, causing him to vomit uncontrollably. Five days later, he died.
Two of my daughters' friends have inoperable brain tumors. We know two sets of parents who have lost 20 year old daughters in car accidents within the past year. My children have witnessed at various ages and stages of understanding: hijacked planes fly into buildings, destroying our collective sense of security; multiple mass shootings in schools, movie theaters, and shopping malls; major earthquakes; a tsunami; hurricanes; tornadoes; war.
And it's all there, all the time, always. Amplified in 24-hour news cycles and Facebook and texts and emails sent to our iPhones that we keep on so that we never miss a thing.
The world is too much with us.
When I was a kid, I didn't really know anybody who died young. I only personally knew one man who died of cancer, and he was old and unmarried and lived with his mother. All my friends still had their grandparents mostly, and if they didn't the grandparents had died long ago, and the ones they did have were still pretty young and hung around throughout our formative years. My best friend's dad had died when she was four, two years before I met her in first grade, so he was just this person who was. I don't even think I ever saw a picture of him. Another classmate lost his dad when we were in second grade. My mom took me to the funeral mass, and I felt very small. Several months later when we were in third grade, and I remember it like it was yesterday, the boy turned around when we were in line waiting for lunch, and said, "Thank you for coming to my dad's funeral." I wondered how long he had wanted to say that.
But nothing, nothing happened to me like what my children have experienced. Is life just more now?
Our tragedies started with the death of my mom from cancer when my kids were 9, 6, and 3. She had had her first surgery for cancer (whose mom had cancer in our day?) when my son was born. She lived well with it until the last couple of years when it "woke up" and made her life miserable. When she died that sunny September Saturday, it began a sequence of sad events that have tagged along behind us like a pesky dog that won't go away.
My middle child, Claire, was introduced to loss three times during her first grade year. First with my mom, then with her teacher, who she loved, who died suddenly of an asthma attack that February. Then over Spring Break that year, one of the sweet little girls in her class and on her soccer team died from the flu after going in for surgery for recurring cancer (and what kid did you ever know who had cancer?).
Claire was clingy and sad and a Mama's girl for a long time after that, when she realized that death is real. That it can claim you if you are sick or healthy or young or old. It didn't matter. Nobody was safe, and that was hard for her to get her mind around.
A year or so later, my husband's 37 year old sister, our kids' sweet Aunt Krissy, was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer. She had surgery and despite all of the doctors' best efforts, Krissy died two years later. We made the best of the time we had with her, going to visit, spending time at their cabin, going on a dream trip to Disney World, but she still died, leaving two children my kids' ages behind, once again, reinforcing that death can call at will.
In 2008, my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's Syndrome and began his slow decline. My children watched him loose his independence, his house, his ability to drive, his will to live.
The week before he died, my son, then 15, was on a mission trip in Appalachia and watched a healthy, athletic 17-year-old boy drown in front of his eyes, never dreaming that what he was seeing was actually happening. By the time he realized that the boy was not coming back up, it was too late, and he was gone, my son wracked with guilt that he watched somebody die and couldn't do anything to help.
Three days later, my dad ended up in the emergency room in respiratory distress after aspirating intestinal fluid that had backed up in his stomach, causing him to vomit uncontrollably. Five days later, he died.
Two of my daughters' friends have inoperable brain tumors. We know two sets of parents who have lost 20 year old daughters in car accidents within the past year. My children have witnessed at various ages and stages of understanding: hijacked planes fly into buildings, destroying our collective sense of security; multiple mass shootings in schools, movie theaters, and shopping malls; major earthquakes; a tsunami; hurricanes; tornadoes; war.
And it's all there, all the time, always. Amplified in 24-hour news cycles and Facebook and texts and emails sent to our iPhones that we keep on so that we never miss a thing.
The world is too much with us.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
---William Wordsworth
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