It is another "gambling" Quaker Sunday and I find myself back at The Barclay visiting with Mom and Dad. It pains me that I can not get here that often due to my heavy course load at school, but I am happy to be here now and grateful that my husband can pull up a chair and gamble away with the men while I visit with Mom. I have missed her so much. In fact, I have missed her for the past 15 years that she has been hidden away behind a glassy, distant expression that has taken over her being. My mother was always so expressive in everything that she did: her face, her movements, her words, her laugh, and even her gardening. I miss my connection with her. A connection that grew from the moment I was a teen. I actually liked my Mom when I was a teenager. She was fun and she was a good listener. She always had the right words for me and I relied on her so much in those painful adolescent years. She was the one true friend for me. She was someone I could always count on, someone who was grounded and unconditional with her time and love.
I hold her hand and kiss her gently. She looks so pretty today with her snow white hair and her sparkly blue eyes. I am thankful that she knows me. She may not be able to name me right away but I know she knows me because in a flash her distant stare focuses on me and she gets a look of complete and utter bliss. She does this with all of her children when we come to visit her and I am eternally grateful that this has not been taken from us.....yet. This is all I need to satisfy me. No, that is not true. I am selfish and need her to be her again. I am momentarily shaken out of my self pity when there is a commotion in front of me. The boys (the gamblers) are in a frenzy. Dad has just gotten up to go search for some ice and drinks for our lunch while Scott and Phil (Dad's best Barclay buddy)are frantically trying to rig the cards for the next game. This is hysterical to watch because Phil, who suffers from early stages of Alzheimer's, can not seem to remember exactly which game of poker they are rigging. Scott is hurriedly trying to sort the cards and seems to be throwing them everywhere while saying, "It's Night Baseball, Phil." Phil responds by saying, "Oh yes!" and then he whips out his little pad that he keeps in his shirt pocket and writes this down. He is forever doing this in order to remember the goings on in his life but most of the time when he reads it back, he can't remember it anyway! Dad is back and the rigged game is on!
I turn my attention towards Mom again (or is it really towards me and my inner thoughts?) and try another tactic: conversation. Both of my parents have the gift of conversation. They could (Dad still does) engage anyone and everyone in an interesting conversation. Words flow from our mouths, a true Barnett trait. My words are flowing easily as I fill her in on the kids and my life. She used to eat this up but now it seems to fall on deaf and distant ears. How cruel this is. I stop my selfish babble and swallow hard. For now I will settle on holding her hand and sitting quietly while watching the boys play their game.
I miss you Mom. Come back to me.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
A Quaker Sunday
Quaker principles are simple and true. Their mission is based on treating people with a sense of equality, peacefulness, integrity, community, and simplicity. Barclay Friends is a Quaker run facility and their mission statement runs true there. Maybe this is why they do not frown upon my Dad and his entourage while they sit in the "narthex" of a Barclay aisle and play poker.... with money...on a SUNDAY! This is the site my family and I came upon last Sunday as we walked down Barclay's long hallway. Scott and I and two of my three children had just come from church and we were hoping to spend some time with my parents and my sister who was flying back to Booneyville, USA later that day. At first glance, it just looked like a few elderly people gathered in a circle enjoying a nice conversation with each other. Dad has a way of gathering people around and engaging them in quick games of cleverness whether it's a made-up word game or a card game of hearts or spades. We used to do this after dinner at home when I was young and I always loved it especially since he was so entertaining. He is famous for never really following the actual written rules and so he would always come up with a much better, more simplified version of whatever it was we were going to play. He even does this when he golfs. It's a typical, fun quirk of his personality. Today, however, he was corrupting the minds of his octagenarian friends on a quiet Quaker Sunday! It was hysterical to watch and now my children and husband were scrambling to find chairs so they could gamble their silly heads off......they were only using pennys, but a lot of them!
I walked further down the hallway to head to my Mom's room where I know I would find my sister pecking and squawking over my Mom like we always do when we gather. I had a moment to quietly reflect over the past few years of my parents' "new" life apart from each other. I gave quiet thanks for the miraculous solution to my parents' previously horrible situation that was spiraling out of control. We had come a loooooooong way since those dark and troubled days. I actually had to stop for a moment and collect myself. I realized that it was 3 years practically to the day that Mom had been abruptly moved into Barclay. We had to separate them for their own safety. It was awful. This was the second time. The first time was to get Dad to realize that he needed to move out of his home and go to a smaller home. That was awful too but we succeeded. The second go 'round was three years ago. I slept in a hotel with Mom that first night right after Christmas when we stole her from Dad in order to keep them safe. It was the only place we could think of that would be handicap accessible. After that, she lived with us for 3 days and then lived with my other sister until a bed became available at Barclay. What a miracle that someone had to die and give up their room in order to save us from our situation. That was 2 days after Mom's birthday. She's a New Year's baby. I stood there realizing that today was the exact day only three years later. Wow.
I hear them cackling and laughing at who just won the hords of pennies for that round of poker. It shakes me back to reality and I again give quiet thanks that my Dad is happily and healthily gambling, on a Sunday, with elderly people and his grandchildren, in the comforts of a Quaker environment!
Later on that week, Mattie announces that she and some friends are going to the community center to play B.I.N.G.O. She said, "Mom, do you know that you can win money?!" She won that night. 85 BUCKS!!! She said that all the old ladies at her table were annoyed with her. Thanks DAD!
I walked further down the hallway to head to my Mom's room where I know I would find my sister pecking and squawking over my Mom like we always do when we gather. I had a moment to quietly reflect over the past few years of my parents' "new" life apart from each other. I gave quiet thanks for the miraculous solution to my parents' previously horrible situation that was spiraling out of control. We had come a loooooooong way since those dark and troubled days. I actually had to stop for a moment and collect myself. I realized that it was 3 years practically to the day that Mom had been abruptly moved into Barclay. We had to separate them for their own safety. It was awful. This was the second time. The first time was to get Dad to realize that he needed to move out of his home and go to a smaller home. That was awful too but we succeeded. The second go 'round was three years ago. I slept in a hotel with Mom that first night right after Christmas when we stole her from Dad in order to keep them safe. It was the only place we could think of that would be handicap accessible. After that, she lived with us for 3 days and then lived with my other sister until a bed became available at Barclay. What a miracle that someone had to die and give up their room in order to save us from our situation. That was 2 days after Mom's birthday. She's a New Year's baby. I stood there realizing that today was the exact day only three years later. Wow.
I hear them cackling and laughing at who just won the hords of pennies for that round of poker. It shakes me back to reality and I again give quiet thanks that my Dad is happily and healthily gambling, on a Sunday, with elderly people and his grandchildren, in the comforts of a Quaker environment!
Later on that week, Mattie announces that she and some friends are going to the community center to play B.I.N.G.O. She said, "Mom, do you know that you can win money?!" She won that night. 85 BUCKS!!! She said that all the old ladies at her table were annoyed with her. Thanks DAD!
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Left Turns
Dad has always had an impeccable driving record. He is probably the only person I know who actually drives the speed limit. ALWAYS. We lived on a long, straight road that had a 25 mph speed limit which was tortuously slow when you were driving with Dad. It was another story when you were driving with Mom. She had a notorious lead foot and so for the longest time I thought that the speed limit on our street was much higher than the posted 25 mph time. Since most of my travels were in the car with Mom, I was always shocked at how painfully slow my father seemed to drive when I finally had to get in the car with him. Somehow this always made him seem so much older than my Mom just because he was driving like a geezer. His motto in life was to avoid any unnecessary exposure at all times which really meant to drive painfully slow and actually stop and look all directions once, twice and one more time before venturing out into more hazardous traffic situations.
I am not really sure when I became aware of Dad's aversion to left turns but I am fairly certain he never liked them. Let me clarify: left turns that did not happen at traffic lights. Come to think of it, I can't say that I have ever seen him make a left turn that would cross him into traffic. In fact, he will go what seems to be miles and miles out of his way to avoid doing this. This can be extremely frustrating for the passenger because you end up taking this obscurely circuitous route around a neighborhood, city or parking lot in order to finally make the safer right hand turn. I never could really understand this and so when I learned to drive, I saw non-traffic-light-left-hand-turns as a huge challenge; a challenge that I successfully, fearlessly, and purposely did just to spite my father.
Fast forward. I am now a parent who has miraculously survived teaching one of my three children how to drive and I am now in the process of teaching the second child (actually, I quit that job because it was causing me to have severe heart trouble so now my husband has that job). How will I ever survive teaching a third? I have now become my father. I get it now, the whole left turn thing. I now know that he was right with his seemingly stupid circuitous routes. It makes sense. Why am I forever morphing into my parents?
She starts the engine and backs out of the driveway, pausing to ask which direction she should go in order to get to our local grocery store. I casually point in the opposite direction from which we normally go and she questions this. "Oh," I say, "I just don't want you to have to make that awful left hand turn across all of that traffic with out a traffic light to help you." Yep, I am my Dad.
I am not really sure when I became aware of Dad's aversion to left turns but I am fairly certain he never liked them. Let me clarify: left turns that did not happen at traffic lights. Come to think of it, I can't say that I have ever seen him make a left turn that would cross him into traffic. In fact, he will go what seems to be miles and miles out of his way to avoid doing this. This can be extremely frustrating for the passenger because you end up taking this obscurely circuitous route around a neighborhood, city or parking lot in order to finally make the safer right hand turn. I never could really understand this and so when I learned to drive, I saw non-traffic-light-left-hand-turns as a huge challenge; a challenge that I successfully, fearlessly, and purposely did just to spite my father.
Fast forward. I am now a parent who has miraculously survived teaching one of my three children how to drive and I am now in the process of teaching the second child (actually, I quit that job because it was causing me to have severe heart trouble so now my husband has that job). How will I ever survive teaching a third? I have now become my father. I get it now, the whole left turn thing. I now know that he was right with his seemingly stupid circuitous routes. It makes sense. Why am I forever morphing into my parents?
She starts the engine and backs out of the driveway, pausing to ask which direction she should go in order to get to our local grocery store. I casually point in the opposite direction from which we normally go and she questions this. "Oh," I say, "I just don't want you to have to make that awful left hand turn across all of that traffic with out a traffic light to help you." Yep, I am my Dad.
Monday, November 23, 2009
The Watercolor Portrait
I am not really sure why but I know this happens to me when I look into the mirror. I see what I want to see and what I see is this: a young women with long ash brown hair, streaked with golden highlights from the sun, that falls below my shoulders. Is it my eyes that deceive me? Is it my brain that deceives me? Is it both? Maybe this is why I am always shocked into reality when I see a current photo of myself. This is what I see: a middle-aged women, who is rapidly and horrifyingly approaching 50, with short silver hair! Oh come on? Who is playing this trick on me?
Now I know why my parents reacted the way they did when they received a watercolor portrait of themselves. A portrait that my oldest sister, who is a talented artist, painted as a gift for them. It really was a great portrait but I am afraid that my parents didn't think so. I remember when they received it, they were speechless. This is something that is not a good sign in our family because usually, or rather rarely ever, are we unable to speak (it's a curse, actually). I don't even think they could say thank you. Instead, they did a curious thing. They hung it up, but not in the right place. They chose a place on the wall outside of the bathroom that was located on the third floor bedroom but by this time it had become an abandoned area of the house. It was a location that had once been alive with activities of my oldest sister since it was her bedroom, then it morphed into Dad's office/guest bedroom, and now, at the time of the portrait, it was not even heated since they shut off all the vents. My sister was crushed, but I get it now. For them the portrait was too real. It wasn't like gazing at yourself in the mirror where you can let your eyes and brain deceive you. It wasn't even like looking at a snapshot where you can reason away any blemishes by blaming the lighting or the angle. There is no deception when you view yourself through the eyes of someone else. That is exactly what happened. My sister captured them so precisely that it horrified them. In fact, it horrified all of us because it was what it was: a portrait of my elderly parents. Why did it take a simple portrait to shake us into this reality? Denial is a funny thing.
I selfishly and vainly wonder how my children view me. My middle daughter is an artist, too. Should I start now by only giving her young looking photos of myself so that when she decides to paint a portrait of me she will be so brainwashed into thinking that I am forever young that she will have no choice but to capture me that way? Not a bad idea but really I'm okay with the notion of her painting me as she would see me (okay, maybe not now because I am not her favorite person at this moment and I know the portrait would be seriously skewed, I may not even have eyes and my mouth might contain fangs!). In fact, I will welcome it......just wait a couple of decades.
Now I know why my parents reacted the way they did when they received a watercolor portrait of themselves. A portrait that my oldest sister, who is a talented artist, painted as a gift for them. It really was a great portrait but I am afraid that my parents didn't think so. I remember when they received it, they were speechless. This is something that is not a good sign in our family because usually, or rather rarely ever, are we unable to speak (it's a curse, actually). I don't even think they could say thank you. Instead, they did a curious thing. They hung it up, but not in the right place. They chose a place on the wall outside of the bathroom that was located on the third floor bedroom but by this time it had become an abandoned area of the house. It was a location that had once been alive with activities of my oldest sister since it was her bedroom, then it morphed into Dad's office/guest bedroom, and now, at the time of the portrait, it was not even heated since they shut off all the vents. My sister was crushed, but I get it now. For them the portrait was too real. It wasn't like gazing at yourself in the mirror where you can let your eyes and brain deceive you. It wasn't even like looking at a snapshot where you can reason away any blemishes by blaming the lighting or the angle. There is no deception when you view yourself through the eyes of someone else. That is exactly what happened. My sister captured them so precisely that it horrified them. In fact, it horrified all of us because it was what it was: a portrait of my elderly parents. Why did it take a simple portrait to shake us into this reality? Denial is a funny thing.
I selfishly and vainly wonder how my children view me. My middle daughter is an artist, too. Should I start now by only giving her young looking photos of myself so that when she decides to paint a portrait of me she will be so brainwashed into thinking that I am forever young that she will have no choice but to capture me that way? Not a bad idea but really I'm okay with the notion of her painting me as she would see me (okay, maybe not now because I am not her favorite person at this moment and I know the portrait would be seriously skewed, I may not even have eyes and my mouth might contain fangs!). In fact, I will welcome it......just wait a couple of decades.
Monday, October 19, 2009
A Perfect Mother's Day Outing
I missed Mother's Day this year due to my studies but I promised my Mom that I would have a late celebration with her once my exams were over. It was a gorgeous spring day and like the early spring plants, I was slowly emerging from being buried. Instead of dirt and rich leaf compost, I was buried in calculations, molecules, entropy, enthalpy, equilibrium, conversions....YUCK! I could hardly wait to live again! I decided to take Mom on a much needed outing to Longwood Gardens. Dad needed a break, Mom needed an outing and I needed to celebrate!
I had already packed our picnic and reminisced about how I used to prepare the same exact things that I used to pack for my kids when they were little: egg salad sandwich cut in 4 rectangular strips for easy handling, juice boxes, grapes and gold fish (and a hidden piece of dark chocolate to satisfy my serious chocolate problem). It really was a glorious spring day. The kind of day that makes you stop and want to take a mental snap shot; robin's egg blue sky, trees bursting with blooms, and green, green grass. I remember as a kid on early spring days like this that I would wonder off by myself into the woods behind our house and scour the area for new growth. Mom was usually out in her garden methodically cleaning out her beds for the coming warm weather sprouts and I was off trying to find the Virginia Bluebells and wild daffodils that were blooming. It was the first true sign of spring for me. Anyway, I knew this day was destined to be a good day.
Mom was already dressed, fed and anxiously awaiting my coming. Luckily I had some one to help me put her in the car (see Transferring Mom to get an idea of how incredibly difficult it is to load her in a car) so we were off in no time. I was able to get her unloaded by myself since gravity was in my favor and we were soon strolling the breathtaking grounds. She was in heaven and so was I. As we strolled, I talked to her sharing my growing horticultural knowledge and she smiled and listened. We touched and sniffed and wondered at the beauty around us. It was so nice but I could tell that she was fading fast and we hadn't eaten lunch yet. For once, my annoyingly voracious need-to-eat-now problem had not reared its head so I had actually lost track of time. Before eating I realized that I needed to take her to the restroom. She was such a good sport as I yanked and hoisted to no avail. It was useless. I just could not do it by myself anymore. I said that I was sorry and she said that it was okay (thank heavens for Depends). We ate in silence as we observed the plants around us. Feeding Mom is usually not a pleasant job but for some reason today she was not coughing and spewing. For a moment my thoughts flashed back to when Mom used to eavesdrop and people watch. It was painful to be with her when she decided to do this. The first thing she would do was to get a funny look on her face. A look that I recognized immediately as her don't-talk-to-me-now-look-because-I'm-eavesdropping-and-people-watching look. Then she would fumble around for her "dark glasses." This was her word for sunglasses but I think she called them dark glasses because she secretly believed they made her invisible or something thus allowing her to unabashedly invade people's space. She would put them on and then turn her head to glare directly at her victims. To make matters worse she would purse her lips and then blatantly continue to glare all being hidden behind her dark glasses. As soon as we would try to snap her out of this embarrassing habit, she would say "Wait a minute, wait a minute I'm listening!"
We finished our lunches and the hidden chocolates and continued to view the gardens as we made our way back to the car. I knew that I was going to need help loading her in the van and fortunately two nice security guards were already anticipating my need. I am obviously easily amused at most anything so naturally I enjoyed myself immensely as I watched these strange men huff, puff and grope my Mom! It really was hysterical and they were such good sports. I took every opportunity to razz them while wiping their brows. It was funny but there was no way I could have done it by myself.
The ever present realities of my mother's aging and deteriorating condition always have a way of working themselves into any picture. For me the reality of not being able to take her on an outing by myself was quite devastating to say the least. I hate it in fact but I am glad to have been able to take her on this last solo outing. It was a nice belated Mother's Day celebration for the both of us. I love you Mom.
I had already packed our picnic and reminisced about how I used to prepare the same exact things that I used to pack for my kids when they were little: egg salad sandwich cut in 4 rectangular strips for easy handling, juice boxes, grapes and gold fish (and a hidden piece of dark chocolate to satisfy my serious chocolate problem). It really was a glorious spring day. The kind of day that makes you stop and want to take a mental snap shot; robin's egg blue sky, trees bursting with blooms, and green, green grass. I remember as a kid on early spring days like this that I would wonder off by myself into the woods behind our house and scour the area for new growth. Mom was usually out in her garden methodically cleaning out her beds for the coming warm weather sprouts and I was off trying to find the Virginia Bluebells and wild daffodils that were blooming. It was the first true sign of spring for me. Anyway, I knew this day was destined to be a good day.
Mom was already dressed, fed and anxiously awaiting my coming. Luckily I had some one to help me put her in the car (see Transferring Mom to get an idea of how incredibly difficult it is to load her in a car) so we were off in no time. I was able to get her unloaded by myself since gravity was in my favor and we were soon strolling the breathtaking grounds. She was in heaven and so was I. As we strolled, I talked to her sharing my growing horticultural knowledge and she smiled and listened. We touched and sniffed and wondered at the beauty around us. It was so nice but I could tell that she was fading fast and we hadn't eaten lunch yet. For once, my annoyingly voracious need-to-eat-now problem had not reared its head so I had actually lost track of time. Before eating I realized that I needed to take her to the restroom. She was such a good sport as I yanked and hoisted to no avail. It was useless. I just could not do it by myself anymore. I said that I was sorry and she said that it was okay (thank heavens for Depends). We ate in silence as we observed the plants around us. Feeding Mom is usually not a pleasant job but for some reason today she was not coughing and spewing. For a moment my thoughts flashed back to when Mom used to eavesdrop and people watch. It was painful to be with her when she decided to do this. The first thing she would do was to get a funny look on her face. A look that I recognized immediately as her don't-talk-to-me-now-look-because-I'm-eavesdropping-and-people-watching look. Then she would fumble around for her "dark glasses." This was her word for sunglasses but I think she called them dark glasses because she secretly believed they made her invisible or something thus allowing her to unabashedly invade people's space. She would put them on and then turn her head to glare directly at her victims. To make matters worse she would purse her lips and then blatantly continue to glare all being hidden behind her dark glasses. As soon as we would try to snap her out of this embarrassing habit, she would say "Wait a minute, wait a minute I'm listening!"
We finished our lunches and the hidden chocolates and continued to view the gardens as we made our way back to the car. I knew that I was going to need help loading her in the van and fortunately two nice security guards were already anticipating my need. I am obviously easily amused at most anything so naturally I enjoyed myself immensely as I watched these strange men huff, puff and grope my Mom! It really was hysterical and they were such good sports. I took every opportunity to razz them while wiping their brows. It was funny but there was no way I could have done it by myself.
The ever present realities of my mother's aging and deteriorating condition always have a way of working themselves into any picture. For me the reality of not being able to take her on an outing by myself was quite devastating to say the least. I hate it in fact but I am glad to have been able to take her on this last solo outing. It was a nice belated Mother's Day celebration for the both of us. I love you Mom.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
When I Get Old...
My mother had an uncanny way of coming out with the most alarming things to say. They were things that would stop you dead in your tracks and make you listen. One of her famous opening lines was this, "When I get old......." Now this is not something a child really wants to hear coming from a parent's mouth because these are the three words that would come to my mind and hang gloomily over my head after she would speak: OLD, DEAD, ORPHAN. I have to say that Mom said this so often that I eventually got used to it and stopped sniffling every time I'd hear the familiar opening phrase. What usually followed the first four words was this: "......when the time comes, I don't want you to feel guilty about having to put me in a nursing home if I need to be in one ."
When Mom first entered Barclay, she had a little bit of trouble adjusting to the fact that this was her new home...for good. I would often visit her and at some point during the visit she would tell me to start packing her things because she was ready to leave now. Oh how painful this was for me to hear. I would take a deep breath and look her in the eye and repeat the phrase that she so often had said to me. Once I was finished, she would look at me and nod and that would be the end of it for that particular visit. This went on for about a year until finally she stopped. It was never easy to tell her that she was staying, but I took comfort in her lingering words ..." don't feel guilty...." I had to keep reminding myself that these were her words and I know she meant it. As shocking as it was to hear when I was younger, I am grateful now for her foresight.
I too have an uncanny way of blurting out things to my children to make them stop dead in their tracks. Unlike my mother, I have a more impish way about me and enjoy tormenting my kids whenever possible. So my opening phrase sounds more like this, "When I die...." Unfortunately, I don't have the same idea as my mother did about releasing my kids from the guilty feelings of having to put me in a nursing home. Instead, I am secretly hoping, that when the time comes, I will have to move in with my middle daughter who just so happens to be named Martha. This is strictly to repay her for all the annoying teenager-y-ness that she has put me through lately. I am also secretly hoping that during this time of feeding and diapering me, her ailing mother (while simultaneously adoring me and telling me how right I was), she will be raising triplet teenage girls! The rest of my phrase is this: "...... I want you to spread my ashes in a beautiful garden." I then go on to remind them not to throw them (me) into the wind because then they will get a mouthful of ashes (me) and that would not be so pleasant. However ridiculous this sounds, I am actually very serious and I think they know this.
As usual, my mother had incredible, unselfish foresight for which I am eternally grateful. Maybe someday when I settle down and stop tormenting my children I will follow in her unselfish behavior but right now I am having waaaaaaaaaaaaaay to much fun!
When Mom first entered Barclay, she had a little bit of trouble adjusting to the fact that this was her new home...for good. I would often visit her and at some point during the visit she would tell me to start packing her things because she was ready to leave now. Oh how painful this was for me to hear. I would take a deep breath and look her in the eye and repeat the phrase that she so often had said to me. Once I was finished, she would look at me and nod and that would be the end of it for that particular visit. This went on for about a year until finally she stopped. It was never easy to tell her that she was staying, but I took comfort in her lingering words ..." don't feel guilty...." I had to keep reminding myself that these were her words and I know she meant it. As shocking as it was to hear when I was younger, I am grateful now for her foresight.
I too have an uncanny way of blurting out things to my children to make them stop dead in their tracks. Unlike my mother, I have a more impish way about me and enjoy tormenting my kids whenever possible. So my opening phrase sounds more like this, "When I die...." Unfortunately, I don't have the same idea as my mother did about releasing my kids from the guilty feelings of having to put me in a nursing home. Instead, I am secretly hoping, that when the time comes, I will have to move in with my middle daughter who just so happens to be named Martha. This is strictly to repay her for all the annoying teenager-y-ness that she has put me through lately. I am also secretly hoping that during this time of feeding and diapering me, her ailing mother (while simultaneously adoring me and telling me how right I was), she will be raising triplet teenage girls! The rest of my phrase is this: "...... I want you to spread my ashes in a beautiful garden." I then go on to remind them not to throw them (me) into the wind because then they will get a mouthful of ashes (me) and that would not be so pleasant. However ridiculous this sounds, I am actually very serious and I think they know this.
As usual, my mother had incredible, unselfish foresight for which I am eternally grateful. Maybe someday when I settle down and stop tormenting my children I will follow in her unselfish behavior but right now I am having waaaaaaaaaaaaaay to much fun!
Friday, September 4, 2009
Bitter Sweet; Not Just Chocolate
This I believe: God created the heavens and the earth in 6 days and on the 7th day He rested......but while He was supposedly resting, He was really creating dark chocolate.....for ME! 70-72% bittersweet, dark creamy heavenly tasting CHOCOLATE. I have stashes of this dark pleasure hiding in various spots around my house so that I can snatch a nibble ( okay, it's more like a chunk) whenever my heart desires. The combination of the mouth watering sweetness followed by the savory bitterness of this wonderful creation is much like the aging process of our loved ones. The sweetness is the easiest part. It's the bitterness that, by itself, is tough to swallow.
I adored my paternal and very British grandmother who teetered around on her skinny bird legs while calling people Daphne Lightheart and Archibald when she couldn't think of their names. When she had to use the restroom she used to say things like, "I've got to go spend a penny!" I spent many hours enjoying her company and her marvelous sense of humor. She was always my room mate when my brother and I would accompany my Dad on his business trips. What an adventure we would have with lots of laughs, pillow fights, good food and just being together. When she grew old she suffered from Alzheimer's. Her sad decline nearly broke my heart. I was truly relieved when she died at the ripe old age of 98 (dear God take me home before that age!).
I remember the bitter day when reality hit me that Grandmom was loosing it. I was with Dad looking at colleges and we had brought Grandmom along for the outing. Dad was so good to bring her along on our little excursions and I really did love having her with us. That particular day she was just not right. She seemed more agitated than her usual jovial British self and she looked disheveled. What was going on? After viewing Gettsyburg College, we set out to find a nice place to eat (always an added bonus on our excursions and really the only reason why I came!). Grandmom was so confused. She kept rattling on about how she couldn't find her car keys and her purse (they were right there on her lap) until finally she burst into tears. My heart nearly broke for my Dad and for my Grandmom. I don't remember the rest of that trip but I do remember that Grandmom was never the same after that. That day was a mix of sweetness with a little too much bitterness.
As I watch my parents grow old, my thoughts are in constant memory mode. Visually, they are just like any other aging parent or grandparent, but then they do something, or say something that gives me a flash of my past and then I am thrust down memory lane when we were all so much younger and so full of life. These are the sweet memories with just a hint, every now and then, of the lingering bitter thought that they are in the last phase of their life. Okay, okay, I know it's depressing but it is reality after all.
I am thankful that, like chocolate, I can wrap up morsels of my memory in a piece of paper and stuff them in the secret hiding places of my brain so that I can easily pull them out when I need quick fixes. MMmmm, sweet with just a hint of bitter. What a perfect combination.
I adored my paternal and very British grandmother who teetered around on her skinny bird legs while calling people Daphne Lightheart and Archibald when she couldn't think of their names. When she had to use the restroom she used to say things like, "I've got to go spend a penny!" I spent many hours enjoying her company and her marvelous sense of humor. She was always my room mate when my brother and I would accompany my Dad on his business trips. What an adventure we would have with lots of laughs, pillow fights, good food and just being together. When she grew old she suffered from Alzheimer's. Her sad decline nearly broke my heart. I was truly relieved when she died at the ripe old age of 98 (dear God take me home before that age!).
I remember the bitter day when reality hit me that Grandmom was loosing it. I was with Dad looking at colleges and we had brought Grandmom along for the outing. Dad was so good to bring her along on our little excursions and I really did love having her with us. That particular day she was just not right. She seemed more agitated than her usual jovial British self and she looked disheveled. What was going on? After viewing Gettsyburg College, we set out to find a nice place to eat (always an added bonus on our excursions and really the only reason why I came!). Grandmom was so confused. She kept rattling on about how she couldn't find her car keys and her purse (they were right there on her lap) until finally she burst into tears. My heart nearly broke for my Dad and for my Grandmom. I don't remember the rest of that trip but I do remember that Grandmom was never the same after that. That day was a mix of sweetness with a little too much bitterness.
As I watch my parents grow old, my thoughts are in constant memory mode. Visually, they are just like any other aging parent or grandparent, but then they do something, or say something that gives me a flash of my past and then I am thrust down memory lane when we were all so much younger and so full of life. These are the sweet memories with just a hint, every now and then, of the lingering bitter thought that they are in the last phase of their life. Okay, okay, I know it's depressing but it is reality after all.
I am thankful that, like chocolate, I can wrap up morsels of my memory in a piece of paper and stuff them in the secret hiding places of my brain so that I can easily pull them out when I need quick fixes. MMmmm, sweet with just a hint of bitter. What a perfect combination.
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