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Show STREA MOFC ONSC IOUSN Ss Suddenly, after living in limbo for 6 weeks, it was clear that this diagnosis was taking our family to places from where we would never return. Caretaking had flip-flopped. A word I had only understood the meaning of two winters earlier as my grandmother was dying; I hadn't anticipated intimate acquaintance with it for decades. Maybe never, in the statistically unlikely event that my family would be blessed with future absence of disease. I knew at that moment I would never again be able to turn to this parent for the same level of support, reassurance and verification that I had counted on for my entire existence. (I think that's called growing up but damned if I am ready for it, even now.) The table of our relationship was turned, the die was cast and I was up. I felt exceedingly ill-prepared. While caretaking and parenting are not the exactly same thing, there are uncomfortably high degrees of similarity. To trade places with a parent and become the source of strength, the pillar of reassurance, and the decision-maker is disconcerting, to say the least. It is, I suppose, an inevitable part of life for most of us. We begin life relying on our arents and we end it relying on our children, if we have them. I think I realized the helplessness a parent can feel, because the one thing I wished more than anything - to know that my mother would smite her cancer in its tracks and live a long and healthy life - was beyond my power. There was nothing I could do but support her. I have had ample opportunity in the intervening years to second-guess and regrade myself on my performance as caretaker of my mother. Not surprisingly I tend to fall short. I have renewed appreciation of the parenting she did of my sister and me. It never seemed unsure, and whether we agreed with her or not, there was security and consistency in the decisions she made. I wish I'd had that confidence, or at least the appearance of it, when it was my turn. (Lest you think I am deluding myself by elevating my mother to some pedestal, let me assure you that for at least a third of my life I was convinced she was completely biased towards my sister, never saw things my way, and in general just wanted to make my life miserable. Imagine my surprise when I discovered, several years ago, that my sister felt exactly the same way about how she was treated...) By Anne Wilson Remembering My mother was, in my eyes at least, successful in what society would call her career - Each year at this time I am drawn to write that on an early May morning, as spring co-creator of a non-profit educational organization and its director for a number of years. began drawing its first truly robust breath, my mother's slight breath became her last. Her six-month “battle” with cancer over, without fanfare, surprisingly quickly. The sun seemed to take forever to rise that day, yet too quickly to prepare for the telling, the arranging, the getting ready for spending the rest of life without her. Eight springs later, not a day has I find it easy, too easy in fact, to wish for what might have been; and one of those wishes is that she had more time explore that aspect of her life, to use her many talents in new passed when she has not been in my thoughts. way. The metaphor of changing seasons and the cycle of life is especially poignant for me since then; the warm glow of red tulips, the heady scent of lilacs, the cheeriness of daffodils, remind me not just of rebirth, but also of futile efforts to hold death at bay. Toward the end of April, my mother could not spend much time outside so we kept her room filled with these reminders of life. With spring riding in on the back of a gentle breeze through a cracked window, we hoped to keep her with us a while longer. Iam moved to write about my experience with loss because this spring there seems to be more of it than is ‘normal’ in our community. Most are people I do not know, but whose faces I recognize; a few are people I wish I had known better. I mostly think about how death and dying changes our lives, and I think of the families who are left behind. I remember the special realm through which families pass with diagnoses of terminal illness or degenerative disease. Intimate knowledge of tests, procedures, drugs and chemicals that were heretofore gibberish. Personal acquaintances with hospital staff for whom you thank God, but wish circumstance had not brought into your life in this manner. Living for the here and now, but dealing with insurance companies and medical bills into eternity. And so much in between. Finally, coming out the other side...scarred, but standing. Lest you thinkI am completely maudlin and hopeless from the get-go, (I must always add my caveat) let me remind you of two things. First, grief is a different experience for everyone, and it is different each time you go through it. Second, what does not break you makes you stronger. I think mostly of happy times with my mother; I remember her rimarily as a vibrant, captivating person and a-wonderful mom. I do not wallow in my loss...but it does sneak up out of nowhere and assault me upon occasion. We are too young to be without our mothers,” a friend told me just after my mother died. I was in my early twenties, just beginning to know my mother as a friend. New to my loss, living on a temporary high that can follow what I have heard termed a “life changing experience”, I philosophically agreed. At thirty-one, beginning my fourth decade, well-acquainted with my loss, realizingI will not “get over” this grief, my response is more elemental. I just want my mother back. I miss what I no longer have; I long for what I never had a chance to experience. I first realized that our lives and our relationship were irrevocably changed - whatever the outcome - just after my mother's first dose of chemotherapy. It was some whopping cocktail I swore I would never forget the name of; it took the starch right out of her...just as she was gaining strength after a surgery. She was resting on the couch, the bleak warmth of winter sun slanting through the window and across the floor. Her dog, Jessie, was lying at her feet, nose glumly resting on front paws; she was as close as she could get without being a lap dog. Out of the blue, fear coursed through me. ways. I don't know that she would feel that same melancholy because she was not a person who wasted time wishing for what was not. She was exceptionally pragmatic that "We are too young to lose our mothers," a friend told me just after my mother died. ] was in my early twentics, just beginning to know my mother as a friend. At thirty-one, well-acquainted with my loss, realizing I will not "get over" this grief. my response is more elemental. I just want my mother back. : In addition to that career, she was always a daughter, too briefly in her adult life a wife and, always, always, our mother. For this I feel fortunate. It took’her fifteen years of concerted effort to mold my recalcitrance into willingness, obstinance into cooperation, and deafness into responsiveness. (My sister, of course, was perfect.) However, she did more than that. One of the most amazing things she did was to let go of us, with the appearance of ease. My mother, (and father) equipped my sister and me with the skills to take care of ourselves and then, by god, they let us! (I took this for granted for many years, until I realized how many parents are incapable of doing it, although I believe it is the essence of their “job”.) A particular form this took was my mother's remarkable capability that enabled her, once I began not only taking but asking her advice, to stop giving it. It was a most frustrating characteristic. The first time I became ill after leaving for college I called her, from Massachusetts, to see if I was sick enough to skip class. “Tell me what to do, “ I begged, not faking even the tiniest bit. I was certain she would be flattered. “That's a decision you have to make, lovey,” she cheerily replied, exhibiting not one iota of concern about my health. “I need to go change sprinklers.” There were gifts in her illness - small ones - but you look for anything you can find. There was the chance to say all the things you'd want to have said if someone dropped dead in front of you. There was the opportunity to spend six months together, after being away at college for four years. Having that “quality time” was truly something for which I am thankful. Some people might call that a Pollyanna view and scoff that it is no consolation. My response is that we did not get a choice and I am therefore appreciative of the small blessings it came with. There are not many of us who live our lives as if each { day might be our last - even though we should. RENTALS SALES SERVICE K, le: Here's the cM oab Beisiiceess out Employees = e te |