It's a Funny Thing About Dying

Mom
Photo taken at my
nephew's wedding.

"It's a funny thing about dying," my mom said to me from her new Lazy Boy recliner as we sat watching the Hallmark Channel on the big-screen television in her room at the assisted living center. She'd been living at Lavender Hills for two months or so, needing the extra hospice care that none of us kids -- not even my brother the doctor and his wife the nurse -- could safely provide any longer.

"Well, this is gonna be a fun conversation," I thought wryly to myself.

"How so?" I asked Mom, turning to face her as nonchalantly as possible. It was the first time she'd broached the subject of her dying in such a matter-of-fact way, and I wanted to give her a chance to complete her thought. I was also curious to know what could be so funny about...dying.

"Well," she said, "You know how sometimes people who are OLD [Mom never considered herself to be OLD, even though she was 92] or really SICK [She didn't consider herself to be sick, either, though her list of ailments and medications was on the impressive side] sometimes say things like 'Why am I still here?' or 'Why can't I just go?' or 'When is this going to be over?'"

"Yes?" I responded.

"NOT ME!" she exclaimed vehemently, and then she gave me one of her biggest, spunkiest smiles. We laughed together. We loved laughing together. My mother was a fighter, a survivor. But that most unnatural of things, separation, was nearing inexorably.

Three weeks later, she was gone. Inexplicably, confoundingly, absolutely gone.

It's a hard thing to lose your mother. I was, surprisingly, completely unprepared for what it would feel like, the sense of loss and longing and cut-off-ness. It took me off-guard, and I am utterly bereft in a way that is surreal. A shock to my system.

My mother was a force to be reckoned with, but my brothers and I knew that she was hopelessly devoted to us. Naturally, I was her favorite. Well, I was her favorite daughter (and signed my cards to her that way). My older brother was also her favorite. And so was my younger brother. She loved us deeply and completely, but quietly. She was always supportive of us, even if she disagreed absolutely with what we were doing or saying or...thinking. She seemed always to know what I was thinking! And maybe that was because she saw a lot of herself in me.

Mom was a wise and caring person who offered an opinion when asked but didn't impose her considerable will on others. Her advice was grounded in Scripture and based on long years of experience and observation. I can't say it was always perfect, but I can say I did better when I heeded it than when I didn't.

Mom was kind, and she was gentle (in an Italian sort of way), and she was fun. She was a devoted wife and a loving mother and a proud grandma and a caring friend. Her smile lit up the room, and her laugh was infectious. She believed in the goodness of God and in His care and concern for those she loved. He was her rock and her strength. She found peace in Him that carried her through the many years of her life, in the good times and in the not-so-good times.

I miss her. I will miss her until I see her again. That's the hope I have, and that's why I don't grieve in the same way as those who have no hope. I know she's having the time of her life in the presence of the Lord. I know that my Redeemer lives. And because He lives, she lives. And so will I.

Rest in peace, Mommy. I love you. (And I can almost hear her whisper, as she did the last time I saw her, "I love you, too.")

Other posts about Mom:  If Mama Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy;  For Mom

Our Home

Sometimes I look around me, and I think of all my problems. Perhaps some of you are the same way. Today, though, I look around me, and I think of all my blessings.

For instance, our house. 32 years ago, we purchased this property. It was way above our price point. Compared to the other properties we were looking at, well, there was no comparison. It needed nothing. It was so much more than we thought we could afford. But our agent (Thank you, Mike Pingatore) reassured us. He said it was a distress sale, and the owners had already moved out of state. Why not make a ridiculous offer? So we did.

And you know what? We got the house! I was pregnant with twins, and we had a little son already. There was a nursery, wallpapered and ready (and with a beautiful water view). There was a boy's room, and a girl's room. Our furniture fit, and the colors worked. It was perfect for us.

I remember the first time I walked in. I thought to myself, and said to Mike, "Mike, what the heck are you thinking?! We can't afford this!" Compared to the other homes we had seen, this one was a mansion. A house with a view, even.

And when we got the key, I sank to my knees on the thick carpeting in the living room, and I thanked God for His favor. I dedicated each room to Him. I'm pretty sure no home was ever more thankfully received.

And now, 32 years later, I still thank Him. We raised our children here, and we spent most of our married life here, and this home has been a blessing. It has been a place where people are welcomed. A place to relax, to have fun, to mingle. A place to enjoy...just being. To be with others and to be alone, yet not alone.

So, thank you, God. Thank you for blessing us, for blessing our lives, and for walking with us each step of the way. You are awesome; and, really, I don't know what we would do without your presence in our lives and in our home. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I Know What You Did

People are creatures of habit, and folks have a tendency to sit in the same pews [or chairs] each week at church. People sometimes ask other people to move so they can sit in "their" places. But that fine display of hospitality isn't what this post is about.

There are a couple of neat things about claiming a seat as your own. First, it makes it easier for the pastor to know who's missing. If you scoot all over the room, he or she might not notice for several weeks that you've been playing hooky. That may or may not be a good thing.

For instance, you'll probably be offended when nobody notices you're missing until you've been gone for a month or longer. To call you, or not to call you? That is the question. Because you'll probably feel controlled and be offended that you can't even be gone for a couple of weeks without creating an international incident or something. But this post isn't about being offended, either.

The other fabulous thing about claiming a seat as your own is that it makes it easier for the person who straightens up the auditorium (me) to know who it was that left used tissues on the floor, empty candy wrappers and unread bulletins in the seat-back pockets, sticky chewing gum under the seats, and almost-empty coffee cups leaking on the carpeting. But you'll be relieved to know that I'm not gonna call you out.

That's right, you (and you know who you are) are forgiven. Next Sunday, though, it would be so great if you could clean up the area around "your" seat. The person who straightens up the auditorium would really appreciate it. Thank you. You're awesome!

My Life Was Normal Once

So, I was cleaning up some files at work today. At the back of a drawer, I found a folder that contained some personal stuff, some business stuff, and some combination stuff. Including an appointment calendar from 2005. I know, right? Throw that thing out, for crying out loud!

But, wait:  2005. That was the year we went to New Orleans at Mardi Gras, and then we went to Aruba for the first time, and then we went to Houston and embarked on our first Caribbean cruise. There were also personal milestones of others which are their stories to share but helped make up the rich tapestry of that year. So, why did I hang onto this relic of memories past? I think it must have been so I wouldn't forget how tenuous "normal" can be.

You see, in 2005, my life was just about perfect. In fact, I remember thinking to myself that life was beautiful, and I couldn't imagine it getting better. You know that advice older people give you about doing things while you can and not putting everything off until retirement? Well, that's what we were starting to do.

And then, maybe a year later, things just didn't seem right with my husband. We attributed it to exhaustion, overwork, and so on. I'm sure most people do that. It was hard for his work to get done on time and with excellence. He was working ridiculous hours, leaving home at 6 a.m. and sometimes not returning until after midnight. I started helping him with his spreadsheets and reports, because he was so busy and working such long hours. In retrospect, I was helping to cover for him, to help him get by. He only had a few years to go before retirement.

And then he lost his job. It became obvious to others that his memory wasn't what it used to be. That he was having trouble picking up conversations where they'd left off. That he was repeating himself and asking questions over and over. And we began the testing process. The rest, as they say, is history.

All of that to say, your life as you know it could go on and on swimmingly until you someday ride off into the sunset with your love by your side, having lived, shall we call it, a "charmed" existence. Or, the fairy tale could be over tomorrow. Pack as much gusto as you can into today. You know that advice I was talking about a couple of paragraphs ago? Just do it.

You Complicate My Life

Much is written in "self-help" blogs, articles, Facebook posts, and tweets about getting the negativity...especially negative people...out of our lives. This concept seems a little cold to me. Selfish, even. After all, aren't we supposed to be a positive influence on others? Won't they then snap out of their negativity and thank us forever?

At any rate, I've been preparing a little speech for "cutting people loose," just in case I ever get to the point that air is being sucked out of the room faster than sunshine can warm the atmosphere. Or whatever. Here it is, in rough cut form:

"[insert name of person], I'm trying to simplify my life. You complicate it, so we're not a good fit. I'm releasing you so you can feel free to pursue other friendship options."

What do you think? No, no. Of course I don't mean YOU. Silly. Because so far, everyone -- absolutely everyone -- I've tried it out on, even though I was clearly reading it from a piece of paper, and even after making it clear I was only rehearsing, has been under the misconception that I was directing my comments "for real." Just making sure there's no misunderstanding between us. You're awesome.

The Gosnell Trial and the Politics of Death

By now, I hope you've heard about the murder trial of abortionist Kermit Gosnell in Pennsylvania. The jury is out for deliberations, and there are lots and lots of charges upon which they must base their decisions. First-degree murder charges, third-degree murder charges, medical malpractice, illegal abortions, and so on. If you haven't heard about it, please check out the Wikipedia entry, or lifenews.com, or a number of other places. That'll keep you busy for a while, I'm sure, as it's fascinating, riveting, and repulsive reading. It'll no doubt become the subject of a based-on-reality motion picture, because you can't make this stuff up. That's the background scenario for this blog entry, but Gosnell isn't the subject of it.

While you can't automatically believe everything you read on the internet (and shouldn't without checking it out...even this blog), there are some truths that are self-evident. First, there is the truth that politicians often speak extemporaneously to their detriment and ridicule. Second, there is the truth that some political positions are held with a zeal generally reserved for religious dogma. 

Take, for instance, "reproductive health for women." Let's not hide behind euphemisms, shall we? "Reproductive health for women" means "a woman's right to choose." Oh, golly. Another euphemism. To choose what? The extremely short-term destiny of a "fetus." And what is a "fetus"? Why, lo and behold, it is a "baby." Medical science is making amazing strides at heroically saving the lives of babies born way, way ahead of schedule. To moms who want them, that is. The others are apparently discarded with the trash or flushed down toilets or saved in drink containers for some reason.

Yesterday, we had Senator Barbara Boxer (D - CA) saying something like "the 'problems' at the Gosnell clinic are really no different than the problems at any other clinic." (Here's a link.) If that is the case, close them all down. Now. Please.

Today, we have Representative Nancy Pelosi (D - CA), who can generally be counted on to fall on the "pro-choice" side, along with Sen. Boxer, saying something like "It [Gosnell trial scenario] is really disgusting, and when we talk about reproductive health for women, that's not what we're talking about." (Here's a link. With video.)

Really? Enlighten me. If Gosnell's "disgusting" abortion practice isn't what you're talking about when you talk about "reproductive health for women," what ARE you talking about? Because Barbara Boxer says the problems there are no different than the problems at any other clinic. Perhaps you two ladies should look at the pictures from the Gosnell trial and have a heart-to-heart over a nice cup of tea. Maybe you could remind each other that 1,200,000 American babies (disproportionately minority children, by the way) are sacrificed at the altar of abortion every year. It's a staggering number, isn't it? Let's all wring our hands at the gun violence in our country while embracing a culture of death and violence to pre-born (and apparently born-alive, too) children and their mothers. And then we can all sing "Kum-ba-yah" around the campfire and tell ourselves how progressive we are.

It takes a lot of soul-searching and truth-seeking (and embracing) and mind- (and heart) changing to admit we've been going down the wrong road, to break free of a strong delusion. And the delusion that abortion actually helps women and children, that it must be defended at all costs and at all stages, is a very strong one.

Remember the slogan "Every child a wanted child"? Abortion was supposed to help the plight of poor women. It was supposed to ensure that every child was loved and cared for. It was supposed to reduce violence against women. Ha.

Lies. All lies. The sacrifices at the altar of abortion perpetuating a culture of death. Ask yourself:  Is there less child abuse and neglect now than there was 40 years ago? Are women safer now than we were 40 years ago? And how about women living in poverty? Are there fewer of those than there were 40 years ago?

If you've had an abortion, I am not judging you. It's okay to admit you were wrong, or coerced (lots of women and girls are), or not thinking straight because you were panicking. It's okay to admit you've been hurt by abortion. It's okay to stop telling yourself it was okay, too. And it's okay to seek help to ease your pain (type "help for post-abortive women" in your search box for lots of options). I know there are moms out there who don't regret their abortions one bit and would do it all over again. I think they are also operating under a strong delusion.

As the President of the United States has said, "if there's even one life that can be saved, then we have an obligation to try." But he was referring to lives lost in gun violence rather than lives lost through abortion violence. Those, according to his voting record, he's apparently okay with. I'm not.

Fathers and Daughters

Today, my husband and I went to see the new Clint Eastwood movie, "Trouble With the Curve." It's about a father and daughter, and baseball, and a lot of other stuff that's part of life. The thing that struck me, though, was this:  The dialog between the father and daughter -- the misunderstandings, the rejections, the misfired attempts at reconciliation -- hit so close to home.

By the time of my father's passing, the two of us had been good friends for years. But there were lots of occasions during my teen and early adult years when we couldn't say anything to each other without somebody being offended, or somebody's feelings being hurt, or a door being slammed (okay, it was my door being slammed).

Maybe it was that he still thought of me as "his little girl," while I thought of him as "that old guy who just doesn't understand how things are in today's world and wants to stop me from having fun." I guess we were both right, in a way. I was still a girl, immature, but I felt like a grown-up. And he was an old guy, but he was a lot more in touch with reality than I gave him credit for. He was just so stubborn! And so was I. We had a lot of things in common, and that was just one of them.

And so do my husband and "his little girl," our daughter. Only she isn't little anymore. She's an adult. They are both opinionated and sometimes unmeasured. They both say things that are a bit brash without meaning to offend or inflict pain. He says something offhand to her, and she leaves the room, feelings bruised. She makes a casual remark to him, and he turns surly and gruff.

You know, I think it's part of the separation process that has to happen so there can maturing and self-sufficiency and independence. And then, before you know it and without quite understanding what caused it, you find that place where you can meet in equality, respect, and mutual affection. Hopefully, it happens while there is still time to enjoy the wonderful relationship that develops as a result. I'm sure glad it happened for me and my dad. Perhaps that's why he lived to be 94. Maybe he was hanging around to see what kind of woman I would become. Thanks, Dad! I know it couldn't have always been easy to be my parent.