Your Mom

I neglected to get the name of the site where I got this image. Sorry!

It's Mother's Day on Sunday. My first one without my Mom, since she passed away last December.

(frowny face)

So far all the  "First _____ without Mom" events have been bearable. Christmas, My birthday, her wedding anniversary, these things have all come and gone without any--or much--crying.

Whenever I miss her, I'll pull on the woolen poncho she used to wear all the time. (After Mom died, my sister and nearly came to blows to determine which of us would get to keep it. I resorted to bribery.)
It's a bright turquoise poncho in a woven Mexican pattern. The first time I wore it, my husband's flew open and he said something like "Hola muchacha!"  Later at my lovely friend Heather's house, her husband greeted me with "Wow, Jen, where'd you park your burro?"
I mostly wear it around the house now.

Right now, I'm just a little annoyed with myself for forgetting she's gone. While shopping this last week, I caught myself picking up an object and thinking "Wow. I should get this for Mom."
And then I remembered she's dead and I get peeved. I mean, there's all this knowledge about the stuff she likes that I don't need anymore, but can't forget.

Like a month after leaving a job, I still remembered where the matches were kept in the bathroom (for No. 2 aromas), and the name of the office network server, plus the spiel I had to unroll each time I answered the phone all day. It was just taking up brain space that I could have used for better things, like composing wittier hate mail to the old boss.

Anyway. In addition to the phantom gift shopping, frequently there have been times where I'm merely reminded that she's gone and my nose will get all out of joint. I'll see her favorite Werther's butterscotch candies and pout. I'll see an Oprah magazine in the checkout line and get grumpy that I won't be able to borrow her copies anymore. I'll flip past QVC while channel surfing and remember how much she used to enjoy ordering a ring or bracelet. I almost cried in a doctors waiting room because the Ellen Degeneres Show was on and for a split second I thought we were sitting in her kitchen watching together . Great. Now I'm ruined for watching Ellen. Thanks a lot for dying, Mom. Sheesh.

Recently, a friend mentioned she was going to Easter dinner at her mother's.
I did a double take, and then had this fleeting thought: "Oh yeah. Some people still have a mother."

That sounds maudlin, but really I just forget, and "reverse deja vu" happens, where it's so jarring to remember what used to be normal, but isn't anymore.

I told a friend about how I wear Mom's poncho sometimes to feel closer to her. My friend got a sweet "aaaaww" face and said "That's nice. Does it still smell like her?"
Smiling, I replied, "Thankfully, no."

This Mother's day I plan to lounge on the couch with the poncho draped over me and wrapped around my children snuggling up to either side. While they watch cartoon network, I'll close my eyes and feel the fabric wound around us, imagining we're in Mom's comforting arms, as I remember them from when I was a kid, when her body was still full and soft and warm.

It's BIG, isn't it?

Christian much?

Actually three inches tall! Total bling.


Below is a copy of the eulogy I wrote and read at my Mom's memorial service. I've edited a bit, to shape and polish the writing from what I read that night. I was still working on it in the car on the way to the memorial, and it still needed some final touches.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cross pictured above comes with a funny story.

Mom wore a jeweled cross for a long time, up until about two hours
after her death. I kept noticing it over and over when she was in the
hospital, and later when I helped Bob, Margie and Becky Strouse care
for Mom during her last week on Earth.

It’s been three years since I gave my life to Jesus, which I did
mostly because I was doing a horrible job of running my life on my
own. Although I'd never seen her read the Bible, Mom usually wore a
cross, so I figure she believed...something. But still I never really
talked with her about my new direction in life. I got
the feeling she thought Christians were just a little misguided, or
narrowly focused. I was a little embarrassed anyway, since it seemed
so…uncool.

Plus, it’s hard to talk over Mom's TV, which she kept at full volume.
And who can compete with the Food Channel?

This last time she was in the ER, I stood next to her bed. For hours
she sat hunched over, her arms limp, hands in her lap. She kept her
eyes closed except to give the stink eye to anyone who came in to
get blood or adjust her BiPap breathing mask. She didn’t speak much
except to restate "I want to go home," as if I hadn't heard already. When she first got there, she spit it out like a command. Two hours later it was like an exasperated sigh. Two more hours and it was a whimper.

I never knew if she meant her home in Spring Mills, or her post-corporeal Home with God. She always referred to dying a "Going Home."

At one point when I was alone in the room, I began to pray out loud,
but quiet, in case she wasn’t too happy with Jesus at that moment. She
was already grouchy as a bear. It had been a long time since I’d
prayed over her. I watched her cross necklace abruptly rise with her
chest as the Bipap machine pushed oxygen in, and then drop as the
machine sucked out co2. I kept wondering what that cross symbolized
for her. Was it just pretty, or did she love Jesus?

A day or two before she died I was reading out loud to her from a
Marianne Williamson book, which was a huge relief from the insipid mystery novel she had all of us reading to her. (Becky thought Mom just wanted to finish it before she died).

She stopped me with a wave of her hand and asked if we could pray for some people. I held her hand and closed my eyes. She began wheezing a short prayer for each member of her family and some friends before falling asleep again. I thought it so like her: she couldn’t walk or stand, and could barely breathe but she was pouring out prayers for the ones she loved.

December 4, 2010, the night she died, I arrived at 7 pm to sit with her so Bobby could
get some sleep. Although in a hurry to get to the bathroom, Bob paused
by her bed to touch her hand and say ‘I love you’. I went over to the
bed to let her know I was there to take over for Bobby. I leaned over her, to hear any whispered request for water or milk. I did a breathing check, like I always did when I saw her asleep, but she was not moving. She had color and her hand was warm, but she was gone.
Bob’s last words to her had been ‘I love you.’
Mine had been “Hi, mom, you want some milk?”

After everyone had been contacted, we waited around for the nurse to
come verify her death. I sat slouched in her wheelchair and watched her
color gradually fade into the pallor of a yellow wax bean. This caused
the cross to stand out brighter in contrast. Her last few weeks I had
reassured myself that she was alive by checking for its movement in
time with her ragged breath. Its stillness was unexpectedly jarring.

I spent a lot of the first couple days grieving by cruising Amazon.com
for a cross necklace to remember her by. I know, forcing myself to
shop sounds like agony beyond imagination, but I managed to endure.
(That was sarcasm.)

The cross in the above picture sang to me. Delicate silver vines entwine the
open filigree cross, supporting sparkling crystal flowers. It looks
nothing like mom's but I loved it way beyond any of the hundreds of
crosses I viewed.

I ordered this from amazon.com two days after Mom died.

When it arrived I opened the box, and pulled out a navy velvet
drawstring pouch. You know, I should have realized by the size of the
drawstring pouch that I was in for a surprise.

I pulled it out and busted up laughing. It was indeed the same
beautiful cross I’d wanted, but it was so ginormous that it was gaudy.
It was so like her, sweet and sparkling with light, but not so tasteful as to be boring.

I love her.

I miss her.

But when I see the big honkin cross, I’m going to smile for her.

I doubt I'll find out why wearing the cross was important to her. But its constant home on her chest reminded me that He was with both of us as she struggled down her path leading Home.

The morning of the Memorial Service my dear friend Kim sent me an email to comfort me today especially, because of the Memorial. I thought it sounded like just the advice Mom might give, back in the day:

"Tonight let yourself be wrapped in the love of all those who join
you--love for your mother and love for you. This may be an odd way to
think about it, but when mourning I try to see my grief as a very
precious thing that I metaphorically just hold in my hand and sit
with. Sometimes it means I sob and sometimes I laugh and sometimes I
just remember, but I always try to do so with the greatest respect for
the love we shared and the loss I feel. I hope you have a blessed
day."

Space for rent. Joking.

Betty Lee Rodgers, 1939-2010

Hello to all my (two) followers!

I bet you're asking: "When are you actually going to POST?"
It would have been sooner, but lots of death got in the way. (Cue dramatic music.)

Mom died Dec. 4, 2010, after a roller coaster three weeks of being almost dead then coming back to life stronger and then declining again into a miserable death. She'd been sick forever, but that made it all the more strange when she actually died, instead of rallying like she usually did.
Then a dear friend died three weeks later. He had also been sick for awhile, so that was not a surprise, either.
But even when death is expected, it's still not fun when it shows up.
It's like I ran a marathon and tripped into a face-plant across the finish line. I'm relieved to stop running, but I'm now face-down in the dirt.

It's been a few months, now.
I'm pretty sure I'm in the "Eeyore" stage of grieving. (I mope a lot.)
But not as much as I'd thought, which is confusing.

I'm confused because losing my Mom was not the experience I thought it would be. I anticipated different feelings, fewer self-revelatory surprises that I wish I'd figured out earlier. Nothing feels "right" so I might as well not expect anything to be that way.

So now, I'm winging it. I am blessed that I have time and space to do that.
Thanks for all the great people who have comforted me.
Soon I'll post my eulogy that I read at Mom's memorial, there have been some requests for it.
I want to end on a happy note, but if I wait for a great quip to emerge from my mind, it will further delay this posting.
So, a cliched reassurance for all (two) of you: I am truly fine, just passing through a storm, learning to dance in the rain.
(That last part is from a plaque in my bathroom. I stare at it a lot.)

Headline: Area Woman Destroyed Anniversary, Now Destroys Gift

 The MoMA Design Store Square Ribbon Vase, by American designer Peter Hewit - 

Photo from home-decor.hsn.com

“Honey, I’ve got some bad news…No, no.  I just…um…accidentally broke THE Vase.”  I said. I pressed one palm against my bucking heart, while the other one sweat all over the phone.

We have many vases, but there's just one that would merit such a nervous confession.

I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for my husband's response. When I accidentally dropped and broke the plate that rotates in the microwave, he was Not Happy, and that thing wasn't emotionally charged at all.

THE Vase has been a sore spot between me and My Patient Husband (MPH) for ten years. It was his  present to me for our 5th Anniversary. Back then, MPH would attempt to choose gifts for me without my “help,” (read: explicit instructions.) I like anniversary gifts that are expensive and flashy, or lacking that, thoughtful enough to show the he pays a suitable amount of attention to me. Yes, I'm as shallow as a kiddie pool.

THE Vase he got for me was not flashy.  It was thoughtful, and a bit expensive, but those facts were woefully hidden in a crappy-looking box.

My face tends to telegraph my moods, which paired with my minuscule capacity for tact, leads to an inability to hide what I really think. What my face doesn't say, my foot will provide on it's way to my mouth. Whatever my face was doing as I pulled off the wrapping paper, it was not good.  I couldn’t hide the disappointment. Then, quickly, MPH couldn't hide his either. It all went in the hand basket then.

"But wait! What the **** was wrong with it," You ask?

One problem. Okay, four.  

First, it was still in its box with a really sucky photo of it on the cardboard. It looked to me like he'd picked it up on clearance at a grocery store, inexpensively. Not Anniversary material.

The second problem was that I pulled out of that box a minimalist glass vase consisting of two nine inch squares of thick tempered glass with a thick metal ribbon sandwiched between them in the shape of a round vessel. (See picture above, imagine it without the tulip) It was heavier than our unabridged dictionary and it looked very…masculine.  Not pretty, not flashy. It was understated, elegant in its precise geometric simplicity, and somehow monolithic, despite being only nine inches high. Even when I carefully set it down, it made a loud thunk.  It was a man's vase. (My apologies to the designer, Peter Hewit, I really tried to like it!)

Third, since I assumed he bought it at whatever store was closest (we lived in Chicago at the time and he rarely ventured into the city) I had no idea he had (thoughtfully) taken the train all the way downtown to browse the gift shop of the Museum of Contemporary Art (I loved this gift shop! The museum wasn't too shabby either.)

The Fourth problem was that THE Vase was still in the box, meaning it did not contain flowers! Now, you may be saying to yourself "that's a Glass Half-Full situation." To your face, I would agree with you.  But inside I'd be shouting: "B.S.! That Glass is Half-Empty!"

Buying the flowers was the whole point in the first place! (Would he give me an empty ring box next? Take me to a closed restaurant?) I assumed because THE Vase was itself the gift, it'd be awhile before he'd work up more money to put something in it. This postponed indefinitely any ability to boast of my romantic husband with 'frequent flower miles.' Har-dee-har.

THE Vase was actually quite beautiful once it had flowers in it. But, if I had just received it in a shopping bag with the museum’s name on it, that alone might have restrained my face before it let rip its first impression.

How was I supposed to know he put all that effort and expense into the gift when the clues were all missing?

That was my defense, which I held onto, and reiterated, all these years, whenever the vase was either brought out to use, or mentioned in therapy.

A better question would have been: "How could I NOT see how obnoxious and bratty I was being?"
Or, “How could I still doubt he really loves me?”
Followed by: “How much proof will ever be enough?"

Yes, yes, a price tag is not a reasonable measure of one's worth. It's immature and hurtful.
But as my friend David said once while reflecting on some of his personal faults, “We are...what we are.”  Then he shrugged his shoulders, letting them speak the question:  “What can you do?"

Some part of me will always crave big gestures as proof of his love, and another part will be ashamed that I still want them.  And a third part of me will always enjoy fart jokes. (My shoulders repeat the question: “what can you do?”)

What can you do when you struggle with a selfish, ungrateful heart which you have no idea how to fix, you just know it's hurting? Isn't the affection of a husband supposed to take away that gnawing fear that you're unlovable and not worth much?

What can you do when your wife judges the depths of your love by the amount of money you're willing to spend on her, against your better judgment? Did I mention my husband is patient?
(I still say “a waste of money” is in the eye of the beholder.) 

My Patient Husband's response to hearing that I'd destroyed THE Vase was that he understood it was not intentional, and he wasn’t upset. If I remember right, he seemed amused at how anxious I had been.

It had not broken, really. The glue holding it together melted in the dishwasher. I was trying to be a good wife by cleaning the indestructable green scum I had let form on the inside by leaving the latest anniversary flowers sit in it until they were withered, brown and moldy.  THE Vase fell into pieces in my hands.
You know...microwave plates, flower vases...perhaps I shouldn't do dishes anymore, since I am now The Destroyer.

You bet your sweet keister I'm relieved it broke, but staring at its parts on the counter, I was surprised how little victory I felt. I outlived it, I ought to be dancing on it's grave. But like a dark amulet, when it broke, my bad feelings evaporated. The fight is over, long past. I no longer need to pretend I'm gracious by bringing it out, dusting it off and hiding it under a bunch of pretty flowers. Thank God the things of this world are temporal.

Now I breathe easier, smile faster and hug longer, which seems to inspire MPH to do the same. If only we'd had a dishwasher ten years ago.