Reflections on my First Year as an Orphan

Photo by: Shawn Nix, 2010


Today is a hard day. It's the first anniversary of my mother's death. As I sit back on reflect on the many things my mother wasn't here for this year, my heart swells with grief.

She missed my son's wedding and the happiness of family. She missed my daughter, her youngest grandchild's high school graduation. She missed the birth of my sister's first grandchild. She missed the announcement that this year my son will become a father. She missed holidays and phone calls and conversations where more times than I can count I reached for the phone only to remember there is only silence where once there was advice and love.

I try not to count the things I miss. The sound of her voice. The smell of her perfume. The way she pursed her mouth when I did something incredibly stupid. The tightness of her arms around my waist. (She was only 4'10"; I'm 5'5".)

It's only after I indulge in my pity party that begin to ruminate on what I feel she has gained, despite my soul numbing pain.

She's no longer a slowly decaying mind trapped in a rapidly failing body. She's no longer alone; my father having died in 1992. Most of her friends have already passed as well (Mom was 94 when she died), so she has plenty of friends to talk with, and family who'd gone on before. Finally, I know she is with our Lord, watching over her family to let us know she's with us even when we feel most alone.

Nothing, no amount of time or distance will ever ease the pain of losing one's parents. Even though I didn't always agree with the things they said, our differences made for lively discussions. Moreover, every day more and more of my friends are losing their parents, creating a generation of lost children, left wondering if there was anything more that needed to have been done.

Every day I wake and I think, "How I wish I could speak to either one of them." Sometimes I sit down and meditate, using my energy to send my wants and needs to the other side. Other days I manage to stumble out of bed and make it through the day without remembering there are no more conversations to be had.

But the bad days aren't as frequent as they used to be, and the okay days seem to fill in nicely at the corners. So, maybe time really does heal all wounds, at least that's what I'm hoping for. In the meantime, I'll  go on, because really there is no alternative. I will see them again, one day. When it is my time, we'll all be together again.

Until then, I remember the days that aren't shared so there will be lots to talk about as we enjoy eternity together. That's what really gets me through the days.

This pain isn't forever

Everyone From My Childhood is Dying

As I sat here this evening wondering what I would write about, the news of Glenn Frey's passing just hit the media feeds and again my gut is hit deep remembering a youth set to the background of Hotel California.

My first long, deep slow kiss came in the back of  red pick-up truck driving round Stone Mountain listening to the title song, "Hotel California." After my worst break-up I listened to "Wasted Time" until I broke the 8-track tape. And who couldn't love "Heartache Tonight"?

Once upon a time on vacation in Arizona, we drove to Winslow, Arizona just to stand on the corner. It was amazing.

This week we've seen legends fall. First was David Bowie. I still remember where I was the first time I heard "Major Tom". I think I was maybe eleven years old, and a friend borrowed the .45 from her older brother. We listened to that records over and over and over again, until her mother made us turn it off and go outside. From that moment on, I was a fan.

When he was the Goblin King in "Legends", it was the perfect role from a man who reinvented himself from decade to decade. He was truly a gentleman and a scholar, an icon and actor, a Renaissance Man in a different era. His kind won't be seen again in a long while.

Then we lost Alan Rickman. From the first moment he hit the screen in "Die Hard" he commanded the stage. Who could forget his Sheriff of Nottingham? "I'm going to cut your heart out with a spoon?" "With a spoon?"  "So it'll hurt more!"  Priceless. But he will forever in our hearts be the face of Serverus Snape, talking to Dumbledore.

"After all this time?"
"Always."

That my friends, is a love that will last an eternity.

So farewell gentlemen, until we meet again on the far shores. The world is a little dimmer with your passing, and the memories of my youth slowly become part of a shared past only friends can appreciate. Soon their bones will be dust, but the legacies they have left in music and video will live long past this age, the artists of the Baby Boomer generation. Oh, how we will miss them.

Where Have I Been and When Can I Go Back?

It's been a while since I wrote on this blog. I always meant to but somehow never seemed to find the time. I've had a busy couple of years between work and home, along with trying to get my writing career up  and going. It gets very disheartening when some people publish three or four books a year and my minimum from idea to submission for one book runs about two years.

Part of my dark thoughts have been due to turning 50 a few years ago, but also the diminishing mental capacities of my mother. It was hard to call and wish her happy birthday back in October (she was 94) when she no longer remembered who I was. She has had a full life and as her end was growing near I have found myself reflective.

My mother was a unique woman. She worked at a time when most women were expected to be housewives; hell, she had a Masters degree when women rarely went to college much less graduate school. Her position as high school librarian fueled my love of books and stories from an early age. Some of my favorite memories are filled with the smell of books and the quiet of reading.

She met my father during the war, World War II that is. Three months is all it took, if I remember the story correctly, before my mother walked in the July heat from the front gate of the army base in Lubbock Texas to the chapel to be Mrs. Walter V. They had a lot in common, my parents. Both were eldest children, both had strained relationships with their mothers, and they understood the meaning of a wounded soul.

My father and I worked the same shift while I was in high school, both returning home in the wee hours of the morning. We talked of many things, including my parents and their stories. I treasure that time with him. But my mother and I had that day to day ignoring each other teenager/parent relationship and many years I spent curled against the car window silently counting the moments we were trapped in the vehicle together.

Daddy died in the early 90's. It was too soon. But out of that sadness and grief came a renewed relationship with my mother. When my daughter was born, she drove up every week from below the Atlanta airport to our house northwest of the city to take care of her so I could work. My children spent days at her house, filling up on Mr. P's pizzas and watching television. I rediscovered my mother, and we spoke often, sometimes about nothing at all.

When she turned 90, it was obvious things were beginning to age. We all dread her driving anywhere that involved the highways around Atlanta. If you've ever driven here, you can probably attest to the insanity which afflicts us whenever we put our vehicles in drive and head out. In response to a falling incident which resulted in her being out of communication for several hours at a time when she should have been home, Momma moved into my brother's home about 4 years ago.

None of us remember exactly when her mind began to stumble, it started with repeated stories and forgotten names. Then came the hours where she would stare at my father's pictures, not speaking a word not moving from her room for hours on end. Her legs began to give out on her and falling became a grave concern, especially after she gave herself a black eye.

She missed my father, she missed her friends and her community. Most of all, she missed being useful. That was the part she found hardest to bear. Her big heart never stopped wanting to help wherever she could. A bright mind with a failing body is frustration as both my parents discovered. All Mother wanted was to be useful and independent again. Now she is.

My mother had a serious stroke the middle of February, with a significant brain bleed in the right parietal lobe. After my father's lengthy illness, my mother had a strict Living Will -- no resuscitation, no feeding tubes, nothing to extend life. She lingered about five days before gently passing from this life to another.

Even though I had mentally been preparing myself for mother's death, it has still hit me hard. A large hole has opened in my chest and nothing feels real. Rationally I know she is in a much better place and that one day we will be together again. But the little girl deep inside me still wants her Momma and I don't know that will ever change.

Love your parents, especially if you have been estranged from them for reasons so silly as to not make a difference. One day, perhaps far in the distant future if you are as lucky as we were, they won't be here, and you will never be able to count the times you pick up the phone to tell them something and remember no one will answer. The words you never say will back up and hang in your throat until you think you will suffocate.

My goal for this year is to recommit myself to my everyday job, my writing, and myself. I will attempt to post something every other week this year. Momma would have wanted me to.