Sister M.G: Chaplain/Go-getter

     When Marcel was at Midland Hospice in Topeka, the chaplain there was Sister M.G. I believe she is still around. She was accessible, real, kind, direct, and no-nonsense. Very tall--close to my height, and I'm 6 feet. Technically, biologically, she was well into senior citizenship then. But she strode around with strength and purpose, and with the vigor of someone much younger.
     I'm writing this ten years later, and my memory is foggy sometimes. But to the best of my ability, this is how I remember Sister. She told me that she had been in a terrible car wreck. A wreck that killed her friend, and left Sister on a ventilator for months. And after that, she went through her own battle with cancer. It was hard to picture her in bed recuperating. If I was Cancer, or some other Evil Thing, I wouldn't want to mess with Sister, because with one well-aimed swift kick from her, I'd be in the corner whimpering. Down for the count.
     I converted to the Catholic church as an adult, so I am not exactly in the know about all the terminology about what Sisters wear. Sister M.G. didn't wear a big formal black and white habit, but she did wear something that identified her as being a nun. I remember it being more like a khaki skirt, and some kind of headgear. The headgear made her seem even taller. She was so very down-to-earth. Closing my eyes and imagining her leaving her house in the morning, in my mind I'd picture her striding out the door, only to have to hurry back in. "Oh, yeah. Gotta put that thing on my head", I'd imagine her saying, as she plopped it on and ran  back out to help people.
     One day as I was leaving the hospice house, Sister was arriving, and we stood under the shade trees in front and visited. I shared with her a story about not liking the way someone treated me in a particular instance that week. She looked at me blankly for a second, then more sternly. She pointed her index finger at me. "Well, if you are going to tolerate being treated like that...then you're the carpenter of your own cross." And then she strode off, leaving me standing there, probably with my mouth wide open.
    Marcel was fond of Sister M.G. They had regular conversations, and she was a tremendous comfort to him. Around that time, the hospice house got a dog. It was good for morale, and if patients wanted, the dog could come around and visit them. I heard later that Sister and the dog were great friends. And that Sister fed it scraps but she wasn't really supposed to be doing that.
   The night that Marcel died, and after my friend Linda left, Sister sat with me. She told me that out of all the people she'd ministered to in hospice over the years, she found it a challenge to help me. She explained that she thought I was on track, and that I had it together, and there wasn't much she could offer.
     I appreciated her confidence in me. But I have to disagree; I've never really had it together. And actually, she offered me a lot: even a decade later, if I need a smile, all I have to do is think about her.  It makes me happy to think she is Still Walking Around. But in reference to Sister M.G., it seems more accurate to say she is "Still Striding."
 

LISTEN UP!

NOTE!  Read entry for March 30 ("Still Walking Around") before you read this post.

After Marcel died, Linda checked in on me from time to time. That next March, we took my sons to the St. Patrick’s Day parade in downtown Lawrence. One of her grown daughters, R., came along with us. Linda snuggled and fussed over my boys that day, like an affectionate favorite aunt. She talked a lot about her other daughter, A., who lived in Georgia. I have photos of us together that day…somewhere. (I told you, I am unorganized.)

     Linda moved away. She called me once to check in on me. I was so happy to hear from her. She lived in Oklahoma then. She asked if I’d remarried, and I said no. “Yeah, I haven’t either”, she said. I took down her new contact info, planning to stay in touch. I thought of her a lot—like so many people I think about—usually when driving around, and I’d think, “I have to look up Linda and see how she is doing.” I couldn’t find the scrap of paper that I’d scribbled her contact info on.

     A few times, I looked for her online. There are a LOT of people named Linda Bell. As a parent to young kids, I’d get interrupted, and vow to take up the search again soon. Yesterday, writing the entry in my blog about Linda, I vowed to find her before the day was over. If she still lived in Oklahoma…I would visit her, and share my blog entry from yesterday with her. I’d hold her hand, and hug her, and thank her and she could see the boys and how big they have become. Or maybe we wouldn’t have to say much… maybe I could just Be There With Her. Just thinking about it made me feel like springtime.

   Have you ever left the house in a hurry, only to find out it is a lot colder out than you thought it was…and you are not dressed warmly enough?  That first inhale of cold grey air hits your nostrils and you breathe it in and it goes through you and in one instant, it makes the whole of you cold and grey.

     I didn’t find contact info online for Linda yesterday.

     I found her obituary. It was one of those archived articles. You can see the first line, but to read the rest, you have to pay a fee to access it. Insult to injury—bad news, and you have to PAY to read it. Maybe it was some other Linda Bell? I paid the fee and read the notice. It was My Linda Bell.

   I was two years too late. Linda died February 2009.

   Well, if I could not thank Linda personally, I owed it to her family to share my blog post yesterday with them. From Linda’s obituary, I had her daughters names. I found them on Facebook. Their photos were there—beautiful women, who looked very much to me to have substance, and vibrancy and a clear unwavering gaze. Like Linda. I sent them both a message, saying I had known their mom and would like to share a story about her with them.

     I didn’t know if I should expect a response. There are a lot of scam artists online. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for them to be suspicious. And people grieve differently. Some people shut themselves off.  Not everyone wants to talk about it.

     I needn’t have wondered. A very gracious response from A. arrived almost immediately. “It’s always wonderful to hear stories about Mom” she said. After sharing my blog entry with her, she emailed me, telling me that Linda lost her battle to breast cancer at Midland Hospice. The same place where, 9 years earlier, Linda met me after church to help us in our time of need.
     Touchingly, A. had signed her email to me, Still Walking Around.

     I’m disappointed in myself for not taking my search for Linda more seriously sooner. But I’m happy to be in contact with her daughters.

     Note to self:  Don’t wait till the house is clean, or the dishes are done, or “until things calm down around here.” Things are NEVER GOING TO CALM DOWN AROUND HERE. There will always be something nutty going on. And in the midst of that, I still need to listen to that voice and obey it. The one that says to make time, and to reach out, regardless. I hear it. I don't always listen to it. 

     Linda listened.

    

    

    

    

     

Still Walking Around

   My husband was 42 when he died after a long battle with cancer ten years ago. If CaringBridge (a website to keep friends updated) was around then, I didn't know about it. We didn't use Facebook then, either. So during his illness, people would call--a lot--to ask about Marcel's health. A few people would call frequently, meaning well, but they'd be upset and dramatic and I wasn't always in the mood to be their counselor.
   We had a neighbor who was really distressed about Marcel's illness. Once, when there was an announcement on the radio about a fundraiser that was being held for our family, this particular neighbor panicked and thought she'd heard them announce Marcel's death. She called, and left a long message on our answering machine, about how sorry she was to hear of his passing. I thought Marcel had died, and that I was the last to know of it. This neighbor did the same thing a couple weeks later. It was just as annoying the second time she did it.

   So sometimes when the phone rang, I'd pick it up--already wary and upset. One day, a woman named Linda called. I'd met her a couple of times, because she worked in the office of my husband's general doctor. She started to see claims for Marcel coming through for very serious procedures. She knew we had little kids, and she wanted to help. 

   I was kind of abrupt with her at first. That week, I'd had some experiences with people who said they wanted to help, but it was more about them than about what we actually needed. But Linda--she told me I could call her "LB"-- didn't give up. After talking with her for a few minutes on the phone that day, I realized she was sincere. And she was not creating any kind of drama that I had to sort out. I started listening. Her kids were grown, she lived in Lawrence alone, she wanted to help with the kids if we needed it. We needed it. 

   Around this time, after a 2+ year battle and numerous serious procedures, it became apparent Marcel's health was in a downward spiral. There were no more treatment options. Our sons were about 1, 2 and 5 then. Marcel's cancer had gone to his brain and he was often confused, dizzy, hallucinating. We lived in a townhome with lots of stairs. We didn't have any family in town. I couldn't care for him at home. I arranged for him to be admitted to the only in-patient hospice facility in Kansas at the time, Midland Care in Topeka. 

   As it turned out, although Linda lived in Lawrence, she went to church in Topeka. Often, after church, she'd meet me at the hospice house. She'd help me with the boys. And just Be There With Me. I don't remember so much what we talked about. I do remember that she was beautiful, in a real person kind of way, and she had pretty eyes--honest eyes. Linda was a calm presence. But she had gone through this before. She loved a man, and had a daughter with him. And that man died. And then she loved another man, and had a daughter with him, and that man died. 

   It helped me immensely at the time, to see that after going through all that, here was a vibrant and beautiful woman right in front of me, Still Walking Around. She'd faced tremendous loss, and she wouldn't be the same. But, she was Still Walking Around. And she was willing to wade in with me when I was adrift. Linda made sure I wasn't alone. Just a of couple months earlier, Linda had been almost a complete stranger to me. But she made sure I wasn't alone.

   Marcel spent the last few months of his life, the end of 2000, at Midland. He made friends with the staff, other patients, and high school students who volunteered there. One Saturday in late November, Marcel took a turn for the worse and by the end of the day, he was unresponsive. I arranged for help with the boys at home in Lawrence, and I stayed in Topeka. 

   I was alone there with Marcel when he died that night. We knew it was coming. We'd known for some time. You can prepare, but you are never prepared. I was in shock. After I summoned the nurse, she left me alone to collect my thoughts. 

   And then, amazingly, Linda walked into the room. She glanced at Marcel and said:

"Oh, he's sleeping? I was at church rehearsing, and I thought about coming here to see you. And then I realized it was late, and that you'd be in Lawrence, putting the kids to bed. So I decided not to come. But then it was like my car just drove here, and for some weird reason I ended up here, so I went ahead and came in. 
Why are you here so late?"

   Linda sat with me at length that night. And so it was, for the upteenth time, she made it so I wasn't alone. By being there, being present, in messy times that don't make for pleasant dinner conversation, and listening to that voice that told her to be there, Linda made a vast difference in my life.

   After all the losses--my dad, Marcel, my mom, my friends Krista and Pastor Galloway--I'm different. I won't be the same; things can't go back to the way they were. But, good things have happened, too. There are still blessings to count. At this point in time, today, in this moment, presently, on March 30th, 2011, in Lawrence Kansas. . . I am. . . Still Walking Around.

  

Fond Memories/Sasquatch Hot Sauce

     More seasoned parents used to tell me how fast little kids grow up. It didn't phase me; my sons would be little forever, and I would be destined to never get a full night's sleep. In reality, that time did go very fast, and I would happily trade a few nights sleep for a chance to snuggle with those silly little boys again.
     Not many years ago, my sons and I were at mass one Sunday morning. Each time we got up to sing or knelt to pray--when it was time to sit down again, two of the boys were constantly fighting over sitting closer to me. I felt impatient and looked haggard. When it was time to offer those around us a sign of peace, I turned to the man behind me, who was with his teenage daughter. He laughed and said, "Oh, yeah--they are fighting over you now. Enjoy it while you can." He motioned comically to his daugther and said, "I can barely get her to stay in the same room with me."
     I didn't really think that would happen in our house, though. . .
     Well, we are in the throes of the stage now, and while I celebrate the fine young men they are becoming, it is still very difficult. It's hard not to feel guilty about all the times I wasn't truly in the moment with them when they were younger. They don't currently fight over who gets to sit by me, but I still have my stories and memories about when they were little. And those will always be mine. Here is one of those stories.

February 2006; Conversation with the boys in the van on the way to school. . .

Freeman asked me if I knew that they had a WHOLE SET of Encyclopedias in his kindergarten classroom (?!) He said they had just had the "B" volume. When Miss Fewins switched some books around, she put the "B" volume away, and the kids got upset. So Miss Fewins put the "B" volume back out, and asked the librarian if they could put out the other volumes in their classroom as well.

So, now they have a WHOLE SET of Encyclopedias, which seemed very exciting to Freeman. Encyclopedias that EVEN have "Abominable Snowman" and "Bigfoot" in them! "Abominable Snowman" is in the "A" book, and "Bigfoot" is in the "B" book.  Antonio thought there were 2 pictures of Bigfoot, but Freeman quickly informed Antonio the difference--one was Bigfoot, one was the Abominable Snowman.

I mentioned that another name for Abominable Snowman is "Yeti" and Franklin said another name for Bigfoot is "Sasquatch."

"What?!!" Freeman demanded. "HOTSAUCE???!!!"

"No, Sasquatch!" sighed Franklin.
Then we decided to invent a brand of hotsauce called "Sasquatch Hotsauce:  Big Hot."

Freeman started to tell us about what he would DO if he saw a Bigfoot or the Abominable Snowman in real life, when Frederick, in True Big Brother Fashion, rolled his eyes and said dryly (in his most mature tone):  

"They're NOT REEEEEAL."  (Sheesh!)

Freeman put his hand horizontally to his forehead, as one does when they are shading their eyes and peering far into the distance. He squinted and said confidently, 
"They're out there, Frederick. They're out there. . . somewhere."

     

Life with boys

Today is my birthday. Spring break is OVER. And that, dear friends, is a gift. I love my kids, and they are good ones. Life with boys can be really intense, though. Oh, the sights and sounds and smells of boys. When my sons were younger, I tried to read a book to prepare myself for parenting boys. I got so freaked out, I couldn't get too far into the book. I stopped at the part where the author began describing  pranks that boys will pull--recounting the story of a boy sneaking a pig snout into school and somehow rigging it onto the water fountain. So when someone pressed the button to get water, water sprayed out of the pig snout. We will cross that bridge when we get there. But I can't read about it beforehand. And having a book like that in the house could be dangerous--these people don't need to get any ideas in their heads about pig snouts and water fountains.

I have been meaning and promising and thinking about Writing for too long. So starting this blog is a gift to myself on my 45th birthday. I'll write about my art and the stories and experiences that inspire it, about trying to forge a new identity after 1) being discarded -- um, I mean laid off--2) selling our house and downsizing and 3) the onset of the boys getting older and not needing me as much.

Undoubtedly, I'll end up writing about grieving, sole parenting, parenting biracial kids, and cooking. Knowing me, once in a while, I will rant, weep and moan, and gnash my teeth. I will ask questions that don't have answers--like, how can everyone in the family eat the same thing, and somehow just the boys will end up with gas so bad it makes your eyes water?  Can they do that on command? Why do they think that is funny? And if no one reads it, that's okay--at least the words swirling around in my head all day will have their own little home.

New sun art

Spring's a' Comin'!

New sun wall hanging (mixed media on salvaged hubcap)

Spring's a' comin'

   When my husband lost his cancer battle in 2000, our sons were 1, 2 and 5 years old. We didn't have any other family nearby. After that, the boys and I got to know a family from our parish, the Hinkels. Troy and Laura Hinkel had five kids of their own, and they would often take my boys along with their kids to the park after church. So I could have some time alone and be my generally cranky self. And probably so my boys could have a break from me.

   My youngest son was famous for a couple of things during this time. Freeman loved hotdogs. He was also prone to vomiting after a particularly spirited twirl on the swingset. I forgot to share these tidbits of information with the Hinkels. They headed to the park with my kids one day after mass. And after lunch.  (Hotdogs).  The last stop at the park before getting back into the van to come home? The tire swing.
   When Laura dropped my sons back off at our house that afternoon, she had a funny look on her face as she pulled up in our driveway. When my oldest son Frank exited their vehicle, Laura offered, “he might want to change . . .”
   All the kids in the van chimed in that Freeman had thrown up on Franklin in the back seat. Laura smiled and said, “Well, the first indication that there was a problem was the smell. And my second clue was when I heard Frank say,

     "Freeman! You really should chew your food better!  
      You’re going to choke someday!
    Look at the size of this piece of hotdog!!”


     Frank’s concerned older brother response that day was, as usual, way beyond his years. How can I adequately explain a kid like that to you? He often filled in with his brothers for me when I was too out of it from anger, grief and exhaustion. Frank is a funny and wise old soul. After his dad died, he’d say to me solemnly, “Mom? I love you…And after I die, my bones will love you.”
     Navigating the holidays after being widowed was a tremendous effort for me. Often, I’d start getting a migraine a day or two beforehand in anticipation. We spent one such holiday at the Hinkels. I sat in the corner with a headache and was a very difficult person to be around.
     Troy and Laura were amazingly patient with me. Laura smilingly told me a story about growing up with her dad. They lived in Colorado and her father worked on the railroad for decades. He had to get up in the wee hours of the morning to go to work—particularly difficult in the dead of winter. But she said that his take on that was that at least spring was always around the corner.

     “Spring’s a comin’ ”  he’d say.

     That’s the good thing about spring, don’t you think? It always returns.