Old Friends - Part 1

Several years ago I met and befriended two elderly ladies who lived on my block. The first was "Betty", the second was "Amelia"(Not their true names).  In this blog I'll tell you about my relationship with Betty.  I'll tell you about Amelia next week.

Betty and I met in my driveway on the day of my yard sale.  Before then, I didn't know who lived in that cute little white house with the large porch at the end of the block. She was about 70 years old, and must have stood around 5'10 before the bend in her spine reduced her to what might have been 5'6. Her shiny white hair was fine and wispy, beautifully contrasting her strong jaw line. Behind her thick grey square-rimmed glasses she had large blue eyes. Her long legs glided her to the table where I was standing. She smiled, so as not to reveal the smoke stained pearls behind her thin lips. The clear plastic tube that looped around her ears and rested with two small tubular openings at the base each nostril were attached to the oxygen tank on wheels, that she had in tow. She smiled. I smiled. We talked. We haggled...and viola! A friendship was born.
I began visiting Betty about three or four times a week. We ran errands together, or I did her grocery shopping when she wasn't feeling well. Sometimes I cleaned her house while she napped, and other times I just visited.  One day she confessed that she didn't understand why I spent so much time with her, knowing that she couldn't reciprocate. Frankly, I hadn't given a single thought to reciprocation. I guess it boiled down to this; I saw a need, and filled it. (Knowing that my three year old enjoyed the visits didn't hurt either.) Before long, I fell in love with that sweet old lady with the large eyes and the oxygen tank. Oh, wait... let me add to that... Before long, I fell in love with that sweet old lady with the large eyes, the oxygen tank, AND the stage four lung cancer.
Our friendship lasted about a year. I hadn't noticed how rapidly Betty declined until the hospital bed was delivered.  Day after day, I sat on the side of her bed holding her weak hand while we watched the news, or she'd tell me stories about her late husband and how they raised their children. When the hospice nurse, her children or grandchildren visited, I shortened my stay. Within about three weeks, the pain had become so severe that she was receiving increasingly heavy doses of morphine.  All too soon my dear friend, Betty was gone.
The mass was held in a little chapel behind a large cathedral where Betty had attended for many years.  When I saw the modest building, I didn't understand why the service was held in such a small place, but when the attendees arrived, I got it.  The chapel's seating capacity was about one hundred,  but only about 15 people showed up.  How was it that this kind old lady's funeral service was so poorly attended? Where were her friends?  I took notice of the white hair around me, and I understood why there were only 15 people there. Unlike me, Betty hadn't lived in California the majority of her life.  Most of her friends lived on the East Coast. I knew her story, but hadn't considered it much, until now. When she and her family moved to California, she didn't work outside of her home.  Her job was to tend to her children. Her husband's friends were her friends. After he died, his friends slowly stopped coming around.  This was probably why her visitors consisted of her daughters, her grandchildren,  the nuns, my daughter and me.
When Betty came to my yard sale she didn't look like a lonely woman in need of a friend, and I certainly wasn't looking to add more to-dos on my list. As a matter of fact, had it been left in my hands,  Betty and I might not have met. I'd often walked passed her house, without thinking that there could be someone beyond those walls who was in need of my friendship. Had I been busy with another customer at the yard sale, I might have given her a quick friendly glance and thought nothing more about it. As it went,  the event was orchestrated so that Betty and I could meet.  I believe this was a divine appointment.  How many Bettys live on your street? Work in your office? Go to your church? Are you a Betty? Are you staying home, locked up in your loneliness, or is there a divine appointment schedule for you?
Betty's death left  a vacancy in my heart. Then I met Amelia.

Reality

"The unfortunate reality was that for most of my childhood, I believed she didn't love me.  I thought she loved my siblings, but not me.  I believed she cared about me.  After all, it was she who cooked and cleaned and provided for me.  Of course she cared.  But I thought she didn't genuinely love me the way I THOUGHT a mother should love her children.  The way Carol Brady loved her children, or the way Claire Huxtable loved hers.  Those thirty-minute TV moms patiently corrected their children.  They smiled at their children's mistakes, and physical discipline wouldn't enter their minds.  My mother didn't quietly sit me down and explain why I was catching the trouble. I knew why I got into trouble, but I wanted her to handle me in the TV sitcom fashion."  With Her and Without Her pg. 33

There are times when I think about my childhood and wish I would have had a better grasp on the real state of things so that I would have understood that my perception was not my mother's reality.  But NOT understanding adult cues is what makes a child a child. With understanding comes growth. I thought that because I caught trouble more often, it equated to her not loving me. The reality was;  I caught the end of the belt,  the back of her hand or the sting of the switch because I was the most blatant of her children. I did things in middle-child fashion, without considering the consequences! I was the child who felt the need to correct  and censor her, even in public. My siblings knew when to stop.  So Mom didn't need to discipline them as often. I thought that if she loved me, she would have said so more often. The reality was that she didn't express her love with words as often as any of us might have wanted, but it didn't mean she didn't love us.  She wasn't withholding her love for me any more than she was from my siblings. She simply didn't say the words, "I love you" very often.  My perception of reality, and that of my mother's were on different planes.

"I was in high school when we talked about that period of our lives." "(I) said, "You know Mom, when I was little, I thought you didn't love me." "(She) replied, I know. But I loved you. I've always loved you.  I just didn't LIKE you sometimes."" With Her and Without Her  pg. 34

I'm the mom now, and have been for almost 28 years. Like my mother, I don't do everything exactly as my children would like. When my eldest daughter was four years old, she decided that the mommy who disciplined her was a robot. Her loving mommy would never "be mean" to her! That was how she dealt with reality. Childhood perceptions and realities often clash with the true state of things. What they believe about adult behavior and what we know to be so will not always mesh. It's important to have open dialogues with our children, not  to avoid the clashes, but to facilitate growth and understanding. There are  many factors that make children who they are. DNA, birth order, environment (just to name a few) all have a part in who our children are.

Here's the reality: My mom loved me. I love my children...even when it's the robot me.

Reality is the state of things as they actually exist, rather than as they may appear or might be imagined. In a wider definition, reality includes everything that is and has been, whether or not it is observable or comprehensible. Wikipedia

Do you remember?

Often when my brother, sisters and I get together we reminisce about our mom. We laugh when we think about some of the quips she used. Mom often said, "If you like it, I love it." That was her way of saying, "It's your choice."  She sometimes smiled and said, "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out!" My mom made the best gravy! Unfortunately, she used delicious gray to smother liver and onions. Ewwww! I also remember mom telling me to talk less and listen more. So I'll take that advise and let you talk to me. 

I have a question...

Do you have any specific memories of something your mother did or said? Share it with me! If your mom is still alive, share something you now enjoy about her! 

Writing a book? Really?

Ever since I was a youngster I've wanted to be a published author. In my teen years I wrote a few poems and read them to friends, and every now and again I had the opportunity to read a poem or two at church. I've written articles that were printed in local newsletters and small magazines, but to have a work that had my name on the front cover? Now that's a writer's dream! I didn't start this project with the intent to write a book. I started out journaling. And even the word "journaling" mightn't be correct. Actually, I was writing as a release. I find that while others take long walks, drive, scream, cry, clean or use punching bags for release, I like to "download".  Not that I don't scream, cry or have other releases (I will admit, my house gets its deepest cleaning when I'm upset), but when I have something on my heart and talking about it doesn't cut the mustard, I find that writing is a soothing release. Funny thing is, I usually toss my download writings aside and later throw them out completely. But five years ago for reasons - clear to me now - I kept my writings from the evening when I began my intense journey with grief. I added to them as I felt the need, and before long I had the makings of a chapter. Everything was rough and unedited, but I saw a book peering through it all. I knew NOTHING about publishing, but I had friends who had been published, so I figured I need not concern myself with the minors.

But what about the MAJORS? At one point the whole idea was starting to feel like one big major uh-oh! It wasn't my intent or aim for this book to be simply about my grief. It was also about my mother. Writing about her wasn't easy for several reasons. First of all,  I didn't know where to start.  I wasn't sure if I should talk about who I am or who she was or both. I think I had a fairly good grip on me, but I only lived with my mother for the first twelve years of my life. So the thought running around in my brain was that I didn't have enough insights on who she was. I wasn't prepared to approach the book with a lifetime of "this is who my mother was" stories and antidotes. After all, what did the twelve year old me really know about her mother?   

Another problem I faced was, What sort of book was this going to be? I had no desire to write a book on the subject of death and dying. I certainly wasn't looking to regurgitate the hundreds of books on store shelves by writing a biography and instructing the readers on the details and woes of grief. 

I won't make this a long list of difficulties and challenges. When it comes right down to it,  the decision to write a book about my journey though grief was made after much thought and prayer.  It wasn't something that came over-night. I made a decision to write, so that's what I set out to do.  I knew I wanted to give the readers my perspective as well as the perspective of other women. Because my experiences come from a woman's point of view, I decided to target other women and give them the opportunity to consider their mothers as well.  Furthermore, not having enough insights about my mother became a non-issue. I simply wrote about what I knew, and as it turned out, it was enough.

Here we go...

This is my first post! I'm new to this and I'm not exactly sure how it works, BUT my intent is to blog about my book, With Her and Without Her. I haven't figured the format just yet but wherever I start is where I'll be! So, let's go!