Mother's Day

My hands are smaller than hers were, and less calloused.  I can only wear her wedding ring on my right hand, my larger hand, and even then it is too big for my ring finger.  I have to wear it on my middle finger, the one reserved for insults

It is a simple, textured gold band with tiny diamond chips in it.  It is a sign of love lost, of a failed marriage, of hopes dashed.  My parents were married young, and I don't know if they ever completely figured out what marriage was supposed to be.  They were both stubborn and often selfish.  My mother's parents had been abusive, and her dad had cheated on her mom.  My father's parents were far more stable, but were "old-fashioned" by the cultural standards of the mid-1970's and their example didn't really work for my parents.

Over twenty years, two daughters, and countless pets later, my parents' divorce was final within days of what would have been their anniversary.

On my finger, the ring feels foreign.  Heavy.

Although I lost three children to miscarriage, I believe I have been a mother since the very moment the first one was conceived.  Still, yesterday was the first time I celebrated Mother's Day with tangible proof of that status - a chubby, giggling, happy baby boy.

I had a wonderful time - lunch with family, and a movie with friends, plus flowers and a beautiful card from my husband, but "Mother's Day" felt hollow.

Is it because I know that Mother's Day is a "Hallmark Holiday" designed for increased card and gift sales?  Is it because my heart still aches for the women I know for whom motherhood is not an option?  Is it because, despite all the incredible, loving, and motherly women in my life, I no longer have my own mother?

Yesterday, my Facebook feed was full of beautiful pictures.  Some were old and faded, photos from thirty years ago, or more, of mothers holding sweet-faced babies.  Some were black-and-white.  Some were laughable, as the hairstyles and clothing were so dramatically dated.  Some were more recent, a radiant, shining bride with her modestly-dressed but still-stylish mother.  Some were accompanied by wonderful thoughts about motherhood, thank-you notes to moms who sacrificed everything, to moms who were strong in the face of adversity, moms who accepted disappointments, moms who never gave up.

Memories of my own mother are fading from my mind.  The ones that remain are not kind and tender moments.  I know she told me she loved me.  I know she sacrificed so much so that I could participate in school activities.  She went back to work full-time after nearly two decades of staying home.  I know she was extremely proud of my sister and me, as we were great students and continually excelled at school.  Neither she nor my father had gone to college, so her endless refrain was "Get an education and a good job so you can take care of yourself".  It was as if she thought, if she said it enough, it would spare her daughters the pain, financial trauma, and heartache that her divorce had caused her.  (Poor lady, she didn't realize both her kids would major in the fine arts and end up on the low-paying end of the medical field.)

Almost more than I want my mother back in my life, I want those memories back.  Memories of laughter and silliness, memories of birthdays and parties and quiet times watching the snow fall, silent, in the backyard.  Memories of a fearless mother who came to the rescue every time a wasp hovered menacingly near a sunbathing child on the deck.  Memories of an indignant mother who went to bat for her bullied babies.  Memories of a creative mother who carefully piped frosting fantasies onto birthday cakes every year - no matter how ridiculous the request.  Those memories are still here, but they are hazy.  I want the full-color, glossy versions back.  Another year and these ghosts might be gone.

On my left hand, my engagement ring and replacement wedding band are a bit grimy-looking.  They are caked with hairspray and dish soap, and I don't get them cleaned as often as my husband suggests.  Yet they are still vibrant, the signs of hope after loss, the promise of working through trouble, the humility that comes with admitting a wrong.

Two hands - two choices.

Each time I pick up my mother's ring, I think of how she presented it to me.  I, the elder daughter, received her gold wedding band.  My younger sister got her silver engagement ring.  "I don't need them anymore anyway," we heard as she handed them to us with a shrug.  "Lotta good they did me."  I remember the sarcasm in her voice now more keenly than when I'd heard it the first time.

And I ache.

I still ache for the women who cannot become mothers.  I ache for those without mothers, who lost them or never had them to begin with.  But, perhaps, most of all, I ache for the fading memories I have of my own mother as a mother.  I can never make more, and the sweetness of them is slowly dripping away, a little bit each day.

Pink Ribbons and a Brown-Eyed Girl

I wish I were lacing up my hot pink Nikes to run in this weekend's Race for the Cure.  Having been involved only from a spectator's perspective, I know it's a huge and epic event.  Well - let's be honest.  I wasn't actually spectator, my first time around.  I was working as the manager-on-duty in the Oakland Starbucks and we were understaffed and Oh God It Was Terrifying.  Seemingly endless waves and waves of pink-clad men and women splashed into the store, wanting little more than a bottle of water or a quick bagel to snack on as they walked and ran in honor of victims and survivors.  Although I remember being overwhelmed to the point of numbness, I don't recall any customers being rude or impatient.  They were all there because they saw the Bigger Picture.

Which I can see, too, since I now count breast cancer survivors among my closest friends.  And I would have no issue with squeezing my seven-month-pregnant belly into a pair of yoga pants and a support belt, ready to walk among those brave woman and thousands of others, but my pregnancy has caused several asthma flare-ups and some pretty scary (though normal, I'm told) episodes of breathlessness lately.  Not wise to go tempting fate and power-walking with the Pink Brigade, I'm afraid.  Next year.

Not being able to participate is a definite downer, but the hardest part of Mother's Day weekend will surely be the fact that my mother is gone.  Last May, I was still in a cocoon of shock, having lost her a mere two months prior.  I didn't feel much, and it didn't register too clearly that she was gone.  This time around, I've had over a year to process, to rant, to weep, to rage, to mourn, to contemplate, to accept, and to adjust to my mother's passing.  

There have been a lot of moments where I was filled with anger - not towards God, but towards her, since her cause of death was likely preventable, had she sought help for her hernia when she was first diagnosed.  There have been moments of laughter - when friends ask about my pregnancy and I'm able to tell them that I, mercifully, did not have "six straight months of god-awful heartburn", as my mother (repeatedly) told me she suffered with me.  There have been moments of pain - when I have wanted to reach out and ask her intimate questions about family, history, faith, and forgiveness.  There have been moments of beauty - when my husband and I finally got up the nerve and went through all of her paperwork, and found ourselves delightedly reviewing old photographs of my dad in his 80s finery (tight jeans, a feathered cowboy hat, and an elaborately embroidered top), birthday cakes from years past, and all of our long-gone pets.

Don't get me wrong, please.  I dearly love my step-mama, Deana.  She has become to me a treasure and a friend and yes, a wonderful mom.  She has been incredibly supportive during our miscarriages and has shown us the same level of support and excitement during this pregnancy.  She has taken care of my often-stubborn dad and has weathered years of mothering three daughters (two of whom possess their dad's stubbornness).  She is an all-around amazing woman, mother, Christian, teacher, friend, and businesswoman.  And I love her.

But I can't ask her the question, "What was it really like when you were pregnant with me?"  The baby pictures she has of me aren't connected to her own personal memories.  I can't trace my biological family tree through her.  I can't laugh over stories of my first taste of solid food, or riding a bike, or a grade school play.  I won't be able to show my mother these ultrasound pictures, or let her hold her sweet grandson for the first time, wondering if his eyes will darken to a beautiful brown, like hers. 

Two nights ago, I picked Ross up from work and we stopped at Giant Eagle to pick up a few things.  I wasn't in a great mood, and he thought he had done or said something wrong.  As I threw a package of raisin bread in the cart, I finally blurted out, "I miss my mom!"  He looked startled, and asked, "Why?"  He probably thought it had something to do with the bread.  Did it remind me of her?  Poor confused guy.  I fought back tears and reminded him, "It's Mother's Day weekend."  He didn't say anything, just put his arms around me and wheeled the cart to the register.  

On the way home, he gently asked, "Well, what are some of your favorite memories of your mom?"  He'd only met her once but had heard hundreds of tales from myself and my dad - some of them funny, many of them sad - about living with her.  "I don't know," I said honestly.  If I am being completely truthful, which has been my aim in having this blog, then I have to say there were a lot of awful memories.  A lot of hours of the silent treatment.  A lot of regrets because I didn't understand why I needed to respect her.  A lot of fights.  A lot of disappointment.  A lot of misunderstanding and failure to communicate.  A lot of bitterness.  Oh, so much bitterness.  

Much of that faded in the years after I had moved away from home, and, little by little, happier memories began to join the sad ones.  Memories of stopping at Arby's and then browsing at Fashion Bug (now defunct, sadly) for accessories.  Memories of text messages and phone conversations about our pets (while I was collecting my Crazy Cat Lady starter kit, she was adopting and rescuing neighborhood strays left and right).  Memories of the sweet and silly letters she liked to write, and the goofy doodles she sent me.  Memories of conversations in which she admitted to finally forgiving my father for hurting her.  

And then the memory of her passing cuts through me like a cold wind, stopping my heart.  The look in those soft black-brown eyes when they met mine for the last time, full of pain and regret and weakness and sorrow.

And sympathy.  For me, having to see her die.

Those moments stick with us, become an immovable part of who we are.  They become tinted over time with either rose-colored optimism or they fade to a shadowy sepia, but they stay with us.  In that moment, when I look back, I see her asking forgiveness.  Not for the way she raised me, or for anything she might have failed to do as a mother.  But forgiveness for having to have our final memory of her one in which she was lying prone and hemorrhaging in a hospital bed in Kentucky, unable to speak or move or breathe on her own, surrounded by gentle strangers.  For knowing that we drove five straight hours and risked countless speeding tickets, because seeing her alive was the only thing that mattered.  

For her last day alive being so dreadfully ugly.

I can't lie and say I've fully come to terms with the circumstances of her death, or even hear death itself.  I still think of her every time I pass by the greeting card section in the grocery store, fighting the urge to pick a silly holiday card to send to her.  I see her face in my reflection quite often.  I hear her voice when I scold my cats for doing something naughty, and I'm sure I'll hear it when I scold my son.

I recently told a friend of hers that I hope so much that my baby boy has her smile.  I know that I have my grandfather's smile, so remarkably so that people frequently mistake my aunt (his daughter), who also shares it, for my mother.  How beautiful it would be to get to see my mother's slightly crooked, dimpled grin again, every day for the rest of my life.

Frozen (in Time)

Last week, Ross asked me to pick him up from work on his late night.  I had some time to kill before driving downtown, and I was feeling rather nostalgic, so I made the maybe-not-so-wise decision to drive past my old house in Crafton.  The house where I grew up.  I parked in the alley next to the house and looked into the streetlight-flooded backyard.  The fence that my mom repainted every third summer.   Three vehicles, including one well-worn utility truck, in the driveway.  The eagle-adorned mailbox still there on the porch.  The porch that saw decorations for every holiday of the year – Mom didn’t discriminate.  There wasn’t a lick of Irish blood in any of us, yet sparkly shamrocks and a cheerful green and white wreath still went up for St. Patrick’s Day.  One year, she made the ill-advised choice to put pink-and-blue Christmas lights up, just for a chance of pace, and the neighbors kept asking  if she was expecting another baby!  (She went back to traditional multi-colored lights after that.)

 

The house where, frustrated, I’d mouth nasty words and make mean faces at her behind her back, and somehow she knew and grounded me anyway.  Where she washed my sassy mouth out with cream-colored moisturizing Tone soap.  Where she cooked up breaded liver so delicious that you forgot you were eating an iron-packed organ.  Where she painstakingly stitched homemade Halloween costumes each year for my sister and me.  Where I coaxed our runt cat, Lucky, out of hiding in the backyard so that I could pet her, even though she was riddled with mange.  Where Mom let us carefully pick out Motown records she’d play on her huge, ancient, British-made hi-fi. Where I fell in love with that music.  Where as a toddler, I splashed, wearing my little red swimsuit, in a baby pool on the back porch.  Where I sat down, shocked and breathless, in the dining room after I learned that my paternal grandfather had finally succumbed to his emphysema.  Where our white cat, Sparky, blissfully sunned his ample belly in the driveway.  Where the peony bushes buckled under the weight of their own dessert plate-sized blooms.  Where Mom carefully put together delicious family meals, only to have her father wax poetic about all the restaurants he’d been to that utterly amazed him. 

 

Where my father told us he and my mom couldn’t be together anymore. 

 

Where my sister and I dressed our Barbies in elaborate costumes and didn’t play with them so much as stage them and demand that my mother take Polaroid photos of their tableaux.  Where I hid behind the porch swing so that I could eat the lemons out of my mother’s iced tea, despite her threats that it would ruin the enamel on my teeth.  Where we’d sing melodramatic showtunes at the top of our lungs, making sure all the parts in the quartets were covered, and we were almost never told to “keep it down.”  Where flatulence was a regular topic of discussion over dinner.  Where I told God I never wanted to get married or have children because I saw how sad my mom was.  Where our previously-abused calico cat, Callie, lay in wait just to scratch our ankles as we passed by.  Where, in spite of her terrible allergies, Mom never requested that the lilac bushes be cut down. Where Dad balanced precariously on scaffolding as he remodeled the house and the siding.  Where we realized I was allergic to walnuts after a terrifying episode of vomiting and dizziness during Sunday morning brunch.  Where we sat on the kitchen floor and watched after-school specials and cartoons, waiting for the (now indoor) cats to curl up in our laps. 

 

Where I first told my mom I hated her. 

 

Where I sobbed for hours over my wayward bangs, learning only later in life that such miraculous things as flat-irons existed.  Where I discovered a “hidden” wine cellar in the basement, filled with ancient books and rusty tools.  Where we dyed Easter eggs in briny-scented plastic cups, only to be disappointed that the colors were never as vivid as they were on the packaging.  Where we watched genuinely bad but entertaining Saturday morning cartoons that are still better than most of what kids watch today.  Where I endlessly discussed writing Indiana Jones and Star Wars fanfic with my best friend Christin, only to be reminded that we didn’t have call-waiting and I was going to have to get off the phone. Where I fought with my sister and was punished with the dreaded silent treatment from my mom.  Where we told her we’d accepted Jesus as out savior, and her reaction wasn’t what we’d expected.  Where I sang along with the radio, never dreaming of what Paula Abdul’s lyrics really meant.

 

I didn’t go there to mourn, really.  I just went to simply say good-bye.  Again.  But the tears were inevitable, rolling down my face under the cover of a dark alley, and I made her another promise.  Mom, I am going to be what you wanted me to be.  I don’t think you had dreams of be being rich or famous, but I know you wanted me to be happy, make others happy, and let myself express my opinions creatively. 

 

So I’m going to keep doing that.

Good-bye, Mom.

I probably could have sat down to write this the very day my mother passed away, so cathartic is writing to me, but I didn't have the time.

I'm really not sure where I should start this story, since so few people who care about my mom actually knew what she was up to the last several years of her life.  Perhaps it's best to start right before her move to Kentucky.  I'll warn you that my mother's death was not peaceful and there are some graphic medical descriptions that might upset some people.  Please move ahead with prudence. 

My parents were divorced about 17 years ago and things were pretty ugly.  My poor Mum was going through menopause quite early, and she was trying to raise two hormonal teenage daughters while at the same time attempting to re-enter the work force with very little experience and a limited skill set.  Although there was no raging custody battle, I know that my mom was deeply hurt and my dad felt guilty and repentant.  I'm not assigning any blame; since the divorce they have both, in separate instances, shared with me their own mistakes as well as the percieved mistakes of the other that ultimately led to the divorce.

Some particularly bitter battles between my mother and myself led to my moving in with my father, step-mother and step-sister the summer I graduated from high school.  For a few awful weeks as I was rehearsing a show, Mum - the reigning Queen of the Silent Treatment - didn't return my calls.  Still, as we sang the show's final song, the lights came up and I saw Mum and Gina in the audience, trying to repress a smile.  Of course, I burst into tears and the very slow process of forgiveness and healing began.

When I was on break from college, I would see my mom at times.  We would see movies, or go out to eat, or shop at our favorite store, Fashion Bug.  We still fought, and I was still thoughtless sometimes, but things were still better than they were when I lived with her. 

Not long after, my previously healthy-as-a-horse mother began to get sick.  She struggled to keep her job and health insurance, but eventually lost both.  She had a bout with thyroid cancer, which she overcame with one operation and no follow-up whatsoever.  She battled fibromyalgia and fatigue, and I came to believe that she was suffering from some undiagnosed anxiety as well.  She began to have increasing stomach troubles, too, and her breathing difficulties returned.  She could neither work, not receive medical assistance.  She tried several different charities and government organizations but was repeatedly told she did not qualify for aid - allegedly because she couldn't prove that she was sick.  It was a vicious cycle.

She eventually got to the point of not being able to pay the rent on her small apartment in Crafton and came to live with me at the worst possible time.  I had just lost my job at Starbucks.  My dad had just lost his job due to an injury.  Although Mum was his ex, I do believe he would have helped us financially if he had been able.  Their healing process had begun, also, and the bitterness between them was fading.  All we had between us was my mother's food stamps, which she joyfully used as we went to the grocery store and bought everything our hearts desired.  Still, I could not care for her and did not want her to stay long because I didn't know what to do.

A few weeks later, the decision was made.  Mum, unable to work or make any type of life in Pennsylvania, would move to Kentucky, where her ex-boyfriend's father needed a full-time caretaker.  She was still on good terms with her ex, and her nurturing instincts certainly hadn't perished when her daughters left home.  She accepted the "job" and packed up her (few) belongings.  Then she was gone.  She asked me to keep things quiet because she preferred that people not know where she was.  She didn't want to be tracked down.  I think there was a little pride involved there, but mostly it was to protect us.  She had the opinion that, if she happened to owe any debts, the creditors would harass my sister and me relentlessly, and she hated that idea.

Her increasing stomach troubles caused her to shun social events.  She told me about "attacks" or "episodes" she got which caused her to vomit uncontrollably, for seemingly no reason.  She tried changing her diet - cutting out dairy, fatty foods, and gluten.  Still, nothing changed.  She could barely go on a quick trip to the store because she lived in constant fear of another inexplicable attack that would leave her in pain for hours.  Although I believed her, I attributed much of her condition to anxiety and kept suggesting she seek mental help as well as medicine.

I offered to visit her several times.  Each time she refused.  She was unable to come to my wedding, which deeply hurt me.  I knew it was not her fault, and I eventually forgave her, but it took a long time.  We wrote letters back and forth and talked on the phone sometimes until my mother learned how to send text messages.  We kept in touch at least once a week in some form, and I did get one beautiful chance to see her.

My sister Julia, despite everyone's misgivings and gentle warnings, chose to get married before she graduated from college.  She picked June 2, 2012, and as we drove down to Tennessee, my husband kept mentioning that my mom's place wasn't too far off our route.  "She won't let me visit," I insisted.  "She says that she's on a strict schedule and the man she takes care of is pretty fragile.  I've offered before..."

"Call her," commanded Ross.

I did.  She sounded delighted.  She made plans to see us that Sunday, as we were headed back to Pittsburgh.  I hung up the phone in a daze.  I was going to see my mom after almost three years!  Julia's wedding was beautiful, but honestly, seeing my mom was even better.  Of course, she prepared a ridiculously huge spread of food for Ross and me: pulled pork and cold cuts for sandwiches, chips, homemade broccoli salad, pistachio pudding, lemon merengue pie, and Jell-O for dessert.  It was delicious, of course, and we chatted for several hours about her pets (she had continued her Pittsburgh mission of rescuing, training, and nurturing strays), her hobbies (she had begun to write poetry and dabbled in illustrations).  She never once mentioned her health, which was a typical topic of conversation otherwise.  We got a few pictures and enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Looking back, it was Julia's determination to get married when she did, that allowed me to see my mother one last time.  I am so grateful that Jules heard from God when the rest of us were not sure what to believe.

The call came at 3:00 AM Thursday, when my phone was on silent.  I woke around 7:00 and saw that I'd missed a call from Kentucky.  The message said that my mom was at King's Daughters Medical Center and in surgery.  I called back immediately, of course, hoping for nothing worse than an irritated gallbladder or inflamed tonsils.  She woman I spoke with had no information for me, as she'd just arrived for her shift, but she'd have the doctor call me as soon as he was finished with my mother.  I thanked her and set the phone down as I sat on the couch.  I was ice-cold and shaking.

The doctor called back within a few minutes.  The first thing he asked me was if my mother knew she had a hiatal hernia.  My heart dropped, and at that moment, God allowed me to enter Task Mode.  I did not have time to be a hysterial grieving daughter.  Instead, I was a business professional, thinking objectively.  "Yes," I admitted, "...but she consistently refused to seek medical treatment for it."  The doctor went on to politely, clearly, and gently explain that my mother's hernia had caused her stomach to burst, infecting her entire abdominal cavity and causing her incredible pain.  He said that they had done what they could, removing her entire stomach and her spleen, but that her chances of survival were minimal.  He said that, if she did make it through the initial recovery process, she would still face the risk of infection.

I took a deep breath and metaphorically plunged into that icy, numbing pool that is fear.  I packed my bag and told Ross that I was leaving and he didn't need to call off work.  Of course, he did, and he packed a bag, too.  We were forced to stop at Wal-Mart for oil for my car, and received a call from the hospital.  A nurse was asking when we expected to arrive.  At that point, I did lose it, crumpling down in the middle of the store, mascara bleeding down my face.  "I'm on my way," I sobbed, and Ross gathered me up.  At ten o'clock, we were on the road.

The drive should have been about five hours, but we made it in four and a half, the tense silence almost overwhelming us.  I prayed around ten-thiry, and God gave me the same strange sense of peace I had when we learned that we were losing Bennet, our second child.  God had whispered, "I have his heart here with me," indicating that the baby had already gone on into heaven before me.  I got the strong sense that things were okay - not necessarily that my mother would recover, but that we would be able to be there with her.

And we were.  Before I had arrived, I'd had the sense to ask the doctor what I would see when I got into the room.  I was already under enough stress; I didn't need the added surprise of seeing something I wasn't prepared for.  Sure enough, my mother was lying there, pale and puffy.  A machine was pumping blood into her body as another one was attempting to suction blood out of her abdomen.  A thin stream of blood was running out of her mouth.  There were tubes in her nose and one in her throat.  She was connected to at least half a dozen IVs that were pumping her full of sedatives, painkillers, and blood pressure medication.  She was undeniably on her death bed.

Yet, when I walked in the door and simply said, "Mummy", she opened her eyes and looked right at me.  She always had the loveliest eyes - almost black, with perfectly arched brows.  In those eyes just then I saw a heartbroken apology.  Her father had died unexpectedly 15 years before, leaving his two daughters to sort through a hellish mess.  In that glance, I believe I saw her fear over doing the same to us.

"I'm here, Mummy.  I love you," I said.  Dutifully, I added, "Gina loves you, and Gram and Brent, and Mar...and Dad and Deana.  We all love you."

I stayed there a few minutes, holding her stiff, cold hand.  The nurse, a small woman with curly hair, gently led us into the hall.

"I don't know how she is alive right now," she admitted.  "I've been in the Army for 22 years and this is the worst case I have ever seen.  I don't know how she was even able to open her eyes."

Remembering the wives' tale that coma patients can still hear what is being said around them, I asked, "While you were in the room, did you mention anything about my being on my way?"

"Yes," she replied. 

"Then that is how she could open her eyes," I determined.  I knew I wasn't a perfect daughter, but I knew I was always on her mind and we'd been in touch quite often over the last several weeks.  If she knew I was coming, that stubborn, wonderful old lady would stop at nothing to see me.

Over the next several hours, Ross and I were treated with great kindness and respect as we waited for my sister, Gina, to arrive with Dad and Deana.  Jerry, my mom's friend, and his family - who had practially adopted her - were there, too, on and off.  Mom didn't open her eyes again for us, but at one point in the night, the nurse told us she indicated she was in pain.  We gathered around her after I insisted to Gina that we weren't saying good-bye.  Not yet.  I believe in miracles and was completely prepared to allow God to do one, but I didn't want my mom surrounded by weeping and wailing until it was truly the end.

After everyone had to leave, I stayed next to Mom, gently stroking her calloused foot and talking to her.  The night nurse was sweet and thoughtful, but did let us know that things looked very, very bad.  She said that my mom's blood still wasn't clotting properly and that, as a result of her stomach rupturing, she was suffering from sepsis.  The rupture was also leading to multiple organ failure.  Her liver was in shock and her kidneys were failing.   Her heart and brain were fine, but nothing else was.  Nothing.  Her blood pressure continued to drop even as her heart rate increased to well above a normal range.   The nurse began to explain the concept of DNR to me, but I interrupted her.  I had already spoken to my sister and, even with no will or formal paperwork, we knew that Mum would hate to be brought back to a miserable life.  I fought a little with the ethical concept.  Was my refusing treatment for my mother the same as killing her?  Was letting her die the right choice?  Her mind was fine but her body was broken.  Was God going to do anything? 

I took a moment to talk to Mum, one-on-one.

"Mummy," I said.  "Listen to me.  If Jesus comes for you, you need to go with him.  You'll get to see your grandbabies - remember, their names are Olivia, Bennet, and Galen.  But if Jesus doesn't come for you, you need to fight.  And I will be here, fighting with you.  Okay?  I love you."

My mother had struggled with her faith, and faith in general, her whole life.  I don't think she ever stopped believing in God, but I know there were a great many trials that forced her to question what she believed.  I do know that she had found a lot of internal peace when she moved to Kentucky.  I think that God had allowed her to mellow and find forgiveness in many ways she didn't expect.  She once called me to tell me that she'd finally forgiven my dad for the divorce and everything that went with it...but that God had told her she needed to actually call my dad and tell him that.  She'd laughed, but she had done it.  She'd had a long conversation with Dad that, I believe, was a key to her own emotional healing.  I know she loved her Jesus.  She read her Bible.  Most of the letters and texts she had sent me mentioned that she was praying for us - for a job for me, a better job for us, healing during our miscarriages, better weather, safety.

I didn't fear for her soul that night, but I wonder if she was scared.  I wonder if she'd seen the Lord and said to Him, "Please...not yet.  Let me keep trying."  I wonder if she was afraid of leaving her Kentucky family in the lurch.  After all, she'd just adopted yet another stray kitten a few weeks before - not to mention all the other people and pets she was caring for!.  "We will take care of the animals," I found myself assuring her.  I finally left the hospital around 2:30 that morning, about 24 hours since she'd been admitted.

The final call came a few hours later, as Ross and I were sleeping in the Hospitality House provided for us.  "She isn't responding to the medicine and her blood pressure is still dropping.  I think maybe you'll want to come in now," came the gentle drawl.  "Should anything happen, do you want us to do chest compressions?"

"Absolutely not," I replied,  "Don't you touch her.  Don't put her in any more pain."

As I dressed, Ross made the calls to the rest of the family.  We gathered in the hospital room, six of us touched by this stubborn, hard-nosed, big-hearted little woman, and said our good-byes.  Still in Task Mode, I approached the nurse and said crisply, "We're ready."  I then asked her to explain to my fmaily what was going to be happening, making entirely sure that she would not be in any pain at all.

As Gina and I each held one of her hands, we began to remind her of all the wonderful things she had done for us, and told her about some of the things were were doing and still hoped to do.  Gina had just started a new job and I was looking at a great volunteer opportunity.  I told her that I'd lost a few pounds since the new year.  I reminded her that her skin still looked as fantastic as I remembered when I was a child.

Gradually, her heart rate slowed and the nurse continued to lower the dosages of her blood pressure medication.  I kissed Mum's forehead and snipped a lock of her hair. 

And then she was gone.

I didn't have any time to mourn.  I haven't mourned yet.  We had to make immediate decisions regarding a funeral home, memorial, and other things.  Mum had expressed to my sister and me that she'd wanted to be cremated.  Based not only on that wish, but on the horrible condition of her body, we agreed that it was the best way.  She'd had so few friends in Kentucky that we hardly needed a lavish memorial - plus, she would have absolutely hated that.  We ended up scheduling a short service without any professional speaker.  I would give the eulogy and that would be it. 

We celebrated Mum's life by enjoying country-fried steak for lunch that day.  Later, Gina and I went through my mom's bedroom.  She'd been a remarkably organized woman and had labeled virtually everything - her important documents, her treasured photos - even things she'd brought from our old Crafton house as she'd moved into smaller and smaller apartments.

Although Gina and I have never gotten along particularly well, God gave us a supernatural grace to go through her things without argument, without pettiness, without tears.  We each wanted different reminders of her - Gina preferred things that she'd used, like a pair of scissors or a recipe book - while I preferred things she'd liked, like lighthouses or cat memorabilia.  We each chose a few pieces of Mum's costume jewelry that had been our favorites.

Then came the brief memorial, where about a dozen people mourned the passing of Cindy Thielet.  Then a meal, then the long drive back to Pittsburgh.

As I said, things haven't hit me yet.  God gave me the grace and ability to take on the huge honor of handling my mom's final hours and last wishes.  That grace, it seems, is still in effect.  I'm a little numb.  I do have the overwhelming sense of gratitude that she was deeply loved and well cared-for by her Kentucky family.  These people were her true-blue friends.  Not that she didn't have any in Pennsylvania - I don't mean that.  I simply mean that she wasn't simply providing a service for them.  She was family to them, as much as she was to me.

The final gift I got from my mom, well, I have yet to unwrap.  In shuffling through the things on her desk, we found a wrapped package addressed to me, as yet unmailed.  I haven't been ready to open it yet.  I know it will be another silly gift; she'd loved to send little trinkets for the cats, or pictures to Ross and me.  But it's literally the last thing my mom had set aside for me, and I'm waiting for the right time to unwrap it.

We're planning a potluck supper in her honor for the Pittsburgh friends and family in the next few weeks.  Most people's memories of my mom involve great food, so there's no better thing to do to honor her than eat!  I'm trying to look forward to that - a celebration of a warm-hearted Polish lady who touched everyone she met.

Bye for now, Mummy.  Love you.

Ghosts of Christmas Past...and Future

Ross and I spent Christmas Eve in the hospital.

Well, only a few hours, really.  That morning, as we were rushing to get ready to visit his parents for lunch, Ross received a disturbing e-mail from his mom.  In a nutshell, she said that Ross's dad may have had a mini-stroke, and they were in the hospital, and not to come visit because they weren't home.  Naturally, we made plans to visit the hospital at once.  We were encouraged by a call from Ross's dad, who tried to make light of the situation as best he could.

I won't get into all the details here, but suffice it to say that, being the holiday, John did not really get the care he needed.  An MRI was promised on Christmas Eve and, as of Cindy's update last night, it still hadn't been done.  He will likely be in the hospital for several more days.

Ross spent a lot of time being reflective the past few days.  Although we had a really wonderful Christmas dinner with my family (it was a pajama party - I have awesome relatives!), I could tell that he was thinking about his dad.  And who could blame him?  Two of our good friends lost parents in the past few months.  A former co-worker of mine lost her grandmother around the same time.  We buried a friend from church two weeks ago who was about John's age.  And, of course, this year we had two miscarriages. 

Of course it was scary to think of losing him.

I got to thinking that is has been a miserable year for so many of my friends.  Divorce, death, disappointment, job loss, broken relationships, political upheaval, busted vehicles, and of course, increasingly horrifying news stories, like those out of Connecticut and Oregon, have been on a seemingly endless parade through our lives.  I don't know why.  In a strange way, I feel comforted.  I know that I was not alone in my grief this year.  That isn't to say I'd wish loss or destruction on anyone else, of course. 

It's just that Christmas has always been a hard time of the year for me, like it is for so very many people.  It's a myth, I think, that only unmarried or otherwise lonely people become depressed around the holidays.  What about those who have lost a dear friend or relative, or a child - especially those who are experiencing their first Christmas without that person?  Those who are missing servicemen or women who are deployed?  Those who have been through a divorce, regardless of whether they have remarried?  Even those who are questioning their faith for one reason or another - the sweet and hopeful message of Christmas can be a difficult one to understand or accept.

This Christmas should have seen us with a beautiful baby girl.  Olivia would have been 10 months old - the perfect age to enjoy her first Christmas.  Old enough to smile, giggle, and babble at relatives, but young enough to cuddle and pass from aunt to aunt.  Yet that isn't how we spent our holiday, and I don't think I will ever know why. 

Still - I am grateful that my family is growing closer through our losses.  My uncle lost both his parents last year, and Ross and I offered out home for Thanksgiving dinner.  It might have been one of the best things we could have done for the family.  Since then we have been spending more time with my dad, step-mum, aunt, uncle, and Gram - it's really all I have left.  My sisters are out of town and my mother is out-of-state.  My grandmother's brothers and sisters have all passed away, and my aunt and uncle never had children.  I don't have first cousins.  It's only seven of us.  But we're continuing to grow closer.  I am deeply grateful for that.  There isn't any of that holiday drama surrounding us - unless my dad gets peevish and wants to discuss a hot political topic over coffee...but those conversations are becoming more rare as we realize that spending precious time together is far more important than being "right" politcally or morally.  Fortunately, we all know and love Jesus and find our hope in Him.  It's He alone who has been our strength this past year, even when we have felt faint and weak.   

I have, many times this year, felt like a ghost.  We taught the kids around Halloween that there are no such things as ghosts - at least, not like the ghosts Hollywood tells us about.  Yet, it is that very image I feel I have been portraying...listless, pale, caught between two worlds and unsure of how to move forward. 

In the year ahead, I am praying that this "ghostly" feeling is replaced by the power and conviction of the Holy Spirit, and that I, and my friends, are given new strength to forge ahead.  I think another year like this one will utterly break me.  I can admit that now.  Although my faith is still strong, trust me - it's been shaken these past long months.  I keep returning to that place of "Why, God?" and I get no answer.  I don't know that I ever will in this lifetime.  But that's not as depressing as it sounds.

This year has also brought with it a new infusion of hope.  Because of my faith, the very thing that has been shaken and bruised and battered of late, I believe that there is an infinity beyond this life.  God has given me a greater sense of eternity this year.  I cannot see or comprehend "forever", yet it exists simultaneously with "now" - at least to God, for whom time is no barrier.  It's so difficult to put into words, but there is an odd and deep sense of peace that comes to me when I think of eternity.  I know it makes some people anxious, or confused, or irritated.  Many people - even those who believe as I do -  live their whole lives without actually contemplating it.  Some dismiss it entirely.  Yet because I have contemplated it, and studied it, and believe in it, I have been rewarded with the promise of seeing my children, who died before they were born.  I have the promise of dancing with Linda at the throne of Christ.  I have the promise of seeing my friends' parents and telling them "You raised some darn amazing kids!"

I have the promise of life everlasting.  I need that to be my focus for 2013.  Health for now, and hope for eternity.

Too Much Death

The holidays are difficult for many people for hundreds of reasons.  For some, it's the pressure of financial strain on an already tight budget.  For others, it's the great void of loneliness stretching out in the "festive" weeks ahead.  For a lot of people, it's a time of stress and travel anxieties - ferrying kids to one grandparent's house then the other, of trying to evenly divide hours between divorced parents.

For many, I think, the holidays represent the anniversary of a loss.  They are a painful time because celebration is blanketed by a sense of regret, loss, longing, and sometimes shame. 

Lately, I've seen far too much talk of death on facebook.  A friend's mother lost her long, long battle with cancer just a few weeks ago.  A friend posted about a two-week-old baby passing away.  A former co-worker's grandmother just died.  All of this in the past month.  Over the past few weeks, my family has been touched by the cold hand of death, too.  First came the dreaded due date: December 5th.  Our son Bennett was supposed to be in our arms right now - just one week old.  But we lost him.  Then, my sister-in-law, Lindsey, lost her beloved bunny, Erte.  I know that pets and people aren't the same, but like us, Lindsey and her husband Jay have no children.  They adored their pets and, frankly, they were probably more like family than Ross and I were - at least in the sense that we only got to see Jay and Lindsey a few times a year, where their bunny and cat were constant companions.  As I grow more and more attached to Thor and Loki, I can see why people take losing a pet so seriously.  So I grieved with Jay and Lindsey over the loss of their quirky, sweet little 12-year-old bunny.  In fact, for years, the holidays have been difficult for me.  Although God has restored my family in ways I never would have expected, it was around Christmas time over 15 years ago that my Dad left my Mom.  I can wholly understand why people dread the holiday season.

But just a few minutes ago, things got much harder.

I just got word from our church office that Linda Kessler went home to be with Jesus.

Linda had recently been diagnosed with an extremely fast-moving cancer that had spread throughout her body.  In a matter of weeks, she had grown weak and sick.  The doctors had performed test after test for other illnesses before realizing it was cancer.  They gave her one month to live, without chemotherapy.  They guessed she might have up to a year, with it.

Linda had three days of chemotherapy.  She ran into the arms of her Savior last night.

I hate obituaries, because they try to wrap a person's life up into a tiny, four-line black and white package to be printed in an upcoming newspaper that few people will ever see anyway.  Therefore, I will tell what I can of my experience with the amazing, wonderful Linda Kessler - before the cancer attacked her.

Linda was a woman of medium height and build, with long, slightly graying blonde hair.  She always dressed simply and modestly.  She wore Vanilla Fields perfume, the same brand my mother liked to wear.  When I told her that - that she smelled like my mom - she smiled hugely, as though it were the kindest thing in the world I could have said to her.   She worked at Sam's Club.  She had been divorced, but I never knew any details.  She had children - one of whom was a son who died last year, around the time we lost Bennett.  I remember going to her and just hugging her - like she'd hugged me so many times before, both in joy and sorrow.  I said, "I don't know how I know, but I am sure your son is taking care of my babies in Heaven."  She nodded fervently and said, "Michael loved kids.  He adored them.  I know that's exactly what he is doing right now."  And we both found hope.

Linda was a worshiper.  She could be found every Sunday morning, standing off to the side in the front of the sanctuary, so as not to disturb anyone else, waving her banner and holding her hands outstretched to the Lord.  She had a look of peace on her face, with her eyes closed and a little smile on her lips.  Her brows were always drawn together, as if her love for God was so great it might hurt her.  When I began to take pictures during church events, I frequently focused on her.  She was always there, always passionate: the picture of someone madly in love with Jesus, and humbled in turn by His love for her.

Linda was an encourager.  In spite of what she had endured in her life, she was a genuinely loving and happy person.  She liked to make other people feel happy, too.  She loved children and teenagers.  They often ended up sitting near her during special services, or before they left the sanctuary to attend their classes.  Linda liked that.  She wasn't one of those crabby older women who just wanted to be done with kids, or thought they were disturbing the "real people" from paying attention to the pastor's message.  I liked that a lot about Linda. 

Linda was faithful.  She was at almost every meeting I could think of; she served as an usher and greeter every Sunday and served at nearly every special service we held for Pastor Billy Burke, a healing evangelist.  She scheduled her whole life around church, it seemed.  It was where she was happiest.  It was where she could make other people happy.

Last night, she breathed her last and opened her eyes in paradise.

This is hard for me, personally, because I feel like I let Linda down.  I had the chance to visit with her this past Sunday, and bring to her a card the youth group had signed.  I remember being very impressed with what the kids wrote to her.  Not a single one of them simply signed his or her name.  Even those who did not know her well had something cheerful, kind, or encouraging to write.  I was deeply moved.  The kids who I worried about - the ones who sometimes seemed like they cared more for themselves than anything else - wrote loving, sweet, thoughtful things to encourage a sick woman. 

And, because I didn't visit her on Sunday, she never got the chance to read them.

I kept thinking that one day wouldn't make a difference; I had asked Ross to mail the card yesterday morning.  He did so, going so far as to pull a stamp off another letter because we didn't have any more stamps.  And, as I got out of the shower this morning, my phone chirped an e-mail notification.  I read the message from the office and I began to cry.  Thor came into the bathroom immediately.  You know how they say that animals just know things?  He curled up in my arms and licked me and purred in my ear and meowed his sympathies until I stopped crying. 

I had received my healing last week and I believed that Linda would, too.  If God could mend a tiny tear in my fragile retina, what could possibly keep him from plucking cancer out of the cells in Linda's body?  The youth group prayed with us.  Ross and I have prayed the last few days.  Linda received prayer at a healing meeting last month. 

Why did she die?

Christians struggle so much with this question.  I don't have an answer.  I don't know why Linda had to succumb to the cancer, and why some other people are healed through surgery, therapy and radiation, and why others are healed miraculously, never to get another negative diagnosis again.

I don't know.  Because I am not God.

Something that comforted me deeply when I lost my babies is this thought: God didn't make any mistakes and all of us were designed for a specific purpose.  I believe that some of us were designed specifically for Heaven.  Our roles and existence await us there - passing over a life on earth.  I truly believe that my three children had jobs that were so urgent waiting for them in Heaven that they bypassed time here.  I'd like to think that God had a Linda-shaped hole in Heaven and a job that only her compassion, gentleness and faithfulness could possibly complete.  I don't know that such an idea is found anywhere in scripture, but it doesn't conflict with anything there, either, and so I have accepted it to gain a little bit of peace.  If you are a person who is genuinely eternity-minded - like Linda was - the vastness of "forever" isn't scary or daunting, but comforting. 

I wish I could have said good-bye.  I sincerely do.  But it would have been temporary at best.  It won't be long before I get to see Linda again.   And she can introduce me to her son who so lovingly has looked after my children.

That is the hope of Christ is us.

In Mourning

With all that is going on right now - the frantic holiday season, my upcoming one-year anniversary, Ross's many recent interviews, hopes to lead a new ladies' Bible study group and the unexpected passing of a young friend - I have been, until last night, too overwhelmed to write.  When too many thoughts and ideas crowd my mind, they are unable to flow as freely as they should.  Instead, they jostel each other, clamoring for space and voice, and, unable to move, they fester and rot.

Last night provided and unfortunate remedy to that.

The news of Melissa Lynch's sudden death yesterday was shocking and I know that most of us who called her our friend are numb, unable to process the fact that a vibrant and beautiful young lady and fellow actress is no longer with us.  I don't profess to have any answers to the painful, angry questions her passing has brought.  All I know is that I am praying to my God, the supplier of all needs, who will comfort those who mourn with the completeness of his love and mercy.

We need time to express our anger, our fear, our regret and our shock.  I don't believe that God condemns us when, in our confusion and outrage, we ask, "Why?"  I do believe that he wants us to run into his arms so he can bring us peace - although he doesn't always provide answers.  There likely isn't an answer that would satisfy us anyway.  Why so young a woman?  So beautiful and talented a friend?  Why so perfect a smile?  Yet, there is a measure of good that can emerge from all this...

Those of us who remain, who acted with her and therefore took a little part of her soul with us when we left Clarion, have regrouped.  People who have not had much contact, if any, in years, have found each other again, carrying the matching banners of mourning.  We have rediscovered common and beautiful memories - not only memories that involve Melissa and her great talent, but memories that remind us of why we fell in love with our art.  If we close our eyes, we can remember the glowing glory of standing under a single, golden spotlight...the giddy, nervous laughter of pre-show superstitions...the thrilling triumph of a standing ovation...the shared intimacy of creating lives and a histories out of nothing...

The radio station is frequently listen to, K-Love, often features a guest speaker during the morning show.  Yesterday, it was a pastor who has been encouraging his congregation not to make New Year's resolutions, but instead to choose just one word that will act as a lens through which they want to see themselves and their lives.  

The word that immediately came into my head as I drove the icy back roads to the bank yesterday morning was "relationship".  I had spent so many hours this past year fretting over not being a good enough wife, sister, daughter, friend, employee, Christian, leader.  I made myself sick comparing myself to people I considered more successful than myself.  I grew depressed and anxious, and more withdrawn than I had been previously.   All of the beneficial social and relationship-building skills I had gained through training at Starbucks, Dollar Bank and Berean Fellowship crumbled from disuse.  I wasn't spending much time with my friends.  I was sometimes reluctant to help at church, even though such work previously brought me joy.

It slowly dawned on me that feeding my insecurities was not the way to build and sustain healthy relationships.  I mean, I knew that and have always known that, but as I was driving, I just felt lightened by the reminder of that knowledge.  Relationships involve sacrifice, passion, effort and determination.  They rarely just happen, and even those that seem to happen organically still require nurturing and care.  I felt that God was reminding me about my duties to the people in my life with whom I have relationships: my husband, my family, my co-workers, my church and my friends.  And he reminded me that service to others cannot dwell in the same heart as self-loathing, so I must choose.

Just as I was beginning to make that decision daily, I was struck with the news of an old friend whose relationship I had let fade.  And I was filled with sadness and regret at both the news itself and the fact that I had lost touch with her - and myself.

Although I would much rather have been reignited by something other that the death of a charming young woman, I am determined that I will gather up the memories - and the potential - of passion into a beautiful bouquet and display them where I can see and enjoy them as often as a please...and allow them to remind me that nothing follows us to the grave but the relationships we have built.

A Muse of Fire...

...is how I will always remember Melissa Lynch.

Seriously, the girl was so passionate about everything you could almost feel sparks crackling in the air around her.  Physically, she was very pretty.  Pale skin, shining dark hair, a slight frame and a winning smile, but her eyes were what got you.  There was an intensity in them that was almost frightening.  It was as though she was about to lock horns with a stampeding bull - and end up with steak for dinner.  

It was one of her trademarks, that passion.

That same brand of passion didn't flow through all the actors I had met during my time at Clarion University.  Although there were many, many talented, adept, charming, brilliant people, that intense fire seemed reserved only for a few.  Miranda Scopel, for one.  She was one of those people whose fashion sense was from another era, who lived like she was dying, who could make any topic sound intriguing and maybe even a little scandalous.  Trevor Southworth was another.  He was another creature when he was onstage.  Almost inhuman, in the best possible way.  My God, these people were just...fireballs.  Not only good actors with good directorial and design instincts (there were a lot of people like that), but just so much energy and passion that sometimes you just wanted to sit them in a comfy chair with a blanket and a cup of chamomile tea to quiet them a bit.

I loved these people.  I always wanted to be one.  Melissa was one.

She was one of those versatile actresses who never got stuck in a certain type of role.  She played the innocent Wendy Darling in Peter Pan as adeptly and sincerely as she played the quiet, confident King of England in Henry V.  She had mastered numerous dialects and could whisk you to the hard-pressed streets of Brooklyn, New York, a southern plantation or the foggy, chilly coast of Ireland - with just a single phrase.

She was loud.  She was opinionated.  She loved to laugh and cause a scene.  She could be as proper or as unladylike as you could imagine, depending on her mood.  But there was nothing in the world she seemed to love more than the moment when she found her character...when she found the gesture she had been seeking, the tone of voice, the position, the stance, the motivation, the mood.  It was fascinating to watch, and an honor to be a part of.  I directed and acted with Melissa in several productions during the time we spent at Clarion, and if I were to honestly name the highlights of my educational career, she would be in the top two: directing Broadway Bound and acting in Henry V.  It was a thrill to pour my talent and passion into a performance with her, and I will never forget those opportunities I had.

Melissa went on to be among the few Acting graduates I knew who found success as an actor outside of college.  She returned to her hometown of Philadelphia and was building a career in reputable local venues when her life ended just a few hours ago.  She was involved in a car accident.  She wasn't even thirty.

She will be greatly missed.

The true magic of theatre is not in the set or the lighting or the music.  That takes talent and technology, and it is, of course, always a marvelous display of the work of the hands and mind of a designer or artist.  But creating a character out of nothing but black words on a white page is a different kind of magic.  It's the magic of the heart that only truly passionate actors ever get to share.  It's a spell woven by an enchantress who wants nothing more than to connect, to feel, to express.  And it's a love song that will spill over into every aspect of a life, even after that life has ended.  

Thank you, Melissa, for captivating us with your passion.  Thank you for reminding us that passion cannot survive without diligence and perseverance, and that passion is worthless without product.  Thank you for the memories that you have woven into our hearts, and for the great talent you shared so proudly and so freely, with those around you.  Thank you, Melissa, and good-bye.

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep."

In Memory of Tia

Tia liked pretzels, cookies, and colorful socks.  She liked to be the center of attention.  She liked to dance and she loved to laugh.  She loved my family with a fierce loyalty and she liked to make new friends.

Tia was a fiery and funny 27-year-old with severe mental retardation.  She died earlier this month.

My stepmum's mum, Charlene ("Grammy Char"), had a passion for taking care of foster children.  My stepmum, Deana, smiles as she tells stories of helping to raise dozens of kids not even related to her.  She mentions that she never had her own bedroom.  Not once in her life!   Not as a child, not in college, not after being married.  Of course, she adds, she never really minded.  That's Deana for you!  She must have gained a great deal of patience and integrity from helping her mother and sisters all those years.

And, speaking of patience, that is precisely what helping Tia required.  Char took Tia in when she was about 14.  Tia was quite a big girl - nearly 200 pounds - and, like a young Rottweiler or a German Shepherd, she had absolutely no idea how strong she was.  She was loyal, loving - and unpredictable.  Somewhere along the line, Tia learned that certain words made people pay attention to you when you said them.  These words are commonly called "expletives".  Since Tia liked attention, she became a frequent employer of these words - particularly at inappropriate times.  

Like, in a candlelit service right before the choir sang "Silent Night" on Christmas Eve.

It was hard for me to get to know Tia because I never spent a lot of time with her.  Charlene wasn't always able to bring her to family dinners or gatherings because sometimes she was just too agitated or confused.  When she did come, she often fussed until she was fed, and then she simply wanted more food and attention.  My sister Julia and my cousin Zane, in particular, had a way with her.  She positively adored them.  Zane liked to get her riled up, while Julia had a gift to help calm her down.  Either way, you could clearly see love shining out of Tia's often blank eyes when those two were around.  

It was easy to buy gifts for Tia.  She didn't care for clothes, having an almost endless standard of sweatpants and embroidered sweatshirts, but that girl loved fancy socks.  Striped socks, glittery socks, Disney Princess socks, G.I. Joe socks.  Didn't matter.  She loved socks, and that is what she got, birthday after birthday, Christmas after Christmas.  Best part was, she never sulked, "I got this last year!"  She simply held them up like a glorious trophy and made that delighted crowing cry that always made us laugh.

Tia stopped coming to family events altogether some time ago.  Char had begun to worry; several months prior to her death, Tia had begun to become unreasonable, almost violent, sometimes accidentally putting herself in danger.  It was a hard choice for her, but Char had Tia put under the care of a local mental institution.  

Five weeks later, she was dead.

The autopsy revealed that the cause of death was heart failure, brought about by pneumonia (her lungs were not getting enough oxygen to the rest of her body), and the pneumonia had been brought on by some type of serious injury to her chest.  

The hospital never informed Char that Tia was sick.  When Char and her daughter Nikki went to visit Tia, they were shocked to see multiple bruises on her face.  The staff told Char that Tia fell and hurt herself. 

Tia's death is currently still under investigation.  

I unfortunately heard of Tia's passing via a text message from my father.  I was sad, but I didn't realize until the funeral how truly loved that she was.  Former aides, teachers, and friends - both with and without mental challenges - came to pay their respects.  Members of my church who love our family came to support us during a difficult time.   The funeral home was far from empty.  During the short service, Zane - suddenly shedding the skin and smirk of a mischievous little boy - stood bravely and, between tears, announced how much Tia had meant to him.  After all, he spent a great many hours playing and visiting with her when he was young.  He'd practically grown up with her.

And now he had to say good-bye.

Before friends had shown up, Char spent several minutes carefully arranging a bow in Tia's tight curly hair, and slipping a bracelet onto her rigid hands.  It was strange to see Tia - and Char - so eerily quiet.  Then I realized in my head what my heart already knew.  Tia was now dancing with Jesus - whole, for the first time ever!  She was not struggling with the constraints of her clumsy physical body, nor were there strict limitations on her understanding and her mind.  She was free, completely clear-minded!  What joy she must have had when she looked into her Lord's eyes for the first time!  She may never have fully understood her need for a Savior, but she loved coming to church, singing for the Lord, and lunching with the beautiful elder ladies after their small group.  I believe she did accept Jesus into her heart.

As I reflected on Tia's life and legacy, I became strangely envious.  Unlike "normal" people, Tia never struggled through life with grudges or vengeance in her heart.  She was devoid of the capacity for worry.  Her joys were simple, and the things that upset her were forgotten in an instant.  She was, in many ways, and example to the Christian community on how to approach life.

And we think that, in being born with mental retardation, she was robbed of a "quality life"?

No, Tia may not have ever played with a PlayStation or an iPod.  She never picked out her own couture clothes or ate at trendy restaurants.  But Tia was happy.  She had friends who loved her, teachers who cared for her, and she was given every ounce of compassion that they had to share.  The simple, innocent delight in her laugh was enough to make you fall a little bit in love with her.

Good-bye for now, Tia.  Save a dance for me.