I Didn't Have Any Coffee This Morning.

And I can soooooooo feel it.

This parenting thing is strange.  I can go a few hours at a time without a single obligation - that is, if the baby's sleeping - and then suddenly, my dinner has to get cold while I need to figure out why the tiny human in my house seems angry.  And LOUD.  Sleep is now a precious commodity - literally worth haggling over with my husband, if need be.  (Fortunately, haggling is infrequent, as I have a great hubby who tries his best to take care of both me and the baby.)

I was disappointed to learn how frequently I have been second-guessing myself since the baby came home from the NICU.  I can literally not turn around without getting advice (sometimes solicited, frequently not) from folks on social media.  All of the books I have read contradict each other.  The NICU doc and my pediatrician gave me advice from two different ends of the spectrum.  So basically, this is what I have learned about parenting:

Never wake the baby for feeds, except if he has slept too long, which means anywhere from three to five hours, depending on what is normal for your baby.  Let the baby sleep as long as he wants, because he or she will cry to let you know he's hungry. Since crying is a late sign of hunger, you're a negligent parent if your child has to cry to let you know he's hungry.  Never use a pacifier unless the child was given one in the hospital, in which case your should abandon all hope of even trying to breastfeed your baby.  Co-sleeping is the best way to go because it fosters closeness between yourself and the baby and allows your husband to bond with the baby too, except you're nuts and crunchy and a total wack-job if you let that baby into your bed because he will have all sorts of psychological issues later.  You should be ashamed of yourself if your child sleeps through a feeding, because you are going to hell for child abuse.  Plus, your milk supply will dry up and you will be like the Sahara Desert.    If you use a nipple shield, you're cursing your child to a life of malnourishment, because that will mess with your supply, too.  Use a nipple shield if your baby was introduced to the bottle first, as in cases of baby or maternal illness.  Oh, wait, your baby was introduced to the bottle before the breast?  You must have had a horrible birth plan.  Or your doctors didn't adhere to your birth plan because you were not assertive enough in expressing your desires.  So you are obviously raising a child with self-esteem issues.  Good luck when adolescence hits!  Why didn't you have a home birth?  You're a terrible person.  You should never have had a child at all.

Whew.  Glad I have everything figured out now and can go about my merry way, being the best mom in the history of ever.

Truth is, there's so much advice out there on so many topics that you need to take nearly everything with a grain of salt nowadays.  Every time I log onto facebook, there is a different article posted from one of my more passionate friends.  One day it's on the dangers of GMO products, and the next, it's an elaborate post about the "correct" way to drink water (apparently I've done it wrong for 32 years, which obviously explains why I have utterly failed at life so far).  There are articles touting the dangers of poisonous and deadly artificial sweeteners, articles advocating breastfeeding until the kid's practically in college, articles shaming me for eating anything other than organic, locally sourced kale and squash, articles warning me that my children will die if I use any type of cleanser other than white vinegar and baking soda...

...as well as articles refuting nearly every one of the above assertions.

It's terribly difficult to know who and want to trust.  Even when it comes to family - whom generally I do trust - there are such dramatic differences between life now and when my husband and I were first born, it's almost like we are all learning everything together, for the first time!  

I'm still working the learning curve.  Some days are good and some are not good at all.  Today, for example, is a not good day.  Baby has slept much of the day, which I usually despise, as it's generally an indication he will be up and fussy all night.  However, he hasn't eaten much today and he's spit up several times, which is unusual for him.  He seems like he's having tummy trouble, so I'm thinking it's best for him to rest today.  One day of poor eating won't kill him - even the little guy that he is.  I'm hoping that we'll wake with a clean slate tomorrow - and if not, then the docs get a call from me.  

The initial few weeks were hellish.  I'm the kind of gal who really, really values her eight full hours of sleep (that, paired with my introversion, means that I rarely go out once I'm home from work during the week; yes, I'm pretty hard-core lame).  Having that stolen from me was something I almost took personally.  Breastfeeding has been an exhausting and frustrating challenge in many ways.  (This is not a mommy blog so I choose not to get into details about that; suffice it to say that it is not the beautiful bonding experience I had hoped it would be.)  Trying to bond with a baby who doesn't much like to cuddle isn't very encouraging, either.  Venturing out of the house with a premature child has been scary and intimidating, too.  We're keeping our outings as short as possible now, to keep stress out of the equation if we can.  Plus, we're working with baby to reprogram his thinking - that is to say, to rework his days and nights, since he'd sleep for five or six hours easily during the day if I let him, but then he'll wail inconsolably for the same amount of time once nightfall hits.

I feel guilty right now.  I'm sure there are some hormones coming into play right now, but my own personal challenge is that I'm expecting myself to experience the glowing joy of motherhood so often portrayed in movies and magazines, without going through the ugly trenches of living on two showers per week, blurry-eyed 3 AM feedings, irrational fights with hubby, seemingly endless crying jags (for me and for baby), and buckets of self-pity over my wardrobe not fitting me yet.

The guilt, I think, is coming from the knowledge that I've overcome three miscarriages for this moment, and I expected to be full of radiance, practically oozing maternal instinct, to suddenly and miraculously have a closer and more intimate relationship with God, but instead, I'm still sorting out my feelings.  I thought I was going to literally glow.  Instead, I want to lose 35 pounds.  I have no desire to cook, which I used to love.  I get frustrated with the baby, and with myself, and sometimes I say things I don't mean.  I worry I'm not a good mom.  I run to WebMD to research my son's birthmark instead of listening to the doctors, who told me there's nothing to be concerned about.  I don't know what to do about returning to work.  Well, I kind of do, but I'm not sure.  

I guess all of that is pretty much 100% normal, and maybe that is the craziest part.  This is my new normal, and I have no choice but to get used to it!   

Wow.

(Props to Megan B., Deana T., Alayna R. and Jaime H. for helping me get through the first really, really difficult weeks with their great advice and much-needed laughter!)

Privacy Policy

I made the decision to publicly share the details of my pregnancy in an effort to encourage other women who find themselves in the same situation as me – unhappily childless, for whatever reason.  Although I recently realized I’m an introvert, I guess I’m a pretty lenient one, since I’m not shy about sharing personal stories or struggles.  I’ve been told I’m a transparent person (in the best possible way), and that the honesty with which I share my challenges has encouraged others.  So I don’t have a problem being open about this particular journey.

What I am wondering about, though, is how social media is going to play a role once this baby comes along.  I’ve seen both extremes with new parents – moms and dads who refuse to post any pictures or even the names of their children, as well as moms and dads who recount the grisly details of the baby’s most recent diaper blow-out – including pictures!  Most of my close friends have babies or toddlers, and it can be fun to follow their adventures.  Two of our besties, Matt and Jaime in particular, post a lot of pictures of their fun, cute little girls.  I like seeing them, probably because I’ve known all the girls since they were born, and spent time with them, and because we’re close with their parents.  We know their personalities, and mom and dad are not all about the “look at how amazing our kids are; they’re better than your kids!” mentality.  They’re fun, relaxed parents who have a great sense of humor about parenting and life in general.  And they do post about things other than their children.  They have interests besides their daughters!  They’re Christians who are involved in their church; Matt is a super-geek like Ross and myself and we like to talk about superhero and fantasy movies.  Jaime is a hair stylist and a thrifty fashionista and we love sharing our opinions on the latest trends. 

They’re people who are people first, then parents.

However, on the other hand, there are some mothers who make me kind of uncomfortable. Moms who are hyper-obsessed with their children.  Moms who post nothing but stories about their baby bellies, sleeping babies, and the all-natural, pesticide-free, organic kale, kefir, and pomegranate smoothies they are feeding their toddlers because fast food is an invention of Satan himself.   

Let me try to explain.  It’s not an issue of the organic, whole food thing.  In fact, that's something I've been considering more and more lately.  However, it is an issue of the fact that it seems like these ladies have lost their identities and see themselves solely as child-rearers.  I mean, I know a baby is going to dramatically change my life, and I’m concerned about maintaining my identity as a woman, a wife, a Christian, a writer. 

Things already have begun to change.  For example, last year I had (finally!) developed the healthy habit of daily exercise, dropped about 20 pounds, and was hoping to lose an additional 15 more.  With the diagnosis of a subchorionic hematoma and its subsequent bleeding, I was put on strict pelvic rest, which meant that, at least for a time, I could no longer exercise.  Initially I thought, what a great excuse for relaxing and putting my feet up!  Five weeks and seven pounds heavier, I was having a hard time looking in the mirror.  (Please note, I am only five feet tall, so a “few pounds” look and feel considerably heavier on me and are harder on my health than on a person of a taller stature.  I’m not just being “overdramatic” and “hormonal” about gaining weight.)  I’ve had to make changes in my diet, like any conscientious pregnant woman.  I’ve given up my favorite food, sushi, because of the danger it poses to the baby.  I’ve cut back on artificial sweeteners and caffeine.  I’m shunning cold cuts.  I’m, asking for my meat cooked well (blech!) rather than medium.  I’m trying to incorporate more fruits and veggies (very hard, since I’ve been too tired to properly plan my meals lately).  I’m not complaining about these things, per se, because all are part of my efforts to keep the baby healthy and strong.  But it does feel strange, realizing that, right now, my body is not entirely my own, and my decisions have to reflect that.

I don’t resent this child growing within me – no!  I’ve prayed for a baby for years and was crushed when we suffered our miscarriages.  I’m saying that, even now, I’m becoming conscious of how great the changes in my life will be once there is another little human in my house, and it won’t be easy. 

If we’re honest, we have to face it.  Human nature is selfish.  We want things our way – no matter what society or country we live in.  Humanity is at its beautiful best when it is able to set aside that urge and put others first, whether it means individuals taking our turn in line, donating to charity, giving up a seat on a bus, or, more dramatically, laying down their lives for others.  I’m saying that I’m already experiencing the sting of selfishness, long before my baby arrives.

As much as I want a child, the idea of being one-hundred percent attentive to a tiny person is sort of scary.  When will I sleep?  What will my body look like?  Will I ever “feel pretty” again?  What if I want to spend quality time with my husband?  What if I act like my husband isn’t even in the picture?  What else in my life will change?  Which brings me back to those militant moms.  Did they forget how to be people?  It seems to me that their very existence is devoted to nothing other than raising their children.  Reading their social media feeds is pretty much like tuning into the “my child” station 24-7.  It’s terrifying.  It feeds into the fearful question I asked my friend Jaime when she was pregnant with her third daughter, and we were discussing parenthood.  “Will I lose my identity?”  Basically , her reply was “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.  You’re still you.  You have other obligations, more love in your heart, more responsibilities and more challenges, but you are still you.”  That was reassuring.

I mean, I don’t want a mommy blog.  I don’t want my writing to revolve around baby food and poopy diapers and unidentifiable rashes.  I want to keep writing about all the things that are important to me – my husband, my faith, my family, fashion, my cats, science-fiction, cooking, and yes – my children will absolutely make that list!  But I also want to respect their privacy and I don’t want to get into a place where I begin to  lecture other parents on how to raise their kids.  There is way too much of that already with the fiery breast vs. bottle debates, the vemonous battle between the vaxxers and the anti-vaxxers, the outspoken crunchy moms and the, um…slightly-soggy moms?  Yes, I will raise my children in the church and openly share my values and beliefs with them.  Yes, I will vaccinate my kids.  Yes, I plan to breast-feed.  Yes, I passionately and fervently believe that I will be doing the right thing for my children, but I am also determined to maintain an open mind in regards to parents who choose to do things differently (unless those things put my kids in danger). 

That being said, my friend and former college roomie Megan and I are considering starting a blog together.  She is a very funny lady who also happens to be a vegetarian, a leaning-to-the-left liberal, and a homeschooler of her three wild kids (one of whom has some different needs).  I know Megs well, and I don’t consider her “crunchy” or “weird”.   She is also a person first, then a parent.  She is a dedicated runner, a loyal and supportive wife, and a part-time professor.  She loves her kids.  She also loves spending time away from them.  She is secretly a little bit geeky.  We don’t see eye-to-eye on everything, but she’s a person who makes me laugh and whom I admire.  She’s one of the people who can talk about how passionate she is about the way she eats, and it’s neither annoying nor preachy.  We've agreed that we won't be discussing politics, and it will be a PG-rated blog (much to the sassy Megan's dismay).  Politics, religion, and otherwise volatile subjects will be discussed on our personal pages, if we desire, not our co-blog!  We're thinking of calling it "The Kid/Cat Club".

That is something I can hook up with.  Stories about her three kids, and the antics of my three cats, maybe some recipes, our adventures at work – what could possibly result but endless hilarity?

And that’s one thing all my new-mom friends seem to agree on…with a small screaming human being clawing constantly at your breast, you definitely need a laugh or two to get you through the day…

Mom's Eulogy

I decided to post the eulogy I wrote for my mother.  I know there were several people who wanted to come to the memorial but could not - mostly because they were out-of-state, and early March weather doesn't exactly make for friendly traveling. 

Yes, I wrote it the evening before I presented it.  It's not because I'm a procrastinator (although I am exceptionally good at that).  It was just that I had absolute confidence that God would give me the words, put together in the perfect way, to honor my mom. 

From my friends' reactions, it did.  Amen and amen.

Once upon a time, there was a little red flower growing in a field.  She was surrounded by beautiful daisies, vivid wildflowers, and bright violets.  When the golden summer sun warmed the earth, people came to the field to laugh and walk and enjoy the weather.  Those people picked the daisies, and the wildflowers, and the violets.  But after each visit, the little red flower was left in the field, wondering why she wasn’t chosen.  Perhaps the caterpillars had chewed holes in her leaves, or her petals weren’t as pretty as the others.  Her only friends were the bees that buzzed around her, gathering pollen for their hives.  As summer faded into fall, the little red flower prepared to sleep for the winter.  She took a final look around her the lonely, empty field – the daisies and wildflowers and violets had all been called beautiful and given new homes.  Winter came and went, and when the spring sunshine woke her, the little red flower’s blossoms opened again.  Immediately, the bees rushed to greet her.  This spring, however, there were more visitors than there had ever been.  The little red flower apologized, believing that she couldn’t possibly have enough pollen for every last one of them.  The bees laughed, and said they would visit the rest of her family, too.  The little red flower didn’t understand until she looked past the bees into the field around her.  It was full of little red flowers, just like her, smiling in the sun and waving back at her.  During her lonely winter sleep, the little red flower’s roots had spread, taking the place of the daisies, and the wildflowers, and the violets that had been chosen instead of her.  The little red flower would never be alone again.

That fable is adapted from a short story written by Cynthia Marie Thielet.  I share it because I want to point out that there is a difference between the facts of her life, and the truths of it.

The fact is that my mother was born on January 27, 1955, to Andrew and Margaret Kuskil.  She grew up in and around Carnegie and Bridgeville.  Her childhood had its happy moments – visits to Cape Canaveral, carnivals, picnics and other adventure – but the truth is that much of her childhood was very difficult and fraught with physical and verbal abuse. 

The facts are that my mother married, had two daughters, and divorced.  The truth is that my mother had the strength to keep from passing on the abuse to her own children, and broke a cycle of violence that had lasted for generations.  The truth is that my mother worked tirelessly at minimum-wage jobs to support my sister and myself.  It was not uncommon for her to come home from work with burns on her arms from the chemicals she used at the dry cleaners, or from the hot oil she used as a grill cook.  The truth is that my mother put her daughters before her own social life, mostly keeping close with only a few trusted friends but rarely going out with them.  The truth is, she sometimes had a temper…and the truth is, my sister and I knew how to push her buttons.  The truth is, with God’s help, after the divorce my mom eventually found other ways to love my father, even though they had fallen out of love with each other.

The fact is that she struggled with illness that eventually left her unable to work a conventional job, and she ended up moving to Kentucky as a live-in- caretaker for an elderly man.  The truth is that his family quickly adopted her as their own, and always saw her more as a beloved sister than a nurse or a maid.  The truth is that my mother didn’t know how to live unless she was serving other people.  When everything else in her life seemed to fall apart – her marriage, her relationships, her health – she fell back on her role as a caretaker.  It had become her identity and it gave her strength.

The fact is that, in the little personal time she had, my mother wrote poems and short stories, and humorous letters filled with silly drawings and sketches.  The truth is that my mother herself was the little red flower in her story, never entirely confident in her own abilities, but unknowingly creating family wherever she went.

There were a few common threads in the tapestry of her life – threads that spanned the whole 58 years.  One of them was an unmatched love for animals.  Her sister Theresa, who is quite ill herself and unable to be here today, shared with me a story of my mother rescuing frozen puppies in the dead of winter.  She also told me of the intense loyalty her sister inspired in her pets – on one occasion, her miniature terrier, Tiny, went after a German Shepherd that attacked my mom.  Tiny, although severely injured, survived – no doubt due to the great care she received!

I frequently joke that my mother was like Disney’s Snow White, especially in the scene where all the woodland creatures come flocking to her.  During her life, Mom rescued or raised cats, dogs, fish, rabbits, parakeets, chickens, baby robins, hummingbirds, a horse, and at least one groundhog – that I am aware of.  When I was a child, neighbors came to our house with strays, asking if my mom could help.  In most cases, she helped by adopting them!  We were never without at least two or three animals in the house.  She truly had a God-given gift that allowed her to understand them in a way that most of us cannot.  Although she never did figure out how to get them to do housework – maybe that does only happen in the movies.

Another thread that was woven throughout my mother’s fifty-eight years was a quiet faith in God.  She was raised Catholic and inexplicably turned away from the religion when she was thirteen – but she never turned away from God himself.  When she left Pittsburgh for Kentucky, I felt that I had failed as a daughter – she had raised me but I was not able to take care of her in return.  Little did I know that God was beginning for my mom a beautiful season of healing.  In Kentucky, among her new family and friends, she found peace and forgiveness – mostly, I believe, she finally learned to forgive herself for the mistakes she’d made over the years.  It was only during this time that my relationship with her was the one I had always wanted – we spoke more regularly than we had before, and we spoke with more affection and laughter than we had in many, many years.  We exchanged stories about our pets, and she sent me toys for my two cats.  We wrote to each other, and I did teach her how to send text messages.  As she was writing to me, I learned that she had also begun writing to my dad’s side of the family –her former in-laws.  When my parents divorced, my mom allowed herself to grow distant from his family.  I believe it was a way of protecting herself.  For several years, I mentioned them infrequently to her, for fear of opening a wound.  Yet, in his wisdom, God took her physically away from them, and allowed her heart to once again draw near to them.  After a time, she started to write to them, sending the same silly doodles and funny letters she was sending to me.  And, in the end, I believe my mother made peace with the rest of my family, and, more importantly, with herself.

It is not for this reason alone that I know my mother is in Heaven right now.  She was a good woman who worked hard.  She was a fierce Mama Bear who protected her children the best she could.  She was a loyal and faithful supporter to those people she called friends.  But none of those wonderful attributes ensured her place in paradise.  My mother was not religious in a conventional way – but she loved her Jesus.  In fact, although my mother was not a church-goer, I believe that her servant’s heart and humble spirit spoke for Jesus in a far louder voice than her weekly presence in a pew ever could.  She loved to read her Bible.  In her last years, I believe she began to understand what it meant to really put something in God’s hands – after all, she was several hours away from her daughters and couldn’t do much for us but pray.  Of course, we know that prayer is a powerful weapon, and one of my mother’s last tasks on this earth, I believe, was to learn how to fight with it.  The letters she wrote to my husband and me were full of encouraging prayers and even poems about God’s love. 

In an equally encouraging letter about God’s love, the apostle Paul talks to his friends about the truth of death for the believer.  This is the Message translation of 1 Thessalonians 4:13.  “And regarding the question, friends, that has come up about what happens to those already dead and buried, we don’t want you in the dark any longer. First off, you must not carry on over them like people who have nothing to look forward to, as if the grave were the last word. Since Jesus died and broke loose from the grave, God will most certainly bring back to life those who died in Jesus.   And then this: We can tell you with complete confidence—we have the Master’s word on it—that when the Master comes again to get us, those of us who are still alive will not get a jump on the dead and leave them behind. In actual fact, they’ll be ahead of us. The Master himself will give the command. Archangel thunder! God’s trumpet blast! He’ll come down from heaven and the dead in Christ will rise—they’ll go first. Then the rest of us who are still alive at the time will be caught up with them into the clouds to meet the Master. Oh, we’ll be walking on air! And then there will be one huge family reunion with the Master. So reassure one another with these words.”

And so, yes, I have hope.  I mourn because I have lost my mother – and you, who have come today, mourn with my family.  I speak for my whole family when I say that we thank you for your love, your prayers, and your presence here with us during this time of sadness.  But I cannot mourn for my mother.  She is with her Savior, whose love and sacrifice she accepted and who has already welcomed her to her eternal rest.  She is with her three grandchildren, who went before her into the arms of Christ.  She is celebrating with the countless others who have opened their eyes in glory, to find that their earthly pain, fear, and sorrows are gone in the all-consuming light of God’s love.

The fact is that my mother passed away on February 8, 2013.  The truth is that she is alive and whole in Heaven, and she is in my future.  She is in the future of all who have received Christ’s love.  Those of you who knew Cindy will see her again.  And those who have yet to meet her…I think you’ll like her quite a bit.

 

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.