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.

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.