Epiphany...

Friday came in the blink of an eye and I arrived ten minutes early for the meeting at the extended care facility where Mom lived two years prior to her passing. I had been her advocate. She used to think I could leap tall buildings. But I abandoned my superhero apparel months ago. Instead, I wore my long grey jersey skirt, a moss green sleeveless cotton tee with a loose peach colored silk tank layered over top, and on my feet, silver, leather slip-ons. I heaped lofty hopes on this oatmeal and granola attire, empowering it to keep potential volatility at bay. For added luck, I donned a necklace I had painstakingly stitched. Mom always loved my creations. 

The late summer sun warmed my shoulders as I stepped from the car with Mom's photo, my statement, and a list of questions tucked under my arm in an old zippered work portfolio. My ergonomic tapestry Ameribag was draped lazily across my back and I hooked my trusty water bottle over the index finger of my right hand. I took some deep breaths as I walked the few short steps across the parking lot before entering the building. When I opened the door the vapor lock felt like it drew me inside. 

With my first breath the familiar smell took me back months to my morning visits with Mom. Tears threatened. A petite professional-looking woman followed me inside and I regained my composure enough to ask if she was Jillian, the Quality Coordinator from Patient Relations who arranged this meeting. She confirmed my suspicions and I extended my hand to introduce myself. Her eyes sparkled and she smiled warmly making me like her instantly. We advised the attendant at the desk that we were there to meet with Mary Lou, the Executive Director of the facility. She waved us to seats in the foyer while she summoned Mary Lou.  

As we sat waiting familiar faces appeared, each one greeting me with a hug and words of concern or "We miss you...". I wrestled with more tears. Soon, Mary Lou appeared and escorted us up to the third floor boardroom. She introduced me to Heather, the new Director of Care, whose specialty is 'End of Life'. With the formalities out of the way, I placed the framed photo of my Mom on the table. It was the one I'd received from the funeral home with the poem by Judith Bulock Morse that reads;

Remember me when flowers bloom

Early in the Spring

Remember me on sunny days

In the fun that summer brings

Remember me in the fall

As you walk through leaves of gold

In the wintertime, remember me

In the stories that are told.

But most of all... remember

Each day, right from the start

I will be forever near

For I live within your heart.

I began the meeting by saying that I wasn't there for a pound of flesh, that time was past. I needed only for them to hear the statement I had prepared and do their best to answer the questions that would follow. They were a respectful, captive audience. My statement not only detailed the events leading up to my Mom's passing but also the emotional anguish we suffered. Tears ran down my cheeks as I read. Heather wept with me. Then I came to the last paragraph of my statement;

"The nature of my Mom’s death and how it was handled has left my family feeling upset over not being informed. It’s left me wrestling with feelings of guilt over things I should have or could have done. But I am not an expert on death and dying. Death is not an event I’ve experienced often nor took a class in to prepare me for the eventuality. The professionals at this facility did or certainly should have. They are the ones who failed my Mother and her respective family."  

There was silence for a few moments. I looked up at Mary Lou and she said, "You're right, we failed you. We're so sorry." Then the discussion opened around the breakdown in communication, the lack of comfort measures provided, all the missed opportunities. They detailed what should have happened, what changes have been made and will be made to ensure it doesn't happen to someone else. Heather asked if she could use my statement as part of a case study, the photo and poem too. She would utilize it as a teaching tool. Then we addressed the questions. 

Even though there had been an independent third party audit done on Mom's case many questions went unanswered. Heather asked if she could take them and try to find answers for me. I handed them to her. We exchanged business cards, said our good-byes, and Mary Lou escorted me downstairs. I walked out the door feeling somewhat lighter. But there wasn't time to dwell on it. It was already noon and I had a lunch date with Emma. 

Once in the car I sent Emma's Dad a text saying I was on my way.  I no sooner pulled up in the driveway when Emma bounced down the sidewalk to greet me. She prattled on about the lemonade mix in the worn ziplock bag she held in her hands. I squeezed in the question about what she wanted to do and in no time her scooter and helmet were in the back of my car and we were on our way to McDee's. 

She had her usual Happy Meal for lunch. Then we headed for Amanda's house to visit Ana and GG.  A little more than an hour later we were making lemonade in my kitchen and she was regaling me with her business plan. I tried to convince her that she might want to reconsider charging a dollar a glass for lemonade. But she prefers loonies to quarters. I changed my clothes and with our thirst quenched we put the halter on the dog and headed for the park. 

Emma scooted in front while Zoe and I walked. She stopped for a brief stint on the playground equipment. But Zoe was anxious to get moving so we soon hit the trails again. Emma didn't scoot ahead this time, she slowed her pace to mine and said, "Sometimes I feel guilty because of the times I told my Mom I hated her." My heart lurched and I replied, "Oh Emma, your Mom knew you didn't mean it. She loves you and would never want you to feel guilty." As those words crossed my lips it felt like my own Mom tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear, "I love you and I don't want you to feel guilty?"  

Emma seemed satisfied with my answer and scooted away, flashing me a smile over her shoulder. I smiled back. Emma and I make quite a pair. We both need to let go of things we think we could have or should have done differently. In our relationship, support and comfort goes both ways. Thanks to her I have my cape and tiara back, and when the tall buildings come, I'll be ready...

The rest is pixie dust...

Fingers Crossed...

Before my Dad died, he often talked about 'dying a good death'. I didn't favor this topic so I never asked my Dad what he meant by that. I didn't want to face the fact that someday I would walk this earth without my parents. Orphaned, if you will. Dad had Asbestosis and a slow-growing tumor that was gradually taking up more space than his organs would allow. According to Mom's journals, it was untreatable and had become a part of his physiology nearly thirty years earlier; unbeknownst to me.  

Dad's health gradually deteriorated. Eventually he required oxygen twenty-four hours a day and could barely walk ten steps without taking a rest. This was not my Superhero Dad, invincible protector of those he loved. I ignored all the outward signs and was in denial that my Dad was dying. It wasn't until we had what would be our last family dinner that the light donned. Dad always bought the best cuts of roast beef and Mom cooked it to perfection. It was a banquet of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes, Waldorf salad, a tossed green salad, corn, turnips and "Granny's Special Sauce". That's what my kids called Mom's gravy. It was heaven. Dad sat at his usual place at the head of the table, leaning on the arm of his chair. He wasn't able to reach or pass so I helped get his plate ready. When he sat looking at his plate, unable to take a single bite I knew his time was approaching. That was Easter 2003. A few days later he was hospitalized. 

I called him in the hospital on his eighty-fifth birthday in May and he seemed adamant that he was going home. Five days later the family was called. He was unresponsive that morning and died early the next day with my Mom at his side. His heart just stopped and he became so very still. I suppose as the process goes this could be described as a good death. It was painless and he had been relatively coherent until near the end. Then he just slipped away. He went home.

My Mom's journey home was not as easy. I would describe her death as an ordeal. She started to go about the business of dying Christmas morning of 2010. Her cast iron stomach was unusually upset and she was out of sorts. During the weeks following the holidays, angina attacks became more frequent and her blood pressure dropped to near cadaver levels. She was weakening, spending more time in bed, refusing meals, acting strangely. At the facility where she was living I told as many who would listen that I thought my Mother was dying. My words fell on deaf ears. 

Then on a Saturday in March, nine days before her death she woke up with a terrible sore throat and a cough. Mom's voice was typically a whisper but this sore throat endowed her with the voice of a demon. I advised the nursing staff and they administered Robitussin. The next day she was worse so I asked that a physician see her. I asked repeatedly for five days that she be seen by a doctor. Finally on Friday they faxed the staff doctor who prescribed treatment for either pneumonia or heart failure, sight unseen. 

They began administering the medication on Saturday, one week after the onset of her symptoms. Mom was already struggling to breathe due to the buildup of fluid in her lungs and was often in a state of panic when the next breath seemed out of reach. The registered nurse on duty was beckoned but she declined to give her any medication to ease her discomfort, "It might slow her respiration and heart rate." she said. I asked at that time if she thought my Mother was dying. She replied, "Hard to say, some rally from this." When I returned on Sunday morning the situation was much more dire.

The nurse was unable to administer Mom's morning meds because she could no longer swallow. She was unable to speak now and held my hand like it was a lifeline. I left her side for only two hours that day. Her breathing became more labored as the day progressed but not once did anyone advise me to notify my family. At the supper hour, one of the aides came in to turn her and noticed my Mom's breathing. She said, "The way your Mom is breathing is called 'chainstoking'. Death is imminent. Say your goodbyes."  

I was in shock - paralyzed with grief. My eyes were almost swollen shut from crying. I hoped help would come. But none arrived. Various aides came to reposition her and greeted her like she was vibrant and healthy and able to respond. I was tired and sore from sitting on a straight-backed chair since seven o'clock that morning with only a two hour break midday. No comfort measures were offered to either one of us. From the supper hour until I finally left Mom's side at one o'clock in the morning not one registered nurse crossed the threshold of her room. I was all she had and I left her. I waited until she closed her eyes in sleep. Then I gently pried my hand from hers, kissed her and told her I was going home for a couple of hours to get some rest. When I got home the first words out of my mouth to my husband were, "I'm a coward. I've left her in her hour of need. But I just couldn't stay any longer." 

We were nearly ready to return to Mom's side when the phone rang at six thirty-two the morning of March twenty-first. I was advised by a voice on the phone that my Mom's breathing had worsened. We arrived shortly after to find her alone, her head turned to one side, her eyes closed, and her body so very still. The oxygen mask was still over her face so I removed it and silenced the whir of the machine with a flip of a switch. My husband and I sat there with my Mom in the quiet of death for forty-five minutes before any of the morning staff came into her room. There was some scurrying, the nurse was called and Mom was pronounced dead. Everyone but me seemed so surprised. 

After the memorial service I wrote a letter to the Executive Director of the Facility and cc'd the Minister of Health and Protection for Persons in Care. I outlined succinctly the series of events that lead to my Mom's passing and how I felt they had failed my Mom and me. I received a letter of acknowledgement from the Executive Director weeks later with a cavalier invitation to call her anytime, like we were old friends. I heard nothing from Protection for Persons in Care. Eventually I heard from the Deputy Minister of Health who expressed condolences and advised me to call Patient Relations. Thanks to them, on Friday of this week, five months after my Mom's death I will have a face to face meeting with the Executive Director. I'm not sure what I hope to achieve from this close encounter.

Part of me wants to hold someone's feet to the fire. The other part of me just wants to lay my guilt at abandoning my Mom to rest. I know I can't change the outcome and give my Mom a do-over so she can die a good death. I can't press the call bell or go screaming down the halls now. I'd like to think I can change things for people who have yet to experience losing a loved one in an extended care facility. By speaking out maybe they will be given the comfort and support they need. At least that would give me some peace - some closure. Fingers crossed.

The rest is pixie dust...

On Common Ground...

The older I get, the more I learn. The most amazing part is, I seem to be learning a lot from a very young teacher. She's only eight years old but she's wise beyond her years. Emma's not shy by any means and like her Mom, she's not afraid to ask questions. That's one of the things I love about her. Emma's fearless when it comes to seeking knowledge.This trait will be useful to her throughout her life - especially now. 

Emma's Mom lost her battle with cancer just two weeks ago. Angela was my friend, someone I cared for, listened to, and laughed with. I still have our text messages from July on my cell phone - precious snippets of conversation now. And when I browse her facebook profile I see photos of her not even a year ago with her arms around Emma at a family celebration looking robust and healthy. There was no foreshadowing what was to come. But that's cancer for you. It's left Emma without her Mom, those arms around her only shadows now. 

Emma and I spent  a lot of time together this past year everyday after school. We talked a lot, laughed a lot, learned a lot. So I guess it seemed natural to her to spend the better part of the day following her Mom's passing with me. She sent me a text message from her Dad's phone Tuesday morning telling me about her Mom and asked if we could get together that day. So I picked her up at her Nona's around lunchtime. When I arrived she greeted me with a hug - her beautiful brown eyes moist with tears. My blue eyes brimming. We climbed into the car, buckled up and headed for our usual lunch spot. 

McDees we call it. On this occasion, Emma preferred to go inside as opposed to the drive-thru. At the counter, I ordered her a Chicken McNugget Happy Meal with a girl's toy. The toy was "Clumsy" Smurf - perfect because we were going to see the movie later in the afternoon.  She found a place for us to sit and then bounced over to the pop machine to fill her drink cup with whatever her liquid pleasure. As usual, I stole a couple of french fries while she wasn't looking. She ate enough to satisfy her hunger, then packed up the rest and decided it was time to head to my house to see the furkids. 

This was Emma's first visit to our new home in Sherwood Park. But that wasn't the big draw. She wanted to see the critters the most. Zoe, our dog is her favorite. When she sees Emma she knows there's a treat in store for her and there's no controlling her wiggle-bottom. The tail actually wags the dog. Emma loves that. There's just nothing like being greeted with unbridled enthusiasm and no better prescription for a wounded heart. Once the greetings were out of the way, Emma and I decided to take Zoe for a stroll through the park nearby. 

It's a lovely park, nicely treed with a winding, hilly trail. Ducks bob on the pond, going bottom's up for some tasty morsels below under the watchful eye of the cattail sentinels. Dragonflies lazily police the miscreant mosquito population while the squirrels and sparrows gossip. It's a magical place on a warm summer's afternoon. Maybe that's what helped Emma open up while we walked the loop and Zoe pulled incessantly on the leash.

"Why do people get cancer?"

"I don't know Emma, cancer just happens."

  

"Did my Mom and Dad know before?"

"I think they did Emma, but imagine how hard it would have been for them to tell you."  

"Why do we have funerals?"

"We have funerals to say good-bye to our loved ones, celebrate their lives and allow other people the chance to pay their respects to the person and their family." 

"Why do we dress dead people?"

"We dress them so they look nice for their funeral." 

"How do you know someone is dead?"

"Because they stop breathing and their heart stops beating." 

"What makes them dead?"

"When they are too sick or hurt for their spirit to stay in their body."  

"What is a spirit?"

"You know the part of you inside that makes you think and feel? That's your spirit. That's what made your Mom who she was." 

"Is my Mom sad?"
"Yes Emma, your Mom is very sad to have to leave you." 

"Did she want to stay?"
"She did, and she fought very hard to stay, but her body was too sick." 

"Is there a chance that on the third day, she'll rise again?"
"That would be nice wouldn't it? But no Emma, only Jesus can do that."    
 
Closing the loop on our walk ended her inquisition. Emma is a bright girl - but these questions were more insightful than I ever expected. I was comforted by her openness. Later, when I considered this time we shared, I imagined that we weren't alone in the park - that our Mother's walked with us. Emma's, to help her ask the questions and mine, to help me give the answers. Emma and I both lost our Mother's this year - both on a Monday. And so, we walk on common ground. Losing your Mom is hard. But Emma has shown me that even though you may feel sad everyday, you still have to welcome distractions - walk the dog - go to movies - skip a little - because the world keeps turning on its axis. Our Mom's would like that.

The rest is pixie dust...

What We Leave Behind...

I'm not sure if it was the full moon, or a DQ Skor Blizzard at a late hour that caused a sleepless night recently. I'd had a busy day. I taught two classes at the bead shop and came home feeling the need to unwind with a catnap. After that brief repose Garnet and I took Zoe for a long walk. It was a beautiful evening and we decided to extend it with a stop at the Dairy Queen. Back home, I settled in to finish some jewelry repairs and craft a new necklace. At eleven o'clock I closed up shop, got ready for bed and read until sleep made nonsense of the storyline. Then it was lights out. 

But it seemed like turning off the light, turned my mind on. I opened my eyes and noticed the full moon grinning through the bedroom window; casting its hollow light in the room. I thought about the moon and all it's seen and wondered at its ready smile. I considered all I have to be thankful for and said a prayer of sorts, asking for blessings on those I love. I listened to my husband's steady breath punctuated by the occasional sighs and wiggles from the dog. I even tried some yoga breathing. Then my mind wandered to the events of the day, specifically to the classes I taught at the bead shop.

The morning class was new. It was a bead-weaving class called "The Daisy Drape". All the participants were seasoned 'stitchers' and after the first daisy they were well on their way. Conversation flowed and in no time they were linking their daisies stem to stem. The afternoon class was pearl-knotting. As much as I love knotting pearls I dread teaching the class. I always grapple with what I think the expectations of the participants will be and whether I will be able to teach the technique adequately. Pearl-knotting is challenging and seldom is the first effort a winning entry. The class was full.

We went through introductions. Then I shared some interesting facts about pearls, gave an overview of what they would be learning to do, had each of them lay out their pearls in the order they wanted them strung and unwind all six feet of silk cord they would use for knotting. I proceeded to go around to each one and demonstrate the technique. As always, I did this repeatedly. They were tentative at first, but I assured them we were just practicing. I showed them the importance of positioning the knot, giving it a pinch, then creating a tightrope for their pearls to dangle from while maintaining the tension, pushing and pulling until knot and pearl meet. They struggled. I walked them through the steps again. Then the first brave soul placed a knot. We cheered. Soon the rest followed. Not perfection by any means, but a good start. This was short-lived.

Everything that could go wrong in that class did. Missplaced knots marred paths to success and I had to discern the anatomy of each one and dissect it. Some of the pearls' holes were too small for the cord to pass through and I had to ream them out. Some pearls cracked under the pressure and the French wire unraveled. But with each obstacle came new learning; learning I couldn't possibly have shared with them in a three-hour workshop otherwise. They were better prepared 'knotters' because of it and each one proudly wore their imperfectly knotted strand of pearls home. 

I took home their gratitude for my patience, knowledge, and unfailing good humor. Many of them had been waiting months to take the class, were so excited to learn how and pleased they had a good instructor, especially since I knew my way around a tough knot. Their praise made me wonder why I wasted my energy dreading the class.

Under the spell of the moonlight I wondered something else - what we leave behind. Not only through life, but each moment. I thought of my novice pearl-knotters; the metaphor-for-life experience we shared and the impressions we left on each other. I thought of my parents and what they've left me. All the love, guidance, hope, tears and laughter. None tangible, but all of them gifts, precious gifts.

We all possess gifts. Like pearls, some occur naturally, others are cultivated. Whatever the case they are meant to be shared. This night of wakefulness beneath the moon's gaze revealed to me that we come into this world a bare soul and should leave this world, a soul bared. This is what we leave behind.

The rest is pixie dust...

Change...

No question, change is hard; inevitable and hard. It's also radical and subtle. As I age, change has become more the former than the latter. When I was younger, change was sometimes so subtle I barely noticed it. Or maybe I just wasn't paying attention. One thing is for certain, change is constant - in varying degrees. 

Perhaps the constancy of change becomes more evident when you have amassed a few years to look back on. Age gives you a bird's eye view of change and this old bird is amazed at what she's seen. If I swoop in on my childhood I see a life in a state of perpetual growth. Every second I was changing, although it didn't seem like that to me. Years seemed to grind by and I was sure I would never turn eighteen. So I jumped that gun and got married at sixteen instead. I had no concept of the permanence of this decision and like most young adults, I was very clever. At least this life-changing event seemed to speed things up a bit. 

My teenaged-self took the adult world by storm; I dropped out of high school, eloped, found full-time employment, cooked, cleaned, got pregnant. Big change. When the baby came, he soon became a toddler, I got a new job, and we moved fourteen times in three years. Busy change. Then the second baby came.  In the blink of an eye she too became a toddler, but by that time her brother was a full-fledged boy; going to school, making new friends, needing me less. Crazy change. By the time his sister was in school he was a pre-teen, writing a girl's name on his sneakers, testing boundaries, letting go of my hand. Sad change. Suddenly, my daughter turned twelve and left her brain on her pillow; cuddled less, challenged more. Hormonal change. Through all this, people came and went from my life, many were born and only a few died. Then my marriage ended and I found myself living alone without my children and the comforts of what I thought was home. This was transition. I was neither here nor there. I was dangling in mid-air from some invisible string; hoping for a soft landing if and when the string broke. Painful change. 

It was while I was hovering in that transitory state that I realized something about myself. I always looked forward to what came next instead of experiencing the present, and in doing so, wished my life away. I missed so much by hurrying things up. Transition gave me the gift of trying to live more consciously in the moment. I say 'trying' because I'm still working on it. Let's face it, I am a work in progress. I am change. 

This past year has brought radical change; my Mom's decline and eventual passing, my husband's career winding down and his retirement, the sale of our home and the purchase of a new one, and soon, the move from Edmonton to Sherwood Park. I was contemplating all this change in a quiet moment while writing a letter to my cousin. I looked around and thought how sad I will feel to see this home emptied of its contents in just two short weeks and how hard it will be to close the door for the last time. I caught myself actually wanting to slow things down; not just live in the moment, but relive moments. I stamped and sealed the envelope, put the halter on the dog, and went out to mail the letter and take a brisk head-clearing stroll. 

I dropped the letter in the mailbox and we headed south down our street toward the walking path. The house at the end of the block sold shortly after ours and the new neighbors were just moving in - the U Haul truck was still parked in the driveway. Zoe and I wandered in that direction thinking we might get a glimpse of the new neighbors. We weren't disappointed. Out from behind the truck came a fellow dressed in baggy grey sweatpants, his billowing muffin-top on display and his chest and shoulders abundantly tattooed. He was stuffing empty boxes behind the fence. It didn't seem the appropriate time to give a 'hey neighbor' greeting so we kept walking. The truck was blocking the sidewalk. We had to walk around it and into the street to continue on our charted course. As soon as we came around the truck a massive pit bull-like canine tethered to a piece of string lunged at us, snarling, growling and gnashing his great-white-shark jaws. I gasped and shouted a dirty brown expletive while Zoe wound herself around my legs several times. We didn't wait to see how long the string would hold or try to pet the nice doggy. We kept moving. 

From the safety of the other side of the fence I had an epiphany; some change is bad, some change is good. Sometimes change is for the best. So I'll start packing, consciously, one box at a time. 

Still standing...

Six Boxes...

They have been sitting in the garage for more than two years now. Two columns of three. Six boxes. They contain the last of my Mom's belongings. Things we moved from her home in the assisted living facility in Medicine Hat, to The Churchill residence in downtown Edmonton, to our garage. I've been ignoring them; pretending they aren't there. But we're moving and it doesn't make sense to move them again. So they've been looming; beckoning; almost reaching out like thirsty tendrils of a parched houseplant. They're begging for attention; for someone to go through their contents, touch the once cherished items, sort them; decide where they go. That someone is me.

Proximity seems to be what designates someone for certain roles or tasks. Sifting through my Mom's life wasn't something I signed up for at birth. It came from years of knowing her, loving her and caring for her. She trusted me. She entrusted this to me. She believed I would know what to do - what to give to whom. It was the emotional and physical proximity that made me the keeper of the boxes.

So I cracked the first box on the same day the garage door cracked me on the head. That was how the gong show of a walk with the dog ended. It was a walk where I fought a losing game of tug-o'-war with a rogue pair of underwear; was a blood meal for swarms of hungry mosquitoes; suffered a lack of integrity with the second poop bag, and struggled with the third bag as my dog shamelessly dragged her furry little bottom all over the grassy boulevard. Needless to say, after these events and the garage door assault, I was feeling more than a little off kilter and decided it was a good day to unleash the contents of the six boxes. 

The first few items freed from their cardboard confines were her bowling awards. She was an excellent bowler - even with macular degeneration. In one of her journals I found some of her higher scores documented; one-ninety-nine, two-forty. I decided to set these treasures aside for her Grandkids. They knew of their Granny's bowling prowess and even went to the lanes with her on occasion. She loved that. Then I found the ornate old box where she kept favorite pieces of costume jewelry. Inside I found the sparkly brooch I bought her that said, "I ❤ 2 Bowl". She wore that for luck. It also contained her initialed sterling silver compact - when I opened it, the pressed powder smell that was my Mom filled my nostrils. The next box yielded four more years of journals I didn't know were missing and numerous pads of lined paper, manuscripts, envelopes, Lifesavers, and ledgers. As I went through each box I tried to sort in piles where items should go, but by the time I got around to the sixth box, I had nothing that resembled any order. It was strewn about on the garage floor as though I'd thrown it there - proof I am my Mother's daughter. But the last box delivered the most unexpected treasures. 

Box six contained my Mom's purse, she'd been looking for it for a very long time and I'm sure she'd be relieved to know I found it. The wallet I bought her was inside but there were no dollar bills tucked into its folds, just two diaper pins attached to the lining of the purse. Blue diaper pins - the kind used when I was having babies. Sturdy, straight, industrial strength diaper pins; perfect for pearl-knotting, so just like Mom would do, I pinned them to my shirt for safekeeping. There were photos and books and balled up in a corner of the box was one of the T-shirts she got for submitting a photo, poem, or story to the Alberta Council on Aging (ACA) magazine. The caption on the shirt reads, "Not only wine and cheese get better with age.". Then, in the bottom of the same box was a notebook. Inside it were two letters she wrote in her own hand and never mailed. One was to Jenny, the mother of my grandchildren, the other one was to me and Garnet. It said; "Thanks for all the writing paper and books and time spent and the gum and all the small important things. You're just great! Whoever raised you did a wonderful job - you're so cheerful and helpful to this old Mother. I'm very lucky. Sure lucky to have a great son-in-law as well - how on earth did you manage that? Love to you both, Mom."

If proximity designated me the keeper of the boxes - then I'm the lucky one. All that's left is a little pressed powder.

And the rest is pixie dust...

Unencumbered...

My Mom offered her future son-in-law a warm welcome long before Oprah said it was the right thing to do. Maybe she knew what he could expect from the men in our family and tried to provide some balance. Or maybe she understood the psychology of not opposing her grown daughter's choice of a suitor. Whatever her reasoning, I'll never forget her for it. After all, Garnet certainly didn't have the smoothest of introductions when it came to meeting my brother, my son, or my Dad. 

When Garnet met my brother they sat across from each other in the living room. Ted leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and said in a big brotherly way, "So... Garnet, just what ARE your intentions toward my little sister?". If looks could kill, when I introduced him to my son, Garnet should have self-combusted. But worst of all, when he shook hands with my Dad for the first time, it was over the pistol laying in Dad's lap. This was likely staged after he noticed the extra plate Mom set at the dinner table and when she told him I was bringing Garnet for dinner he asked, "Do we have to feed the stray?". It's a miracle Garnet stuck around at all.

Mom and I were both glad that he weathered that storm. Not many Mothers can say they adored their son-in-law like my Mom did. They became good friends and talked at length about a variety of topics. Garnet enjoyed Mom's company and she his. I remember her saying that she felt so close to Garnet it was as if he was her own son. But what you see is what you get with Garnet. He's not one to hide behind a facade or put on airs. 

He is the same man today that he was when we first met; an elegant, respectful, honest, gentle man, with a quick wit and keen mind. When we first started dating he told me I'd never meet anyone else like him and he was right. Knowing and loving him has made me a better person. He looks for the good and has the fortitude to tell you what you need to hear. He's my sounding board, my cheerleader, my partner, my defender, my friend. When I sing, he claps. He is true to his name - he is a gem. 

I'm not the only one who thinks so. Garnet retired this week after thirty-five years with one company. He had many great opportunities and worked with countless people over the span of his career. As many that could, gathered together at his retirement celebration to congratulate him and wish him well. Tributes to him mentioned his integrity, his consistency, his fairness, and his values. Some mentioned how glad they were he took a chance on hiring them, others said they still look for the "golden nugget of opportunity" he coached them to seek out. He was credited with an uncanny ability to get the job done, give sound advice and mentor with ease. I was not surprised by what I heard. I was overwhelmed with pride in what he had accomplished and honored to share my life with this remarkable man. 

I thought of my Mom and how much she would have enjoyed seeing him celebrated. I felt sad that she wasn't there to share the moment and applaud his achievement. She would've wanted to stand up and shout, "That's my boy!" even though he wasn't. I know she would be happy for us - for this new chapter in our life together. Sometimes I feel like she stepped out of the way so we could move forward - no longer encumbered with her care. She was selfless that way. Maybe, since she lives on in my heart, she felt my admiration for this cherished man and gave a rousing cheer. Just maybe...

And the rest is pixie dust...