Story-Teller
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- Joined
- Feb 22, 2009
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Trust in the Hard
I'm used to bullet-speed conversations with the females of my family. My cousins and I often joke that even if we were rendered mute, as long as we have our hands doing much of the speaking - dotting the airspace between us for emphasis, we’d somehow get our point across. Being a hands-on friendly family, 28 immediate first cousins strong crammed into the same neighborhood has many advantages. Sewing, cooking, gardening, all the normal tiny threads that you put away until needing to weave into that personal clothe at a later period are created, yet it was the other moments, with my Grandparents living conveniently in the house right next door, which caused a sudden burst of verbal memory yesterday.
***
I often woke before my sisters, sliding into slippers, sneaking outside to my Grandparents, hoping to wake them up and NOT share them with other relatives whom thought they were unique. My Grandfather, a Cop, was always already up, preparing for work, but my Grandmother, whom loved late night TV and reading would usually be still asleep. Sometimes when I got there, she’d be sleeping, with a book peeking out among the tousled blankets. I’d usually make a flying leap up there, startling her from a deep sleep. Yet she never complained. Always responded with a smile, and a “Hey, you, come here...” Officially invited, I’d snuggle into her, and she’d caress my temples, smooth my hair back until I drifted back to sleep. I know that this must have been a habit born of family from long ago. My Mother did the same thing to me when I was young, but it wasn’t quite the same. Probably had something to do with raising three active little girls and trying to work two jobs at the same time.
Yesterday I spent the day with my Mother.
Don’t know if I ever shared this before, but my Mother is breathtakingly beautiful. Even now. She inherited these genes from her Mother. Most of my cousins and my sisters in turn got a very healthy dose of the same. Me, I always felt that I was an exact duplicate of my Dad’s side of the family when the genetic tree shook. When my Father’s Grandfather was seriously ill, he often mistook me for his sister whom passed away just before I was born. Growing up poor, photographs weren’t on the higher priority compared to feeding children, but someone found a picture of her, sent it to me. Spooky. Except for the eye color and clothes/hairstyle, look just like her. I write this because for most of my life, I would look in the mirror, commiserating over the fact that I wasn’t tall or blond or as lovely as these females. I’m playing with the thought that perhaps looking at such things too closely is more of a problem than the real facts. When I passed the nurses station on my way to Mom’s room, a new nurse was there. She looked up at me, and said, “I don’t know you, but you’re Janice’s daughter, aren’t you?“ Shocked silent, (not an easy task for me, I only nodded). She said that I look just like her. Still don’t believe it. Maybe it’s something I’ll grow into. I want to be like these women, but more from the inside now.
The Dr’s say that Mom is ‘somewhat’ improving, but offer no carrots other than that. Alzheimer’s does that to families. You jump up on a bed, expecting some words of comfort from someone who is bigger and knows more stuff than you, but find it empty.
When I first got there, it was explained to me that my Mama has been experiencing longer periods of wakefulness. While she’ll never get motor skills to work below the neck, has pretty much lost the ability to speak coherently, she can swallow liquids, and food if it finely processed. Sometimes.
When I walked in, she was awake. Leaned over to be directly in front of her, hoping that there would be a connection and she’d remember me. Her eyes held fast, locking in. They didn’t shut down behind her deep liquid browns. I grabbed her hands, since they shook so. All the time now, if she is awake, her hands refuse to co-operate. Muscles send mixed messages, and sometimes they draw up to her face. I wonder if it’s a protection, part of a fetal position, seeking comfort.
Does she feel the warmth of my hand in hers?
There are tears in her eyes, squeezing down the side, but she won’t let me look away. She says two words, shocking that she can speak, much less coherently, and I wish that I didn’t hear them, these words: “Help me...” and I know what she means, but I’m helpless.
I do what I’ve learned from my youth, softly stroke the hair at her temples, eyes still refusing to look away, and bring back all the memories I’ve heard from her past, of my early years. Yes, she remembers, and cries. But they aren’t tears of sorrow. Only I seem to see that. She’s touching on her memories. I cry with her. But don’t look away. Won’t.
The Dr also shared that she’s lost too much weight. Part of the format for such things - and asks that I try to get her to eat. This strikes me as more than odd at first, since for months I’ve been asked to prepare for THAT phone call, but I understand the logic.
Comfort. Again, won’t turn away from this.
After lunch, as she napped, I took a break, seeking solace, peace, comfort for myself. Called someone whom I trust dearly and dumped much into a voice-mail system, knowing that clarity would somehow get through. I knew this period was being lifted in prayer, but I wanted so just to be that child again, and depend solely on the solidness which went beyond words.
On my way back to her room, my cell phone rang. From my youngest child. Said he called me so I wouldn’t worry in case I heard it on the news, but he was in lockdown at school.
Middle school. Found out later that two men stole a car, before getting caught, robbed some houses, put the products in the car (along with their drugs/drug money and weapons) before it was spotted by the Police a block from the school. One of the Police officers got out of the car, and the suspects ran the car into him (minor injuries we later discovered). The pursuit went on, so immediately the school did the best thing possible, protecting our children.
I am three hours away from home. Frustrated. Scarred. Didn’t know much other than my son was safe. I had to rely on others to care for him. Had to trust this.
Earlier I’d made arrangements for a friend to pick him up after school until I came home. Worry is a fast moving virus, isn’t it? Before you’re aware of it, it can knock you flat off your feet. The only inoculation for this is His Word, but way too often the experiences of such things distracts for almost too long. It’s also catchy. Tim was worried that our dog, Katie might be harmed. He was worried about the kids in school. He was worried about the officer. And he was worried about worrying me.
Trust.
God puts so many people in the right spots at the right times.
Mom, she’s surrounded by those who can offer the best help and support possible. Much better than I.
Tim, at school. Had I been home, I’d probably be one of those panicky Mothers whom showed up unannounced at the Middle School demanding that they hand me over my child. (and he’d probably never live it down).
Called my Aunt whom lives close by where I was, and she demanded as only the best of Aunts can do that I come over for dinner. Convinced me that I’d actually get home faster by waiting out the horrible traffic.
Ate a little bit, cried a little bit, prayed with this awesome woman a whole lot. She wrapped me in her arms much like when I was little, and caressed my temples, reassuring me that God hears all.
He does.
And I’m thankful.
Karen Rice
Copyright 2005
Submitted by Richard
I'm used to bullet-speed conversations with the females of my family. My cousins and I often joke that even if we were rendered mute, as long as we have our hands doing much of the speaking - dotting the airspace between us for emphasis, we’d somehow get our point across. Being a hands-on friendly family, 28 immediate first cousins strong crammed into the same neighborhood has many advantages. Sewing, cooking, gardening, all the normal tiny threads that you put away until needing to weave into that personal clothe at a later period are created, yet it was the other moments, with my Grandparents living conveniently in the house right next door, which caused a sudden burst of verbal memory yesterday.
***
I often woke before my sisters, sliding into slippers, sneaking outside to my Grandparents, hoping to wake them up and NOT share them with other relatives whom thought they were unique. My Grandfather, a Cop, was always already up, preparing for work, but my Grandmother, whom loved late night TV and reading would usually be still asleep. Sometimes when I got there, she’d be sleeping, with a book peeking out among the tousled blankets. I’d usually make a flying leap up there, startling her from a deep sleep. Yet she never complained. Always responded with a smile, and a “Hey, you, come here...” Officially invited, I’d snuggle into her, and she’d caress my temples, smooth my hair back until I drifted back to sleep. I know that this must have been a habit born of family from long ago. My Mother did the same thing to me when I was young, but it wasn’t quite the same. Probably had something to do with raising three active little girls and trying to work two jobs at the same time.
Yesterday I spent the day with my Mother.
Don’t know if I ever shared this before, but my Mother is breathtakingly beautiful. Even now. She inherited these genes from her Mother. Most of my cousins and my sisters in turn got a very healthy dose of the same. Me, I always felt that I was an exact duplicate of my Dad’s side of the family when the genetic tree shook. When my Father’s Grandfather was seriously ill, he often mistook me for his sister whom passed away just before I was born. Growing up poor, photographs weren’t on the higher priority compared to feeding children, but someone found a picture of her, sent it to me. Spooky. Except for the eye color and clothes/hairstyle, look just like her. I write this because for most of my life, I would look in the mirror, commiserating over the fact that I wasn’t tall or blond or as lovely as these females. I’m playing with the thought that perhaps looking at such things too closely is more of a problem than the real facts. When I passed the nurses station on my way to Mom’s room, a new nurse was there. She looked up at me, and said, “I don’t know you, but you’re Janice’s daughter, aren’t you?“ Shocked silent, (not an easy task for me, I only nodded). She said that I look just like her. Still don’t believe it. Maybe it’s something I’ll grow into. I want to be like these women, but more from the inside now.
The Dr’s say that Mom is ‘somewhat’ improving, but offer no carrots other than that. Alzheimer’s does that to families. You jump up on a bed, expecting some words of comfort from someone who is bigger and knows more stuff than you, but find it empty.
When I first got there, it was explained to me that my Mama has been experiencing longer periods of wakefulness. While she’ll never get motor skills to work below the neck, has pretty much lost the ability to speak coherently, she can swallow liquids, and food if it finely processed. Sometimes.
When I walked in, she was awake. Leaned over to be directly in front of her, hoping that there would be a connection and she’d remember me. Her eyes held fast, locking in. They didn’t shut down behind her deep liquid browns. I grabbed her hands, since they shook so. All the time now, if she is awake, her hands refuse to co-operate. Muscles send mixed messages, and sometimes they draw up to her face. I wonder if it’s a protection, part of a fetal position, seeking comfort.
Does she feel the warmth of my hand in hers?
There are tears in her eyes, squeezing down the side, but she won’t let me look away. She says two words, shocking that she can speak, much less coherently, and I wish that I didn’t hear them, these words: “Help me...” and I know what she means, but I’m helpless.
I do what I’ve learned from my youth, softly stroke the hair at her temples, eyes still refusing to look away, and bring back all the memories I’ve heard from her past, of my early years. Yes, she remembers, and cries. But they aren’t tears of sorrow. Only I seem to see that. She’s touching on her memories. I cry with her. But don’t look away. Won’t.
The Dr also shared that she’s lost too much weight. Part of the format for such things - and asks that I try to get her to eat. This strikes me as more than odd at first, since for months I’ve been asked to prepare for THAT phone call, but I understand the logic.
Comfort. Again, won’t turn away from this.
After lunch, as she napped, I took a break, seeking solace, peace, comfort for myself. Called someone whom I trust dearly and dumped much into a voice-mail system, knowing that clarity would somehow get through. I knew this period was being lifted in prayer, but I wanted so just to be that child again, and depend solely on the solidness which went beyond words.
On my way back to her room, my cell phone rang. From my youngest child. Said he called me so I wouldn’t worry in case I heard it on the news, but he was in lockdown at school.
Middle school. Found out later that two men stole a car, before getting caught, robbed some houses, put the products in the car (along with their drugs/drug money and weapons) before it was spotted by the Police a block from the school. One of the Police officers got out of the car, and the suspects ran the car into him (minor injuries we later discovered). The pursuit went on, so immediately the school did the best thing possible, protecting our children.
I am three hours away from home. Frustrated. Scarred. Didn’t know much other than my son was safe. I had to rely on others to care for him. Had to trust this.
Earlier I’d made arrangements for a friend to pick him up after school until I came home. Worry is a fast moving virus, isn’t it? Before you’re aware of it, it can knock you flat off your feet. The only inoculation for this is His Word, but way too often the experiences of such things distracts for almost too long. It’s also catchy. Tim was worried that our dog, Katie might be harmed. He was worried about the kids in school. He was worried about the officer. And he was worried about worrying me.
Trust.
God puts so many people in the right spots at the right times.
Mom, she’s surrounded by those who can offer the best help and support possible. Much better than I.
Tim, at school. Had I been home, I’d probably be one of those panicky Mothers whom showed up unannounced at the Middle School demanding that they hand me over my child. (and he’d probably never live it down).
Called my Aunt whom lives close by where I was, and she demanded as only the best of Aunts can do that I come over for dinner. Convinced me that I’d actually get home faster by waiting out the horrible traffic.
Ate a little bit, cried a little bit, prayed with this awesome woman a whole lot. She wrapped me in her arms much like when I was little, and caressed my temples, reassuring me that God hears all.
He does.
And I’m thankful.
Karen Rice
Copyright 2005
Submitted by Richard
