On being an orphan

“Well, now, you’re an orphan, too,”  a close friend said to me while I stood amidst those who had gathered at the house after my dad’s private funeral.  This friend is a kind-hearted man, and I know he meant no harm, but his words struck me as hard as a slap across the face.  Me?  An orphan?  Overnight I’ve turned into Oliver Twist, a child without parents?  Can this be?

An only child who for the last twenty-some years lived within a mile and one-half of her parents, I saw or talked to them each day.  I took them to doctor appointments, accompanied them on errands, drove them to visit relatives, re-landscaped their yard, became even more the center of their lives.  My dad’s memory started circling the drain.  My mother had trouble accepting it. I nursed my mother through surgeries and broken bones until she died unexpectedly in the middle of the night in early October 2007.  My dad was lost without his partner of over 60 years.

My husband and I brought him home with us.  He enjoyed sharing meals with us and rarely left my side.  He seemed to stare into the distance most of the time or cry and say he just didn‘t know what he‘d do.  We told him not to worry that we had a plan and began talking to him about a nice room in a place where he’d have three meals a day and company.  He insisted it be a private room.  Neighbors mentioned that they’d seen him outside fumbling with the handle of the car.  He hadn’t driven for years.  He wondered around in the night awakening us with reports of stolen cars and other imaginary things.  Late one night as I was just about to turn off my light, my dad entered our bedroom and shouted, “Just who are you sleeping with?”  Bob considered jumping our the window.  Within two weeks, he was placed into an Alzheimer’s Unit in a nursing home within walking distance of our house.  It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. 

There was no time to grieve.  I had to be there for my dad, love him, care for him, be the adult.  Blessedly he always knew who I was, his face lighting up when he saw me.  He’d give me a kiss and a big hug.  My husband and I were out of the country when we got a message that my dad was in the hospital.  On Christmas Eve, 2008, we fought our way through snowstorms and people traveling for the holidays and made it to his bedside.  Christmas evening  as we were leaving, he told my husband and I that he loved us.  Those were his last words.  An incredible Christmas present.  The next morning he was moved to a private room under hospice care, unresponsive, resting comfortably.  I sat at his side and could do nothing but talk to him and watch mindless TV.  At 3:00 p.m. his spirit departed, the lines in his face disappeared, and he was gone.

It was the end of how things had always been.  My heart was broken.  My husband was my rock.  God was near through it all.  I saw her hand as it all unfolded.  But now I stood at a threshold.  It was the end of my being a child, and the beginning of a new freedom.  I began a rugged journey into the unknown with grief as my companion.

I felt like I was a balloon whose string was no longer being held in sturdy hands but had slipped away into the currents of the sky.  The only people were there for all of my life, who shared the same memories and provided me with roots, are now gone.  In response, I have tried to make a new family for myself, a chosen family, consisting of close cousins and friends.  My life is so different.

Now, I am free from hurtful comments about my weight, my clothes, my hair, my way of doing things.  My time is not consumed with care-giving activities, my mind not filled with guilt and worry.  No one is trying to restrict where I go or what I do.  These are some of the freedoms I have gained.

I have made it through that “valley of the shadow of death” and am climbing up the other side, living in the autumn of my life.  In ways I feel like an alien in a strange world, and sometimes  I don’t want to be here.  It is a rude awakening to find myself rapidly becoming part of the oldest generation of my extended family, as my aunts and uncles also pass away.  I am no longer anyone’s child, I am the senior citizen.  I have become the one filling my weekly pill container and having to go to the doctor more frequently.  I have also come to realize that I will never completely get over the loss of my parents.  The passage of time has taken away the sting, the unexpected tears, and the inaction of grief, yet there are times I continue to yearn for them, and I know I always will.
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On the other hand, having been refined by the fire of orphanhood, I am gaining the resultant courage and wisdom.  I am no longer afraid to sit peacefully by the side of a dear relative who is dying, read scripture to her, and sing her to eternal life.  I am learning to live in the moment, to memorize the colors of sunsets, to hear the bird‘s song, to appreciate kindnesses shown me.  And I am learning that I have the strength to make choices about my emotional outlook each day.  I choose joy. 

Mardi Gras

Charlie Rose, artist and New Orleans resident, said it best, “Mardi Gras is the love of life.  It is the harmonic convergence of our food, our music, our creativity, our eccentricity, our neighborhoods, and our joy of living.  All at once.”  New Orleans, I missed it.  No beads, no king cake, no masks.  And what of the Samba Parade at Rio Carnival where the samba schools compete from 9:00 p.m. until sunrise?  No, I didn’t see the painted and glittered bodies singing and dancing until the break of day either.   I didn’t even participate in the early evening parade on nearby Douglas’ main street.  I missed out on revelry all together.

What of the special treats of the day, those that were concocted to use up the sugar, fat and eggs from the larder?  Did I eat pancakes or special fried breads and pastries?  No, and it was a shame because the Dutch bakers are perfecting their skills with paczki, the traditional Polish doughnuts stuffed with various fillings.  So not only did I miss out on the revelry of the day, I missed out on the foods, too.

Plane reservations or a bakery order, it will be one or the other next year.  I’m ready to join in the fun.

From the Pier

Spent the morning at the window watching the bald eagles fish and then rest in the trees at the next property.  What a sight.  I don’t think I’ll ever tire of it.

Since Lake Mac didn’t freeze, there has been the occasional motor boat cruising around.  It reminds me of those days when I was 16 and driving the candy-apple-red Ford Fairlane 500 convertible with the top down and the heater at full-blast.  As a matter of fact, there must be another 16-year-old up here with the same idea, as I saw a convertible parked on 8th Street with its top down.

There was a “New Bride Show” on Saturday with vendor prizes, door prizes, and more held at the Holland Fish & Game Club.  Hope those prizes weren’t for bullets and bows and the like.  Seems to me that this might have been a better venue for a “New Groom Show.”  Speaking of which…

A Cabela store is going to be built in nearby Grandville.  We’ve made the pilgrimage to the one in Hammond, Indiana, and Zoe was allowed inside in her stroller.  She kept wanting to party on one of the pontoon boats.  I might have agreed if they were serving pina coladas.

Red Barn Treasures in Saugatuck had a closing sale over the weekend.  Ruth said it was her parents’ business and time to draw it to an end.  The proceeds were being donated to the local Habitat for Humanity.  That’s neighbors helping neighbors.  Thankfully the Red Barn Playhouse will remain open.

Watched a lone man on a paddleboard in Lake Michigan.  One slip and he was dead.  Seemed like a crazy chance.

The West Ottawa basketball teams raised more than $54,000 for cancer research during their Pink Out game.  Hurrah for them and all those who made donations.

Til later…

"How Do I Love Thee? Let me count the ways."

Unlike some others who shall remain nameless, I have never felt that Valentine’s Day is a “Hallmark holiday.”  It’s been around for ages, yes, centuries before manufactured greeting cards.  Some attribute the beginning to the Catholic Church celebrations of various martyred saints named Valentinus and others to bawdy Chaucer of the 14th century with his Valentine poem Parlement of Fowles.  Whatever its origin, lovers sharing flowers, candy, and cards was prevalent in the 15th century, and I hope these traditions never end.

My husband has learned that no matter how he feels about the holiday, it is in his best interest to actively participate.  This year he gave me an oversized mushy (his words) card which he claimed represented his sentiments and also served lobster for dinner.  He was not forgotten either and received a home-made valentine and dark chocolate vanilla creams.  He shared, so I’d say our romantic life is on pretty sure footing.  But our love story pales in comparison to that of Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning. 

How Do I Love Thee?  Let me count the ways.  Are there any more romantic words than these that Elizabeth wrote to Robert, the man who would become her husband?  Poor Elizabeth.  During her teens she began suffering from a lung condition that required lifetime treatment with morphine and also injured her spine.  By the time she was in her late 30’s, she was an invalid and recluse living in her father’s house.  But she published a book entitled Poems that changed her life, for that is when Robert sent her a letter of admiration.  They fell in love over the next twenty months, exchanging almost 600 letters.  Elizabeth’s father forbade her to marry, but Robert and she did so in secret and went off to Pisa and later Florence.  Her father retaliated by disinheriting her, and they never spoke again.  However, this story had a happy ending.  The climate agreed with her, and Elizabeth’s health improved and even allowed her to bear a son.

This Valentine’s day we can become voyeurs to their expressions of love.  Wellesley and Baylor cooperated to release their letters (exactly as written, fading ink and all) on-line at wellesley.edu/browning.  Perhaps by reading them, we can learn to express our love to our special other in new and enduring ways…but let's not forget the chocolate and flowers!

This morning

nature in hoar frost
white with the cold breath of God
all is pure and stark

Groundhogs, politics and prognostication

On February 2nd, we heard that Punxsatawney Phil saw his shadow and predicted we were in for six more weeks of winter.  But did you know there were many other rodents performing this duty? 

Dozens, evidently.  For example, Nations Now reported that "there's Staten Island Chuck, famous for biting New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg, Woodstock Willie in Woodstock, Ill, [taxidermied Potomac Phil of  Dupont Circle], and Georgia’s most famous groundhog, General Beauregard Lee" (who did not see his shadow, so I guess the south is heading into spring).

Oh, it's all a little silly, but we need some humor in our lives and our weather this winter has been anything but predictable.

I don't know what's happening weather-wise in our part of the prairie.  Our yard has yellow crocus and one yellow dandelion in bloom, and the temperatures have been in the 50s.  It's the talk of the town.  Can we really to be in for 40 days of snow, ice and below 0-degree windchills?  We'll just have to see what happens.  According to my nose, the smell of spring is in the air. 

But here's the best take I've read on all of this prognostication hullabaloo.  A writer for the Washington Post National said, "I’m down on the whole human side of prognostication after months of being told that the GOP race was in its final two-candidate stage every time a butterfly flapped its wings somewhere in the Andes or Ron Paul blinked especially hard. Six weeks of winter pale in comparison to the prospect of four more months of Gingrich. That’s the sort of shadow that makes you want to return to your burrow, never to reemerge."

What about you?  Are you out and about recognizing the signs of spring, or did you turn back into your burrow for six more weeks?  If you're hibernating, is it because of the dread of six more weeks of winter or because of the boredom of  more Republican primaries?  A colony on the moon?  Give me a break.