My Sister's Final Words to Our Mother

So anyway...

I haven't posted for a long time.

Mostly it had to do with life getting in the way, as it often does. But lately it has gotten in the way in the most devastating way possible. On September 22, my mother was diagnosed with Stage Four lung cancer. She was not a smoker or in any of the other normal at-risk groups; she was just very unlucky. After six weeks of struggle, often surrounded by armies of friends and family, she passed away on November 2.

About this I will have a lot more to say at another time, including a discussion of my emotions and my own final words, not to mention my mother's final words. (Let's just say they were almost something that would have been both funny and a bit obscene.) But for now, I'd like to talk about my sister Kathy.

Kathy was, of all six of us, the closest by far to Mom. A visiting nurse like Mom--indeed employed by the same association from which Mom retired only a few years ago--Kathy finally sold her own home and moved in with Mom to take care of her when it became clear that advancing dementia would no longer allow her to be on her own. Thus it was Kathy who was with her all of the time, who talked with her and walked with her, who essentially shared a life with her. And it was Kathy who lost the most when the diagnosis came that began to take her away.

Kathy's immediate reaction was to take time off from work indefinitely so that she could care for Mom. As Mom deteriorated, it was Kathy who dealt with it, who had to hear her moaning in the night, who understood the depth of the pain none of the rest of us--who saw her in the daylight when the meds had kicked in--could even begin to fathom until later, when we arrived in the final weeks to stay and help with 24/7 care.

My sister is the hero of a story that ends with sadness, as this story always had to end. Without her love, patience, guidance, kindness, and gentleness, Mom's final weeks would never have been as positive an experience as they were. It was Kathy who made it her job to keep Mom's pain under control, Kathy who watched out for times when things were getting to be too much, Kathy with her nearly intuitive connection to Mom who kept her as happy as it was possible for her to be as her time approached.

A month or so before she died, Mom asked Kathy to write her a poem to be read at her funeral. Over three very difficult days last week, Kathy did so. The first time I read it, I cried. Kathy, who cries way more easily than I do, somehow made it through reading it in the church. But everyone thought it was beautiful. And I'm sure Mom did as well.

TO MY SWEET BEAUTIFUL MOTHER

                       

I express my thoughts through poetry, 

what I’m thinking, how I feel.

At times it brings me happiness, 

at times it helps me heal.

I realize as I search for words, 

in the stillness of the night.

By far this is the hardest poem 

I have  ever had to write.

I solely dedicate this poem, 

to a person like no other,

To my best friend and treasured gift, 

my sweet and precious mother.

I love you deeply with all my heart, 

I will miss you every day.

I struggle for the answer…… Why?

Why were you called away?

We had so many other things 

still left for us to do,

I would have done them earlier… 

if I had only knew.

I’ve never felt a pain like this, 

like a knife that twists and turns.

A constant feeling of despair, 

like a fire it burns.

I’ll miss the way we shared our day 

and our quiet evening talks.

I’ll miss kissing you goodnight, 

I’ll miss our morning walks.

I’ll miss the feeling of your hand, 

gently wrapped in mine.

I wish I had the strength and power 

to forever turn back time.

Although my world is torn apart 

with the emptiness I feel,

I pray to God every day 

that time will help me heal.

You spoke of God and heaven, 

and how you weren’t afraid to die.

You said it's just a part of life 

as moments passed us by.

You fought so bravely until the end 

as the days began to turn.

Unselfishly your children were 

your number one concern.

You always showed your love for us, 

we knew how much you cared.

I know that I’ll find comfort 

in the memories that we shared.

But as for now, although we seem 

so very far apart,

You will always be right her with me, 

forever in my heart.

Remaking a Home

So anyway...

(I hate it when I don't post in forever, but I have not posted in forever. Mea culpa.)

For seven years I have lived in squalor. Not the kind you find looking out the wrong side of the bus while traveling to a resort in Jamaica: the kind where, instead of the lush trees with occasional breaks for elaborately landscaped entryways to five-star playgrounds for those who have enough money to play (which inevitably means no one who is from this island), you stare, appalled, as your air conditioned coach rolls past miles and miles of one-room open-front shacks with corrugated tin roofs, yards littered with the detritus of lifetimes, and families--multi-generational families--living together within those shabby, barely-there walls, no protection whatsoever from the 100+ degree sun and the torrential rain.

Not that kind. I'm not strong enough to live that life. I'm barely strong enough to drive by it in an air conditioned coach: my heart breaks in two and I want to climb out and give away everything I own to someone who lives there to make their lives better, but I know I'd never do that.

No, I'm speaking in exaggerated terms about the absurdly cluttered, disgusting state of my tiny, two bedroom townhouse ever since my marriage.

When I bought this place, I made it cute and pretty: pictures and flowers, both real and dried, were everywhere. Little statues, David Winter cottages, glass knickknacks, scented candles, new furniture that picked up mauves and greens and made the whole house come together. I loved to sit at night, light candles, and just enjoy being in this space. But the thing is: I bought it with the idea that I would live here and that my children would live here, but that if such a time came when I ever got married again, of course my husband and I would move into a larger space.

I was married again a little over seven years ago, but we could not afford to move; thus, he moved in with me. And with all of his stuff. I do not begrudge him his stuff, but this little townhouse simply could not hold it all. We ended up with furniture on top of furniture. There were literally bookcases the entire way up the staircase. The living room was filled with piles of books, papers, dvd's, and way too much furniture. The dining room table was never devoid of stacks of crap, mostly because the front room, my little haven (in the old version of the house) for organizing files and mail and magazines and other things, had become utterly inaccessible: stuffed to the gills with furniture, boxes, a model train set-up, and so much random crap that we often didn't know there were places the cats had used as satellite litter boxes until months had gone by.

Our bedroom was so overfilled with furniture (two dressers, a wardrobe, a make-up table, and a king size bed with two night stands in a room that is roughly 12x12 and includes a six foot balcony window) and more clothing than could reasonably fit into the above that it was simply always a mess. Over time the was-white carpets became some kind of dingy, stained grey because there was no point in even trying to move enough crap to clean them. We replaced the carpets in the living room/dining room with laminate floors in an effort to curtail bad habits from the cats, but it didn't work: they destroyed the laminate too. It was all more and more of a disaster every year.

And every year I grew more and more depressed about it. I also have Seasonal Affective Disorder, so during the long winter months when I was forced to be stuck within those walls I would often become unbearably morose. But always the spring would come just in time and I would find myself rejuvenated, heart opened by the sight of crocuses breaking through the snow and the first robins, and I would allow the depression to slip silently away.

And then came this year, the year of the Polar Vortex, the year that winter would not end, when it shackled Chicago with icy chains that it would not release or even ease up for months. This was the year without any kind of even momentary thaw. It was the year with record cold and record snowfall. It was the year when the crocuses did not come until April. And when winter finally acquiesced to the planetary axis, the bitter cold was replaced by endless rain, and this became the year without sunshine. (It's true: as I write this, my deck has been waiting since April for sets of three consecutive dry days so contractors can refinish it. It has only happened once; we have had nearly constant rain.) There was no escape from the disgusting, depressing, overcrowded interior of my home. And to make things worse, my kitchen, which was in need of replacing on the day I bought the place, finally gave up the ghost at the start of the winter: the oven broke down and cabinets began peeling away from the walls.

It was in this way that 2014 became for me The Year I Remade My Home.

It began with my kitchen, which we gutted and had redone in March and April. As summer crept closer, though, I decided that the kitchen was not enough: I wanted to do it all, to attack the clutter and the junk piles and the excess furniture once and for all. So Dirk began to fill boxes and the garage began to fill up. Gradually, things started vanishing. When I threw away a large, decrepit chair, leaving only one recliner and no other chairs in the living room, it became clear that I meant business. The rest of the room emptied out. The front room also. And the stairway as well.

Eventually, we replaced the laminate floor with vinyl. (Take that, cats!) We replaced (finally) the worn, stained carpet upstairs. We built a new large closet to accommodate all of the clothing we have, and got rid of one of the dressers and a wardrobe in the process. We got rid of several very large wall units and bought new living room furniture. In the process, we have emptied the house of about 50% of the stuff that was in it, and nothing is not coming back unless it has a home. No more random piles.

It's still a mess. The workers are not finished, so we can't put everything away yet. But when it is done, we'll have a home we can be proud of and one that does not exaggerate by SAD, which could prove very important if next winter is anything like this one was. And all of that makes me happy.

What does not make me happy is that all of this has been extremely time consuming, and I have had no time to write. I need to rededicate myself, now that the job is heading toward its final stages. There is so very, very much to do...

a rose by any other name

So anyway...

We don't all get to choose our own names. Most of us live with the ones that our parents selected for us before we were born. Most of the time that seems to work, although I have known plenty of teenagers who wish they had been named something other than what the attendance lists call them.

My oldest child's name has been an ever-evolving phenomenon, it seems just about forever. At birth, we had chosen the name Caitlin Patricia. Caitlin, in fact, had been such a solid selection that there had been no second choice at all, and no male name had ever even been decided upon. In middle school, Caitlin dubbed herself Angel, and the name stuck enough that the administration even (to my chagrin) called it out at graduation. But that was far from the end of things.

Some time in high school Angel/Caitlin realized that she was transgender, that he was actually male. And that was when all of the fun began. Because not only was he male, but he also was multiple, meaning he had several different personalities within him--of both genders. Super. At first, my new son christened himself Nick. He also created a name for the collective group of personalities: Moss Alexander. Over time, Nick became John. Then it became Rory, which it is today. Moss Alexander morphed into North Homeward. I don't know why. It doesn't even sound like a name to me. It sounds like a street name. Still, if it's what he wants...

Most of the time, people around here just call him Bob.

As to me, well, I have been Karen all of my life, at least to myself. I do not know why. I have a cousin Karen, and we used to play together when we were young, but I don't think that is it. Who can really say? As to the middle name: I never had one until I needed one, so I gave it a lot of thought before settling on Renée because it means rebirth, it's Frenth (which I love), and I happen to like it. Full disclosure: I also happen to have a cousin named Renée. Make of that what you will.)

Here are my thoughts on my name:

There’s something solid, I think, about my first name: Karen, a simple, direct-sounding name, only five letters, grounded on both ends by firm consonants, the clipped K and the melodic N at odds with each other but working in harmony to compete the sound.  I like its simplicity, the ease with which is slides off the tongue, as I like its traditional spelling despite childhood flirtations with more cutesy versions with C’s and Y’s and a brief but passionate affair with Corinne.

My middle name, which flows directly from the ending of my first, is Renee.  Karen Renee.  Karenee.  It’s as if my middle name’s sole purpose is to remove the weight of the first, to change its innate structure, to transubstantiate it from a grounded name to something of air, a whimsical name that is only five letters long, three of which are E, a name that begins with the quietest of consonants and floats off into the nothingness of the French ée at its ending, lighter even than air, slipping into dreams.

These names are me.  I am my name.  So much of me is grounded in the firmness of normalcy, from my occupation to my children to my home.  But there remains at my center the whimsy of Renee, freely drifting wherever my life’s movements take me.

So I drift on, floating with the current, borne on whimsically into the future.