Mother's Day 2010

"The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone."

Harriet Beecher Stowe

This is my first Mother's Day without you, Mother. And I have shed many bitter tears in the last two months. As painful as your last weeks and days were, I was grateful for the opportunity to tell you much that was in my heart. Yet every day, I think of something I wish I had told you, something I wish I had done.

Thank you for the countless things you did for me: sewing all my clothes, leading my Scout troop, sending me to camp, saving to send me to college, etc. There are literally too many things to list, but I remember something different every day.

Thank you for all you taught me: right and wrong, responsibility, to have high expectations for myself and to do my best, to be considerate of others, to think for myself. You can rest assured that if Debbie stuck her head in a hot oven, I wouldn't do it, too.

I wish I had appreciated much earlier in my life how much you had overcome, how much you had sacrificed, how strong you were. You occasionally referred to "during the Depression" or "during the War" or "when I was away at school," but it was only in the last months of your life that I learned of some of the hardships you endured. After Dad died, in spite of your visual impairment, and even after your stroke, you fought to stay independent.

And lastly I wish I had made all of those other Mother's Days more special for you. I know that you didn't care a bit about presents. What you enjoyed most of all was my company. I wish I hadn't been so concerned whether my own children would honor or insult me on that day, and had focused on honoring you.

So today, dear Mother, you may not be here in body, but you are always with me.

“All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.”

Abraham Lincoln

Violets

I brought you two pots of violets

To brighten up your room.

One was laden with pure white flowers,

But the other had yet to bloom.

I put them on the window sill,

Where they caught the winter light.

You smiled and said, "That's good,"

Pleased by the homey sight.

We considered the barren plant:

What color would the violets be?

"I don't know," I told you softly,

"I guess we'll just wait and see."

Simple words, yet carefully chosen,

I wanted us to share expectation,

To look to a future, to hold out hope,

To banish death from consideration.

Now you're gone, the white blooms have withered,

But now pink violets have burst from the other.

Their beauty brings me bittersweet pleasure,

If only you could see them, too, Mother.

My mother's hands

Her hands are gnarled and deeply veined,
Their trembling now is still.
At unaccustomed rest they lie,
From work at last released.

Childish hands in younger days
Knew the toil of country life:
Feeding chickens, toting water,
Planting, picking, shelling, shucking.

Shell shocked soldier and Great Depression
Conspired to send her off to school.
Her hands not only wrote her lessons,
But also worked for room and board.

Independent, self-reliant,
With the inner strength her mother taught her,
With determined hands she pushed
The confining limits placed on women.

A mother's hands worked ceaselessly,
Keeping the house, keeping the books,
Sewing thousands of straight, true stitches,
Guiding her children with a straight, true heart.

In later years, her weary hands
Of necessity took over other tasks,
As touch replaced her fading vision,
And gestures augmented her jumbled speech.

Through her pain and through my sorrow,
Our hearts spoke all they had to say.
Her hands grasped mine with newfound strength,
At once both gaining and giving comfort.

And then those precious hands grow cold,
As we look into each other's eyes.
And yet, even now, I feel their warmth
As Mother's strong hands guide me home.

Esther Adams Gregory 1918-2010

The eulogy, a group effort by the family:

Esther was a Christian who believed and taught her children that religion was a private matter and that one witnessed one’s faith by practicing the Golden Rule. Her code phrase was “Don’t hurt anyone’s feelings.” She was born and raised her children during segregation, but neither expressed nor instilled in her children racial prejudice. Her mother told her always vote for the Democrat. After marrying a federal civil servant from a staunchly Republican family, she rarely expressed her political views until Ronald Reagan’s policies toward retired federal employees had transformed her husband Newell into a Democrat as well. After surgery in early 2001, she told every healthcare worker that she was counting on them to see that she recovered because she needed to live to vote again in 2004.

Esther graduated from high school and entered junior college at age sixteen. It was there that she met the love of her life Newell. Each was walking to vespers with others from their respective men’s and women’s dormitories. When the groups met, they paired off into couples. When he and Esther were the only ones left, Newell remarked that it appeared that it was the two of them. Esther thought he was being a bit presumptuous but reluctantly agreed to walk with him. Telling this story, Newell always added that Esther was the only woman who would have him. Esther and Newell honored her mother’s request that since they were so young, they wait one year to marry. They were married for sixty-nine years. On Valentine’s Day, they would go to the buffet restaurant that they frequented. That day lunch was free for couples married at least fifty years. It was not the free lunch, but the opportunity to announce how long they had been married that drew Newell there.

Esther knew adversity and hardship early in life and overcame it through independence and self- reliance. She and Newell raised their children to be equally independent. After years of being Newell’s ears and he her eyes, Esther returned to independence and self-reliance upon his death. More than anything else, she wanted not to burden her children. Next most importantly, though legally blind, she counted on the continuing judgment of her ophthalmologist from his very first diagnosis of her macular degeneration that she would never be completely without vision and require a full-time attendant.

After her marriage, her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, Esther perhaps found the advancement of women during her lifetime most gratifying. As a young woman, her mother had returned to Oklahoma from a properly chaperoned trip to visit relatives in New York City to announce an intent to move there and support herself as a secretary. Esther’s grandfather had forbidden her mother from doing so, declaring that no daughter of his would ever be any man’s secretary. Esther’s mother subsequently taught bookkeeping to men attending business college but could not obtain bookkeeping work herself because she was a woman. By her death, Esther had watched her and Newell’s daughter, granddaughters, nieces and great-nieces pursue whatever careers they chose. In 1984, considering it historic for women, she stood for hours at a rally to hear Geraldine Ferraro campaign as Mondale’s vice-presidential candidate. In 2008 she watched Hillary Clinton compete for the presidential nomination. She transitioned from signing as Mrs. N.W. Gregory to signing her own name and from being “et ux” to being one of the named owners of real estate. When advised that contrary to the apparent custom, her first name had been inscribed on the left side and Newell’s on the right of the plaque marking their couple’s tomb, she responded that if her name was indeed first, it was for the first time ever.

While gratified by the opportunities that opened for women, Esther herself wanted to be a full-time wife and mother. She stretched Newell’s income by employing the home economics which she had studied in junior college and by carefully managing their finances. Her brother-in-law told everyone he knew that if Esther’s sister Jimmye had managed money as well as Esther, he would have been able to retire as a very young man. At one point, Esther studied for and earned a real estate license. Upon realizing that the prime hours for showing properties would be after school, she decided that her family needed her more than whatever income she might earn.

After Newell was drafted, Esther and Scotty spent part of the war living with her mother and sister. Newell’s sisters and sisters-in-law were similarly gathered in Muskogee. The bonds and friendship among them all were forever strengthened as they assisted and supported each other.

Her children thought she authored phrases like “Don’t run with that – you’ll put your eye out.” “Eat your _________. There are children starving somewhere in the world.” “Of course you can’t have a BB gun. You’d put someone’s eye out.” Somewhere in the ozone there is a trove of water guns, pea shooters, Spud Guns, bean flips, sling shots and such. They all disappeared at her hands. Why? Well, of course, they could put someone’s eye out! If one dared use the argument that “Johnny is doing it,” the response would be, “Well, I’m not Johnny’s mother.” Or “If Johnny put his head in a hot oven, would you put yours in too?”

Her daughter-in-law of almost fifty years says that had she looked the world over, she would never have found either a mother-in-law or father-in-law who could have treated her any better or accepted and loved her anymore.

Setting opinions about fashion aside, her grandchildren remember her love, acceptance, support and belief in them. Within her own family, she was truly able to judge a person not by the color of his skin...or his disability or his sexual orientation...but by the content of his character. And, after so many years of being on the receiving end of Grandma's kindness, some of them learned the satisfaction of giving back, by helping her in many small ways after Granddad's death.

Her great-grandchildren remember their and their Grandma Essie’s mutual love but maybe not her exclaiming that they were trying to jump out of their skin or her thinking that Gramps was buying them too many toys. She was proud of their accomplishments, such as earning their Eagle Scout award, and loved to be included in discussions of their college plans.

Newell’s nieces and nephews recall her as tough but kind and dear.

All of her family loved Esther and will miss her so very much.

Advocate for Medicare therapy services

Today my mother's physical therapist informed me that my mother will be discharged from PT this Friday. This was frustrating to hear, since this is the first week my mother has really felt well enough to benefit from therapy, and after 6 weeks basically spent in bed, she definitely needs therapy to increase her strength and endurance for walking and independence. So why is she being discharged? Because of the Medicare Therapy Cap:

Medicare Therapy Caps to Return in 2010 Without Exceptions (At Least Temporarily)
The Medicare therapy caps will return on January 1, 2010, although the policy will likely be in place for only one month as both health care reform bills that were passed by the House and Senate contain provisions to extend the exceptions process. These bills are being merged together for a final vote which congressional leaders have said they would like to have completed prior to President Obama's State of the Union address in late January.

Until that time, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services (CMS) have reported that speech-language pathology and physical therapy will continue to share a combined cap of $1,860, with a separate cap of $1,860 for occupational therapy. As before, the cap does not extend to services provided in hospitals. Settings impacted by the therapy caps include private practice, rehabilitation agencies, skilled nursing facilities, comprehensive outpatient rehabilitation facilities, physician offices, and Part B home health agency services

Please, friends, contact your representatives and Senators to encourage them to pass the "extension to the exceptions process for Medicare therapy caps."

As the end approaches

My mother has been in the hospital for several weeks now. She had surgery, and after a few days, was sent to a skilled nursing facility for rehab, to regain her strength and her mobility. Her plan was to be home in 7 days (she's a tough little lady!). But after a few days there, she seemed to be declining. I called her on New Years Day, and I didn't even recognize her voice at first, she sounded so frail. I rushed over to the SNF, and, after spending a few minutes with her, listening to her cough and laborious breathing, I told them to send her to the ER. She was admitted to the hospital with a heartbeat that was way too high and irregular, plus a mild case of pneumonia.

On Sunday, she seemed to take a turn for the worse. It was so alarming to me and so dramatic, that I sent a message to my brother, telling him that it would be good if family members could call her that day. I really thought the end might be approaching.

When my dad died three years ago, it was sudden and unexpected. He went about his business that day: gassing up the car, checking his email, calling his sister. That evening, he died in his recliner, watching TV. We knew this was how he would have wanted to go...no hospitals, no lingering. My mother remarked many times that it would have eased his mind so to know that this was how the end would come. But, because his death came unexpectedly, I felt a lot of regret that I had never told him the things I wanted to say.

So on Sunday, I sat there next to my mother's hospital bed, as she coughed and gasped for breath and moaned, fearing that death might be near. But I couldn't bring myself to start THAT conversation, because I feared that she would think I had given up hope. But obviously she was thinking the same thing, because she opened the door for me by telling me that she wanted me to have her car. Once she said that, the tears welled up, and I began to tell her so many of the things I wanted to say....as did she. It was a conversation I will never forget.

Fortunately she turned the corner the next day and has continued to improve. She is supposed to be discharged back to the SNF today. I'm hoping that she is able to return home, and that when the end does come, it will be sudden...no lingering, no hospitals. But this time, I won't be left with the regret of things unsaid.

AWOL

I've been AWOL from my blog for so long, I figured I'd give everyone an update. I'm still on long-term disability (it's been almost a year now) due to my spinal problems. I haven't really had any treatment yet, except for medication, because my cardiologist wouldn't release me for any procedure that required going off my Plavix or aspirin. Now he's released me, and I've consulted with several doctors with a growing sense of frustration. I've had conflicting recommendations (you need nerve blocks not steroid injections, you need steroid injections not nerve blocks, you're not a candidate for minimally invasive surgery, you are a candidate for it, etc). One doctor completely turned me off by seeming to trivialize this problem that has put my life on hold: "Well, you have a little arthritis and a little slippage." (This one told me that the baby aspirin that I take for my cardio problems should take care of my pain!) At two surgeons' offices, I didn't even see the doctor, just the physician assistant. So the upshot is that I'm going to have epidural steroid injections and if they don't provide any long term relief, I will hopefully have minimally invasive surgery. I want relief and I want my life back!

As for the boys, they are doing fairly well. Gabriel hasn't had any major problems since he got back on his Fazaclo. He sleeps too much and seems to exhibit more of that hebephrenic silliness, but the major hallucinations and delusions have been kept at bay, plus he's interacting with us. Keeping his diabetes under control is another story. He has managed to learn how to give himself the insulin injections, but getting him to check his blood sugar regularly or to modify his diet is like beating my head against the wall.

My mother just keeps plugging along. She just celebrated her 91st birthday and is still living at the independent living apartments, with some extra services. With the benefits of an antidepressant, she has become much more sociable, and so is enjoying life much more. I've started taking her out to eat once a week and Jesse goes to do her hair and nails frequently, and she really looks forward to that time together. I consider myself so fortunate that I have this time to spend with her, as it has brought us closer.

I am now a grandmother...Leslie had her baby, a little girl whom she named Hosanna Rachel (Hosanna is Leslie's middle name). As she is unable to care for a baby, Leslie's caregiver has agreed to become the baby's guardian and take Hosanna into her own home, so that she didn't have to go into the foster care system. I have a lot of mixed feelings about the whole situation, but it is what it is.

So, that's the wrap up. I hope to be more regular in my posts...glad to be back.

Autumn Days

The windows facing northward let in only muted light,
As autumn days grow shorter and the sun moves towards the south.
With long-dimmed vision the old woman on the couch
Scarcely observes the subtle changes of the shifting light.
The shortened days pass slowly, monotonously, silently,
Interrupted only by the clock punctually chiming the hour
And by three trips to the dining room, equally punctual.
Between rising and retiring the hours must be filled,
And so she fitfully dozes and dreams, wakes and remembers.
Ninety-one years worth of memories flit erratically
Through her mind, like a rare, delicate butterfly, sometimes
Alighting long enough to be studied, savored, embraced,
Sometimes flitting so quickly that they are only a blur.
A short childhood, a Depression, hard work, World War,
College, a marriage that endured for sixty-nine years,
But most of all she remembers the people in her life:
Dear Mother, steadfast husband, beloved sister---all gone---
And the three children to whom she devoted her life.
So many memories that make up the fabric of her life.
She'd like to wrap her children in the warmth of that fabric,
But now it is too late. A cruel stroke of fate has robbed
Her of her voice; her words are jumbled, twisted, fabricated,
Stubbornly refusing to convey the meaning in her mind.
Now she waits, through ever shortening days, to be wrapped
In the warmth of the memories of her children, as they weave
Her history and strength into the vibrant cloth of their lives.

A glimmer of hope

I have often bemoaned the fact that, after so many years of parenting, I felt like a failure in so many ways. Foremost among those failures was the fact that so few of my children seem to have absorbed the values I hold dear. But every once in a while, there is a small glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, something stuck.

My son Jesse has been going over to my mother’s every couple of weeks to give her a haircut, which both she and I have greatly appreciated. But this week Jesse came up with an idea that really blew me away. He said he wanted to go over to see Grandma every week, just to visit, but he was trying to think of something they could do together. I have to say I worry a lot about my mother and the fact that she has so little to do during the day. Her vision is so limited that she can’t read nor does she watch TV; in fact she got rid of both TV s after my dad died. She won’t participate in any of the activities at the center, mostly because she doesn’t think she can due to her vision. She is totally intimidated by even the simplest technology, eg, turning on her radio or pushing a speed dial button on her phone, so listening to audio books isn’t an option. Her main pastime used to be talking with folks, but since her stroke, she can’t even do that.

So Jesse was trying to think of something they could do together. Finally he said, “I was thinking I could read to her.” We started considering what he might read, and I suggested that if he could find a novel set in Oklahoma during the Depression, she would enjoy that. So we came up with “Where the Red Fern Grows” and “Remnants of Glory” as two possibilities. I think my mother will be thrilled. She will enjoy Jesse’s company immensely. He was always special to her, and even during his turbulent youth, she never lost hope that he would “straighten up and fly right.” She is proud that he is so intelligent and was always such a precocious child with an amazing vocabulary, and that he was such a good reader. So she will undoubtedly love listening to him read.

I am so pleased that Jesse came up with this plan…maybe something did stick, after all!