The following is a dream I had a few weeks ago. I wrote most of it the moment I woke up, even before coffee. Then I went back later and filled in small details. I usually keep my dreams to myself because they're typically pretty silly, but this one was so very real to me that I woke up with tears streaming down my face and it took me a few seconds to realize where I was- in my own bed. For a brief moment, I could still feel the cool breeze and smell the salty air.
I've only shared this with a few others because it is about my Mama and it is personal. Not a day goes by that I don't think of her and miss her terribly. But I also believe that wherever she is right now, she's having more fun than she's had in years and I cannot begrudge her that, no matter how much my heart aches for her.
(I'm not much for dream interpretation; I usually just take them as they come. So when Ricky Ricardo appears out of nowhere, chalk it up to my brain being silly and please don't judge. :) )
__________________________________
“Come with me!” Mama said, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the bow.
The ship’s ready to leave port and I know she wants to watch the people shouting “bon voyage” and throwing colored paper streamers like something from an old-time movie.
Her excitement is contagious and I giggle as I allow her to push me up to the railing. Next to us are Elizabeth and Aunt Kat, already waving as the ship begins moving away from the dock.
“Who are you waving at?” I asked Elizabeth.
Elizabeth smiled and replied, “Does it matter? They all wave back. Try it and see!”
I look at the crowd of nameless faces and begin waving and blowing kisses at the air like a haughty celebrity bidding adoring fans adieu. Several people I’d likely never see again blew kisses back at me.
The wind picks up as the enormous ship moves down the channel, blowing our skirts and nearly stealing our matching sun hats. Glancing over at Mama and Aunt Kat, I think, probably for the millionth time, how much they look alike and yet so different.
One has long red hair, tied up in a bun on top of her head; the other, shoulder-length brown hair. Both have a hint of well-earned grays at the temple. They both strongly resemble their mother.
As I catch Elizabeth’s eye, I see that she, too, has been watching them. Without her saying, I know she is thinking the same as I.
A male voice interrupts my thoughts. “Ladies, would you care for a Bon Voyage cocktail?” I glance over at the handsome young man in a crisp sailor’s uniform with a tray in his hands and it occurs to me that he could be a young Ricky Ricardo. His thick accent is melodic and I half-way expect him to break out into a rendition of “Babaloo.”
“Our special tonight is ‘Vida Paraíso’,” he informs us. “It’s a lovely tropical fruit concoction with rum and coconut. You will love it.”
“’Vida Paraíso’?” I ask.
“It means ‘Paradise Life’,” He replies with a twinkle in his eye.
We burst into laughter at the translation, remembering a time when several of us drove vehicles with one of the many “Life” stickers on the back.
“Yes, uh…” I glance at the young man’s name tag, “Balthazar, we’ll each have a ‘Vida Paraíso’, please.”
“’Balthazar’?” Mama interrupts. “Like one of the three Wise Men?”
He nods and gives Mama a slight, regal bow. “The same, Senora.”
Though I know it’s incredibly rude of me, I cannot help myself. “I thought you were Persian!”
“Sometimes I am,” Balthazar smiles enigmatically and then winks at me, “Today, I am Ricky Ricardo.”
As he disappears to get our drinks, Elizabeth links arms with mine and begins walking towards a miraculously empty table with four chairs.
Mama and Aunt Kat follow and before long, we’re simply enjoying each other’s company, chattering away about everything and nothing.
Brilliant rays of gold, pink, purple, and orange paint the cloudless sky as we watch the sun dipping slowly into the sea to the west. Behind us, delicately shimmering blue begins creeping across the sky.
“What’s it like…” I begin but have to pause to clear the sudden lump in my throat. “What’s it like at the port where the ship stops?”
“It’s indescribably beautiful,” Mama tells me. “Think of the most beautiful place you’ve ever been- times a billion- and it’s even better than that.”
I’m speechless for a moment, trying to comprehend what she’s telling me.
“What do you do there?” I ask when I find my voice again.
Mama grins and shrugs, “Anything we want! Yesterday, we played on a tire swing and picked buttercups. Then Kat made a pot of Seven Minute frosting and we ate the whole thing.”
Caught up in her happy mood, I laugh as I find myself remembering a time when we made ourselves sick by eating an entire pot of Seven Minute frosting.
My heart smiles as I imagine Mama and Aunt Kat playing on a tire swing and picking buttercups like the little girls they once were.
“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…” Elizabeth sings softly. “I wish I may, I wish I might,” Mama and I join in. “Have the wish I wish tonight,” we all finish the rhyme together.
“What did you wish?” Aunt Kat asks.
“Oh no!” Elizabeth says in a mock-serious tone, wagging her forefinger back and forth. “If I tell, it won’t come true.”
Balthazar returns with four brown coconut cups with bright pink paper umbrellas skewered through pineapple sticking out of the top. “Compliments of the Captain,” he says with a dramatic flourish as he places them on our table.
We each lift the little coconut cups and toast. “To before,” I say, though not sure why I chose that word.
My companions seem to understand. “To before,” they repeat in unison and we sip our fruity rum cocktails.
Mama puts her cup down, reaches over and grasps my hand, tenderly squeezing. “It will be again, love; one day. It’s just not time yet.”
“It’s peaceful here, don’t you think?” Aunt Kat asks quietly.
A comfortable silence descends as we watch the very last sliver of fiery sunshine slip below the waves. Slowly, the gold, pink, and orange give way to crimson, purple, and finally, a deep jewel-toned blue.
Millions of stars begin to glitter above us, peeking out from their daytime hiding places.
The deck is nearly empty now; only a few whispering couples linger on, taking advantage of the ample shadows and the rhythmic sway of the ship.
Reaching over, Mama pulls off my hat, freeing my long auburn hair to blow in the breeze. “It’s time, my girl.” Her tone is wistful and I know she wishes I didn’t have to go.
“I know, Mama. Just a few minutes more? Please?”
Standing, Mama pulls me to my feet and into her arms for a long hug. She’s strong; much more so than I remember. The last time I hugged her when she could hug me back, she felt so frail and weak, and I hugged carefully so I wouldn’t hurt her. She’s so strong now that I hold on tightly.
“You don’t have your oxygen tank!” I suddenly realize, shocked that I haven’t noticed before now.
“Nope!” I can feel the rise and fall of her shoulders as she sucks in a deep easy breath and then lets it out. “I don’t need it here.”
I stand there inhaling her precious scent, knowing there is none other like it in the world.
Looking over, I see Elizabeth and Aunt Kat are in a similar embrace. “There’s no need for tears here,” Aunt Kat says, “you can come back again tomorrow and the day after if you’d like.”
“And the day after that too,” Mama adds and then she pulls back, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “I am so proud of you! Never doubt that,” she says with a slight squeeze of my hands, “Make sure you kiss those boys and your Daddy for me. I miss them all so much!”
When I promise I that will, she lets go reluctantly, steps back, and I know that it’s time for me to go.
“We’ll be right here,” Aunt Kat says in a slightly echoing voice.
Elizabeth reaches for my hand, gripping it tightly, and the two of us begin to slowly ascend, as though a breeze has scooped us up.
As we drift away, Mama and Aunt Kat hold hands and wave at us. The thought comes to me that they’ve never looked more beautiful, happier, or more at peace than they do at that moment. There's no pain, no regret, no hurt, and no anger between them; only two sisters reunited once again.
We watch them fading into the distance, becoming smaller as we rise higher, until they’re nearly out of sight.
“I love you, Mama!” I call.
“I love you, too,” her voice little more than a whisper, “I’ll always love you.”
Showing posts with label Mama. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mama. Show all posts
March 22, 2015
September 26, 2014
July 26, 2014
The following is the eulogy that I delivered at Mama's funeral in July. I've been working on a blog of my memories of her as well as my thoughts on the weeks leading up to her passing. I have a feeling it'll be a while before I post it because I can't work on it every day. Not because I don't have time; rather because it's a bit like stabbing myself in the chest with a steak knife every time I open the file.
Everyone keeps asking if I'm okay. I don't know why really but my first inclination is to lie through my teeth and say, "I'm doing great!" Instead, I tell the truth. I nod and say, "I'm hanging in there; one day at a time," because it really is day-to-day for me.
When I speak to my Dad, sister, and brother, I know I am not the only one.
There are days I miss Mama so much that it hurts to breathe. My cousin likened losing a parent to losing a tooth; the wound eventually stops bleeding, but the hole remains forever. A friend told me that it never does get better, it just becomes manageable. I'm patiently awaiting the day I can see her picture and smile rather than cry.
Thank you, God, for giving me family and friends who understand that there isn't a time limit on grief. Friends who know exactly how I feel and seem to know just when to call or text. I have some of the best friends on the planet and I'm so very thankful they're mine.
-CC
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July 26, 2014
I cannot guarantee that I won’t cry, but I will do my best not to. I wish we had time today for me to tell you all about just how amazing my Mama was, but if I did, we’d be sitting here all day long.
As I sat writing this in the early hours this morning, I debated what I’d say. I wondered how’d I’d be able to convey to you all just how special Mama was in just a few minutes. As I thought about it, I realized that so many of you already know the kind of person she was.
I cannot tell you just how many calls, texts, emails, messages, and the like that I have received this week of people telling me how sweet and wonderful she was. I heard dozens of stories that began with, “Oh, I remember this one time…” And they all ended with, “Your Mama was so sweet. She will be missed.” And they are so right. Mama will be missed more than I can begin to describe. But I take comfort in the fact that I will see her again one day. Because I know today that my Mama is in heaven. I know that because she knew that was where she was going when she took her last breath.
Last week at the hospital, the doctors had her in an induced coma and on a ventilator because her lungs were failing her. On Thursday, they were able to bring her out of the coma for a little while. I guess she could tell by our faces that we were worried because while she was still on the ventilator and couldn’t speak, she started motioning with her hand like she wanted to write something. So we got her some paper and a pen. Her hands were still shaky from the medicine but she managed to write, “God will save me.”
Even while she was struggling to breathe, she was steadfast and secure in the knowledge that God had her back and she didn’t want us to worry about her.
She even called the chaplain’s office and asked to see a priest that she’d gotten to know and really liked. He came down and talked to her. He also delivered Last Rites to her when the time came. I’m still not sure if he even realized that we’re not Catholic. I guess when you find someone who loves to talk about the Lord as much as you do, it doesn’t much matter which church you attend.
Just a few days later, when the time came to turn off the ventilator for the last time, Mama didn’t struggle nor fight. We were told to expect that she would but Mama simply slipped quietly away. It was the most peaceful thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life. I believe she was seeing her Savior at that moment.
Mama had the faith of Daniel in the lion’s den and she was stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. She used to say, “A woman is like a teabag; you never know how strong she is until you put her in hot water.” It took strength and courage to go through what she did and do it with grace and with dignity.
As you all know, Mama had Pulmonary Fibrosis for which she received a double-lung transplant. I know it seems like it might not be the time nor the place, but I would truly be remiss if I didn’t mention the donor who gave us three and a half more precious years with Mama. For us, that time has been a gift and a blessing.
The day Mama got her new lungs I began praying daily for the donor’s family. Perhaps she was someone’s sister, wife, or mother- we may never know, but God knows.
If I could speak to them today, I’d want them to know that to us, their daughter wasn’t some faceless stranger who happened to be an organ donor. She was a very real part of our lives.
I’d want them to know that their daughter’s lungs went to a woman who was a beloved wife, mother, sister, aunt, and adored grandmother. She was courageous. She was feisty and didn’t back down when she knew she was right. She was loving and kind. She had an inner well of determination the likes of which I’ve never seen in another person. And she loved her family with the ferocity of a mama bear.
Time is a very precious thing; especially when you know you have so little of it.
In the last three and a half years, Mama was able to see her son marry the love of his life and become a step-father to two amazing kids that Mama loved just like her own.
She had more time for her other two grandchildren to get to know her better.
Mama got to spend three and a half more years with the love of her life. She often said he might be aggravating, but he’s MINE and I love him and that’s all there is to it.
Two years ago, Mama gave me a Mother’s Day card that I will never forget. It was one she’d made, which made it all the more special, and it said, “You’ve become the wonderful mother I always knew you would be. I am so proud of you.” I cannot describe just how much that meant to me. It made me realize that she is my yardstick. She’s the measure by which I judge motherhood.
Now was she perfect? Nope. Was she always patient? Nope.
But she made me realize that it’s ok to not be a perfect mother.
Just love your children with all your heart and the rest will come together. I know that Mama loved all of us more than anything.
Except maybe Barney, her little dog. He was a source of pure joy for her.
You know, I believe that in heaven, life goes on; you’re just in a perfect, more peaceful, more beautiful place than you’ve ever been before. You’re happier and healthier. The skies are always the perfect shade of blue; you know the shade I mean- so blue it almost hurts your eyes. There isn’t a schedule to abide and dishes wash themselves.
I can well imagine Mama walking on the beach with her sisters and her mother and they’re laughing and carrying on.
She’s happy and breathing easy. I think she’d say, “Don’t miss me too much. The view is nice and I’m doing just fine.”
God speed, Mama.
Everyone keeps asking if I'm okay. I don't know why really but my first inclination is to lie through my teeth and say, "I'm doing great!" Instead, I tell the truth. I nod and say, "I'm hanging in there; one day at a time," because it really is day-to-day for me.
When I speak to my Dad, sister, and brother, I know I am not the only one.
There are days I miss Mama so much that it hurts to breathe. My cousin likened losing a parent to losing a tooth; the wound eventually stops bleeding, but the hole remains forever. A friend told me that it never does get better, it just becomes manageable. I'm patiently awaiting the day I can see her picture and smile rather than cry.
Thank you, God, for giving me family and friends who understand that there isn't a time limit on grief. Friends who know exactly how I feel and seem to know just when to call or text. I have some of the best friends on the planet and I'm so very thankful they're mine.
-CC
___________________________________________
July 26, 2014
I cannot guarantee that I won’t cry, but I will do my best not to. I wish we had time today for me to tell you all about just how amazing my Mama was, but if I did, we’d be sitting here all day long.
As I sat writing this in the early hours this morning, I debated what I’d say. I wondered how’d I’d be able to convey to you all just how special Mama was in just a few minutes. As I thought about it, I realized that so many of you already know the kind of person she was.
I cannot tell you just how many calls, texts, emails, messages, and the like that I have received this week of people telling me how sweet and wonderful she was. I heard dozens of stories that began with, “Oh, I remember this one time…” And they all ended with, “Your Mama was so sweet. She will be missed.” And they are so right. Mama will be missed more than I can begin to describe. But I take comfort in the fact that I will see her again one day. Because I know today that my Mama is in heaven. I know that because she knew that was where she was going when she took her last breath.
Last week at the hospital, the doctors had her in an induced coma and on a ventilator because her lungs were failing her. On Thursday, they were able to bring her out of the coma for a little while. I guess she could tell by our faces that we were worried because while she was still on the ventilator and couldn’t speak, she started motioning with her hand like she wanted to write something. So we got her some paper and a pen. Her hands were still shaky from the medicine but she managed to write, “God will save me.”
Even while she was struggling to breathe, she was steadfast and secure in the knowledge that God had her back and she didn’t want us to worry about her.
She even called the chaplain’s office and asked to see a priest that she’d gotten to know and really liked. He came down and talked to her. He also delivered Last Rites to her when the time came. I’m still not sure if he even realized that we’re not Catholic. I guess when you find someone who loves to talk about the Lord as much as you do, it doesn’t much matter which church you attend.
Just a few days later, when the time came to turn off the ventilator for the last time, Mama didn’t struggle nor fight. We were told to expect that she would but Mama simply slipped quietly away. It was the most peaceful thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life. I believe she was seeing her Savior at that moment.
Mama had the faith of Daniel in the lion’s den and she was stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. She used to say, “A woman is like a teabag; you never know how strong she is until you put her in hot water.” It took strength and courage to go through what she did and do it with grace and with dignity.
As you all know, Mama had Pulmonary Fibrosis for which she received a double-lung transplant. I know it seems like it might not be the time nor the place, but I would truly be remiss if I didn’t mention the donor who gave us three and a half more precious years with Mama. For us, that time has been a gift and a blessing.
The day Mama got her new lungs I began praying daily for the donor’s family. Perhaps she was someone’s sister, wife, or mother- we may never know, but God knows.
If I could speak to them today, I’d want them to know that to us, their daughter wasn’t some faceless stranger who happened to be an organ donor. She was a very real part of our lives.
I’d want them to know that their daughter’s lungs went to a woman who was a beloved wife, mother, sister, aunt, and adored grandmother. She was courageous. She was feisty and didn’t back down when she knew she was right. She was loving and kind. She had an inner well of determination the likes of which I’ve never seen in another person. And she loved her family with the ferocity of a mama bear.
Time is a very precious thing; especially when you know you have so little of it.
Two years ago, Mama gave me a Mother’s Day card that I will never forget. It was one she’d made, which made it all the more special, and it said, “You’ve become the wonderful mother I always knew you would be. I am so proud of you.” I cannot describe just how much that meant to me. It made me realize that she is my yardstick. She’s the measure by which I judge motherhood.
But she made me realize that it’s ok to not be a perfect mother.
Except maybe Barney, her little dog. He was a source of pure joy for her.
You know, I believe that in heaven, life goes on; you’re just in a perfect, more peaceful, more beautiful place than you’ve ever been before. You’re happier and healthier. The skies are always the perfect shade of blue; you know the shade I mean- so blue it almost hurts your eyes. There isn’t a schedule to abide and dishes wash themselves.
She’s happy and breathing easy. I think she’d say, “Don’t miss me too much. The view is nice and I’m doing just fine.”
God speed, Mama.
July 21, 2014
The Truth in Shades of Brown and Green
On the 4th floor of the Mayo Clinic, there is a waiting room for the families of people who are in the ICU. Everything in that room, from the fabric on the chairs to the paintings on the walls, is done in various shades of brown and green.
Olive, burnt sienna, chestnut, avocado… it’s a palette worthy of Crayola.
My dad and I were sitting there a few nights ago and he commented that Mayo probably paid someone a whole lot of money to come up with a color scheme designed to soothe and comfort those who have a friend or family sick enough to be on the ICU floor. I agreed with him and we moved on to the next topic, but that conversation stuck in my mind.
How many times over the last few years have I sat in that very room and never noticed those colors? Why haven't I noticed them? How many times have I unconsciously allowed Brown and Green to comfort and soothe me? As I tried to count, I lost track.
We were there in that room the night the helicopter carrying my Mama’s new lungs landed on the helipad. We were there when she was in a coma for almost two weeks. We were there when one of the Mayo specialists- one of the most brilliant doctors on the planet- came into the room and told us they had no idea what was wrong with her. We were in that room when the same doctor came in and told us they’d figured it out and she was going to make it.
We have visited with family and friends in that room. We’ve cried together, laughed together, prayed together, eaten meals together, watched movies together, held hands and worried together… all right there in that same room.
We were there when Mama’s sister, my Aunt Kathy, was brought in with the same disease that my Mama has. We were there when the doctors told us there was nothing they could do for Aunt Kathy. We were there when Aunt Kathy passed away.
And I suppose we’ll be there when my Mama passes away too.
I am beginning to loathe that room.
I wonder how many families have sat right there in that same green and brown room while their loved one lay dying down the hall.
My mother is one of those loved ones. One day soon, she is going to die.
God that looks so stark. So bleak. I thought that once I typed it, it would somehow look less frightening. Less intimidating. Less painful.
But it’s actually worse; much, much worse than I thought it would look.
A demon with razor sharp bloody fangs gnashing at my throat would look friendlier.
I thought I was prepared for this. I thought I was in the “acceptance” stage of grief and would be able to handle this with my usual aplomb.
I’m a fairly pulled-together person, right? Some have called me the rock throughout this whole thing.
The truth is I’m just better than most at hiding how I’m really feeling. I might look like I’m okay, but I’m most definitely not okay.
The truth is I am terrified. What in the world am I going to do without my Mama?
The truth is my mother, the woman who gave me life, is going to die. The woman who has never done drugs, drank to excess, smoked, or abused her body in any way, is going to be betrayed by her body. It’s going to give up on her, even though her mind is still strong.
The truth is I am angry. No, not angry; I’m pissed. I want to scream at the injustice of it all. If screaming would help, that’s exactly what I’d do. I’d scream until someone paid attention. I’d shout and tell them they’re wrong. W-R-O-N-G, WRONG, dammit, and they need to fix this right now. She doesn’t want to die. It’s not fair that she has no choice in the matter.
I'd force them to assign this disease to someone else. Isn’t there a degenerate low-life oxygen thief somewhere who could take this one instead of my Mama? How about this: Let’s give her “old age” as her official cause of death and let’s make it happen one night 40 years from now when she’s warm and asleep in her bed, okay?
The truth is I am frustrated. I have faith. I believe in God. But telling me this is “God’s will” isn’t comforting to me. It doesn’t magically make this better. It might work for some, but not me. Not even a little bit.
My Mama won’t get to watch her grandchildren grow up. She won’t get to see them graduate from high school or college. She won’t get to be there when they get married and she won’t be there when they have children of their own. And there’s nothing even remotely fair about that.
The truth is I am not ready to say goodbye. I guess I should just be grateful that we had this extra time with her; time that we wouldn’t have otherwise had if she hadn’t gotten a transplant. While I am grateful, the truth is I’m also selfish; terribly so. I want more time.
The truth is I am heartbroken. It feels like a car door is slowly closing on my soul and there is nothing I or anyone else can do about it.
The truth is green and brown are liars. They make you think everything is going to be okay but it really isn’t. Green and brown are no longer comforting to me; they’re the colors of heartbreak, and of grief, and of sorrow.
Olive, burnt sienna, chestnut, avocado… it’s a palette worthy of Crayola.
My dad and I were sitting there a few nights ago and he commented that Mayo probably paid someone a whole lot of money to come up with a color scheme designed to soothe and comfort those who have a friend or family sick enough to be on the ICU floor. I agreed with him and we moved on to the next topic, but that conversation stuck in my mind.
How many times over the last few years have I sat in that very room and never noticed those colors? Why haven't I noticed them? How many times have I unconsciously allowed Brown and Green to comfort and soothe me? As I tried to count, I lost track.
We were there in that room the night the helicopter carrying my Mama’s new lungs landed on the helipad. We were there when she was in a coma for almost two weeks. We were there when one of the Mayo specialists- one of the most brilliant doctors on the planet- came into the room and told us they had no idea what was wrong with her. We were in that room when the same doctor came in and told us they’d figured it out and she was going to make it.
We have visited with family and friends in that room. We’ve cried together, laughed together, prayed together, eaten meals together, watched movies together, held hands and worried together… all right there in that same room.
We were there when Mama’s sister, my Aunt Kathy, was brought in with the same disease that my Mama has. We were there when the doctors told us there was nothing they could do for Aunt Kathy. We were there when Aunt Kathy passed away.
And I suppose we’ll be there when my Mama passes away too.
I am beginning to loathe that room.
I wonder how many families have sat right there in that same green and brown room while their loved one lay dying down the hall.
My mother is one of those loved ones. One day soon, she is going to die.
God that looks so stark. So bleak. I thought that once I typed it, it would somehow look less frightening. Less intimidating. Less painful.
But it’s actually worse; much, much worse than I thought it would look.
A demon with razor sharp bloody fangs gnashing at my throat would look friendlier.
I thought I was prepared for this. I thought I was in the “acceptance” stage of grief and would be able to handle this with my usual aplomb.
I’m a fairly pulled-together person, right? Some have called me the rock throughout this whole thing.
The truth is I’m just better than most at hiding how I’m really feeling. I might look like I’m okay, but I’m most definitely not okay.
The truth is I am terrified. What in the world am I going to do without my Mama?
The truth is my mother, the woman who gave me life, is going to die. The woman who has never done drugs, drank to excess, smoked, or abused her body in any way, is going to be betrayed by her body. It’s going to give up on her, even though her mind is still strong.
The truth is I am angry. No, not angry; I’m pissed. I want to scream at the injustice of it all. If screaming would help, that’s exactly what I’d do. I’d scream until someone paid attention. I’d shout and tell them they’re wrong. W-R-O-N-G, WRONG, dammit, and they need to fix this right now. She doesn’t want to die. It’s not fair that she has no choice in the matter.
I'd force them to assign this disease to someone else. Isn’t there a degenerate low-life oxygen thief somewhere who could take this one instead of my Mama? How about this: Let’s give her “old age” as her official cause of death and let’s make it happen one night 40 years from now when she’s warm and asleep in her bed, okay?
The truth is I am frustrated. I have faith. I believe in God. But telling me this is “God’s will” isn’t comforting to me. It doesn’t magically make this better. It might work for some, but not me. Not even a little bit.
My Mama won’t get to watch her grandchildren grow up. She won’t get to see them graduate from high school or college. She won’t get to be there when they get married and she won’t be there when they have children of their own. And there’s nothing even remotely fair about that.
The truth is I am not ready to say goodbye. I guess I should just be grateful that we had this extra time with her; time that we wouldn’t have otherwise had if she hadn’t gotten a transplant. While I am grateful, the truth is I’m also selfish; terribly so. I want more time.
The truth is I am heartbroken. It feels like a car door is slowly closing on my soul and there is nothing I or anyone else can do about it.
The truth is green and brown are liars. They make you think everything is going to be okay but it really isn’t. Green and brown are no longer comforting to me; they’re the colors of heartbreak, and of grief, and of sorrow.
October 7, 2013
Mrs. Wells' Pumpkin Cake
The original recipe (which was the precursor to the following one) came from a lady named Mrs. Wells, who was the Home Ec teacher at West Nassau High School for many years. I believe it may have actually come from her mother. Anyway, I took her recipe, added cream cheese, played around with some of the spices, added frosting, removed the nuts, etc... long story short- this is my personal variation of Mrs. Wells' pumpkin cake. In my opinion, this cake is actually better than Starbucks. It's richer, denser, more moist... aww heck, it's just plain scrumptious! However, props still go to Mrs. Wells. I never knew her, but her cake will forever be a family favorite of ours.
Pumpkin Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting
1 cup (two sticks) unsalted butter, softened
3 cups granulated sugar
4 oz. cream cheese (softened)
3 eggs
1 lb* can solid-pack pumpkin (NOT pie filling mix!)
1 t. vanilla
3 cups sifted flour
3 t. pumpkin pie spice
1 c chopped nuts (optional)
1 c raisins (optional)
½ c roasted pumpkin seeds (optional- see notes)
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a Bundt or tube pan. Set aside.
In a mixing bowl, sift together flour with cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, (and nuts/raisins, if desired), set aside.
In a large bowl, mix butter, sugar, and cream cheese until fluffy. Stir in pumpkin, eggs, and vanilla until blended. Add flour, a cup at a time, to the pumpkin mixture. Using the lowest setting on your mixer, mix ingredients until just blended. Do not over-stir!
If you’re adding nuts or raisins, fold in carefully using a wooden spoon. Pour mixture into the prepared pan and bake in a 350 degree oven for 1 hour. After one hour, check doneness using a toothpick or butter knife. If it’s not done, bake 10-15 additional minutes or until tester comes out clean.
Allow to cool completely and frost with cream cheese frosting. (Recipe follows) Store loosely covered in the refrigerator.
NOTES:
-*Be sure you’re using the large can of solid-pack pumpkin and NOT pie filling mix. The recipe will not turn out if you use pie filling mix instead of pumpkin.
-I use the Libby’s brand name of pumpkin, but I’m sure any brand will do. The can actually says that its 29 ounces, which is 1 lb + 13 ozs- that’s the can you want to use.
-Blend the ingredients just until they’re incorporated. Over-stirring will cause the end result to have a weird spongy texture.
-I rarely use nuts or raisins in this cake because my family doesn’t like them. It turns out amazing without using either.
-For fun variety, you can omit the frosting and gently press chopped pumpkin seeds into the top of the cake after you’ve turned it out onto a plate. Or you can frost the cake as usual and then sprinkle pumpkin seeds on top. Either way is delicious.
-Or if you don't care for cream cheese frosting, sprinkle the top generously with powdered sugar. This is how my Mama prefers to make hers.
Cream Cheese Frosting
1/2 stick (1/4 cup) unsalted butter (softened)
4 oz cream cheese (softened)
2 cups powdered sugar
1/2 t. vanilla (see notes)
Using a mixer, blend the butter and cream cheese until combined. Add the powdered sugar and vanilla and beat until the mixture is light and fluffy- approximately 10 minutes. The frosting will become a thicker and fluffier the longer you beat it.
NOTES:
-I use a stand mixer for this recipe.
-I use additional powdered sugar if I need it to be stiffer.
-Do not be tempted to use additional vanilla, milk, or water because the frosting will be thin and drizzly.
-Store frosted food in the refrigerator as this frosting is perishable.
July 19, 2012
Faith, Prayers, and Thank-You's
Note-
This is a repost of an entry from my personal blog, "Baby I'm Amazed." The other blog is kept private and is readable by invitation only. I keep it that way to maintain my children's privacy, since the blog is mainly about them. However, I do add friends and family that I trust- you know who you are- and if you're one of those people, just ask and I'll add you. :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Original FB post- October 28, 2010 2:02am (In the ICU waiting room at Mayo)
Two nights ago, Mama was having a hard time with her prayers. She'd been so weary and tired of worrying abt everything. She wasn't sure what to pray for so she asked God for peace and His will be done. That night, she dreamed she saw Jesus. He handed her a cup with something that looked like dry ice in it and said, "This is life water." Today the phone call came.
Coincidence is God choosing to act anonymously. I have no idea if we'll ever know anything about the lady who died this morning and gave my Mama a chance to live, but I am eternally thankful for the decision she made to be an organ donor. Please remember her family in your prayers. While we're celebrating life, they're grieving the loss of their precious loved one. Somehow, "thank you" doesn't quite cover how grateful I am.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Literal : "true to fact; not exaggerated; actual or factual."
Have you ever heard someone say, "It literally scared me to death!" and thought, "Well, actually, it didn't ‘literally’ scare you to death because if it had you wouldn't be able to tell me about it- you'd be six feet under. Goober.”
I think "literally" falls into the category of Words Improperly or Overly Used.
Except when you’re referring to an organ donor.
How do you say thank you to someone who quite literally saved your mother's life?
No, really, that wasn’t rhetorical. How do you say thank you for such a gift? I’m not sure that I know how.
This particular thank you is intensely personal. It’s from a woman who struggles with her faith and clings, perhaps naively, to the belief that all people are inherently good and want to make things better for their fellow humans. It’s from a mother who wants to see her mother watch her grandchildren grow up. It’s from a wife who can understand why her mother can’t bear the thought of leaving her husband behind. It’s from a daughter who wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her mother.
I know it seems like it would be so very easy to just say, “Thank-you.” But somehow, it seems woefully inadequate. Somehow, a simple thank you doesn’t quite cover it. It doesn’t quite cover the debt of gratitude I feel I owe to the family of the woman who died.
I pray daily for her family. Perhaps she was someone’s sister, aunt, cousin, niece, best friend, wife, or mother- we may never know. The only thing I know for certain is that she was someone’s daughter; someone’s precious child. And someone out there is mourning the loss of her.
I pray that God gives them a special blessing today… and every day. I pray that God grants them peace and understanding. They probably have no idea that some stranger somewhere is praying for them.
But I know.
We may never know anything about the donor or her family- they may not want us to know. I’m not even sure what I’d say to them in person, given the opportunity. I, the girl who always has something to say, would be speechless.
But if I could tell them just one thing right now, I’d want them to know that to us, their daughter isn’t some faceless stranger. She’s a very real part of our lives and will be from now on.
I’d want them to take comfort in knowing that their daughter’s lungs continue to draw breath, even though her soul has moved on.
If I were in their shoes, I’d want to know who my daughter’s organs went to. I’d at least want to know that the woman whose life she saved is a good person. She’s a beloved wife, mother, sister, aunt, cousin, niece, and adored grandmother. She may not be perfect but she tries her best and really, that’s all anyone can ask. She’s courageous. She’s feisty and doesn’t back down when she knows she’s right. She’s also loving and kind. She has an inner well of determined strength that belies her quiet demeanor. She loves her family with the ferocity of a mama bear.
If I were the donor’s family, I’d want to know that because of my daughter’s unselfish decision, a woman who is so many things to so many has a second chance at life. There is now hope where there was little before. There is now a family who knows what they’re capable of in times of need and great adversity. There is a family who knows how deeply they are loved. A family who thanks God for the many friends and strangers alike who came together and held them in their hearts and prayers.
The power of prayer is the most awesome power I’ve ever witnessed. I say I’ve witnessed it because I was there. I was in that waiting room sitting on pins and needles and a strange comfort came over me the likes of which I’ve never known. An inner peace telling me that my Mama was going to be okay- not only okay, but miraculously recovered.
Call it advancements in medical science if you want, that’s ok. I’ll just smile and nod because I know the truth. Nothing short of God Himself intervening could have made this happen. I remain convinced that He was there with us- with her- that night.
I hope that He was also with the donor’s family that night, holding them in the comfort of His arms. Somehow, I know in my heart that He was.
To the donor’s family- thank you. She was your miracle when she was born; but now she is our miracle too. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
This is a repost of an entry from my personal blog, "Baby I'm Amazed." The other blog is kept private and is readable by invitation only. I keep it that way to maintain my children's privacy, since the blog is mainly about them. However, I do add friends and family that I trust- you know who you are- and if you're one of those people, just ask and I'll add you. :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Original FB post- October 28, 2010 2:02am (In the ICU waiting room at Mayo)
Two nights ago, Mama was having a hard time with her prayers. She'd been so weary and tired of worrying abt everything. She wasn't sure what to pray for so she asked God for peace and His will be done. That night, she dreamed she saw Jesus. He handed her a cup with something that looked like dry ice in it and said, "This is life water." Today the phone call came.
Coincidence is God choosing to act anonymously. I have no idea if we'll ever know anything about the lady who died this morning and gave my Mama a chance to live, but I am eternally thankful for the decision she made to be an organ donor. Please remember her family in your prayers. While we're celebrating life, they're grieving the loss of their precious loved one. Somehow, "thank you" doesn't quite cover how grateful I am.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Literal : "true to fact; not exaggerated; actual or factual."
Have you ever heard someone say, "It literally scared me to death!" and thought, "Well, actually, it didn't ‘literally’ scare you to death because if it had you wouldn't be able to tell me about it- you'd be six feet under. Goober.”
I think "literally" falls into the category of Words Improperly or Overly Used.
Except when you’re referring to an organ donor.
How do you say thank you to someone who quite literally saved your mother's life?
No, really, that wasn’t rhetorical. How do you say thank you for such a gift? I’m not sure that I know how.
This particular thank you is intensely personal. It’s from a woman who struggles with her faith and clings, perhaps naively, to the belief that all people are inherently good and want to make things better for their fellow humans. It’s from a mother who wants to see her mother watch her grandchildren grow up. It’s from a wife who can understand why her mother can’t bear the thought of leaving her husband behind. It’s from a daughter who wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her mother.
I know it seems like it would be so very easy to just say, “Thank-you.” But somehow, it seems woefully inadequate. Somehow, a simple thank you doesn’t quite cover it. It doesn’t quite cover the debt of gratitude I feel I owe to the family of the woman who died.
I pray daily for her family. Perhaps she was someone’s sister, aunt, cousin, niece, best friend, wife, or mother- we may never know. The only thing I know for certain is that she was someone’s daughter; someone’s precious child. And someone out there is mourning the loss of her.
I pray that God gives them a special blessing today… and every day. I pray that God grants them peace and understanding. They probably have no idea that some stranger somewhere is praying for them.
But I know.
We may never know anything about the donor or her family- they may not want us to know. I’m not even sure what I’d say to them in person, given the opportunity. I, the girl who always has something to say, would be speechless.
But if I could tell them just one thing right now, I’d want them to know that to us, their daughter isn’t some faceless stranger. She’s a very real part of our lives and will be from now on.
I’d want them to take comfort in knowing that their daughter’s lungs continue to draw breath, even though her soul has moved on.
If I were in their shoes, I’d want to know who my daughter’s organs went to. I’d at least want to know that the woman whose life she saved is a good person. She’s a beloved wife, mother, sister, aunt, cousin, niece, and adored grandmother. She may not be perfect but she tries her best and really, that’s all anyone can ask. She’s courageous. She’s feisty and doesn’t back down when she knows she’s right. She’s also loving and kind. She has an inner well of determined strength that belies her quiet demeanor. She loves her family with the ferocity of a mama bear.
If I were the donor’s family, I’d want to know that because of my daughter’s unselfish decision, a woman who is so many things to so many has a second chance at life. There is now hope where there was little before. There is now a family who knows what they’re capable of in times of need and great adversity. There is a family who knows how deeply they are loved. A family who thanks God for the many friends and strangers alike who came together and held them in their hearts and prayers.
The power of prayer is the most awesome power I’ve ever witnessed. I say I’ve witnessed it because I was there. I was in that waiting room sitting on pins and needles and a strange comfort came over me the likes of which I’ve never known. An inner peace telling me that my Mama was going to be okay- not only okay, but miraculously recovered.
Call it advancements in medical science if you want, that’s ok. I’ll just smile and nod because I know the truth. Nothing short of God Himself intervening could have made this happen. I remain convinced that He was there with us- with her- that night.
I hope that He was also with the donor’s family that night, holding them in the comfort of His arms. Somehow, I know in my heart that He was.
To the donor’s family- thank you. She was your miracle when she was born; but now she is our miracle too. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
September 9, 2011
Mama's Divinity
The following recipe is courtesy of my Mama.
3 c white sugar
½ c water
½ c light corn syrup
Place all ingredients into a heavy-bottomed pot with a handle. Stir all ingredients together initially, just to combine. Cook over medium heat until the syrup comes to 248 or hard-ball stage on a candy thermometer. Do not stir syrup while it’s cooking.
Additional ingredients:
2 egg whites
1 c chopped pecans
While the syrup cooks, beat two egg whites till stiff peaks form. Set aside until syrup reaches the correct temperature. Once the syrup is ready, turn on your mixer and begin pouring the syrup into the egg whites in a thin trickle. Be careful because the syrup will be extremely hot. Do not be tempted to pour it all at once because the mix will clump together. Once all the syrup is incorporated into the whites, continue to mix until candy starts to cool. Turn off the mixer and beat the candy by hand with a wooden spoon. Add nuts. Stir until the candy starts to hold shape and loses some of its gloss. Using two teaspoons quickly drop spoonfuls of candy onto a piece of parchment paper.
**Notes**
-A candy thermometer works best, but if you do not have one you can tell the candy is done by holding a teaspoonful of the syrup over the pot and watching to see if thin threads begin to “spin” off of the spoon.
-Also, you can check to see if the syrup is done by pouring a small amount into a cup of cold water. If it crackles and turns hard like a lollipop, it’s done.
-Stirring the syrup while it’s cooking will cause the candy to be hard and brittle.
-Using a stand-mixer is best, but you can also use a hand mixer if you’re very careful.
-Can use additional pecans if desired.
-It won't turn out if you make it on a rainy day.
One more note...
Making candy is becoming a lost art, unfortunately; and while I think you should try to make your own Divinity, I understand that life is busy. Seems like there are never enough hours in the day. Here is a link to the Savannah Candy Kitchen located in Savannah, Georgia. They sell Divinity, along with some of the best old-fashioned candy this side of the Mason-Dixon line. The Chocolate Gophers are to die for- trust me!
They also do mail order, just so ya know. ;)
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