Place Memories of Margret

Margret first lived in a RecV, a converted bread truck. Then she lived in a travel trailer with her parents, and her sisters as they arrived. Her dad left while she lived there.

The trailer was too small, so she moved with her mom and sisters to a second floor apartment. She and her sisters thought it was enormous. For the first few weeks, she and her sisters would follow her mom from room to room, not sure they wanted to let her get that far away. (or out of sight?) She went to school, made friends, and did normal kid things while she lived there. She went often to a nearby state park with her family, followed the paths, watched animals (Look! A chipmunk!), learned to identify some common plants and skipped stones in the creek.

She and her sisters spent a year with her dad in Arizona, over two thousand miles away. She went to school, made friends, went to the rim of the Grand Canyon. She participated in Special Olympics and brought home three medals. Cross country skiing is just not something I would have thought of, back here in Pennsylvania, but she enjoyed it, and was good at it.

She came back to a two story house with attic bedrooms for her two younger sisters. She started horseback riding lessons while she lived there, and started aquacize lessons with her mom. She hung out with her sisters and the girls from across the street. She walked places.

She moved with us to another two story house with finished attic. She went to the Prom, had a job, took ceramic painting classes and made lovely stuff, was diagnosed with depression, stopped taking riding lessons, diagnosed with Eisenmenger's, lost the job, started volunteering, and started to use supplemental oxygen while she lived there. Her sisters went off to college and moved away. She learned to knit, got a knitting machine, and made scarves for everyone in the family one Christmas.

She moved to a one story house with her mom and mom's husband. Although her mom hates moving she liked the one story house. Margret liked the one story house better than the two story house, too. For one thing, it had whole house air conditioning, and that helped keep her comfortable. Her bedroom was on the first floor so she didn't have to do a flight of stairs when she was weary. Even though a few stairs go down from the main part of the house to the TV room, it wasn't the effort it was for her to go up and down stairs in the two story. She volunteered, saw her doctor regularly, went on a couple road trips to see her little sister and her family, went to a live concert in New York City, no, make that THREE concerts. She made latchhook squares from kits, and planned to which sister, niece or nephew she would give them.

Her last room, for a tad longer than two weeks, was in a hospital, with doctors, nurses, IV pumps, cards, visitors, phone calls, family, a ventilator mask, complete with ventilator, monitors and alarms, misery, and in the end, peace.

Margret is a believer, so she has moved to Heaven. She often told me she was an angel. I didn't want her to say that, because I know angels can't stay here very long.

She Is Their Sister

When Margret died, a daughter vanished, leaving a huge hole in my life, leaving me drowning in sorrow. I can say it now without bursting into tears, "I have four daughters, three living, one died when she was 37."

When Margret died, my four living daughters became three. From their lives, the lives of these three, was ripped someone they grew up with, someone who had influenced, from the very beginning, who they grew up to be. She was the first one, and she loved her little sisters. They loved her right back.

Their loss is no less than my own. Just different. They were close to Margret, closer in some ways than I was. I know C was terribly upset, and found some comfort in a book. The book she read, and recommended, is:

The Empty Room
Surviving the Loss of a Brother or Sister at Any Age
by Elizabeth DeVita-Raeburn

I read it, and found it fascinating. I found comfort, too.

I read how, before World War I, a Victorian widow or widower wore mourning clothes, or possibly a locket with a bit of hair from the person for whom they grieved, for a year or longer. Neimeyer* and Attig** have a theory that is "an enhanced version of what the Victorians used to believe: We have a continuing relationship with the dead. The premise that moving on means letting go is wrong." (TER p.145)

YAY! I can move on, and still have Margret with me, if not at breakfast every day, at least in my mind, my memories, who I am.

This next passage moved me profoundly. Reading it felt rather like throwing back a set of dark, heavy drapes to let sunlight stream through the window.

"Until you resolve the core issue of what you're going to do with the love you still have for this person, there will be a huge reluctance to move on and engage with the world," said Attig. "The world is there, waiting for you to engage with it again. Why not bring the person with you and appreciate how different you are for having known him? Why not make some difference in your other relationships with other things in the world, in part because of having known him? Why not do that in appreciation of the continuing contribution he's making to your life?" (TER p 146)

My daughters influenced one another as they grew up. They loved one another. They argued with each other. When someone outside the family threatened one of them, they stood united. I don't know what they would be like if Margret never was. I don't know what I would be like.

Recently I had an attack of the What Ifs. What If I had been more biddable when the pediatrician said I should send Margret to an institution? When he said "Don't get attached" suppose I had listened? I would have known there was another sister. I would have known that I relinquished my responsibility to my first child. I suspect that Margret's life would have been a lot shorter, probably a lot less happy. I believe I did the right thing, keeping my child. I believe my life, the lives of her sisters, and the lives of the people she touched, even briefly, are richer; me for having raised her, her sisters for having grown up with her, all those others for having met her.

When Margret was an infant, I had a dream in which she was a walking child, looking like a typical four year old, dressed in a cute outfit of shiny red satin, a long sleeved jacket and shorts just below the knee, with a round cap of the same material. She sang, over and over, a string of nonsense syllables, in a high sweet voice I can hear in my mind's ear to this day, and beckoned, indicating that I should follow her up a flight of stairs. When we reached the top, she pushed open a pair of casement windows, and gestured that I should look out. There before us lay a new, wide, colorful world. I could see bright orange tile roofs, and tree canopies in dark and medium green. There were walls of pink or yellow, cream or blue, pastel green or aqua.

Prophetic? Nah, just vivid and unforgettable.

Margret was not a saint. She had flaws. She could drive me crazy. She could drive her sisters crazy. But I am pleased to think the world a better place for having had Margret in it.

*Robert Neimeyer, Ph.D., a professor of psychology at the University of Memphis and editor of the journal Death Studio

**Thomas Attig, Ph.D., a philosopher whose specialty is the theory that we continue relationships with those we have lost. (TER p 140-1)

What's that Name?

Leonardo Alessandro Giulielmo Patritsio Armand Luigi... and then the last name.

That would be some mouthful for a little child to remember, to recite, to write down in Kindergarden, First Grade or Second Grade. Would he have to write the entire list of his given names every day on every school paper, or would the school pick two for him to use? There are many forms that have space for a first name and a middle initial, with no provision for those folks who have extra names to deal with. I suppose you could ask for an additional sheet of paper, write all those extra names on that, and staple or paper clip the extra paper to the original form. Hmm, what would the clerks and beaureaucrats do with all that extra name?

And what would you call him for short?

That's what Margret's Dad wanted to name her if she had, by chance, been born male. He wanted to honor a group of his uncles, and didn't want any of them to feel left out. Most people would be honored to have a child named after them. Most people would not feel particularly slighted if a newborn was NOT named after them. Margret's Dad didn't want to take any chances with the feelings of his uncles. They were, each and every one of them, his favorite uncle. Well, maybe Uncle Armand was a little more favorite than the rest at times, with all the favors he did for his nephew, but I'd be willing to keep that a secret.

I consider us all fortunate that I persuaded him that he could name the boy children, and he would let me name any female children we might have, because his first two choices for girl names were Kitchenchaira and Baldeagella.

Yes, dear, those names certainly would be unique. No, dear, I would not want to be the girl child bearing those names. *shudder* Who in their right mind** would name their daughter after a piece of furniture?

I can understand naming a child after a favorite bird, but wouldn't Bluebird, or Oriole, or Jay, or Robin, or even Wren or Sparrow be more fitting? I could almost live with Osprey. Twist my arm a little and I might agree to Kite. But, please, please, please not Baldeagella!

Then there she was, and I named her after my two best friends from college, Margret and Gail.

Ta DA! World meet Margret Gail!

When I was pregnant with our second child, I was fairly sure she was going to be a girl. Just so happens that I was right. Her Dad was so sure I was correct that he didn't pick out any boy names. (silly man) So what happens if I was wrong and we had a son? Dad said we'd call him Boy, and when he reached the age of 16 he could decide what he wanted to be called, and we would then change his name legally. Then B was born and I was very very relieved. She is named after my aunt, on whose birthday she was born, and also after the crafty aunt of she after whom Margret was named.

What was Dad going to name C had she, by chance, been born male? He would have honored the Italian anatomist Bartolomeo Eustachio, by giving that name to his offspring, in full. And he would have called that lad Bart for short. This was long before the Simpsons, but I wonder what effect that would have had. Can you imagine raising Bart Simpson? Nope. No way.

C was eventually born female, I gave a sigh of relief and named her after her Dad's favorite aunt, and gave her a variation of the name of a distant aunt on my Dad's side of the family for her middle name.

Their dad left the picture (he took off hitch hiking with another woman) while I was pregnant with the youngest, D. I didn't offer him the option of choosing a name for a boy. At that point I preferred not to talk to him at all. I chose her name all by myself. She bears as her first name the name of the mother of one of my best friends while growing up. I often wished this woman were my mother, instead of my own mom. She was smart, pretty, a good cook, industrious, calm and even handed. My mother was also smart, pretty, a good cook and industrious, but I wouldn't call her calm, and her capriciousness sometimes made me wish I could run away and join the circus. I also gave D the name of my favorite high school teacher, and my mother's first name.

My name? I was named after both grandmothers, Mom's mother first, and Dad's mother second. I didn't like my middle name until I learned that it had originally belonged to my delightful grandmother. Then I only liked the name because it belonged to her.

** I confess to moments when I wondered about that part, too.

Fearless DUKW Driver

In August of 2000, my daughters and I were together at C's apartment near Boston. D had flown in from school in the midwest, and she, Margret and I went on the DUKW tour of Boston. There comes a point in the tour when your vehicle goes down an incline and into the water.

This is the point where the driver asks all the little kids aboard if they want to steer the DUKW. After the two small ones had turns, and the driver was looking for another victim volunteer, D was sitting behind Margret pointing at her with both hands, and bouncing with eagerness. It took a little persuading, but soon Margret was guiding this 7.5 ton amphibious vehicle down the Charles River.

{edit}I was informed that these pictures were AFTER the bridge. And, that if you look closely in the round mirror (bumper view mirror?) you can see the bridge BEHIND us. Also, if you look in the rear view mirror, the eyes, eyebrows and dark hair belong to D.
Can you see the bridge up ahead? Yes, there is one, hard to see because when we got closer, I didn't take pictures. I was just glorying in Margret's delight as the driver said, "This is where I usually take back the wheel, but you go ahead and guide her through."

Cool as a cucumber and ten times as pretty, Miss Margret took the driver's directions like a pro. Just had to get a shot from the side so you could see the look on her face, just loving her chance to be behind the wheel, and having a BIG vehicle doing her bidding.

Margret relinquished the helm with a smile, and the tour continued back onto dry land, and back to our staring point. A car tried to cut in next to us as the DUKW turned into the driveway. There was a crunch, and the driver swore. He had looked all around before the turn to make sure there were no cars up to close, and one had to go sneak in and dispute territory. The DUKW hardly noticed, and the car sported a crumple.

And here she is, Margret's DUKW, the very blue Waterfront Wanda, high and dry after we all disembarked.

Laundry, Then and Now

Way back when my daughters were about two, four, six and eight, there were three identical marigold sweaters. Identical, that is, except for size. Those three sweaters started life with tags in the neck that told which one was a size 4, which was size 6 and which was a 6X. Tags tickle, or itch, or otherwise bother the wearer, and those wearers removed the annoying tags.

At that time we took our washables to the laundromat. Mom dealt with the washing, drying, sorting and folding, and turned the clean items over to their owners at home to put away.

On one laundry expedition, it turned out that only two of the three marigold sweaters came along, and without tags I was at a loss to know which sweater belonged to which child. When I asked the children I had three claimants for two sweaters! (cut to the fight scene) I had to check in the dresser drawers to see which claimant was mistaken.

I really disliked sorting and folding clothes, and wondered if the girls could do it, and without squabbling.

I purchased plastic crates from a nearby restaurant/lounge whose owner was using them to support the stage. Now each girl had a laundry basket of her own.

I gathered the girls and explained what I had in mind:

Just like BIG GIRLS do when they grow up and go off to college, the girls would be doing their own laundry. Each one would be responsible for putting her dirty clothes in the basket. Each would be responsible to make sure that ALL of them got their laundry baskets safely down the stairs and into the car on laundry day.

At the laundromat, each would be responsible for staking out a washer, and putting her clothes in it. I would distribute money for the washers, and teach them how much detergent and fabric softener to use. When the washer finished, each would be responsible for staking out a dryer and getting her clothes into it. The laundromat had wire frame carts for moving clothes from washer to dryer, so I encouraged responsible use of these carts. I would distribute money as needed for dryers. Then each girl would be responsible for folding her clothes back into her basket, and seeing that her clean clothes got into the car for the ride home.

Once we returned home and got the clean laundry inside, each girl would be responsible for putting her clean things away in their proper places.

Amazingly enough, the littlest one was the most enthusiastic about the plan. I think it was the thought of being like the BIG GIRLS, and doing what the BIG GIRLS do that pleased her. The middle two gave me looks like, "Mom is trying to put something over on us." Margret was cheerfully agreeable.

Digression:
Speaking of BIG GIRLS and laundry, when I went off to college, some of the other ladies who shared my floor in the dorm were clueless when it came to wash. They'd never been involved in producing clean clothes at home, other than opening a drawer or closet and taking the desired item.

Some learned by trial and error. They learned lessons like:

You need to separate things-you-want-to-stay-white from things-that-might-bleed-unwanted-color if you don't want your white undies and tshirts to be pink or green or grey.

You need to wash delicate lacy things separate from jeans, and separate from other clothes with big toothed zippers or hooks.

You need to read the label to see if an item can be machine washed at all. -
One girl machine washed a Dry Clean Only garment. The result looked nothing like the original. She cried.
Another had a lovely wool sweater that her gran had knitted for her. She machine washed it in hot water because she'd spilled coffee on it, and then tossed it in the dryer. She ended up with a felted sweater that might fit a large doll or a small four year old, whose texture reminded me of steel wool. (Joke: if I give you the steel wool, will you knit me a Porsche?)

Others asked for help. "I don't know HOW to do laundry," wailed one, "what do I DO?" Usually one of the other girls would come to the rescue.
End Digression

Over the course of six months, approximately, the girls learned to wash, dry, fold, store and generally care for their own clothes. They learned to turn a crate over and stand on it to reach into the depths of a washer to get wet clothes out. They learned how one girl could stake out a dryer, and hold it while another brought wet clothes over. They learned to work together to get the job done. They learned ingenuity.

Margret took ingenuity one step beyond. She loved to talk to the other patrons of the laundromat. She didn't especially like to fold clothes. She would often pick out a grandmotherly sort, chat with her, and persuade her to fold all the clothes. If I stepped in and suggested that Margret needed to fold her own clothes or she would not get enough practice, the grandmotherly sort invariably said, "Oh, that's ok, I don't mind folding." If I insisted, Margret pouted a bit, then folded her own things.

When we got a washer and dryer of our own, we arranged for each person to have a particular day to use the washer. Negotiation was allowed if someone wanted to swap days, or do a little laundry on the same day as someone else.

When the girls went off to college, I got to hear disbelieving stories of fellow students who had never used a washer. Those made me grin.

Margret and her sisters

I'm going to make this brief, because it's three months since we came home without Margret. And it still hurts.



Just look at all the lovely smiles.