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.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Mother's Day
This is the first Mother's Day without Margret waiting to pounce on me as I emerge from my roomlair in search of morning coffee, and wish me a Happy Mother's Day.
I missed that little sweetness.
She also plotted with her respite companion to pick out a card, or make one, and pick out a small present. I remember telling her that her hugs were a better present than anything money could buy. This is still true, I'll just have to accept that my Margret hugs will come by proxy from here on out.
The lovely C stopped by for a short visit today. That was sweet. Also sweet was the phone call from D. She called on my birthday to wish me a happy one, and said she was short of minutes, (for her phone, although, with her children, she is also short of uninterrupted minutes to talk as well) so she would wish me a Happy Mother's Day at the same time. I was glad to talk to her; I don't seem to get to talk to her very much.
Talking to my daughters, and my grandchildren, and my husband, and my friends, makes me happy. I am happy that we had so much of Margret, and for so long. I still miss her, but the sadness of missing her is not always so up front these days. I can enjoy the bright sunshine and the pleasant breeze. I can enjoy watching the swoops and dives and soaring flight of a swallow. I can enjoy making something pretty (stay tuned for photos of the leather rose), and helping others learn.
I'm alive, and I like it that way.
I missed that little sweetness.
She also plotted with her respite companion to pick out a card, or make one, and pick out a small present. I remember telling her that her hugs were a better present than anything money could buy. This is still true, I'll just have to accept that my Margret hugs will come by proxy from here on out.
The lovely C stopped by for a short visit today. That was sweet. Also sweet was the phone call from D. She called on my birthday to wish me a happy one, and said she was short of minutes, (for her phone, although, with her children, she is also short of uninterrupted minutes to talk as well) so she would wish me a Happy Mother's Day at the same time. I was glad to talk to her; I don't seem to get to talk to her very much.
Talking to my daughters, and my grandchildren, and my husband, and my friends, makes me happy. I am happy that we had so much of Margret, and for so long. I still miss her, but the sadness of missing her is not always so up front these days. I can enjoy the bright sunshine and the pleasant breeze. I can enjoy watching the swoops and dives and soaring flight of a swallow. I can enjoy making something pretty (stay tuned for photos of the leather rose), and helping others learn.
I'm alive, and I like it that way.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Happiness Gauge
How can the people around you tell if you are happy? What do you use for a happiness gauge?
For me, if I'm singing while I work in the kitchen, or while I'm driving, you can tell I'm happy.
I caught myself singing today. I was on my way to the grocery store, and I was singing. What was I singing? I can't recall.
On the way home I was singing an old song with it's roots in the worry of the Mamas of Irish lads who went to war.
"Oh Mrs McGraw," the sergeant said, "would you like to make a soldier out of your son Ted,
With a scarlet cloak and a big cocked hat, oh, Mrs McGraw, wouldn't you like that?"
With your too rye ah, fa the diddle ah, too rye, too rye too rye ah
With your too rye ah, fa the diddle ah, too rye, ooh rye ooh rye ah
Lav beg the cracker oh!
I don't suppose it really matters what I am singing, but the fact that I am singing is note worthy.
Years and years ago, when I would sing in the cars, my kids wished I would not. On one occasion, one of the girls went so far as to threaten to jump out of the car while it was moving if I did not cease my singing.
For me, if I'm singing while I work in the kitchen, or while I'm driving, you can tell I'm happy.
I caught myself singing today. I was on my way to the grocery store, and I was singing. What was I singing? I can't recall.
On the way home I was singing an old song with it's roots in the worry of the Mamas of Irish lads who went to war.
"Oh Mrs McGraw," the sergeant said, "would you like to make a soldier out of your son Ted,
With a scarlet cloak and a big cocked hat, oh, Mrs McGraw, wouldn't you like that?"
With your too rye ah, fa the diddle ah, too rye, too rye too rye ah
With your too rye ah, fa the diddle ah, too rye, ooh rye ooh rye ah
Lav beg the cracker oh!
I don't suppose it really matters what I am singing, but the fact that I am singing is note worthy.
Years and years ago, when I would sing in the cars, my kids wished I would not. On one occasion, one of the girls went so far as to threaten to jump out of the car while it was moving if I did not cease my singing.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Happier Days
I have been happier this past week, consistently, each day, than I have been in a long time.
Part of it is due, I'm sure, to last weekend's visit from one of my daughters. Part of it has to do with longer days, sunshine and warmer weather. Part of it has to do with an email I received from another daughter. It moved me to tears, and made me smile through them.
I took a walk down the hill with one of the neighbors. She is trying to get back into shape after being laid up a while. A walk is more fun with company.
I stopped and took a couple digital photos of the twin linden trees on the hill. I discovered that if I use the viewfinder, I can line up the utility pole with the vertical and the cable with the right horizontal of the crosshairs. I took the photos standing at the joint in the curb next to the utility pole across the street with a thick cable protector running up it. THAT means I can take more pictures from the same spot and layer them to make a time lapse of the tree going through it's year. If I can remember to take my camera with me on walks at least once a week.
Let's have a YAY! for spring, for neighbors, for activity, for new projects and most of all, for happiness.
YAY!!!!
Part of it is due, I'm sure, to last weekend's visit from one of my daughters. Part of it has to do with longer days, sunshine and warmer weather. Part of it has to do with an email I received from another daughter. It moved me to tears, and made me smile through them.
I took a walk down the hill with one of the neighbors. She is trying to get back into shape after being laid up a while. A walk is more fun with company.
I stopped and took a couple digital photos of the twin linden trees on the hill. I discovered that if I use the viewfinder, I can line up the utility pole with the vertical and the cable with the right horizontal of the crosshairs. I took the photos standing at the joint in the curb next to the utility pole across the street with a thick cable protector running up it. THAT means I can take more pictures from the same spot and layer them to make a time lapse of the tree going through it's year. If I can remember to take my camera with me on walks at least once a week.
Let's have a YAY! for spring, for neighbors, for activity, for new projects and most of all, for happiness.
YAY!!!!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Saying Goodbye
Margret knew the end was coming. She knew it before I did. I suspected, but I didn't want to know. It broke my heart when she said, "Please let me go." I put my head down on her tummy there in the hospital bed and I cried. She patted my back, and said, "Don't cry mommy. I love you."
On Sunday, the doctor stopped after rounds to tell me they would not be changing her treatment any more because she was "end stage". Her sister C who planned to go home Sunday night changed her plans. C arranged for D to come from the other coast. On the first plane she could catch. Because we did not know how much longer Margret had left. C did it because I said I couldn't handle the details. Really? I couldn't. Besides, I didn't want to leave Margret's side.
I called family. I called friends. On my cel phone. From the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. D arrived around 1 am with her 5 week old baby. I held the baby on the bed, and put Margret's hand on the tiny feet. The feet wiggled. She moved her hand off. I said, "Those are the baby's feet. Aren't they tiny?" She put her hand back on the little feet. I talked. She kept her hand on those precious feet. D took the baby and leaned him across Margret's tummy, his Auntie's tummy, and put Margret's hand on his back. She said, "That's the baby you're holding, keep your hand there so he doesn't fall." She talked to her sister, and Margret kept her hand on the baby's back.
The last sister, B, the second oldest, arrived with her family around 2am. She came up and hugged Margret, and talked a bit, but the sedatives and morphine did their work and Margret was finally sleeping. We all went to sleep. Morning came. The nurse taped a picture of a white flower onto the door, where once, before her virus screen came back clear, were directions to mask and gown as a precaution against contagion. Friends arrived, and my husband.
We all tell Margret how much we love her, how wonderful she is. We tell our favorite stories again, one last time. We remember our favorite Margret Quotes. Mine is "I'm only fat around the edges." The doctor comes in, and the chaplain, and the Advanced Care team, and our social worker. They stand in the back.
The nurse gives a dose of morphine so Margret won't feel panic as her carbon dioxide level starts to rise. She turns off the monitor.
The RT and I take the hated ventilator mask off. "No more mask, Margret," I say. She raises both arms straight up, as if to say, "Hallelujah, the mask is off!!"
I take her hand, (the RT has turned off the ventilator, no more tweetling vent alarms), husband puts his hand on her arm next to my hand. She looks at me, looks at him. D starts singing, "I'll Fly Away". Most of the folks in the room join in. I can't. My throat has closed up, and the tears run down my face. I look up to see tears in the chaplain's eyes. I see two sisters holding her other hand. Several hands on her legs belong to the other sister, friends. Letting her know by touch that she is loved, and not alone. Not alone. She breathes slower. The song ends. Voices trail away. Slower. Stops. So peaceful. She looks asleep.
The doctor listens with his stethoscope. Looks at the clock, "time of death... 1:45PM."
On Sunday, the doctor stopped after rounds to tell me they would not be changing her treatment any more because she was "end stage". Her sister C who planned to go home Sunday night changed her plans. C arranged for D to come from the other coast. On the first plane she could catch. Because we did not know how much longer Margret had left. C did it because I said I couldn't handle the details. Really? I couldn't. Besides, I didn't want to leave Margret's side.
I called family. I called friends. On my cel phone. From the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. D arrived around 1 am with her 5 week old baby. I held the baby on the bed, and put Margret's hand on the tiny feet. The feet wiggled. She moved her hand off. I said, "Those are the baby's feet. Aren't they tiny?" She put her hand back on the little feet. I talked. She kept her hand on those precious feet. D took the baby and leaned him across Margret's tummy, his Auntie's tummy, and put Margret's hand on his back. She said, "That's the baby you're holding, keep your hand there so he doesn't fall." She talked to her sister, and Margret kept her hand on the baby's back.
The last sister, B, the second oldest, arrived with her family around 2am. She came up and hugged Margret, and talked a bit, but the sedatives and morphine did their work and Margret was finally sleeping. We all went to sleep. Morning came. The nurse taped a picture of a white flower onto the door, where once, before her virus screen came back clear, were directions to mask and gown as a precaution against contagion. Friends arrived, and my husband.
We all tell Margret how much we love her, how wonderful she is. We tell our favorite stories again, one last time. We remember our favorite Margret Quotes. Mine is "I'm only fat around the edges." The doctor comes in, and the chaplain, and the Advanced Care team, and our social worker. They stand in the back.
The nurse gives a dose of morphine so Margret won't feel panic as her carbon dioxide level starts to rise. She turns off the monitor.
The RT and I take the hated ventilator mask off. "No more mask, Margret," I say. She raises both arms straight up, as if to say, "Hallelujah, the mask is off!!"
I take her hand, (the RT has turned off the ventilator, no more tweetling vent alarms), husband puts his hand on her arm next to my hand. She looks at me, looks at him. D starts singing, "I'll Fly Away". Most of the folks in the room join in. I can't. My throat has closed up, and the tears run down my face. I look up to see tears in the chaplain's eyes. I see two sisters holding her other hand. Several hands on her legs belong to the other sister, friends. Letting her know by touch that she is loved, and not alone. Not alone. She breathes slower. The song ends. Voices trail away. Slower. Stops. So peaceful. She looks asleep.
The doctor listens with his stethoscope. Looks at the clock, "time of death... 1:45PM."
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Valentine's Day was Very Sad This Year
This was a very sad Valentine's day. I didn't manage to get the valentines out in the mail as I had planned, it made me cry to work on them, and that bummed me out.
Then I had a series of very strange, very detailed, very confusing dreams that made me feel very sad when I woke up, as if I had read an intense and wandering letter from a half crazy friend and missed the whole point.
I wasn't very good company at times, not even for myself. I indulged in reading therapy; went through several library books. I was torn between not ever wanting to go back to sleep (the dreams! the dreams!) and not ever wanting to wake up again to have to face the real world as it is.
I'm glad it's over for this year, and I'm sure that next year won't be nearly so awful.
It may not be Thanksgiving, but I give thanks for my husband, my daughters and my friends who have been keeping me firmly in the real world even when I would rather be someplace else. Where? Dunno, just 'not here'. I'm here, and here I'm staying, and this is something good.
Then I had a series of very strange, very detailed, very confusing dreams that made me feel very sad when I woke up, as if I had read an intense and wandering letter from a half crazy friend and missed the whole point.
I wasn't very good company at times, not even for myself. I indulged in reading therapy; went through several library books. I was torn between not ever wanting to go back to sleep (the dreams! the dreams!) and not ever wanting to wake up again to have to face the real world as it is.
I'm glad it's over for this year, and I'm sure that next year won't be nearly so awful.
It may not be Thanksgiving, but I give thanks for my husband, my daughters and my friends who have been keeping me firmly in the real world even when I would rather be someplace else. Where? Dunno, just 'not here'. I'm here, and here I'm staying, and this is something good.
Monday, February 2, 2009
A Letter in the Mail
I got a letter in the mail on Saturday, a letter from my grandson. He's five, and very sweet. Included with it is a letter from his Mama, my daughter D. Getting that letter made my day. Reading that letter made my week.
Now I just have to get my act together and write back.
I think I am one of the worst correspondents in existence. My first husband was definitely worse than I am, so I will not claim to be world's worst. Nope. I'm not the worst. But not the best, either. I am somewhere in between, but closer, much, much closer to the worse end of the scale.
When I was in high school, I had a pen pal. She lived in Japan. When she received a letter from me, she wrote back. When I received a letter from her, I thought about it, and then wrote back. The transit time was such that the exchange rate was about one letter a month. Then the exchange stopped. I am not sure, but I think I got a last letter and didn't write back. It might have been the other way round, but I don't think so. You see, I'm the bad correspondent.
I forget birthdays, and if I don't remember you are having a birthday, I don't send a card. Simple? Maybe. Margret was the one who always remembered who had birthdays, and when they had them. She reminded me.
Margret liked to get cards, and to send them. Birthday cards, definitely, but any sort of card was fine with her. I would help her looking up addresses, but she addressed the envelope in her own hand. She liked to choose cards to give, to send, and planned on trips to the card shop when birthdays were coming up. I kept a collection of cards for many occasions, and she liked to go through and pick just the right one. Sometimes my collection didn't have just what she wanted, and she had to settle for second best, or create a card. I can't think of when she made up the last original card, but I'm sure it wasn't in the past year or so.
Margret kept many of the cards she received. Some she had in a stack in a drawer in her dresser. One year her sister helped her put some of the cards she had received into a frame. There are Christmas cards, birthday cards, lots of valentines, some 'thinking of you' cards and a Halloween card. She hung it on her bedroom door, where, over the years, some of the card shifted toward the bottom of the frame. I would sometimes watch her studying the cards, and wonder what she was thinking. I never asked. Permit me to imagine her thinking "I got this card from D, it's very pretty. This one came from B, she has great taste. My friend W gave me this one with violets. I'm glad I have friends and family."
Now I just have to get my act together and write back.
I think I am one of the worst correspondents in existence. My first husband was definitely worse than I am, so I will not claim to be world's worst. Nope. I'm not the worst. But not the best, either. I am somewhere in between, but closer, much, much closer to the worse end of the scale.
When I was in high school, I had a pen pal. She lived in Japan. When she received a letter from me, she wrote back. When I received a letter from her, I thought about it, and then wrote back. The transit time was such that the exchange rate was about one letter a month. Then the exchange stopped. I am not sure, but I think I got a last letter and didn't write back. It might have been the other way round, but I don't think so. You see, I'm the bad correspondent.
I forget birthdays, and if I don't remember you are having a birthday, I don't send a card. Simple? Maybe. Margret was the one who always remembered who had birthdays, and when they had them. She reminded me.
Margret liked to get cards, and to send them. Birthday cards, definitely, but any sort of card was fine with her. I would help her looking up addresses, but she addressed the envelope in her own hand. She liked to choose cards to give, to send, and planned on trips to the card shop when birthdays were coming up. I kept a collection of cards for many occasions, and she liked to go through and pick just the right one. Sometimes my collection didn't have just what she wanted, and she had to settle for second best, or create a card. I can't think of when she made up the last original card, but I'm sure it wasn't in the past year or so.
Margret kept many of the cards she received. Some she had in a stack in a drawer in her dresser. One year her sister helped her put some of the cards she had received into a frame. There are Christmas cards, birthday cards, lots of valentines, some 'thinking of you' cards and a Halloween card. She hung it on her bedroom door, where, over the years, some of the card shifted toward the bottom of the frame. I would sometimes watch her studying the cards, and wonder what she was thinking. I never asked. Permit me to imagine her thinking "I got this card from D, it's very pretty. This one came from B, she has great taste. My friend W gave me this one with violets. I'm glad I have friends and family."
Sunday, December 14, 2008
A Little Lovin
I was looking through some photos on my computer and found a very grainy one. I thought of posting it here, and remembered I had taken a frame from a short video and printed it for Margret because she wanted a photo of her holding a baby. I hunted some more, and found the video clip.
I was sad for a bit, watching, because Margret never realized her dream of being a mom. If you asked her if she had any regrets, I think she'd say it was not being able to have children of her own on account of her health issues.
Then I noticed how marvelously happy she looks, carefully cuddling and rocking her niece, and I had to smile. Margret was very very good at being an Auntie. This video shows how much she enjoys and values babies.
I was sad for a bit, watching, because Margret never realized her dream of being a mom. If you asked her if she had any regrets, I think she'd say it was not being able to have children of her own on account of her health issues.
Then I noticed how marvelously happy she looks, carefully cuddling and rocking her niece, and I had to smile. Margret was very very good at being an Auntie. This video shows how much she enjoys and values babies.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Missing Margret
The first week, I felt a sort of numbness, which made going through the motions, writing her obituary, setting up the funeral, and attending it somewhat unreal. The second week I kept looking at the door at the time she would normally come through it, home from a day of volunteering.
I wrote the following on August 20th, on a message board where I am a member:
This past week has been a really tough... the 14th was one month since we went home without Margret. It's hard to keep going, doing 'normal' stuff, because I keep finding things that make me cry. The first time I came home from grocery shopping after Margret died, I blubbered. Why? Because Margret would always look in all the bags to see what I had gotten, and comment on it, and put the yogurt in the fridge. The first time I put all the dishes away myself was difficult, because emptying the dishwasher was Margret's chore, and she took great pride in making sure all the silverware was arranged just so. I still have not been able to sit down and write thank you cards yet. I will get there eventually. I understand that it takes time to make my way through the grief process and get to the other side. The only way out of it is to go through it. I want to thank everyone who sent a card to her in the hospital. Know that the cards and wishes helped. I want to thank everyone who sent me a card, after, or signed Margret's guestbook. Each sentiment expressed makes the weight on my heart a little less.
I find each week brings its own challenges. Little things send me into tears. A tv show with a reference that hits a tender spot. While shifting things around in the coat closet I found myself in tears, hugging Margret's winter coat. There is a tray of greenware angel ornaments in the craft room. Margret and I picked them out so she could paint them for Christmas presents; I'm going to finish them for her, and that thought makes me cry. They may not get done for Christmas, because tears and greenware don't mix well.
Last week's episode of Grey's anatomy where Izzy keeps seeing the spectre of Denny, and the bit about unclaimed bodies set me off. The episode of Life on Mars had a little girl die; that set me off too. Little snippets of memory pop up here and there: "Please let me go," is a sad one. The excited hugs she exchanged with Aunt Peggy is a happy one. Maybe overall there is a balance, maybe a balance I can find. *sigh*
Mundane moments, transcendant moments, memory and imagination, crazy mixture. I am capable and decisive one moment, vunerable and can't make up my mind another. I have time to sort through my feelings. I'll take it.
Some days I am mostly OK. Some days I am mostly not. I keep going. I manage. I've decided I'm not going to die of a broken heart.
I wrote the following on August 20th, on a message board where I am a member:
This past week has been a really tough... the 14th was one month since we went home without Margret. It's hard to keep going, doing 'normal' stuff, because I keep finding things that make me cry. The first time I came home from grocery shopping after Margret died, I blubbered. Why? Because Margret would always look in all the bags to see what I had gotten, and comment on it, and put the yogurt in the fridge. The first time I put all the dishes away myself was difficult, because emptying the dishwasher was Margret's chore, and she took great pride in making sure all the silverware was arranged just so. I still have not been able to sit down and write thank you cards yet. I will get there eventually. I understand that it takes time to make my way through the grief process and get to the other side. The only way out of it is to go through it. I want to thank everyone who sent a card to her in the hospital. Know that the cards and wishes helped. I want to thank everyone who sent me a card, after, or signed Margret's guestbook. Each sentiment expressed makes the weight on my heart a little less.
I find each week brings its own challenges. Little things send me into tears. A tv show with a reference that hits a tender spot. While shifting things around in the coat closet I found myself in tears, hugging Margret's winter coat. There is a tray of greenware angel ornaments in the craft room. Margret and I picked them out so she could paint them for Christmas presents; I'm going to finish them for her, and that thought makes me cry. They may not get done for Christmas, because tears and greenware don't mix well.
Last week's episode of Grey's anatomy where Izzy keeps seeing the spectre of Denny, and the bit about unclaimed bodies set me off. The episode of Life on Mars had a little girl die; that set me off too. Little snippets of memory pop up here and there: "Please let me go," is a sad one. The excited hugs she exchanged with Aunt Peggy is a happy one. Maybe overall there is a balance, maybe a balance I can find. *sigh*
Mundane moments, transcendant moments, memory and imagination, crazy mixture. I am capable and decisive one moment, vunerable and can't make up my mind another. I have time to sort through my feelings. I'll take it.
Some days I am mostly OK. Some days I am mostly not. I keep going. I manage. I've decided I'm not going to die of a broken heart.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Margret does Yoga, and other athletic things
Before her decreasing oxygen saturations robbed Margret of her get up and go, and other things, she did lots of the things any normal kid does. She ran, she played, she climbed and hollered and played tag.
We walked through our local parks together, and especially enjoyed the hikes through Jacobsburg State Park. All the girls liked to look down from the bridge and spot fishes lurking in the water below. Sometimes, if everyone were very tired when we reached the other end of the trail, I would let them wait together while I trotted back down the trail to the parking lot where we started. Then I'd take the car to meet them, and we'd all go home.
She did gymnastics and balance beam in special olympics here, and when she stayed that year at her dad's house, she did cross country skiing - and brought home a medal.
One Christmas I bought a gift certificate for riding lessons to give to the horse crazy B. Margret came with us, and the teacher offered her a lesson too. It didn't work out exactly as the teacher had expected, with Margret almost falling off. She needed a little more individual instruction than the other girls her age, but both girls got lessons. Margret even competed at a horse show or two, and brought home ribbons. She enjoyed riding. She enjoyed being around the horses. We were very proud of her.
As a family we each got our own bowling ball and shoes, and, surprise, surprise, went bowling! Margret was pretty good, too. I had to hustle to stay ahead of her. Husband was lots better than Margret or me, so we mostly competed against our own previous scores.
Margret and I joined a water aerobics class at the Y. She did great. While I swam laps in master swim, she developed a lovely backstroke with a little help from the swim coach. She was comfortable in the water, and able to swim the length or width of the pool.
After Margret was put on oxygen, her choices in exercise became more limited. I took Margret to Contra dancing (a little like line dancing, but not exactly, if that helps any) but she ended up sitting almost the whole time, too tired to dance much. We tried a yoga class, but that went WAY too fast, and again, Margret sat most of the class watching the other students. I inquired about individual lessons, and that worked much better for Margret. In a one on one teaching situation she excelled. Her muscle tone improved, her balance and coordination too. Some of the breathing excercises, when she had a cold or mild bronchitis, helped her make sure all the segments of her lungs were expanding as best they were able, and helped keep the cold from getting worse. At least in my opinion the yoga helped do that.
Yoga was a really good workout for her as she was recovering from pneumonia a couple years ago. The classes were paced to what she could do, so she was pushed to improve, but not too hard.
Margret practiced yoga with her teacher right up until she entered the hospital this last time.
We walked through our local parks together, and especially enjoyed the hikes through Jacobsburg State Park. All the girls liked to look down from the bridge and spot fishes lurking in the water below. Sometimes, if everyone were very tired when we reached the other end of the trail, I would let them wait together while I trotted back down the trail to the parking lot where we started. Then I'd take the car to meet them, and we'd all go home.
She did gymnastics and balance beam in special olympics here, and when she stayed that year at her dad's house, she did cross country skiing - and brought home a medal.
One Christmas I bought a gift certificate for riding lessons to give to the horse crazy B. Margret came with us, and the teacher offered her a lesson too. It didn't work out exactly as the teacher had expected, with Margret almost falling off. She needed a little more individual instruction than the other girls her age, but both girls got lessons. Margret even competed at a horse show or two, and brought home ribbons. She enjoyed riding. She enjoyed being around the horses. We were very proud of her.
As a family we each got our own bowling ball and shoes, and, surprise, surprise, went bowling! Margret was pretty good, too. I had to hustle to stay ahead of her. Husband was lots better than Margret or me, so we mostly competed against our own previous scores.
Margret and I joined a water aerobics class at the Y. She did great. While I swam laps in master swim, she developed a lovely backstroke with a little help from the swim coach. She was comfortable in the water, and able to swim the length or width of the pool.
After Margret was put on oxygen, her choices in exercise became more limited. I took Margret to Contra dancing (a little like line dancing, but not exactly, if that helps any) but she ended up sitting almost the whole time, too tired to dance much. We tried a yoga class, but that went WAY too fast, and again, Margret sat most of the class watching the other students. I inquired about individual lessons, and that worked much better for Margret. In a one on one teaching situation she excelled. Her muscle tone improved, her balance and coordination too. Some of the breathing excercises, when she had a cold or mild bronchitis, helped her make sure all the segments of her lungs were expanding as best they were able, and helped keep the cold from getting worse. At least in my opinion the yoga helped do that.
Yoga was a really good workout for her as she was recovering from pneumonia a couple years ago. The classes were paced to what she could do, so she was pushed to improve, but not too hard.
Margret practiced yoga with her teacher right up until she entered the hospital this last time.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Margret's Crafty Mama - Origami (flapping bird)
When the girls were little, about 4, 6, 8 and 10, I did an Origami Workshop for the children's room at our local library.
We prepared by teaching the Children's Room staff how to make the items we had planned. The girls all helped to show them.
When the participants and their families arrived, and started folding, the girls and the staff helped the workshop go smoothly. I stood at the front of the room, demonstrating with BIG paper, and staff and girls assisted anyone having trouble following the directions.
Here is one of the pieces we folded that day, a box that can be made from any reasonably large rectangle of paper:
And here is another. This one is a favorite of mine, and I have made many many mobiles using this design.
We prepared by teaching the Children's Room staff how to make the items we had planned. The girls all helped to show them.
When the participants and their families arrived, and started folding, the girls and the staff helped the workshop go smoothly. I stood at the front of the room, demonstrating with BIG paper, and staff and girls assisted anyone having trouble following the directions.
Here is one of the pieces we folded that day, a box that can be made from any reasonably large rectangle of paper:
And here is another. This one is a favorite of mine, and I have made many many mobiles using this design.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
One More ceramics photo
Thanks to Margret's sister B, I have a copy of the photo I was lamenting.
The cats she's holding, she did. The indian maiden (Pocahontas?) on the top shelf is her work. I did the ginger jars. The teapot and Belle from Beauty and the beast are her work as well. Over her shoulder you can see the head of another figure she painted. The mugs behind my head were collected by husband, from MusikFest.
Do you do ceramics? Buy greenware? Paint bisque ware? How do you amuse yourself and make presents at the same time?
The cats she's holding, she did. The indian maiden (Pocahontas?) on the top shelf is her work. I did the ginger jars. The teapot and Belle from Beauty and the beast are her work as well. Over her shoulder you can see the head of another figure she painted. The mugs behind my head were collected by husband, from MusikFest.
Do you do ceramics? Buy greenware? Paint bisque ware? How do you amuse yourself and make presents at the same time?
Thursday, October 30, 2008
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 anothervictim 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.
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
{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.
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.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Not Much Money? Make Do
As a single mom I didn't have a lot of money to spend on "stuff" for my 4 girls. I usually made things, or did things with them, even though I had to work. They all had chores, and were responsible for getting their laundry together and down to the car when we made a laundromat run. I even had them *gasp* fold their own clothes. In spite of all the perceived lacks, my girls have grown up, and turned out well.
What amazed me was a conversation one daughter (C) shared that she'd had with a best friend (G) from Jr high. Both of G's parents worked, and gave her lots of "stuff", but never spent much time with her. Back then, C envied all the neat stuff G had. G loved to visit our house, whether C was home or not. G told C she wished I was her mom, because I spent time with my girls, and taught them neat things. Her mom was always to tired or busy to spend any time with her. It was an eye opener for C.
C also explained why she and another sister were so often invited to birthday parties. Not so much because they were popular, but because the ~presents~ were so popular. C gave as example a large zippered pencil pouch I made from upholstery vinyl scraps. I put some pencils, some pens, a small scissors, an eraser and a little stapler kit inside. She told me all her friends wanted one. *chuckle* The friends all envied her homemade book covers, too.
Oh, and the word "No" meant just that. I hear kids in the grocery store whining to Mom that they want this, they want that. At that time I had a very fixed budget. If the girls wanted something they saw at the grocery, and I said No, then all the whining in the world would not shift me. So they didn't whine. On the other hand, if I thought the wanted item was reasonable, I'd say "yes, but you have to choose things to put back that equal its cost." (real world math lesson here) Then they had to negotiate among themselves what to put back, and the choice had to be unanimous, although I had final say whether the swap happened. One time C wanted a box of sugary name brand cereal, and suggested putting back my instant coffee. I looked at her and asked, "Do you ~really~ want to deal with me in the morning when I've had no coffee?" She promptly left my coffee alone, and chose something else to negotiate.
They were disappointed in the cereal. It wasn't as good as they thought it would be, it was gone in two days, and they missed the items whose place it took.
Since we were on such a tight budget, we very seldom went out to eat, but about once a month, on Saturday morning, I'd let them eat out, in my kitchen. I made up hand written menus with "My Eatery" at the top, and listed all the possible breakfasts I was willing to make that morning. I set out place mats, water glasses and silverware rolled up in a napkin. I gathered the girls at the table, (picture them as 4, 6, 8 and 10) handed the menus around and announced, "I am your server this morning. Our specials this morning are.... May I get you something to drink now?"
I'd get their drinks, (they could order coffee, and get a grown up teacup a quarter filled with coffee and three quarters milk. Likewise with tea.) and take their orders, and treat them like grown up ladies. I know this was a hit with them, because in later years they told me so.
What amazed me was a conversation one daughter (C) shared that she'd had with a best friend (G) from Jr high. Both of G's parents worked, and gave her lots of "stuff", but never spent much time with her. Back then, C envied all the neat stuff G had. G loved to visit our house, whether C was home or not. G told C she wished I was her mom, because I spent time with my girls, and taught them neat things. Her mom was always to tired or busy to spend any time with her. It was an eye opener for C.
C also explained why she and another sister were so often invited to birthday parties. Not so much because they were popular, but because the ~presents~ were so popular. C gave as example a large zippered pencil pouch I made from upholstery vinyl scraps. I put some pencils, some pens, a small scissors, an eraser and a little stapler kit inside. She told me all her friends wanted one. *chuckle* The friends all envied her homemade book covers, too.
Oh, and the word "No" meant just that. I hear kids in the grocery store whining to Mom that they want this, they want that. At that time I had a very fixed budget. If the girls wanted something they saw at the grocery, and I said No, then all the whining in the world would not shift me. So they didn't whine. On the other hand, if I thought the wanted item was reasonable, I'd say "yes, but you have to choose things to put back that equal its cost." (real world math lesson here) Then they had to negotiate among themselves what to put back, and the choice had to be unanimous, although I had final say whether the swap happened. One time C wanted a box of sugary name brand cereal, and suggested putting back my instant coffee. I looked at her and asked, "Do you ~really~ want to deal with me in the morning when I've had no coffee?" She promptly left my coffee alone, and chose something else to negotiate.
They were disappointed in the cereal. It wasn't as good as they thought it would be, it was gone in two days, and they missed the items whose place it took.
Since we were on such a tight budget, we very seldom went out to eat, but about once a month, on Saturday morning, I'd let them eat out, in my kitchen. I made up hand written menus with "My Eatery" at the top, and listed all the possible breakfasts I was willing to make that morning. I set out place mats, water glasses and silverware rolled up in a napkin. I gathered the girls at the table, (picture them as 4, 6, 8 and 10) handed the menus around and announced, "I am your server this morning. Our specials this morning are.... May I get you something to drink now?"
I'd get their drinks, (they could order coffee, and get a grown up teacup a quarter filled with coffee and three quarters milk. Likewise with tea.) and take their orders, and treat them like grown up ladies. I know this was a hit with them, because in later years they told me so.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
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.
Just look at all the lovely smiles.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Margret and Frank Sinatra
Margret and Frank Sinatra. I'd never thought they had much in common, if I thought about it at all, which I don't think I did. *wrinkling brow while trying to decide if that made any sense*
Today, reading over the lyric for My Way, I see they had quite a bit in common. Margret lived a full life:
She got to see Ricky Martin live in concert at Radio City Music Hall, and from great seats.
She and I did a road trip, by car, to Oklahoma to visit her little sister and her niece and nephews. We had a great time.
She enjoyed time spent with her little cousins and nieces and nephews at Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings.
She got to go out with her respite person, to do dinner and a movie, or go shopping, or whatever else she desired that they could fit into an evening.
Over the course of her life she had a job or two.
She volunteered.
She enjoyed friends and family.
She liked food, and loved to have take away, or eat out at a restaurant.
She liked to be tucked in at night. We exchanged hugs and kisses, and "I love you"s.
Regrets? Yes, I think she had a few, but small ones given all else she had to cope with.
She wanted to marry and have children of her own, but that was not to be.
She wanted to go on a cruise, but I hadn't got all the logistics worked out in time.
She wanted to spend more time with her sister's babies, but they lived on the other side of the continent, so we did the best we could when we had the opportunity.
I tried to help her make her life as full and happy as possible. And I think I succeeded. Mostly. Because when all was said and done, she was an adult, and felt the things she did because she was herself, and responsible to herself. *Did that make any sense? I hope so.*
For my own self, I can say "Regrets, I have a few, but they're small." The big things, like knowing she knew she was loved, and knowing she knew she could depend on me to help the best I could, those are covered. I did my best. I only hope it was good enough.
My Way
And now, the end is near;
And so I face the final curtain.
My friend, Ill say it clear,
Ill state my case, of which Im certain.
Ive lived a life thats full.
Ive traveled each and evry highway;
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.
Regrets, Ive had a few;
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.
I planned each charted course;
Each careful step along the byway,
But more, much more than this,
I did it my way.
Yes, there were times, Im sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew.
But through it all, when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out.
I faced it all and I stood tall;
And did it my way.
Ive loved, Ive laughed and cried.
Ive had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.
To think I did all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
No, oh no not me,
I did it my way.
For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels;
And not the words of one who kneels.
The record shows I took the blows -
And did it my way!
(my thanks to Lyricsfreak dot com for these lyrics)
Today, reading over the lyric for My Way, I see they had quite a bit in common. Margret lived a full life:
She got to see Ricky Martin live in concert at Radio City Music Hall, and from great seats.
She and I did a road trip, by car, to Oklahoma to visit her little sister and her niece and nephews. We had a great time.
She enjoyed time spent with her little cousins and nieces and nephews at Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings.
She got to go out with her respite person, to do dinner and a movie, or go shopping, or whatever else she desired that they could fit into an evening.
Over the course of her life she had a job or two.
She volunteered.
She enjoyed friends and family.
She liked food, and loved to have take away, or eat out at a restaurant.
She liked to be tucked in at night. We exchanged hugs and kisses, and "I love you"s.
Regrets? Yes, I think she had a few, but small ones given all else she had to cope with.
She wanted to marry and have children of her own, but that was not to be.
She wanted to go on a cruise, but I hadn't got all the logistics worked out in time.
She wanted to spend more time with her sister's babies, but they lived on the other side of the continent, so we did the best we could when we had the opportunity.
I tried to help her make her life as full and happy as possible. And I think I succeeded. Mostly. Because when all was said and done, she was an adult, and felt the things she did because she was herself, and responsible to herself. *Did that make any sense? I hope so.*
For my own self, I can say "Regrets, I have a few, but they're small." The big things, like knowing she knew she was loved, and knowing she knew she could depend on me to help the best I could, those are covered. I did my best. I only hope it was good enough.
My Way
And now, the end is near;
And so I face the final curtain.
My friend, Ill say it clear,
Ill state my case, of which Im certain.
Ive lived a life thats full.
Ive traveled each and evry highway;
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.
Regrets, Ive had a few;
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.
I planned each charted course;
Each careful step along the byway,
But more, much more than this,
I did it my way.
Yes, there were times, Im sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew.
But through it all, when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out.
I faced it all and I stood tall;
And did it my way.
Ive loved, Ive laughed and cried.
Ive had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.
To think I did all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
No, oh no not me,
I did it my way.
For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels;
And not the words of one who kneels.
The record shows I took the blows -
And did it my way!
(my thanks to Lyricsfreak dot com for these lyrics)
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Supportive Family is Important
Later that same day I called family from the pay phone, to let them know there was a new member of the family and tell them she had Down syndrome.
My mother's reaction was, "A defective grandchild, how sad." That pretty much ended our conversation.
My mother-in-law responded with pleasure: A girl, and healthy other than the Down syndrome. Did I know that my brother-in-law had worked at a camp for people with mental retardation?
No, I hadn't.
She put BIL on the phone and he told about some of the characters he met in the camp setting. One gentleman with DS was very childlike, in spite of his advanced age, his white beard and hair, and very much enjoyed having his beard brushed. Another had a marvelous sense of humor. Another had a very sweet disposition. I cannot remember all that he told me, but the sense of it was that these individuals were people first, with foibles much like other people. I was much reassured.
After I was off the phone, I spoke briefly with a weepy young woman. She could not fathom my joy in having a daughter with Down syndrome when she had borne a normal child and felt so unutterably sad. She didn't say so when we spoke, but she was giving her little boy up for adoption.
My mother's reaction was, "A defective grandchild, how sad." That pretty much ended our conversation.
My mother-in-law responded with pleasure: A girl, and healthy other than the Down syndrome. Did I know that my brother-in-law had worked at a camp for people with mental retardation?
No, I hadn't.
She put BIL on the phone and he told about some of the characters he met in the camp setting. One gentleman with DS was very childlike, in spite of his advanced age, his white beard and hair, and very much enjoyed having his beard brushed. Another had a marvelous sense of humor. Another had a very sweet disposition. I cannot remember all that he told me, but the sense of it was that these individuals were people first, with foibles much like other people. I was much reassured.
After I was off the phone, I spoke briefly with a weepy young woman. She could not fathom my joy in having a daughter with Down syndrome when she had borne a normal child and felt so unutterably sad. She didn't say so when we spoke, but she was giving her little boy up for adoption.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Bitter Sweet Celebration
We chose to call it a Celebration of Life instead of a Funeral.
Her sisters went shopping to buy her last party dress. They succeeded, although mid July is not the best time to be hunting a prom gown. The dress they found was hot pink, floor length, with spaghetti straps, and decorated with swirls of beads and sequins. Had this been chosen for a normal event, the dress would need to be shortened by more than a foot, for Margret was only four feet eight inches tall. In this instance, in the creative hands of our funeral director, the excess length became long sleeves, and the beaded portion filled in between the top of the dress and the sleeves.
We planned bright colored flowers and had balloons in pink, orange and yellow that echoed the flower colors. For background music I made a cd including her favorite artists, Hanna Montana, Billy Ray Cyrus, Ricky Martin, Maná. Her youngest sister requested tracks by the Marshall Family; Dad asked for Livin' La Vida Loca, because it every time he heard it, it reminded him of her and how she was so willing to dance. I picked Eres Mi Religión by Maná, and Ángel by Cristian Castro, among others, because she so enjoyed listening when I played music of that sort on the Latin Beat. Sisters B and C each picked a song that brought her to their minds.
As part of the service, attendees were encouraged to come forward and share their unique memories of Margret with the rest of us. Seventeen people overcame their reluctance to speak off the cuff, and shared. An astounding number!
C lent her video camera to Margret's oldest niece, so there would be a record of the celebration to share with family members who could not join us. She did a fine job.
Although C arranged for me to watch the tape, I could not bring myself to do so for weeks. I watched the video, finally, a couple nights ago. I experienced relief, and a deep appreciation for everyone who braved the discomfort of speaking in front of a group. I transcribed one of the memories that moved me most to share with you, only leaving out some 'and's, and a bit that I could not hear well.
F speaks on Margret
My last memory of Margret was at B's Octoberfest. She gave me a hard time because she thought I was flirting with C. She in no uncertain terms told that that was HER sister and I was not allowed to have her. I think she was teasing me. She also ribbed my brother about it and he was very confused. She had a funny sense of humor that way.
I've known C since I was 5 . . .
I've known the M family, all encompassing, as it has changed throughout the years, and I always remember Margret,
and if the M family is like a light house showing love, no matter what situation happened there was always love, Margret was the beacon, at the top.
She was the bright light that you always gravitated to; you always felt good around her.
I can think back to even when I was a child, hanging with C (when she wasn't being bad),
she was there, and she was smiling, and she was laughing, and always joking around, wanting to do something and be involved.
I think we should take from that as a lesson on how to live - a lot of times we let the stressors of our life take us over,
I think sometimes we should stop and think about Margret and how she enjoyed every moment , no matter what it was, . . . she made something positive out of it, and it made everyone
around them feel that much better, and so LOVE's the word.
it will carry on through each and every person who she has touched because you can't have a memory of her and not think happiness and not think love.
So, in the words of Jonathan Larsen, "Live like there is no day but today."
Her sisters went shopping to buy her last party dress. They succeeded, although mid July is not the best time to be hunting a prom gown. The dress they found was hot pink, floor length, with spaghetti straps, and decorated with swirls of beads and sequins. Had this been chosen for a normal event, the dress would need to be shortened by more than a foot, for Margret was only four feet eight inches tall. In this instance, in the creative hands of our funeral director, the excess length became long sleeves, and the beaded portion filled in between the top of the dress and the sleeves.
We planned bright colored flowers and had balloons in pink, orange and yellow that echoed the flower colors. For background music I made a cd including her favorite artists, Hanna Montana, Billy Ray Cyrus, Ricky Martin, Maná. Her youngest sister requested tracks by the Marshall Family; Dad asked for Livin' La Vida Loca, because it every time he heard it, it reminded him of her and how she was so willing to dance. I picked Eres Mi Religión by Maná, and Ángel by Cristian Castro, among others, because she so enjoyed listening when I played music of that sort on the Latin Beat. Sisters B and C each picked a song that brought her to their minds.
As part of the service, attendees were encouraged to come forward and share their unique memories of Margret with the rest of us. Seventeen people overcame their reluctance to speak off the cuff, and shared. An astounding number!
C lent her video camera to Margret's oldest niece, so there would be a record of the celebration to share with family members who could not join us. She did a fine job.
Although C arranged for me to watch the tape, I could not bring myself to do so for weeks. I watched the video, finally, a couple nights ago. I experienced relief, and a deep appreciation for everyone who braved the discomfort of speaking in front of a group. I transcribed one of the memories that moved me most to share with you, only leaving out some 'and's, and a bit that I could not hear well.
F speaks on Margret
My last memory of Margret was at B's Octoberfest. She gave me a hard time because she thought I was flirting with C. She in no uncertain terms told that that was HER sister and I was not allowed to have her. I think she was teasing me. She also ribbed my brother about it and he was very confused. She had a funny sense of humor that way.
I've known C since I was 5 . . .
I've known the M family, all encompassing, as it has changed throughout the years, and I always remember Margret,
and if the M family is like a light house showing love, no matter what situation happened there was always love, Margret was the beacon, at the top.
She was the bright light that you always gravitated to; you always felt good around her.
I can think back to even when I was a child, hanging with C (when she wasn't being bad),
she was there, and she was smiling, and she was laughing, and always joking around, wanting to do something and be involved.
I think we should take from that as a lesson on how to live - a lot of times we let the stressors of our life take us over,
I think sometimes we should stop and think about Margret and how she enjoyed every moment , no matter what it was, . . . she made something positive out of it, and it made everyone
around them feel that much better, and so LOVE's the word.
it will carry on through each and every person who she has touched because you can't have a memory of her and not think happiness and not think love.
So, in the words of Jonathan Larsen, "Live like there is no day but today."
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