A Sweet Little Message from the Past

I got a Christmas card from Margret. It was signed " with love Margret".

How is it possible to get a Christmas card from my daughter, when she died three years ago?

I was going through a box of Christmas cards left over from other years, partial sets, a little of this a little of that... and found a few that Margret had signed, but not sent.

It made me happy and sad at the same time.

The every day stuff gets easier, but this is only the third Christmas I'm spending without her.This year it isn't like the first Christmas with her gone. The pain of her absence was so much worse then. I wasn't sure at the time how a human being could live through that agony, but living through it IS possible.

I'm gonna be OK over the long haul. The happy memories predominate, the good times come to mind more easily than the sad. I have my husband and my family and you guys; and I have lots more hats to make before I am finished here.

I'm pleased to announce that I donated 17 hat/scarf sets to Valley Youth House in Margret's memory this year. The receptionist admired them, and hoped aloud that I would have time to make them some more for next year.

Hat photos here.

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.

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.

Something I've been trying to do

I have been trying for months to write about saying goodbye to Margret. The task has defeated me. Either I start crying and have to leave off writing, or I am not satisfied with what I have written. Or else what I have written seems OK, but I wasn't ready to share what I wrote.

There have been many attempts, many almost successes.

Over time my mantra for Margret's care evolved into "the best quality of life with the least invasive treatments". Because there comes a time where you are no longer doing things FOR a person, but you are doing things TO them. That's what the doctor said when Margret collapsed, and he wanted to know what measures we wanted taken on her behalf.

We all got a reprieve when she sat up and talked to her sisters the following day.

He had put into words my worst fear: that there comes a time when there is no more hope. Hope is gone, and soon to follow are the smiles, the joy, the wicked sense of humor, the courage, the adventurous spirit that said, "I want to see Ricky Martin perform live. I want to go on a cruise."

The hardest part, I think, is facing down the day that my hopes died, and then having to do it all over again. Every attempt to write about it brings that sorrow back full force.

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.

It's a Matter of Perspective

Not long after Margret died, I was talking to a young man of my acquaintance. He said he was sorry for my loss.

Then he thought for a bit, sizing me up, and said I was going to think he was a bad person, but if it were him, he would be rejoicing at being released from the equivalent of a prison sentence.

Perspective.

It's just a matter of perspective.

I don't think he's a bad person, just deprived of the right perspective. All he could see is the down side. Only having met Margret briefly, and on a day when she wasn't feeling up to her usual cheer, he couldn't know the up side.

I knew how loving Margret was, how empathetic. He never had a day with her when she was about four years old as I did. I was sad about something, and she came over and hugged me, and laid her head on my lap. She let me know that whatever was wrong, she was there for me, and loved me. I had not said a word about the wrong thing, I was not crying, she just knew, and wanted to make it right as best she could.

He never knew how strongly she cared about her sisters, and how much they cared about her. Or how loyal she was to her friends.

It's his loss.

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."

How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count the Ways. IV

I miss your comings and goings.

I miss the hustle in the morning making sure you're up on time, have your morning meds and your breakfast, and that your lunch is packed. I miss watching you decide which jacket or coat to wear to suit the weather. Sometimes you consulted me, and asked which I thought would be better, but mostly you peeked out the door, and decided for yourself. I miss helping you wrap your scarf to cover your nose in winter.

I miss waiting by the door with you for your ride. I miss the last hug before you go out the door. I miss the aides who picked you up on Monday and Friday, and the Metro van that came the other three days. I even miss the times that your van didn't show up as expected, when I would call the van service and let you tell the dispatcher your concerns. You were unfailingly polite to the dispatcher, and always said, "Thank you, have a nice day," to end your conversation. Sometimes I gave you a ride when the van would have been extremely late, because you liked to be on time. If you were late on Meals on Wheels day, you'd miss most of it, and have to sit at the center waiting for the rest of your group to get back for lunch.

I miss when you come in, returning from your busy day and call, "Hi Mom!" and hang up your coat, and stow your gear, and rummage for a snack in the kitchen. I miss Yoga day, when your teacher brought you home. She set up the mats while you changed into your yoga clothes and ate a yogurt. After class, you would do your shivasana, the last, meditating pose, in bed while your teacher read to you from one of her books or magazines. You'd go from yoga meditation into a nap, which was fine, in bed because it was more comfortable for a nap than the floor.

At first I found myself watching the door at return time, half expecting you'd be coming in at your normal times but I knew it wouldn't happen. A surreal feeling, that.

The rubbermaid step you used for climbing into tall vehicles is still in the closet by the front door, along with your umbrella. An oxygen wrench still hangs on the peg by the keys, and the wooden keyfob, your name in three dimensions. I remember when you got that, the wood crafter made it special for you because he didn't have any already made up. Right next to that is the lanyard with your volunteer photo ID. You took that with you on Fridays, and reminded me to pack no lunch then, because volunteers got lunch at the hospital cafeteria.

How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count the Ways. III

I miss watching Dancing with the Stars with Margret.

I watched it this past season without Margret. I found it difficult at first, but then found myself turning to hubby and saying, "Margret would have liked that" about some dance move, or some costume detail, or some bit of shenanigans that went on. I think Margret might have been voting for Cody Linley, because he was a cast memeber on Hanna Montana, but I also think she would have clapped her hands and squeeeeed for some of the Cloris Leachman moments.

Her favorite star was Billy Ray Cyrus. She wanted me to cast my votes for him so intensely that I made a login for her on the DWTS website so she could have her OWN votes. Other seasons, she enjoyed watching; she had favorites, but that was the first season she had a preference strong enough that she wanted to vote! As a Hanna Montana fan, Margret got to see Billy Ray with his daughter on the Disney Channel's programming, but there he was, learning how to do ballroom dancing.

Husband watched DWTS with us, too. He and I tried to guess what the judges scores would be before they gave them. He was right a surprising number of times, too, more often than I was certainly. We also tried to guess at the beginning of the results show which couple was going to be eliminated. Margret never wanted to join in that guessing session.

When we watched tv together, Margret often sat between my feet, as I sat in a chair. I'm not sure how that habit got started, but it did. Then too, it gets chilly down by the tv, so I would have an afghan wrapped around me, and she would wrap one around her. She kept my feet warm, I kept her afghan/shawl from sliding away. It was a companionable feeling.

In fact I miss watching any tv show with Margret. She clapped her hands, laughed out loud, commented on the action, got up and walked away or muted the sound during the food commercials "because they make me hungry when I'm not". Smart lady.

How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count the Ways. II

I miss getting my back scratched and rubbed.

Margret would come up behind me while I was sitting at the computer, or at the table reading, and scratch my back without being asked to do so. She had a great sense of where I liked having my back scratched, so the requests "Up a little," "Over to the left a bit," were fairly minimal.

Sometimes when I was tired and achy, I would say, "Margret, would you rub my shoulders please?" and she would come over and do it. She usually started rubbing with just one hand, and that was pretty good. I'd ask her to use both hands, and she'd usually oblige me. I could request that she concentrate on my neck, or work her way down my back, and she did. For someone who wasn't formally trained, and not working professionally as a masseuse, she was very good.

I showed all my daughters how to rub backs to my taste when they were little, and I was working as an upholsterer who got aches in my back and shoulders rather often. C still twits me about paying them a quarter to rub my back.

The backrubs were not a one way street. I rubbed her back too. I rubbed her back to comfort her when she was unhappy. I rubbed her back when she was sick, because it seemed to make her feel better. Sometimes when I was hugging her, I would add a little massage up and down next to her spine, and she liked that. She didn't ask for a back rub very often, mostly I volunteered to do it, or put my hand on her shoulder and started a massage. If she turned so I had easier access, I continued, with both hands.

The last few days before she went to the hospital for the last time she asked me to rub her back. She said her lower back hurt, and that the rubbing helped.

How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count the Ways. I

I miss Margret hugs.

When someone offers me a hug these days, I almost never turn them down. I can always use the hugs.

I don't get nearly so many hugs now, because that was one of the things Margret did: she hugged. She hugged me, she hugged other family and she hugged her friends. She liked being hugged as well as giving out the hugs.

She'd hug me in the morning, before she left for her program. She'd hug me when she got back, too, and other random times during the day.

I got special extra hugs when I tucked her into bed at night, too.

Still Amazed

It still amazes me how fast 6 months passes, and how slowly it goes, all at the same time.

There are a lot of good days, but there are an abundance of moments where something reaches out and touches me, and starts the tears. Quiet tears, and usually only a few, as I think of yet another thing I won't be sharing with Margret.

Some of the memories even bring a smile, and sometimes a chuckle, as this photo of Margret going GRRRR!!! and telling me she wanted to strangle me for taking her picture after wrapping her up to to the tip of her nose.

It was really cold out, and we had only recently realized how much breathing very cold air affected her oxygen saturations, and her feeling of well being. She was used to being bundled up warm, but not so much around her face and head, just a quick wrap up, and done.

It took several trials before we got the scarf high enough to suit me that she would be breathing through it, and low enough to suit her that she could see over it. She hated the amount of time I spent fussing to make sure it was right, but she appreciated that I wanted her to be comfortable.

Six Month Anniversary

Yesterday I was terribly out of sorts, and could not go to sleep last night for the disturbing visions of Margret in the hospital that were dancing in my head. I ended up sitting reading, legs wrapped in a sleeping bag and lap robe around my shoulders, all night.

As the first tentative rays of sunlight explored my front window, it dawned on me that this is the six month anniversary of her death.

In my head I've been composing something I call, How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count The Ways, but I can't get it to shift from inside my head to paper or file. *sigh* One of these days I'll get it to make the transition.

I've been processing feelings about the holidays for a while now, and still working on it.

The drive to see family for Thanksgiving was peculiar, both going and returning home. I kept having little moments of panic that I had forgotten to pack something extremely important. The first time or two, I could not pin it down; I went over a mental list of my packed items and could not see anything missing. Another time when it happened, I glanced in the mirror to see how Margret was doing, and realized it was herself I was missing. Understanding did not banish the moments, but they were lessened.

Travel at Christmas I only had one or two such moments, and only on the way there.

During both holidays, it was wonderful seeing family again, and spending a little time together.

On a very much more mundane note, winter has set in. We have cold and snow, and in such weather I quite prefer the indoors. I've been reading books by Sharyn McCrumb, both the Ballad novels and a few of her Elizabeth MacPherson stories, from the public library.