Reminder of frailty

When you are old and your bones are frail, a rainstorm can become the enemy.  The pavement becomes slick, like an ice skating rink.  There are no skates, though, only the chance to fall, and falling is the last thing you want to do if your bones are vulnerable. Falling can be the beginning of the end.

Saturday my mother was that frail woman. She disappeared inside her black coat, trying to get warm, feeling the cold despite the layers. Her knuckles gripped the shopping cart until they were white with effort, and the fear of falling eclipsed her characteristic joy. When I looked over my shoulder,
I saw a stranger.  A stranger and yet she was my mother.

What about this was so unsettling for me?  Is it still a surprise to me that my mother is eighty-three and not the younger mother who raised me?  Do I expect her to tromp across a parking lot with no concern for oncoming traffic or the slickness of the road?  No, it is something deeper than that, something more personal.

I found a window into my thoughts this morning at Lynn's blog.  Reflecting on the idea of being a "feather on the breath of God" she says, 

Surely it's in our nature to want to presume in our existence some measure of personal gravitas-- something akin to that mysterious austerity of presence which the Hudson River School artists sought to capture in the word sublimity.  We want our lives, our legacies, to have weight.  Wouldn't we all rather be likened unto a foothill in God's mountains, or an anchor in His ocean... even just an arrow in His quiver?

and

If we are weightless as feathers, it is because Christ bears our weight... It's not about feathers at all.  It's about how we apprehend the wind. 

God is breathing.

(you can read the whole post here.)

Somehow being gripped by Mom's frailty has translated into a reminder of my own.   But that is not a bad thing.  I am frail, but I have the breath of God.  I can fly. 


On Saturday we made it through the rain and fell into the car, happy to have the heater vents to warm our hands, grateful to be dry.  Now the rainstorm has ended, the parking lots have dried out, and the Thanksgiving weekend traffic has cleared.  But that vision of my dear, frail mother remains.  Once again, my mother is my teacher, and I love her for it.  And thank you, Lynn, for being the connecting piece that I needed to put my anxiety to rest.

Underneath all the texts, all the sacred psalms and canticles, these watery varieties of sounds and silences, terrifying, mysterious, whirling and sometimes gestating and gentle must somehow be felt in the pulse, ebb, and flow of the music that sings in me. My new song must float like a feather on the breath of God. 

~Hildegard of Bingen~

Gerontology practicum: the holiday version

When our friends invited us to their ranch for Thanksgiving, I knew that my mother would want to stay here. And that she wouldn't mind if we went. This took me YEARS to understand...well, I can't say that I understand, but I do accept that she is being honest and determined. She and I view holidays very differently.

I have my theories of why Thanksgiving is such a non-holiday for Mom. She was a single mom, she was tired, she didn't enjoy cooking, and getting the house in order was exhausting. Her daughters (that would be me and my sister) did not help. We weren't asked to help, and it sure never occurred to us to offer. Add all that together and what happens? No fun for the mamasan!

When I moved out on my own and invited Mom to our home for Thanksgiving dinner, she firmly announced that she was going to stay home, on her couch, eating whatever she wanted and NOT getting overheated and anxious in the kitchen. She was not going to struggle through holiday traffic. She was going to stay home and be happy. I thought she was nuts.

You see, I look at this day a little differently. Thanksgiving is, in fact, my favorite holiday. I get to prepare and eat some of my favorite foods, we gather around our table with many of our dear family, and it is in the midst of beautiful autumn. But, I have the luxury of having a helpful husband, a man who is known for his delicious pumpkin pie. I feel very comfortable asking for help, and my children even offer. Thanksgiving is a lot easier when you're in it together.

Since Mom moved here in 2003, we have again enjoyed having holiday meals together. She does not need to drive anywhere. She can make a dish or two without any chaos or stress. She can stay as long as she wishes, and she can go home for a rest if needed. It is the perfect arrangement for her.

And it is perfect for us, too. She is there to play her crucial role as Gravy Muse, and our meal is much better for it. Having Mom at the table is always a plus; she is a dream guest, full of interesting conversation and laughter. She appreciates the food and makes me feel like a million bucks for making it. I love it.

But this Thanksgiving will be around a gargantuan table in a Victorian farmhouse in the midst of acres of walnut trees. Familiar foods, favorite friends, a beautiful place to roam, hours of talking as we cook, and guarantees of deep talks and plenty of laughter. We are anticipating JOY.

But Mom would rather stay here. She's not up for the travel, and she's not up for too much noise (and we will be a noisy bunch.) In decades past, this would have resulted in a huge argument for us. But I get it now: Mom is not wrong, and I am not right. We are different. Period. The day is not important to her; what matters to her is family, a beautiful meal, time together. And so we will do that in December, when Madelaine arrives home. A second Thanksgiving with the whole family; it will be an added layer of joy.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mama. Our gravy won't be the same without you, but we wish you joy and quiet and rest. Love you!

My beautiful mother

The crisp edges of the pink-and-white-striped oxford shirt reveal a lot about my mother. Rather than pestering her with questions about her health and well being, all I need to do is check on her creases. And yesterday her shirt was a picture of ironed perfection, not a wrinkle in sight. Ironing is her passion. If she can stand, her ironing will get done.

We went grocery shopping, and she was on her own. She pushed the cart, she bent and lifted and crossed items off her well-planned list. She chose carefully the items that will help her with her dietary restrictions, and she splurged on a small mocha at the store cafe. She laughed with the check-out clerk and confidently announced to the bagging guy that we wouldn't need his assistance. She was positively buoyant.

It was June of last year when I learned that such a simple trip could be a miracle. We had no dreams for a November of errands and well-pressed shirts; it was the grim here and now, and treatment plans and tying up loose ends were all we had to look forward to. Those were raw days. We cried and we laughed, we made mistakes, and we got test results that frightened us. But life continued on.

Back in June 2009 I wrote:

So, what do you do when you know your time on earth is coming to an end? Well, it seems that we are finding out the answer to that. We are doing some special things...But for the most part we find that we continue on with what we have always thought was worth doing. We read as many books as we can fit in a day or week, we love textiles and continue to admire the sunflower yellow fabric we found at IKEA. I spend time watering and dead-heading the rose bush in the morning, and I continue to find myself overwhelmed with the laundry pile. It's all shockingly normal.

This has continued to be true (although the rose bush is horribly neglected right now.) But in some ways nothing has been "normal" ever since. We are wiser, but we are also scarred; we have changed, never to return to more innocent days.

I cannot walk over to Mom's house in the morning without wondering what I will find; will she be on the floor, ill with infection? Each time I open the door and find her reading at her table, or happily resting on the couch, I realize I have been almost holding my breath. It is not until I see her that I can tell myself to breathe normally.



When I walk past sunlight illuminating the edge of an antique white bowl, I stop and appreciate it. I didn't realize until recently that Mom taught me all I need to know about the beauty to be found in the rim of a bowl, the simple splendor of white shaped round. None of this was spoken, but she has always lived it in whatever circumstances she found herself.

So everything is normal and yet nothing will ever be the same again. The sun still rises each morning, the laundry pile still reaches ridiculous heights, grocery shopping still needs to be done. But now fear is a choice away, and beauty is found in the most ordinary of places. Despite the continuing diagnosis of terminal cancer, my mother is alive and ironing. Seventeen months ago I never would have imagined it.

For Steph

Psalm 121
A song of ascents

I lift up my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from?

My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip—he who watches over you will not slumber;

indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.

The LORD watches over you—the LORD is your shade at your right hand;

the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.

The LORD will keep you from all harm—he will watch over your life;

the LORD will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.

Steph is a friend, yes, another friend, who is asked to venture to the edge of eternity with a dying loved one. Sending you love, dear Steph.

Lord, have mercy!

Welcome home

From Leavings, a book of poetry by Wendell Berry:

2008: X

So many times I've gone away
from here, where I'd rather be
than any place I know, to go
off into the air for which
my only gift is breath, for I have
of myself no wings. It is death.
Farewell, my dearest ones.
Farewell, my lovely fields. Farewell,
my grazing flock, my patient horses,
Maggie my ardent dog. Farewell,
tall woods always so full of song.

However long I've stayed away,
coming home is resurrection. The man
who has gone comes back to his place
as he would come naked and cold
into his own clothes. And they
are here, the known beloved: family,
neighbors obliging and dear. The dead,
too, denying their graves, haunt
the places they were known in and knew,
field and barn, riverbank and woods.
The familiar animals all are here.

Coming back is brightening in a grave,
such is the presage of old hymns.
To the place we parted from in sorrow
we return in joy: the beautiful shore,
eternal morning, unclouded day.

Poem posted in celebration of the fact that Mom is HOME! Greeted by Sophie the dog and Sarge the cat and grandchildren and puffy white clouds, she has been resurrected one more time. And one more time we are filled with gratitude.

William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

I know this is a love sonnet, usually saved for romantic love, but my heart is filled with love for my dear mother today. She is in the hospital and she will be having a procedure at 7:00 p.m.

My mother has been the model of loyalty and faithful love, and it is an honor to be with her in this season of life. Right to the edge of doom, Mama.

As dear Miz Booshay says, "Love you. Mean It!!!"

Days of joy

Last Sunday the long wait was over, and our dear college girl came home for spring break. Oh, it is good to see her. And to hear her play piano, read aloud, laugh, visit, and be her generally wonderful, at home, self. Welcome home, Madelaine!

And while Madelaine was riding forever on the Coast Starlight train toward home, these two fellas were debating their brains out. I sent them all the way to San Diego in my van without me, glad that I have friends who could fill in while I recovered from the viral mess that I have been. Oh, did I want to be there, cheering on every bit of news as we heard that they were winning and continuing on all the way to the quarter final round...which they also won! I had a dear friend who called me so I could hear the news as it was announced:

"And in the round of Auburn Wheeler/Wheeler against (Name That Opponent), the winner is........Auburn Wheeler/Wheeler!!!!" ...

and the crowd goes wwwwiiiilllldddd.

We screamed here in the privacy of our own living room like good March Madness fans. Our team, our Wheeler/Wheelers, were tearing up the tournament!!! Yahoo!

Out of 202 debaters, son Rex was the 15th place speaker, and son Zack was the 5th place speaker. Out of 101 teams, Auburn Wheeler/Wheeler came in 3rd. We were so proud, so thrilled, so delighted. Often times in life you work hard and you don't get any accolades; this time my guys did, and I am so glad. Congratulations on a job well-done, sons.

On Monday, just hours after the boys got home, I was back in the emergency room with my dear mother. Fortunately, she was not admitted; we really wanted her to be home, but she was, once again, having trouble breathing. This time it is bronchitis, on top of recovering from pneumonia. At the age of 83, I can only begin to imagine how tired she must be. She keeps telling me her warranty must be up because all her parts are giving out. Oh, to have the cheer and humor she has when hit with physical ailments over and over again. I am awed, once again, by the gift she is to me.

The hours after we returned

Our time at the beach, as I have already posted, was heavenly, but life took a rather rapid turn as soon as we got home, as I have also vaguely mentioned. Being the wordy person that I am, I am feeling the need to plunk out in more detail the dark night of February 28th. It helps me understand why I have been so weary, and it fills me with gratitude for life and breath and God at work. Be patient with me, dear friends. This is a season of processing for me.

So, back to February 28th. Within minutes of returning home from our debate triumphs and beach bliss, I realized Mom was not feeling well, and within an hour of pulling in the driveway I was pulling out again to take her to the emergency room. It was a terrifying seven-minute drive, seeing how hard it was for her to breathe. When we got her in to an E.R. room, it became very clear very quickly that this was extremely serious. Eventually one of the nurses quietly asked me if Mom had any other family in the area, and I mentioned my husband and children; he was kind enough to suggest that they should hurry in if they wanted to say goodbye. I called my husband, he called Mom's priest, and we prepared for the worst.

I was glad to have about thirty minutes alone with Mom; the staff had done what they could, and they let us be. She was not conscious, and so I just rested my head on the pillow next to her. I let my tears fall, and I thought of all the things I had yet to ask her; I knew in those moments that I would never be "ready" to have her gone.

Eventually my family got there, and we spent some quiet moments around Mom's bed. She was stable yet unresponsive, so it was extra-sweet to have my family with me. When the priest arrived, the kids and John left to give space and quiet for him. We were all set to pray when Kent said, "Oh, look! Your Mom recognizes me." Yep, at that moment Mom was "back." She smiled tiredly, and began to perk up. Kent prayed with us, telling us that he fully expected to see Mom in church in a few weeks; he reassured me that he would be happy to come any time and pray whenever needed. I was grateful for his priestly presence, and so thrilled that he was there for the moment when we knew she was on the mend.

She spent five days in the hospital getting treatment for pneumonia and for her stressed out heart. She remembers nothing about the first hour of the hospital; she only remembers seeing her priest and wondering what he was doing there. No white lights in tunnels, no dramatic stories to tell us; instead, she is the one asking for me to fill in the gaps and let her know what happened when she was "gone."

I will never forget the drive to the hospital (and I will call 911 next time.) I will always remember resting my head next to Mom's, knowing it could be the last time I saw her alive. What an amazingly intense and marvelous thing it is to journey with someone toward eternity. It splits my heart right open, and that is just where I want to be.

Every day is a gift. Every breath is a gift. Every single one. As tough as this is, I would not trade my days for anything. Losing sleep, making bad decisions, worrying and trying not to worry, arguing with Medicare, missing out on a lot of things because I need to be here; all of that pales in comparison to the honor and joy it is to be living next door to my mother, loving her through these frightening and tiring days. This is right where I belong.

My mothers' laugh....

There's big news around here.

My sons were the 5th placed team at a debate tournament this weekend.

We got to dig our toes into the sands of the beach.

And when we got home it all came to a halt when I had to rush my mother to the hospital. She was short of breath, and it got very serious very quickly. They told me there was a chance she would not make it long enough to even get to a regular hospital room. They urged me to have my family come in, and they did. I called her priest, as I had promised I would. But slowly she rallied. She was more aware. She was back.

And this morning she called laughing, asking if I had her teeth. My mother's laugh is the best sound in the world, and last night at 9:00 I thought I would not have the privilege of hearing it again. What an amazing gift.

I am off to deliver the goods and to hear more from the doctors about what is going on with my dear, wonderful mother.

More later on The Mom Update and all that debate/sand news.

My mother

said, when a concerned friend didn't want to leave her behind at a scout event, "I don't mind being alone; I am GREAT company."

asked, when we were discussing my Netflix queue, "Could you rent The Harlam Globetrotters for me?" Never in a million years would I have guessed she would like to see the Harlam Globetrotters. Never. In a million years. But now it is here and we will be watching it together. Can't wait.

is hoping to get a hearing aide, finally, in a few weeks. Hallelujah!

is feeling pretty well for a woman who was given four to six months to live almost eight months ago. Her daughter still pesters her to see how she is feeling, but she doesn't let the paparazzi-like attention get her down.

My mother...you've gotta love her!

Spring is springing

I am getting an edgy feeling about my mother. I don't know what it is, and it is to the point where my not-so-subtle questions are starting to bug her, so I decided to put amateur diagnostics aside and take pictures of the burgeoning spring in her yard and ours. I'm learning it is okay to wait and let things speak for themselves; I don't have to anticipate each and every thing. (I'll just sit here and tell myself that a few times if you don't mind.) Okay, back to spring...

Daffodils, planted by Kate during the crazy days when she lived here, bloom faithfully every year in Mom's front yard. Bright yellow breaks up the gray perfectly, bursting forth some cheer when winter is getting wet and dreary. I appreciate it all-the-more knowing that more rain is headed our way this weekend.

And, of course, so much depends upon a red wheelbarrow...filled with paper whites...in the bright sunshine...with apologies to William Carlos Williams.

And there is a new table at the cafe on the deck. We anticipate many a meal, many a sip of espresso, many a happy hour, and many a sunset at this table. Knowing what is swirling in our family these days, we'll probably be out there early or late, listening and talking about matters of life and death, hearts and heads, dreams and responsibilities. Let the deck life begin!

Health care cost rant...you may want to skip this

Back in November we received the bill for my mom's fifteen days she spent in the hospital in September/October.

Total cost: $216,666.43.

It also stated that it had been submitted to Medicare and refused. Oooooookkkkkaaaaayyyyy.

Our medical bill routine is something like this:

Mom gets the bill.
Mom reads the bill.
Mom panics.
Mom brings the bill to me.
I smile and say, "I'll take care of this."

This time the smile was fake. No way around it, being confronted with a $216,666.43 is a little staggering.

So I called and asked a) why was it rejected? and b) can we please have a detailed bill to understand what the costs were?

That phone call revealed that it had been rejected inappropriately, so that was good news. There was hope that we would avoid debtor's prison, or whatever place they throw people who can't pay their medical bills.

And then the itemized bill came.

I don't know how much the going rate is for a single Tylenol, but my mother was charged six dollars PER TABLET.

I am not sure when and why they gave my mother speech therapy, but it cost $750.

Something is rotten in Denmark, my friends.

I had about a week of obsessing unhealthily on the bill, and then we had more jolly things like Thanksgiving and my daughter's return from college and Christmas and New Years and a debate tournament to think about. It was good to ignore it for awhile.

And now the new bill has come back.

Medicare is paying $22,445.63.
My mother is paying $1,068.00.
Medicare has told the hospital they have overcharged by $193,152.80.

Don't get me wrong...I am thrilled to pay MUCH less. But this still makes me sick.

How did we get here? How did we go from charging what things cost to this crazy, six dollar Tylenol life? And what is an "I don't want my health care to be managed by the federal government" person supposed to do when their mother is in the hospital? Do I sit by her bed and question every test, every therapist who walks in the room?

"Yes, she needs that antibiotic."
"No, she is speaking just fine, thank you very much."

Of course not. And so we end up with a $216,666.43 dollar bill that gets chopped down to $23,513.63.

Again, something is rotten in Denmark. And nothing I have read in the news headlines is going to solve it.

Rant over.

Back to our regular programming.

Mom update

Mom's hearing test revealed that there is fluid in her left ear, and it is causing a large portion of her hearing loss. We are heading back to the doctor on Monday to see what solutions there are to remove the fluid, but we left yesterday with HOPE. Mom has a little more skip to her step, a little bit of a smile on her face. It was a good day.

Please pray for next Monday's appointment. I would love to see Mom's hopes realized and not dashed.

William Butler Yeats

Sailing to Byzantium

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

HT: Daughter in Oregon, with deepest thanks

Gerontology practicum

I will not soon forget that Saturday morning, September 26th. I got a phone call from a friend of my mom's saying she had not been able to reach her. I went over to check up on her, and there she was...on the floor. She had not fallen, but her legs had simply given out on her and she had crumpled to the floor. She had no strength to get to the phone, and so she had slept there all night. Her fever was high, her strength was low, and we immediately got her to the hospital. I cannot imagine how frightened she must have been, wondering when we might stop by. We only live twenty steps apart, but Mom has made it very clear that hovering is not an option. She did, however, have some time to think as she was on the floor, and we have changed a few things at her house.

Step one was:

Response Link

Response Link is an emergency response system that is either worn as a pendant around the neck or like a watch on the wrist. If the client falls or is unable to get the help that he/she needs, all they need to do is push the red button and the Response Link operator will answer and talk with the client. They can get information from the client and respond accordingly. If Mom had had a button to push when she collapsed in September, she could have asked them to call us and we would have come running. It is not an automatic call to 911. If so, I think my mom would hesitate to ever push the button. Instead, Response Link knows to call us, at home and on our cell phones, before calling 911.

I will never again chuckle at the "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!" commercials (although the "Help, I'm talking and I can't shut up!" t-shirts still make me (and Mom) laugh.) I am thrilled to know that if Mom falls, if Mom is all alone and can't get the help she needs, she will push a button and someone will get her help. What a relief.


Step two was:

Vial of Life

Part of the package we received from Response Link was a Vial of Life sticker and form. The sticker is on her door, alerting any 911 responders to the location of her medical information. Her form (blank shown below) is in a plastic bag on her refrigerator door. I am so glad to know that the information will be available whether I am there or not.

Is there anyone in your life who could benefit from Response Link? Don't wait. Go ahead and get it now. It would be nice to know someone could learn from our experience rather than having to experience it first hand. It is not something I would recommend to anyone, ever!

Gratitude by a hospital bedside

My mother is back in the hospital. She's recovering from a surgery that was necessary and scary and actually turned out far better than we had dared to hope. I have spent hours waiting by her bed and sitting in the surgical waiting room and standing in the hall outside her room. Waiting is hard work, but staying in the same spot for hours at a time has taught me a lot.

It has also increased my gratitude for:

66. Nurses. I am in awe of their job and the cheer with which they do it.

67. The friend who surprised me at the hospital as I waited during the surgery. I thought I was okay alone; I realized as she arrived that I wasn't. Talk about perfect timing!

68. Doctors who speak honestly. It saves a lot of worry and time to know the truth. I don't even mind cussing; cancer and cussing go together quite nicely.

69. The rector from Mom's Episcopal parish who visited despite his dislike of hospitals. Getting acquainted is important for us.

70. The friend who said, "When you need a dinner (note, she didn't say 'if"), just call and I will bring a lasagna over."

71. Flowers from the garden that my daughter picked for Mom. The herbs she chose for greenery smell heavenly, and the yellows and blues bring her cheer.

72. Flowers from my dear friend. She may live in Colorado, but her flowers on Mom's shelf are a constant reminder of her love and support.

73. Kindness in unexpected places. The friendly husband of Mom's hospital roommate, the gentle tech who took Mom down for an x-ray, the kind smile at the cafe counter by an overworked hospital employee, the promise of prayers from neighbors we hardly know.

74. The quiet moments in the car to and from the hospital. I don't have to hold myself together, I don't have to put a poker face on. It's the time for raw emotion and groaning prayers.

75. Mom's dear friends who brought her communion today and stayed for stories and laughs.

76. For my dear young friend who wrote a little story and dedicated it to my mom. He bound it with cardboard and gave it to me to deliver this afternoon. She fell asleep with it in her hand, smiling with joy. It was perfect.

Gratitude is not pie in the sky. It is not a denial of the hard stuff in life. It is not looking at things with rose colored glasses. It is a discipline, a choice, a matter of doing more than surviving. Right now the truth is that we are stretched and challenged and having a hard time. But amidst it all we have these gifts of grace, these wafts of heavenly perfume that sneak into our days and bring joy, yes JOY, even in the muck and mire of disease and dying. By faith I give thanks; by faith I am grateful.

Posted as a part of the Gratitude Community at Holy Experience

The Mom Update

At Madelaine's graduation

The results of the PET scan have been received -- Mom's cancer is Stage 4. This means it has spread, this means that time is shorter than we want. She is going to try some mild chemo to see if it can give her a little more time.

They estimate that she has four to six months. We all know they can't tell us how long she has, but hearing those numbers was sobering to me. Mom was her unbelievably cheerful self: "Well, it really could be worse." She's right, but it still knocks me over.

So, what do you do when you know your time on earth is coming to an end? Well, it seems that we are finding out the answer to that. We are doing some special things, like building a deck for Mom to have as a safe path to her door when/if she needs a wheelchair. We also want to plant sod in her yard to cool down and green up the little space she calls home. We are less tempted to procrastinate, and for Mom and for me that may be the biggest difference; we can both take procrastination to an extreme sport level. But for the most part we find that we continue on with what we have always thought was worth doing. We read as many books as we can fit in a day or week, we love fabric textiles and continue to admire the sunflower yellow fabric we found at IKEA. I spend time watering and dead-heading the rose bush in the morning, and I continue to find myself overwhelmed with the laundry pile. It's all shockingly normal.

One advantage we have right now is that my husband is home. I can sneak away for some time each day, to sit in Mom's cool front room and chat. One of my favorite sounds in the whole world is my mother's deep, throaty laugh. I intend to hear that as often as is possible in the weeks and months to come. I'm thinking I will have to rent movies like Waking Ned Devine as part of my laugh out loud campaign.

In the words of DMB: "Life is short but sweet for certain." It's true for all of us, you know. Sometimes the lens just closes in to show the truth a little clearer.

Beware crazy driver

Mom's oncology appointment was yesterday and it was very sobering. The discussion centered on options to increase the time Mom has left: does she want to spend a lot of that time getting treatments? Does she want to risk side effects to increase that time? Those are questions I am sure she is wrestling with as I type. She still needs to get a PET scan to determine if the cancer has spread, but the decision will have to be made by next Wednesday. Sigh.

While Mom was out getting some lab work done, I had a few minutes alone where the tears could fall and I could let the enormity of it all sink in. It was nice to be in an office where they know what to do with people who are hearing really terrible news. They left me alone, and it was exactly what I needed.

Bad diagnoses don't change the fact that grocery shopping still needs to happen, so we headed off to the store when the appointment finished. After the Farmers' Market debacle, we had to be strategic about the grocery aisles. Should I shop for her? Would the cart offer enough support? Aha! What about an electric cart she could sit on? That was our answer.

We found the carts, got the power on, and she got comfortable. With a turn of the handle, the cart started moving forward, but Mom slowed down and looked over her shoulder. Our eyes met and, for reasons we cannot begin to understand, we started laughing. Mom's eyes were twinkling and I laughed until tears rolled down my face. It took us a second to get ourselves back under control, and then off went the electric grocery shopper. She got stuck in aisles and couldn't get out, she careened around corners and tried not to hit people. She learned to back up and scoot out of people's way. It was a riot.

And it meant Mom was doing her own shopping. Every little bit of independence is a gift, and she loved it. But if you see her headed down your aisle in the grocery store, I would still recommend you get out of the way. Just to be safe.

Farmers' Market

Saturday was a glorious morning. The Farmers' Market was a quiet bustle of early visitors. The friendly greetings were passing back and forth between old friends, and customers were already carting flats of fruit and bags of produce to their cars. My goal was two-fold: the Farmers' Market was on Mom's short list of places she wanted to visit, and I have a dinner party coming up for my daughter's high school graduation celebration. Mom was stopped in her tracks by the fragrant plucots and peaches, and I headed off to find the baskets, the honey and the lavender. We met up at the cheese booth, both spending more than we ever imagined on cheese that can only be described as divine. We were so happy to be there.

I got my Coloma Gold honey, my bunch of lavender, and I was in the midst of buying some glorious poppy plants from an elderly gentleman who attends our church, when I suddenly wondered how Mom was doing. I saw her leaning against a low brick wall. Little bells of alert starting going off in my mind, and I quickly put my things in the car and came back to get her.

By the time I got to her she was extremely weak. I asked if I should get the car, but she wanted to walk. After we crossed the narrow street, however, she knew she couldn't do it. I ran as fast I could to the van, raced back for her, and there she was, on the ground. Her legs got too weak and could not hold her. With the help of my daughter and two kind strangers, we got her into the van and slowly drove home. My heart was racing, my hands were shaking. It was foolish to take such an outing so soon after she came home from the hospital. She should have known, I should have known, that it would be too much. At most, a walk to the fruit stand for ambrosia-like apricots and an assisted walk back to the van would have been enough. She could have sat in the car, watching the herbs and babies and crates of strawberries go by and been perfectly happy. Instead, we overdid it and got a huge wake-up call.

We came home and got Mom settled in for some food and rest. She slept, ate and got her strength and good cheer back. My daughter and I had to talk through the experience, both of us feeling like failures and needing reassurance that we are doing the best we can and learning as we go. This is a time when offering grace to one another is going to become a habit. Fortunately, Mom is really good at that, so we can learn from the expert.

After that we planted in the front beds, watching colorful beauty begin to dazzle in long-forgotten corners. We worked until we were sore and dirty, then came in to wash up and relax. We sliced our amazing cheese (it looked just like a melon), added some French bread, and then watched Pride and Prejudice all.the.way.through.to.the.very.last.kiss. Perfect.

The rhythm of Saturday, the chores and the relaxation, took the churning of fear and worry and soothed our rough edges. It ended up being a deeply satisfying day. The garden is beautiful, the cheese a delicious memory, and the lessons learned somehow softened yet never to be forgotten.

The news that kicked us in the stomach

We learned on Thursday that my mother has bile duct cancer. I sat in the doctor's office, listening to clinical information about all the options and how most of them don't apply for a woman of eighty-two who has heart and lung conditions. I watched the expressionless face of the doctor, feeling gratitude for his thoroughness, annoyance at his "Stepford Doctor" affect, and pity for his role as the bearer of bad news. I listened as my mother said those over-scripted words, "How long do I have?", and as the doctor answered in equally predictable fashion, "I don't know, but I would make sure your affairs are in order."

This is a surreal time. There are still dishes to do and errands to run, and then moments when time stops and eternity sets down on us for awhile. It is the best of times and the worst of times; it is a raw and buffeting season on our little hill. To know is a gift. It gives us the fullness of the time left for us, rather than sneaking in and snatching it away. We can talk, we can laugh, we can cry, we can prepare. I am deeply grateful for the truth.

Now our job is to savor life, grabbing it and holding it, all the while being ready to loose our grip and surrender when the end comes. Christ Have Mercy is the prayer of my heart.

As I was trying to put words to the fuzz in my mind today, I wandered over to friend Ann's respite in the blogosphere . She is writing today of visiting Notre Dame Cathedral, of there being a spot that is "point zero" in France:

Somewhere on this cobbled stone square before the cathedral, under this milieu of colors swirling and languages murmuring, somewhere over time crumbled, a plaque marks Paris’ center, kilometer zero of French national highways. The center of Paris, the traditional center of the country of France, lies within line of sight of the Dame’s perched gargoyles.

Inside, amidst the towering columns and melodic liturgy and sparkling stained glass, she sees a woman quietly nursing her child. And when she leaves the interior of the cathedral she makes the link, the lifeline of truth that I so needed today:

I step out into a summer day’s blinding glare and a world spinning with fear, dizzy with change.

But there’s a ground zero. A changeless center. There’s a place, a Person, in the shifting, uncertain sands, offering nourishment, offering to feed and comfort us in eternal arms.

I could not help thinking she'd posted that just for me. With her kind permission I copy those words, I print out the picture of "point zero" in France. As life erodes, trembles, and crumbles, there is a constant, there is solid ground underneath our feet. We are standing on Point Zero and we shall not be shaken.

"For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."
Romans 8:38-39