Dear Natalie

Thursday the 1st was Madelaine's last day here.  We ran some errands, saw The Help (loved it) and then she finished getting ready.  When we finally went to bed, I could not sleep.  There were too many anxious thoughts to unravel, too many rabbit trails racing off in different directions inside my head.  I waited in the dark for sleep to come, but instead the phone rang at midnight.  It was my dear cousin's retirement home calling.  Natalie had been found on the floor of her apartment, she appeared to have had a stroke and they were taking her to Stanford Hospital.  Two hours later the doctor called to report that yes, she had had a stroke, and that it was severe.  I packed a bag and waited for dawn.  I took Madelaine to the bus station and waved her off into the sunrise, and then drove west to Natalie.

 

Stanford Hospital is huge. It took a long time to find which ICU she was in, but eventually I found myself by her bedside.  I was there for two days, holding her hand, wishing that the news was better, wishing that this was all a dream.  Finally, when we stepped out for a few minutes on Saturday evening, she passed from this world to the next.  I will miss her so much.

 

We spent a week with Natalie in Oregon every year for the last thirteen years.  She had never married or had children, so she enjoyed the chance to play grandmother for a week.  She loved seeing the kids splashing in the pool, swinging on the swings, playing shuffleboard.  In the last few years, she and I have made sure we had an afternoon to ourselves, sipping lattes and talking about things.  She was worried about having a stroke, surviving and not being independent anymore.  She was worried about being a burden.  I hope I was able to reassure her that whatever happened, we would be there and it would all be okay.   

 

And all is okay, despite the gaping hole of grief that has been ripped open once again.  We are working to clear out her apartment, and thanks to the loving help of my friend Marcia and my son Zack, we are done going down to Palo Alto.  It is a solemn and yet sacred thing to go through someone's belongings, to determine what needs to happen to all that is left behind.  Natalie had been getting rid of things bit by bit for years, so the job, while big, could have been a lot bigger.  In every corner I find reminders of her love for us:  a birthday card, a note she saved, pictures of our trips to Oregon, to name a few.

Natalie was a kind, generous, brilliant woman, and I am so grateful to have had the gift of her love and friendship for so many years.

Natalie Anne Cobby

3-31-27 to 9-3-11

Eternal rest grant unto Natalie, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her.  Amen.

The Way I See It: Work

Photo prompt from Molly at Close to Home : Work.

So then, my beloved, just as you have always obeyed, not as in my presence only, but now much more in my absence, work out your salvation with fear and trembling;  for it is God who is at work in you, both to will and to work for His good pleasure.

~Philippians 2:1-13~

 

Back to Eugene

My work in this season of life is learning to say goodbye.  Until Christmas, or until eternity.  Letting go while still loving deeply, keeping my hands and my heart open; it is the hardest job I have ever done.

 Sisters, 1985

Layers of loss make it tempting to close up, batten down the hatches, harden my heart.  But I want to keep loving, to look life in the face, all the good, the bad, and the ugly, and to still say yes to what God has for the future.  

 

I want to celebrate while I still have breath.  There is so much Life happening here, and I don't want to miss out because I am too weary to see the party right in front of me.  I know I will regret it if I don't hear the music and start dancing.

Coping

My healthy methods of coping in times of trial (and yes, there are unhealthy ones, too):

At least thirty minutes on the treadmill with the beautiful view.  Adding a little each day.  This is essential.

I am always amazed at how much better I feel (physically and emotionally) when I exercise.

Why is it so hard to do something that is so good for me?

Notice beautiful things.  This is my great-grandmother's pitcher.  I love it.

The shadows and sunshine are a bonus.

This is a technique we have used since we were first married.  When life gets to be too much, one of us will say:  "We need to be very busy."  And that means Nothing Happens.  

Last weekend's plans didn't work out, but this weekend is going to be Very Busy.  

Cannot wait.

It has been two months already

The pot is on the stove, tomatoes and beans and spices and vegetables and wine all bubbling together for an early dinner. And mom's pantry shelves are bare now, the last of her stores providing for us still.

 

Around every corner, I am reminded. In a spray of White Linen each morning, in the lemon oil for polishing dark wood, in the stacks of books and piles of paperwork. In the work, in the beautiful things, in a meal provided at the end of a lean month.

Her love calls to me still.

Thanks, Mama.

It gets worse before it gets better

Or so I have to believe.

It has been over four weeks since Mom died, and yet it was just yesterday. When someone dies, there is often a lot of work to do, and we are plugging away at the things we have in front of us. I go over to her house several times a week to sort through an arm load of things at a time: this cupboard emptied, that closet cleaned out, those pieces of furniture swapped with items from our house.

The cleaning out process is necessary because we depend on the granny flat rent for our attempt at financial stability. I have to make myself do the work rather than give in to the passive aggressive temptation of, "Well, we can't rent it yet; the place is still a mess." I want to scream when I think of the change ahead, but instead I sort through the papers, cull the treasures from the trash, and keep moving ahead.

Each bit of work is swathed in sadness, but it is often done without signs of major breakdown. Not thinking, not feeling, I just plod my way through the piles.

And then I find the cast iron skillet that Mom used to make animal-shaped pancakes for me in 1965, and I am back to the raw meltdown.

Man, this is hard work.

But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.

I Thess 4:13

I have hope, truly I do. These are just dark days, and the feelings of hope are hiding beyond the horizon. But it is there, and what is true is true no matter what I am feeling at the moment.

For now, though, I will warm a cast iron pan and create pancake shapes that bring back memories of Saturday mornings, sitting on the dark green tile counter, begging for an elephant or giggling at a monkey. And maybe, just maybe, we'll smile and laugh and the sun will come out again in my heart.

The blossoms are all gone

An armload of freesias graced the altar area at my mother's service.

Three weeks ago they were white and purple and fragrant.

Grief was fresh and new, a gaping wound.  Life was a swirl of responsibilities and the chance to remember.



The bouquet came here and  found a home on the kitchen island.  Every day I would come down, pluck the wilted blossoms, and enjoy the lingering fragrance of the few remaining flowers.

There are no blossoms left.

It hits in unexpected places

 

I had my annual physical yesterday, and I knew it was going to be very difficult.  You see, my doctor was also my mom's doctor.  Mom and I had logged serious hours in that waiting room, in those exam rooms, in the halls.  And this time I would be alone.  I wrote to my daughter in Oregon, "Pray, please?!" and dragged myself out the door and into the car.

Coming up the hill and seeing the hospital on the right didn't do me in.  Walking in the door, filling out the forms, hearing Kristin's sweet voice calling my name...it all went pretty well.


And then she put the pulse oximeter on my finger.  The very same one that I had seen on my mother's finger dozens of times.  And I came very close to sobbing.  I held it in until she left me in the exam room, and then I completely let go.  I wept and wept and wept some more.  I didn't want to be in that room alone, where Mom and I had giggled and cried and held hands and checked our watches in impatience and compared magazine articles.  But there I was.  Alone.


Fortunately the doctor was late, I was able to cry as long as I needed to, and we had a great appointment.  He wanted to talk about Mom, how much he appreciated her attitude.  She made a difference in his life, because often patients are not so gracious toward the doctor who gives them bad news or asks them to make changes they would rather not make.  And certainly not many of them were able to laugh in the face of life-ending adversity like Mom was.  She was a gem.

As I left, I walked down halls that echoed with her laughter; I felt sad and lost and like I might feel this way for the rest of my life.

I know it's not true, but yesterday it sure did feel like it.

Beauty is winning me over

I forgot how tired grief makes me.  I don't push the feelings away, I don't tell myself to buck up and gut it out, but sadness can still get tangled up inside, stuck in a dark corner and unable to get out.  And I get tired.  So tired.

Life doesn't stop, though.  Laundry piles high, people get hungry, pantry shelves empty, dog hair collects under the piano, math lessons require help, Eagle scout deadlines remain.  I am glad, for as weary as I am I would probably just curl up in a ball and not move.  Eight or nine hours at night are enough time for the fetal position; I am glad that the responsibilities of life get me moving.

But it is beauty that grabs my heart and makes me really live.

There is beauty in the sunrise, creating ribbons of light across the valley. Flowers glowing in the afternoon light and shadows. The intricate design of lace hanging in a window.

There are your beautiful comments and emails and gifts and cards.  They remind me I am not alone.  Thank you.

Life didn't have to beautiful, did it?  It could simply be utilitarian, grey, and functional.  Instead the world is filled, created, designed with an astounding variety of beauty.  The colors flashing as a bird darts by, the golden song of laughter as the family plays Apples-to-Apples, the grace of a young man as he soars to the basket for a crowd-pleasing block, the smell of lasagne reminding us that dinner is ready...beauty is around every corner.

And it is waking me up, winning me over.

From the inbox

A few emails came through the inbox today, from dear friends who know how to love and encourage. One is grieving, the other knows that road well. These two ladies also speak the language of music in ways I can only dream of.

And so the words to this song were sent along, They were intended to comfort another, but the truth can't help but spill over and encourage anyone in its path.

Come, ye disconsolate, where’er ye languish,
Come to the mercy seat, fervently kneel.
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish;
Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.
Joy of the desolate, light of the straying,
Hope of the penitent, fadeless and pure!
Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying,
“Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure.”
Here see the Bread of Life, see waters flowing
Forth from the throne of God, pure from above.
Come to the feast of love; come, ever knowing
Earth has no sorrow but heaven can remove.

To hear a sample click here.

And for the record: when I get to heaven, I sure hope I can sing like Roberta Flack.