Grieving My Mother update...

Well, I must admit…it has been several months since I’ve been able to open a piece of blank paper and start typing. I always find it easier to write when I’m overwhelmed with emotion, to somehow translate every tear into a word. Lately though, I find it challenging. There is no combination of those 26 letters of the alphabet that can convey how I feel. My head is communicating in one language, and my heart another. They are scrapping like two siblings over the last piece of birthday cake, and after the tug-of-war, there is nothing left but a muddle of crumbs on the floor. 

Mom’s 90^th birthday has come and gone. As I sit beside her, I pay close attention to the body parts of a lady I have treasured my entire life. Her beautiful, white hair has gotten so long that it twists up on the ends. I don’t want to tell her how long it’s gotten, because if she were aware, it would embarrass her.  I try to pull it back in a headband to keep it out of her eyes, but she keeps scratching her head as a signal for me to take it off.  Her eyes, the windows to her soul, are either gazing off to a place I’ll never know, or closed in slumber. There is no sparkle, no enthusiasm, and no life. Her skin is paper-thin and peeling. She is itchy, so every few minutes, I rub lotion all over her arms and legs – I want to fix whatever I can, to make her feel better, more comfortable. She is slumped in her recliner, not able to get up, or even reposition herself - dead weight.  She has lost control of her bladder, and is attached to a catheter like a ball and chain. As I look at the output in the collection bag at the end of the day, there is barely any. She doesn’t drink much, and any food she eats is pureed and fed to her.  Her hands are the only slice of her that I know anymore. They are still soft even after all those years of washing dishes, laundry, hair, and children. I think of all the Christmas cookies she has made in her lifetime, all the back rubs when I was sick, and the gentleness of her now crooked fingers. I lay my open hand on her lap, and slowly, she removes her hand from the warmth of the blanket, and places it in mine. She still loves me. Even though she can’t say it, even though I don’t see it in her eyes, even though she has no hugs left, she loves me.

    

Ninety years on this planet fading into the shell of my mother. There is no time in her world – no today, tomorrow or yesterday. There is only now, and even that doesn’t make sense any more. There are no choices left for her to make – just breathe in and breathe out. Everything else will be done by someone else. There will come a time when she will forget to breathe, too. I’m sure, in her mind, that moment is long overdue. Or does she even think about these things anymore. Who knows? I hate to see her like this. This is supposed to be my mother, dammit! Not some 90 year old casing suffocating the matriarch of our family like a boa constrictor. 

My emotions are scattered, just like the loose tiles in a Scrabble game. I can’t seem to create a solitary word to describe the feelings I have, but I know they exist because I experience each one.   I feel hope – not the kind of hope that imagines she will get better, but the kind that wants her to find a connection with something…pictures, music, babies, an open hand…anything; I feel relief – I know she is in a good home and is being well taken care of. I appreciate my local siblings that are close by to watch after her and be the voice she lost; I feel resentment – I don’t understand why some dear relatives will not visit her. I hear, “It’s hard to see someone like that.” That is the most selfish comment I have ever heard, and I will never understand it. I’m also irritated that people I see every single day don’t ask me how she is…or how I am doing with my loss. You learn a lot about people when you need them to be there, and they aren’t; I feel sad – so sad that my heart aches some days. I will never have another conversation with my mother again – not one more piece of advice, not one more “I love you”, not one more combination of those 26 letters of the alphabet. The spirit of the woman I know and love so much is gone, and only her body rests here on Earth.  I will hold her hand in mine for as long as I can, and when she can’t hold on any longer, I will hold her heart in mine…forever. 

Grieving My Mother - Update

Grieving My Mother

Update...May 23, 2015

I haven't talked to my mother in two weeks. The last time we spoke was Mother's Day. My brother visited and took the time to call me so I could talk to her while he was there. This is the norm now. I call...we all call, but she doesn't answer her phone. When I ask her why, she says, "I'm probably in the lobby." or "I hear it ring, but I don't know what to do." I try all times of the day, letting the phone ring and ring, thinking to myself "Come on Mom, you can do this. Pick up the phone. Just lift up the handle. Come on." All of my positive thinking doesn't work though.

I feel so distanced from her, but maybe this is someone's way of preparing me for life without her. I sit here and cry, weeping for the mother I once knew. She is becoming a stranger, and I have no control of this outcome. I can't turn back time for her, I can't make her remember, I can't even show her how to pick up the damn phone. Would it be different if I lived in Phoenix? Yes, but would it change the outcome? No.  

The hardest thing is not talking to someone you used to talk to all the time. So yes, I'll cry. I'm allowed to grieve my mother. I'm here, helpless, knowing she is fading from my sights, but never my heart. I can't help her. I can't come to her rescue. I can't bring her back...so yes, I'll cry. 

Kathy Bolen

Grieving My Mother…

1984

I used to love when my mother called me. It was our bond – that bungee cord that connects a mother and daughter when distance gets in the way. Our chats would end no less than 40 minutes after they began, and we discussed the lows and highs of life. In fact, my dad would always mock us wondering how we had so much to talk about. Each time I hung up, I felt that mom had impacted my life in some way with her words of wisdom. 

When my father passed away almost 10 years ago, that mother-daughter bond became even stronger. Our chats were weekly…sometimes more often.  Our roles changed and I became the strong one while she mourned her husband of 59 years. She lived with us in Oregon every summer after that, and we discovered the State together, filling our days with so many adventures. Her eyes would glimmer as she absorbed each new place, taking it all in like a sponge.  She would always tell me, "Dad would've loved it here." 

Wildlife Safari

Newport, OR

Space Needle

Gum Wall, Seattle, WA

Mt. Angel, OR

During this time, our lives became closer, our hearts were entwined - she was not just my mother; She was my confidant, my friend. She still is, but time has passed, and it’s not the same.

My mother called me three times today, but it was the shell of my mother… my mother with Alzheimer’s. Each time she calls a little piece of my heart breaks. She struggles to find the right words, she repeats herself, she can’t remember what she had for lunch, and at the end of our conversation, she wants me to tell everyone that “She’s okay.” We hang up, and I cry. I know she’s not okay. Mom's Alzheimer's has been like a series of small deaths to me and I realize that with the loss of each skill my friend is slowly slipping away. The grief I feel hits me hard some days, knowing that I will never again be with my mother the way it used to be. I will not eat fried potatoes, homemade raviolis, or pineapple upside-down cake made with her hands.  She will never crochet another afghan, or sew buttons on a blouse for me. Her eyes will never sparkle with excitement or anticipation when I share the news of our grandchildren or another wedding on the way. 

“Her mind has holes, yet her heart is full, beating with each breath like a clock, ticking the days away. There is no future. There is no past. There is just what there is, and even the present doesn't make sense anymore.” (Donald Marcou) 

I miss my mother. Bits of her are still there, but I miss her most of all when she calls me.

AZ, 2015

I Love You!

~Kathy Bolen

I Let Him Go

Thirteen years ago, I had my heart ripped from my chest. It was a hurt that would never go away. A pain that would leave a scar so deep that it would affect me for the rest of my life. That was the day my son, Anthony, chose to live with his father. It brings tears to my eyes...still. He was twelve, the age when a child could be brought into court and asked to choose between his parents. Our battle never went to court - I never wanted Anthony to go through that. Our relationship was always good, but his father had more to offer at the time, and to a twelve year old boy, that meant a better life. I let him go. Those four little words still haunt me. I let him go. I didn't want him to resent me if I fought for him to stay. I. Let. Him. Go.

Over the years, Anthony has gained so much respect for my husband and I and the life we lead. Anthony and I are in two different states now, but he continues to call us for big moments in his life, and even though we are close, my heart still aches for him. I feel like I was given a puzzle on the day he was born, and I was only permitted enough time to finish half of it before it was taken away from me. Even though I did a great job with the first half, someone else was allowed to complete that puzzle and get the satisfaction of the final product.

Over the years, I've felt so guilty for allowing him to go...not fighting for him to stay...not finishing that puzzle. Even after all of these years, I still can't talk about it without crying.

Well, this past weekend, Anthony got married. He and his wife, Allison, chose a destination wedding in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. We were able to attend, although no one else on Anthony's side could...including his father. I felt blessed that I could witness their celebration (I don't think a team of horses could have held me back). Throughout the wedding weekend, I observed Allison, her children, her mother and sister, and and the bride and groom's closest friends. I loved them all. I felt connected to a part of Anthony's life that I never felt before. It was in those moments that I realized something that never before crossed my mind. If Anthony hadn't gone to live with his father, his path would have been different. He would not have these wonderful people in his life today, and Allison and her children would not be a part of our family now.

April 4, 2014, was the day I recognized that I had been holding that final puzzle piece in my heart the whole time, and as I witnessed my son's marriage, I handed that last piece over to Allison. And, as I let the tears flow while they exchanged vows, I understood my job was done and I. Let. Him. Go.

Motherhood is a Choice

I've been with the same man for 20 years, and I have two sons who, at the moment, are both 25 years old. "Are they twins?" you might ask.  "Nope." I see that look of confusion in your eyes just as I have many times before. 

Whenever I would meet someone new, one of the primary questions would always surface, "Do you have children?"  Each time I would respond, without hesitation, "Yes, I have two." Of course, the next innocent question would be, "How old are they?" and I would reply with their age and the comment, "They are 8 months apart." There's that look of confusion again.  I would like to think that the furrowed brow is because they think I look way to young to have children that age, but I know that they are secretly trying to replay the words in their head to ensure they heard me correctly. I repeat... "Yes, eight months apart.  You see, Anthony is from my first marriage and Dustin is from Darren's first marriage. I did not give birth to both.  They are... Eight. Months. Apart."

I can count on one hand the times I used the word "stepson". Although it would make my response to the children question much more clear, I don't believe in it. At least, not in this case.  Dustin has been a part of my life since he was five and Anthony was six. Yes...eight months apart. He was a wild boy, full of energy and enthusiasm, never skipping a beat, missing a conversation...or a meal. He and Anthony were very different kids. Anthony was quiet, creative, cuddly, and lived off of bean burritos (He kinda still does). 

Life was interesting. Motherhood was (and is still) interesting.  I did the best I knew how to raise two boys. Was it a challenge? Yes. Was there spanking? Yes. Was there love? Yes. Was it easy? No. Was there a day that went by that I wanted to be someone else? Never. I chose motherhood and the adventures it threw my way.  Some of it I did alone as a single parent, and most of it was shared when I met Darren. There were days I felt like everything I did was wrong. I had people reminding me of that, destroying my confidence, but I know now that the sacrifices I made and the love that I shared made everything okay. 

Both of my sons have families of their own,and I am so proud of the men that stand before me.  I see now that even though there were self-doubts that I was "good at motherhood", something rubbed off over the years. Anthony and Dustin are both loving, caring humans, have chosen wonderful partners to spend their lives with, and are  fantastic fathers.   I count my blessings each day that Darren and I have raised two perfect sons. 

"Motherhood is a choice you make everyday to put someone else's happiness and well-being ahead of your own, to teach the hard lessons, to do the right thing,even when you're not sure what the right thing is...and to forgive yourself over and over again for doing everything wrong." ~Donna Ball 

It Only Takes One Negative Comment to Kill a Dream

Several years ago, I found my passion.Not that it was any bit a surprise to me - I always knew. From that single moment 40 years ago when I had center stage with a group of 8-years olds in Girl Scouts, until the day I stood in front of a group of 15 teaching them how to open a new account, I knew I wanted to teach. 

My husband, who despises public speaking and gets physically ill when he is made to give a presentation, doesn't understand what goes on inside of me when I have the opportunity to share my knowledge with others in a classroom setting. Maybe you don't understand either, so let me see if I can shed some light for you.I prepare. I research material so that I'm not caught off guard giving any incorrect information. I prepare. I layout how my class will flow and write down exactly what I will say even if I don't say it word for word. I prepare. I insert activities to make sure everyone will be engaged. I prepare. I talk to myself, to the mirror, to an empty office, to any open space that will listen until I get the flow just right. And then, when it's time, I deliver. It's hard to explain the transformation that takes place in me when I'm standing in front of a group, their eyes all on me, grasping my every word. Introvert by nature, I covert into someone who wants the attention...who demands it. I make people feel comfortable participating, I engage them, I teach them. I walk away with such a "high" knowing that I made a difference. I made little light bulbs come on in their minds based on my words, my examples, and my style. 

I get excited each time I'm asked to facilitate a class, and a week ago such a thing happened. Okay, well it would only be a 1-hour training session, but I would still be able to impart my knowledge on this group of people. The one thing that made me nervous is that my boss offered to co-facilitate.  I can tell you right now, that she is a totally different person than I am. She is spontaneous, and sometimes talks in circles. I knew I had a challenge in front of me. Getting her to even sit down and talk about how the session would flow would be a challenge. So, I did my part. I prepared. I had a beautiful handout ready to go - I had spent a few days putting it together in order to get it just right - seeking her approval. Yesterday was judgement day. As we sat down, I wore a proud smile, knowing she would take one look and tell me that she never knew I had such a wonderful talent for this. Instead, she began writing all over it, tearing it apart, adding things here, crossing things out there, telling me that I shouldn't give them this handout that I worked so very hard on, but rather a copy of my PowerPoint with those silly lines off to the side for notes. WHAT? REALLY? I was deflated, but I took it in stride and decided that I could give in...just this once.


After our discussion, I started telling her of an idea I had for a required training class on campus. She just looked at me with a blank stare. I wasn't exactly sure how to read that body language, so I asked her straight up what she thought. Do you know what she said? "It won't work." WHAT? REALLY? If I had any air left in my balloon, it was quickly let out by the sharp stab of her three little words. I fought back the tears, told her I was disappointed, and our meeting was over. Just like that. In that hour, my self-esteem was crushed like crumbs for a pie crust.


She may have stomped on my fire, attempting to put it out, but little did she know that she left some ashes smoldering, and with time, I will rise from those ashes, hotter and stronger than ever. That passion will always burn in my heart. She will not kill my dream. I will not be deflated. I will endure and come out fighting to hold onto my heart! 

CRY BABY, CRY!

I CRY! 

No, you don't understand.  I'm a C.R.I.E.R.  Not only do I cry when I'm sad, tears fall at weddings, graduations, when I read sappy cards in the grocery store, when I have to say goodbye at the airport, watching chick-flicks, when I've had a bad day, when my husband tells me something extra sweet....the list goes on. I use "hormones" as an excuse to others, but I know the truth. 

I wear my heart on my sleeve, and let me tell you, it's always wet!  I've been a crier since I was very young.  I have seen video of my second birthday. Everyone is singing "Happy Birthday" and there I am, crying in my highchair.  

Why am I like this?  If I could change one thing about myself, I think this would be it.  As a child, it was OK.   I was a child, and children cry. But as an adult, it's humiliating.  I can't always stop that sensitivity from rearing its ugly head, and it does so at the most awkward times.  Have YOU ever cried in a staff meeting at work? Have YOU ever been so angry with someone, that instead of the words coming out of your mouth, tears exploded instead?  Have YOU responded with water works when your husband whispers sweet nothings in you ear?  

I don't like being so sensitive.  It makes me vulnerable.  It makes me weak.  It embarrasses me. I have Googled "Ways to stop crying", and this is what they tell me.  
1. Deep breathing. 
2. Bite your tongue. 
3. Count in your head. 
4. Look at the light. 
5. Drink something.  
6. Blink a few times. 
7. Think happy thoughts. 
8. Pinch the skin between your thumb and your forefinger...the list goes on.

I have tried numerous things (and some of them painful, I might add) to stop the water works, but to no avail.  I CRY. 

When I tell  my husband of my insecurities  he is so sweet.  He tells me that's just who I am.  I have a big heart.  It's okay to cry.  He just smiles and get me a tissue.  I wish everyone was that understanding.  Most of the time, others just look at me, not knowing what to do.  

I've started avoiding certain situations such as sad movies at the theater (I wait until they come out on DVD), talking about my mother getting older, and so forth.  But, there are times when I just can't avoid a situation.  A co-worker announcing at a staff meeting that he will be leaving (WAA!), saying goodbye to my best friend at the airport after a wonderful vacation (WAA!), and other publicly humiliating moments. 

Maybe I should try hypnotism. In the meantime,  what's a girl to do, but cry. 

“She didn't mind a little rain. At least no one would see her cry.” 

― Lisi Harrison, Monster High