June 6, 2010

Tags

blessings, Cynthia Elizabeth Janelli, death, grief, sisters, Visalia District Cemetery

Five years ago today, on June 6, 2010, my world came crashing down with the untimely death of my best friend’s daughter.  On that bright and beautiful Sunday morning, for reasons never satisfactorily explained, Cynthia Elizabeth Janelli’s car ran off a nearby street and slammed into a tree.  I’ll never forget my daughter’s voice on the phone as she told me, “Mom, Cindy’s dead.”  She was 18 years old, with her whole future ahead of her, and now she was gone.

None of us knew what to say, how to act, how to comfort her parents and sister.  I know I never found the right words to say…there are no right words.  Our family was glowing with happiness over the birth of granddaughter #2, and Cindy was gone.

Someday I hope we will understand why such things happen.  Why certain children who were true birth miracles die before becoming adults.  Why families have to watch others achieve all the normal milestones of adulthood — college, marriage, children, home buying…all of it — while their beloved child is buried in the cemetery next to her great-grandparents.

Today I visited Cindy at the Visalia District Cemetery.  Her mother had already been there, so I added my flowers to hers.  I told Cindy about what a beautiful woman her baby sister was becoming, and how much she was missed with each milestone.  Ashley is making her own way now, without her sister’s experience for guidance.  And she is doing an awesome job.

I went home in a bit of a blue funk, knowing I should be counting my blessings, but missing this child and grieving for all the losses along the way.  I cannot fathom how her parents and grandparents get through this day every year…and all the days in between…without her.  I just know that she is loved, as is her family, and that there will always be room for her in our hearts.

Rest in peace, Beautiful.

C is for “comprehend”

Tags

A-Z Challenge, adventure, cancer, death, God, Team Josh

According to Dictionary.com, “comprehend” is a verb that means “to understand the nature or meaning of; perceive.

Tonight I am trying very hard to comprehend how and/or why a bright, enthusiastic 15-year old boy should have to do battle with cancer, and trying even harder to understand his death. I don’t remember a time before I believed in God, and Heaven has always been a very real concept for me, but I still struggle with the reality of children dying young. I had the privilege this morning of attending the funeral of Josh Villarreal…football player, son, grandson, brother, cousin, friend…and was amazed by the joy shared by those who spoke about Josh and his young life. From his grandfather to his coaches to his best friend, every speaker took comfort in Josh’s faith and in their knowledge that their loved one was no longer sick, but was in the presence of God.

It is more than I can comprehend.

It is Friday, March 13, again

Tags

death, family, Friday the 13th, Heaven, Lionel trains, Mom

The last time March 13 fell on a Friday was the day Mom died — Friday, March 13, 2009. It had been a day of watchful waiting for Daddy, Donnie, Melody, Joseph, and me…knowing that the time was close and wanting her to stop hurting, but so dreading having her gone. And yet when the time came for her to join our family members in Heaven, it was a quiet, peaceful moment of release from pain and earthly cares. I wouldn’t want to do that day over, but I am eternally grateful that Mom was at home in the midst of her family — in the living room, actually — rather than in some hospital among strangers.

In the six years since she died I have called on her for help so many times, and prayed for the wisdom to approach things from her always unique perspective. She is the strength I draw on when I don’t know which way to turn, as well as the one I credit for my serendipitous decisions. My biggest regret is that she wasn’t here to see me living happily on my own or here with Georgia and her family. But I think she had a lot to do with my life-changing decisions, as I realized with her passing that I shouldn’t spend any more time spinning my wheels.

I’m posting a photograph of Mom with the Lionel train she got for Christmas 1980 (she had wanted one since she was a girl), because it says so much about her free spirit. Just looking at this picture makes me smile.

Mom and her Lionel train, Christmas 1980.

I’m staying tonight at Aunt Betty’s before going to Stamp Camp tomorrow. We will share stories and more than a few tears. With Mom gone, her big sister has lost the person who filled in the blanks in her family memories. I am a poor second choice, but I still remember so many things that no one else does.

I don’t want this to be a sad post, because Mom wasn’t a sad person and wouldn’t have wanted that. She actually wouldn’t want me commemorating the day in any way. She always said, “I only remember birth days, not death days.” But nobody else can fill the hole in my heart, so I will always remember this day. Happy 6th birthday in Heaven, Mom. We love you.

Mom and her girls, February 2009

Tragedy

Tags

children, death, grief, loss, Olive Garden Restaurant 1630, peace

Our Olive Garden family is in mourning tonight following the Valentine’s Day death of the infant son of one of our managers. My heart has been breaking for her since the emergency call came, right in the middle of the dinner service, and I still cannot wrap my mind around the reality of it. Two loving parents, so happy with the baby boy who joined his big sister last fall…forever devastated.

My first instinct was to tell our guests that they needed to go home so that we could close the restaurant. Of course, that wasn’t what needed to happen, nor would it have helped in the least. So we kept on smiling and helping our guests celebrate with their families and loved ones, all the while knowing that the life of one of our very own had been forever shattered.

What do you say to a parent whose child has died? No words will take away the pain, brighten the day. I should be better at this by now, as two of my dearest friends have each had one of their children die. But all I know how to do is help with the busy work…collect stuff for the yard sale, help with the Go Fund Me page…work on the reality of raising money for a funeral for a tiny little boy. My heart screams with outrage as I type those words. And I keep thinking of things the parents will need to do. What parent ever considers writing their baby’s obituary? How can that even be necessary? And how do parents tell a three-year old big sister who watched her mommy’s tummy grow and was just learning how to snuggle and cuddle with him that her sweet baby brother won’t be coming home again?

My wise priest (also a mother) reminded me that God did not “let” or “cause” this to happen, but He was there wrapping His love around the baby, and will be holding the family up in their grief. So I will continue to pray for her family, pray for eventual understanding and some semblance of peace for them, pray that when I do get to see her I will be able to just hug her and be there without trying to be profound.

Words fail me. Hug your children close. Go peek at them while they sleep, inhale their sweet fragrance. Know how fleeting life is, and cherish every moment.

Better now

Tags

death, first love, grief, heart attack, Viet Nam Veteran

Thank you, sweet friends, for your care and concern after reading last night’s short post. I was feeling very overwhelmed and sad, and couldn’t even come up with an explanation. I am sorry that I caused several of you to lose sleep and worry…we were awake together. I’m still struggling with words, so bear with me.

I don’t think we ever entirely let go of our first love, no matter the distance or experiences that follow. That certainly was the case for me, and that was the cause of last night’s blue funk. To make a short story even shorter, I discovered Monday night that my first love had died, not recently, but several months ago. (My brother ran into his brother’s brother-in-law and heard the news with disbelief.) As I was wishing him a happy 65th birthday in November on my Facebook page and here on Trigger’s Horse (Happy Birthday ), he was already gone.

Kicking back with Jack at home, c. 1968.

Sixty-four years old is way too young for a man to be stolen from his wife, children, and grandchildren by a heart attack. Especially one who had served honorably in combat during the Viet Nam War and come safely home after giving so much for his country. And it is too young for his first girlfriend to be the only one who remembers all the once-very-significant milestones and experiences.

But I am no longer saying, as I did on his birthday, “Jack Barker, wherever you are…” because now I know. He has joined his Mom and Dad in God’s tender care. And those of us here on earth will continue to grieve.

Being a grown-up

Tags

adulthood, aunts and uncles, chocolate, cousins, death, etsy shops, family, forts, mourning

If you need me, I’ll be in my blanket fort coloring!

I don’t think I want to be an adult any more. I think being an adult is over-rated. In fact, today I think that being an adult stinks!

If you need me, I’ll be in my blanket fort coloring. Or in the garden hiding behind the clothesline. Or driving around aimlessly in my Jeep, eating chocolate and talking on the phone.

Today started out nicely, as I spent the morning picking the brain of a sweet friend about the mysteries, perks, and pitfalls of having an etsy store. I am excited about a potential new direction for my Close To My Heart business and a sales venue for many of my mother’s things. Who knew etsy had a vintage division? I certainly did not!

The day started its downward slide as I talked with my cousin about how well her father-in-law, my most favorite uncle, was doing now that he is home from the hospital. It got a little better when my sister answered her phone and we started talking about that same uncle and how he is progressing. (For those of you who have been reading for awhile, this uncle is the husband of my precious Aunt Betty I have written about more than once.)

The truth is that none of us know when it is our time to go Heavenward. So we must make the effort to gather our loved ones around us. So I was talking to my sister on the phone (again about Uncle Phil and Aunt Betty) when our brother called. I just let it ring and kept talking. And he called back again, which is unusual. I put Melody on hold to talk to Donnie, only to hear that my east coast (actually southern) most favorite uncle (my dad’s little brother) had died. Our first concern, of course, was Daddy, and whether he was up to a cross-country trip for his brother’s funeral. And then for our aunt, who relied very heavily on her husband and now would be bereft.

We talked about the reverberations of Uncle Jim’s death throughout our family…about the great-grandchildren who would lose their playmate, about (in my case at least) remembering Uncle Jim before he married Aunt Jackie and gave us cousins. About how he in no way was the one we had thought would be the next relative to approach Heaven’s gates. And we came to one golden conclusion:

Being a grown-up bites! We are tired of having loved ones die and having to report the news to other loved ones. We are tired of watching loved ones become more and more confused and frail. And (this goes for me only) I am not feeling up to the challenge of becoming the next matriarch of our clan.

So if anyone needs me, I’ll be in my blanket fort, coloring.

“Has it been five years?”

Tags

death, family stories, grandmother, Hazel DeMurl Fenley Pender, Mom

Late in the evening of March 13, 2009, time stood still for our family. After two courageous battles with cancer, seven years apart, Hazel DeMurl Fenley Pender followed her parents and older family members into God’s arms. For those of us standing by her bedside at home in Arroyo Grande, life would never be the same. Especially for her forever love and husband of sixty years, life lost much of its sparkle.

Life continued for the rest of us, of course — even without her guiding hand and sunny outlook — but the hole in our hearts was a big one. This past five years has flown by…and it has crawled by. It seems like just a little while since I’ve heard her ask, “And how’s my Big Girl today?” Or perhaps it has been decades. When a loved one dies your perspective changes, your sense of time alters. “Has it really been five years?” we say to each other. Or “Has it only been five years?” But we know we have missed her for far longer than that.

What do you do when your mother, the woman you love most in the whole world, dies? You do what you know she wants you to do. You keep living, and you honor and cherish the things she taught you are the most precious gifts of all: your family and your memories. You continue to work hard to be the best mother you can, and try your hardest to come close to being the amazing grandmother she was. You tell stories so that people who never really met her feel as though they have. And you take better care of each other than ever, make more time to be together than you did before.

Because there is never enough time to be with the ones you love. And you can never tell them often enough how much you love them.

I miss you every day, Mom. I hope you’re sitting up there in Heaven reading Trigger’s Horse with Grammy, knowing how badly I want to call you and read you each post before hitting the “Publish” button. I hope you watch your great-granddaughters playing together and realize that you and Aunt Betty are the reasons that they each love their sister the way they do. It is your legacy, yours and Aunt Betty’s, Aunt Enie’s and Grammy Buffington’s, Melody’s and mine.

Surgery

Tags

death, depression, negativity, outcomes, surgery

I have been thinking quite a bit about surgery and mental states and outcomes. My question is this: If someone is facing surgery — especially surgery that is supposed to be routine and effortless — and goes into it with a feeling of grave foreboding, does it make the surgery more risky? I know that a positive mental attitude can help in healing, even when the medical odds are not necessarily favorable. But is the opposite true, also? Does a negative or fearful mental attitude, or — worse yet — an acceptance that things are not going to go well, detract from the success of the procedure?

Do “gut feelings” take precedence over a physician’s assurances that the surgery will be a slam-dunk? If the patient is purportedly accepting of, or possibly even welcoming, impending death, does his attitude hasten the negative outcome? Or is death even negative, if the patient says he would welcome it?

I am such a Pollyanna that I can’t imagine welcoming death unless I were in extreme pain and considered well beyond hope. But then, I have never dealt with depression or suicidal feelings, either. I am not trying to judge, simply pondering.

What do you think?

Growing up

Tags

babysitting, death, family, growing up, loss, mourning, neighbors, parents

Among my treasures is a letter written to me by my cousins’ paternal grandmother on the occasion of my eighth grade graduation. It was written in her precise script in blue ink on her signature pink scalloped stationery, and the message is as relevant now as it was in 1963. I had written Grandma Petty a giggly letter telling her how excited I was about my upcoming graduation…how there was going to be a dance afterward and Mom was going to let me wear stockings and Queen Anne heels for the occasion.

Her reply congratulated me on my accomplishment (eighth grade had been a tough year after moving to a new school and community at the end of seventh grade). She then went on to caution me that there would be plenty of time to try all these adult things, and not to be impatient to grow up, but to enjoy it along the way. I recognized the wisdom of her words even then, but I’m not sure how well I followed them.

I spent this afternoon with the family of my Daddy’s best friend who died earlier this week. I started babysitting these kids as an eighth grader and all through high school–they were closer in age to my siblings than to me–and kept in touch very occasionally through our parents as they grew up, married, and had children of their own. As their teenaged neighborhood babysitter who mediated the television wars and kept the middle child from climbing the kitchen cabinets monkey-like, searching for chocolate chip cookies, I never imagined a day like today.

I didn’t even consider that some day we would be in our 50s and 60s, spending the afternoon sharing/visiting/celebrating/mourning the life of their father as we played “catch-up” with what our children (and in my case, grandchildren) were doing. We had great fun looking at the table-full of photographs of their parents (and mine) in various stages of their lives; laughing at the clothes and hairstyles, reminiscing about how our houses looked then and now. Missing from our gathering was their mother, hospitalized yesterday, and their sister who is in poor health.

It was a very strange feeling to know these people…yet not to know them…almost like family we hadn’t seen in years but were still very related to. In retrospect I wish we had kept closer in touch. I really like these former kids who are now adults, and the people they married. It is a shame it took the death of a parent to bring us back together again.

I wonder if days like today were what Grandma Petty was seeing in my future when she urged me not to hurry growing up?

A good man

Tags

confidante, death, friendship, Greatest Generation, grief

My Daddy’s best friend died yesterday. He was a good man…a family man…truly one of the Greatest Generation. He believed in the goodness of people, that a man’s word stood for something, and that family was all-important. His quiet demeanor covered a delightful sense of humor, and he was the first to laugh at himself over a silly event.

At Mom’s memorial service, he sat at the back of the church next to Daddy, not willing to let his long-time friend sit alone (the rest of the family was in the middle of things). Although his own health was not good, it was his wife he was concerned about when he and Daddy talked last weekend.

I didn’t meet him until junior high, but they had been colleagues and friends for many years before that. When they retired, they went out together. The rest of the guys died along the way…victims of stressful jobs…they were the two who survived 30 years past retirement.

I am sad for his widow, daughters, son, and grandchildren. Life will be very different without him. But I am sad for Daddy, too, without his confidante — the one who was witness to so many of his work experiences, shared so many everyday moments — his friend for over half a century.

Andy, thank you for being such a good friend to my Daddy. You will be missed.