Thanksgiving 2014 - Loss and Gratitude

"Write."  "Write about it," said my friend.

This was a most unusual Thanksgiving.  My children were not present.  My grandchildren were not present. 

A months and some days after my mom passed on, I decided to spend this family holiday with her family/my family, something I had always wanted to do WITH her.  But, for many reasons, it never came to pass.  These were the cousins and Aunt whom I'd spent summer vacations with.  My mom, dad and I would trek up to New England and visit and enjoy the family she had left behind when she left with her Italian sailor after the war, to set up household in his native Brooklyn. 

So I caught up with my dear dear Aunt Jean (the wife of my mom's older brother), who will be 94 in March 2015 - and

Me and Aunt Jean

she will make it.  She was as full of life and love as she ever was.  Sadly, it reminded me of how my mom didn't take advantage of this wonderful spirit, who loved her and expressed it over and over again yesterday.  Did I say that Aunt Jean is having some issues with memory and repeats herself?  A lot.

It was a bittersweet occasion.  Trying to be very much in the mode of living in the moment, I enjoyed every second of my dear cousins - George, Cynthia, Paula, Carl - and their children - Neil, Mallory, Joel.  And, of course, my mother's own dear cousin Phyllis and her husband Charlie were there too.

There wasn't a lot of discussion about my mom's passing, except my Aunt asked me a few times when she died, and then followed the answer with expressions about how much she loved my mom and dad.  Somehow, I didn't tire of hearing about it.  It was genuine and coming from her heart.

One of my missions during this trip was to find a good place to deposit my mom's ashes.  Half of them have already gone to the Veterans Cemetery in Southern New Jersey to join and be next to my dad's.  His headstone is engraved with his ever constant reminder to "Keep Smiling."  And hers will bear her ever constant reminder to live "one day at a time."  They'll be there together.

But I wanted her to be also interned with her family in New England - the family that meant so much to her, the family that also burdened her for life with the sad scars of her childhood.  And so, with my two dear cousins, George and Cynthia, and with Lenny, we deposited her ashes at the grave site of her family, which will also be the grave site of my dear Aunt Jean. 

We visited all my cousins family homes throughout the town of Attleboro, Massachusetts, which were also the places I had visited and stayed as a child.   Such good memories.  And we visited my Aunt's last home (before she moved on to the extraordinary assisted living facility where where she currently lives), which will soon become the home of my cousin Mallory, George and Cynthia's beautiful and talented daughter.  This young lady was blessed with great gifts.  She is both a talent artist and performer.  And her life has been challenged since she was a little girl by what could be insurmountable physical issues.  But, sit and listen to Mallory talk about her life and learn a life lesson from someone so young.  She is an inspiration.

All in all, this was a very filling and satisfying Thanksgiving.  And, I'm not even talking about the extraordinary repast that was set forth by my wonderful cousins.

I returned my mother to the place of her birth - the place where she experienced joy and sorrow.  The place where she met my father and was spirited away to another life, away from everything she ever knew (reminds me of a song from "Fiddler on the Roof").  And she always fantasized about returning, even though the tales of her childhood suggest that she was best served by the escape engineered by the Italian prince who was my father.

More than anything, I want to develop this connection with these wonderful folks, with whom I share DNA and extraordinary history.  We share music, memories and yes, the pain of family history that is not always positive.  But we are positive.  Beautifully so.

I want to share and grow old with them.  I want to share my children and grandchildren with their children and grandchildren and I want to share my life with their life.  It's a great gift.  The greatest gift. 

To Sleep Perchance to Dream

It has almost been one year since my dear dad moved up.  I still have a little problem thinking of him as gone, dead, deceased, no more.  The daily reality of my life has been an exercise in keeping myself steady, healthy, engaged and positive.  I have things to do.  I have my mother to care for.  I have my partner and children and grandchildren to care about. 

But when the night comes and I close my eyes to go to sleep, all bets are off.  My dream world is a world where I'm visited by everyone and anyone who has ever entered my life - from old employers, to former husbands to good friends to children to the most casual of acquaintances.  Most people have dreams, so when I first experienced such graphic and sometimes frightening dreams, I attributed it to medication - always an easy answer to anything.

As time has passed, though, I am more and more fascinated by what my mind shows me each night.  There is one recurring theme.  I am usually being marginalized in some way or criticized in some way.  Does this mean that at the core of my being, I am still not pleased with who I am?  Do I still feel that I deserve to be ignored or punished - for what?

 That's why last night's dream was so different.  In the dream, I was hosting a birthday party (though at times it seemed like a wedding party) for my younger daughter.  All her friends were there.  The house in which we were living was bigger than my house.  In the midst of the chaos of young girls reveling, my friend D. came by with a gift for me.  By the way, my friend D. is a genuinely giving and loving person, so it seemed real that she would bring me a gift.

I was surprised and delighted to receive a gift.  The gift was in many parts.  There were silk flowers, ribbons, small vases - a crafter's dream.  I expressed my delight at the gift but couldn't focus on it because of the cacaphony.  She seemed upset, which is so unlike D.  She seemed to have been drinking.  I asked her what was wrong and she said that my house always seemed so much nicer than her house. 

Somehow we wound up at her house - next door - where all the parents of the kids at my house wound up, as well.   Her house was, indeed, not up to its usual standard of tidiness.  There was dust everywhere and a fountain in the middle of her living room was stagnant and was polluted with all kinds of garbage and litter.

D. continued to drink and all the adults suggested that it might be a good idea to pray with her.  Switch to reality - anyone who knows me knows that I am not a praying person.  I have been known to meditate and focus my positive energy, but the concept of prayer as I was taught as a child is not one that I can easily practice.  So, in the dream, I do suggest prayer to D. and she accepts the idea as a possible antidote to her depression.  We all sit in a circle in the stagnant pool of water, holding hands and praying.  That image, in and of itself, is rich with interpretation.  But being in the middle of the circle, I cannot even begin to understand.  Am I D.?  Am I me? 

The dreams ends with me, D. and her husband walking to the beach.  He is much thinner than I have known him to be and he has long hair and a pony tail.  We are talking about a former acquaintance and I share that I thought he had drug problems. 

If you think that this dream is a dire warning from my psyche that I should be seeking help - or, if you think that I should be changing diet immediately to exclude wasabe peas immediately before bedtime, I am accepting all ideas and suggestions. 

This dream is only one of a nightly excursion to places I never asked to go.  But perhaps I am asking.  As Shakespeare wrote, ""We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep."

To Sleep Perchance to Scream

Everyone dreams. What do they mean?  Are you sleeping when you're dreaming, or in that half lit room between waking and sleeping? 

There are many ideas around dreaming.  For example, I've read that you cannot die in your own dreams; that you are all the people in your dreams; that dreams are a view into your psyche.  Dreams are the
 

If any of these are true, my dreams over the past year are a view into a very complicated and disturbed world where friends, relatives, former husbands, former employers and almost anyone who has come into my life will make an appearance.  And usually, these appearances are fraught with emotional and behavioral extremes that might have motivated Freud to write a new chapter.

The Window

Years ago, when I was dealing with a family member with mental illness, I remember a medical professional telling me that the "window of opportunity" for being able to reach him was closing rapidly.  It was a metaphor that would stay with me.

Last year my father died and my 89 year-old mother came to live with me.  She was in shock -  confused and grieving (my father's diagnosis and death took place in one short month) .  She was, herself, not in the greatest physical health.  At that time, I thought there might be a way for us to heal what had been a troubled relationship.  I understood all the dimensions of the situation - her enormous needs, my needs, and her cantankerous and negative personality.  Yet, I had hope.  I was her only child and she was my only mother.  One can always hope.

 So the window, I thought, was open a bit and some positive energy might flow through.

Mom and Me just days after Dad died

During the ensuing months, there were light moments, happy moments, and time shared with family.  Then one of the worst winters in my memory set in, and we found ourselves confined and no way for mom to get out.  In hindsight, it was probably the emotional slope she was seeking to slide down. 

By spring, when it was time for us to get out and enjoy the world again, she had slid down the slope more than halfway.  There was no more lunch at T.G.I. Fridays.  There was no  more coming to the dinner table and sharing meals with us.  Her comprehension of where she was and who I was and who anyone was (except Lily, the nurse who is with her everyday) had become erratic.  Sometimes she would call my name, sometimes my dad's and sometimes those of her deceased siblings.

I understand that a shock of monumental proportions, like the death of a partner you'd shared your life with for almost 68 years, can hasten dementia and its associated physical manifestations.

So, the window has almost closed.

Now, almost one year after the death of my father, she is bedridden and doesn't want any visitors.  She refuses all assistance to move, and only accepts assistance to eat.   She can only focus briefly on anyone or anything and signals her disengagement by closing her eyes.  You are dismissed.

I know that she only wants to have her life back the way it was.  She asked Lily to take her home, to which Lily replied, "You are home."  But this has never been her home, in spite of all our efforts to make it comfortable and homey.  Her home was with my father, and when she closes her eyes, she sees him and home.

This makes more frustrated than sad.  I do mourn the loss of any thread of a relationship we might have developed.  Spending a few days with my partner's 90 year-old mother made me understand only too clearly how needy I am for that relationship.  But I'm frustrated that a life ends this way and there seems to be nothing one can do about it, but wait.

We have windows, though, in all our relationships - with our spouses, our children, and our friends.  If we want them to be open with all the good and positive energy flowing back and forth, we must
do due diligence to make sure they're always in good working order.  If I take away anything positive from this experience, it will be that I'll be checking my windows everyday. 

Essentials

My honey gave me an atomizer for Christmas which infuses the air with soothing aromas.  I have a collection of essential oils which were given to me by a dear friend when I had surgery last spring and I love the essences of lavender, eucalyptus, and wintergreen I breathe in and out as I relax or sleep.

It got me thinking about essence.  I realize that unconsciously I have always been a person who intuitively relates to another person's essence - that part of a person that some might call soul.  But essence is more than that.  It's the "control center" of being, where all our feelings are housed.  All good and bad impulses originate in our personal "control centers," originate from our essence.  Our essence defines us.  Depending on the balance of qualities in our essence, we are perceived by others to be good, bad, friendly, sad, giving or any other quality that a human being can manifest.

My essence sensibility was called upon this year when my father died and my younger daughter decided to put a distance between us - obviously two very different and separate events, but with similar effect.  One is lost to me forever and the other is lost to me, I hope, until she completes an emotional journey. 

These two people have been essential parts of my "control center."

My father was at the core of my being.  To the degree that I am adventurous, creative, happy, loving, giving - my father is the model who helped me to develop those qualities.  His personality embodied them.

When I think of him now, when I relate to his essence, it is a near meditative state of remembrance and love, and it puts one big smile on my face.  Since his death I have been taking care of my mourning mother and his essence is always around us lightening the mood, infusing me and, I believe to some degree, my mother, with his insistent joy and determination to live well.

I am so grateful to be able to have him near me all the time in this way and I practice feeling him and seeing him.

Though my daughter's "control center" is probably doing everything to block any impulses coming from me, I am enjoying her, in her absence, in the same way that I am enjoying my father.  I can see her.  I can hear her laugh.  I can understand and feel her pain and my arms are around her everyday in this way.  It's very comforting to me since I cannot have it any other way at the moment.

A very good example of how this works relates to my very dear and adorable granddaughters.  I don't live around the corner from them and can't see them as much as I'd like to.  Though I could always call them or "Skype,"  it's ultimately an unfulfilling communication with small children.  "Hi Nonna."  "How are you?"  "Fine . . . "  So I feel their magical essences around me all the time - their zany, creative and loving presences in my life.  For example, I will enjoy every minute with them of the trip they are taking this weekend to Boston.  I will even feel the periodic fatigue, exhaustion and exasperation of my daughter and son-in-law as they tour a big city with two little girls in
tow.  Exhausting elation.

Perhaps there is a religion that practices this type of meditation.  If not, then perhaps I have hit upon something.  Whatever it is, whenever I can't be near someone I love, I meditate on who they are and the energy they have projected into the world, and I feel that I have them with me. 

Breaking Bread with Veterans

Last night I had the honor to be among about thirty veterans who are in a treatment facility in New Jersey for post traumatic stress disorder.

A friend and neighbor of mine has been visiting this group for a few years.  Every couple of months, she organizes dinner and entertainment which she delivers, sets up and serves.  Then, she and then participates in the event.  I have been contributing food for some time, but last night was the first time I was able to join in.

The dinner fare was humble - hot dogs (kosher and non-kosher), potato salad, green salad, cole slaw, beans, and all the hot dog fixings anyone could want.  The entertainment was lively - a piano player who delivered some rousing renditions of boogie, Motown and rock classics.  

As we assembled the food, some of the vets visited us in the kitchen, offering their help, but mostly seeking the company and conversation.  I was overwhelmed by their openness and gratitude.  Those who sought our company were very open and forthcoming about their experience and what life became for them upon their return from service.

During the entertainment, I sat between two vets, one who had served more than seven tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.  The other was my age and a Vietnam vet.  His name was Wally.  He and I were instant friends being only a year apart in age.  I couldn't help but reflect on his life's journey compared to mine.  These guys still move in the military way.  They salute each other, but it's with humor and the camaraderie that can only come from being that close to death. 

The other, Diego, was my daughter's age, and said that he'd be getting back to his poetry to help him reassemble the shattered puzzle that his life had become after seven service tours.  He gave me a wristband that he had worn overseas which I will treasure forever.

At one point in the evening, Mike, another Vietnam vet, invited me to dance.  Mike uses a cane, but was nonetheless spirited and so happy to be up on his feet and enjoying the music.  I asked him when he'd been in Vietnam.  "1969," he said.  "You were probably a hippy," he added.  I responded that I did protest the war.  He replied that he did too upon his return from Vietnam.

Young Albert (23 years old) broke my heart.  He talked about his love of his dog, whom he'd rescued from a kill shelter.  "Both of us have PTSD," he said. "So he understands me."

In spite of their experiences, or because of them, these veterans start their lives again.  Most were men, but there was one woman there who described her two tours, and said that she returned so shattered that she was unable to be a mother to her son.  But when they return, they start from a premise that most of us could never fathom - to have killed and to have part of your spirit killed along the way.

I reflect on my own father, who passed away last year.  He returned from World War II having served in the Pacific.  He returned with some photos, his uniform, a medal, but very few stories about his service.  As he got older, I would seek out the recollections and he would share in his way.  He was always an upbeat guy and so his spin on the experiences was usually humorous.  He was lucky.  He didn't seem traumatized and he managed to return to his world and resume his life in a productive and positive way. 

But that's not the way many, may I say most, of these vets return. 

I will go back to visit again.  Perhaps I will see some of the vets and some new ones.  They rotate in and out.  You can't leave without feeling like you should have done more.  You could have done more.  So, I say to all you folks who only have a cursory experience with veterans - just give one hour or day of your life to these folks who have given so much.  And who will continue to give because there is simply no other way for them to live.

It's the least we can do.