In the Christian tradition, the season of Advent heralds Christmas and starts on the Sunday closest to November 30 and continues for four Sundays.
Being Catholic(ish) . . . we made up our own rules. Thus, Advent started on December 1 (I never could quite figure out why some years I had more windows to open on my Advent calendar . . . ). Every year, Mom would come home from work with my Advent calendar (and even mailed them to me long into my thirties). Whether she brought my calendar home on December 1 or 3 or Thanksgiving . . . it didn't matter and the season of glee had begun.
Every day I'd pop open a little window to see what was inside. There was no looking ahead - otherwise God would know you cheated! That's it - nothing but anticipation and a little sparkly picture of something different every day.
It was our little tradition and it was a daily reminder of the spirit of Christmas . . . wonder, joy, traditions, love, family.
To honor Mom this year and share this tradition with you, I've posted links to some online Advent calendars:
A Bach Christmas calendar
Advent around the world calendar
Advent history and traditions calendar
Christmas stocking Advent calendar
Medieval Advent calendar
North Pole advent calendar
Perhaps you'll start your own tradition and pick one up at the card store on the way home . . .
Thanks, Mom. You still are the spirit of Christmas.
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Firsts and Lasts
Today is my birthday.
I've been scheduling posts here to publish Mondays at 12:35 pm because my Mom died on a Monday at 12:35 pm.
This Monday is my first birthday since she died. I was born at 2:17 pm.
I thought about the "appropriateness" of writing a post today, but that seemed like avoiding the proverbial elephant in the room. Right behind that thought, was "I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for her." I am so grateful for this wonderful life she gave me. I am her creation. I am her legacy. She lives through me.
I remember all the lasts I shared with her: the last time I held her hand, the last time we gazed into each other's eyes, the last time I said "I love you," the last time I said "goodbye." I think of all the firsts she must have been so delighted about . . . my first tooth, word, step, boyfriend.
My firsts. Her lasts. We shared them all together.
And so it is my first birthday without her . . . though I'd not shared one with her by phone or in person for a couple of years due to the Alzheimer's. I remember missing getting that call from her every year at 2:17 pm to mark the moment of my birth and her wonderful cards (we always sent each other several).
Because I saved them, this year I have birthday cards from Mom.
It is indeed a wonderful life. Thanks, Mom.
I've been scheduling posts here to publish Mondays at 12:35 pm because my Mom died on a Monday at 12:35 pm.
This Monday is my first birthday since she died. I was born at 2:17 pm.
I thought about the "appropriateness" of writing a post today, but that seemed like avoiding the proverbial elephant in the room. Right behind that thought, was "I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for her." I am so grateful for this wonderful life she gave me. I am her creation. I am her legacy. She lives through me.
I remember all the lasts I shared with her: the last time I held her hand, the last time we gazed into each other's eyes, the last time I said "I love you," the last time I said "goodbye." I think of all the firsts she must have been so delighted about . . . my first tooth, word, step, boyfriend.
My firsts. Her lasts. We shared them all together.
And so it is my first birthday without her . . . though I'd not shared one with her by phone or in person for a couple of years due to the Alzheimer's. I remember missing getting that call from her every year at 2:17 pm to mark the moment of my birth and her wonderful cards (we always sent each other several).
Because I saved them, this year I have birthday cards from Mom.
It is indeed a wonderful life. Thanks, Mom.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
You Are My Sunshine
My mother died a month ago today. How is that possible? It feels like 10 minutes. Those last days and moments with her are still fresh, as is the aftermath of doing and numbness. I am flooded with memories.
For Mom and me, memories and music went together.
Most summers when I was a kid (late 60's/early 70's), I spent a month in Florida with Aunt Marie and Uncle Jack. Mom got to save a little money on child care, give my nanny a vacation, relax herself a bit, and I'd get to have a month by the pool! At the end of my stay in Florida, Marie, Jack and I would take a scenic drive to New York to pick up my Mom and most of my family to continue up "Up North" to Saranac Lake or Lake George for a few days together.
We'd travel in 2 cars, making funny faces at each other as we passed each other on the highway along the way: Uncle Walter, Aunt Fran, Uncle Joe and Aunt Kay in one car; Aunt Marie, Uncle Jack, Mom and me in the other.
The cabin on Lake George had no television and barely any electricity. It had a deep back yard, a wooden dock and a canoe.
I always knew it was time to come in when I'd hear the singing start. I'd run up the hill while someone started the barbecue. By the time I got up to the house, the grown-ups were singing all sorts of show tunes, songs from the 30's, 40's and 50's (cocktails apparently hasten the heating of the coals or at least make the wait more interesting).
My Mom, her four siblings and Aunt Fran grew up together in Witherbee, New York and had known each other since the beginning of time; after dinner clean-up always included more laughing over all the "old stories."
For Mom and me, memories and music went together.
Most summers when I was a kid (late 60's/early 70's), I spent a month in Florida with Aunt Marie and Uncle Jack. Mom got to save a little money on child care, give my nanny a vacation, relax herself a bit, and I'd get to have a month by the pool! At the end of my stay in Florida, Marie, Jack and I would take a scenic drive to New York to pick up my Mom and most of my family to continue up "Up North" to Saranac Lake or Lake George for a few days together.
We'd travel in 2 cars, making funny faces at each other as we passed each other on the highway along the way: Uncle Walter, Aunt Fran, Uncle Joe and Aunt Kay in one car; Aunt Marie, Uncle Jack, Mom and me in the other.
The cabin on Lake George had no television and barely any electricity. It had a deep back yard, a wooden dock and a canoe.
I always knew it was time to come in when I'd hear the singing start. I'd run up the hill while someone started the barbecue. By the time I got up to the house, the grown-ups were singing all sorts of show tunes, songs from the 30's, 40's and 50's (cocktails apparently hasten the heating of the coals or at least make the wait more interesting).
My Mom, her four siblings and Aunt Fran grew up together in Witherbee, New York and had known each other since the beginning of time; after dinner clean-up always included more laughing over all the "old stories."
We'd all upstairs at bedtime . . . me and Mom in one room, Marie and Jack in another. One large dorm-type room had 2 bunk beds: Joe and Kay took one, Fran and Walt the other. Just like a bunch of kids, giggling would start up in some corner. Then "good night John-Boy" . . . then the singing . . . "Irene, good niiiiiiiight . . . . Irene, good-night . . ."
Today, my family and I will remember my Mom with music. I've asked everyone to sing one of my Mom's favorite songs - You Are My Sunshine; from wherever we are, we'll be together singing (perhaps silently) and remembering Carmen today at 12:35 p.m. EDT. It will connect us to each other and to her, with music, with shared memories and love.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Lost My Mom & Lost My Voice - The Update
My Mother died on Monday, August 17, 2009, at 12:35 p.m.
For the preceding week, I sang almost every Rodgers & Hammerstein show tune to her in her hospice room at the Lutheran Home in Southbury, CT accompanied by my iPod played through a little iHome speaker. In fact, when the priest came to "administer the benediction" (euphemism for last rites or, as we Catholic school kids of-a-certain-age may recall Extreme Unction), I was in the middle of singing "Shall We Dance" from the King & I.
After she died, I was driven by making arrangements and notifying everyone . . . call after call after call. I'm an only child, so there was no one to whom I could "delegate" this task. "Keep it together," I kept telling myself to get through another call or another interaction without falling apart. I'm good at that . . . the soldiering on thing. My Mom was, too.
I was amazed at how little I actually sobbed. I'm still not sure whether I consciously suppressed it because I couldn't bear to hear the sound of my own grief or that it somehow made my Mom's death all the more real or whether the automatic coping skill of numbness was kicking in. I do know that whenever I've held back crying throughout my life, I get a terrible sore throat.
By the day of my Mom's second funeral mass on Saturday, I was getting hoarse and starting to lose my voice. By Sunday, only little wisps of sound came out. I was completely "choked up."
In her book You Can Heal Your Life, Louise Hay says that "[t]he energy center in the throat . . . is the place in the body where change takes place. When we are resisting change or are in the middle of change or are trying to change, we often have a lot of activity in our throats." When one has a sore throat, it may reflect "[f]eeling unable to express the self." We even say that flower beds get choked by weeds.
I'd used my voice to soothe and comfort my Mom that last week and to sing the soundtrack of our life together, which had been so much about music. A particular song always triggers a very specific memory. Then I used my voice to carry out the funeral arrangements as she'd taught me (despite my persistent refusal to listen), to tell friends and family.
This voicelessness persisted for nearly a week until it became so annoying, physically painful and such a continual reminder of the cause, that I felt I had to do something. Unfortunately, the only thing to do was to "let it out" and cry. That scared the bejesus out of me. I could get on with it and bawl or continue sounding like a pathetic Brenda Vaccaro (there's got to be someone else for that analogy already!).
I was going to have to deal with it one way or the other. Thus, I "sounded my barbaric yawp" and have begun to speak. Like this whole process, my voice these days is sometimes fine (like when I recount something about my Mom or am loving the life she gave me) and sometimes wobbly.
There's nothing else to say.
UPDATE: I had my singing lesson last night with the brilliant Jane Kennedy I told her about my experiences lately with my quavering, unreliable voice. She lovingly explained the cause and effect upon the vocal chords. She reminded me of the expression, "having a lump in your throat."
What I most wanted to share with regard to the discussion in this original posting about change and the effect on the throat/voice is that, after we began our warm up last night, my vocal range has expanded since my last lesson (taken before my Mom died) . . . My three octave range is now an octave and a third! I suppose with change also comes expansion if we allow it and a whole new voice begins to emerge.
For the preceding week, I sang almost every Rodgers & Hammerstein show tune to her in her hospice room at the Lutheran Home in Southbury, CT accompanied by my iPod played through a little iHome speaker. In fact, when the priest came to "administer the benediction" (euphemism for last rites or, as we Catholic school kids of-a-certain-age may recall Extreme Unction), I was in the middle of singing "Shall We Dance" from the King & I.
After she died, I was driven by making arrangements and notifying everyone . . . call after call after call. I'm an only child, so there was no one to whom I could "delegate" this task. "Keep it together," I kept telling myself to get through another call or another interaction without falling apart. I'm good at that . . . the soldiering on thing. My Mom was, too.
I was amazed at how little I actually sobbed. I'm still not sure whether I consciously suppressed it because I couldn't bear to hear the sound of my own grief or that it somehow made my Mom's death all the more real or whether the automatic coping skill of numbness was kicking in. I do know that whenever I've held back crying throughout my life, I get a terrible sore throat.
By the day of my Mom's second funeral mass on Saturday, I was getting hoarse and starting to lose my voice. By Sunday, only little wisps of sound came out. I was completely "choked up."
In her book You Can Heal Your Life, Louise Hay says that "[t]he energy center in the throat . . . is the place in the body where change takes place. When we are resisting change or are in the middle of change or are trying to change, we often have a lot of activity in our throats." When one has a sore throat, it may reflect "[f]eeling unable to express the self." We even say that flower beds get choked by weeds.
I'd used my voice to soothe and comfort my Mom that last week and to sing the soundtrack of our life together, which had been so much about music. A particular song always triggers a very specific memory. Then I used my voice to carry out the funeral arrangements as she'd taught me (despite my persistent refusal to listen), to tell friends and family.
This voicelessness persisted for nearly a week until it became so annoying, physically painful and such a continual reminder of the cause, that I felt I had to do something. Unfortunately, the only thing to do was to "let it out" and cry. That scared the bejesus out of me. I could get on with it and bawl or continue sounding like a pathetic Brenda Vaccaro (there's got to be someone else for that analogy already!).
I was going to have to deal with it one way or the other. Thus, I "sounded my barbaric yawp" and have begun to speak. Like this whole process, my voice these days is sometimes fine (like when I recount something about my Mom or am loving the life she gave me) and sometimes wobbly.
There's nothing else to say.
UPDATE: I had my singing lesson last night with the brilliant Jane Kennedy I told her about my experiences lately with my quavering, unreliable voice. She lovingly explained the cause and effect upon the vocal chords. She reminded me of the expression, "having a lump in your throat."
What I most wanted to share with regard to the discussion in this original posting about change and the effect on the throat/voice is that, after we began our warm up last night, my vocal range has expanded since my last lesson (taken before my Mom died) . . . My three octave range is now an octave and a third! I suppose with change also comes expansion if we allow it and a whole new voice begins to emerge.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Psssst . . . your pajamas are open!
Nobody could possibly have prepared me for what it would be like when my Mom died. I'm barely sure even I can describe it, seeing as how I've lost my mind and all.
What I can tell you is what it feels like. It seems to boil down to, "I've completely lost my mind and that's perfectly normal." Typically said to me by someone with a piteous tone and a pat on the head; and I'm grateful as I can be for the tone and the pat!
The word that keeps running through my head is torpor ("a state of motor and mental inactivity with a partial suspension of sensibility") with a feeling of being completely lost. Definitely shaken AND stirred.
In the 70's there was an expression for when you smoked pot and were a little high . . . "maintain" . . . as in to maintain the appearance of being perfectly "normal" when you walked past your parents in the living room when you were stoned off your rocker, red-eyed and giggling.
In the aftermath of my Mom's death (today in fact is 2 weeks to the day), I occasionally catch myself thinking I'm just fine and then go and do something completely "off" . . . I think I'm "maintaining" but instead, it's really like wearing those feetie pajamas with the back door hanging open and everybody can see it but me.
For instance, it took me 5 separate trips from her house to the car the day she died . . . the new locks didn't work or worked too well and I was locked inside the house. Then I remembered I could simply go out the sliding glass door. I'M A GENIUS! Got to the car. No purse. Tromp back up the little walkway and around back, grab purse and head back out to car. Nope, no car keys . . . and so it went. It wasn't until the third trip I realize that it might - just maybe - have something remotely to do with my state of mind.
Or just today when I thought I left my apartment perfectly groomed and caught sight of myself in just a couple of hours later in the ladies' room mirror at my office. My Mom used to describe this particular look as "ready to haunt houses."
Here I will share what I learned and am continuing to learn as my Mom's Alzheimer's finally progressed, her week in hospice, making funeral arrangements as an only child. I will also share the joy, the humor (it's essential to avoid the booby hatch!) - all of it.
What I can tell you is what it feels like. It seems to boil down to, "I've completely lost my mind and that's perfectly normal." Typically said to me by someone with a piteous tone and a pat on the head; and I'm grateful as I can be for the tone and the pat!
The word that keeps running through my head is torpor ("a state of motor and mental inactivity with a partial suspension of sensibility") with a feeling of being completely lost. Definitely shaken AND stirred.
In the 70's there was an expression for when you smoked pot and were a little high . . . "maintain" . . . as in to maintain the appearance of being perfectly "normal" when you walked past your parents in the living room when you were stoned off your rocker, red-eyed and giggling.
In the aftermath of my Mom's death (today in fact is 2 weeks to the day), I occasionally catch myself thinking I'm just fine and then go and do something completely "off" . . . I think I'm "maintaining" but instead, it's really like wearing those feetie pajamas with the back door hanging open and everybody can see it but me.
For instance, it took me 5 separate trips from her house to the car the day she died . . . the new locks didn't work or worked too well and I was locked inside the house. Then I remembered I could simply go out the sliding glass door. I'M A GENIUS! Got to the car. No purse. Tromp back up the little walkway and around back, grab purse and head back out to car. Nope, no car keys . . . and so it went. It wasn't until the third trip I realize that it might - just maybe - have something remotely to do with my state of mind.
Or just today when I thought I left my apartment perfectly groomed and caught sight of myself in just a couple of hours later in the ladies' room mirror at my office. My Mom used to describe this particular look as "ready to haunt houses."
Here I will share what I learned and am continuing to learn as my Mom's Alzheimer's finally progressed, her week in hospice, making funeral arrangements as an only child. I will also share the joy, the humor (it's essential to avoid the booby hatch!) - all of it.
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