Eulogy for Nani

For those who do not know me, my name is Rob Marvin, and I am happy to count myself as one of Virginia’s friends ~ and quite possibly, her favorite.

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It’s my hope that Monday, October 17, 2011 will be remembered as the day when a loving family and many friends gathered in defiance of convention to celebrate Mother’s Day … at the time and place of their choosing … in God’s house … at His table … and later, at the cemetery on hallowed ground.

I will personally never forget this incarnation of Mother’s Day when we came together to honor the enduring love of a mother and grandmother, and for others, the life of a friend and neighbor, Virginia.

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As I sat to think about what I would say today, one image of Virginia was foremost in my mind:  She was seated at the head of a large table surrounded by family and friends offering up an insanely large amount of food.

How had I come to sit at this table?

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It must have been difficult for Virginia to sit idle, watching as her three children bore the responsibility of caring for their ailing father over two and one-half years as he languished in a nursing home. 

And while she could do nothing to ease their burden, she was surely proud to see her children acting on the example she had passed along to them over many years: 

Family is everything.

During this time, our families were living parallel lives within the same nursing home; three doors down a common hall from Dominic, our Mother was living out her final days.  And, as with Virginia’s children, we had long ago learned the importance of family in our lives.
When my twin brother, Jim, recently asked Charlie why it was that Virginia had taken to the two of us, his reply was simple:  “Mom didn’t say much but she watched people and took in everything.  She watched you care for your Mother and for my Dad.”

As months became years, all of us, the children of Virginia and Dorothy, were bound by a shared affection for our beloved parents as we did the only thing we knew how to do:  we cared for them.

The love of family is the tie that binds all of us.  Virginia respected this in her children … and in my twin brother and me in turn.

~~~~~~~~~~

Since being diagnosed with an incurable brain malignancy little more than four weeks ago, no one left Virginia’s side without being impressed by the living contradiction embodied by this first-generation Italian-American.  Increasingly frail and weakened ~ she remained strong in spirit; eyes hampered by age ~ her vision remained crystal clear; and, in a world of increasingly dizzying complexity ~ she projected herself as a selfless woman of quiet practicality and grace.

When the time came for the physicians, nurses, social workers and family to make plans for her future, it was clear there would be little allowance made for debate: 

Virginia was going home; to her home of 54 years where she raised her children and their children, to the kitchen where so much food was made and shared, and to the familiarity and comfort of her own bed.

Always the Mother, even at 83, Lucille, Joe and Charlie were still children in her eyes ~ even as they navigate through middle age.  It is as if her motherly eyes wouldn’t allow her to see the children grown ~ as if adulthood was the singular province of a mother.

Perhaps it is. 

Or, at least, so it seemed, until the morning of October 12^th ~ when, with Charlie, his dog Lulu as well as a trusted friend and caregiver, Anita, at her side, Virginia slipped quietly into that long, good night.

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Having lost their father only five short months ago, Virginia’s children are now learning, as did my twin-brother and I this past January, that the death of a mother is unique ~ it seems to affect us in ways far different from when our father’s die.

I believe it marks an irrevocable severance with the past ~ as if cutting the umbilical cord that binds our affections, making us grounded in the world.

And, unlike with our father’s, we are intimately and inextricably linked to our mother’s ~ as flesh of their flesh, and blood of their blood.

Yes.  Their childhood died along with Virginia this past week; but, like her, they are to be born again.

~~~~~~~~~~

His holiness, the late Pope Paul VI once remarked as to the relationship between Mother’s and their children when he observed,

“Every mother is like Moses.  She does not enter the promise land but prepares a world she will not see.”

Virginia bore two healthy sons and one daughter, and nearly lived to celebrate her 84^th birthday ~ which is tomorrow.  She lived her life preparing Lucille, Joe and Charlie as well as her four grandchildren for an earthly land of promise she will no longer see ~ at least not from THIS vantage point.

But, her Lord assures us that she is now in the heavenly Promised Land alongside her beloved family who had gone on before her.

It is the contradiction of our humanity, the resurrection, and our place in it.

~~~~~~~~~~

I will end this Mother’s Day card of sorts, in prayerful reverence of Virginia, my mother, Dorothy, and for all those mentioned silently within your hearts:

“The love of a mother is a veil … of a softer light … between the heart and our Heavenly Father.”

Virginia Ann Cervello is now fully in the light of our Heavenly Father by the redemption freely given by His Son.

And, through the promise of the resurrection, I speak for many when I pray for the day when we will no longer simply be our Mother’s sons or daughters, but united as children of God.

Sweet dreams, Virginia.

Eighteen Hours

I ran through the snowdrifts as fast as my legs would allow.

The interregnum of the prior nine days had been all but too much to bear; the days apart weighed heavily on me.

But I abandoned all the heartache as I plowed through fresh snow blanketing an invisible but well-known path.

Rounding a bend, I made out the silhouette of my twin brother standing under an arcade beyond the head of the trail; he, too, had been anxiously awaiting my return.

“That’s really nice of him to welcome me back!” was my only thought.

But just as we began a short walk along the colonnade to the entrance of the nursing home, my brother stopped, turned abruptly to me and then said,

“Mom is not doing well … she’s not doing well at all.”

A veil of denial immediately enveloped me as I struggled to catch my breath and my legs buckled under the sheer weight of his words.

It was as if I had been punched in the stomach.

It was as if I had been driving a speeding car and then forced to come to a complete stop and reverse directions in the same instant.

Life – as I knew it – was about to be altered irrevocably.

My brain immediately became awash in the panoply of human emotions as well as thoughts too disparate to grasp. But in the midst of all the mental chaos, an eight word sentence – a fateful harbinger spoken to a trusted friend nine days earlier – took hold, repeating itself in an endless loop time and again within my head; it would continue for the next eighteen hours … and beyond.

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“Everyone dies.”

I learned this lesson as a child. All of us do. But to a child, death is merely an abstraction; in the mind of a child, we are all immortal.

Over the years as Mother’s health declined, I will also admit to occasionally fantasizing about how I would react when Death finally came for her.

I don’t believe there is anything strange about this. How many among us has not contemplated such thoughts? Consciously or not, do not the exigencies of Life force each of us to become mentally prepared for nearly all eventualities?

But even with the benefit of nearly five years of introspective preparation for Mother’s death, my brother’s words that morning as we walked along the colonade, forced me to face – head on – an unwelcomed revision of the ill-understood lesson from my callow youth,

There is no good way to prepare;

Mother’s die, too.

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While finally making our way into the nursing home, I do remember being conscious of how quickly the excitement of the morning had turned to trepidation and fear while simultaneously being surprised by an unanticipated calm – or numbness – that came over me. It could very well have been denial; I don’t know. After all, Mother had weathered many storms over the past two and one-half years.

As we reached her room, however, the protective instincts evaporated as quickly as they had emerged. Even though I desperately needed to personally “lay eyes” on Mother, I was not at all certain I was prepared to deal with the probability of this harsh new reality.

As I opened her door, I instinctively knew Mother’s current situation was different from all prior scares; she was surrounded by too many people, both expected and unexpected.

“This is not good.” was my only thought.

I quickly made my way through the crush of uncomfortably silent nurses, aides and family members to come face to face with Mom.

I was shocked.

Whereas nine days before I had sat laughing as Mother interacted cogently with two very surprised hospice nurses – both of whom later went on to make a glowing report, the woman in front of me that Thursday morning was nearly unrecognizable; Mother was unresponsive with her mouth agape, laboring under the burden of oxygen deprivation; her oxygen debt was outwardly manifested by the most foreign and hideous of watery rattles imaginable, presumably precipitated by either an oddly rapid onset of pneumonia or a silent but profound cardiac event.

I acknowledged the truth in that first instant – Mother’s life was rapidly coming to an end.

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My recollections of the ensuing eighteen hours are a blur of activity and people moving into and out of Mother’s room.

The “comfort care” medications, Roxanol and Intensol, were administered; hospice nurses came and went according to shifts; a family conference with the hospice chaplain; tears and anguished cries; family members, friends and fellow residents visited; more tears and laughter erupted sporadically as everyone spoke of Mother’s life; dinner was unexpectedly provided by the beloved family members of another resident; hugs – lots of hugs; a young, devoted private duty aide returned twice – on her own time – to continue her dedicated service to a much loved charge; more Roxanol; more Intensol; more tears; more laughter; more tears; more hand holding; silent conversations with Mom; and a hard working nursing home aide, despite completing his shift at 11 pm, who was determined to remain at Mother’s side, caring for her as well as his “second family” until …

Mom received a final dose of Roxanol.

Twenty minutes later, with her daughter, two sons, and a surrogate “family” of friends at her side, Mother was assured by each of us in turn that we would “be alright” – it was “ok” for her to “go.”

She then took one last breath and never relinquished it.

Mother’s long, wonderful life and decade’s long struggle with Parkinson’s disease came to an end with her death just before 4:00 am on Friday, January 14, 2011.

That last breath and her death were not peaceful, at least as far as I was concerned; the reality of both came at me with the force of a tidal wave; I immediately felt myself drowning in the waters of a very deep and painful private sorrow.

In that instant, I was forced to acknowledge that one of two people who had always been integral to my life was now gone – forever.

I will never again hear her laughing through tears as she delivered the punch line of a favorite joke.

I will never again hear her perky morning or afternoon greeting, “Hi, Sweetie!”

I will never again see her beautiful smile.

I will never again receive the gift of her kisses or feel the incredible strength of her tiny hand taking a firm grasp of my own.

I will never again hear her assure me with an, “I love you, Bobby.”

And, I will never again experience the intensity of her eyes locking with mine – as if peering into my soul.

No.

At that moment, her death became all too real; the promised separation could not be undone; her death was absolute.

And just as she was mercifully cut loose from the moorings of a long and blessed life ~ impaired, in the end, by debilitating infirmities ~ a part of me most surely died as well.

But even while no longer whole, I also knew that I would grieve and ultimately recover in a manner best suited for me.

And please forgive me if I ask that no one offer a recipe for grief, complete with certain ingredients and results; I will find my own way given time.

Life has taught me that Death is a mystery and is loathe to provide answers; alternatively, would any certain answer magically render the sting of Mother’s loss and our loneliness less painful?

No.

Unanswerable questions are a part of life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To this day, I still am haunted by the eight words spoken nine days earlier to a trusted friend after leaving the nursing home to the abyss of an imposed uncertain return,

“Mother will not be alive when I return.”

The Gift of Time



Mom

Lately, I don't have many thoughts about Mother without also thinking of a little boy named, Jax.

In the midst of the early morning phone call, I immediately set aside a block of time that same Saturday afternoon to speak with the young couple. The two of them had every reason to be concerned.

I also made the conscious decision to meet Rachel, then twenty-five weeks pregnant, and her husband, Marcus, in a less formal setting; another sterile, impersonal medical facility was surely the last place either of them wanted to be.

Rachel’s recent uterine sonogram had raised at least one red flag. The subsequent echocardiogram of their nascent son’s heart provided definitive evidence that all initial concerns had been warranted; their developing son was afflicted with one of the most complicated and challenging congenital cardiac anomalies, Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome. By contacting me, Rachel and Marcus had hoped I might better describe both the constellation of defects associated with the syndrome as well as outlining a general roadmap for eventual treatment if their son was fortunate enough to survive beyond delivery.

The beautiful young couple was joined by her cousin, a second year medical student who brought an armload of the very same Netter Atlases of Anatomy that will become familiar to Marcus when entering medical school next fall. From the outset, the three seemed realistically mindful of the troublesome ramifications of the diagnosis while also maintaining their youthful optimism and demonstrating the requisite determination to meet the challenge head on.

With our meeting completed, I remember leaving feeling buoyed by their obvious strength, genuine expressions of faith, confident in a wellspring of support from family and friends, and decidedly humbled by their remarkable maturity in the face of this great uncertainty.

Rachel and Marcus were girding themselves to deal with whatever might come.

Three days later, however, I received another sobering message from Marcus who informed me of Rachel's amniocentesis results. The test revealed that her unborn son was faced with an even more daunting diagnosis, Trisomy 18, otherwise known as "Edward's Syndrome."

The news came as an immediate shock to my senses; it was one of those moments of surprise that often has you sensing a wave of electricity passing along the length of your spine.

With the duplication of but one seemingly insignificant strand of DNA that might mirror even a fraction of the 18th chromosome, their child’s fate was all but sealed.

Fifty percent of those born with this syndrome die within a week of birth.

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JLH

On November 29, 2010, Jax Lee Hennon came into this world on his terms.

And what of his little heart?

The walnut-sized muscle was beating.

Despite any of the outward signs of imperfection brought upon by the genetic syndrome, the young couple looked at their second son and immediately declared him to be "perfect."

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After twenty minutes holding her swaddled boy, Rachel was informed his pulse was rapidly growing more faint. Not wanting to deprive Marcus of intimately sharing some of these precious moments, Rachel relinquished their son, Jax, to his father's anxious arms. The memory of this moment prompted Marcus to later write of, “the life he would never lead that flashed through his Daddy’s eyes.”

“The first fall; the first snowman; T-Ball; High School; curfews; sending him off to College; meeting his wife; holding his first child; helping him fix a leaky faucet … as well as about 14,000 hugs along the way.”

"My son. My beautiful son! I Love You! I will always love you!"

“I was weeping and crying … my body was fatigued from the stress I was feeling from the tension of crying so hard. I noticed through the wells of salty water on my eyelids that I had been dripping tears on Jax. If he couldn't see or hear, maybe Jax felt my love through those tears as they washed over his weak little body."

Forty-five minutes after bounding prematurely into this world, Jax's little heart finally gave out.

Marcus went on to also write,

“Our son was now where we could not follow. We had so desperately held on to him, prayed for him to stay with us, and anxiously fought against his leaving. On the other side of time his Creator, grandpa, and two great-grandparents were patiently waiting … Jax had come to do what he was created for. His part here on earth was now done. Our capacity to love expanded beyond measure, the value of mankind became ever clearer, and the love of God triumphed again. Jax’s heart beat for forty-five minutes, but for the rest of time when we think of Jax's life, we will also hear the whispers of God's good grace.”

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Reflections of Jax and his family are now intertwined with thoughts of Mother as she moves ever closer to her final days.

What I wouldn’t give for the opportunity to ask our late grandmother of the joy and elation she felt when ushering Mom into her life. As expressed by Rachel and Marcus, did Grandmother also deem Mother to be a perfect baby girl?

What I wouldn’t give for the opportunity to ask our late grandmother of all the unrecorded moments of Mother’s young life. Just as Marcus wrote, are the images of that which was experienced and yet unseen by my eyes over the course of her younger life somehow less important to me now?

While certainly not challenged with the genetics that would dramatically foreshorten her life, Mother’s frail little body does conspire against her today no less so than his genome guaranteed, from the moment of conception, nothing more than a brief sojourn for him here on this earth.

I do understand that none is guaranteed even a single moment of this precious commodity we call “life.”

But even as I declare an acceptance of this reality, I also continue to struggle as I seek to find answers to a good many unanswerable questions:

Why would nature allow an innocent like Jax to be conceived with the burden of potent and insurmountable odds levied against him; why would a loving God craft this beautiful boy using an unsustainable genetic paradigm?

Why would nature allow innocents like Mother to suffer under the yoke of needlessly horrific medical burdens? Why would a loving God allow some to pass away without pain during their sleep while countless others are made to endure years of cruel, inglorious decline?

Our family has spent the past few years bearing witness to Mother's painfully incremental physical and mental demise; it is an experience I would wish upon no one. But even as I have watched her life slowly ebb over time, I also struggle with recent decisions that would have the family no longer allow for the treatment of “treatable” conditions in the days or weeks ahead.

Like Marcus, I, too, have tried desperately to cling to any hope that Mother might remain with us for a while longer; after learning of the fateful treatment decision, my immediate thought was that neither she nor her loved ones should be deprived of even a moment of shared time.

“Take Rachel and Marcus as an example,” arguing to myself many times over, “surely they would have moved heaven and earth for but one additional minute with their son, Jax!”

Ten days after learning of the difficult care decision for Mother, aided by the benefit of that time to reflect on my feelings, I am now equally convinced Rachel, Marcus and their surviving son, Jace, might also be quick to add:

You need to be thankful for the gift of time you have been allowed to share at your Mother’s side.

But your Mother suffers now, no less so than did Jax during the final few minutes of his all too brief life.

No matter the difference in time allotted to each of us with loved ones, might it also be selfish not to grant your Mother leave to wash away the burden of mortal suffering and to move on to the promise of higher ground?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jax Lee Hennon. He lived, died, and offered valuable lessons within the span of but a single hour.

I will remain forever humbled by the dignity and courage exemplified by this young child and his loving family.

I also pray that when I am called upon one day to reflect on the life of our beautiful Mother, I, too, will be blessed with the guidance of the whispers of God’s good grace.

Marcus and JLH

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ada0867fbVM

Their remarkable and brave video.

Room 802

Whether conscious of it or not, when moving into a neighborhood we invariably become familiar with the rhythm and pace of our neighbor’s lives. I know a few people who would argue that this makes “nosy” people of all of us but, being neither cynical nor jaded, I have an entirely different point of view. I can’t help but believe this is simply a part of our nature; we are hard-wired to seek out the companionship of other people. And just as every family must learn to deal with the antics of a “crazy Uncle,” most newcomers eventually accept all of us as neighbors – foibles and all.

Moving on to a life within a nursing home is no exception.

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Every Wednesday, Honora’s daughter and son-in-law bring a hot meal for her to share with them in the Activity Room at GVM. While caring for Mother these past two years, we have come to eagerly anticipate the ritual of these dinners as it gives everyone the opportunity to catch up with the lives of those we have met and befriended along the way. The conversation, laughter and food that are the mainstay of these reunions, represent a welcomed temporary respite from the often harsh realities of life within the nursing home.

There was something different about the energy flowing from the Activity Room this past Wednesday, however, that didn’t escape the attention of another resident, Dominic. Despite suffering a stroke two years ago which left half of his body as well as his speech greatly impaired, Dominic’s razor-sharp mind seemed to tell him that he might be missing out on some excitement within the room. Never one to let such an opportunity pass, he slowly wheeled himself toward the commotion so as to quiet his growing curiosity.

While not surprised to see Honora’s family eating dinner at one of the many tables, he couldn’t help but notice the many young people milling about the room – some playing pool, others cramped together on a couch, and another two eating alongside their father. As the patriarch of a large and loving family, this scene must have surely resonated with Dominic. When I noticed him inching further into the room, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was hoping to soak up some of the energy offered up by the young people.

With only another moment’s hesitation, however, he motioned me to his side. Pulling me close to him, he then mumbled, using the only patois left to him after the insult of his stroke, the garbled yet obvious question that was foremost on his mind,

“What’s going on?”

“Dominic,” I began, “these are the grandchildren of your neighbor, Aletha.”

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Aletha became a resident at GVM nursing home two years before Mother. Having suffered with vague, sundry complaints of joint pain since her late teens, rheumatoid arthritis didn’t manifest itself fully until she was thirty-six years old, then a wife and mother with three teenagers of her own. During the intervening decades since her formal diagnosis, this cruel disease ravaged nearly every joint in her body. For all my years of practicing medicine, I had personally never encountered a more deforming and debilitating case of rheumatoid arthritis.

In the six years or so immediately preceding her arrival at GVM, the life Aletha had cultivated over many years began to unravel as a result of this merciless disease. Subjected to untold orthopedic surgical procedures as well as various stints undergoing inpatient rehabilitation, Aletha was eventually forced to come to terms with the reality that she would always require professional medical assistance as she carried on with her daily life; this is ultimately how she came to be a resident at GVM.

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My family met Aletha and her husband, Leonard, soon after Mother arrived at the nursing home in July of 2008.

One wouldn’t necessarily be wrong when asserting I am prone to a level of familiarity with relative strangers that many good people simply don’t understand. Depending on my gut instinct when meeting someone, I often skip over introductions and small talk, taking the liberty of speaking to or joking with people as though I have known them over a lifetime. While many seem to understand and even appreciate this personality quirk of mine, others, admittedly, do not.

Aletha most certainly did NOT. Or so I thought.

Despite my best efforts, all initial attempts to charm this tiny woman seemed to fall flat. Try as I might, I simply couldn’t make headway with the doyenne of the 800 hall. I still wince at how effectively she could wither my fragile male ego with her knockout trio of silence, a glare that could melt ice, topped off with an ever-so-slow shake of her head. Like some tyrannical Queen from a book of childhood fairytales, Aletha held court from the perch of her Hoveround throne and might as well have been looking at me in those early days while declaring,

“I do not suffer fools gladly … and you fancy yourself my court jester? Off with your head!”

While clearly losing many of the early battles, I eventually conquered her heart.

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I don’t believe I truly had the opportunity to get to know and care for Aletha until after the death of her husband in the early days of 2009. Whereas many a widow may have elected to simply give up after the death of a beloved spouse, Aletha earned my respect and admiration for how she coped, at least outwardly, with his loss over time. As I became better acquainted with her over many months, I learned to appreciate her many strengths, passions, and resilience while also discovering that she was an extremely loving, amiable, devout, vulnerable as well as a wickedly funny old woman. Aletha was definitely my kind of girl.

Spending time reflecting on many of the elderly residents I have come to know at the nursing home these past two years, I often pondered the incredible physical hardships Aletha endured over more than fifty years at the whim of an indiscriminate and horrific disease. Given her cumulative suffering, she could have easily made a selfish decision long ago to simply live life on her own terms – to think only of her needs and concerns. And who would have blamed her?

Thankfully for her many family members and friends, Aletha didn’t make that choice; I seriously doubt she ever considered it.

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“What’s going on?”

When answering Dominic’s question I hadn't yet realized he was posing a rhetorical question.

Over the past two days he had noticed the change in the flow of traffic within the 800 hall; more and more people were moving into and out of his neighbor’s room. His mind suspected that which was, as yet, unspoken but his heart didn’t want to believe it was true.

Aletha’s life was drawing to a close.

Someone asserted a belief to me this past week that “people go to nursing homes to die.”

I respectfully disagree.

On a practical level, Aletha and Mother entered the nursing home so they might obtain the level of professional assistance they could no longer achieve at home. Simply put, it was an appropriate decision for both of them.

Surely, moving into a nursing home is not simply "the beginning of the end."

I will freely admit, however, that it took me a long time to come to terms with the notion that transitioning Mother into the nursing home might represent yet another beginning.

But as a helpful friend explained to my sister, “Don’t look at this as a negative. Your Mother is simply moving on to yet another phase in her life. She is no more capable of living life on her own terms than you are able to run as fast as you could twenty years ago. It’s a fact of life.”

Over the four years of her life at GVM, Aletha became an adored member of yet another community of people both young and old. On some level, I am confident her family wouldn’t deny that the friendships and support offered within the nursing home could not have been matched had she remained at home. Her involvement within her new “neighborhood” became an invaluable asset both to Aletha and her many friends alike.

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This past Saturday, Aletha’s family asked my brother and me to join them in her already crowded room as they prepared for her death. Standing at the foot of her bed reciting a silent prayer, I suddenly became aware of a low murmur percolating throughout the room. In a few seconds the sound became more pronounced and registered in my mind as the time-honored hymn, “Amazing Grace,” being sung by her entire family. My initial instinct was to leave the room out of respect for their privacy, but I was also struck by the honor of their invitation to join them – as family – to share in their sacred moment. Hymn followed hymn, each sung more boldly than the last, culminating with “In The Garden” bravely offered by her grandson, Joshua.

I stood in awe watching as family members and friends cried tears of both sorrow and joy for the Christian promise of eternal life awaiting their beloved, Aletha.

With amazing grace and abundant faith, they willingly offered her soul up to God.

The experience was profound.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty-four hours later as the sun set on another beautiful, crisp Fall day, I was again privileged to stand alongside two of Aletha's grandsons as she relinquished her final breath.

Shepherded by her loving family, a team of compassionate hospice nurses, and a host of caring friends and neighbors made possible by her life lived within a nursing home over four years, Aletha’s long journey came to a fitting end exactly as she might have envisioned it.

In Room 802 – the last address she would ever call home.

Capturing Life

It's well documented that many Native American’s wanted nothing to do with the white man, Edward Curtis, who would eventually became famous for his stunning collection of photographs immortalizing Indian tribes beginning during the latter years of the nineteenth century.

Generations would speak of long dead relatives who were truly afraid of what his camera might bring to them; they feared his “magical boxes” might literally capture a part of them, if not steal their souls altogether. As a result, many Indians wanted no part of a folly which might prevent them from travelling peacefully on to the “other world” by holding their souls captive on image-laden panes of glass or cellulose.

Time has an uncanny way of changing views about most anything.

Walk into any home of a descendant of these noble tribesmen, and I am confident one would see numerous images of family members ~ living and dead ~ covering walls or desktops. And I would venture a certain bet that most also carry a cell phone equipped with the necessary technology to instantly transmit both still and video images far and wide.

As her life ebbs to a close, my family has set out to unearth as many beloved ~ as well as previously unseen ~ photographs of Mother accumulated over a lifetime. And, as I sit here reflecting over a group of these priceless images, I can’t help but think of the fears expressed by the ancients of the Wild West, and I begin to understand.

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I don’t believe I had ever seen this picture until last year. To my knowledge, this is the earliest picture on record of Mother, sitting alongside her beloved brother, Jim.

She could have been no more than a toddler; she surely had not a care in the world. While the “Rules of Behavior” established by her parents might have made a slight dent in her public persona, for the most part, she seems to have been totally unrestrained with the excitement and joy of living for the moment, spending time with her family and a curious man with lights, a box, and a silly toy.

“This isn’t something we do every day!"

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This picture of Mother in early childhood speaks volumes. Born at the onset of the depression, Mother was raised during those difficult times that demanded much of everyone, including children. As with most children, I doubt she was keenly aware of the serious challenges facing her family and nation that may have affected her daily existence.

There is a seriousness about her in this photograph.

At this time, parents still demanded a great deal from their children when it came to deportment; rest assured Mother was never allowed to run lose screaming in a public setting; failing that, I can only imagine the serious consequences that would have been had.

“Children were meant to be seen and not heard.”

My guess is that the seriousness of this picture, however, has more to do with her sewing.

Mother’s passion for toiling with her hands has never known any bounds; her fascination and love of sewing during childhood would eventually expand to include knitting, gardening as introduced to her by her grandfather, and, in later years, cooking.

While she steadfastly refused to ever acknowledge praise, she was very skilled at all of them.

It is little wonder why I was once (correctly) accused of hiding Mother’s apple pie; to my mind, it was inconceivable to me that any of my more pedestrian siblings might come close to truly appreciating the God-given wonder that was her Apple Pie. Purely out of reverence, I did what I had to do.

The many gifts, wrought of her own hands, would bring great joy to Mother ~ and many others ~ for decades to come.

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In today’s vernacular, Mom would be labeled a “Tween” in this photo. Taken in advance of her twelfth birthday, Mother was clearly coming into her own.

At the time of this photo, the Great Depression was soon to be eclipsed and later vanquished when America was finally forced out of self-imposed isolation into the worldwide conflagration of WWII.

Despite the continued challenges at home and abroad, I see a young girl/woman who was full of optimism, daring to envision a future with limitless potential.

Her life was surely centered on her family but now included friendships, school, tepid attempts at independence, and ... dare I say ... boys?

Knowing my Mother, I would have bet, “Not.”

Mom has never suffered the foolish antics of boys well; I should know.

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By the time this picture was taken, we are left to assume that many young men didn’t bother asking if Mom was indeed interested; one can only imagine the extent to which many a suitor might have gone while attempting to win her attention.

This picture, presumably taken while in college, eventually represents a true find.

My sister was so excited when describing it to me over the phone one evening that I was confident she surely must have exaggerated its potential.

But, perhaps owing to my own personal bias, my sister had been absolutely correct.

Our future Mother was a knockout.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A gaggle of four elderly women recently stopped by Mother’s room while I was visiting. They had all played bridge together for years and, merely by coincidence, learned that Mother was now living in the same nursing home where one of the four was recovering from a hip replacement.

On seeing Mother, I could tell that each of them was immediately taken aback. While no one ever fails to still speak of Mom’s natural beauty and flawless skin, the woman sleeping in that bed was clearly not the vibrant person they had come to know ~ or, perhaps, even wanted to see.

I quickly grabbed a framed picture of Mother from ten years ago and handed it to them. To my amazement, they all became extremely animated when they exclaimed, “This is our Dorothy. Oh, she is so beautiful ... and such a bridge player you have never seen!”

I was ultimately struck how their hoped-for reunion was accomplished only after seeing the woman in the picture from a decade ago; the woman named “Dorothy” asleep in that bed seemed merely to be an abstraction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While examining a good many pictures today, my thoughts suddenly turned to the stories of the Native Americans who were so afraid of the potential for a camera to steal spirits.

But, isn't "capturing" the spirit of a person, at least figuratively, exactly what photographs were intended to do?

To remind all of us of the joy and excitement captured forever in a photograph of our future Mothers as toddlers?

To remind all of us of the first glimpse of steely determination captured forever in a photograph of our future Mothers as they learned the lessons of childhood?

To remind all of us of the promising signs of wonderment and awe captured forever in a photograph of our future Mothers as they began taking their first tentative steps into adulthood?

To remind all of us of the youth, beauty, and vigor captured forever in the photographs of these wonderful women who would soon complete the cycle of life, becoming our mothers?

Just as Mother’s friends would have preferred to be reunited with the “Dorothy” they had come to know and love over many years, all of her children would welcome any opportunity to take a magical step back in time. But, such a dream will surely never come to pass.

My brother has busied himself over the last year or two with his digital SLR camera taking pictures whenever he visits with Mother. I will admit that when I hear the automatic succession of clicks produced by the camera, an odd feeling often settles over me.

I become a bit uncomfortable, I believe, because I am not sure if Mom and he are both aware of what exactly he is doing. Mom isn’t blind to her condition, and then, again, neither is my brother. But, I just can’t help but wonder if both of them understand his vain attempt to “capture” as many of the waning moments of her life that are quickly passing by.

It almost seems to be an act of desperation.

But, to what end?

Unlike the fears expressed by the Native Americans when Edward Curtis appeared with his camera, my brother clearly holds neither the power nor interest in preventing her spirit from moving on to the “other world.”

He does, however, intend to take every opportunity to capture as much of the beauty, love, spirit, joy and determination she continues, in her own way, to exhibit most every day.

Last Dance

I looked at Paul as he went through the motions of the morning and couldn't help wonder what he was thinking. There is no way I can yet understand how he felt.

~~~~~~~~~~

Imagine...

... a progressive disease has robbed you of the very essence of your being. Indeed, every semblance of the life you now enjoy ~ not to mention, the dreams envisioned for your "golden years" ~ have been quashed. Instead of trips planned to visit family and friends, foreign principalities or even a local grocery store, you one day find yourself in a strange, if not, foreboding place. Adding one last insult to injury, you are confined to a wheelchair, robbed of what may well have been the last vestige of any control over your life.

Where are you?

The place into which you have landed is foreign, yet somehow familiar. There is some vague similarity to the sights, smells and pace of hospitals previously visited but there also remains something that is simply ... different.

You soon realize the place is devoid of the normal, comfortable sounds of home ~ no children laughing and squealing while at play, no dogs barking, no water boiling over a stove, no televised football, no music, and not even the curiously familiar sounds of a furnace or dishwasher at work.

Yet, there is a cacophony that percolates through every corridor of the place; it also seems it will never stop.

Call lights blink and "buzz," aides noisily transport metal carts heavy with the smell of food along uncarpeted halls; invisible, unanswerable telephones ring; televisions blare uncontrollably; and, sundry voices ~ not family ~ cry for attention.

"No," you are certain, "this most definitely doesn't feel like home."

Given enough time, you will awaken to a dawning realization the life you once cherished is past.

And, true to the unsettling promise of Thomas Wolf, you eventually understand, "you can't go home again."

~~~~~~~~~~

Mother made this same unhappy transition to a new life within a nursing home two years ago, July 7. Oddly, the intervening years since that somber summer day passed with the "blink of an eye" while also managing to feel like an eternity. I recently came across photographs taken when she first arrived, and found myself shocked by the change that has been visited upon Mother since arriving at GVM. The woman who spends most of her days confined to a bed in Room 807 bears little resemblance to our Mother who, some seven hundred days ago, walked into the nursing home on her own steam. Now confined to a wheel chair, Mother will surely never walk ~ or dance ~ again.

~~~~~~~~~~

One December weekend, I made a decision to bring my portable Bose stereo system to the nursing home. My initial intent was to provide an alternative diversion for Mother who spends most days bored within the isolation of her room. At noon, as a private duty aide arrived to sit with Mom for a few hours, I packed up my "music" and headed for the front door. Having befriended many residents over time, however, I stopped by the dining hall to greet a few friends and fetch coffee. I was almost immediately struck by the din within the dining room; hearing only the sounds of low murmurs as well as the metallic clank of silverware on china, the dining room ~ in the midst of a holiday season ~ was nothing short of oppressive. Not needing permission, I unpacked the Bose, started my iPod and activated a playlist of holiday music.

The effect was nearly instantaneous.

The pall over the room lifted. Most smiled. Many began moving their feet uncontrollably. Some laughed as others cried. And, while a few residents eventually began to sing, others raised their hands overhead in rhythm to the music...

... and one...

Lena, at 95, had been living in the nursing home for many years. Most days it was hard to get even a single syllable response out of her; while she was most always attentive to welcoming "hellos," she rarely offered much in return. Her beloved son, Paul, who had been attending to her daily concerns for years, was understandably one of the few people with whom she would routinely interact but now those moments were becoming rarer with time.

Until that December afternoon...

Lena clearly discovered a wellspring of renewed life within the music that afternoon. This seems to be what happens with most people when exposed to music they truly love. If a person happens onto the classical music listened to by the parents of their youth, the popular music of a bygone era, or even a particularly sentimental favorite holiday song ~ if it was embraced by a person long ago, she will most certainly welcome it with renewed fervor on hearing it again.

Listening to the music that day, Lena's entire countenance suddenly changed. She sat up in her chair, lifted her head, smiled beautifully at Paul and then ~ unexpectedly ~ held out a tiny hand to him. Paul instinctively understood ~ it was not simply a gesture but a request.

Taking a firm hold of Lena's weakened hands, Paul gingerly lifted his frail Mother from the cuirass of her wheelchair,

and then ... they danced.

Over the next few minutes, the entire dining hall was transfixed by what they saw; other family members, residents, and staff watched, applauded and cheered as Paul took the opportunity to share a December dance with his Mother ~ temporarily awakened from a slumber by the effects of the God given wonder that is music.

~~~~~~~~~~

Yesterday, at the base of a gently sloping hillside, Lena was laid to rest, her grave adorned with dozens of pink and white roses.

I looked at Paul as he went through the motions of the morning and couldn’t help wonder what he was thinking. There is no way I can yet understand how he felt.

At the conclusion of the service, Paul, eyes brimming with tears, came to thank me for attending the commemoration of Lena’s life.

And as he walked away, Paul suddenly stopped, turned again to me, and smiled a knowing smile. Since that December afternoon so long ago, he has never failed to remind me of the “last dance” shared with his Mother. It was a moment none present will soon forget ~ nor was it a dance family members will ever have an opportunity to share with our own Mother.

Lena and Paul danced for all of us that day.

I understood the gratitude behind the smile on his face yesterday; he need not have spoken another word.

Postscript: The Girls From Table 5

The Girls From Table 5

I hated the table from the start.

Any other dining room arrangement would have been more appropriate to satisfy Mother’s needs as well as my own. She had been assigned to the smallest of tables in a corner of the dining room seemingly away from any semblance of friendly interaction and conversation. I immediately spied another table of women who genuinely appeared to enjoy each other’s company and quickly recommended the change. But it was not to be.

Mom was stuck in her place at the proverbial children’s table with a couple of cantankerous looking old women. I was not hopeful.

Thankfully, time and experience teaches most of us that initial impressions rarely ring true; the girls from Table 5 would eventually win our hearts.

There was Lola, the pill-hoarding, wardrobe/manners Nazi, whose idea of discretion was to hold a cupped hand to her mouth while offering unsolicited and not-so-quiet pronouncements of guilt at any wardrobe offense or lapse in decorum. She was clearly an old curmudgeon poorly disguised as a sweet old lady.

Then there was Murel – NOT Muriel. My first thought was that she was the picture perfect embodiment of what advancing age would have done to the innocence of Cindy Lou Who from the Grinch. While Seuss’ Cindy may have preferred Who Ham or Roast Beast, Murel’s favorite meal would surely have consisted of a tub of margarine.

Today, I write of Ms. Delia, who came to GVM in October of 2008 and subsequently joined the troika – rounding out a foursome at Table 5.

I freely admit to immediately falling for this feisty, breathlessly frog-throated woman. She was the perfect counter balance to Mother’s shyness among strangers, Murel’s sparkling lunacy, and Lola’s demand for order in an otherwise chaotic environment.

A product of the Depression, Delia, nonetheless, doggedly pursued a college degree in education from Wayne State University going on to teach “everything” within the walls of a Nebraskan one-room school house. In the years that followed, her marriage, coupled with the demands of her husband's ever-changing career, had the family move through various incarnations in Nebraska, Texas, Louisiana, and, finally, Roosterville.

While they never knowingly met, this also happened to be the same untouched farmland hamlet into which my Mother and Stepfather eventually settled.

It is a small world.

When Delia arrived at GVM, she was full of energy and took every opportunity to engage in vibrant conversation and a good game of Skip Bo with her daughter and a friend. She also didn’t shy from handing me a good measure of well-deserved grief on occasion.

I am not personally inclined to treat these elderly residents with kid gloves; I feel that to do otherwise is to deprive them of the intellectual respect they are due. With time and the development of trust, I zeroed in on some of the buttons which pushed each of the ladies in sundry pleasant directions; they genuinely seemed to revel in the good natured (and well intended) give and take.

Often the prodding would have Lola loudly labeling me a “smartass” all the while assuring me that she loves me. And ever incandescent Murel certainly could do no wrong blowing kisses my way, supporting a fragile male ego by further asserting that I am a “very handsome man.”

And, there was Delia. She rarely dropped a beat, almost never missing the opportunity to give as “good as she got.”

Over the past year, we have all been fortunate to share in her joy as a beloved granddaughter married and subsequently wasted very little time providing Delia with her second great-grandchild, Kane. While I was never certain if the couple had moved to Wyoming, South Dakota, or Kansas, the specifics really didn’t matter. She beamed with pride at the telling of every twist and turn.

She clearly loved her family. I distinctly remember the moment she proudly uttered the declaration that her family “was the most important thing I have ever done.”

Delia’s family and friends began the process of mourning today; she passed away late last night following a devastating stroke.

While extremely sad, I am also compelled to smile and inwardly laugh at the thought of Delia and the great joy and laughter she brought to the lives of those around her.

Over the past year, a persistent source of consternation for Delia came at the hands of a less than agreeable roommate at GVM. Her daughter assured me that Delia never had so difficult a relationship with another person in her life. Delia desperately wanted nothing more than for her “problem” to disappear.

As it turns out, Delia finally got her wish.

Just a few days ago, the roommate was moved to another room after breaking her hip and leg.

The immediate question that came to my mind – and out of my mouth – was, “Did Delia do it?”

Absent Delia’s death, Table 5 was already no longer what it used to be. Wheelchair bound, Mom no longer takes meals in the dining room instead preferring to eat early within her room; Murel has become a veritable vagabond happily flaunting the “rules,” eating margarine while making the rounds at other tables; and, well, Lola remains – the single hold out who continues to fight the good fight.

I didn’t know these three remarkable women before they came to the nursing home; there is a part of me that does like to imagine the full width and breadth of the lives each of them enjoyed before time and circumstances brought them together at that smallest of tables.

There was no getting around it. I absolutely never wanted to like anything about the nursing home, that stupid table, and the old women who occupied space at Mother’s side during meals. But each of these women eventually managed to worm their way into our collective hearts without really trying. We are all the better for it. I personally never would have predicted that such an unruly admixture of personalities and experiences could have melded into such a perfect union of souls.

Whomever they were, or wherever life took these women prior to their arrival at the nursing home was never a part of our shared experience. With time, all of us simply came to love the women who were living in the here and now – the girls from Table 5. Without reservation, the only place to be!

In the next few days or even weeks, family and friends will gather at Stroud’s in a celebration of your life, Delia; they will pass the chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans – and, yes, even the bottle – around the only table that truly mattered in your life. The table of your making.

It is said that a person is never completely gone so long as one person remembers her name.

Your family and friends will not allow Kane to forget you, Delia.

I will cherish the memories of my friend from Table 5.

Room 808

It might be said the final chapter of a love story was written Thursday, August 13, 2009.

It is a memoir of mutual devotion which began during childhood and endured for more than 75 years ~ 61 of those years in marriage.

For the past few months, Joseph had maintained an arduous and continuous vigil at the bedside of his wife, Josephine, as she struggled bravely in a losing battle for her life. Family members often begged him to take rest or to eat, but very little ~ short of force ~ would have cleaved him from her side.

Despite all of this, he was always quick with a smile, a pat on the back, and never once failed to ask, "How is your Mother doing?"

The entire family ~ their legacy ~ was at Joseph's side as his Josephine's ordeal came to an end; he would not have had it any other way.

"A wife is the joy of a man's heart." ~ from the Talmud

This could have been written with Joseph in mind; she not only seemed to be his "joy," but clearly held his heart in her hands.

While it seems their story's end was written Thursday, Josephine and Joseph understood the promise of much more to come.

I am standing upon the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white
sails to the morning breeze
and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength
and I stand and watch her until at length
she stands like a speck of white cloud
just where the sea and sky come
down to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says,

"There! She's gone."

Gone where?

Gone from my sight, that is all.
She is just as large in mast and hull and spar
as she was when she left my side,
and just as able to bear her load of living freight
to the place of destination.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at that moment
when someone at my side says,
"There! She's gone."
There are other eyes watching her coming
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout,

"There! There she comes!"

Parable of Immortality ~ Henry Van Dyke

Sailing from this world into the life-eternal.

Room 803

Spend enough time in a nursing home and you will come to know -- even love -- a colorful cast of characters. Going to visit a family member or friend, a person can find himself with a stiff neck -- turning this way and that -- offering up "hellos" to the new friends you have come to know along the halls leading to your loved one's room.

My brother, Jim, arrived early Sunday morning to spend time with Mom. Completing his litany of greetings as he neared Mom's room, Jim passed Room 803 and noticed that Guy was still in bed; he is not a man who "sleeps in." Jim stopped and offered up his usual greeting; Guy responded in kind.

An hour later, Jim decided Mom might benefit from spending a little time outside among the flowers, enjoying the early morning sun and an unseasonably cool breeze. While heading out, they were passed by the blur of Guy's wheelchair as he headed in the same direction.

Sunday was no different from any other day. Guy was on the move.

Guy is 84 years old and "doesn't look a day over 65" -- whatever that means; age is relative, after all. While heart disease and a debilitating stroke have recently rendered him unable to walk, he has managed nicely.

Herodotus famously wrote of ancient couriers who allowed, "neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night," prevent them from swiftly completing their appointed rounds. While this may not accurately apply to modern-day mailmen, Guy is the living, breathing embodiment of this credo. From the moment he laid eyes on his Quantum 600 wheelchair, he has been of a singular mind -- nothing was going to prevent him from getting the hell out of "that" building. He wasted no time.

Guy's adventures are a constant source of entertainment at GVM -- the veritable "stuff" from which nursing home "legends are made."

Once free of the building, Guy effectively took ownership of the extensive properties surrounding the facility. Everyday after breakfast, Guy takes off through the front entrance then heads down a long, winding drive eventually arriving atop a summit known affectionately to many as, "Guy's Hill." I don't know how much time he spends up on his hill on any given day; I have seen him basking in the morning sun as well as the growing evening shadows; he ventures out in rain, sleet, or snow. He wants nothing more than to be free.

There is/are (a) gaggle(s) of geese that have taken up residence on his property. He apparently makes a daily tally of these large-(ly dirty) foul. At last count, there were 44 -- give or take a few errors in accounting. And recently, he was beside himself with excitement over the discovery of a beaver at work in one of his ponds; while he never personally saw it, he went to great lengths explaining the beaver's handiwork to anyone who would listen.

I first came to really learn about Guy through word of his exploits. Gossip around the nursing home spreads faster than any fire. I had previously heard several reports of the "renegade resident" who "constantly escapes from the building in his wheelchair and 'hides out' up on a hill." One day, similar gossip was enhanced by a report that the "same man" had been discovered upside-down -- with only his wheels visible to passers-by. (Guy was fine if not a little embarrassed.) The nursing home administration ultimately conceded the futility of discouraging his adventures but demanded he add an embarrassing orange "caution" flag to the back of his chair; he decorated their flag with a "skull and crossbones."

And, this is how it was on Sunday -- as Mom and my brother set out to enjoy the beautiful morning, Guy met them along the way to his hill. My brother's earlier impression had been wrong; "Guy looks great!" Always in the mood for a good conversation, Guy was eager to sit and talk but Mom suddenly asked to be returned to her room. Before heading their separate ways, Guy asked, "Are you going so soon?"

The irony is staggering; Guy passed away two hours later with his daughter at his side.

His death came as a complete shock.

I am grateful for the time I shared with this man. I don't know what experiences made up the other 83 years of his life before coming to GVM; I only know the man who lived two doors down from Mother these past thirteen months. We all knew him as a gentle giant of a man. We shared pizza (but, sadly, no beer) on Super Bowl Sunday; birthday cake this past April; made dinner reservations for him so that he might enjoy a nice dinner (and a lot of wine) with his daughter; watched as he unabashedly flirted with my sister; made fools of ourselves attempting to decipher the "greek" instructions for a "simple" TV remote; laughed together at the latest new joke his physical therapist had shared; brought him the daily newspaper.

Like so many other family members at GVM, Guy's daughter, Suzie, disrupted her own life in another city to be close to her father after he suffered a stroke and ultimately entered the nursing home. Shortly after his death, Suzie called to relay the sad news; she later confided that she would not have traded the experience for any reason because, "I got to fall in love all over again with this man -- my Father."

Guy did make the trek up to his hill that morning. Just like every other day, he had a place to go and geese to count. None could have predicted where his journeys would ultimately take him on Sunday, but we are somehow comforted knowing he now moves unencumbered. Free of the wheelchair at last, he is travelling on his terms. Guy is truly free.

When the Poet thought of "Those Who Were Truly Great," he finished his work with, "Born of the sun they traveled a short while towards the sun, and left the vivid air signed with their honor." These words come closest to expressing the respect I hold for my friend, Guy.

A new resident will eventually move into Room 803. Guy's name placard will be replaced with one bearing the name of the stranger. And with time, many of us will probably come to love this person as well. But that room -- it will never be anything more than, "Guy's Room," to me.

And, I will never pass your hill, Guy, without thinking of you and that silly flag. We are now left alone to wonder where your new adventure has taken you.

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine upon your face;
the rain fall soft upon your fields
and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.
(Gaelic Blessing)

Miss Ruby

There is something intoxicating about the smell of yeast bread as it is baking; it instantly makes my mouth water.

Mrs. Hanlin was responsible for this. She came to us when Mother was ill and hospitalized for a long period of time; she cooked and cleaned for our family. She was apparently very good at both but her cleaning is NOT what I embraced. I distinctly remember the smell of her yeast bread dinner and cinnamon rolls as they were baking. Long after she had gone that sweet smell was forever etched in my memory.

In the days when I started first grade there seemed to be little concern for children walking to school -- everyone walked. Over time, I came to use those walks as a barometer to gauge how my day would go; an ideal day for me would have begun by walking into the bright light of a Spring morning -- a crisp chill hanging in the air. But, perfection was realized only when the sweet smell of yeast bread goodness permeated the breeze as I approached school. Everyone always knew when it was cinnamon roll day. For this reason, and more, the cafeteria ladies held a special place in my heart.

Miss Ruby worked her entire adult life as a cafeteria cook; she was one of the vaunted ladies entrusted with the secrets to making my only vice come to life. I generally carried my lunch to school but it didn't stop me from coveting the "fruits of her hard labors." I might have sold my soul to the devil for one of those rolls; as it is, I had to settle for potato chips as my only bargaining tool.

I don't know what brought Miss Ruby to GVM. I only know that one of my brothers immediately fell under her spell. It wasn't until I found out what she had done for a living that my interest was truly piqued; I decided I would do almost anything to gain access to her secrets.

I can write that she is almost 100 years of age, nearly blind, and has a wicked sweet tooth. My brother began to spoil Miss Ruby and a gaggle of her lady friends early on by bringing Tootsie Roll Pops almost everyday. It got so bad after a while that one of them would invariably lose her manners by blurting out, "What have you got for us today."

I honestly am not sure if Miss Ruby actually eats Tootsie Roll Pops -- or sells them on the black market. I am justified in writing that because the basket of her walker always has the look of a porcupine for all the Tootsie Roll Pops that stick out of it. I always ask if she has any left, to which she softly replies, "No, I don't think so." When I point out evidence to the contrary she expresses surprised innocence; I choose to believe she is a very cunning actress. She is also irresistible.

She is extremely proud of her days as a cafeteria cook and also speaks quite fondly of her myriad students; she is one of the lucky people who truly loved her work. Yes, she does have the secret recipe for those cinnamon rolls but always insists she doesn't know exactly where she stashed it. She is wickedly cunning. I make a mental note to push harder the next time or to corner one of her unsuspecting relatives.

An amazing woman; soft spoken, kind, reflective, funny, and adorable. She loves to talk.

Sadly, just shy of her 100th Birthday, Ruby died in the comfort of her own bed on July 5, 2009.

That afternoon was unsettling for me; I was pensive. I later looked around the nursing home and noticed nothing seemed to have changed; clocks were ticking, residents were eating their meals, and medications were being passed.

I have been around medicine long enough to know better but still the question surfaces. Why doesn't the world quake or stop when a life is taken? Why aren't we forced to stop and immediately take stock of a life lived and lost?

And then -- in the same moment -- my revery ended as I remembered that I had been asked to find someone to address a problem for Mom. This is what happens -- life happens.

That evening I walked down Ruby's hall and noticed her personal effects were still in the room -- as if she wasn't gone. In a corner stood her walker. And there they were -- jutting out of the basket were two sticks from those Tootsie Roll Pops. I couldn't help but smile.

I keep imagining her as the cafeteria lady from my childhood. The thousands of greetings she must have received over the years!

Hello, Miss Ruby!

Even though I never did get that recipe, I know I am a better person simply for having known her.

The sweet smell of yeast breads baking will forever return me to memories of Mrs. Hanlin and the halcyon days of my youth. It will now also bring me back to these days at GVM, when I came to know one of the cafeteria ladies who once held a secret key to my heart.

Goodbye, Miss Ruby!

Making Friends

Bertha W

It's hard enough dealing with the reality of seeing your own Mother living in a place such as this – a “long term care facility;” there is, afterall, only so much worry a person can assume.

Most of us set out to shower all our love and attention on Mom, but soon discovered there was also another insidious process at work – one that seemed to have a will of its own. Suddenly, we found ourselves taking on much more than we could have imagined.

It started with polite hellos in passing, later moving on to surface level banter. Depending upon personalities, it might very well have ended there. We were, after all, made up differently and there were so many factors at play. To my way of thinking, there was no right or wrong ~ people just needed to allow their personalities to carry them.

A few members of our family are prone to reaching out. It might simply have been that we are “people persons,” but I believe there was much more going on than this. There is a real need in this environment ~ beyond simple niceties ~ to share with others who are walking the same path. Even as members of our family moved in and out of this environment, spending as much time as possible with Mom, some of us came to be on a first-name basis with many residents and family members alike. This wasn't a conscious process – it simply happened.

I long ago came to the conclusion this may very well have constituted a coping mechanism. If we were to constantly dwell solely on Mother’s concerns it could have ~ and did at times ~ become overwhelming. Simplistically, I think there is often a process at work that “moves” some people to reach out; when people express an interest in someone or something else ~ putting aside our own selfish concerns for a moment ~ their own problems are somehow rendered less significant.

Whatever the silent motivation, some family members took to it with a passion. All of us ~ no matter how much time we spend at GVM ~ always return to the familiar faces of residents, family members, and staff. For someone who never wanted to step foot in any nursing home, I feel I have truly come a long way; I actually look forward to seeing many of these people ~ I am sincerely curious to know how they are doing or if there is anything new and exciting to share. To this end, we have all become an extended family of sorts. One of my brothers even knows the coffee tastes of some fifteen or more residents ~ whether they take sugar, cream, or thickener. There is comfort in this.

There is also, however, an extremely harsh reality ~ an unspoken but attendant risk ~ that comes with these relationships. Just as you form bonds with these residents and their families you are often dealt a sudden and bitter reminder:

As if ice water is being thrown on your face, you are taught ~ time and time again ~ most of your newfound friends have come to the nursing home to die.