Creativity Healed Me

 

Only four months after the loss of my dear boy cat, Rocco, his littermate sister Bella went downhill quickly and we lost her the day after Thanksgiving. I never realized the bond between human and feline could cut so deeply after ours was severed. 

When Rocco passed, Bella seemed to look around for him for the longest time. Then I ordered a "cat pillow" with his picture and she took to sleeping right by it on the couch. Who knew that a cat could suffer a broken heart as well? Bella's depression turned quickly into ongoing health issues for her. Right at the time when my husband landed in the hospital this past fall, Bella began to exhibit some scary behavior. She barely ate, she seemed to have other stomach issues. One thing didn't change and that was her need to be in my arms. 

When I read or crocheted on the couch, Bella would always walk by scoping the situation. If I motioned for her to jump up, she would join me. But she was a lap cat and eagerly let me rock her like a baby when I put my book or other project down. She would gaze into my eyes as if trying to memorize my face. I spoke sweetly to her and told her how much I loved her but I began to have a terrible feeling.

Only one thing seemed to draw me out of a constant worry for my husband and Bella. I began some simple craft-making at the time. Just silly bookmarks at first, but then my passion developed into card-making and watercolor painting. Before too long, I found that stress seemed to float away, at least for an hour or so while I crafted. It appeared that creating something pretty created a much better me.

Though my Bella was comfortable, I knew that there would come a time that she would whisper in my ear that she was ready to join her brother. I truly thought I'd have her for several more years, but Bella said differently. She fell asleep in my arms at the vet's office the day after Thanksgiving. My heart cracked into two pieces and the tears flowed for a time.

Paper hearts, pretty Christmas glitter, and little baubles began to seal the fracture that ran along my own heart. As I shared the items with others, people told me to continue and cheered my beginning efforts at crafting. Bella was never more than a thought or prayer away from me, but my hands busied themselves with glue, scissors, and all sorts of pretty papers. The hands that petted and held a beautiful cat now began to make beautiful things. 

I miss two beautiful cats. I miss them with everything inside me. Their love remains with me as I sit near the two pillows with their precious faces. As I craft, I hear myself singing silly cat songs to them or calling them by the pet names reserved for special times. Rocco will always be my "Boy Oy Oy." And Miss Bella will always be "My Girlfriend!"

I will continue to make sweet little gifts for people and maybe someday I will even sell some of these things. I will enjoy every precious moment of crafting and thank God for the gift of healing that came along with it.

My beautiful girlfriend, Bella.

My little sweetheart's memorials.

Bella's pillow.

Bella cuddling with her brother's memory pillow.

Some of my latest creations:

The Little Stool

 

The other night my niece asked my brother about a stool that had been in our family for many years...

Were you excited little stool the day the man and woman brought you to your new home? You had recently been discarded, unwanted, no longer useful; put out at a curbside yet someone saw in you what you could become.

The man and the woman brought you into their home and into their kitchen, a place with wonderful sights and aromas. It was always warm and cozy in that room, and it was there you would find your permanent place under the table.

They painted you white, a color that befitted your position. You wouldn't be like any other seating; you would always shine.

The man and woman spent many hours in this room, your room, and they talked and laughed and made plans and listened and loved. The woman cooked and sang. Music was everywhere in those days and it was happy, always happy.

When others would come to visit, you felt useful because your family, as you would come to think of them, never had enough seats and some truly lucky person would choose you and sit at that wonderful table, the place where talk and happiness lived.

Sometimes, they put books and papers onto you, little stool, important things that needed to be gone through and you felt useful and oh so happy.

You listened to stories, oh so many tales of times past and sweet hope for the future. You saw two children grow up and then become replaced by two little girls who would fight for who might sit upon you. And you felt proud--proud to be chosen and adored.\

You watched little craft projects, paints, dollhouse furniture, and pumpkins to be decorated. You proudly  held a warm body when that huge meal came once a year, the thankful holiday. You saw twinkly lights being untangled and listened to cheerful music at the colder time of the year; the time with the presents and love all around.

After a while, your man and woman began to age. They still sat near you, still talked, but it was different somehow. Maybe even a little sad. Sometimes there wasn't anyone to sit on you, to know how much you wanted to be useful. And time passed.

One day the man didn't return and a short time later the woman didn't either. That was the loneliest time for you, the waiting, waiting, hoping, watching. What would happen to you, little stool?

Then the boy, now grown came with a family of his own. There was life again and you were put back to work, the bonus seat for new meals, new conversations, new music, new stories.

One day, the little girl, slowly becoming a young lady, asked about you, little stool. She wondered where you came from and how long you had been with the family who'd loved you so much. The dad and his sister knew you had been around for a long, long time. They knew all you'd seen, all you'd done for their family. They appreciated you and they were happy for the day that the man and woman had chosen you. They knew you had heard much and seen much in your time with them. They loved you and they would always have you.

A Simple Journey

 

It began about two years ago for me. Work had hardened me. The load felt unbearable, and the new duties, insurmountable. Days began to blur one into the other, and the hours took their toll on my mind. 

Right about that time my husband retired from his job. He'd earned it, believe me. Putting in around seventy-two hours a week, working short-handed at Monro Auto as their manager for many years, had not given him much time for relaxation and enjoyment.

 There would be no more alone time for me, however, when I was home. He would always be there. No more coming back from work to an empty house for a few hours of quiet time. There would be someone every minute of my day either at my job or my home. I became resentful. I felt I had no outlets except anger.

 I wasn't the same person I'd been, the "caring Karen" that everyone knew. I became short-tempered, quick to judge, a bit mean with those around me, co-workers, but especially my husband. I admit it. I felt I lost a little of "me." 

I wasn't giving myself grace or self-realization to allow those feelings to come and then also to flow away. I held onto them tightly, not liking myself much, and getting swept up in the attitude that so many others had after covid times anyway. Maybe I would change once I retired. But did it need to take that long?

Until recently. Until I began my journey of finding Mr. Rogers. It began oddly, at the end of his own journey: at the gravesite of this simple, wonderful man. On a sunny afternoon, my husband and I drove to the town where Fred Rogers was born and buried. It took only a few moments to locate the mausoleum where he rested. I got out of the car and took my time walking to the front of it, looking through the glass door and seeing his name etched upon the stone. Fred McFeely Rogers. I knelt on the marble stairs and wept. I cried for this dear soul and all he'd meant to me in my life. I cried for myself too as I felt something breaking inside of me.

There were little nick knacks and painted rocks left for him. I, too, left some small tokens: a little cardinal and butterfly pendant. The symbolism of those two items for me was profound. They sustained me during the loss of my own parents a few years before.

After that day, I wanted to learn more about Mr. Rogers and his life. I began to read books written about him and watch videos of his life. I found a simple yet powerful faith, an attitude of love, and an aura of kindness surrounding every word uttered about him. Yes, I'd watched his television show when I was younger and I adored him and his precious neighborhood of make-believe. But I'd never delved so deeply into what this man stood for.

I had met him briefly in 1972 when I lay in a ward at Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh. It had been a dreary day and my parents were unable to be with me. Encased in a large plaster body cast which covered me from neck to above my hips, I felt sorry for myself, frightened, and unsure of what lay ahead. The school year before had been a nightmare. Boys had been making fun of the way I walked. They hadn't known, well, I hadn't known either, that I had scoliosis, curvature of the spine. 

I felt ugly, misshapen, odd, and alone. My mood was as dark as the rainy day. There was a lot of commotion going on in the hallway. It seemed that a special visitor was there for us. Since I couldn't move, I had to be content to wait and see what the hoopla was all about. Then he came in. It was Mr. Rogers. In the red sweater we'd all known him for. He stopped briefly at every child's bedside in our ward. And when he came to me, the oddest thing happened: he put his hand on the rail of my bed and looked me straight in the eyes. "What a pretty girl," he said, giving me that charming, sweet smile. I know I smiled back, feeling a little starstruck. 

How did he always know what to say to everyone? I feel this man had a deep connection to God. It's as if the Holy Spirit moved through him and the right words at the right time would come from within. His words changed my life. No longer was I homely and different. I was pretty. Mr. Rogers told me so.

And now in my life, I hear him speaking to me once again on this journey to finding Fred. He says the words to me again, and this time they are meant for another purpose. What a pretty girl. I'm not bound by my angry feelings, the ones that make me ugly inside. I take his lessons with me daily on my job and around others. I remember the best lesson: kindness. It takes nothing for me to apply Mr. Rogers lessons to daily life. My journey may take the rest of my life, but it won't be a lonely one. For I have Fred Rogers in my heart now. I carry his beauty, faith, simplicity, and goodness close. 

Thank you Mr. Rogers for the compassion you once gave me. I will try to spread it to others.

Just Ask

 

One day I was missing my parents so much. I talked to God and asked if someday He might share a small sign that they were near with me. I have never asked this. As I folded clothes later that evening in my room, I felt as if someone stood next to me. I looked to my side and said, "Hi Mom and Dad," and went right on with the clothes. I didn't see anyone.

Later that night as I turned in for the evening, I said "goodnight" to a picture of my parents that is laying on top of my nightstand. It isn't framed, only a regular photograph.

The next morning when I awoke, (I'd like to say I hopped out of bed with a spring in my step, but, well....arthritis and all...), but when I got out of bed, I looked over and the picture of my parents wasn't on the stand. I looked and it was laying on the floor on the side of the nightstand, face up with their beautiful smiling faces looking at me.

I placed the photo back on the nightstand. I tried creating a breeze with my arms, with my bed blankets, with the closet door, etc. Nothing stirred that picture at all. I tried to replicate laying there and hitting it with my arms, but it was too far away from me, and I usually cocoon myself like a burrito when sleeping, so flailing arms aren't usually my thing anyway.

"Well, Lord," I thought, "I did ask. The Bible says you have not because you ask not." Perhaps God's gentle breath blew through my side of the room that night. He stirred the picture of my parents to show me a sweet little sign. They're okay, Karen. They are here with me. They still love you, but they've changed, and they don't have the worries and concerns they once did. Be happy for them.

When I look at the photograph now, a huge smile breaks out onto my face. For in this picture, they are young, healthy, happy, and so in love. And I believe they are like that right now.

What signs and wonders have you seen perhaps in nature, or in your own home that reminds you of God's existence and love?

Bushel and a Peck: Hope, Healing, and Unconditional Love

 

My mother told me that she’d had a secret name for me. She called me her ‘Shining Star.’ Like a blazing trail of light, I was always the one thing Mom could come back to. When she knew nothing else, she still knew me. She said I’d been like a beacon of hope to guide her home. It was a title that rooted my love deeply for my mom. I could see the patterns of her life now. It became clear that she’d never been weak. My mother had only wanted to be loved . . .

 Mom’s mental illness stigma made my early life anything but ordinary. But my father’s quiet courage helped to guide us through. Later, from strong businesswoman to Alzheimer’s, my mother would leave a legacy of lasting love, and Dad, one of incredible strength.

It took me four years to write this novel, but a lifetime to live it. Though sometimes I look back now and feel there was never enough time with Mom and Dad, I know that my parent's lives and their love carry on in me, my brother, and son.

This memoir is deeply personal to share, and it isn't just another journey of Alzheimer's though there are many wonderful books on the subject from my fellow authors. This is a story of how one man loved one woman unconditionally enough to go through hell and back, and how a family's faith allowed them to glimpse times of miracles. It is my own story of insecurity, fear, anxiety, and tears. It is God's love poured into me so much that I pray it overflows into you as you read it.

Thank you for allowing me this little bit of self-promotion as I share my book with you. If you are blessed by it, I would truly love to hear from you. My email is scoutfinch15003@yahoo.com

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1944938303/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_taft_p1_i0?fbclid=IwAR15DEv2Q8CMk7unr3wIP-15wDQWzOTToO3liMybwgY08CN101-nv7CyhBo

 https://www.amazon.com/Bushel-Peck-Healing-Unconditional-Memoir-ebook/dp/B08T243T5M/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=karen%20malena&qid=1610752671&sr=8-2&fbclid=IwAR1TJleeABOW-qDgHEG7mix3ymsyjsuZqjGGZzevCgx8PfuX1z2UQyAsuZY

Healing Hands

 

The phone rang at the small dental office where I worked. “We need you to come in for an x-ray. There appears to be a spot on your lungs.”

     I clicked off the portable phone with shaking hands. The dentist looked at me across the patient we’d been working on. As the only employee- dental assistant and receptionist- my duties were numerous. I knew that my boss didn’t like me to get personal calls. But I think he could tell by the look on my face that it was something very serious.

     Fear grabbed hold of me. I had no words. I had to finish the patient’s procedure while my stomach clenched with terror. I tried not to let my hands shake as we continued working.

     I imagined the worst right away. I’d always been a glass-half-empty sort-of person. News always meant something bad. But this—a spot on my lung. It had to be cancer.

     So many thoughts rolled within me at once. I’m only thirty-eight. My son is ten. I can’t leave him now. He needs me. What about my parents? We were such a close family. What would this do to them?

     After we dismissed the patient, I told my boss about the phone call. I excused myself from the office for the rest of the day. I had to find answers.

     I drove three blocks to my physician’s office. I barely noticed the brilliant hues of the red and gold fall leaves on the trees lining the streets. People walking along the sidewalks blurred as tears stung my eyes. Though Thanksgiving would soon be approaching, I had nothing to be thankful about.

     I’d recently had minor outpatient surgery. Everything had gone well and I’d been on my way to complete recovery. It seemed odd that the doctor called me now after I’d had all the pre-testing and x-rays done over a month before. Nobody had informed me of any issues and I’d been cleared for the procedure.

     When I walked into the doctor’s office and informed the receptionist I was there, she told me to wait a few minutes and they would call me back shortly. I tried picking up a magazine to browse through or tried smiling at the others seated nearby. Nothing worked. I could feel fear choking me.

     New x-rays were taken and I waited for the doctor in an examination room. It didn’t take long for him to bring in the new films.

     “Here it is,” he pointed out. “A spot on your left lung.” He compared it to the x-rays taken one month before.

     The words hung in the air until I had the courage to ask, “What can it be, doctor?”

     “Well,” he said, “it could be an old scar from pneumonia you may have had at one time, or it could be cancer.”

     Cancer: a word that changes lives. It would certainly change mine.

     I left his office that afternoon completely baffled and fearful. Further tests would have to be scheduled.

     I called my mother that night. “First of all, I refuse to believe this,” she said. “Also your doctor was too harsh. I want you to have a second opinion, honey. I’d like you to see my doctor. She’s good and also very compassionate.”

     Mom also told me about a pastor she had recently met in the little antique shop she owned. “He was a good man,” my mother said. “We got to talking about so many things the day he was in the store. He told me incredible stories of healing. He said he had been given the gift of healing hands. I’d like to call him for you if that’s okay.”

     Though I’d been a bit skeptical as I waited for further tests, I knocked on the door of the pastor’s small home. He invited me in, and we sat and chatted for a while. Pictures of Jesus hung on the wood-paneled walls: Jesus comforting little children and the sick. Jesus, please comfort me too, I thought. Bibles and inspirational reference books lined bookshelves. A sense of peace enveloped me.

     I wanted to clear my conscience before he prayed. As I spoke, I felt cleansed and a sense of great relief.

     He anointed my forehead with spice- scented oil that reminded me of the incense our church used during special seasons. He placed his hands on my head as he prayed. I could feel the depth and power of the healing words as he spoke. There seemed to be a warm sensation going from his hands right through me. When he was done, I thanked him. He asked me to stay in touch.

     During the time I had to wait for the scheduled tests, I kept busy with something I enjoyed: raking fall leaves into huge piles on a crisp afternoon. My mind felt free in the fresh air. I’d been reading my Bible daily like a warrior getting ready for battle. I prayed bolder prayers and began to think a bit more positive. The fear that had engulfed me was replaced by a sense of calmness. The touch of the pastor’s hands had given me hope.

     My mother’s doctor met us at the local hospital the day of my tests. She was a tiny lady with a big personality. “I’m going to be around,” she said to me and Mom. “I want to see the results of the scan immediately.”

     Afterward, when we sat in the waiting area, my mother’s doctor came into the room with a perplexed, but cheerful expression. “I don’t know what the other doctor saw,” she said. “There is absolutely nothing on your scans.”

     Relief flooded me. Mom and I thanked her for the wonderful news as we hugged one another and cried happy tears.

     Later that night as I was praying, I remembered something that a friend had said to me a few months earlier. She’d called me one day and said, “Karen, I don’t know why you are supposed to hear these particular words, but God said everything is going to be okay.” They had been cryptic, but comforting words at the time, and as I thanked my heavenly father that evening, it came to me: I’d already been healed from that moment.

     It was easier to think positively as time went on because I’d become a more powerful prayer warrior. When others had issues in their lives, I gave them Bible passages that had comforted me during my own fearful time. I shared my story to bless others. Scriptures were no longer words but living truth. No longer fearful and negative, my life was filled with true thanksgiving.  It was the best Thanksgiving ever.

 

 

 

 

Masterpiece from Messes

Sometimes that old devil tries to remind me that I'm not that good at anything. Cakes that I put effort into fall flat. Bread dough doesn't rise, and the new recipe I tried for dinner has hubby looking at me with less than joy on his face.

Same thing with craft projects. If I'm drawing, I erase enough times that a hole ends up in the paper. When gluing items together, I look at the finished product and then it tumbles like a house of cards. Crocheting is an area I'm especially sensitive. I've watched countless tutorials on how to get that perfect edge and still, I look back after a few rows and I've got a distorted rectangle. Is there nothing I'm one hundred percent perfect at?

When I write a blog, short story, or even get lost in putting a book together, I plunge forward, so happy that the words are flowing and everything I want to convey is smooth and mistake free. But let's face it: nothing is without flaws. That's where I got the inspiration for today's blog.

Can we possibly make a masterpiece of some of the messes we've made? Figuratively as well as literally? I've messed up in life enough times, fallen short as mother, daughter, sister, friend, and wife. Yet people seem to forgive me and still love me. I was short-tempered with my mom during her battle with dementia. I still remember times that my actions or words hurt a friend or my husband. I feel that my son had the worst parent in the world when I think of dumb things I did.

Can I take all that and offer it to the One who can make a better me? Sure I was short with Mom. It wasn't easy. I hurt so much inside missing the woman she once was. Yet there were other times that I forgave myself and found kindness and patience--more than I ever would have imagined. As a mother, I see the good young man my son has grown into, and despite any flaws in my parenting, he makes me proud and happy. Words that are said unkindly can't be taken back, but I have learned to be a person to ask for forgiveness quickly. Or to say I'm sorry; I want to do better. Then I work on those areas that are most difficult.

So, when a craft project, drawing, crocheting, or other creative things come out less than perfect, what if I step back and take a look at them? Can I see something else in the pattern perhaps? Something I hadn't even thought of? I turned a distorted lap blanket into a cozy pillow cover for my couch. I was ready to throw out a month's worth of work until I saw something different.

Satan, not today! Today I'll focus on what I've learned from my mistakes. I'll be a better woman, wife, mother, friend, sister, and worker. I'll crochet my little heart out and if something goes awry, it will become something even better! Just like me!

Quarantine with Peace

I have to admit I had a little panic attack the other day when I heard we have to self-quarantine until April 30th now. I can't do that, I thought. I won't do it. But I will.

By no means am I taking this lightly. It is sad seeing the case numbers and the lives lost. It is equally sad seeing people being laid off or losing their jobs entirely. I am fortunate to be able to go into work one or two days a week (alone) at my dental office to call patients and open the mail, etc.

What's bothering me so much though is all the negativity. News, social media, friends, and armchair quarterbacks alike. I think we all need, more than ever, healthy does of what's good, positive, and uplifting.

Mr. Rogers had once said, "Look for the helpers, when things are scary." (Not in those exact words.) I find that if we do LOOK, they are all around. I see people stepping up for good in so many communities. Though they are practicing social distancing, they are thinking of creative ways to show how much they care, or offer hope, a daily scripture, or a smile. Isn't that the best way to get through a crisis?

At the time of my life that was the most difficult and saddest, my mother's dementia and subsequent loss of my father and then mother nine months later, I found a lot of good all around me. There were the helpers at that time: friends who brought food, stayed by my side, ran errands, wrote messages of cheer, or called to see what they could do.

There were moments of laughter between my brother and I. It became a time to remember some of the crazy antics our parents had done through the years. Mom always said to remember her and laugh. I never thought it could be possible, but it was.

When I was younger, I used to think that the death of my parents would push me over the brink of sanity. And though it was horrible to go through, there was peace that filled my heart. It filled it so much that it overflowed to others. I remember at the funeral home, as people approached me, I sensed a holy presence (the Spirit) all around me. I was able to talk with others and give them the comfort they sought so hard to give to me. I lived and breathed that peace.

Is it possible to keep peace around us like a shield when all of this is going on in the world? The answer is yes. Sure we can find pockets of peace in the day, when the sun is shining on our face, birds are singing sweetly, we are lost in a great book, or doing something we truly enjoy. But that real inner peace is something else entirely.

I remember where I was when complete brokenness enveloped me in its gloomy embrace. I sat in the window well of Heritage Valley Hospital. The doctors and nurses weren't holding out much hope any longer for Dad. My brother and I used to will him to live with everything inside us. I used to think if I could keep breathing for him, he will keep breathing for us. As I watched my father on life support, however, I realized those precious breaths were for naught this time.

In that window of the hospital, I broke and said, "God, your will be done." The words were said with meaning and the knowledge that I'd just let my father go. However I was letting him go completely into God's care and loving arms right then. With my heart breaking, I was able to find courage and peace to say goodbye to my father. It was that courage and peace that stayed with me through his death, funeral, caring for Mom, and her death. It may have wavered a bit, but never left my side.

May you find that true inner peace and the courageous warrior you can be as we go through this pandemic together. Ask for it. God will answer.

The Memory Blanket

The small afghan lay folded across my lap while I tied off the last threads of yarn. Old friend, I thought, rubbing my hand across the delicate surface, it’s been quite a journey you and I have taken together. What started as a small project meant to keep idle hands busy and a mind filled with worry at peace, was finally at an end. When I stretched it out before me, my heart sank. The rectangle was distorted, imperfect. And the colors I’d used looked hideous to me. Where was the soft, warm blanket I’d worked lovingly on for so long?

When my father passed away a little over a year ago, and caregiving for Mom’s Alzheimer’s became the new normal, I had to have something to occupy my downtime in the evenings. I found several skeins of different colored yarn in my crocheting tote bag, ones that were bought for older projects that were already completed. A lap blanket would be a good project. I could make it for my mother.

The blanket became a quest of love. Mom was always chilly. It would be perfect to tuck around her as she sat on her favorite spot on the sofa. Or perhaps she would snuggle with it in bed. I hoped she would like the fact that it was made just for her and began to work on it every chance I could. During television time with my husband at night, during the many doctor appointments my mother had each week, the tote bag filled with colorful yarns, a small pair of scissors, and my favorite crocheting hook was always by my side. Somehow it was comforting that no matter where my mind wandered, no matter how confused Mom was becoming, or worse yet, the fact that her health began failing, at least my hands felt useful when I did not. 

Then the worst of it had happened last March. My heart felt as if it splintered into tiny shards. I’d taken my mother to a high school play of Beauty and the Beast. She’d sung along and laughed. She wanted a picture with the princess after the show. How could it have been that I found myself sitting in a rehab facility one week later wondering if she would ever recover? She seemed lost as if the dark recesses of her brain had begun to close some of its doors tightly. I wondered where her speech and smile had gone. I wondered why she slept so much. I wondered about the odd little phrases she uttered; things that made no sense at all.

We’d found out that Mom had several small strokes. They had affected her ability to communicate properly. Though she had no paralysis, it appeared Mom started to give up. She couldn’t dress herself any longer or even walk. Secretly I’d wondered if she was willing herself away somehow in an attempt to be reunited with Dad. She slept most of the time as I sat by her side. Then, more than ever, I’d needed my crocheting project. While my hands worked at the yarn, my mind worked at prayer. I could look up; watch my mother sleep without missing a stitch. Unable to do anything for Mom, it seemed that as long as my hands were busy, I felt useful somehow.

My mother would awaken and watch me crocheting. I talked of everything and anything in those moments to engage her, to find a spark of the life she once had. Several times I spoke of the little blanket.

I lost my mother in July of last year. I had so wanted to have that blanket done for her. Though I hadn’t been able to give it to her while she was living, I thought about laying her to rest with my final gift. It still wasn’t finished. 

Thinking back now, I’m glad the project wasn’t completed because I was the one who needed it. It gave me a chance to reflect on my visits with Mom. With every crocheted row, a new memory would pop up. The tears would flow, but they weren’t entirely tears of sadness. I knew my mother was reunited with Dad and at peace.

 The blanket, which had been such a big part of the close, quiet times I’d spent with my mother on her final journey, would always be a reminder to me of her very good life and all the moments with her during those last precious months.

As I looked again at the distorted shape and the un-matched colors of the finished lap afghan, I realized some important lessons. Life had been like that for my family in the last several years; not perfect, but certainly workable. Sometimes our journey had been ugly and the outcome, unclear much like the pattern I’d haphazardly seemed to crochet. The mismatched yarn in each row reminded me that there had been differences in our little family, and though colorful at times, it certainly was messy at others. But much like the soft fabric, I realized that my Heavenly Father had given me a softened heart toward my aging parents. And the warmth that even an imperfect blanket provided showed me that my own imperfections could be used for something good. No longer unattractive, the blanket has become a masterpiece, one that I will treasure forever.

His Final Lesson

Recently, my brother shared a piece that he wrote about our dad. It is one of the most heartfelt, poignant things I've ever read. Beautiful, succinct, and touching, may you be blessed by this lovely writing:

His Final Lesson

“Rick, come here.” Typically, words and even commands spoken by him did not elicit a heightened reaction from me, but there was a specific tone that made this sound different, possibly more imperative. 

Please don’t believe that I am someone who is not reactive. My main priority in life shifted from one of being cared for to being the caregiver. I still wonder how I took that responsibility without being more overwhelmed or more mystified. Because it was me – the boy who could not go to school without fear of being away from his parents; the boy who crumbled at any potential illness – my own or theirs; the boy who could not stick to any activities such as Boy Scouts or band. Yet, when the time came, I gracefully accepted the role as the caregiver, the boy now who could be called man. Although I did not see it, I embraced it. His lesson was that of a teacher – quietly teaching valuable lessons of being a man without me even knowing that it was occurring.  

The response to my expected question “What’s wrong?” was one of unknown pain that was to eventually take him away from me. We started what would be our last phone call to 911 and subsequent collecting of the home items for another hospital stay. 

Despite my fears, years of concern based on the reality of mortality being a few steps away, possibly a few minutes away due to him not being in touch with his body or his needs associated with the plethora of health issues related to heart trouble, I always reacted with a calm nature and, in my heart, believed that it was not the end. Regardless of the severity of some of the hospital stays or diagnoses, I must admit that I never believed it would end. Naivety is not usually my forte. But with him, I always felt like there was another day, another month, another year. This was a testament to another lesson – the lesson was grace regardless of the surroundings and circumstances. 

The ensuing diagnosis, required surgery, and many ups and downs in his physical and mental health took a toll on all of us. It only lasted three weeks, but felt like many months had gone by. He was tired, frail, and, no doubt disappointed that his body was failing, but he never complained and never once did he say he was in pain. 

I was young and full of anxiety. My concerns ranged from my own physical health through the rest of the family being ill or diseased. He did not understand mental health issues such as this. He had dealt with others’ issues, but he never quite understood the “why” behind them. Yet, when I needed him to be there to tuck me back in at night or to pick me up from school when the worry was beyond normal, he was there. He never made me feel bad for the worry, or for being bullied, or for the irrational concerns about death, monsters, and such.  This lesson was to understand and accept, sometimes even if you don’t truly understand. 

I watched him in bed daily – some days intubated, some days awake and able to talk and listen. Reality of this being our final hospital stay became more and more tangible as the weakness grew and no interventions had a lasting effect. A doctor had called me and sternly said, “We have to be open and prepared if God is calling him” since some of their interventions were not having that magical effect we had come to expect. Still, the grace of handling this without falling apart had overtaken me. I cried, I begged to have it be different, I used up my bag of tricks that had always kept his quality of life high, but this time was to end in an unfamiliar way and I was letting that reality make me stronger. 

I had not been formally acquainted with death. I had heard stories of all of the loss that my family had handled, but most of this occurred before I was born. Distant relatives, friends of the family, and others that we had known were gone and the sting had been there, but it was a fleeting pain, yet all their memories would remain fond to me. His mother had died many years ago and I watched him handle it with quiet compassion and reverence for who she was to him and to others. His lesson was unending love and the value of legacy.

I received a call from the hospital that he denied intubation. He was still present, but the intubation would be necessary to continue life. I had no choice but to go and find out if this was truly the end. I cannot recall my thoughts on my way to this visit, probably an amalgam of potential outcomes at that point. I laid eyes upon him in his bed, the way that I had for these few weeks, and even hours prior, but I knew this held more weight than those other visits. Upon seeing me, I should have known that he could not lay eyes on me and say “okay, I give up”.

Each time that we had a “scare”, I suppose it was evident that I was giving every fiber of my being to positive outcomes, never once admitting that there were any options beyond continued life. And I lived that way from day to day, for many years. Regardless of how high he had gotten in age, there never was a day that I let on that he was aging. Regardless of how he was unable to do certain jobs or activities, I never let on that he was more limited. I was his biggest cheerleader. I had gone from being the frightened little boy to his champion in all ways that I could. There were ways that he adapted to still be functional and express his love, despite any limitations.  This could also be attributed to him – the lesson of adapting to your environment and accepting change. 

This visit lasted only about twenty-five minutes. He would allow them to place the ventilator back on. We had moments of communication, despite this final intubation. So many words were spoken before this point, yet it was down to a few final lessons. Though it was only a few short years ago, the memory of all words has faded a bit. However, significant words were spoken at that time. I told him that we would not torture him anymore after this attempt. I wanted him to know that he had fought hard, but I also wanted him to know that I, the one who had fought so hard to keep him alive for so many years, was giving him permission to no longer suffer or fight, when it was so clear that he was ready to let go.  Our last exchange was one in which I initiated my expression of love. In all of my years of life, the words had never left my mouth toward him and neither him for me. It was clear as day, though, that was how we felt. But, on this night, I felt that it was time. I knew it was the right time. And, he reciprocated. 

His last lesson was finding out if I could be not just a man, but the man; the man who could let him go despite giving so much to ensure that he lived; the man who could be strong enough to use words of love because the actions were no longer possible. This lesson was his most valuable, because we both needed it to move on; for him to move on past this life and for me to move on past him to a life which would have to garner new meaning and understanding and use the tools provided since childbirth to continue the cycle of love and kindness.  

Author: Matthew R. Mattia (Rick)