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.

A Bittersweet Christmas Visit

Tomorrow my brother and I will visit the residents at the care facility which housed our mom for several months this year bringing them a little Christmas cheer. It will be the first time I've been back there since she passed away, and a very bittersweet visit for me. For I'll picture Mom around every corner, in all her usual places. The dining room where she sat with other ladies, enjoying small parties that were held there. The hallways we wheeled through, and even walked when she was still able. The outdoor seating area where I would take her for little rides round and round with her wheelchair, as I talked about the chirping birds, blue skies, butterflies--anything to share with her.

I'll see her petting the resident dogs, becoming so animated when they were near. And then I'll envision her sneaking morsels of food to them while another lady yelled for her to stop. There should be familiar faces: the nurses and aides who gave tirelessly of themselves to her. Some of the residents we had gotten to know well and spoken with, each with their own life story.

But when it comes time to walk past the last place I spent time with my mother, her room, I know my heart and soul will grow quiet, for it will almost be holy ground for me. I will picture myself touching her hair and face lightly while singing songs that she sang to me as a child. I will watch her chest rise and fall, every breath precious as she began the process of leaving this world. I'll remember how her eyes were focused above her--on things I could not imagine.

I'd pictured what Christmas might be like this year before we knew we were losing Mom. How the holiday would be so different without her at home, and how we would cope with celebrating in a nursing home. I thought we would have her much longer. I couldn't imagine what life would be like without her. Yet here we are now, facing the first Christmas without both of our parents.

I feel her near many times. I've dreamed beautiful dreams of her, some that feel like she is right there with me. And I hold fast to items she once held dear: a wedding band, a cat necklace, simple clothing and many pictures.

I think about tomorrow and realize that the care home is only a building, nothing fancy or special. But it's the place where beautiful souls sometimes have to wander before their final journey home. My mother journeyed there, but didn't stay very long. God called to her, and Dad waited for her. And when she said the words, "I want to go home," God answered.

It's Never Too Late

Mom was never the warm and fuzzy type. Not a hugger or a kisser, but my brother and I knew we were loved and adored growing up. She showed her care in so many other ways; with the baked goods and food she prepared every single day. With a listening ear for our school bully infractions, or the betrayal of our one true love. Advice given, words of wisdom, character building ones. A tender heart toward nature and toward others. No prejudice was allowed--Mom truly cared for all of mankind. This is who I am honored to call my mother.

Yesterday the tables were turned in a very dramatic way for me. Though her once beautiful mind has been faltering for some time with dementia, and my brother and I have been caregivers through it all, I had to step up to the plate of comfort in a major way.

The nursing home had called me about two weeks ago. They mentioned placing Mom on an anti-depressant. Said she had bouts of crying and depression. Hmmm, this was not something our family had seen recently. On the contrary, we noticed her talking more and laughing more when we are there as the strokes she had have begun to heal a little.

Cute little remarks, old inside jokes and our favorite of all, the movie lines we know and love so well are all things that continue to make Mom smile. We'd do anything for that smile. And yet yesterday while visiting her in the early morning, I saw my mother break down uncontrollably for several minutes and my heart broke.

As the nurse was bathing and dressing her in bed, Mom appeared to have had enough. I think her arthritis was hurting as it always does in the early morning when rising. I think she realizes she is limited, so limited in her adult briefs and inability to dress alone or stand alone. I can't imagine what goes through her mind in times like these, but she started to sob, deep heart-wrenching cries, and I did something uncharacteristic, I hugged her around the shoulders and stroked her back gently, reciting words of love and of comfort. The nurse she had isn't the most patient, but she stood back and let me do what only a family member could. Mom cried and I soothed. I held onto her and kissed the top of her head tenderly. And then I was able to do what all of us in the dementia/Alzheimer's community know best. I was able to re-direct her by talking about a pretty bracelet she was wearing. Like a small child, her tears slowed to sniffles. She saw the bracelet and answered my questions about who gave it to her. I sat back content that a crisis had been averted, and thanked God for giving me the tenderness needed in that moment even though I had never done this before with her.

I know we all come from different types of families. There are some of us who grew up with adoring parents who snuggled with them, gave tons of kisses and showed affection. There were others who grew up with harsh words, barked orders, and slaps instead of hugs. There are some who don't even know their parents and would have given everything for even one word from them or about them. I consider myself blessed that even though affection wasn't a big part of my years, I got so much more.

Pull yourself out of your comfort zone and love a little. Even those of us who have been hurt in our upbringing. Forgive, and let go. See our precious elderly for who they are now. People just like us with human failings, with imperfections and good and bad inside. Perhaps their own childhood was hideous and they didn't know any better. Look at them in a new light. Be the light of Christ in their world. Give that hug, say those words. Never let it be too late.

Mother's Day

She was once a little girl. A daughter, a child. She had hopes and dreams. She knew laughter and fun. She also had hard times, worries, fears and tears. She was born in an old-fashioned era and knew hardship and lack. Yet she pressed on and fought the good fight in her life. She's my mother, Eileen, and I'd like to tell you a little about her.

 Mom had been such a stable even though she had her own adversities. A child of an alcoholic father, Mom grew up with fear as a constant companion. A father who would gamble away the last of the grocery money, a father who was unkind to his wife. And that wife, who took out on her children what she could not on the man she married. Little Eileen wanted so much more. She wanted to play piano, sing, soar. But tough times didn't permit her dreams to come true.

She married young, at nineteen years of age to my father, Richard, a man six years her senior. A good man, a loving man, someone who stood by her through good times and bad. Though nervous issues plagued my mother for many years, she found stability and tenderness. She fought her way through these times, these confusing times when the mind would play tricks on her, threatening to tear her apart. And she would come out on the other side stronger and better for it, with a heart so filled with compassion for others, that many lives would be touched by her.

A pregnancy came in later years after Mom lost two other babies. A doctor warned her to terminate the baby due to health concerns. But this strong woman, my mother, said words that have stuck with me all my life: "I'll have this baby, or die trying." And nine months later, my brother was born, a true blessing in our lives.

Mom ran several antique businesses through the years, enjoying the challenges they brought. But her biggest accomplishment to many of us was owning a small mom and pop store in our little town of Ambridge, Pa. The Eighth Street Dairy was a quick stop for kids after their long school days. A place to play a video game in the early 80's, and purchase bags full of penny candy, Swedish fish, gummy bears, gum balls. Nothing was more important to her, however, than her daily talks with the people and kids that walked through her door.

Some folks came daily for a newspaper and cup of coffee. They'd share stories with Mom of their lives and problems. Like a therapist, my mother would listen and occasionally give advice. And as for the children who came through the door after school hours, Mom would have a listening ear and

show by example, kindness and patience to all, qualities they may not have seen in their own homes.

Years later, many of the young people, now grown, would approach Mom if they'd see her somewhere. They'd tell her just how much she meant to them in those earlier years, the time she spent talking with them. A few have told how their lives have changed from knowing her. One man said, "If it wasn't for you, I don't know where I'd be. Every time I thought about getting into trouble, I'd think of you, and just stop what I was doing."

As for me, I think back to a lady who stood by me in one of the darkest times of my life: my spinal surgery for scoliosis as a teen. I don't know how Mom was able to keep her strength as she watched me go through such a difficult time in Children's Hospital. How she kept my spirits up and told me it would pass.

I've gotten my heart from my mother. My sense of humor. I've gotten a love of movies, books, and imagination from her, a spirit of creativity. I've gotten compassion, a love of animals and underdogs of the world. I've learned about faith and God from Mom.

I think my mother didn't realize just how many lives she impacted. And when her golden years came upon her, I reminded her: The world is a better place because of you, Mom. So many of us wouldn't be who we are without having known you.

Here's to Mother's Day, and the blessing, the great blessing my mother was to me. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you with my whole heart.

Christmas Wonder

At any age the sight of twinkling lights can bring us back to our childhood, to simpler times gone by and days when we had no responsibilities or regrets. Thinking back to those years should give us a happy glow, yet  we sigh a bit reminiscing about the innocence, the times before the world and some of its harsh realities got to us.

Take my mother, Eileen, for instance. She was a lovely little girl, born into a family who had lived through the great depression. A sweet child who had no knowledge of some of the rough roads ahead. Families were poor in the 1930's and 1940's and Christmas gifts were some of the last things parents would worry about. Yet one year, an elderly man who lived near young Eileen took it upon himself to bestow one of the best Christmas gifts she'd ever receive.

Mom often talked about getting fruits and nuts in a Christmas stocking, but this particular Christmas, the elderly gentleman brought a package wrapped in tissue paper. "For the little girl," he'd said, coat buttoned against the cold, frosty breath blowing before him as he handed it to Mom's mother, Louise. Nobody knew why he'd chosen to bring this one special gift to a little girl he barely knew, but when Mom opened the package, a most beautiful dolly peeped out at her. Brown curly hair, blue snowsuit with fur trim, my mother beheld something she'd only dreamed about.

The cherished doll was priceless to her, a lovey to hold on nights when an drunken father spouted abusive words. The doll was her strength and belief that kindness existed, and perhaps there was goodness around the corner.

Mom would tell years later that her most prized gift vanished when she and her family moved to a new house. She'd walk past the old apartment she'd lived in, trying to peek through a window to see if the doll was still there. She never saw it again.

Years would bring sadness to Mom as she lost a beloved sister and mother at early ages. Two miscarriages would follow and she somehow held on. Yet she would survive a cardiac arrest and live to tell an amazing story of the afterlife. With a good man at her side, and two children of her own, life settled into a routine as it usually does.

Now later in life, as older age takes hold, Mom relives precious memories and the stories which meant so much to her. She's spoken recently more and more of the beautiful doll she'd once received, and the kindness of a stranger one Christmas night.

I've talked about our Christmases before and the generosity of my brother. How each year he picks one of us and tries to replicate a gift from our past, searching until he finds it on Ebay perhaps or some other venue. This year he researched dolls with fur snowsuits from Mom's childhood era.

Yesterday, as Mom began opening her last gift, her face crinkled into a frown. She peeled layers of tissue paper from the box and then began to cry. For there, before her was a doll, much like the one of her youth. Years melted away and the little girl, untouched by sadness and grief once again shone like the sun.