Dear Quarantine Diary – Week #8

Tags

covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, faith, friends, humour, loss

Dear Diary -I stood on the bathroom scales this week and it says I”ve gained weight. There goes my theory that my clothes were shrinking in the closet and dresser drawers. Afterall, I haven’t worn most of them for a year. I don’t think the scale is broken, but if it isn’t kinder next time, it will be!

Dear Diary – On Saturday, Hubby and I watched an episode of Home Town, which I PVR when there’s a free preview. I love this young, sweet couple and their devotion to restore a house and build a home. They also salvage, re-purpose and work within a budget! All good stuff!

Hubby started looking at real estate and found the PERFECT place for us, only 10 minutes from my folks. I have always dreamed of living in one of the many limestone or red brick farm houses in and around my small town. So it’s not wonder we fell deeply in love with a gorgeous restored old limestone church. This beautiful home was obviously a labour of love. They retained the beautiful woodwork, the tower, the arches, the stained glass windows. Every detail enhances its natural beauty. I love the soaker tub next to an arched window, and the French door leading from the main floor master bedroom to a 3 season room. I love the fire pit. I love the custom wrought iron gate. I love the country landscape and I could learn to live with the pool. And if we sold our house at the top end in the current market, we could probably afford it, mortgage-free. We’d have a house but no income, and we’d lose it all.

Instead, we’ll just let our hovel house here, be our home.

Home is a comfort and home is a light, a place to leave the darkness outside
Home is a peaceful and ever full feeling, a place where the soul safely hides

Michael Card, Home

Dear Diary – I excused myself to use the “ladies’ room”, then muttered mockingly under my breath, “why are you using it? You’re no lady”. Little Guy burst out laughing. “Good one,” he said, “I was just thinking, we all use it so does that mean you think we’re all ladies?”.

Dear Diary – It’s always wonderful to find out you are memorable! I don’t think that’s happened to me before. I went to my 12 year old eye doctor this week, and he remembered that I play Overwatch. He remembered the D’Va text notication on my cell phone. He also remembered a 30 second conversation we had last year when I accosted him in the parking lot to ask what characters he played. I guess it’s true of gamers –

The bond we have is much deeper than the game we play.

Patrick Willis

Dear Diary – My parents read about the perfect cat for me. I would love, love, love to get a cat who is past the crazy kitten stage and loves to cuddle. But Hubby hates cats. Just to see their reaction, I told the boys about Moustache anyway. I mentioned that he needed a home with no other pets and no small children. Little Guy piped up, “then what are we going to do about you…small child?”

I get it! I’m short!

Dear Diary – Once in awhile I have to waste energy doing housework. I started cleaning out under the bathroom sink and found 5 bottles of men’s body wash. So, for the foreseeable future, I’m going to smell like a man. One day I’ll smell like a forest, the next an Irish spring. And how, exactly, does an icy mist smell? I just hope those Axe commercials aren’t accurate and I get swarmed with hot women every time I leave the house.

It all balances out too. Hubby is starting to smell like a woman. He’s been using my hand lotion, and a cloud of shea butter follows him everywhere!

Dear Diary – My dear friend of almost 30 years died this week. She was diagnosed with cancer barely 3 months ago.

I met Suzanne in college & careers and we instantly bonded. When she moved away 2 years later, we kept in touch, writing looong letters. Those letters allowed us to prayerfully carry each other through some very dark times in our lives.We lost touch a couple of years ago, then out of the blue, she sent me a message asking me to pray. That message was followed by a handwritten letter, scanned and emailed to me. The best way to connect the new and the old! She had drifted from the Lord and He had woken her up. We picked up right where we had left off.

She was the special kind of friend that I could share anything with, without fear or shame. She loved me when I was most vulnerable and I always knew my heart was safe with her. I am so thankful for the assurance that she is safely in the Father’s arms now, and our friendship will never be over. I loved her so much and miss her terribly already.

June 29, 1996

And friends are friends forever if the Lord’s the Lord of them
And a friend will not say never ’cause the welcome will not end
Though it’s hard to let you go in the Father’s hands we know
That a lifetime’s not too long to live as friends

Michael W. Smith, Friends

Writing 201: Nana’s Hands

Tags

aging, blogging U, DP, DP Challenge, family, Grandparent, loss, poetry, writing

So still. Resting gently on the starched, white bed sheets. Her hands, almost blue, the skin paper thin and translucent, barely stretched across bone and ligament. Her hands, finger tips once nicked by sewing needles deftly weaving stitches in colourful patchwork wonders to swathe a newborn or shroud an invalid. Her hands, once calloused, fingernails caked with mud, tending vegetables in a patchwork of soil, or coated with sugar and flour and butter, a patchwork of dishes served to family and neighbours. Her hands, red and chapped from washing soiled bedding and soothing fevered brows, gently caring for aging relatives and growing children. Her hands, scarred but strong, competently filling heavy responsibilities on a farm, in a home. Her hands, young and supple, stroking the hands of her beautiful babies, marvelling at their size, reaching to caress the hand of the man she loves. Her hands, small and smooth reaching to move the checker across the game board, reaching for her doll in the night. Her hands, so small, fingernails like little pearls, resting gently on the starched, white bed sheets. So still.

***

The assignment today was to write a poem about fingers in a prose format.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Warmth

Tags

DP, DP Challenge, family, flowers, funerals, grief, loss, mourning, Photo Challenge, photography, Weekly Photo Challenge

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.” – Henri Nouwen

Normally, when I think of warmth, I think of hot chocolate and fuzzy slippers. But instead, today, I am thinking more about the warmth of family. This Christmas, our family experienced the wound of losing my grandmother. We have embraced one another, and been warmly embraced by so many in the community.  It was freezing at the cemetery with a bitter wind blowing from the west and the ground bare and lifeless. I slipped this little pink rose out of the spray on her casket before walking away, the hardest part of the day. There is still the sweet fragrance in life to savour and precious family memories to keep us warm.

To see more “warmth” photos for this challenge, click here.

The Empty Place Setting

Tags

aging, family, funerals, loss

In the weeks before Christmas, I have been painfully aware of all the empty place settings at family tables this Christmas. I have been praying for those families. Our church family lost a number of precious people this year, from an 11 year old to those well into their 90s. Working in the church office, I had had contact with each family. Late last week, when I answered the phone and heard the shaky intake of breath at the other end of the line, I knew that someone else was calling with the heartbreaking news. Over the next several minutes of that phone call, I listened to a complete stranger share her grief, her voice raw and catching as she tried to hold in her emotions. I could tell she was still somewhere between numbness and shock, and the stark realization that her Mom was gone.

This woman’s grief caused me to reflect on my own family Christmas dinner, starkly aware of faces missing at our own table. Grandpa passed away two years ago, and both Grandmothers were in nursing care facilities, so there were fewer places to set, but visits still to be made. I was blindsided by the phone call Tuesday evening from Big Guy – my Nana J. had slipped away that afternoon in her sleep. It wasn’t completely unexpected; after all, she would be celebrating her 100^th birthday in a few months’ time. Suddenly I was the one who was numb and shaking. I still had to finish the wrapping. I still had to pack our clothes and packages. I still had to go to work in the morning…

And I have done just what she would have done – I have gone into “organizing overload”. I have channeled my inner “Martha” and so, this holiday season has been a blur. We still celebrated Christmas with gifts and too much food. We still made the 6 hour (round trip) car ride to visit my in-laws. My brother and his family still came to my parents and we did it all again. I have allowed little time for tears or reflections, but rather have endured a sadness that lingers around the edges, waiting to be embraced.

Today is her funeral. Saturday night, we spent time as a family just sitting and sharing stories about her. I have tried my best to capture them and will stand and share them with all who gather today. I had no idea how difficult this would be…

https://www.flickr.com/photos/curtfleenor/5280814036/

Photo courtesy of Curt Fleenor

Where I Cannot Go…

Tags

children, faith, family, fear, humour, loss

It’s Monday again. Somehow, when my feet hit the floor running, I must have tripped because “the hurry-er I went, the behind-er I got”! By the time I got back from the school, I felt terrible. It’s never a good morning when Little Guy and I argue (he was convinced that his pants looked ok…even though they were 2” too short…I guess he had a growth spurt). It’s never a good morning when our conversation degenerates into single words: “Move!”, “socks”, “shoes”, “door”, “buckle”, “go!”…all spoken with the same bark and decibel as a shotgun blast. It’s never a good morning when we get in the car and the clock says 8:30…and the school bell rings at 8:30.

I pealed out of the driveway like Mario Andretti, talking just as quickly as I was driving, carefully explaining that I was taking Little Guy to the school’s “kiss ‘n ride” and explaining where to go and what to do when he got there. Apparently my driving was the only thing that was effective. We arrived at the “kiss ‘n ride” in 2 minutes but Little Guy just stared at me blankly. I got him out and patted him on the back, wishing him a good day. Then he started to run down the side laneway…I started yelling his name, and running after him, with my car still idling behind me. I managed to get his attention and headed in the front doors of the school, but the last sight I had was my red-faced child, wiping his eyes and trudging down the hall. The 5 supervising teachers were too engrossed in their own conversation to notice our “drama” right beside them.

To be honest, when I saw him running away, I panicked. My head understood that he was confused and was running around the front of the school to his own door on the other side. My head understood that it was 8:33 and he wasn’t going to make it. But it wasn’t about the time. It was about the fact that when he ran around the school, he would be running near the road and someone could take him. I couldn’t leave the car idling in the kiss ‘n ride to follow and see him safely inside. And that is one of my greatest fears…that he would find himself frightened, alone, and hurt, at the mercy of a stranger. I fear losing him in an accident or to a horrible disease less than I fear losing him because someone took him away. If I’m going to lose him, I want to be there to comfort him and to hold him. It’s an irrational fear, maybe even a selfish one. But whoever said fear was rational?

My fear is not unique. It’s an instinctive part of being a parent to safeguard our children. We struggle to find a balance between making our children fearful and preparing them to face a world where monsters really do exist. It’s a fear that never really goes away, even when you’re children are grown and have moved out on their own.

This fear first haunted my dreams when I was pregnant with Big Guy. As a 16 year old single Mom, I was fearful that someone would decide I wasn’t equipped to be a Mom, and they would take my baby away. I even spent a few nights sleeping next to my parents’ bed! After he was born, the fear persisted. He was so beautiful and I felt so unworthy to have such joy in my life that I feared God would take him from me. (It took me a long time to realize that that is not God’s nature or design!)

2 Timothy 1:7 says “For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline”*. First, I’m not meant to have a spirit of fear. Second, God has given me power and love as a parent. Third, God has given me the power to practice self-discipline to reject the fear, and to trust Him. One of the ways I have learned to do that over the years, when fear and “what-ifs” create that feeling of panic and helplessness in the pit of my soul, is to ask God to “go where I cannot go”. I can’t go in Little Guy’s classroom or Big Guy’s job site, but God can.

I was relieved to hear that the rest of Little Guy’s day went better, and unbelievably so did mine. Maybe my feet caught up with the rest of me…

  *New Living Translation (NLT) Holy Bible. New Living Translation copyright© 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Sharing This Moment (Weekly Writing Challenge: Take Your Shoes Off…)

Tags

aging, dementia, DP, DP Challenge, DPchallenge, family, Grandparent, loss, Weekly Writing Challenge

This is a moment, a visit I made in December to my Grandmother…the writing challenge was to consider things from a different point of view — to walk a mile in someone’s shoes, to leave our moccasins or bunny slippers at the door…

Nana’s Side

I hear a knock on the door of my room, and a girl walks in, smiling, a familiar face. I reach out to hold her, knowing she is family, but it takes me a few seconds to remember her name and that she is my granddaughter. After we hug and I kiss her cheek, I shuffle to my chair. I am aware that my feet are sliding on the carpet but my legs feel so heavy, my whole body feels so very heavy. I sit down and watch her take off her coat and settle into the chair across from me. She smiles; her cheeks are still pink from the cold. Is it cold outside? It feels good to have a visitor so I smile back.

She chatters away and I try to follow, but my eyes have drifted over to see what time it is. Suddenly I realize she is looking at me, her eyes inquiring and her head tilted. She is expecting an answer, but I haven’t heard the question. She smiles and I smile back, but still she is looking at me, waiting. I can feel the colour sweeping into my face – my heart is pounding and I suddenly feel the need to take a deep breath. I don’t want her to think I wasn’t listening, or to admit I somehow got lost in the conversation. I can feel my hands start to shake and I look down at them. I see them moving, but they are no longer a part of me. I swallow hard and nod my head, answering simply “yes”. It sounds loud and forced. I look at her and she smiles and starts to talk again. She hasn’t noticed and it must have been the right answer. Sometimes I worry that I will give the wrong answer, and I will get in trouble.

I watch her lips moving and the crinkles around her eyes when she smiles. When did she get so old? When did I? When she chuckles, I chuckle too, even though I don’t understand what is funny. It is enough that we are together, sharing this moment.

She stands, still talking, but putting on her coat. I look at the clock again. I can’t remember how long she has been here – has it been minutes or hours? Time gets away from me. Sometimes it bothers me and I feel like if I could just reach out and touch it, touch time, I could make sense of things again.

My Side

I knock on the door of her room here in the nursing home, and open it slowly. She is already standing by her chair so I go into her room and give her a hug and a kiss. She kisses me back and smiles broadly before saying my name. I am relieved that she knows who I am. I watch her shuffle to her chair and once again I am shocked at how small and frail she has become. This is the same woman who used to camp and swim, and call me silly names. We settle into our chairs across from each other, and I take off my coat. It’s warm in her room.

I start talking, mostly about surface things, things that don’t really matter but I find it hard to stop. I feel like if I fill the silence I can cover up the tears that threaten to well up in my eyes, or dismiss the sting in my heart. I hate what time and age are doing to her. I hate the changes, and I hate knowing that I will lose her soon, have already lost so much of her. Does she know? Does she feel the change as sharply as I do? I ask her a question and then I wait. I force myself to keep smiling. I force myself to take a deep breath so I don’t rush ahead and cut her off. She looks down at her hands and I can see they are shaking. Those same hands worked so hard to build a life – it seems so cruel to see them clasped so tightly in her lap. She looks like a frightened child, uncertain how to answer.  And when she does answer, it is short and forced, and monotone. She doesn’t even sound the same. I keep talking, telling her about what Mom and I have been doing during my visit, what her great-grandsons are doing, funny things. When I chuckle, she chuckles too – I don’t know if she understands or if she will even remember that I was here but it is enough that we are here together, in this moment.

Before long, it’s time to go and I am reluctant to put on my things. I feel guilty leaving her. I don’t want her to be sad that I am going. Time has gotten away from me. Sometimes it bothers me, and I feel like if I could just reach out and touch it, touch time, I could make sense of things again.

***

To view others’ writing challenge, click here.

Homesick

Tags

faith, loss

There are days when I get home-sick, and I’m not talking about missing my home or my parents’ home. There are days when I miss my heavenly home, and the weight of it can threaten to crush me. But it can only threaten. I have no recollection of it but there are plenty of hints in the Bible of just how wonderful it is. My favourite hint is in Revelation 21:4 “4 ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

Tuesday night, we received a late telephone call from the grandparents of Little Guy’s best friend at school. In less than a week since Grandpa saw his family doctor, he has seen a specialist, had x-rays, blood work, an MRI and yesterday, a biopsy, on his head. They were wondering if I could pick up their grandson and bring him home until they finished with that appointment. Uh…Absolutely!

Yesterday morning, I felt compelled to say “Hi” to one of the other Moms. I hardly know her, but she talked for a long time about her financial insecurity, the sudden loss of her Mom, her mother-in-law’s progressive illness, and the very real fear that her husband is developing the same progressive illness. She was asking me questions like “how am I going to do this?” and I didn’t have an answer.

The list of people I know who are experiencing serious illness or loss is long. Many of them are so young…and the list seems to grow daily. At times, I just want to hold them all, to somehow shield them if only for a moment, from the stress and pain and fear. Of course I can’t – but God can.

There are days when I get home-sick, and not even a cup of tea can fix that…but it’s worth a try. I’m putting on the kettle…

My Dear Friend

Tags

cry, friends, holiday, laugh, loss, romantic

I will be wearing black today and I will probably cry at some point…not because I’m cynical…(RANT: ok I am – I just can’t afford to burn any more energy or precious brain cells dwelling on life, love, blah blah blah…think about it – who’s sick idea was it to put a “romantic” holiday in the middle of frigid February…just weeks before the suicide rate starts to climb? And it’s only 52 days after Christmas (which means if you disappointed your partner with your Christmas gift, this is a great way to remind them of that and/or disappoint them again! END RANT)… but because it’s a time honoured tradition.

Valentine’s Day has sucked in the past – disappointments, break-ups, “missing” dates, lonely nights longing for love, harsh words, bitter tears…you get the picture! I’m certainly not alone here. But I have another “good” reason to dislike V-day. I miss my best friend!

My dear friend and I became inseparable friends in Grade 6…we had to band together to survive our 6th grade teacher. She was…something else! We had to band together in high school too – that was…something else! We shared everything (except boyfriends – she was straight but not interested). I could tell her everything and she would be honest without being brutal. She told me things too – like why she wasn’t a virgin, or that just before we became friends, she had planned her suicide, right down to the note and it was only a matter of days. That was in Grade 8. She went with me to buy a pregnancy test in Grade 10. We could tell each other everything…

Even when I went to college and she moved away, and we didn’t speak for months at a time, when we did speak it was if no time had passed. We could pick up right where we left off! I even wrote her fictitious stories of life in our “hick town” and she would teach me about life in the big city (like how to pick a hooker out of a crowd). We just got each other in all our weird and wonderful ways!

My dear friend died in a single car accident on V-Day. Her car slipped on the ice and went over the underpass. Ironically, she was on her way to a bereavement group meeting, having lost her parents 8 months before when their truck collided with not 1, but 2 passenger trains. She had spent the day at her parents’ house with her siblings sorting through stuff. Her brother told me at the funeral that she had talked about me that day, how we had met at a mall at Christmas and I had made her laugh…and how good that had felt! A few weeks later, he passed on some pictures and things she had set aside to take home with her – pictures of us being the goofy girls that we were. We had just turned 23!

I was married 2 months after my dear friend lost her parents, and although I didn’t receive an RSVP from her, I included her in my guest list. The day before, I got a call from my Mom – she was coming! I imagine it was difficult for her to come, but she was best wedding present and I got to tell her so!

My dear friend and I agreed many (many) years ago, that we would “rebel” every Valentine’s Day by wearing black, and with the exception of one year in college when my Mom bribed me with a gorgeous red dress (which was the same year my date cancelled on Valentine’s Day), I have worn black. And without a doubt, if my dear friend was still alive, she would too…and we would laugh…and that would feel so good!

Losing Hope

Tags

adventure, babies, Bible, death, faith, family, hope, infertility, loss, miscarriage, poem, shoes

I can’t believe it’s been 4 years…4 years ago today, it was grey and drizzling, but I didn’t mind. My precious boys were eating breakfast together, and I couldn’t stop smiling. I was pregnant again…at last! But my joy was short-lived. 4 years ago today I spent 8 hours alone waiting in the E.R. for confirmation of what I already knew – I was having a miscarriage. There was no drama, like on TV, but a long, slow process, one that meant I continued to hope, even as a longed for an end so I could grieve. I wasn’t just losing a baby, I was also losing a dream.

Romans 5:2-5 says: “…And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out His love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom He has given us”. During the weeks that I waited, the line “and hope does not disappoint us” kept running through my mind. It was God’s message to me – not the part about character or perseverance (at least not this time), but the part about hope. It’s been so hard to surrender my hope for another baby, and the life that I had long imagined. I have grieved for my baby, Hope, and my lost dreams; I think a little part of me always will. But I believe God does not allow surrendered hearts to continue to long for things He will not ultimately grant in one way or another. I lost Hope, but I haven’t lost hope…I am choosing to believe that God has a different adventure for me, a better one than even the perfect adventure I imagined.

I found this poem, rather accidentally and wanted to share it in case there was someone else who needed it more. My experience, sadly, is not unique. I cannot say I wouldn’t change the outcome if I could (at least not whole-heartedly just yet), but my heart and my feet are beginning to hurt less, and I am ready and excited for my different adventure.

I am wearing a pair of shoes.
They are ugly shoes.
Uncomfortable shoes.
I hate my shoes.
Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair.
Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step.
Yet, I continue to wear them.
I get funny looks wearing these shoes.
They are looks of sympathy.
I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs.
They never talk about my shoes.
To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable.
To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.
But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.
I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes.
There are many pairs in this world.
Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.
Some have learned how to walk in them so they don’t hurt quite as much.
Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt.
No woman deserves to wear these shoes.
Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman.
These shoes have given me the strength to face anything.
They have made me who I am.
I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.
Author unknown