The New Normal

It's not the same.

The world did not stop when Mom died and sometimes that just seems so unfair.

Instead life kept rushing forward and I tried to keep up, tried to pretend nothing had changed. But of course it has.

Something – someone – is missing.

There is a hole in my life – bigger, deeper than before.

This is the new normal.

But every day is a new normal.

Things change, in big ways and in small, all the time. We adapt. We change. We accept.

Eventually.

When Mom first started to fail I would get so angry.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” I would think, all full of Dylan Thomas and daughterly angst. “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

My rage was big, and loud, and physical, and angry.

And exhausting.

And useless.

Now I realize she did rage.

But her rage was small, and quiet, and peaceful, and accepting.

And a blessing.

Her rage wasn't a fight to avoid change like I wanted, but a fight to accept change. To face the end with dignity and grace.

She raged against the dying of the light by accepting the limits of physical change, but not letting it change who she was inside.

She made the most of what she still had. And she could still make people happy.

She could care. Smile. Laugh.

At her burial, as the minister said those last few words, as we said our last good byes, we accepted the physical change in our universe – her passing would leave a big, black, sucking emptiness where her body used to be. (Was her ever-shrinking body supposed to make that empty spot smaller? It didn't.)

But the emotional change, the emptiness in my heart, how could I accept that?

An ice cream truck approached from down the hill, the familiar notes of “Turkey in the Straw” ringing cheerfully across the quiet cemetery.

The air under the funeral home's tent, stifling with heat and sorrow just a moment before, changed, vibrated with barely suppressed giggles at the absurd juxtaposition.

“Dorothy would be the first one at that truck, buying us all ice cream,” said my friend-family-sister Sue.

We laughed aloud in recognition and relief.

And acceptance.

Because that is exactly what she would have done.

Exactly what she would want us to do.

Make the most of what we still had: each other.

Make people happy. Care about them. Ask about them. Listen to them.

Smile.

Laugh.

Buy them ice cream.

Accept the new normal.

Little Thoughts on the Prairie

Some days I run just to clear my mind. To escape from my thoughts.

But today I cannot out run them.

I run on “my” little prairie for its solitude and beauty. The summer wildflowers are now blooming.

The challenge of the grassy trail and the relentless hills require concentration. I am “all in”.

Until I'm not.

After a mile and a half I slow to round a corner and my thoughts overtake me, crashing over and crushing me, as the humid air wraps around me in a claustrophobic hug.

I have no choice.

I stop.

The warm energy of the Iowa summer-time green growth seeps into my muscles, even as it sucks the life from my bones.

I'm caught.

I wonder: If I lay down on the trail and stay still long enough, will the prairie absorb me? Will I become part of this wild green?

I've stopped at one of my favorite places. The view here is vast and sweeping. The prairie teems with life. The air vibrates with the hum of industrious bugs. Bird songs ring high and twee. Rabbits dart across the trail. The tall grass is restless in the wind.

And yet it's so wide open – here on this small patch – that I feel isolated and lonely. I marvel at the pioneers' determination and drive. Imagine crossing this small patch a thousand times over!

I give up. I give in. Admit defeat.

I turn off my runner's watch.

Ignore miles and time and pace.

I walk.

I jog.

I lay down and let the prairie take me.

I breath.

I grieve.

I accept.

Tied Up in (Forget Me) Knots

Hi, Mom! How are you doing?

It's so good to see you!

It's good to see you, too. I know it seems like it's been a long time since I've been here at the nursing home, but it was just.... Well, never mind. I've been busy. But I've been thinking of you. I'm always thinking of you!

I stopped in a couple days ago, but you were sleeping. I tried to wake you, but you kept dozing off. I talked anyway. You probably don't remember, huh? I knew it wasn't an ideal time of day to visit, but it was the only time I could get away....

It's just so good to see you!

It's good to see you too. We've been pretty busy. Of course there's not really anything exciting or memorable to tell you. Just the ordinary, everyday stuff that eats up time before you know it.

It's not much of an excuse. It's just so hard to get away sometimes. Even for a little while.

It's so good to see you!

I know. You too. Anyway, today I just had to shuffle schedules and come see you. Even if I don't have much to talk about, we can just sit here and hold hands. And I'll talk. About everything and nothing. Anything but what's really on my mind.

It's just so good to see you.

Do you remember Sue? They used to live next door? She said to say hi. So... hi.

A lot of people ask about you. They say they see you when they're here visiting their own parents. I tell them the same thing. Somehow it seems to make us feel a little better. It's our way of recognizing that unspoken, shared guilt we have. The feeling that we can never visit often enough, or stay long enough.

They say you're looking good. They tell me they said hi, but they're not sure if you recognized them or not. And really, why should you? I mean, we don't look quite the same as we did back in school. But that's how they remember you, that's how they remember their folks. I'm the same. In our minds you're still the Little League coach, the club leader, the chaperone at the dance. Or you're taking us out for dinner at college. Or dancing at our wedding. Proudly holding our babies.

It's so good to see you!

Then they ask the tough question: “Do you think she recognizes you?” And I say yes. But I hesitate. And I wonder if they're thinking the same thing I am: Do I really believe this? Do you really recognize me? And what will I do when....

Because they aren't really asking me about you, they're asking themselves about their own parents. They're asking “Do you think my mom still recognizes me?” That's what I'm doing when I ask how their parents are doing. We can't ask it outright. We can't share our fears so openly. But we know. Without speaking, we know how afraid we are that you will forget us.

So. I don't visit as often as I'd like because I'm busy.

But I'm also afraid.

And I feel guilty about not visiting more often. And I feel guilty about taking time away from the kids, my husband, my job to come here and visit with you. And I feel guilty about feeling guilty. But you know that, don't you?

I remember how you struggled to find time to visit Gramma without shortchanging me. At the time I thought that I was grown up and you didn't need to worry about me. Now I realize I might not have needed you to worry about me, but you needed to worry about me. And you needed to worry about Gramma. It's the challenge of being caught between two generations.

It's just so good to see you!

Speaking of the kids, I've got to be getting home. But I promise I'll visit again soon.

I promise.

Look at our hands. I tell everyone I have your hands. But who's hands do you have? When did they get so thin, so fragile? Sometimes I worry I'm holding yours too tight, that I will hurt you. But I don't want to let go. I'm afraid you'll slip away. Because you're already slipping away. And I don't know how to ask you to stay, much less how to let you go.

I love you.

Don't forget that (you know me).

I won't forget that (I love you).

I promise.

Musical Wheelchairs

What kind of music will I be listening to when I'm in the nursing home?

This question has been on my mind for a while now. In fact, I've pretty much been obsessing over it since attending the nursing home's November group birthday party with the Queen Mother. (In case you were wondering, no, I wasn't included as an honoree. Age discrimination.) The entertainment at the party was a Name That Tune activity, and I am happy (?) to say I did, in fact, name those tunes.

“Oh, You Beautiful Doll,” “The Tennessee Waltz,” “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue (Has Anybody Seen My Gal),” and “An Irish Lullaby (Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra).” I've heard them all, and I can sing – well, hum – them all.

I try to avoid visiting the Queen during the afternoon activity time, because we don't actually get to visit when there's a performer. But sometimes schedules collide and I end up staying for their musical guest. Maybe the Queen and I get just as much out of holding hands and listening to the music as we do from talking.

“The Blue Skirt Waltz.” “A Bushel and a Peck.” “Till There Was You.” "Mr. Sandman."

These songs are the musical equivalent of comfort food for me. I remember hearing them on the radio in my Grandparents' kitchen. “The Lawrence Welk Show” was the original Must See TV for Sunday nights when I was growing up. In fact, I still like to tune in to WMT AM and listen to Leo Greco's Variety Time and Musical Memories with Jim Doyne. I'm quite familiar with a range of old Broadway Musical tunes, and songs from the 1930's, 40's and 50's, otherwise known as “Adult Standards.”

I admire the folks who are willing to share their talents by performing at nursing homes. I envy their ability not just to sing, but also to play guitar, accordion or keyboard (or even the musical spoons and washboard). Does anyone under the age of 60 still know how to play accordion – other than my friend, Queen Martha?

These musical visits always give me the urge to polish up my piano skills. The last time this happened I went so far as to look for sheet music during the Little Prince's drum lesson at West Music. He asked if they had a section labeled “Music for Old Farts in Nursing Homes.” Surprisingly, they didn't.

No worries, I need to look to the future. I need to find music that will be playing, not necessarily what is being played now. Using the Queen Mother as a statistical representative for current nursing home residents, I have concluded that the music being performed was popular during their childhood or when they were young adults. But when I used that criteria to extrapolate results for myself, my brain exploded. I just can't imagine sitting around in a wheelchair listening to Prince, Bon Jovi, Guns 'N Roses, or Michael Jackson.

In fact, some of the songs that were hits during my “target years” may not be so popular when played for a bunch of Seasoned Citizens. Will we still be able to bust a move to “Footloose”? We may need more than “Ice, Ice Baby” for our aching muscles if we do. I'm not sure the “Simply Irresistible” back up singers will look quite as irresistible when they're 90. Billy Squire's “The Stroke” and Olivia Newton John's “Heart Attack” will have a whole different meaning, as will “Don't You (Forget About Me)”, “Who Can It Be Now”, “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” and “Every Breath You Take.”

On the up-side, West Music did have sheet music books featuring hits of the 1970's, 80's and beyond, as well as the music of Queen, The Beatles (Paul McCartney is 71), Led Zepplin (Jimmy Page is 69), Rolling Stones (Mick Jagger is 70) and Madonna (a mere 55).

I'm just not sure how they're going to sound on the accordion.