WHAT I BROUGHT BACK

Michael and I drove down to my mom’s Thursday evening, arriving just in time for us all to go to bed. The two of us and Josephine slept on mattresses that had been plopped down in Mom’s living room. I woke up early Friday morning, achy and frozen. We dressed and took Mom out for breakfast. The whole time, Michael and I steered the conversation to the positive and hyping up her big move. Then we went back to her house to load up the vehicles with the things for her new space. This did not take long. Her new space is basically a studio apartment with a tiny living area, a bedroom and bath and a small kitchenette with a small fridge, microwave and sink. We arranged furniture and that was that. Mom is now in her new home.

There were some moments of struggle, things she wanted to take but does not need like her microwave. For the most part, the transition was easy. It did not keep me from worrying about her for the rest of the evening. Michael, my brother and sister-in-law and I went back to my mom’s house to chat and plan the next course of action. I did manage to fill two garbage bags with trash just from clearing and cleaning the kitchen counter, but I quickly ran out of steam. There’s a lot of stuff. A lot of stuff that could be useful to someone. There’s furniture and dishes and pots and pans. I picked up at least five can openers while clearing the counter. There is not a table top surface that is visible from all the piles of knick-knacks and trinkets and just junk. The three of us, me and my siblings, all agree that we need time and space before tackling all of it. This will be how we spend Michael’s Spring Break.

I struggled to sleep that night. Partly because of comfort. Partly because I was so itchy. At some point on Friday, I broke out in hives and have scratched for two days. A big part of my struggle to sleep though was how I couldn’t stop thinking of Mom sleeping in her new space for the first time. Would she feel safe and secure or would she panic and have a restless night, jumping at every new tick or tock sound? The next morning, Michael and I got up early to head back home. I took my mom’s car and a small toy caboose with The Peanut Man emblazoned on the side. I also came home with a mild cough and lots of sinus drainage, which is not an unusual state for me when in Oklahoma, particularly in the Fall. I brought along a slight sense of dread and worry for my mother’s future.

I knew the hoarding situation was bad. I did not realize just how much my mother has declined mentally. I had been told and I had witnessed some of her fogginess, but it didn’t really register. It’s sort of like when the doctors told Chris and I that they found a tumor on his liver. We joked and called it a tortilla chip. It was cancer. Yet to this day, I can’t say that Chris died from cancer. The tortilla chip killed him. I was only seeing my mother’s decline in the times I could get down to visit, which filtered the severity. My sister was seeing and dealing with it daily. I talked to my sister right before we left Mom’s to head back home and she had finally gotten a good night’s sleep. I called my mother on Sunday to check in and she sounded almost like an earlier version of herself. She sounded strong and pleased. She said she had slept through two nights in a row. She’s making friends and I got a picture today of her participating in the day’s group painting project.

I’ve dropped the worry and dread.

I’m keeping the car and the toy caboose.

For now, we are all okay.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Thursday morning, we all woke up around here to a thin layer of snow coating everything outside. The skies remained dark for most of the day, a stark contrast to the previous days. Our first week and a half of January has been fairly mild with temperatures reaching sixty degrees during the day and bright sunlight flooding in through all of the windows. The weather helped erase the memory of the deathly freezing temps we had around the holidays.

January is a yo-yo month for many reasons.

I received a card from my mother early in the week and I can see where she started to write my brother’s name, then my sister’s name before finally landing on mine on the envelope. This is an old habit. I do not remember a time when, while calling to me from another room, my mother didn’t run through the names of her previous children before settling on mine. I have always been some form of RandyJanellRaJaCindy. It has never bothered me because I know my mother was keeping track of all of the things at once, making sure we were at piano lessons or dance class or band or choir practice. On top of all of that was her career and maintaining a household. Sure, my dad helped out as best as he knew how, but he wasn’t the one laying on the floor of the sewing room while I attempted to construct my 4-H sewing projects. My mother’s only saving grace was that our age differences made us three separate children.

The lessons I have learned and continue to learn from my mother are invaluable. I have learned through her examples of strength and independence to be the strong capable woman I am today. My mother celebrates a birthday on Sunday, another year of survival. In spite of her beliefs and views on growing older, I am truly grateful to be able to celebrate another year of her life. My wish for her is that her day is filled with good wishes, sunshine that floods her windows and creates dancing rainbow reflections, ease, and the knowledge that she is loved.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I am currently in Oklahoma visiting Mom. She had a fall on Monday while raking leaves and ended up with stitches in her forehead. Michael saw the picture my sister sent me and he said “We’re twinsies!” Mom is fine. No concussion or anything life threatening. She’s just a little bit bruised. I had planned this trip before her fall, but now I especially glad I made the trip down this week.

I have not seem my mother since February.

I know that there are many people who do not get to see their parents on a regular basis. I know that being able to see my mom as often as I do is a privilege. I have always been the one that would go off to camp and never call home, not even once. When Mom took me to preschool on that first day, I dropped her hand and walked right on with barely a wave goodbye. I am a terrible daughter. I do not call Mom once a week or even once a month. I think about calling her. I will send a text or mail her a random card, but I am not good at talking on the phone.

So these one on one visits, when I can see my mom, are important for our relationship.

There is a habit I have had since I was small. Early on weekend mornings, particularly if it was cold, I would crawl into bed with Mom. We would both be awake and often we would whisper talk to each other about what we were going to do that day or what to make for breakfast. I still do this. Whenever I am visiting with Mom. I still crawl into her bed and we talk about coffee or how long we did or didn’t sleep. We talk about getting up and getting the day started while we pull the covers up over our shoulders. I am forty four years old, but I will never ever be too old to crawl into bed with my mom.

I am really grateful that I got to that this morning.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Mom in camouflage on the beach in Dingle Ireland. Today, I wish we were back there, laughing at the cow (penis) some one drew in the sand. Happy Birthday Mom!

13 Likes, 0 Comments - Cindy Maddera (@elephant_soap) on Instagram: "Mom in camouflage on the beach in Dingle Ireland. Today, I wish we were back there, laughing at the..."

My Mom asked me once what instrument I would want to play. It was obvious that I was not into the whole piano thing. Getting me to sit down and practice was a constant battle. I told my Mom that if I could play anything, it would be the cello. The cello makes a sound that resonates in my body and soothes my heart, but our little town only had band. No orchestra. No stringed instruments. My big brother played the drums and he’s cool. So, I picked up some sticks and settled into percussion. One day, while Mom was working at the Oklahoma Well Log Library, she heard a geologist talking about an old cello in his attic. Mom bought that cello from him for $75. It needed new everything, pegs, strings, bridge. It had a crack down one side. We spent another $300 in repairs. Mom found me a teacher who got me into a special youth orchestra. There wasn’t money for a case and I carried my cello around wrapped up in an old sheet until Mom made me a vinyl cello case. Yup. She MADE it. It was gray vinyl with floral print trim. The pockets for music and bow and the handles were made with the floral print trim. It was perfect and the envy of many in the youth orchestra. I played that cello for years. I stopped playing in college because I no longer played in an orchestra and the pegs no longer stuck in place to hold the strings in tune. I couldn’t justify the money for replacing the pegs. A new version of my life took over. Eventually, I sold the cello to help pay for yoga teacher training. I do miss it, though I don’t even know if I remember how to read music any more. Some times I think about buying another cello and maybe some day I will. But I will always be grateful for that first cello.

From the things my Mom has said over the years, I have a strong impression that she was never really supported in her passions as a child. I think that was her driving force behind doing everything to encourage us. When my brother showed an interest in art and an aptitude for drawing, she enrolled him in a prominent art class. When my sister wanted to dance, she put us both in a serious dance school. She drove us to dance class, art class, music lessons, and competitions. She made costumes. She did fundraisers. She spent money that Dad probably didn’t know she was spending. Mom did the best she could to provide us with the tools we needed for our creative outlets. Heck, she still does this; she gifted me a new journal at Christmas. I am reminded of Marmee March and how she encouraged her daughters in all of their endeavors even if those endeavors did not meet with societal propriety. My Mom was a Marmee March. It took me a long time to realize that not every kid had a Marmee March who would support their children in their creative endeavors. As grateful as I may be about that cello, I am even more grateful to have the kind of mom who supports creativity.

My Mom celebrated a birthday on Wednesday. And after a bit of a scary start to this year, I am also thankful that she’s here to celebrate another year of her life.