Sweet Louise

My sister Lynnette posted this on Facebook: "My beautiful mother. Harriet Louise Bush made her transition this morning at 9:30am. Happy birthday mom. She turned 92 today. Born 2/26/22 passed 2/26/14 rest in peace sweet Louise!"

She's Leaving Us

I hear noises down the hall. Coughs. Beeps. Someone crying for help. The constant hum from an oxygen machine outside the room. The old pendulum clock we brought from the house my mother called home for fifty-three years is chiming. Nine chimes. Nine o'clock on Sunday morning, February 23rd, three days before her ninety-second birthday, and she is leaving us soon.

I'm sitting on the edge of mother's bed with my computer in my lap. Minutes ago I received  a text from a friend who wrote, "Sit quietly and experience what is offered you. Whisper love in her ear. You will never forget the gift and knowledge given you." 

Even before I received the text, I felt a strong overpowering need to push the world aside, close the door to Mother's room, sit on the edge of her bed, hold her hand, and tell her she is not alone. It is something I must do for me, as well as her. We have had our rough passages, fraught with anger, resentment, at times even alienation, but now, in her last days, I'm having a hard time remembering those times. She's my mother; she gave birth to me, she loved me the best she knew how. Isn't that what matters? She did her best, and I am so very sorry I thought that her best wasn't always good enough. I feel such regret. Please forgive me, Mother.

"I love you," I say and she tries to respond but the stroke has taken away her ability to talk. Her eyes tell me she understands. "Lynnette is coming, Mother, your baby. Judy's on her way, too. Harold will be here soon. We all love you so much." She opens her mouth to speak; nothing but a guttural sound is offered. Her eyes tell me, though. She knows.

I must go. I need to be with my mother now.

Right the Wrong

There was a time, not so long ago, when I would talk on my cell phone whilst smack in the midst of other folks.  It was annoying to everyone within one to one hundred feet, I was told, because I must have thought the persons on the other end of the line were hard of hearing. Now that I have been made aware of my bad phone manners, I have become more considerate when using my cellphone in public.  Unfortunately, in my efforts to not offend strangers, I have lost three friends who are hearing impaired.

It was because of this newfound sensitivity to others' feelings that one day last week I elected to remain in my car in Walmart's parking lot until I was finished with my cellphone call. The conversation was lively and loud. Very loud. Shortly after I pulled into a parking space, a lady in a Cadillac Escalad parked in front of me. After turning off the engine, she pulled down the visor mirror, picked her eyelashes apart with a toothpick, looked to make sure there were no boogers hanging, applied lipstick, and then she combed her hair. When she was done making herself pretty for Walmart, she stepped out of her SUV.

It was at that moment when the loudness brought me to her attention. She put her hands on her hips, said a naughty word, and directed a disgruntled frown in my direction. Cadillac Lady was not happy. I rejected her frown and kept talking. She continued to look at me. I continued to look at her. Then she shrugged her shoulders and walked away. But the loudness had nothing to do with my bad phone manners and everything to do with her door hitting--unintentionally, yet with great impact--the side of a new Ford F-350, 4 x 4 Super Duty diesel truck parked next to her. She knew I knew, but would I tell on her?

You know how sometimes in life, when you witness bad things happening to good people, you feel compelled to get involved? There is that need, that strong desire to right that wrong. When Cadillac Lady shrugged her shoulders and walked away, I felt compelled to get involved, but herein lies the dilemma.

Dilemma

Dilemma is when you find yourself impaled

on the sharp, uncomfortable horns of selecting

an option, none of which are good. Some option

 choices can be uncomfortable, even painful.

                                                 --Google Search, really

If I've learned one lesson over the past six plus decades, it's that picking the wrong dilemma option can be painful (remind me to tell you about the time I was assaulted in a Mexican restaurant because I made a comment to a mother about her unruly child). I've been told I should never insert myself into other people's business, but not doing so can be extremely difficult. I still haven't learned that mind-your-own-business lesson.

While I was frantically searching for a McDonald's receipt, styrofoam cup, or any scrap piece of paper to jot down information that might help right a wrong, the owner of the truck returned with two bags of groceries. Within seconds he saw the dent.  Enraged, he dropped the bags of food on the ground, yelled about somebody's mother having sex, and then stared right at me. Yes, Ford Truck Man, I saw the whole thing go down. I was the one and only witness to the wrong done you. But, but, but should I tell you what I know or should I not get involved? Before I had the chance to pick a dilemma option, Ford Truck Man opened his passenger side door, slammed it with all his might into Cadillac Lady's car, looked directly at me, and then smiled.

Oh, what a dilemma I'm in.

You know how sometimes in life, when you witness bad things happening to good people who turn out to be not so good, you feel compelled to do something? No? You don't feel compelled to get involved in other peoples' business? Okay then...never mind.

Cry

When you look around and see the world getting younger, give gratitude for having lived this long. When your grandmother frowns at you every morning from the bathroom mirror, smile back. When your necklace gets lost in the folds of your neck chin, say you never liked that necklace in the first place. When small children want to play "connect the dots" on your hands, let them. When you finally get that beautiful platinum hair (without the aid of a hairdresser), think of all the money you're saving. When you can no longer zip or button your jeans, reminisce about how happy you were decades ago when the doctor said there was a baby under that bulge. I want "you" to do that; as for me, there is no way in hell I can do it. Of course I'm grateful for my sixty-eight years, but I'm not happy with how the whole aging thing works. Not happy at all. In fact, after I eat this prune, I'm going back to bed and cry myself to sleep. Hey! It's my pity party and I can cry if I want to. Cry if I want to. Cry if I want to. You will too when it happens to you.

Valentine's Day

It is on this day, February 14th, that we are expected to do something special for that special someone in our lives. The expectations don't come from everyone you love, though. I'm just talking about who you share your bed with. No, not Fido. That would be wrong and if caught you might be expected to do something special for Big Bubba every Valentine's Day for the next ten to twenty-five years.

If you think about it, love has nothing to do with Valentine's Day. It's all about sex, money and expectations, but not necessarily in that order. It just depends. For my bed partner, it's about expectations, sex, and money.  If he expects to have sex with his valentine, then he has to spend money. As for me, with this nagging headache that just won't go away, I haven't been able to go to the store, so...

If you think about it, and trust me I have, Valentine's Day is a very special day indeed.

Thanks for the chocolates and the one and half hour massage gift card, Sweetheart.

Here...I made you a card.