Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist
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My mother died 12 months ago today, so we’ve experienced a year of birthdays, holidays, and family gatherings without her. I knew the year anniversary was coming and naively anticipated that its passing would mysteriously make everything all better. I was wrong.
Just when I thought the emotional whirlwind was over, another memory of her smacked me in the heart and caused my eyes to spontaneously water. I’ve never been this emotional before, and I struggle between wanting to weep or pulling up my big girl pants and pretending to be tough. Sometimes it’s exhausting to be the strong one.
To prepare for inevitable meltdowns, here are some common occurrences that can cause an unpredictable sensitive reaction after a loved one dies.
The impulse to call. Mom was the consummate keeper of things: she wrote lists, filled ledgers, and clipped newspaper columns. Our refrigerator was plastered with Erma Bombeck’s witty stories. I recently was invited to be a speaker at the prestigious Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop in 2016. My immediate thought was to call my mom because she’d be so happy. Then I remembered.
A certain song. I was happily shopping for groceries when the song “Que Sera, Sera” by Doris Day played over the sound system. My mother used to sing the song when I was a wee toddler, and I remember the sounds of, “Whatever will be, will be.” I stood there in the soup aisle with tears streaming down my face.
Photographs. I’m still sorting her possessions, and found hundreds of photographs I’ve never seen. One fascinated me. It showed my parents as happy young lovers before they married and before hard work, illness, and heartache stole their laughter and weakened the light in their eyes. I wish I had known them.
Holiday memories. Mom was widowed at age 62, so she came to my house for 25 Christmas celebrations. When my children were young, we took her to a holiday movie on Christmas Day. We had to discontinue the tradition because she always talked out loud to the actors on the screen. “Don’t do that!” she would warn the characters. “Look at them dance!” she would exclaim. The kids would shrink down in their seats as other movie patrons glared at us.
Her example of strength and resiliency. She loved to tell stories of her childhood; how her sisters and she rode a horse to a one-room school, how she hand-milked cows before and after school, and how she worked in the fields throughout her childhood. My children tried not to complain after that, and they had a deep love and affection for the one they called Grandma Sweetie.
Favorite recipes. I continue to add mustard seeds in soups and any dish that requires boiling. Mom always added the seeds because of her belief in the Biblical parable of having the faith of a mustard seed. Through recipes, photographs, and stories, we keep her memory alive for the great-grandchildren.
Locations. I regularly drive past the assisted living facility where she lived before she died. I ache with remorse remembering how she clutched my hand each time I started to leave. I should have stayed longer.
Legacy. Mom didn’t have the money or opportunity to attend college, but she was a strong advocate for education. She established the Ambrose Family Scholarship at the University of Idaho, and this year six students from Wendell, Idaho received scholarships.
Emotional release through humor. A week after her death, I wrote a blog post titled “My Mother’s Body Got Lost.” The story described the true account of how the funeral home misplaced her for the weekend but then found her in a hearse traveling “near Bliss.” Bliss is a tiny town near her burial site. My response was, “Of course, she is!” The post was selected as a winning entry in the national BlogHer competition, and I was honored in New York as part of the “Voices of the Year” celebration. She continues to inspire my writing, and several of my blog posts about her were published on The Huffington Post.
Redemption. A few months ago, I was having a difficult time with the memory of how much my mother had suffered physically and emotionally. I sought professional help, and the gentle, wise counselor led me through a guided imagery exercise that restored my spirit. My mother came to me in a vision. She was young and happily playing with two little girls in a meadow. They were my sisters, my twin Arlene and another sister Carol. These babies never had the opportunity to breathe. The vivid scene of her radiant joy gives me peace.
The unexpected triggers continue to meander in and out of my life. After a year, the pain has eased, and I know she is in a better place. I hope someday to meet Arlene and Carol, and we’ll all play together in the meadow, scatter some mustard seeds, and sing, “Whatever will be, will be.”
(Published on The Huffington Post – May 4, 2015)
The first year of holidays without her is the hardest. I deliberately walk past the festive displays of Mother’s Day cards and ignore the advertisements for flowers, and I’ve tuned out the hype and the obligatory admonishments to do something, anything, for Mother. Because she died.
Experience taught me that time erases the sadness. Sometimes I forget my father’s birthday. He passed away 26 years ago, and now I don’t remember the sound of his voice. On Father’s Day, I send cards to my son and son-in-law and give a small present to my husband, and I’m grateful for my honored role as mother and grandmother. Now I have the new title of matriarch.
The cycle of life isn’t new; babies are born and people die. I accept that. But, I don’t know why some people suffer so much and others get to die peacefully in their sleep. Both my parents spent their last years in physical and mental pain, and I couldn’t do anything to ease their transition. Because of the visions of my parents lying ashen and twisted in their beds, when I’m too feeble to live with dignity, I intend to have a grand party before I exit this life and explore what is beyond.
After a parent dies, there are the usual regrets from those still living. I should have visited Mom more often. Every time I got up to leave, she would clutch my hand and beg me to stay. I should have played her favorite music, opened her scrapbooks and patiently listened as she attempted to say words she couldn’t remember. I should have combed her hair again and brought her costume jewelry. I should have stayed longer.
The guilt consumes me every time I drive past her former assisted living facility. She lived in three rooms, progressing from resident to assisted living to terminal. Instead of a child passing onward to higher grades in school, she was going backwards with every physical and mental collapse. I used to cry in my car before and after every visit. I should have stayed longer.
I saved a wreath from her funeral. The flowers are dried and brittle, but I’ll take it to her grave on Mother’s Day. I’ll return again a week later on her birthday. I won’t forget the date. It’s May 20.
(Featured on The Huffington Post 50 on March 20, 2015)
The grainy, black-and-white photographs from 1946 fluttered to the floor, free from decades of bondage among hundreds of photos in my mother’s leather albums. I picked up the images and stared at my parents and strained to imagine the young couple in love.
My father stood in his Army fatigues in front of a row of tanks in Japan. While he served overseas after World War II, his wallet contained the photo of my mother in a swimming suit. My earliest images of her are quite different. I remember her in a large flowered dress, waving to me with plump arms while admonishing me to “be good” because my father was coming home from work. I’m amazed that she once was a charming young woman, smiling to her fiancé, wearing a bathing suit in front of a flower garden. I wish I had known her then.
I never saw them hug and kiss. I guess the stress of several businesses and bad health depleted their romantic energy. For several years, my father lived in another state during the week, where he operated a trucking business. Every year, Dad would give me money to buy Mom presents for Christmas and other special occasions. She would always buy him a patio lounge chair for Father’s Day. The fabric rotted, unused, in the sun.
I have a request for my middle-aged friends: Are your parents still living? If so, maybe you could take a few hours and visit with them. Ask them about their courtship and their first years together. I predict they will open their hearts and their scrapbooks and begin to talk. Help them celebrate the memories of their young love. Otherwise, you may never know about their passion until a wrinkled photograph falls onto the floor after they’re gone. This weekend, I’ll play Glenn Miller’s “String of Pearls” and open another album.
More than 1,000 bloggers from across the world are writing today with the intended goal to share and encourage compassion. The world is hungry, almost desperate, for this united effort. My contribution is to promote compassion for the old souls among us.
Compassion for the Old Souls
My mother was dying. Her breathing had changed over the past few days; irregular, pausing only to alarm us, then continued with a raspy rattle. My daughter and I sat beside her bed and held her hand, limp and translucent, as Tennessee Ernie Ford sang about peace in the valley. Gentle Hospice workers came silently during her last week to shift her body and dab a damp sponge on her lips. Though they didn’t know her, they treated her with the dignity and grace she deserved.
Outside her room at the assisted living facility, other residents shuffled by, some with walkers, as silent sentinels in the last act of the drama of life. After 87 years, my mother’s body and mind were gone, except for her strong heart. We could do nothing but wait.
According to the National Center for Assisted Living, more than one million senior citizens live in assisted living facilities in the United States. There are horrible reports of abuse and mismanagement, but most of the staff members are loving and responsible caregivers. I met many wonderful people who worked at Mom’s various homes and rehabilitation centers. They did the jobs others don’t want to do: showered old people, changed adult diapers, fed the feeble ones. They became the family when the real family stopped visiting. Most of the facilities had regular activities and the residents enjoyed group outings, visits from entertainers, and craft projects. But many of them live their last years in quiet and lonely resignation.
“Our society must make it right and possible for old people not to fear the young or be deserted by them, for the test of a civilization is the way that it cares for its helpless members.”
— Pearl S. Buck
It’s often easier to show compassion and charity to worthy causes that include children, pets, and natural disasters. It’s not as appealing to help the elderly people, but they are the old souls, the ones who worked to build our country, fought in World War II, and faced a steep learning curve as technology during their lifetimes introduced airplane flight, Interstate highways, television, computers, and cell phones. In simpler times, they danced to jazz, Sinatra, and Glenn Miller. Now they leave the light on in hopes their adult children will visit.
“If you associate enough with older people who do enjoy their lives, who are not stored away in any golden ghettos, you will gain a sense of continuity and of the possibility for a full life.”
— Margaret Mead
During my mother’s last years, before she slipped into Dementia, her once-busy calendar was reduced to simple entries: shower on Tuesday and Friday, hair appointment on Thursday, and church on Sunday. I watched the spark grow dim in her eyes, and I wept for the proud woman who once worked in the fields, held several jobs as she raised her children, and dutifully supported my father’s ambitious businesses. When she no longer remembered my name, I pasted name tags on the family pictures that lined her tiny room. “Don’t forget us,” I whispered. But, it was too late.
Society needs to honor our elderly citizens. There are several ways to show genuine compassion to them:
“There is a fountain of youth: it is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of people you love. When you learn to tap this source, you will truly have defeated age.”
— Sophia Loren
My mother passed away on a cool but clear November morning. My children, her legacy, delivered her eulogy. I’m still going through all the articles she left behind, including several well-worn Bibles. Many passages were underlined in ink, and she had placed smiley-face stickers on her favorite verses. Even in death, she made me smile.
“As we grow old…the beauty steals inward.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson
Birth is a time of celebration when family and friends gather to welcome a new life, full of opportunities and potential. Death, also, can be a time to rejoice and reflect with loved ones, especially if the deceased person exceeded her potential on earth. Such is the case with my mother Leona Ambrose.
The top picture was taken in July as her grandchildren, their spouses, and their children joined my husband and me for a visit at her assisted living facility. The second two photo was taken October 10, just three weeks before her death. Again, family members gathered around even though she could not remember names or faces. We were limited without a better camera, but the cell phone captured images of loving people. I especially treasure the shot of my mother and my sweet granddaughter. They have always shared a special connection.
Sometimes we don’t understand what goes on within families or why some people reject taking responsibilities for others. After next week’s funeral service, we can all reflect of things we should have done, actions we could have taken to lessen the heartache of those we love. I must apologize to my mother for not trying harder to communicate with her first-born son. In her honor, I will forgive him for not visiting her for 15 years. But, I do that only for her.
Thanks, Mom, for loving your family. We will strive to continue your legacy of keeping an attitude of gratitude, even when life kicks us in the gut. Oh, and we’ll also buy a new camera to record the next fabulous generation.
