Five things about grief and moving forward in healing NOW!

The last time I posted was a year ago, on May 24. As I told someone recently, I haven't much felt the desire to write since Mom and Dad went on to their Heavenly home. Besides, most of my posts after they died were grief-filled downers or "boring" stuff about starting my new business, Tin Cats Antiques.  I didn't know what to do with myself anymore, so I couldn't write. I've been immobilized in my grief, plain and simple.

And, people, in general, stopped reading my blog. Readership when the blog was immensely popular consisted of wonderful, supportive fans of Mom and Dad, and friends kept up with their sad and painful journey through my writings, as well as the difficulties Kim and I faced in the caregiving process. We received so much support, I felt both overwhelmed and grateful.

My readership reflected exactly what happens with emotional support after someone you love dies: It died. I don't mean people stopped caring, I just mean people are people, and it's difficult to watch someone suffer and to believe you don't have the right words to say or to know how to help. We tend to turn away from that which makes us feel uncomfortable. That's just human.

So a couple of weeks ago. I posted an apology of sorts on Facebook about dredging up my grief again. It's anniversary time for Kim and me: Mom died three years ago on May 13, and Dad died three years ago today. I used to work with grieving people in my counseling career, and, of course, I saw people struggle hard when anniversary dates rolled around. It's just a well-known, given thing that happens to grieving people. Research supports it, as well.

And now I know it.

I apologized in my post because I don't want to wear people out with my stuff, but I posted anyway that, yes, it's anniversary time, and yes, I'm feeling it. (And for some reason, it's been worse this year than last.)

I received responses from friends I think I intuitively knew would come from my friends: "Don't apologize for your feelings." "Friends will be supportive, regardless."

That's true, of course. Totally true. True friends will be supportive, no matter where you are. I'll take it even a step further to say that probably if you find yourself grumbling in your head or wherever you grumble, "Get over it already" to anyone who is grieving, you might want to "unfriend" that person, both Facebook figuratively and Real-Life literally. Blunt, but true.

Five truths crystalized for me that day. Actually, they are absolutes I've learned about grief, grieving people, and friends of grieving people:

1. Grief never goes away. Ever. The pain can lessen, and then it can come right back and bite you unexpectedly. But the pain remains forever, and I would submit that the amount of pain is in direct proportion to how much love you have for the people (and pets) you lost.

2. We do not "get over" painful losses. As I was told by experienced others and now know to be true, we instead must learn how to live differently, without the loved ones in our lives.  Therefore, never tell a grieving person something like, "Don't you think it's time you moved on?" My response to anyone who would say that to me now is, "No, but I do think it's time I moved on from you."

3. No two people grieve alike; therefore, never tell someone how he or she should go about grieving. There's no right or wrong way, (although we do need to be mindful of getting stuck in unhealthy ways; that's a post for another time.)

4. Grieving people loved their lost ones so much that we want everyone else to love them that much, too. Seriously. We want you to know just how special and awesome they were. We want their lives to keep mattering, forever and ever. We want their legacies to live. Therefore, let us talk about the loved ones we've lost, as much as we want. And you can talk plenty about them, too. We desperately crave hearing your stories and memories about the people we've dearly loved. Do you find yourself annoyed by this or uncomfortable with it? Well ... you might want to rethink that "friendship" thing ...

5. There are no right words to say. Therefore, you don't have to avoid us out of fear of saying something wrong — except "get over it," of course. All you have to do is be there. Just listen. Just hug (or virtual hug). Just tell us you love us. Just tell us a favorite story about the ones who are gone. Check in every once in awhile. Just let us know you're thinking about us. And if you really think you have to have the right words, then the right words are these: "I don't know the right words. I just know I care about you, and I'm sad you are hurting right now."  It's not hard at all.

In addition to clarifying those five absolutes, something shifted positively within me when one of my mom's friends told me in those Facebook responses that my mom was very proud of my writing talent. My writing talent? Really? I thought I mostly practiced word vomit — at least that's been my style for the past three years.

And here's the coolest thing: On May 12 (the day before the anniversary of my mother's death), I was cleaning out the back house for an upcoming garage sale when I started rummaging through the two boxes of memorabilia, pictures, school assignments, essays, Little Dribbler's uniforms, report cards, calendars, artwork, BARBIES!, "Toddy" bear, my Audrey doll, letters and cards (email didn't exist then!) from family and friends — from birth through graduating with my bachelor's degree — that had been stored for years in my parents' attic. I found things that made me bawl hysterically, but I equally discovered things that made me laugh hysterically or smile with happy memories.

And again and again I read Hallmark cards from Mom and Dad signed, "We love you." "We're proud of you."

New ideas for blog posts started to flow that day, so I'm going to do my best to write again. I would like to honor my English teacher/Librarian mother's enjoyment of my writing.

I don't believe in coincidences. I believe that day I spent blanketed by memories, plus your supportive responses to my Facebook apology, edged me forward in my personal healing. That's just how it works, and that's why we cannot judge another person's grief journey.

Thank you for continuing with me on my journey. I hope you get something helpful from me now and then.

And I'm so grateful to report that the new ideas I gathered for future blog posts have little to do with debilitating grief. Thank you, God ... I think I get to move forward now.

What about time?

Time fascinates me.

Today is Oct. 7, 2015. As I sit on my couch, surrounded by two Golden Retrievers and four (indoor) cats, I reflect on last year …  when I had two Golden Retrievers and three cats. I note the sadness I feel today, yet also the hopefulness and peacefulness.

I think about the fact that my mother’s birthday is Oct. 7, 1945.  On that day 70 years ago, a feisty, intelligent, ornery, sweet and caring child named Nicki blessed the earth.  I’m certain that time brought the family great happiness.

And I would be willing to bet the moon that my 23-year-old mom felt pretty miserable on Oct. 7, 1968 — just five days before I would grace the world with my presence.  If you’ve ever been pregnant, you know how those last days feel.

For my mother’s birthday last year, my sister Kim and I took Mom to Dillard’s to buy her some new shoes.  The three of us probably experienced every emotion known to mankind that day.

Our mother had suffered a small-scale stroke just a year-and-a-half before, and, my, how times changed after that! After two months of rehabilitation, Mom was just about normal. She functioned well enough, but she walked more slowly and off-balance, processed information more slowly, forgot things easily and experienced left side neglect. She simply forgot she had a left side to use, and her left hand often found itself in her spaghetti plate at The Olive Garden.

Mom also stressed out more easily after the stroke, which I never believed could be possible.

So in Dillard’s that day, my mother and her shoe selections took up one-third of the department. Boxes scattered all around us, with some shoes matching and others not. Mom would be in the middle of trying on one shoe and get interested in another. And soon she would forget the shoes she had already tried on and want to try them on again. We helped Mom try on shoe after shoe after shoe to finally make a decision on one pair. We felt badly enough for the salesperson that we told her our mom had suffered a stroke, which caused her to make relatively simple tasks quite difficult.

My mom didn’t like it any better than we did. She felt self-conscious, anxious and exhausted when finished. Kim and I worried that we way overdid things for Mom that day.

Still, it was a good day! We had been together, and my mom had been able to get out for a little while.

So, yes, time fascinates me with all of its changes and complexities, and how, at the same point at any given time, a person can experience a dichotomous range and fluctuation of emotions.

I have often suggested to people going through difficult times to imagine themselves one year from now. What do you think that year will look like? What do you think you will be feeling? Will what you are experiencing right now even matter that much at this time next year?

The proposition certainly gives one something to ponder. With time being an ever-changing, never-ending process, one can’t realistically conclude she will be feeling exactly the same load of misery (or even happiness) in a year that she’s feeling right now.

If someone had told me last year that one year from now my mom would no longer be with us due to more strokes, I wouldn't have believed it. And if someone had also suggested that neither of my parents would be here, I would have been unable to function for the rest of the year. 

What I most understand about time right now is that it only exists in this moment. I have one minute out of 60. I have one hour out of 24. That's it. They might all be strung together to make longer periods of time, but I don't know that. 

I don't know about tomorrow, and I don't need to know about tomorrow. I only need to put one foot in front of the other and do the best I can to make a positive difference in my small world — one second at a time, one minute at a time, one hour at a time, one day at a time. 

That's it. That's my time. That's doable.  

I only want to know ...

I have had an emotionally difficult week. I've fallen through whatever protective cloud I've been living in the last few weeks, and I'm back to the reality of sadness. I don't know, did I go through denial again? Did "Moving Day" snap me out of it?

I realized while running the other day that the way I miss my parents is like when I was a kid, and I went away to basketball camp, or to stay with my Mama Lo and PaPa for a week — and even when I was in college and lived in Lubbock for a couple of years.  I would miss my parents terribly, and if I allowed myself to focus on missing them, I would feel horribly sad and homesick. But then I would remind myself that it's only temporary, and I would see them again soon. Much like putting a bandaid on a strawberry burn, I would be all better for a while.

Back then, I could call them, or write them when I missed them. (Back in the Mama Lo and PaPa days, we wrote real, honest-to-goodness, handwritten and mailed letters!!) And, then, I always knew the end date. I had a definitive light at the end of my homesick tunnel.

I'm lost knowing I may not see my parents again for years and years and years. I'm going to feel this void indefinitely. When I have been feeling good about things, I've been able to remind myself I will see them again, and they're all good and happy and all that wonderful stuff. But when I am down, as I have been since Moving Day, I am focused on the forever part of what I don't know.

So in this week of reflection, I've been able to finally pull together in my mind all the things that have randomly floated around like scraps of notepaper since Mom and Dad died. I need — OK, maybe it's more of a want — to know some things to get me through this awfulness.

I want to know what my mother was thinking all those sad, sick months. I want to know how she perceives it all now, from the other side — from a healthy side. I want to know what she was trying to tell us all those times she struggled to communicate. I want to know she understands we did the best we could to take care of her, that we were heartbroken for her condition and her personal suffering.

I want to know whether my mom felt a reconnection with me at the end. Did she know how special that time was to me, even though the circumstance was sad, unfortunate and painful?

I want to see my mom happy, enjoying all the little things she loved. I want her to acknowledge that I recognize I share many of the same enjoyments she did — especially collecting little treasures, piddling in domestic activities, learning new things and taking care of kitties. I recognize we truly weren't that different. Fall is my favorite, too, Mom.

I want to know how my mother felt when she reached heaven and reunited with all three parents. How did she feel about what she learned? How was it to meet the baby?

Does my mother understand how difficult it feels to figure out what to do with all the things she cherished? Is she ok with the decisions we are making?

Does my mother realize how badly I want to know everything she was thinking and feeling during her life? I look at her pictures, and I think, "What was that little girl like?" or "What were you thinking that moment in time?" Mom, I wish you had shared more of your thoughts and feelings with us — more of what you were like growing up.

And, Dad. I wonder the same things about him, yet what he must have been like in his younger days is not as much of a mystery to me — I think because he and I were alike in so many ways and because we've discussed a shared experience many times.

Does my dad now see the story of my life? And does he now have the whole picture of what he meant to other people? He admitted when he was dying and everyone was reaching out that he couldn't wrap his head around it all.

I want to ask Dad if I did ok at the end. Does he know I did my best? Kim took her much needed opportunity to share special times with him at the end; did I waste mine?

Dad, could you hear us talking at the end? What did you think? Did you laugh at us? Did you feel badly for us? Were you trying to tell us everything is ok? What about Kim on your final day with us, when you held her hand?

Do my parents know how empty life feels right now, in spite of all the blessings I have? Do they know how guilty I feel for enjoying myself sometimes? Do they know I feel guilty enjoying their things, and the gifts they left behind?

Do my parents know how blessed I feel that they were my parents, and that I am so grateful, as Winnie the Pooh said, to have loved something (them) so much as to feel such a great loss?

I would really, really appreciate that visit.

Time to turn the page to start a new chapter — with many thanks

This journey of caregiving for my parents, grieving through the losses of their health, and then experiencing their back-to-back deaths has exceeded any experience in my life — ever — both in the pain and the blessings realms.

I know I'm about to climb in earnest the mountain of grief that's waiting for me. I know I'm not alone. So many of you have been there already in your lives. I'm sure I'll write some about grief as I go.

But I see that it's about time for the current chapter in my life and on this blog to close ... although I'm sure what has become so much apart of me will continue to seep into the rest of my life experiences and writings.

I want to thank each and every person who has walked this journey with me. Your support, your love for my parents — it's simply been overwhelming. I think it might be months until I can completely sort out and put into its proper place in my brain the significance of it all. I'm more than touched, too, by how many people from my lost past have reached out to show me love. Thank you, thank you. You will never know how much that has meant to me.

While this chapter may be about over, I know I can reread it any time I want, even as I begin the new one.

Because here's the thing: You let me and helped me tell my parents' story. You let me honor them by sharing them with you. I know that if I learned a few things, then surely you must have, too.

"I strongly encourage each and every person with an aging loved one to get busy gathering stories and memories. Write them down. Scrapbook them. Photo album them. And share them. Share them with your loved ones if they're still living. Hand them down from generation to generation and let your loved one's legacies live on forever."

This has been the greatest comfort I have found in this entire process, especially as I watched so many older folks in the various institutions we experienced seem to just wither without love.

Caregiving, experiencing my parents' deaths, the reflections I've had upon my own life, especially during such an already personally life-altering time — all of these are parts of aging. I'm more than grateful to say that perhaps for the first time in my life, I experienced a difficult thing gracefully. Wow, guess we all gotta grow up some time. :-)

One thing I have grown used to and know I will miss — and I find this astounding — from the time I began this blog in early January until now, it's had over 30,000 page views. Holy Cow! That's because of my parents!

I can't imagine writing anything else that might capture such interest. (And, frankly, I'm not up for any more lost loved ones. For all I know, you're tired of that drama, too.)

<sigh> Oh, well.

I'll just continue to do what I love and what works so well for me therapeutically — write. You never know (knock on HOLY wood) what's around the corner.

Nobody Warned Me: Moving forward to a New Beginning

"... but one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus." 

— Philippians 3:13-14

June 1, 2015: Two weeks after we buried my mom, today we buried my dad. His service was beautiful and so appropriately him. Thank you to all who attended, who sent well-wishes, and who participated by sharing their stories. I laughed, and I cried.

And a very special note of thanks and awe to Chuck Alexander (Insufficient Funds/First Presbyterian Church)— your voice astounds me, and the way you sing "I Bowed on My Knees and Cried Holy" is like no version I have ever heard before. (I think you do it better than Michael English.) That was exactly, exactly the way my dad would have loved it. I cried with gratitude as you sang.

****

I knew this time would come. The day in the chapter of this story in which both my parents were gone, at least in this life.

I just didn't know they would pass so closely together — or at such young ages. As I've shared before, I thought my mother would live long past my dad. I feared she would suffer for a long time from losing him.

Mercifully, that is not the case.

I suppose God, Mom and Dad decided that Jimmy and Nicki should continue to be together in Heaven. They were a team for 55 years. Why stop now? I believe Mom went first so she could show Dad the way.

Or something like that.

I wonder if my mother was beckoning my dad when he was standing between here and there? I would like to think so.

I could ponder these questions forever, and they would and will give me comfort and things to smile about.

But still, here Kim and I are with the true "now what?"

It seems obvious that after we have settled post-funeral tasks, the answer is to just get back to living life the way it was before. She goes home to her family and business — which she will — and I put my house back together and resume whatever it was I was doing before.

The thing is, I had kind of been in transition mode when this all occurred. I was enjoying a peaceful life of freelance newspaper work, house projects and traveling with Dorsey to his various work sites. It was the calm blessing before the storm.

And why wouldn't I want to live in Bend? WOW.

As much fun as I had on those trips, especially to Bend, Oregon, (twice, where I'd love to live), Northern California (twice) and to New York and Connecticut for Jordie's birthday last year, the past seven months of my life have been the most meaningful. They've been the hardest and most painful, too. Ever. (And I've put myself through ridiculous amounts of pain in my life — so much so that I could reign as Queen of Ungraceful Aging.)

The peaceful calm I had been blessed with provided space and time I had never before experienced to begin a personal transformation — to a physically, spiritually and emotionally healthier me. This had been a two-year strengthening process when the dam with my parents' health broke loose.

The blessed work that began in me — what is now three years ago — took off at breakneck speed. I can honestly say I will never be the same.

Neither do I want to be.

So ... here I am. A different, better and much stronger person. (And I'm sure my sister is, too, but she has her own story to tell someday, if she wants.)

I have choices I never had before. Some truly are new opportunities, and some I just never believed I had. I have a different mindset and a renewed faith.

I feel intensely grateful that God let me have that time with my parents so they could finally experience the healthy me. They got to die knowing I was exactly how God created me to be and that they always knew I could be. That's all they ever wanted for me. Thanks be to God for that gift!

I realized, too, in this journey, that of all the things I've ever strived for in my life — for all the things I've ever run myself insanely ragged — the last seven months gave me exactly all I've ever wanted, too — the same thing my parents wanted for me.

For whatever reason (and perhaps another story for another time), it took me an exceptionally long time (45 of my now 46 years, to be exact) to accept God's grace for me in all my imperfections and finally get my bearings. Accepting God's grace was the secret all along. Why it clicked for me when it did on that exact date in July of 2014 is something I still ponder.

So you know ... It takes what it takes —both to get you where you need to be and to keep you there. My blessed last seven months with my parents (and my sister) has been the catalyst to plant me where I need to be now and allow me to grow. I'd be a fool to turn back now, so I won't. My job now is to continue to respect and honor God and my parents in whatever I do from here.

God is good ... in ALL things. He can and has transformed every unfortunate or ugly or cruel or tragic circumstance in my life into something beautiful. (Romans 8:28)

Today might be the day — or not

Grief is interesting.

I've grieved many, many, many things in my life. (Any kind of a loss that a person perceives sets the grieving cycle in motion.) I'm quite familiar with this painful but enlightening process. Ugh.

However, this will be the first time I have grieved a close loved one's death. OK, and two at the same time, to boot.

So I'm going to say this up front: This is brand new to me. I'm on a learning curve, although I can imagine how a few things will go.

When my mom had her massive stroke in October, my grieving for her began. I lost my mother as I knew her on that day. I spent seven months cycling Elizabeth Kubler-Ross' stages of grief and adjusting to the new and child-like mom. I grieved her losses and how she experienced her losses, as well. I mourned my family's loss. I mourned watching my dad mourn. It was truly the most hideous experience ever. In some ways, it seems —at this time anyway — worse than death.

Mom this past Christmas.

That's leaving me wondering when her actual death is going to hit me. I mean truly hit me. And will it? I would assume so. Is it just delayed by my dad's death?

I'm sure these answers will come.

As for my dad, I'm experiencing break-through-the surface emotions at this time. (Who would have thought a trip to Home Depot would set me off?) While I've done a darn good job of flying on autopilot — if I do say so myself — the time will come when I have to wake up and fly on my own abilities.

That day might be today.

Dad's 70th b-day, this past November.

As many of you know, Dorsey and I moved all of our stuff from our downstairs bedroom, bathroom and closet area to Jordie's room and bathroom to make way for first my dad, and then my mom. (OK, with all my junk, it's true I had to leave much of my stuff downstairs. Still, I got rid of bags and bags of stuff.) Jordie was away at school, so at this time, he has the couch and/or a defective air mattress.

In my house's current state, I see the lift chair Hospice provided, Dad's hospital bed (Mom's is already gone), Dad's oxygen tanks, his walkers, the wheelchair and various other paraphernalia.

I've avoided all of it, except the lift chair, because it's depressing.

Today, National Home Health (crazy, it was Britcare for my mom), comes to pick up all his stuff, and I will begin the process of putting the "Dad Quarters" back together. All of my dad's most personal belongings are currently in my bedroom: His Bible; the books he was reading; "Smithy," his outdated cell phone; His glasses; the letter he wrote to give to Jordie after his death.

You get the idea.

And in the other part, where Mom was staying, sits her customized wheelchair, her blankets, her stuffed animals (we got her several during the seven-month journey), her nature DVDs and TV, her family pictures, her glasses, her foam blocks.

The bathroom holds their personal hygiene items. The closet, their clothes. My dad's beloved ostrich boots and cowboy hats. 

Today, I begin sorting through what's left after the home health stuff is gone to make room for Dorsey and me to return to our space. Yes, it's necessary to do that now. Because I say so. (And because our necks and backs hurt, and Jordie needs his own bed again.)

It will be interesting because grief is interesting.

I'll try to observe the process as if from third person. Perhaps that will make it all easier.

Sad to share ...

Yesterday, Kim put her hand in my dad's, and he curled his fingers around her hand.

My dad left us shortly before 10 p.m. yesterday to be with my mom and all of his loved ones who went before him. I'm grateful the party has begun for them all.

I'm even betting my dad may have found a golf course greater than any he's ever imagined.

I will let you know about the service when plans are final. It will be a memorial service in which anyone who wants to speak can do so. 

Thank you for continuing to share this journey with my family and me. 

Thoughts about my dad's health ... for today

Everything with my dad has been so up and down. He can be really horrible, and we think he's at death's door ... and then he perks up.

Last night, he took a bad turn — of weakness and confusion.

This morning, he was even worse. He hasn't been able to walk today. He hasn't made any sense at all. He couldn't hold cups to drink; he couldn't drink. He couldn't swallow meds. And he hurt.

And now, he's been asleep all day.

Kim and Dorsey keep saying, "But ... but ..."

I'm not. Forgive me, but I'm not thinking positively.

I know his hemoglobin has continued to decline. His legs have signs of the platelets in his skin ...

And this is morbid ... I've read and heard the impending signs of death.

I'm just trying to get prepared.

At this point, Kim and I are giving it one more day to decide whether to move his bed into the den to be with us — because it appears he has approached or is quickly approaching being unable to get up. (It took 15 minutes for Dorsey and Jordie to get him up to a wheelchair this morning.)

And if we don't move the bed, the next question is whether to take him to BSA Hospice.

We just don't know, but as history in this deal has shown us, the answers become clear when they need to.

Tomorrow, if I post that all is well again today, you can just laugh at me. It's okay.

I don't know what the heck to expect anymore.

Just some random thoughts on recent events

The outpouring of love we have received from friends and family during my parents' illnesses and my mother's recent passing has overwhelmed me. In a good way, of course.

I can't imagine going through this experience alone. Not once in all of it have I felt alone, and that's saying something for me. I think it also indicates where I am with my faith, too. I've not felt abandoned by God, I've not blamed God ... not one of those things. I might have in the past, but everything I've been through up until this point apparently prepared me for the magnitude of faith I would need.

I understand and know that bad things just happen. They happen as a result of this fallen world. God doesn't cause it. God is the one who can make blessings from the bad things. And I know that bad things happen to all people. God doesn't play favorites. No one is exempt from difficult times, and no one is exempt from death from this life. And at the same time I have heavy things happening in my life, lots of people all around me are suffering devastating things, as well.

It's simply not about me.

Ultimately, God is going to work ALL THINGS (read "even the bad things") according to His plan and purpose, and He will use whatever happens in our lives and others' to ultimately bring us closer to Him. I've seen some people head in the opposite direction from God as a result of broken faith, but not many. And many people, while their faith may be shaken for a bit, come back stronger than ever.

It's truly been amazing how often I've seen God at work during this time. At some point, when I've collected my thoughts more, I might write about this. But what I can say is that I also cannot imagine how anyone can get through something like a loved one's death, or his or her impending death, without faith in God and eternal life.

Where else is the hope? What a cold, dreary, lonely life without that faith.

I'm thankful for my upbringing in the Christian faith ... and while I'm not grateful for the times, especially that extended one, when I was far away, I am MOST grateful to God that He used even those ugly, painful times to put me right here, right now. I know without a doubt that anything that was in question before — or might still be — already IS OKAY. (Because even if you or I can't see it clearly, God already has it covered.)

Eulogy for my mother

I made it through the service today and giving her eulogy without losing my composure ... although I nearly did a couple of times.

For those who are interested but couldn't be there this morning, here is what I wrote/said:

********

Mom’s Eulogy

I may have bitten off more than I can chew with this task, so I ask that you all lift me up so I can get through this with my composure intact— not just for my mother’s sake, but for mine as well.

You see, a couple of weeks before Mom made her way to her heavenly home, she was sitting in the kitchen with my husband and with Lucinda, one of her wonderful caregivers.

She said to my husband, “I wish I were a bird.”

He asked her why. She responded that she would like to be able to fly over people’s heads and poop on them if they annoyed her.  

I don’t want God to let my mom be a bird just so she can poop on my head. I need to do a good job with this remembrance. And the good Lord knows I annoyed my mother greatly in life!

***

I am here to celebrate my mother’s beautiful life with you.

But I want to preface my story with this scripture:

From Romans 8:28

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

I ask you to remember that truth as I share.

Mom’s stroke in October was horrifying in that not only did it debilitate her physically, it stripped from her something she valued most in life: The ability to communicate, to hold rational, linear conversations and to take care of those she loved most.

But as you can tell with the bird poop story, the stroke also broke through a communication filter — that previous filter that often kept my mother from sharing her deepest self with us.  While the way she previously communicated may have been gone, she gained a newer, purer and sweeter way of sharing her spirit with us.

Not long after Mom had that stroke and during a speech therapy conversation, she said she believed her life’s purpose had been to take care of my dad, as well as Kim and me, and her grandkids.

I believe she fulfilled her purpose, and in doing so, she ultimately glorified God.

Nicki Wilcoxson – May 13, 2015

Nicki Wilcoxson – May 13, 2015

Nicki Janice Sooter Wilcoxson, 69, of Amarillo, died Wednesday, May 13, 2015, in Amarillo.

Services will be at 11:30 a.m., Saturday, May 16, 2015, at Hillside Christian Church Chapel with Jim McKee and Mike Nuthman officiating. Private burial will be at Llano Cemetery.  Arrangements are by Boxwell Brothers Funeral Directors, 2800 Paramount Blvd.

Nicki was born on Oct. 7, 1945, in Slaton to Joe and Lorene Sooter. She grew up in Clovis, NM, until she moved with her family as a freshman in high school to Childress, where she also met the love of her life, Jim Wilcoxson. She graduated from Childress High School in 1963 and married Jim on Jan. 23, 1965, in Childress.

Nicki graduated in 1967 from Texas Tech University in Lubbock with a bachelor of science in education. She graduated in 1990 from the University of North Texas in Denton with a master of library science.

Nicki lived with her family in Amarillo for 46 years. She devoted more than 30 years of her life to public school education. She taught junior high history and English at Austin Junior High and Horace Mann Junior High; served as the librarian at Fannin Junior High, Palo Duro High School and Caprock High School; and retired in 2002 from Caprock High School as the instructional technology specialist for the Caprock Cluster. Nicki also served short stints with Region XVI Service Center and Perryton High School during the 1985-86 school year.

Nicki was an avid reader and learner. She loved gardening, cats, collecting, baking and preserving family memories. She dedicated her life to raising her two daughters and taking care of her husband. Nicki’s grandchildren were her pride and joy.

Nicki was preceded in death by her parents, and by an infant daughter, Amy, in 1967.

She is survived by her husband; two daughters Kim Migliaccio and husband Vince, of Flower Mound; Jami Wilmarth and husband Dorsey, of Amarillo; three grandsons, Hart Wilmarth of Austin; Jordie Henry of Plainview; and Cole Migliaccio of Flower Mound; three brothers, Roy Sooter of Amarillo; Dwight Sooter of Lebanon, Ky.; and Tim Sooter of Evergreen, Colo.

The family suggests memorials be sent to Amarillo Independent School District’s Caprock Cluster programs, 7200 Interstate 40, Amarillo, TX 79106.

Another leg of this journey has ended

I didn't sleep last night.

I kept writing my mother's eulogy in my head. (Yes, I am going to attempt it and pray to God I do it without losing my composure. Kim's really worried about this ... )

And I'm wondering what Mom's doing. What's her favorite thing about Heaven? Is it even possible to have a favorite thing? Did she get to hear, "Well done, thy good and faithful servant" yet? And how does that happen? And how did she feel? I can only imagine.

As most of you know by now, my mother died yesterday at approximately 3:33 — or maybe it was 3:35 — when the school bell rang. We all thought that was appropriate. For my intelligent mom — the lifelong educator and student — her learning is over, and now she can rest and rejoice and relax and never worry about anything or anyone again.

What a relief and a blessing. But how sad for us. Going home to see her things has broken my heart all over again.

And what a crazy, crazy week we've had. As with Mom's first major stroke (her second stroke), all of our attention was focused on my dad's illness. We knew the probability of another bleed for my mom existed, but I suppose we were all shocked by how soon it happened. My theory is that her heart was already broken by her limitations and the reality of losing my dad. She just wasn't going to be left behind, and I don't blame her.

When we went to hospice last Wednesday after the night in the ER, my dad was in good shape physically. The first night there, however, he had a pain crisis, so they put him on an IV pain drip. The really hard stuff because we discovered his allergy to morphine.

Then, he had three really good days, so he was weaned back onto oral meds. And then, he had some really bad ones as my mother's death became nearer. Frankly, my family and the BSA Hospice staff were quite baffled as to whether my dad was going to pull through enough to go back home with us. That's how quickly his health deteriorated while we were there. We had begun to think he was going to go with my mom. It was somewhat logical thinking because my mom kept hanging on, long past what the medical staff believed she "should" have.

But Dad woke up yesterday with a good day. He was able to sit with all of us and hold my mom's hand while she passed. When it was over, he wanted nothing more than to get the heck out of there and come home, so my family took him home. I had already left to get Mom appropriate burial clothes. She is so tiny now that none of her clothes fit. (She is now exactly the size she was in high school and when my parents married.) And I wanted a Childress Bobcat blue dress that matches her eyes. I found it. (Don't worry, though ... open caskets are banned in my family with threats of future hauntings.)

Last night, we were together as a family — although I did my typical isolating thing. I don't know why I do that. It's just my reaction to grief, I think. It's hard to be around everyone when I'm trying to get myself together. I wrote my mother's obituary, Dorsey got her picture ready, and we tried to further complete funeral planning.

We are meeting with Brad Boxwell this morning at 9.

It's all so very fast.

Services will be at 11:30 a.m. Saturday at Hillside Christian Church's main campus chapel.

Mom and Dad update

This will be the third night for Kim and me to spend the night with our parents at BSA Hospice.

My mother continues to decline as her body shuts down. I know this probably is morbid, but I feel better to know what's happening and what to expect. I have been reading about how the body behaves in its final stages. I truly had no idea dying was such hard work. Movies have it all wrong. My poor mom is exhausted.

From what I understand, in spite of the upsetting sounds she makes and the noisy breathing, she is not in pain. From everything I've read and been told, the senses of touch and hearing go last, so we continue to talk gently to Mom and to touch her so that she knows we are here. We tell her it's OK to let go and encourage her as she moves toward death in this life. We tell her we love her and that she's the best mom ever. We tell her we will miss her, but we will be OK without her; she doesn't need to worry about us.

***

Dad had what is called a "pain crisis" in the middle of the night last night. He went from being on respite care here to an acute care patient. They put him on a pain drip, and changed his medications to accommodate the new level of pain and discomfort. As a result of the medication, he slept most of today.

The doctor and nurses said the goal is to adjust his meds so that he is comfortable, yet awake, so we are hoping tomorrow is better for him. He was so out of it today that he could not attend to my mother. You know how it is when you're really sick — it's all you can do to function for yourself.

Dad did have some visitors today. He was thrilled to see Coach Gerlich walk in the room. He managed to stay awake long enough to chat with Krista, Dale and his old golf course buddy, David Bonner. Another friend made a short visit, as well.

***

My dad's turn for the worse last night made me wonder whether we would be taking him home again. I am wondering whether my parents are just determined to get to Heaven as close together as possible.

Only time will tell.

This love story is nearing its end

I'm sitting in my parents' hospice room, trying to gather my thoughts around everything that happened yesterday, and the immediate days preceding it. As always, I try to place all pieces of my life into compartments in my brain that make some sort of sense to me. I "need" to have reasons for everything.

Many of you already know and have so graciously reached out to us since my mother suffered another massive stroke late yesterday afternoon. This one bled on the entire left side of her brain, which means her whole brain has been damaged by the strokes. She has not and will not regain consciousness. The doctors tell us she could pass within hours or days as her body shuts down.

We will be spending our time at BSA Hospice for the duration. They've set us up in a double room — one side for Mom, one side for Dad. (Please, please call if you're planning to visit my dad, because this is most likely where he will be. Visitors are still great; we've just relocated.)

Even though it's not wise to spend much time trying to figure out what God is doing ... I can't help myself. But as I try to figure things out, I now am in complete trust of how this story is going to end. I've already told God, "Thy will be done" so many times in the last seven months, and now I'm sort of like an outsider watching with interest.

When my mom had her stroke in October, you know if you've been keeping up with my blog that I struggled with how things would end for my parents after being together for 55 years. I couldn't imagine or accept that they would finish their lives apart and that my mom would be left to suffer without my dad — in a state of not completely understanding why he was gone.

In this blog, I posed one question after another.

I have experienced every answer to every concern I had be answered; the answers have come as each member of this family reached a level of understanding and acceptance necessary to continue on this journey.

With both parents finally in my home, my lingering worry has been about my mother — we've all worried, including my dad. All we've wanted is for her to be OK once he's gone. I know that sounds pathetic, because people experience losing spouses every day, and in no way do I want to minimize anyone else's heartbreak.

My extraordinary concerns for my mother, however, have been for two specific reasons: the level of her understanding due to the brain injury, and the fact that she has been with him the majority of her life, taking care of him. Dad has been her life. It's as if she was born to be his wife and to take care of him (and us). She is a caregiver through and through. She stuck by my dad through thick and thin, great times and bad times. Total devotion like I've never seen.

For obvious reasons, I am no longer worried about my mother's wellbeing. While I am devastated to be losing her now, I am relieved that she and my dad will be together in a relatively short period of time, and she will not have to suffer without him.

She is going first (most likely) to that most wonderful place God has prepared for us ... In fact, we've joked that she has to go to make sure Dad doesn't get lost — he's that bad with directions. (You know what I'm saying, Jo Ann Weese and Babs Lombard.)

My mother has willed herself, and God has directed and allowed her to be safe, comfortable and at peace — finally — with all that has happened so quickly and tragically to them. I don't want to lose her, and I don't want to lose my dad — and Kim and I will be lost and empty without either parent. We never imagined this — ever. This has been the most difficult, horrible time — and blessed. Last night was nothing less than gut wrenching for all of us.

But for my parents, this is merciful, and I am so grateful to God for that gift.

Musings from a very busy week

Dorsey captured this moment recently. 

This past week has been a whirlwind of activity in our household. Since my dad came home from the hospital, and I let everyone know he is at home on hospice care, we have had visitors, visitors, visitors! And food, food, food. Wow, we have a lot of good cooks in this town! Thank you all very much!

I observed a few things last week that warmed my heart, yet also stabbed at it.

People really love my dad! The visits, the stories ... everything overwhelms me. I can't imagine living a life in which so many people love me. Wow. One thing that stands out for me from the stories people have sent in is the way he treats everyone kindly and seems to make everyone feel important. I can only hope to follow his example during the second half of my life.

This activity in my home is healthy but heartbreaking for my mother. Oh, how I wish I knew how she is processing all of this. I wish I knew her thoughts, and I wish she could express her thoughts as accurately as she's probably thinking them. I know that seeing all of this activity and knowing hospice is here, plus seeing my dad on oxygen, using a walker, etc ... all of this is telling her what is happening — what is going to happen as it's happening — so that she can grieve properly.

One of the things I worried about so much before my parents were back together in one place was that my dad would be there for her one day ... and then he wouldn't, and she wouldn't understand. She would think he had abandoned her. She gave us real reason to believe that when she was staying in facilities; Dad would be gone a little bit, and she would express anxiety and anger at him.

I think now, she will understand more fully, although I'm sure there will be many, many hard times for her when he's gone.

When Dean and Jo Ann Weese visited for two days this past week, my mom was actually with her friends, too. Jo Ann and Arlyna (my dad's cousin who now lives in Oregon) sat with my mom for two days, even if they said nothing at times. My mom listened to the conversations, and we talked to her, and even though she didn't talk much, I know she was pleased because she smiled. Just a few times, she would tell Jo Ann, "I don't like this."

But what she was saying was, "I don't like that I can't visit and interact like I used to."

She's my mother

Christmas, 2014

Change and grief tend to produce powerful reflections. I certainly wade into deep water!

Some of my greatest reflecting and contemplating happens in the middle of the night. Tonight — or more accurately, today — I got up at 12:20 a.m. because I heard through the monitor my mom calling out and crying.

I found her in the middle of another anxiety attack, which have increased the last two days. I know she knows deep in her heart what's happening to my dad right now. She knows he's in the hospital. She knows he has cancer, and she knows he is dying.

She calls out for him, and she frequently wails, "I don't want Dad to die."

Mom's grief for my dad has become more apparent and open as the days go by.

Tonight, though, my mom cried and kept expressing, "I wish I could have given ..." "I wish I ... " "I wanted to ..."

And she named names of family members. It was as if she were expressing regret that she could not fulfill her former role as the family giver and caretaker. It dawned on me, once again, that part of my mother's grief in the middle of all this turmoil has been for her former self — her identity.

This breaks my heart, and once again tonight, I silently cried for all my mom has lost.

My mom has dedicated 55 years of her life to taking care of my dad, and I do mean taking care of him. She has loyally stood by his side, supported him, loved him and, yes, guided him. She is a major influence and force behind the man we love. She's kind of like the assistant coach, plus the team's manager, plus the owner.

She also has dedicated and sacrificed 50 years of her life to being a mother. While raising Kim and me, and before her perfect grandchildren came along, we filled the other half of her life. Everything she did revolved around us: Our activities, our needs, our wants, our safety and our wellbeing. Everything. She gave so much for us, much more than we realized at the time.

She also ran our family household; she cooked, cleaned, paid the bills and earned a good chunk of the family income as a teacher, librarian and technology instructor.

She is the reason my peers teased me for having a large vocabulary at a young age. :-) She is the reason I made good grades. She is the reason I survived being a coach's kid. She is the reason for so many other good and positive things in my life.

And she did all of this through some truly difficult, difficult times.

We're all just walking each other home

I had an enlightening conversation with my sister, husband and brother-in-law the other day. Vince, the forever entrepreneur, told me he could help me make money off my blog. Dorsey was all for that!

I said, "You mean, the $13.77 I've earned so far isn't good enough?" (Seriously, click on my Google-provided ads ... I earn a cent or two per click.)

He said "real" money. Then my sister said, "But her blog is about us, about our family. Only people who know us care about it. How could it make money?"

"It's about aging gracefully (that's not really graceful)," Vince said.

"She's had a little of that, but it's mostly about us," Kim said.

And I was just listening, unable to get a word in edgewise. I was thinking, "Really? Is that all this blog is — just a story of our family drama?"

I sincerely hope this blog is more than that — especially because these days, I hate unnecessary drama. Drama days for me are OVER. (How was that for a dramatic presentation?) Drama is one of those ungraceful things we do as teenagers and even, unfortunately, as adults while we figure out who and what we want to be. I've been there and done that ad nauseam, and I'm finished. It's a life I'm not at all proud of.

Caregiving: Week One

The first week with Mom at home with us was good in many ways, but stressful in others.

It's been good because I know she's where she needs to be, but stressful because I don't function that well on little sleep. I've averaged three hours of sleep each night this past week.

The first few nights, I probably could have slept fine because Mom did. I just watched that monitor like a new mom bringing home Baby for the first time would.

After that, however, Mom had all kinds of tummy troubles, which kept us up for hours. That finally caught up with me by the end of the week, and I was quite irritable and physically achy. Thankfully, the last couple of nights have been fine, and I've been able to get a nap or two.

I'm also almost a pro at changing briefs, transferring her and all of those other technical things now. It doesn't take long from so much repetition. I'm also getting some guns on my arms! Oh, and now that Dorsey and I stay upstairs, plus the washer and dryer are up there, my legs are getting a serious daily workout.

In fact, I'm loving watching my MisFit calculate my daily points, calories and steps. Over the top — especially on the days I also run.  I'm even reaching my fitness goals on the days I don't run and lift. Too bad I'm eating like there's no tomorrow. I'm starving all the time!

For someone who has historically struggled with having people in her home — because everything might not look, be or smell okay — I think I'm doing pretty well. We have caregivers, therapists and other people in and out every day. I have my moments of, "Not again!" but I've mostly reached an, "It is what it is," attitude. (I'm referring to appointments with people who give Mom care.)

Dorsey managed to have time to get the new ramp assembled and installed while he was home, fix the broken back door and address a couple of other issues. That relieved some stress. A man named "T" is going to mow and edge for us for a nominal fee.

And one friend has worn herself out preparing food for us. It's all been pretty tasty, too. The meal train is seeing some people sign up, and that has been a great help as we focus on Mom, and because I've had an editing project this past week that has demanded my attention.

You've asked how you can help ...

I will never be able to adequately express the gratitude I feel to each and every person who has reached out to my parents, my sister and me during the last several months. You have shown a tremendous and humbling amount of love for my parents that has kinda really blown me away. 

If you have just now been referred to my blog to keep up with my parents, here's the quick update: Mom and Dad now live with me as my dad nears the end of his battle with cancer, and as my mother suffers from the after-effects of a massive stroke in October; she is unable to care for herself in any way. 

As more people have learned about my parents' health, Kim and I have been asked countless times, "What can I do to help?" or "If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know."

That's always hard to say, because we never know what's going to happen from day to day, but Kim and I have a few ideas. 

• Meal Train. Go to Jim and Nicki Wilcoxson Meal Train if you might be interested in bringing an easy meal to us. While I can and do cook (and bake), sometimes it takes more time and energy than I have. Mom takes full-time care, and though we have caregivers coming in, I still have a LOT of household upkeep going on and freelance work projects. Dorsey travels so much for work. Kim is trying to help Vince run their business, but she's doing it long-distance. We have a lot going on during a time when we need to be with our parents, and they need us.

Adventures of the Mom-included Household

Wow. What an amazing last two days. And you can bet I'm going to hold onto the goodness as if every day after those two will be just as good, if not better.

(OK, so I still need to get my nights figured out ... we'll talk about that later. I got three hours of sleep the first night, and two-and-a-half last night.)

Mom arrived about mid-morning the first day. She was calm, yet quiet, but I could tell she felt pretty content as she seemed to look around in wonderment. She knew she was at my house, with her family. First thing we did was give her the cream cheese pound cake Dorsey had made the day before. It's her favorite, and she ate two pieces. Pretty cute!

I had quite a bit of unloading and then putting things away to do, so Mom, Dad and Lucinda, our new caregiver, sat outside in the bird sanctuary — where, I might add, the doofus birds have not yet figured out they have food, so they continue to eat the cat food on the ledge.  That area is shaded, so without the usual fidgeting and anxiety, she quietly took in her surroundings.

Chloe, the other kitties and the puppies played outside, too. Mom was pleased to have Chloe back, and that afternoon, Chloe curled up in bed with her for a two-hour nap. Just like old times!

During the afternoons we don't have a caregiver, so while Mom, Dad and Chloe napped, I busied myself with laundry and making chicken pot pie for dinner. (Yes, the real deal. I'm already loving being back in the kitchen!) Kim took care of all the medication transfer things for both of my parents, which was pretty darn complicated and detailed! Still, it's all figured out and good now.

I have to say, I'm quite impressed with the video/audio monitor we have. I kept an eye on Mom while she slept, and I can hear if she happens to call out. (However, that monitor has caused me a few "issues" during the night.)

Not once during the last two days has my mom lashed out at us in anger. The only tough emotion she's expressed so far is one of feeling overwhelmed. She said several times the first day, and once during tears, "It's just too much."

When pressed for more information, we discovered she felt bad about all we were doing for her.  We assured her, as I can assure you, this is what we want to be doing. We are so glad to have her.

I have noticed that even though Mom still talks about nonsensical things, she has more lucid moments than I remember her having in a long time. She has even remembered the foods I've been making and what she is eating and wants to eat. I offered her a brownie yesterday, which I had made the night before, and she said, "Yes, I remember you made them last night before I went to bed."

Wow. That might not sound like a big deal, but it is. And Kim said Mom wanted chicken pot pie for lunch yesterday because she remembered how good it was the night before. Another wow.

Perhaps my favorite moment of all so far occurred between 12 and 1 a.m. the first night/early morning. Via the monitor, I saw Mom's restlessness and wakefulness. I went to check on her, and she said she was hurting. Her left arm almost always hurts. Sadly, while she cannot will it to do what she wants and it's a burden to her, she still can feel all the pain it has to offer.

So, I gave her medicine and wrapped her arm in a warm rice pack. We sat and talked, and I rubbed her feet, while we waited for her arm to stop hurting. Sure, I was sleepy, but I felt happy to be there. During that time, she looked at me and said, "Did you ever think you would be doing this?"

I said, "Taking care of you and Dad?" She nodded her head. I said, "No, no I did not."