Q is for Questions—The Ones I Wish I’d asked my Mom

Thanks to fellow blogger, Beth, for suggesting this topic, I have something to write about for this edition of the A to Z Bloggers Challenge. My mom was in her early seventies when she died and I’ve written about that before so I won’t go into detail. But I will quote myself below so new readers will understand why it was traumatic, and why it left me with no time to ask the questions I didn’t yet know I’d want answers to.

“She’d been going to the doctor every week for a dozen weeks complaining of pain. Near the end my brother started going with her to get some answers about what was going on and the doctor told him Mom was just getting old and looking for attention. Mistakes one through ten. Unbeknown to anyone she had a small hole in a kidney and blood was slowly seeping out and filling up her body cavity. Mistakes eleven and twelve came the day she died and the ambulance got lost trying to find my parents’ house. (They lived on a lake in a rural area where the township didn’t keep their maps up to date.) Mistake thirteen through fifteen happened on the way to the hospital when the ambulance caught on fire and they had to wait for another. She died of septic shock ten minutes after arriving a the hospital and a doctor told me later that dying that way is very painful. Her death was a series of human errors and oversights and it was filled with the kind of shoulda, coulda anguish that only comes with hindsight.”

My mom had a way of answering questions that didn’t really tell you anything. (Remember me writing about how when asked what's for dinner she'd say things like, "An old dead cow.") Another example of her non-answers was when I asked her where I came from and I thought I’d get the birds and the bees story I heard rumors about. The idea that the daddy bee stings the mommy bee with his—gasp!—penis was so outlandish that I counted on her to set the story straight. She did. She told me she found my brother and me under a pile of rocks. A few years later she finally did set the story straight—not with a conversation, of course, but by handing me a pamphlet from the health department.

One of those things she didn’t want to talk about was a screw-back, silver and blue Air Force wings pin that I found in her jewelry box. I didn’t have any uncles or grandfathers who served in the Air Force. Where did it come from and why did she let me wear that pin to high school during the period when I had an imaginary boyfriend named Roger who was off serving our country? And did she know about Roger? Did she read my diaries when I was at school? Years later I thought she might have had a boyfriend before she married my dad who died in a ‘dog fight’ in the air space over Europe during WWII. In my golden years I still think she had that boyfriend, but if so, why was she willing to let me wear that keepsake? I would have snatched it out of any daughter of mine’s hands and locked it away. Maybe she trusted me more than I realized. Or maybe she didn’t think of it as a keepsake at all. Maybe she found it under a pile of rocks.

After she died I went through her cedar chest and another mystery was discovered among the mostly photos and knickknacks. A pair of soft pink satin and cream-colored lace panties that buttoned down the side. 1940s boy-cut style. Why did she keep them for thirty odd years? Who does that? My parents were married in the late ‘40s so maybe it was her version of keeping a wedding dress? She was married in a drab gray suit trimmed in brown fir over a weekend spent in Chicago. I have pictures of that trip and she and my dad both looked really happy. Oh, and that drab suit? Mom cut it up to make a coat for a doll I got one Christmas and I still have them both.

What did I do with the panties? You ask. I put them in a fresh plastic bag with a note about when and where I found them and put them in a small trunk that is earmarked to go to my oldest niece. She still has the cedar chest I found the panties in and I suspect they will end up back in that chest for my great-niece to discover one day. Some families hand down grandfather clocks and quilts. I’m thinking I might be starting a tradition of handing down underwear.

In all seriousness. The questions I wish I’d asked my mom before she died are about gaining more details of her childhood and her parents. I know the basics of how her own mother died when she was nine and all seven siblings where separated and sent off to various places. It was like an informal foster care known as ‘farming children out’ that was arranged between families rather than the state. But knowing my mother, she probably wouldn’t have told me very much. Her childhood ended too soon, when she went off to live with a grandmother who ran a boarding house where she was expected to work for her keep. In her teens she was working in other people's homes as a housekeeper and by the time she met my dad she'd been a waitress for several years. 

My mom was not a reminiscing type like I am. Maybe the past held too much pain? She focused on the future, always planning and plotting for ways to hedge her bets against bad luck and foul play, so to speak. We all leave a few blank pages behind; but with the brief outline she did leave, I’m pretty sure I could flesh her story out. But I know the important part: she was a strong woman who loved her family and I wish I'd have told her more often how much I loved her. ©

Photo at the top: Mom and dad on their honeymoon. 

Silly Saturday and Secrets

I’ve got a tiny, voice activated tape recorder and I used to joke that it was part of my spy equipment. Not that I’ve ever been a spy any place other than in my imagination and in the spoof obituary/booklet that I wrote about myself 2-3 years ago. So what did I use it for? The truth is boring compared to the spy lie. Back when I was shepherding my dad and then my husband around in the medical community I used that recorder to tape doctor appointments. There was no way I was going to remember what was said and neither one of the guys in my life were in a position to recall those conversations. I dug that recorder out recently, thinking I was going to put it by my bed to see if I snore. I suspect I do because there’s got to be a reason why the dog leaves the bedroom part way through the night to sleep on the couch in the living room. It’s on my night table but I’m almost afraid to power it up. I have so many vivid dreams that I’m scared I’ll record some of the conversations I have in the dark of night. What if my voice isn’t the only one I pick up? I know I’m talking to someone, I’ve woke myself up doing that.

I jumped the gun before using the recorder and bought a couple of products that are supposed to help with snoring. First I tried Theravent Snore Therapy Strips. It’s like a bandage that fits over your nostrils with mesh in the center. Wearing one makes you look like you’ve got a pig’s snout. I didn’t like the feeling of having my air flow ‘regulated’ which was its whole purpose. Next I tried Snore Stopper, a little silicone device that looks like two tiny cone-shaped baskets connected by a strip of silicone. You shove the baskets up your nose and surprise, surprise they actually stay in all night long. I’ve been a mouth breather for many years and I was actually shocked at how much air that little device helped me breathe through my nose. If it didn’t look so silly I’d be tempted to wear it in the day time. Hint to an entrepreneur: make one of these with a jewelry-like loop instead of the silicone bridge that shows when it’s inserted. I could bedazzle one myself---they come in a four pack---if I had a glue gun and some glitter, but with my luck someone would make me laugh and I’d end up snorting glitter up in places it doesn’t belong and then snoring would be the least of my troubles. My Fitbit likes the Snore Stopper. It records less restless sleep when I've got the baskets up my nose.

My house cleaner/grad student artist came this week. You can tell she doesn’t do as good of a job as my last girl because she clocks a good 30-45 minutes less time on her sheet. I don’t care. She’s so upbeat and I love our conversations plus she hugs me good-bye. We talked a little about art and I was telling her about a style change I’m thinking of making because cataracts are probably messing with my color sense. “Try it,” she says, “I tell my students the only wrong way to do art is to stop.” That advice could apply to a lot of stuff we do in life, couldn’t it.

This week my Gathering Girls pals had another one of our two hour brunches. As per the norm for our group we laughed a lot which put me in a silly mood. When our cancer patient said she sold her kitchen table, I couldn’t help asking, “You’re never going to eat again?” Everyone laughed, thank goodness. She’s lost a lot of weight and we all knew she has no appetite. Come to find out, her daughter is house-hunting for a bigger place so they can move in together thus her son has started putting some of her furniture on Craig’s list. After she left our group, the rest of us talked about the timing of a move like that. One person said no one should make an important decision like that while going through cancer treatment, another person said she’s probably scared and it gives her comfort to know she won’t be alone. I agreed with both of them but house hunting, moving and chemo piled on top of each other is a Stress Sundae if I ever saw one. 

Speaking of secret lives---I wasn’t? Well, I am now. I’ve been working on a project that I can’t share with the world thus I can’t talk about it with my blogger friends and that kills me. But trust me when I say it’s been taking up a lot of my time and won't come to an end for several months. And here you probably thought there wasn’t any details of my life that I don’t upchuck for public consumption. So why did I bring it up? I don’t know but should probably call my niece and tell her. Someone besides the dog should know in case I die before Project Get-it-Done is finish. 

Change of topics: with any luck my painter will show up today to give me an estimate and put me on his schedule to get my bedroom and bathroom painted. Spring is coming; I need my Beach-Cottage-Bedroom project behind me. When the good weather comes, I want to play……. ©

Life Changing Secrets and Leg ‘Magic’…or so They Claim

Do you wear compression stockings? If so you might have liked a class I went to this week called, Healthy Legs. The class description started out, “Maintaining a healthy active lifestyle starts with energizing your legs” and I didn’t bother to read the rest. Had I done so, I would have known it was put on by Juzo Compression Garments. I don’t wear compression stockings and after watching three 30ish, skinny model types pushing the idea that, “EVERYONE needs to wear these no matter your age” I did not join the cult. Although they did have styles for everyone---ankle, knee and thigh high, open toed for scandals and panty hose plus garments just for sleeping. Each of those came with compression rates from 15% to 50% and even though they come in some cool tie-dyed and jewel colors, none of those young women fooled me with their “Spanx for legs” jokes. They still looked medicinal.

And it wasn’t just the stockings. You’d need accessories just to get them on---special gloves, a ‘donner pad’ for the floor, donning lotion and a parachute-like device that helps you thread these stocking up your legs. It all made me feel very old for reasons that are probably related to why I resisted having a magnifying glass next to my chair in the living room for so long. Old people gear here and there and before long I might as call my house a nursing home.

Someone asked why the compression stocking she wore didn’t stay up and the answer was: there are two types of human legs---stove pipes and pie shaped and if you are in the wrong type and/or size garment they won’t work. You need measurements taken up and down and around your legs at several places to get the right compression in the right places. The garments has different compression ratings in different parts, the higher up your leg they go. So why compress your legs? Apparently it helps push the blood from your feet up to your heart where it gets oxygenated before the blood returns to your feet. I did not stick around to get a fitting. I will not be asking my doctor next month at my bi-annual appointment if I'd benefits from compression stockings like these ladies suggested. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and sing, "La, la, la, la, I can't hear you!"

Also this week I went to my book club where we had our best discussion ever. The book that inspired it was The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards. The blurb says this: “…the novel begins on a winter night in 1964 when a blizzard forces Dr. David Henry to deliver his own twins…but the doctor immediately recognizes that his daughter has Down’s syndrome.” In a split-second decision he asks his nurse to take the baby to an institution and tells his wife the girl was born died. Instead, the nurse left town, keeping the baby to raise as her own---two secrets that the wife and other twin didn’t find out about until after David died sixteen years later. 

Everyone in my book club had a story to tell about babies given up for adoption, most in secret that got revealed years later. One woman found out a week after her mother died that she had an older brother. It seemed her two aunts had kept the secret long enough and they gave her the contact information for the long-lost older brother. She said she felt like her whole life had been based on a lie because her mom had told her she was a virgin when she got married when, in fact, she’d had an affair with a married man. Her younger brother refused to believe it and didn’t want anything to do with meeting the half-brother. Fast forward ten years she hadn’t contact the older sibling, lost his contact information during a move and the aunts died. And she is left to wonder why her mother lied.

Another woman had recently found a message on her phone from a cousin who wanted to get together. “My mom told me a secret about your mother that is going to blow your mind.” She was afraid to call the cousin back. On one hand she wanted to know what it was but her older sister told her, “Trust me, you’ll wish you didn’t know.” The consensus in the book club was that a lot of secrets went to the grave with women in past generations. It was a different time for unmarried and pregnant young women and none of them could have ever imagined how easily their babies-out-of-wedlock secrets could get tracked down in our modern, internet savvy world. There are whole websites devoted to the effort. ©

Sharing Secrets and the Vulnerability to Connect

Did you ever have your mood change so fast from bleak and dark to sunny and light that you had to go back and dissect the reasons why that happened? If I were thirteen or forty-five when puberty or menopause could explain things I probably wouldn’t have even noticed my U-turn because, well, hormone induced craziness often escapes its victim’s attention. It’s the rest of the world that’s wrong. 1-800 Waa-Waaa and if I had an eye rolling icon, I’d use it here. I don’t know about other women but if I could go back and give my parents and my husband trophies for surviving my puberty and menopause, I would. The catch-phrase “cry me a river” was probably inspired by my older brother back in the days when my hangnails took on the same importance as a pile-up on the expressway. And I think I’ve already written about the time my husband found me balling my eyes out over a broken pencil lead and in a naïve sweet guy way, he thought sharping the pencil would fix what ailed me. 

As I examined my changing mood this week it would be easy to assign a Bermuda Triangle-Like mystery explanation but on closer examination that wouldn’t be true. I can point to several things that converged on point A to bring me to point B. One was The Gathering at the senior hall on Monday, the new start-up group for people who are looking for friends. Again, we played a get-to-know-each-other game. With this month’s game we had to reach into a bag without looking and pull out an object, then tell a story about how that object tells something about our personalities, ending our talk-time by sharing a secret. One lady pulled out a wooden spoon with a hole in the center and she joked that it was her brain and the older she gets the bigger that hole grows. Another woman’s object led to a story about how she ended up living in Cairo, Egypt for twelve years. One woman confessed to streaking across a lawn to ring a bell and she made us promise that her secret would stay in the room. Oops, I guess I’m not good at keeping secrets. I love how these games help us carry conversations beyond the norm for strangers getting to know one another.

When it was my turn to share a secret I said, “I only have one secret”---I was thinking about how I blab my every thought in the bloggers’ world---“but I’ll tell you half the secret: I once slept overnight on a gravesite and the reason why is the half I won't share." I also didn't share that I dated a newly minted Vietnam veteran for a year before I met Don and until that guy dies I probably won’t talk about the pain he caused me which includes the reason for the night in the cemetery. I think about doing it, writing about that era of my life but it would be a complicated story to tell and I’m not sure it’s worth revisiting in my head. I've googled him a couple of times and know our paths could easily cross again and it would be interesting to see if the attraction is still there after all these years. You see human interest stories on the news about old people who were sweethearts in their youth reconnecting fifty-sixty years later in a nursing home and getting married. Ohmygod, I can see how that happens if you're both the kind of people who only carries the happy memories forward and leaves the rest back in the past.

Back on topic: The second thing that factored into turning my mood around was going on Facebook and reading a post by an acquaintance that on some levels mirrored my own thoughts. “It occurred to me,” she wrote, “that in the realm of friendship, I have pretty much wasted mine because of shyness (often mistaken for being ‘stuck up’) and, yes, shame. I have many friendly acquaintances, but no one to have mini-reunions, girl getaways and the like. When I see posts of women laughing in restaurants, or touring places I love, I feel a great deal of self-pity, which is not noble.” Let me tell, this woman is someone I never, ever would have guessed could feel that way. She’s poised, well spoken, warm, extremely interesting and is someone I have admired from afar. I pictured her with many close friends. We chatted back and forth on her public Facebook post---my least favorite format for sharing feelings---but we ended up making plans for an outing this holiday weekend. 

“In order to connect we have to allow ourselves to be seen, really seen.” That’s a quote from New York Times bestselling author Brene Brown and I realize that's what my Facebook acquaintance was doing in her post, she was having the courage to be seen---insecurities, flaws and all. Ms. Brown also says, “Connection is why we are here. It’s what give meaning and purpose in our lives.” If you’ve never seen her Ted Talk on the power of vulnerability it's well worth watching. It's funny, insightful and you'll probably see yourself or someone you know in the stories she tells. ©