Tag: #mother

Walking In Rain

I like walking in the rain for two reasons. No one can tell when you’re crying when you walk in the rain.

My mom died 14 years ago. I don’t know why but the past couple of weeks, the grief has been close to the surface. There are obvious triggers like birthdays but sometimes, it’s just the general disappointments life brings, coupled with the realization that I cannot pick up the phone and talk those over with her, that makes the sadness bubble up.

On April 17, 2004, I told one of the biggest lies of my life and to my mom of all people. I held her hand while she was taking her last breaths and told her it was okay for her to go. Every fiber of my being was silently screaming against the words coming out of my mouth, raging against the unfairness and injustices of life. And she knew I was lying.  When her breaths would slow, and my dad would yell her name, she would struggle to breathe again because she knew how much losing her was going to hurt us and change our lives, forever. But nonetheless, outwardly calm, I held her hand and in a quiet, soothing voice, without tears, I told her to let go, that we would be okay. That was a lie.

My mom and dad made the choice that she would stay home with my sister and me and the loss of a second income certainly meant sacrifice. New clothes were a rarity and were usually gifts for birthdays or Christmas. When I was younger, a lot of my clothing came from my cousins, and as I grew older, from the Agape Mission Store that our church had, and my mom volunteered at. I knew that it bothered her that we didn’t have new clothes, but it never did us because we were always certain that no one would show up to where we were wearing the exact same outfit as us. I held her hand and thanked her for teaching me, through my cousin’s hand-me-downs and mission store prom dresses, that a person’s value is measured by more than what’s on their back. That was the truth.

We never went on vacation. There wasn’t money for that, but I remember the one trip we did take and stopped by several of Kentucky landmarks. We were gone for two days. She packed all the food we would eat, we got up early, and had a long day of touring. We stopped along the road at the little picnic areas that used to dot the highways to eat. We stayed at a little motel that had a swimming pool. Karen and I swam until way after dark. As best I remember, we were up early the next morning, drove to various places, ate along the road again and got home late. I held her hand and I told her that this trip was one of the best “vacations” I have ever been on because it wasn’t about the destination but rather, it was about being together. That was the truth.

At one point, my dad’s company went on strike and he had to walk picket duty. We ended up on food stamps for a few months. My parents would drive outside of our small county to the “city” grocery stores to buy what we needed because they were embarrassed. The funny thing was, these trips to the big grocery stores were like an adventure to me and my sister. One week, after much begging on our part, she relented and bought a fresh pineapple (which we loved) and a coconut (which we didn’t). I held her hand and told her that being on food stamps was a fun adventure for us and how something as simple as a pineapple and coconut made it even more so and I thanked her for not passing along adult worries to us. That was the truth.

I wasn’t an easy daughter to raise. I was headstrong, stubborn, moody. I didn’t use the best judgement and did some stupid things—thankfully, none of them caused lasting or permanent damage. I challenged authority and walked the edge of what my parents would tolerate, often crossing that line. And as I aged, I was embarrassed for some of the things I did and apologized to my mom and dad for my behavior. I was so surprised when they couldn’t remember the things I was talking about. I figured they thought of them every single time they looked at me. They didn’t. When it was over, it was forgotten. I held her hand and thanked her for loving and caring for me and how blessed I was to have her as my mom and that through her example, I would be a better mom to my daughter. That was the truth.

And nine years later, on December 30, 2013, I told the same lie and truths to my dad.

Today was rough. As the tears mixed with the rain, during the worst of it, I looked down and found a dime. I’ve been told that it means a loved one that has passed is looking out for you. And that slowed the tears but when about a mile further I found the second dime, the tears stopped. I figured that was mom and dad’s way of telling me, enough was enough. And for today, it was. Like the rain, the tears dried up and the warmth of the sun filled the voids where grief had been but moments before.

Oh, and the second reason I like walking in the rain, it’s the easy way to wash off bird shit because yes, that happened today too.

Smile and Say “Cheese!”

Today is Mother’s Day. Yesterday, after I could no longer deny my self-induced social media shame, I began searching for that “perfect” photo of me and my mom to update my Facebook profile. Sad thing was, in the brief few minutes I spent looking, I couldn’t find any of us together as adults. I’m sure there’s probably a few that exist, they just haven’t been scanned and saved yet. But given that I am the family photo repository, it bothers me that’s there not an assortment from which to choose.

Yesterday, we had a surprise 86th birthday party for my mother in law. We had a wonderful time. And the best decision of the day? People who know me well will be surprised to read this but it was having a photographer present to record and capture the memories of the day. I think after the search for my mom’s photo, I was particularly sensitive to it.

I have always hated having my picture taken—from my smallest to heaviest weight, braces, hairstyles, it doesn’t matter. I can always find something wrong. I don’t need an outside critic—no one can be harder on me than myself. And I think my mom was the same too. Compound that between the two of us and you end up with no photographic evidence of us together as adults.

Here’s the rub. When I look at pictures of people, I’m not looking at their physical traits (although some of the fashion choices we made makes me smile) I am looking at the sweet souls I love dearly. I am thinking about the day the photo was taken, the laughs we’ve shared and the times we’ve spent together. And sadly, for many of the people in these pictures, I can no longer get just a “me and them” photo.

The picture of me and my mom that I’ve attached to this blog is not the best but I smile every time I see it. We were having one of those “laugh until the tears run down your legs” moments that we often shared and someone captured it on film. I am so thankful they did.

There’s going to be a lot of photo taking today. Like Elsa sings in the movie Frozen, “Let it go!” Release the insecurities you feel and take the photo. It’s not about the perfect body or hair. It’s about the love and relationship.

Smile and say “Cheese!” The people who love you will be grateful you did.

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Sister Act

Most people would never admit this, but I’m not most people. I have laughed so hard at times that I have peed my pants. Of course, I have also sneezed and coughed and had the same result but those events correlated to age and childbirth rather than humor.

I think I got my sense of humor from my mom. My dad thought things were funny and would laugh and carry on but he could quit giggling at the snap of a finger. My mom and me, not so much. We would laugh until we nearly made ourselves sick (or wet our pants). Air gasping, sides hurting, tears streaming… And whatever the event that would start these uncontrollable fits of giggles, they would be just as funny to us days, if not years, later. Yes, we made public spectacles of ourselves on more than one occasion but the one that comes to mind and was probably our first public display just happened to be at the expense of my sister, Karen.

I loved to sing and began my sharing my “talent” with my church when I was around 14 years old. Thank goodness that they loved and cared about me as that first year or so was painful—for them and me but that’s another story. As I gained confidence, I expanded my repertoire. I would occasionally play the piano or do an instrumental duet with Karen, her playing the French horn and me, the piano. Where I made the critical, and hysterically funny (at least to me and mom), mistake was deciding to do a singing duet with her.

Karen is five years younger than me and very good natured. I come up with hare-brained ideas at times and she is usually a willing participant. Naturally, when I asked her to sing with me at church, she agreed. We were going to do a simple duet, “Give Them All to Jesus” by Cristy Lane, but even simple songs required practice. We knew that song inside out and were prepared for every possible disastrous scenario, except one…

That Sunday arrived and, as we stood to sing together for the first time, we looked out over a congregation, filled with family and friends, that had watched us grow from small children and was excited to hear us perform. I knew Karen was nervous because I grabbed her hand and it was ice cold. The first chords were played and we began on cue. We were singing and doing a fabulous job until the chorus. Part of the chorus was written as an echo. I started with “Give them all” and Karen echoed “Give them all” but the second time, her voice cracked on “Give.” At that precise moment, I looked at mom—the disastrous scenario for which we had not planned.

Believe me when I say this, you would never find a mom who was more loving or supportive as ours but she was also a mom who was finely tuned to our nervous systems. If we had nerves, she did too and I think it was harder on her watching than on us performing. That being said, mom and I locked eyes on the cracked “Give” and that was it. I spent the next 90 seconds giggling, tears streaming down my face and trying to catch my breath while Karen continued to sing.

I had no idea how my church family was reacting because every time I looked out, it was at mom. Actually, it was at the top of her head. She was bent over, laughing so hard that the pew was shaking. I could see my dad, mortified, poking her and telling her to stop but she couldn’t. Neither could I. And bless Karen’s heart (and I mean “bless” in a good way, not in the Southern way), she, much like my dad, never cracked a smile and sang until the song was over. At the end, all I could do was reach over, hug her, apologize and tell her I loved her.

It was then that I finally looked at the congregation. Everyone was clapping and a few were crying. Afterwards, nearly everyone, to a person, told us what an excellent job we did and that they were touched by our duet. Dad, on the other hand, forbade us to ever sing together again if mom were going to be watching in the audience. And mom and me, we laughed like crazy after church and years later, every single time we would talk about it.

As for me and Karen, there was never to be a “Sister Act II”. Since that fateful Sunday, we have been on many hare-brained adventures together at my urging but I was never able to convince her of a repeat performance. I guess love covers a multitude of sins except laughing through a debut singing performance with your sister!

Karen and me

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today, April 28, is my mom’s birthday.  She would have been 77 years old. I often wonder what she would have been like as she aged. She was active and interested in new things, especially technology.  She had her first computer long before I did and I’m sure she would have been texting or using a smart phone before me too.

My mom, Donna Sue “Susy” Yelton Deaton (I use her whole name, including nickname, as genealogy was one of her passions), was an amazing woman—she wasn’t perfect but she was perfect for our crazy family. She loved us without measure and was a great encourager to have in your corner.

She’s been gone since April 17, 2004. More days than not, I can talk about, tell stories and remember her with smiles and laughter instead of tears. Some days though, without warning, the grief will wash over me in waves and take my breath away.

I don’t know if we ever come to the end of grieving the death of a parent. There is always something missing. It’s like putting together a puzzle that has 1,000 pieces and when you’re almost done, you realize that you’re about 10 pieces short. You can see the whole puzzle but you notice there’s something missing as well. Thankfully, from my personal experience, one thing I’ve found is that the days eventually get better. They will always, from now and until I’m gone, be different but they slowly become better.

So, what about today, her birthday? I will acknowledge her special day and the fact that she is not here with us to celebrate it. Ignoring these days tends to deepen the feelings of loss and isolation that often accompany grief.

Today, amidst smiles and a few tears, I say,

“Happy Birthday Mom. I love and miss you. Until we meet again, you will always remain in my heart.”

Your “favorite oldest” daughter,

Nancy Lynn

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