When grandmas find their youngest sons, dead by their own hand...when those grandmas slip into dementia and mini-strokes overtake them, even when special grandmas die
I Still Believe.
Though the questions still fog up my mind
With promises I still seem to bear
When moms have brain tumors and lymphoma and when prognosis looks good and things are hopeful hopeful. Even then, when she dies anyway
I Still Believe.
Even when answers slowly unwind
It's my heart I see you prepare
When friends...people who call themselves friends, kick me while I'm down and knowingly inflict unbearable pain
I Still Believe.
But its now that I feel your grace fall like rain
From every fingertip washing away my pain
When I run away from home because I'm too pissed off to be around "friends"
I Still Believe.
The only place I can go is into your arms
Where I throw to you my feeble prayers
When You say in no uncertain terms, "Go back to your friend. Put up with her abuse." I understand you are Jehovah Roi, the God Who Sees Me
I Still Believe.
In brokenness I can see that this is your will for me
Help me to know you are near
When I submit to Your authority and go back--and I hit a fawn still new with spots and it flies in the air and smashes down on the top of my car and I see it hit the road in the rearview mirror. Even when I see it's mama right behind it. Even when the pain is too great to bear and I can't see through my tears
In September of 2008, God allowed me to sing my grandma into eternity. She was a strong woman and fought to the very end, but went peacefully. A gift such as this would come along only once in a lifetime.
Or would it?
In the wee hours of Monday June 7, 2010, I was getting ready to sleep for a couple hours in the adjoining bed in mom's hospital room. By this time, we all knew her time was short, but only God knew the minute and hour he'd call her home. The nurse came in to take mom's vitals. Asked me if I needed anything. I brushed my teeth. I leaned over mom and talked to her. Told her I was going to nap in the bed next to her, I wasn't leaving the room, I'd be right there.
In that moment, her respirations dropped in half. I got closer, kissed her forehead, caressed her cheek, told her I love her. I said, "Ok mom. I'm not going to sleep. I'm just going to stay right here with you, ok?" And I did. More talking. More kissing. More breathing in her scent.
Without even knowing what was happening, I said, "Mom? I don't know if you want me to sing to you like I did grandma, but I sure will."
Amazing Grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
Mom's mouth moved for the first time in days, as if she was singing with me. I started over because I couldn't remember any other words.
Amazing Grace
How sweet the sound
And she breathed her last.
Twice in a lifetime I sang the two most important women in my life into eternity. There is no such thing as coincidence.
It was very hard for me to hit "publish" on this one.
* * *
In October of 1999, Zane was born. Phil was driving our semi over the road and he was home one day out of every thirty. That year, Jill and I spent New Year's Eve together afraid for Y2K. We survived.
In 2000, we filed bankruptcy on that semi and moved back to Indiana and lived with my parents for a short time. Phil found a driving in job in Chicago and he was home two days out of every seven.
In 2001, 9/11 happened and I was scared for our lives. I'd never, ever heard it so quiet outside as when all planes were grounded. That month, we found a duplex to rent, Zane turned 2, potty-trained and I was still trying to decide if I was a good mom or not.
In 2002...Phil got a local job hauling fuel and was home EVERY night.
In 2003, Phil and I bought the Knox house. I started attending a church for the first time since I was let down by a different church back in 1992.
In 2004, doctors thought Phil had cancer. He didn't. He did, however, punch a wall and break his hand and have to have pins put in.
In 2005, I was reading my Bible daily, active in Women's ministry (and Phil in men's ministry) and I was really getting to know God. Jill told me she had breast cancer and had already been battling it for a year. She'd already had a mastectomy and chemo and radiation. She made me get a breast exam. And I think they thought I had cancer. I then had an ultra sound. Then a mammogram (and platypus poop.) Then I had to see a surgeon. He told me I didn't have breast cancer.
In 2006, I was called to write. "Write." (I noticed I posted that on 12/02/06. Wonder if that has anything to do with 12:26?) That year, I also lost my Uncle Ed. I'm not sure there's ever been a time when I felt as close to God. And that's also the year my church gave me a wake up call--lying about me, accusing me of ridiculous things, and leaving me alone during a time of huge, monumental need. Phil thought he was having a heart attack. Our fridge broke. Phil lost his job. Phil had double hernia surgery. We almost lost our house. 2006 was probably the hardest year of my life. I felt so alone that year. And God taught me more about His love than I could've ever expected.
In 2007, my thyroid completely shut down and I've been trying to get my brain (and my body and my life) back ever since. It's also the year I was asked to be on the editing team at The Midnight Diner.
In 2008, I lost my best friend, Jill in January. She might have survived Y2K, but she did not survive breast cancer. And then my grandma passed away in September. I was asked to be Editor-in-chief of The Midnight Diner.
In 2009, We were taken on a trip of a lifetime to Key West and Marco Island, Florida in March. Phil quit truck driving altogether! He started working as property manager for Inspiration Wood. We were blessed with a grandson in April. Around May, I finally started feeling like myself again with the help of some replacement thyroid hormone. We moved in June and I've been trying to figure out what life is now that Phil's home all day, every day and now that everything has changed.
* * *
I started this post with the intention of talking about how I feel separated from God right now. I mean, I know He's there, He just feels distant to me and I remember hearing people talk about feeling this way and I distinctly remember thinking, "I will NEVER feel that way. I will always feel as close to God as I do at this very moment."
I was going to talk about this new Bible I got, The Books of the Bible--with no verse references--and how I was going to start reading that for the New Year.
But I got caught up in looking at the way things got so ugly during the time I was closest to God. I remember what I went through and the lessons I learned after I did Beth Moore's Believing God study. Things I haven't found the courage to write about.
And though God says, "Do not be afraid."
I am afraid.
I'm afraid that if I get close to Him again, something worse will happen. And I don't know how to let go of that fear.
Phil received a Pottery Barn Daily System for his birthday and the wall is now wired and Phil installed this very cool, very useful calendar, corkboard, whiteboard, charging station, and digital frame. (No pics yet!)
As if I need more reason to love this thing? So.
Speaking of calendars...how many of you have made time to enjoy life?
Quit being so busy. Quit overbooking yourself and your family. Take control of your time and vow to spend time with those you love and enjoy. Don't you know how fast it all goes by?
I lost some veryimportantpeople in the past few years and it's now, Christmas season, when I tend to miss them most because they were so big a part of my Christmases. The void is unfillable. The grief is overwhelming at times. And I know how many times I've wished I would've spent a little more time with them. I don't remember what I did instead of visiting them and making memories, all I know is the memories aren't there because I chose to do other things instead. Unimportant things.
I want that to change for the people I still have here to love.
They're pressed in many books I have no intention of ever discarding. Given to me on such a regular basis, I took for granted their rarity.
She'd tip-toe through my yard as if walking a tight-rope, even though the yard was nothing but weeds and rocks. She'd bend in half like a ballerina and go right to them, they must have been whispering her name.
She's been gone almost fifteen months now, but I still see her petite frame walking towards me, her small arm extended, her thin hand bent slightly, and between her long fingers--another four leaf clover for me, "Look! A 'prise!" she'd sing. Never a "suprise" always a 'prise. Always.
The odds of finding a 4-Leaf clover is estimated at 10,000 to 1.
And the odds of having such a best friend? There aren't enough stars in the sky. Love you Jill.
Poetry isn't usually my cup of tea, but the poem I want to share today (and I'll be sharing one tomorrow about Phil) have nearly done me in. I've cried more tears over these two poems than I care to admit.
Grandma Schalk would have celebrated her 93rd year on this earth December 13th. God called her home on Phil's birthday.
There were seven Schalk children. Betty, Martin, Frank, Glinda, Lloyd, Denny, and Marilyn (Phil's mom.)
Born with Down's Syndrome and expected to die around age eleven, he's now in his sixties and ornery as ever.
Denny loves people and loves visitors. He's also a collector. Of everything. Pens especially but other things aren't out of consideration...McDonald's Happy Meal boxes, fries still at the bottom, Hotwheels cars, my hair clips, checkbooks, handkerchiefs, combs, and whatever else strikes his fancy. Coming to visit means Denny'll be bringing out the best of the best to show off. You can't look for too long, he thinks you're stealing back what rightfully belongs to you. He doesn't talk, just grunts, but believe you me, it is clear what Denny is saying.
Typically, Denny'll bring out something, show it to me and Grandma, who is blind mind you, will say, "What's that there. My check register? Denny! Give that back." She'll walk over and try to get it back, but Denny's adamant, it is his. After awhile, Grandma tires of trying to pry the check register out of Denny's hands and calls to Lloyd, who hops up and yanks it out of Denny's hand. Denny then pouts and sulks until he gets pie.
He makes faces at us all the time, probably because we play along and make them back. He loves hugs from everyone who visits and steals your cool stuff, takes it to his room, puts it on top of a piece of paper and sits to look at it. We usually bring Denny a stuffed animal or other kid's toy to avoid being robbed blind.
Denny couldn't come to the funeral home, he wouldn't have understood. As the pastor delivered the eulogy, it was mostly okay. Grandma lived a long, happy life. There's nothing wrong with dying in your sleep when you're almost 93. But then this poem was read and I can't shake the emotion.
Grandma wrote this for Denny when he was a baby. He's 62 now.
Special Darling by Lillian Schalk
They say I must let you go little darling, You can only bring heartache to me. You're not like the rest of the children, For you are retarded you see.
You don't speak or play like the others. And I know you will never be free To grow up and be someone special. My sweetheart, you're special to me.
Friends don't know how much they hurt me, When they say I must let you go. Send you to a home and forget you, And start living my life over anew.
This world is a cruel place, darling, When parents won't look after their own. You have a mother who loves you, And will always keep you at home.
I will always take care of you sweetheart, And do the very best I can. Our Father in Heaven is helping To care for my little man.
There was a luncheon at the house after Grandma's funeral. I took Denny a Daisy from the arrangement on Grandma's casket. He put it on the floor between the Pokemon cards Zane gave him and the picture I helped him draw the day before.
There's a story I need to tell, maybe more, but one for now. I left Uncle Ed's story unfinished, maybe because I couldn't bring myself to see it come to an end. Maybe because I wasn't ready. I don't know. Suicide is hard to cope with.
My grandma knew that all too well. Her brother killed himself and then she found her youngest son dead, hanging in his garage. February 20, 2006. Buried on the 22nd. Soon after, grandma slipped into some chronic health issues that forced us as a family to take her to a nursing home, one of which was dementia. She didn't know Uncle Ed was dead. In fact, in her mind, no one was dead. We'd visit her and she'd tell us she just came back from ice skating (even though she was in a wheelchair) and she'd relive all kinds of memories where everyone was alive and happy. She was well enough to know that she was in a nursing home though. But she didn't know it was the Alzheimer's/dementia ward. She'd say, "I'm not crazy now, but I will be by the time this is over..." and then she'd complain about another patient's antics, like the one who stole her stuff (but she forgot to tell us she was out stealing stuff too from the other patients.) I do laugh about a lot of the stuff she told us while she was there. I mean, it was funny.
My mom and sister once found three pair of dentures in her drawer! And my Uncle Mark found her eating a chocolate rose out of her roommate's dresser drawer. She told Zane she hated McDonald's because they locked her in there.
Grandma has suffered numerous "mini-strokes" in the past two years and within the last eight weeks, she had a major stroke, a minor stroke, more mini-strokes, a heart attack (or maybe it was congestive heart failure?), pneumonia, and was there more? I can't remember. It's been a long couple of months.
The story I want to tell starts the evening of September 13th. Phil and I went to bed rather early, it was around 10:30/11:00. Normally, I'm out the minute my head hits the pillow, but for some reason, I tossed and turned that night. Not only tossed and turned, but remembered.
I thought about playing Rummy with my grandma, my Baba. Listening to polkas on her radio in the kitchen on Saturday morning. Eating Cocoa Puffs and chicken patties (with lots of salt smooshed between two pieces of white Wonder bread.) Playing dress up in her clothes, staying the night with her. Going to the bowling alley with her, cheese sticks and Coke. Stealing her jar of Kennedy half dollars to run away from home. Getting $20 to clean her house every Saturday afternoon. Listening to her music box clink Nadia's Theme to put me to sleep.
This went on and on until I was fighting back tears, then struggling to keep my crying quiet so I wouldn't wake Phil. I said to myself, "You're just emotional because you started. Go take a Midol and be done with it." But I didn't get up just then because memories of my great-grandpa started in. Rye toast at his house, vodka in the freezer. Him moving in with grandma. Him forcing me to stop calling grandma Baba. (I didn't like him much for that) The two-dollar bills he'd always give me.
Then Jill came into my mind and I remember thinking, "What are all these dead people doing in my head tonight?"
Oh no. Grandma's not dead! And I got out of bed to get my cell phone, which was on the charger in in my office. I looked at the time.
12:26
I grabbed some tissue, then went back to bed. It wasn't ten minutes and my phone was ringing. I said out loud, "There it is." I think Phil said, "There what is?" It was my mom telling me grandma was being taken to the ER. My brother called me minutes later saying he heard on his police scanner she was unresponsive. He was working overtime because of the flooding in Hobart, IN, the worst the area's ever seen.
I didn't know what 12:26 meant, but I had a feeling because in 1987, the same thing happened when my great-grandpa died, I couldn't sleep at 11pm and the next morning at 11am, I got the call that he was dead.
So I packed an emergency bag and drove an hour to the hospital to sit with my mom, brother, and sister that early Sunday morning. Monday came and she was still hanging on, though barely. My Uncle Mark was on a plane home from a business trip in Belgium and wasn't expected in until late evening, possibly longer because as I said, the flooding was disaterous in The Region. (Yes, I will always be a Region Rat.)
The wonderful and loving staff at St. Mary's ICU did their best to keep grandma comfortable until Uncle Mark got home. At around 11pm Monday night, the family, respecting grandma's wishes, turned off all machines and medications save for a little oxygen tube and morphine for comfort. All of us who could be there gathered and said our goodbyes. And waited. I honestly believed she'd go at 12:26.
But she didn't. So at 12:30 I said goodbye one more time and went to the ICU waiting room and after 43.5 hours with no sleep, I passed out on a recliner.
I woke at 5am from my cell alarm buzzing in my pocket, not knowing who put a blanket on me or what day it was or why I could hear my brother snoring.
Later that day (it was Tuesday) grandma was moved back to the nursing home now with Hospice care. (What a blessing that is.) I drove home that day and slept in my own bed and woke Wednesday morning to No News is Good News.
Thursday morning, though, mom called to tell me grandma's vitals had dropped and Hospice said to gather the family. I got to the nursing home around 10am and fully expected grandma to go by 12:26.
We're a strange breed, my family. Mom, Johnny, Susie, Missy, Uncle Mark, Aunt Mary Ann, Michael, Mary, Ryan, and I sat around grandma's bed all day. We told funny memories and we cried. We counted her respirations and told more funny stories. We'd hear her breathing catch and we'd all be still and silent thinking it was her last breath and we were scared. I'd kiss her forehead and breathe in her scent. I wanted to touch her while she was still alive, I wanted to smell her hair while she still lived. Then she'd breathe and we'd cry more and soon tell more funny stories.
We ordered three extra large John's Pizzas (Do not cofuse this with Papa John's--NOT even close.) John's Pizza orignally in Calument City, IL closed, but the former Roma's Pizza in Hobart on Rt. 30 is now John's. The recipe is anyway, the name is Roma Pizza. This was grandma (and Uncle Ed's) favorite pizza. I think everyone in the family loves it.
So really, it was a party. A celebration. A few other family members came and went, but there were 9-10 of us there at all times. At 11:30 Thursday night, everyone (except me) decided they would go home in case grandma wanted to be alone. I couldn't leave and I told them all I was staying until 12:30. If she hadn't passed by then, I'd go to my mom's to sleep.
So for a half hour, I cleaned the room, threw away the pizza boxes, plates, the empty pop cans, the nurse came in and took away the drink tray and chips and sandwiches they'd provided us. At midnight, I sat on a rocking chair next to grandma. A few minutes later, I felt I needed to stand with her and I leaned down to kiss her forehead and her hair smelt like she just finished smoking a cigarette. She had quit (she told my sister, "Want to know how I quit smoking? I got put in here!") And she'd been there for around 9 months.
This is where I have to tell those of you who don't know that many family members have smelt cigarette smoke in their houses--it's my Uncle Ed.
One of her eyes opened, and her eyes had been shut (except twice) since she was taken to the ER. I talked to her and said some private last things to her and as I said before, my grandma didn't know Uncle Ed was gone so I thought I should tell her, "Grandma, Uncle Ed is waiting for you, don't be afraid. If you see him, it's okay to go to him."
Skeptic that I am (even though I've been through enough that I shouldn't be skeptical at this point) I waited and smelled her hair again after about 5 minutes and the smell was getting stronger instead of weaker.
I figured it was getting close.
Then, for some reason, and I can't really say why, I started singing softly to her. First, I sang what I could remember of "He Stopped Loving Her Today" by George Jones. (That's another story for another day)
Then I sang what I could remember of "Amazing Grace" because Aunt Mary Ann had reminded me earlier that grandma would have my cousins Jen, Christa, and I sing that to her and she'd say she wanted the three of us to sing it at her funeral. (Grandma talked about dying and her funeral for as long as I can remember.) So I sang it to her.
I noticed a tear in the eye that was closed. I stroked her forehead and hair, kissed her again, said (in all my rebellion) "I love you Baba" and then sang the song she told me she wanted at her funeral every time we sang it in church when I was growing up. "Let There Be Peace"
I didn't realize when I was a child that the song reminded grandma of her brother.
I understand now. Finally.
Her mouth had been open for days, her breathing labored and harsh, and as I was singing, she moved her jaw up and down and I think she was singing with me.
I sang, "Let me walk with my brother, in perfect harmony." And she never breathed again. I kept singing, waiting, crying. Finally. Peace for my Baba, the strongest woman I know.
When I looked at the clock it was 12:15. The nurse came in then, and started her job and I moved out of the room because I knew she was gone, I didn't need to take her pulse to know she was gone. She came out and I asked did I need to stay. She said I could go.
I called mom in the hallway on the way out to my car and only said, "She's gone." She told my sister who was there with her and I said, "I'll call Johnny." I called my brother and he said, "Do you see what time it is?"
