RIP, Sweet Carolyn

Today we buried my mom.

She died on March 1 and her funeral was on March 22, but in upstate NY the ground is too hard and frozen at that time of year for burials.  So today, all five of us siblings and our spouses gathered together to see her laid to rest next to our dad.  My two brothers live close enough to make a day trip if necessary, and my two sisters live right here in the area.  My husband and I live the farthest away; we made the 10-hour drive up yesterday, and we'll be heading back to VA tomorrow.

Mom's Catholic funeral Mass on March 22 was a glorious thing.  Her grandsons were pallbearers; two of her granddaughters and two great-granddaughters brought up the gifts; my husband and I did the readings (I am rather shocked that I was able to get through mine without breaking down, but I managed to hold it together pretty well); one of my sisters led the prayers of the faithful; and after the Mass, before everyone left the church, one of my brothers (the oldest of Mom's five children) and my other sister (the youngest) took turns reading parts of a touching eulogy that had been written by my oldest brother.  The hymns sung were reverent, holy, and perfect; the homily given by the deacon (a childhood friend of my oldest brother) was perfect.  It was all perfect.  I should have blogged about it sooner.

I also never did blog about the absolutely awesome celebration of life we had for my mom right after that beautiful funeral Mass.  She would have loved it (did love it, I'm sure, from where she was watching).  We decorated every windowsill in the event room of my sister-in-law's brewery/restaurant/inn with framed photos from Mom's life, and a photo montage also played on a loop on the big-screen TV mounted high on the wall.  My younger brother (a very talented singer/guitar player, who in retirement has regular gigs in the Albany, NY area and is "somewhat famous in parts of Cohoes," as he likes to joke) stepped up to the mic and put on a little performance for us.  Some of the songs he chose were ones that my mom used to sing when we were kids, 60's folk songs by Ian and Silvia or Peter, Paul, and Mary (and if you're not in your 50's or 60's yet and you're reading this, you probably don't know who in the world I'm talking about).  He also played Hallelujah, always a winner.  And Sweet Caroline, changing it to "Sweet Carolyn" (and now you know my mom's first name).  There was a buffet of delicious hot and cold hors d'oeuvres, an open bar, and numerous friends and loved ones gathered together to honor the life of an amazing woman.  It really was quite spectacular.  Four of our five boys were able to make it (the one who lives in Nashville flew into DC to meet up with his three VA brothers so they could all carpool up together).  In all, 13 of my mother's 17 grandchildren were there, along with a few of her great-grandkids.  There were other family members with us, too--including one of our cousins and her husband, some of my in-laws, some of my siblings' in-laws--and lots of friends of ours and our mom's.  It was an Irish wake (after the funeral instead of before), a fitting tribute for a woman whose maiden name was Kelly.

I will never forget the joyfulness with which we celebrated our mother.  Since the funeral, I have not had a single day where I haven't cried, at least once, usually while praying our daily Rosary aloud but at other random times, too.  I was talking to one of my sons the other day about how throughout the year leading up to her death, my mother had constant health issues and was in and out of the ER.  Everyone was trying to figure out what was going on, to get answers and solutions, so that she could get her health back to where it had been. I kept thinking, however, that the hard truth was that she was 89, and perhaps at that age she was never going to get it back. I felt that we needed to be realistic.  So as I told my boy, I thought I was prepared for the worst. Silly me.

Because nothing ever really prepares you for losing your mother.  Nothing. 

Anyway, I'm going to do a belated sharing of photos from the grand Irish wake we had for our mom.

The music begins!

My talented brother.

Toasting our Mom and Dad with my Dad's precious bottle of cognac,
which we'd been saving for a special occasion.

The grandkids.

My baby sister and me.

All five of Mom's babies.

Family!

Here is a link to a short YouTube video snippet of my brother playing Sweet Carolyn.  It was the highlight of the celebration.  (Pretty much guaranteed to make you smile.)

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/bPG_MDZ_zxc

After the burial today, we stopped by the old brick mansion that was owned by our paternal grandmother (and in which we lived for about 1 and 1/2 years, in an upstairs apartment, until I was 10).  It has been mostly sitting empty over the past few decades and is in a sad state of disrepair, but it looks like someone is in the process of renovating it.

I'm so happy that I have these four siblings, and that we all like each other and get along.  That we make each other laugh--a lot!  That we share so many memories that no one else in the world has but us. I wonder if our boys remember us telling them when they were young that we might not be rich in money, but they were rich in brothers, and that was even better. What has become plainer to me than ever, since the loss of my mom (nine years after my dad's passing), is how very true that is. The best gift parents can give their children is siblings. If at all possible, of course (I know there are couples who desperately want more children than they can have).

I'm so glad that my brothers and sisters and I had each other to go through this painful right of passage with, and that we were able to give our mother the send-off she deserved.  RIP, Mom.

Life Goes On...Incredibly

Tomorrow it will be exactly one month since my mother took her last breaths, with four of her five children gathered around her hospital bed, shortly after hearing the voice of her one missing son (her firstborn) on speaker phone.  All five of us were able to spend the week-and-a-half before she died with her almost constantly, reminiscing about our history as a family and telling her how much we loved her.  And she died peacefully, without pain, after 89 years of living a rather blessed life.

We all have to go; and that being the case, she had an extraordinarily beautiful death--one you might plan out for yourself, if given the option to do so.

I did the second reading at my mom's funeral, Corinthians 15:51-57.  I'm sure you know it, this part at least: "Death is swallowed up in victory.  Where, O death, is your victory?  Where, O death, is your sting?"  (Getting through that reading without breaking down entirely was a victory for me that day, I'll tell you.)

Yes, it was a beautiful passing from this earthly life, which is so very short compared to the eternal one into which Mom has entered.  But still, it does sting.  For those left behind, it stings indeed.

I think about my mom all the time.  About how she lived.  And how she died.

I mostly feel fine, staying dry-eyed more often than not and getting on with life...but in spite of all this "fineness," tears are always lurking, hidden right beneath the surface.  And the most random, unexpected catalysts can set them off when I least expect it.

I have great hope that my mother is in Heaven already, and my dad is there, too, so happy to be with his best girl again.  And that she's continuing to enjoy her great-grandmother role with the five tiny little Pearls none of us ever got to meet down here (what a comforting thought!).  But there's still that stinging sensation.

While my husband and I were up in NY for the funeral, on our way out of daily Mass one day we picked up two free copies of a book called 33 Days to Eucharistic Glory, a guide to Eucharistic Consecration. We are reading through a chapter each day, and we often discuss our thoughts about them afterward.  On the second day, the readings and reflections had to do with this question: Are you a pilgrim or a tourist?  This chapter was filled with reminders that this world is not our home, that we are just pilgrims passing through, on a spiritual journey to a sacred destination.  "If you go on vacation for a week, you don't consider the hotel you stay at to be your home.  You know it is a brief stay.  In the context of eternity, your life [on earth] is like that hotel stay.  Brief."  I try to remember this all the time, that life on earth is fleeting and it's the next life that will last forever.  But we do get caught up in what's going on in our lives here, don't we?  We forget all the time that this isn't all there is.  We forget all the time that the purpose of this life is to live it in such a way that it brings us back to God for all eternity.

I'm human, though.  And I do enjoy so many things about my ridiculously blessed life here on planet earth. I love my home here in VA.  I'm trying, as best I can, to make it a reflection of Heaven for my family.  To make it as beautiful, cozy, and inviting as it can be, so that they always feel happy to come and spend time with us here. 

Yesterday, I had glimpses of Heaven when two of our boys and their families came for a little after-Mass lunch gathering, and the nine kids they brought with them spent a few hours playing together (leaving our house a good bit less beautiful than it was when they got here--ha ha!).  

Seriously, though: nothing makes us happier than seeing the grandkids hanging out together in this basement playroom that my husband finished off for them about five years ago.

 

And I didn't get a picture of this, but while the kids were playing downstairs and outside, our daughter-in-law Braveheart snuck away for some quiet time alone in our living room.  Our grown kids often retreat to this room and fall asleep on the couch, right in the middle of noisy family parties.  Our house is a bit too "open concept" for this space that we call the "Rosary Room" to be a true getaway; but it is just separate enough to make you feel like you've escaped the chaos.

When I'm in there, I feel a little closer to Heaven.  Maybe our kids do, too.

I can't remember crying yesterday.  I think I was distracted by getting all the food ready for our visitors, and then filling cups with chocolate milk and ice water, running upstairs to get computer paper from the office for the little artists to draw on, cleaning up spills, snuggling with five-year-old girls who are not only cousins but besties, and...well, you get the picture: it was a busy day, in the best possible way.  And by 9:00, I was falling asleep in my chair, so we went to bed much earlier than we usually do. 

That's the key, I guess: to keep living life to the fullest, but as a pilgrim and not a tourist, always remembering that the home I've made for my family here (however cozy it might be) is not my real home. My mother has completed the pilgrimage, but I'm still on the journey to that real home. I hope I get there.

And if I do, and I hear, "Hi, Pussycat," I'll know she's there already and she's been waiting for me.

The Complexities of Grief

My mother has left this world.  For a better one, to be sure…but even knowing that, it is so very sad and so very strange, surreal even, to believe that she is no longer in this one, where I can see her, touch her, speak to her.  Losing your mother makes you feel untethered. After all, she is your first home.  It just feels wrong to live in a world that doesn’t have her in it.

But my mother’s death has affected me in ways I could not have foreseen.  My father died in 2016, and over the years since then, the grief I felt at his passing has lost its sharp edges.  I can think of him these days with fondness and peace, and only every once in a while do my memories bring tears. Now, however, it’s all come back to me: there's that stabbing pain again; but this time around it has an even greater force, because my mom was my last surviving parent.  I fear the grieving process will be much longer and more complex this time around.

I knew that at 89, Mom didn’t have too many years left. Even so, I didn’t like to dwell on the possibility of losing her.  But the unthinkable has become a harsh reality.  

Grief is a funny, unpredictable thing.  It’s sneaks up on you and catches you unawares.  It strikes at times when it doesn’t seem to make sense, and then stays hidden when it seems it should be brought into the light.

This morning when we got to church for Mass, a few of our fellow daily Mass friends asked how I was doing, and I was able to answer them dry-eyed.  I headed over to our usual pew, worried that I might seem cold to them, too “doing okay” for a person who’s just lost her mom.  But minutes after kneeling to pray and then settling in my seat, my eyes suddenly welled up with tears, brought on by a random memory.  

I cried copious tears during the week and a half that I spent with my mother during her last days on earth—but usually when alone, or with just my husband present.  And I cry often these days when my husband and I say our daily Rosaries aloud together.  (I’m a private griever, perhaps?  Could that be it?)

After the initial trauma of that awful time in the hospital was past and she’d been gone about a week or so, I found that I was crying a good bit less often throughout the day, and I worried that only a very hard heart could “get over” a mother’s death so soon.  Ha!  As if.

Each day, it seems, I am hit out of the blue at odd times with an image or a memory that brings tears to my eyes: when I think of how happy my mom always, always was when my husband and I arrived for a visit, for instance—and the extreme delight she took in our sons (and even more so, in their children, her beloved great-grandchildren)…when I remember the way she reached her hand out, from her hospital bed (on one of the days before she became unresponsive), and grabbed mine, letting me know that she wanted me to lean in for a kiss…when I think of how one night as we were leaving the hospital, I said goodbye but then went back in to give her another kiss and tell her, “I’m glad you’re my mom,” and in her weak, quiet voice, she replied that she was glad, too.  (It would be one of our last conversations, because not too long after that, she could no longer move or talk.)  I tear up when I realize that when we are up in NY for the summer (where we go every year, to escape the VA heat and manage our Oyster Haven VRBO house), I won't be seeing her, bringing dinners for her, going for girls'-day-out lunches or shopping trips with her and my two sisters. Sometimes, all it takes to get me crying is looking at an image of Our Lord or Our Blessed Mother.  It’s a very fragile time for my emotions, even though I’m sure it often appears to the world as if I’m a rock, extremely stoic and handling my mom’s passing with more than the usual amount of equanimity.

I’m trying not to worry about how strange my brand of grief seems to be.  It is what it is, I guess.  One of my dear loyal readers, Madeline, left this comment on my last post: “Be gentle with yourself—there’s no right or wrong way to process a death.”

Those are words that I needed to hear right now, as I navigate through this confusing maze that is the grieving process.  Thank you, my friend.

(Please dear readers, pray for the repose of the soul of my spunky, funny, one-of-kind mother.  She was the bee's knees, she really was.)

My Mother Has Passed Away, May She Rest In Peace

Please pray for the repose of the soul of my mother, who died peacefully on March 1 at the age of 89.  She passed into eternal life with four of her five children gathered around her hospital bed, just minutes after she heard our absent brother's voice on speaker phone.

After many illnesses over the past year that landed her in and out of the ER (including a stroke in December or January, which went largely unnoticed because it didn't incapacitate her; followed my a number of mini-strokes or seizures afterward, also misdiagnosed because they were so mild), she was hospitalized in mid-February. After tests, and about a week in the hospital, it was determined that it was time for palliative care because there was no more that they could do for her.  Within days of her hospitalization, she could no longer eat more than a few bites of soft food or drink more than a few sips from a straw, and even then, she had to be reminded to swallow.  And then she could no longer even do that.  She was as weak as a kitten in many ways; her digestive system began to shut down.  She couldn't move, speak, or open her eyes.  But the one kidney she still had was functioning and her heart was still beating strong.

It doesn't surprise me at all that her heart was still strong.  My mother was all heart, and a fighter, a woman of fierce determination and legendary energy.  It was so hard to see her brought to such a weakened state. But let me start from the beginning.

My husband and I had been in the Nashville area for two weeks, meeting the newest of our 23 grandchildren (born on January 30).  We had just returned home on February 17.  We knew that my mom had gone to the hospital and had been there a few days, but we were planning to rest up for about a week at home in VA before we headed north to see her.  Even though she was pushing 90, we had every confidence that she would pull through and go back to her new mini-apartment at an assisted living home, where she'd moved in December (after living with my youngest sister and her husband for seven years, until she required a higher level of care and could no longer be left alone in the house for even a short time).  Mom always pulled through; we'd already been through two stretches where it looked like we would lose her: once in 2008; and again in 2016, right around the time my dad died.  But she bounced back both times, living up to her "Energizer Bunny" nickname.  We liked to joke that she had nine lives, and truly, she had regained her health and vitality at times when no one thought she ever could.  In 2008, she got down to about 89 pounds and had to have a feeding tube.  In 2017, she needed almost round-the-clock aides at my sister's house, because she couldn't even get out of bed on her own anymore.  But just last summer, in July 2024, she looked like this:

My baby sister (Mom's caretaker for 7 years), Mom, and me.

So we thought this most recent setback might be the same sort of thing.  I fully expected that by the time we got up there, she would be settled back at the assisted living home and that's where we would be visiting her.

But this time was different.  The news from up north was grim.  Make sure you get a priest in to see her, I told my baby sister.  And my husband and I decided to cut our time at home short and get up there to see my mother as soon as we could. We left early on Wednesday, February 19, and while we were on the road, my sister texted me a video she'd taken of Mom receiving Last Rites and Holy Communion that morning. In this video, her face was infused with the innocence of a small child, and she mouthed all the prayers along with the priest.  That was the one thing I wanted to see happen--for my mom to receive those sacraments before she died--and watching the video made me cry happy tears.  It was so beautiful.

My husband and I arrived at the hospital Wednesday afternoon, after a 10-hour trip from VA. On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, we spent long days with Mom. She was still eating and drinking (although not more than about 300 calories a day) and still lucid, still talking happily to my children and grandchildren on FaceTime (albeit softly and with great difficulty).  On Wednesday night, she lit up when our toddler grandchild (son #3's youngest) kept saying, "Hi, Mimi!" and, "Miss you, Mimi!"  And when he asked, "Okay, Mimi?"  she answered, "I'm getting to be okay."  I believe she thought she was going to win this latest health battle, like she always did. And her sense of humor was intact.  In her airy, diminished voice, she told son #2 about how she'd been flirting with a male nurse, calling him cute.  When he told her he was happy to see that she hadn't changed, she joked, "I'll never stop flirting."  She was completely herself, in spite of all the injuries to her brain.  Still engaged, still knowing the names of each and every great-grandchild, still very much loving life.

During our long visit on Friday, February 21, my husband blessed my mom with holy water from Lourdes, which my older brother had brought for her.   And he put a brown scapular (an old one of mine) around her neck.

Friday night...my beautiful mother, teaching us all a lesson about humility
and detachment. I will never forget that last week-and-a half-with her.

Mom's room that night was filled with her children, with visiting and laughing, with my older brother and me spoon-feeding our mother like she did for us as babies.

Every doctor and nurse told us the same thing: Mom could have days, or weeks, or perhaps even more time. These sorts situations were hard to predict.  My husband and I thought we might have to prepare for a longer stay up north, so we left to go back to our home in VA on Saturday morning, planning to stay a week or so and then head back up to NY to be there however long was necessary.  But while we were on the trip south, we got word that my mother had declined radically and was no longer responsive.  My younger brother (the family rock star, who I half-jokingly refer to as her favorite) had come that day with his whole family and played his guitar and sang for her, and even that didn't evoke the smallest response.  She wasn’t opening her eyes anymore and looked like she was in a deep sleep.  If my mom couldn't rally even for her grandkids and great-grandkids, things were getting very serious. When we got that news, we decided to turn right around on Sunday, February 23 to head back north, because it looked like she could have very little time left.

As it turned out, she had only a week.  While we were in VA on Saturday, I got the first class relic of St. Therese of Lisieux that had belonged to my mother's mother and had come to me a number of years ago, so we were able to pin that on Mom's hospital gown when we got back.  I also got my Rosary-making supplies, and on the trip north in the car I made a mother's Rosary for her, with each of her five children's names spelled out in letter beads on it, one name in the middle of each decade.

My siblings (along with my husband and one of my sisters-in-law) and I all rallied and made sure that our mother was rarely alone--even often having at least one sibling staying overnight with her.  We spent many hours in that third floor room letting her know how much we loved her.  Also praying Rosaries and Divine Mercy Chaplets and the Catholic prayers for the dying, telling her how happy we were that she was our mom, but also that if she needed to go, we would be okay. (And reminiscing and laughing and getting a lot of comfort out of being together at this difficult time, gathered around our mom and having a sort of family party—something she loved so much.)  Even though she couldn't respond, we have every hope that she heard everything we were saying.  Eventually my two bothers and one sister-in-law had to head home (one brother lives five hours away from the hospital, the other two hours), but my two sisters, my husband, and I were still around, spending as much time as we could at Mom’s bedside. 

I don't think I could ever adequately describe how extraordinary the care my mother--and even all of her visiting family members--received was during those grueling last two weeks of her life.  It was worth it to have her at that exceptional teaching hospital in VT rather than the one closer to her home, even though it meant many ferry rides back and forth across the lake to visit with her.  The nursing staff brought a cart of coffees, fruit, and all kinds of snacks to the room.  One of the nurses who so lovingly cared for Mom during her last days remarked to my baby sister, "Y'all are making me want to have children.  It has been a pleasure serving your mother and your family."  We were told by other nurses that the constant gathering of family in our mother's room was not typical, and that many of their patients die alone.  Also that grown children of elderly patients often argue about their care, which we didn't do--thank God!  We were all on the same page: we just wanted to be with her and we wanted her to be comfortable.  Her pain was managed so well by the staff at this wonderful hospital that every time a doctor or nurse came in to check on her, they assured us that she looked comfortable.  We would know, they said, if she felt pain; but there was never even the slight furrowing of a brow or the hint of a grimace.  Mom did look at peace, and for that we were very grateful.

Mom got Last Rites a second time--I forget which day it was, because I wasn't there yet when it happened.  

On Friday, March 28, my youngest sister, my husband and I were at the hospital with Mom in the early afternoon.  (My other sister had been there through the night and had gone home to shower and get some sleep.)  We were getting conflicting opinions: it could be hours.  It could be days.  It could be weeks.  We decided to go home and sleep and come back in the morning. Her breathing seemed a tad more labored, but none of the staff who'd seen her that day had spoken of any new concerns.  But when she heard we were all going home, the nurse who'd been on duty with Mom that day said to my sister, "I think you should stay.  And you should call your other sister."  Suddenly, we had a feeling that it wouldn't be much longer.  So my other sister was called to come back, as well as the brother who lives two hours away (my older brother and his wife had had to travel out to Ohio to babysit for grandchildren and would not be able to come).  Once the four of us were all there, we decided that we would stay overnight with Mom.  I almost went home across the lake with my husband, because I worried the room would be too crowded, but he encouraged me to stay with my siblings and I will always be so thankful that he did that.  The nurses had already removed the second bed in the room to make space for Mom's many visitors; now they set up four recliner chairs for us and we had the most significant sleepover of our lives.

On the morning of Saturday, March 1, it became noticeable that my mother's breathing was much more labored.  

About three hours before my mom died, a lovely young nurse of Irish descent, who had the voice of an angel, sang Danny Boy to her while she turned her and administered her meds.  And then about an hour before she died, another nurse who'd taken care of her earlier in her stay stopped in to see her.  And In the softest of voices, while tenderly stroking my mother's cheek, this nurse leaned down and quietly encouraged Mom with these amazing words (which I've transcribed from a video my sister took, because I simply can't share something so private here in this space):  

"You and God, you've got some business.  You're working it all out, and you're taking care of that business.  And until that business is dealt with, I think you're going to stay right where you are. That's what I think.  But try to rest.  Relax. Your whole family is here, everybody that loves you is here.  And the person that loves you more than anyone is God, and He's wrapping His Holy Spirit around you, and He's going to wrap His Holy Spirit around all of your children.  They're going to be perfectly fine.  They're going to miss you, because they love you so much.  But they're going to be okay.  Because they know exactly where you're going.  You're going to go to Heaven, you're going to be with Jesus.  Just try to relax.  Think about all of that love--the love of your family, the love of the Lord, the love of Mother Mary and all the saints.  All right?  And we're all going to see you again.  Okay?" 

Then this nurse told Mom that she was going to pray for her in church the next day.  Let me be clear: this is a secular hospital, not a Catholic one.  But Catholic nurses kept finding their way to my mother's bedside.

When Mom's breathing really started to change, we thought of what several of the nurses had told us during those final days: that some dying patients seem to be waiting for everyone to leave, while others are waiting for someone to arrive.  Four of my mother's children were gathered around her bed that Saturday morning. The only one who wasn't there was her oldest son, who was out in Ohio.  So we got our brother on my sister's phone and put him on speaker, and he said his good-byes through tears.  Then about fifteen minutes later, with a tear rolling down one cheek, she died.

My mother had not been able to open her eyes for a whole week.  But right as she took her last breath, she opened them.  

I believe that my mother was seeing those people whom that nurse was talking to her about just an hour earlier: Jesus, and Mother Mary, and all the saints.  

As if this post doesn't already describe a passing from this earthly life that is so very beautiful, so filled with the love of God...I need to tell you about one other thing that happened, which we all believe was divine intervention.  I said above that on Saturday, February 22, my mother's condition changed drastically and she was no longer responsive, and it was determined that they could do no more for her than keep her comfortable.  At that point, we were faced with keeping her in the hospital on palliative care or taking her home to care for her in hospice.  The four oldest of us immediately thought that the transfer to the ambulance and the long ambulance ride across the lake to NY, etc. might kill her in her diminished state.  We also loved the kindness and efficiency of the hospital staff, who were always so gentle and patient with our mother, always said her name and spoke to her when they were taking care of her.  And we worried that we would not be able to keep her as pain-free as she'd been up to that point if we had to take her off the IV morphine (IV's are not allowed in hospice care, we were told).  My youngest sister, however, felt strongly that Mom should go back home to her house, where she'd lived before going to the assisted living home in December and where she still had a hospital bed in her old room.  The rest of us decided that even though we'd thought that our mother should stay where she was, our baby sister had been her main caretaker and health care advocate for so many years, and she deserved the make the final decision about where Mom would die.  We all agreed to have Mom go "home" and take care of her ourselves.

On February 24, the very morning when my youngest sister would be signing the papers to schedule the ambulance and the transfer and my mother's discharge from the hospital, her daughter sent her a text.  My niece was pregnant with her second child, nine years after the first, and she was scheduled for a C-section on March 4 unless the baby decided to come sooner.  She texted my sister to say that she was having contractions two minutes apart, but not to panic.  She said that she would text again later with updates after seeing the doctor.  But when the hospitalist arrived with the transfer paperwork shortly after the text, my sister said, "Hold on.  There's been a development."  My sister and her husband were the ones who were planning to drive down to MD to help out when the baby came; now, it looked like it might happen early, even that very day.  Maybe it was better if Mom stayed in the hospital, my sister thought, so she could be ready at any moment to make that trip south to meet her new granddaughter and know that Mom was in good hands.

The funny thing is, once the decision was made to keep Mom in VT at the hospital and all five of us siblings were in perfect agreement about her care, our niece never had another early contraction.  Not one.  Each day my sister would check in on her: no news.  Nothing happening.  Mom died on March 1, and my sister was in MD on March 3 as planned all along, so that she was in place to watch her older granddaughter while her daughter was in the hospital giving birth to her new granddaughter by C-section on March 4.  Amazing, isn't it?  Do you think God might have had a hand in how it all turned out?  I certainly do.

And talk about the circle of life!  My mom loved the role of "Mimi" to her 17 grandchildren, and she was so incredibly proud of being a great-grandmother to so, so many!   Shortly before her death, great-grandchild #35 (our youngest son's second daughter) came along; and shortly after her death great-grandchild #36 (my sister's second granddaughter, whose timing was practically miraculous) joined the family.  God is so good!  All the time!  And I know that Mimi is smiling down on all these young ones in the next generation, many of whom were fortunate enough to know her.

I will always miss my mother.  In life, she was one of those "larger than life," "life of the party" people. Dressed to the nines for every occasion in bright colors, with earrings and necklaces to match each outfit, Mom always looked like a million bucks.  She was a friend to everyone she met and was loved and admired by many. As she grew closer to death, I feel like she became a small child again.  Helpless and weak, with no possessions anymore (except the hospital gown on her back and the wedding rings we had to remove from her fingers), it was obvious that she'd left the world behind and all she cared about was the love of her family and of God.  It was tough to be there as she lay dying.  But it was a privilege as well, and the lessons I learned from that experience--about detachment, and acceptance, and childlike innocence, and trust in God--will be with me until the day I die.  

Twinning in 2021, when Mom was 85 years young.

Sisters, Sisters

You know that song, right?  It's the iconic Irving Berlin number that was in the movie White Christmas, starring Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, and Rosemary Cluny.

I've had that song—and some others from the same delightful show—in my head for several days now, ever since my husband and I joined son #2, one of his older boys, his father-in-law, and a friend to attend the spring musical at his wife Ginger's high school alma mater. (She had planned to come, too; but the sitter she had scheduled to watch their little guys fell through, so she stayed back.)  This small Catholic school (about 400 students, grades 7-12) is absolutely swimming in talent.  Two years ago, I saw Hello, Dolly!, and I was blown away.  But White Christmas was even better!  The vocals were truly extraordinary.  The leads were terrific—but even some of the minor players who had singing parts were exceptionally good.  (My husband and I turned to each other a couple times, wide-eyed, both thinking the same thing: "Can everyone in this school sing?!") There were about 180 students involved in the production, which included lots of expertly choreographed dance scenes with dozens of moving pieces on stage at once. I wish I could aptly describe how PHENOMENAL this show was!  This was the 32nd Annual Spring Musical at this school, and it is the institution’s main fundraiser.  It is worth every penny of the ticket price, let me tell you.  

My husband and I have a list of must-see Christmas movies that we try to watch every December, but I'm embarrassed to admit that neither one of us had ever seen White Christmas until Christmas 2022, when our youngest son and his wife traveled from Nashville to spend the holiday with us.  It was our daughter-in-law's absolute favorite Christmas movie growing up, and she couldn't believe it wasn't on our list.  (It is now!)

I'm telling you, those high school kids put on a show that was every bit as entertaining as the famous Hollywood movie of the same title.  I wish I had been allowed to take a video of the two young gals who did the "Sisters, Sisters" number seen in the YouTube video above.  Their performance was amazing.  I just can't praise that high school musical enough!

Anyhoo, now for the clever segue—

Speaking of SISTERS: when we made our recent trip up north to check on our Oyster Haven rental house and watch the eclipse, we were able to get together with my mom, and my own two sisters and their husbands, for a lovely Sunday brunch.

Sisters, Sisters...

I am the second-oldest of five, with one brother born before me and one after; my sisters are the two youngest in the family.  Both of my sisters live close to my mother. The older one is about 45 minutes away.  She is a hard-working teacher's assistant and the mother of two sons.  She recently welcomed her first grandchild. My baby sister (far left in the picture), also a mom of two and a Grammy to one, lives really close to my mother: as in, in the same house with her.  

About a year after my dad died in 2016, my mom moved out of an assisted living residence and into my baby sister's home, and she’s been there ever since.  At the time, her health had deteriorated to the point that she literally couldn't get herself out of bed; she couldn't walk, even using a walker, without an aide to help her; and worst of all, she appeared to be suffering from dementia and going downhill fast.  She was practically at death's door, and my sister hired almost round-the-clock aides to help with her care.  I would post a picture of what she looked like back then, so you could compare it to the beautiful, vibrant octogenarian in the above photo—but she would be horrified, so I won't do that. Suffice it to say that you would be truly amazed by the transformation.

And it's all due the love and care she's gotten from my sister and her husband.

*For many years before my dad died, these two were my parents' close neighbors and helped them in so many different ways (with things such as yard work and home repairs--and my sister even used to stop by and load their pill boxes for the week, so they could keep track of their daily medications!).  My dad trusted my sister's husband with what was most precious to him: Dad took my brother-in-law aside at one point and asked him to be sure to take care of my mom if he should die first.  My B-I-L obviously took my father's solemn request to heart; and he in fact was the first one to propose that Mom should move in with them, when it became apparent that she was not healthy enough to stay at the assisted living home anymore.  He's got a heart of gold, that guy, and I think my dad knew this about him.  And my sister...well, there aren't enough words to tell you how amazing she is, how loving and selfless and self-sacrificing.  And she's incredibly organized, too (she jokes that she's got OCD; I say she's just Marie Kondo on steroids!).  She runs an incredibly tight ship, with humor and the most positive attitude in the world.  You have to be an organized person to take care of an elderly parent, to keep up with the aides' schedules, the doctor's appointments, the medications.  There is no one I can think of who could do a better job at all of that than my baby sister.  One also needs to be kind, of course, and she is that in spades; but she is not afraid to be firm with my mother either, if her health requires it. Because of my sister's attention to detail, because of her tireless energy and research, at 88, my mother is on very few daily meds--far fewer than she was more than a decade ago.  My sister is just a rockstar caretaker; she might the youngest in the family, but all of her siblings are in awe of her.

A few years ago, my sister went through old medical records of Mom's and stumbled upon some doctor's notes: apparently, my mother had a condition for which there was a fix, but it had not been addressed.  In the last years of my father’s life, she’d been suffering with Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus, and it was causing her to have both physical and neurological problems.  She'd started falling quite often, leading to a broken hip and hip replacement surgery.  The doctor would drain some of the fluid that kept building up in or around her brain, and she would improve for a time; but he had told my parents that if she kept falling, they should consider having a permanent drainage shunt implanted (and this had been noted in her records).  Somehow, however, this had never been done.  We think perhaps that my dad, who was going deaf but refused to wear a hearing aide, hadn't really heard what the doctor was saying. And Mom was too out of it to take care of herself during that time.  But as soon as she got that shunt, her physical and mental health drastically improved.  It was as if overnight, she seemed 20 years younger.  She's 88 years young these days, with a very full life packed with friends and activities.  She has 31 great-grandchildren now, and she likes to read the local newspaper obituaries and compare that number to the ones she sees mentioned there.  (So far, among her peers in the area she's winning the great-grandchildren contest!)

Thanks to my baby sister, my mother got her life back. She and her husband are saints, they truly are.  A few years ago, his mom started failing, too, and they took her in (I believe she's 90).  Both moms live with them now, each with her own bedroom and a shared bathroom between them.  Isn't that amazing?  What a blessing my sister and her hubby are to those lucky ladies.

Saints do live among us!

It's great that every time I want to visit my mom,
I get to visit this sister, too!

To know this sister is to love her.  

Sisters are such a blessing.

Especially mine.

*On April 23, I added this paragraph.  I really hadn't adequately described how wonderful my sister and her husband are.  Maybe you'll have a better idea now!

Four Generations, Fourth of July Fashions, and Fireworks

I have the hardest time keeping up with this blog!  I can't believe it's already been almost a week since our kids left, after our glorious family vacation week together at Oyster Haven!  And I never even blogged about our Fourth of July festivities, which were pretty sensational this year.

My mom--known as Mimi to her grandkids and great-grandkids--came over to join the chaos one day, and we were able to get this photo of four generations: Mimi, me, my youngest son, and his baby girl. My mom will be 88 years young in September; doesn't she look amazing?

On Independence Day, our whole gang went over to the neighborhood where my husband grew up and where his family still has a house on the lake (it's just a little over three miles down the road from Oyster Haven), to participate in the annual Fourth of July parade.  Many of my husband's siblings and their families were there, too, forming quite a lengthy string of Pearls. Everyone was dressed as patriotically as can be. Here are two of our little granddaughters all gussied up to march in the parade.  They are practically neighbors in VA, two weeks apart in age and besties--and also very much a pair of miniature fashionistas.

My boys are always good for humorous attire on the Fourth--or anytime, actually.  Here are the two youngest, #'s 4 and 5.  I heart them big time.

One of our wee grandsons, all decked out in Stars and Stripes, was pretty worn out from all the excitement before the parade even started.

Our newest star-spangled granddaughter has the same nickname as this great-aunt who's holding her.  This lovely lady is one of my husband's four sisters, who happens to also be the godmother of this sweet baby's daddy.

After the parade, we headed back to Oyster Haven for a hamburger-and-hot dog cookout and more beach time.  And then as the sun set, we got ready to watch the spectacular fireworks show that our neighbors put on every year.  How wonderful that we only have to go to the edge of our yard to see it!

I have been incredibly overtired since our week ended.  I've been taking naps every day--which is so unlike me.  I know part of it is that it was an extremely tiring week.  I mean, we had 26 people staying in a house that sleeps 13 comfortably (13 is the maximum number of guests we allow for our Vrbo renters).  And only 10 of those 26 people were adults.  So there was a lot going on: a lot of noise; a lot of meal preparation, serving, and cleanup; a lot of playing lifeguard down at the water's edge (or in the water!); a lot of getting up early with little peeps.  

So yes, I'm tired.  But I also think I'm just feeling a little low, now that my people are all gone.  I love having them gathered all together so, so much--in spite of the craziness of it.  We look forward to that week at Oyster Haven all year, and it comes and goes so quickly.  I'm sure I'll get over this blah feeling soon, though, once I've really caught up on my rest.

Luckily, my husband and I like each other.  I mean, we really like each other.  And so we'll enjoy the rest of the summer here together, attending daily Mass, saying our Rosaries out on the boat, visiting with my mom and other relatives who are still in the area, enjoying the lake.  And making up the beds on weekend turnover days at Oyster Haven (as well as keeping an eye on the quality of our cleaners' work!  We might be a tad OCD about our beloved lake house...).

Our 3-and-a-half-year old granddaughter who lives near us in VA (the one in the red dress, floppy hat, and sunglasses in the above photo) was sitting with me one day at Oyster Haven, bemoaning the fact that we are going to be at the lake for the rest of the summer.  "When will you go back to your real house, where you belong?" she asked.   Oh my heart!  Isn't it wonderful to be loved and missed like that?

So yes, we do belong in VA.  Most of the time.  But right now, it feels right to be here with just my guy, living the lake life that's in his blood.  We'll be back to our "real house" soon enough.

Oh, Hey There!

Remember me?

Testing...testing...is this thing on?  (Lame joke.  Sorry.  Even at my best I was not the most top-notch of bloggers, and now I'm about as rusty as I've ever been.  So bear with me.)

I haven't been here at the blog since Mother's Day, May 9--yikes, that's over two months ago!--which I believe makes this just about the longest hiatus I've ever taken since I published my first post back in March of 2011.

I wasn't really worrying that anyone was missing my blog presence too much, and had actually started kicking around the idea of never coming back at all.  This is hardly a must-read site for many, so I figured I could just let it sort of die a natural death and move on to other things (and other people: my life is so full of grandchildren--lucky me!--that most of my days seem to be as busy as when I was a much, much younger mom raising much, much younger boys).  

I mean, I know that my baby sister misses me when I'm not here, as does my hubby and a couple of my boys and my daughters-in-law (and even some of their young friends!  Ha--that was interesting to find out!).   But I'm not exactly Kendra Tierney, or Jenny Uebbing (a favorite of mine who has also mostly left the blogosphere as of late, but more about Jenny in a bit).  I'm not trying to be self-deprecating here, just stating the facts.

Many--make that most--of the Catholic writers I "met" through their blogs have left this quickly-becoming-anachronistic platform for the more popular online world of Instagram.  These would include talented gals like Grace Patton  and Rachel Balducci.

I can understand the lure of the Insta-posts: they're mostly about the pictures, with minimal writing required; they take a fraction of the time to compose and are easily perused by busy readers. I was on Instagram for about six years and thoroughly loved it.  I found so much inspiration there, so much joy and humor, and even so many facts about our beautiful Faith of which I was unaware.  Actually, I might have loved Instagram too much, and might have been a little too thrilled by the occasional "like" or comment from one of the aforementioned superstar Catholic "influencers."  After our big move from NH to VA in 2017, instead of working on making new real-life friendships, I went to Instagram to visit with my eFriends, and I really did feel as if I had a community there.  I had a hard time imagining an Instagram-free life.  But ultimately, my husband and I both made the decision to delete our social media accounts this past year, for a number of reasons (which I won't go into again, because I wrote all about that here). 

I said good-bye to Facebook and Twitter and Instagram; but blogging was the one thing I felt I couldn't give up.  Not yet anyway.  And apparently, I still can't!

I have so many things I've wanted to write about in the last few months: my mother's three-week visit with us and her many Pearl great-grandchildren in VA in May, when my sainted youngest sister and her hubby dropped her off so they could take a much-deserved extended vacation in their RV; 

our week-long family vacation at our Oyster Haven Vrbo house in Upstate NY earlier this month, when four of our five sons and 12 of our 17 grandchildren were gathered together for fun at the lake;

my husband's and my 45th high school reunion (#highschoolsweethearts) a couple of weeks ago, where I learned that one of my male classmates has been checking in here and wondering why I haven't been blogging (this was a surprise to me!);

some good books I'm reading and planning to read that I'd love to tell you about...

These are all subjects I'd like to tackle, along with some thoughts about detachment as my 63rd birthday fast approaches. I've had a major case of blogger's block since May, but perhaps I can get back into a groove, now that things have quieted down up here by the lake--after a very busy, noisy, and joyfully chaotic start to the month, when so many members of the enormous Pearl clan were sharing this house (my husband's childhood home) with us.  It's just us now, this guy and me.

It's a perfect boating day, so I think I'll sign off now. But before I do, I wanted to share a link to a very moving recent Mama Needs Coffee blog post by Jenny Uebbing.  She has been for many years a prolific writer, blogger, and Instagram influencer, and is indeed a household name in the Catholic online community.  But although she still blogs sporadically, her social media work has taken a definite back seat to her much more important career of full-time motherhood to a brood of six adorable youngsters.  (A thought-provoking post of hers a while back, in fact, was one of the catalysts for my own exodus from social media.)  This line from the post in particular struck me as profoundly true, especially in the context of the selfless, repetitive, seemingly thankless tasks a woman who works exclusively in the home performs daily out of love for her family, without payment or the world's recognition:  Jenny writes, "I feel a little bit like I've discovered the secret to happiness.  But it's such a deep secret that it's possible no one will believe me.  It's this, though, in case you were wondering: give your life away." (Do yourself a favor and read the full, beautifully written post here.)

That's it for today.  The lake calls.  But I'll be back soon...I hope!

Garden Spots

I have the brownest thumb in the world.  Although I love the look of a pretty garden, a gardener I am not. Unfortunately.

That's why I so appreciated the tidy and well-manicured landscaping that came with our house in VA when we moved into it in 2017.  The garden areas in front on either side of the entryway sidewalk are filled with easy-to-trim bushes.  On the left there are several flowering bushes (all the color and beauty with none of the work!), and I think that with our 36" statue of the Blessed Mother in front of them, they make for a nice Mary Garden.  (Does anyone know what these bushes are called?  They have the most lovely blossoms!)

Along the side of the house and near the driveway, the previous owners had planted perennials (again, all the color and beauty with none of the work!).  I left well enough alone and didn't plant anything new, because I liked the low-maintenance garden just the way it was.  I just adore the profusion of gorgeous irises that bloom each spring.  They thrive on benign neglect, which is my go-to gardening technique!

I say I liked it just the way it was; but something was missing...so recently, we purchased a new statue to stand amongst the irises.  It is considerably less holy and sacred than the one we have out front.  But you see, my dad, who passed away one day shy of his 82nd birthday in 2016, was known by the nickname "Bigfoot."  (Some kids have a Grandpa, some have a Papa; my boys had a Bigfoot.)  So when I saw this 36", solid cement Sasquatch figurine—which was meticulously created by some local Mennonite craftsmen—calling out to me from a downtown garden shop, I just couldn't resist it.

When I texted our boys a photo of my newly acquired garden statue, son #4 replied in his usual amusing fashion:

A garden Bigfoot might not be "essential" for most folks; but I think it was for me.  I'm  always up for whimsical touches, especially when they have personal meaning.  My mom is coming here tomorrow, staying with us for about three weeks; and I think she's going to enjoy this reminder of her beloved husband—gone, but never forgotten!—when she sits on the patio with us during cocktail hour.

I plan to write more about my mother and the ups and downs of her life over the past five years, and also about the younger sister saint and her husband who have taken Mom into their home (a long overdue post, to be sure); but for now I'm going to sign off by saying that I just love springtime in VA.  Especially with garden spots like these!