Parenting

I have rarely sipped the spring-cleaning Kool-Aid, but this year I had a sudden, irrepressible urge. One of my triggers was an old file cabinet. Placed in our garage “a few years ago” to make room somewhere else in the house for heaven knows what, this piece of office furniture has continually hindered entry and exit into the passenger side of my vehicle. So, as winter waned and my annoyance bloomed, I deemed it necessary to (finally) address the cabinet’s contents and either donate or relocate said steel monstrosity.

My fingers gently grasp the 37-year-old sheet of onionskin paper. On it are the sentiments of a woman whose life was cut short, whose voice I sadly did not have time to commit to memory. Rarely does a mistake surface on these delicate pages — a testament to her pre-word processor typing skills.

As a nurse, I have had to clean more than my fair share of other people’s dentures. As my parents aged, theirs were also added to the duty queue. Let me be honest and say I abhor this task, even when performing it for loved ones.

As the saying goes, “Getting old is not for sissies.” And the truth is… I am aging just like the rest of us. Indeed, the sands of time seem to be racing faster through the tiny waist of that blasted hourglass. 

“Tomato and cheese omelet and large coffee to go, please,” I tell the cashier in the coffee shop. I sidestep other patrons and take my place in the wait queue. It’s 2AM and the hospital’s only food station for us night owls is soon to close.

A huge fan of perennials, I prefer to plant something once — usually too late in the season — and rely on Mother Nature to do the rest. This allows me to spend winter fretting over its fate. Even if sparse, the magic of freshly green shoots year after year bolsters my shaky sense of horticultural success. The only annuals I entertain are those that quickly erupt into florid color, and the irony of a favorite – impatiens – is not lost on me.

My daughter, a burgeoning nursing student, recently asked me, “If you had to do it over again, would you still be a nurse?” I thought for a moment and responded affirmatively, that it was, quite simply, what I felt I was meant to do. A nod of satisfaction was her relieved response that she too had made the right vocational choice …

Our eyes adjust to the dim light. Faint rays of late afternoon sun illuminate suspended dust particles in the cavernous warehouse. The musty scent of bygone eras greets us and tickles our nasal passages. A few sneezes later, our expedition begins: Dad and I are in search of an old stained-glass window – my college graduation gift …

Considered “too fancy” by some, this perennial space is where I prefer to start and end my day. An abundance of ancestral artifacts and trappings of ladyhood render the atmosphere calming and restorative. Most importantly, I hear the whispers of women in my past. I feel their presence here, young and old, shimmering individually and collectively with the changing light of each day.

Lifeless flesh undulates to the rhythm of external chest compressions. A crowd of providers streams in from a variety of departments as invasive lines are placed, medication timing recited, and respiration commandeered by a surrogate. Several minutes of continued effort offer little reward…

As I honor the women in my history this month, my paternal Grandmother Ruthie’s spirit remains especially strong. She lived just down the driveway from us in a small house that was the safe haven my brothers would “run away to,” toting suitcases and trusted stuffed animals, when parental rules were too stifling.

A toddler grins precociously from the faded sepia-tone shore along with her doting older siblings in period swimming costumes. The Atlantic City Boardwalk of the Roaring Twenties springs to life from these otherwise still shots. Carefree smiles captured for perpetuity coax me to join them in the sand.

The dazzling sunset plays along the crystal facets of the lovely wine goblet in my hand. I raise a toast to the warm spring day and to the goblet’s prior owner. My friend Nita, whose spirit glowed as colorful as the evening before me, lives on in my heart.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? – Mary Oliver

Sandpipers scurry in their zig-zag pattern to find snacks, following the ebb and flow of the surf. Despite their urgency, their behavior is strangely calming to me …

Backpacks and shoes scatter as the back door is shoved open by the weight of the day, my work-weary frame pulled by agitated kindergarten twins in a hangry plea for sustenance. Amid the cacophony of snack requests, clanging pots and pans, and diatribe of school day doings, I ponder the most efficient way to sling dinner toward the table. At already six-thirty in the evening, there is no relaxation in sight…

All is quiet aside from the hum of rubber on pavement, our pensive focus on the fall colors whizzing by as we drive. While the change of scenery is welcome, this is not a dreamy sojourn. It is October. We are headed to Florida to see my elderly father-in-law, and timing is critical. Long- term care facilities recently reopened to visitors, and my husband and I have enough time off work to travel as well as quarantine. We feel this trip is now or never, and we await our bittersweet reunion.  

I have written on my penchant for perfectionism and I desired the perfect family. I had a wonderful husband, a wonderful career, and I wanted a wonderful family. It wasn’t happening.

Spring gradually unfolds outside my car window as the road and the miles gently whiz on by. I watch my private, time-lapsed arrival of the new season as we head further and further south. Dogwood and redbud blossoms float gently amid the soft brown haze of branches pregnant with buds. While viewing the scenery, I also lovingly polish the silver charms on my mother’s charm bracelet – a last minute inclusion to my trip wardrobe.

This essay was originally composed in May 2015 after the burial of my parents,  long before the pandemic with its associated gathering size limits and travel bans.   I hesitated to post something so deep during a time of already intense struggle, but writing has always been my creative outlet to productively process my spinning head. 

My mother watches me as I dab tinted moisturizer on her face. The full face makeup of younger years has been replaced by cosmetic minimalism. Strong lipcolor has been tossed aside, a lightly tinted gloss in its place. Her salt and pepper hair color is now her preferred shade. Watching my mother’s transformation from youth to midlife and beyond has been, and will likely continue to be my blueprint without even realizing it. We strive to NOT be our mothers for a variety of reasons as we age. But the inevitable is, well, inevitable. The face in the mirror is mine.