Happy Mother's Day

Mother’s Day is a day to pay tribute to your mother, the one person who loves you more than anyone you will ever meet in your entire lifetime. You can buy your mother flowers, give her a fancy card, or treat her to dinner to show her that you appreciate all that she had done and sacrificed for you. But when your mother passes away, you can no longer do anything to show her how much you love her. When you lose your mother people will comfort you by saying, “she will always be with you.” The reality is that she is not. She is gone from your life forever. The only thing you can actually do on Mother’s Day is think of her.

My mother has been gone for almost six years now, and I think of her every single day. My mother and I were a lot alike and we had a great relationship. It is easy for me to close my eyes and think of the many times that she went out of her way to help me, to give me good advice, to make me feel loved and protected. But today I realized that one of the most precious memories I have of my mother was not from one of the good times we spent together, but from one of the worst.

As I enter the house, my mother is not buzzing around energetically wiping the kitchen counters or calling out a greeting to me as she is finishing a task on the home computer. This day my mother, or what is left of the vibrant woman she once was, is sitting up in her bed, her emaciated frame propped up on pillows. She says nothing to me as I say hello, trying my best to sound cheerful. I make small talk as I lift the covers and empty one of her drains into a small container on the floor next to her bed. I keep talking as I leave the room briefly to flush the contents down the toilet and return to her bedside to reattach the tube. All things medical use to make me queasy, but it’s been almost nine months since her first surgery. I am tougher now.

I sit on the bed as close to her as I can get. She is wearing a black and white striped mumu, her fashion of choice for hanging around the house and the source of endless teasing from my sister and I. This mumu that once fit her now looks like it is five sizes too big because she weighs barely eighty pounds. Her face looks gaunt and slightly gray. She has fought so hard, but now she is tired. I know that all hope is gone and that her death is imminent. This could be the last time I see her alive, but I cannot say goodbye. She is still here.

I run out of things to say, so we just look at each other for a few moments. Then my mother raises her arm slowly and touches my face with her fingers. She smiles and says softly, almost in a whisper, “I am proud of myself.” It was difficult for her to speak. I don’t know what she means so I lean a little closer and ask her why. Still stroking my chin she says, “Because I raised you.”

In these days before her death, I assume that my mother was reflecting back on her life, feeling good about everything she was able to accomplish and regretting the things that she had to leave unfinished. The knowledge that my mother considered me one of her life’s greatest successes makes me feel deeply loved. Her soft words spoken in the worst of circumstances inspire me to be my best self so I can always be the woman who makes her so proud. I love her so much. On Mother’s Day (and many other days) it warms my heart to think of this special moment we shared. Thank you Mom.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Why I Go to Church

           

            Whenever I am asked what my plans are for any given Sunday, I always begin with the phrase, "after mass."  I attend church religiously, no pun intended, every Sunday morning at 8:00 am with my two children in tow.  It does not matter if I am tired because I was up late socializing with friends on the previous night.  It does not matter if I am pressed for time because I have to go food shopping or get ready to attend an early afternoon function.  It does not matter if I need to complete the household chores that have piled up during the hectic week, or even if I am feeling slightly under the weather.  I do not go to church on a regular basis to avoid a sense of guilt of to fulfill an obligation ingrained in me by my Catholic parents.  I go to church because it is good for me.  I go to church because I like it.

            I did not always felt this way of course.  When I was growing up my parents took me and my siblings to church every week, either on a  Saturday night or Sunday morning.  Our church was located on the top of a tall hill with about a million narrow and steep stone steps to climb. By the time we crossed the threshold of the church, our thighs were sore!  The priests were old and their sermons were long and boring (to a child like me with limited understanding and a short attention span).   The average mass lasted at least one hour and it was difficult to sit still. Although the effort of my parish's  choir was valiant, the music was shrill and off- key.  The children's choir was especially loud and often accompanied by an interesting array of instruments, such as the tambourine, that were not quite fitting for the atmosphere.  Even today my sister and I still joke about its use in the choir's Broadway-like rendition of the "Hallelujah."

             When my sister and I tried to play the "I feel too sick to go to church" card,  my mother would always respond by saying, "Well, if you are too sick to go to church than you need to stay home and lie down for the rest of the day."  Realizing that this outcome would mean a day without any fun activities, we were magically cured and found ourselves making the long climb up the stone stairs to attend mass. We were enrolled in weekly religious education classes, attended the required retreats, got ashes and palms, had our throats blessed, and made our sacraments.  At the end of my adolescence, the routine of going to church was thoroughly ingrained in me.

             I dutifully attended mass weekly throughout college and into adulthood.   My devotion to my religion  was strong, but largely based on a sense of obligation.  My first words to my non-Catholic boyfriend after I accepted his marriage proposal were, " as long as we get married in the Church and raise our kids as Catholics."  As the years passed and I became an adult, my life experiences began to change me, change my relationship with God, and change my motivation for attending mass.  Now that I am older I recognize the personal benefits of going to church and can appreciate the central role my religion plays in my life.  I no longer feel that I "have" to go to church.  I feel that I "want" to go because church is the place where I find wisdom, peace, love, and inspiration. 

            The readings from the Bible and the gospels offer solid advice about how to live a Christian life.  These truths may be obviously stated in clear language or they may be embedded in awkwardly worded phrases or even hidden in cryptic parables.  However, if I pay close attention to the readings and the sermon, I can always relate the advice from biblical times or the teachings of Jesus to an actual  problem or situation in my personal or professional life.  It might be a new way to approach a problem or a positive attribute to which I should aspire, but I always am enlightened and inspired in some way.  Each week I leave mass a little smarter than when I arrived.  Each week I leave mass with a goal to strengthen my character.  Attending mass is the ultimate self-improvement  seminar!

            In church I have experienced the spectrum of emotions that make me human, often at the deepest of levels. On my wedding day I felt soaring joy and hope for my undetermined future coupled with the weight of the serious commitment I was making to my husband and to God.   My heart was full of gratitude as I witnessed my children's foreheads being washed clean on their baptism days.  When my autistic son was a toddler and life at home was hectic and hard, attending mass was my refuge.  It was the only time all week that I had the opportunity to be still, to think, to relax.  I was excited and proud to see my children make their first communions.  At my mother's funeral I felt profound sadness, sobbing silently for the loss of her love.   I feel renewed after going to confession and empowered after receiving the Eucharist.  The melodies and lyrics in the music played each week at mass remind me of these emotional moments.   While some of these memories make me feel happy and some make me feel sad, they all make me feel loved.  I feel loved by God and by the people He has put  into my life.

            When I am in church I feel comforted knowing that I am part of a family that is larger than my own.  I enjoy exchanging smiles and shaking the hands of people that I do not know.  I like the sound of our congregation praying and singing in unison.   The occasional mistakes made by the readers and the voices that are sometimes off key have a special sound - they remind me that although we try our best, we are all imperfect!  My favorite part of the mass is when the parishioners line up to receive Holy Communion.   Men, women, and children, of all ages and sizes line up with their hands outreached to receive Jesus Christ.  I understand that although we look very different from each other on the outside, we are essentially the same on the inside.  We are gathered together in church like we are gathered together in life, created by God to love each other as He loves each and every one of us. 

            Being in church reinforces the truths about life that I already know but often overlook: that I am loved by God and have been blessed by Him in countless ways; that I am not in charge of what happens in life, He is; that one day I will live forever in heaven with Jesus and everyone that I love.  Participating in the rituals and routines of the mass each week gives me a tangible way to experience the intangible concepts of my religion.  Going to church reminds me of why I am here and what I need to do.   Each Sunday as my children and I walk toward the altar to sit in my family's front pew, I look upward at the hanging crucifix and hope that my example will instill in them what my parents' actions instilled in me.  I pray that someday when they are older they too will realize that going to church is not only is good for God.  Going to church is good for them too.

           

            

Bowling Alley Coffee

 

                Like most people, I look forward to the weekends.  The busy grind of the work week takes its toll by Tuesday and when I wake up Wednesday morning,  I am already wishing it was Friday.   Fridays are always good days because even if things go terribly wrong, at least you can say, "Thank God it's Friday!"  You can deal with life's curveballs because you know the next day is Saturday, the gateway to weekend life, a true alternative universe!

                 On the weekends I have time, an elusive commodity that  I lack during my work week.  I have the time to make a full breakfast for my children and the time to watch them eat it.  Although my dog wakes me up at 5:00 am as usual, I can go back to bed and get up "late" (which is 7:30 in my world).    I can go for a quick mid-morning run or a longer one in the late afternoon.   I can spend my time only with the  people of my choice, especially my husband and my two sons.   I would assume that my  list of weekend pleasures is fairly common, except for one rather unusual item- bowling alley coffee.

                There- I have admitted it.  I enjoy bowling alley coffee and look forward to ordering a cup of it each week.  I realized this peculiar attachment last weekend.  My son had barely thrown his first warm-up ball and I was already at the counter, waiting with my eighty five cents.  The coffee is served in a white Styrofoam cup and is filled to the top,  leaving little to no room for cream.  I am not daunted by this challenge as I take my coffee to the opposite counter, lay a napkin on the surface,  and get ready to customize my treat.  I add several packages of "cream" (or whatever that white liquid is) and even more packages of sugar.  I slowly stir it all together and then I gingerly carry my filled-to-the-brim beverage to my sons' lane.  I settle into my chair, watch him bowl, and take my first sip.  Ahhhhh.....I am indulging in a true weekend pleasure.

                Now here comes the peculiar part of my story.  The coffee does not taste good.  In fact, it actually tastes quite bad.   It has always been, well, rather horrible.   No amount of "cream"  or sugar can change the bitter flavor.  Other parents arrive with cups of delicious coffee from Dunkin' Donuts or McDonalds.  But I buy coffee at the bowling alley every week and I drink every drop and as I stated earlier, I look forward to doing so.   So why do I enjoy drinking my cup of bowling alley coffee?   

                Routines are patterns of behavior that do not change, and thus provide comfort.    Drinking the bowling alley coffee is part of my weekend routine.  During the hectic and unpredictable weekdays when I often feel rushed and anxious,  at least I know that when the weekend arrives on Saturday morning I will be able to buy my coffee, fix my coffee, and drink my coffee at the same time and in the same manner as I did the previous week.  When I am doing so, I will be watching my son participate in an activity that he truly enjoys and in which he truly excels.  Nobody will be asking me to do anything at that moment.  I cannot leave until he bowls his strings.  I have no task to complete or chore to finish.  All I can do is sit and watch, and sip. 

Riding the Wave

            I made the most of my summer vacation!   I slept late nearly every day, lounged in the sun at the beach and by the pool, stayed up late watching television, and got an awesome tan.  I lost track of what day of the week it was and thought about no children other than my own. When I think about going back to school next week, I have a vision of myself standing on a beach with a mammoth wave swelling  behind me,  above my head, waiting to crash upon me on teacher orientation day. The last few days of summer vacation are truly the calm before the storm.  They provide the perfect time for reflection about the relaxing time that soon will be behind  me, and anticipation of the stressful days that lie ahead.    

            When you are a teacher, the beginning of the school year is a time to reinvent yourself.  You are a stranger to the students sitting in front of you.   They have never been in your classroom before and they do not know what to expect.  Everything from the daily routines to the tone of the environment has to be established by you.  If you were unhappy with what you did in the previous school year, you can change it now.   You have a clean slate and with that opportunity comes a feeling of power.  Remember how exciting it feels to open up a brand new notebook and see the first blank page?   Once you actually write on the paper you cannot return to the special time before you did so, when you were just planning and dreaming about how you wanted the page to look.   This is how we teachers feel at the beginning of the school year.  We have a the chance to make a fresh start.

            Each September gives you can create new goals to achieve without feeling the guilt of failing at those same goals in the past.  Although the last school year was less than three months ago, to a teacher it feels like a lifetime ago and can barely be remembered.    At the beginning of each school year I set the same goal: to keep the pressures of the job at bay and retain a lasting positive attitude.  I aspire to hold off the wave in my vision, the powerful influx of demands and tasks that have overtaken education and changed the fabric of my job to the point of making it unrecognizable. Wow-  I can feel my heart beating faster and my stress level rising even as I type these descriptive words.

            When I started teaching in 1993 my primary responsibility was to  teach.  My job required me to deliver information to the students in my content area of Social Studies.  Back then, most of the students knew how to read and write and completed their assignments.  Even if they did not like it, back then most students recognized the importance of education and the authority of the teacher.    There was respect for the professionalism and wisdom of teachers.  Parents and administrators were supportive.  Creativity was encouraged and learning could be fun and productive.  The daily schedule included small breaks, allowing students and teachers valuable time to breathe, to communicate, to make personal connections.  It was during one of these nonacademic moments, a former student told me, that I made a comment to her that literally changed her life's direction.

            But as the expression goes, "that was then and this is now."  Ask any educator or student, things are different today.  Schools are run like businesses and  the profit margins are high test scores.  The pace is exhausting and the demands are unreasonable for all involved.  Gone is the creative freedom that was my forte.  Gone are the moments to inspire lives.  Gone is the focus on growing the talents and strengths of each and every student.  We concentrate on numbers, cohorts, and spreadsheets now.  We have data meetings and spend hours and hours staring at numbers of all kinds.  This is the new wave in education, the wave that I am bracing for next week. 

            In many ways I am ready to return to work.  I find comfort in the organization of my family's fall routine.  My mind gets restless by the beginning of August and I crave the intellectual challenges inherent in teaching.  In my heart, I will always feel that teaching is the most noble profession and I am proud that I am an educator.  But as I prepare my classroom for a new group of students, I will also be preparing myself mentally for the pressure and stress that lie ahead.  I am once again setting my annual goal to remain positive as I go to work each day in an environment that no longer makes sense to me.  I am hoping that when the gigantic wave crashes down on my next week, I can ride it.

            

Saying a Final Goodbye

             Last June my aunt died of a sudden heart attack.  Three weeks later my mother succumbed to a year-long battle with colon cancer.   Enduring the trauma of these two losses reinforced my understanding of a grim reality of life.   It does not matter if the end of a loved one's life comes quickly or slowly, whether you know it is going to happen or are taken by surprise, whether you are blindsided or are prepared.  No matter what the circumstances may be, no one has the luxury of saying a final goodbye.

            My godmother and aunt Tessie was truly a second mother to me.  I spent a lot of time with her and my uncle when I was growing up and I have countless happy memories of our times together. As I grew older, got a job and had a family of my own, I had fewer opportunities to spend time with my aunt.   When she died, I had not spoken to her in a few months, but I believe that she knew how much I loved and adored her. 

            Our last conversation was a text message exchange on her birthday in March.  I have saved this message on my telephone and look at it from time to time.  I began by wishing her a happy birthday  and she thanked me, joking about how old she was.    I texted back, "You may be older but you are looking damn good!  I have a great day!  I love you!"     The last words I communicated to my aunt were the ones I would have spoken to her if I was there the night she unexpectedly passed away.  I loved her and I told her when I had the chance, and that brings me peace. 

            I had plenty of opportunities to have a final goodbye conversation with my mother.  I was with her in the hospital room when the doctors delivered the news that she would not survive.  I was with her at home during the nine days she spent there before moving to a hospice center.  I was by her bedside when she lost consciousness and left only hours before she took her final breath.   But I never said  goodbye.  I could not say those words because I did not know exactly when she was going to die.  It never seemed like the right thing to do.  If I said those words, I was giving voice to the finality of her death, making it a reality.  I did not want her to die, so I did not say goodbye.

            But I didn't really have to because of a special moment my mother and I shared before she went to hospice.  She was sitting up in her bed when I came to see her.  At this stage in her illness she weighed less than ninety pounds and was extremely weak, barely able to move or speak audibly.  I emptied her drainage bags, cleaned her bedding, and helped her change into a clean nightgown.  I was sitting on the edge of her bed, looking into her eyes, speaking no words.  She was looked at me, raised her hand, and gently stroked my face.  She said, "I am proud of myself."  It seemed like such an odd comment  I questioned, "Why are you proud of yourself?"  Her eyes filled with tears and she said, "Because I raised you."  I had no words.  In this brief conversation my mother expressed her feelings toward me.  My constant presence by her side in her most difficult moments expressed mine.  The love we had for each other was evident.  There was need  to actually say "goodbye." 
               I do not choose to use the phrase "learning a life lesson" to describe my painful experiences last summer.  The word "learning" implies that you previously did not know something, but I already understood the importance of treasuring and appreciating my loved ones.   I already knew that  we need to tell our family members and friends how much we care for them while they are still here with us.  I already knew that our actions can show the depth of our affections more powerfully than words.  I already know how lucky I was to be loved by two of the most precious people who ever lived.   My losses showed me that circumstances can sometimes render words insufficient or impossible.   I was reminded that you cannot wait for the chance to express your feelings for someone you love in a tidy, final conversation. That chance might never come or may come in a form that you do not recognize or expect.   Sometimes, perhaps often, things don't end with a "goodbye."  They just end. 

Five Hundred Words

I usually do not participate in the many group challenges and activities on social media.    I do not play Farmville on Facebook and I get annoyed when someone gives me a life on Candy Crush.  I immediately delete any "chain letter" like requests for me to forward a message  to nine of my friends or like a post within thirty seconds of viewing it.  I have not filmed myself  dumping a bucket of ice water on my head for charity. But yesterday I made an exception to my self-imposed boycott.  I accepted an online challenge to write at least five hundred words a day for thirty one days. 

            I have always enjoyed writing and have dreamed of being an author since I was in middle school.  In high  school I recall sitting in English class when the teacher announced a writing contest on the topic of literacy.  I remember thinking, "I am going to write an essay and I am going to win."  Well, I did what I set out to do, I wrote the essay and I did win.  I received a certificate in a leather folder at the Biltmore Hotel.  I continued to find success throughout high school and college writing papers and earning high marks

            When I was in college at the University of Rhode Island I took a course about the Civil War.  My professor  was tough, announcing on the first day of class that, "I don't give A's."  Feeling confident to prove him wrong, I wrote an essay on the short novel A Man Without A Country.   On the day he returned the corrected essays to the students he asked to speak to me after class.  He was impressed with my writing and I felt successful.  I worked on a few projects for him during my college career, including one in which I researched and wrote a description of a historic department store in South Kingstown, Rhode Island.  I still have my manuscript, produced an a typewriter on onion skin paper with red margins. 

            My writing repertoire expanded as I took graduate courses.  I wrote papers for my own courses and a few for my friends and boyfriends as well!  While writing papers seemed difficult for others, it was easy for me and I enjoyed it.  When I got my job as a middle school  Social Studies teacher, my writing projects changed.  I no longer wrote research papers, of course, but I did re-write articles to make them easier for my students to understand.  Teaching the elements of writing became part of my job description.  I became skilled at writing recommendations for students, capturing their strengths in a way that produced compliments from my colleagues who read and signed the letter. 

            At the end of the last school year my grade leader announced that she was moving on to another position at another school.  She did not want to leave, but circumstances and contractual rules left her no choice.  All of the teachers in our grade were disappointed and wanted to do something to show our support.  Someone suggested that we write her a letter of recommendation, and I quickly volunteered.  When I was finished writing the document, I passed in along to all fifteen of my colleagues for their signatures.  As they read the letter they nodded with approval, commenting how my words expressed their feelings.

            It was after this experience that I decided to begin writing.  I have a talent and an ability that I need to explore, refine, and improve.  Writing is not easy.  It requires time, energy, and  concentration, all precious commodities of which I have little in the course of my busy life.  But I realize that if I am ever going to write that book that I have always dreamed of writing, I need to start.  I could not just  read about the five hundred word challenge online.  This time, I had to take it.

I Am Okay, Mom! I Am Okay!

               While there are no marathons in my future, I certainly do enjoy running and have made it a part of my weekly routine for the last seven years.    I love to run because I choose to do it by myself.  I am alone.  There is no one to talk to,  no questions to answer, no requests from my children, no demands from my co-workers or students.  It is just me, the pavement beneath my sneakers, and the inspirational tunes playing from my IPod.  There is nothing to do but run and think about, well,  anything that comes to my mind.

                 I run and plan what I am going to do later that day or the next.  I run and dream about what I want to achieve in life, about the type of person I aspire to become.  I  run and think about topics  both meaningful and trivial. I run and problem solve situations both real and anticipated.  I even count my footfalls per minute.  But my favorite mental activity to do when I run is to remember.  I outwardly smile as I think about funny things from my past.  Such memories are often triggered by the songs I listen to,  especially if I am listening to my eighties playlist.  It is relaxing and refreshing to lose yourself for a few moments and let your mind lead you to wherever it decides it wants to go.  All you have to do is follow its path. 

                Once a week I like to push my limits as a runner and run for an extended distance.  My usual route is about three and a half miles and my long route is about  five and a half miles.  I choose Sundays to make this long run because it takes me about fifty minutes to complete and I can find more time on Sundays to devote to myself and do something that I enjoy doing than any other day in the week.   I look forward to spending this time alone and enjoying the mental benefits I have come to treasure.  On my long run I always experience the same memory as I approach the same part of my route.  Although I have had this same memory every time I have run this route over the last year, it was not until today that I appreciated its meaning.

                I am running on the side of a well-traveled road that ends at an intersection with a stoplight to manage the traffic.  It is a hot summer day, the kind of day when people warn you to avoid exercise.  As I approach the intersection, I take a left onto another busy road.  I stay on the sidewalks and although there are a lot of cars traveling in both directions, I am safe.  Once at this spot, just after I had made my left hand turn, I saw my mother driving by.  She was traveling away from the directions in which I was running, in the opposite lane heading toward the traffic light.  She saw me and instinctively slowed down.  She rolled down her window , looked my way, and was trying to get my attention.  She was obviously looking to see if I was alright.   She was holding up traffic as she was calling out to me. I could sense the impatience of the annoyed drivers behind her.  I waved my arm over my head in a large motion directing her to pass by, calling out, "I am okay, Mom.  I am okay!"  She drove away when she heard me and, thankfully, there were no collisions. 

                I have this memory every time I pass this location on my long run.   At first after my mother passed away, it was a painful memory.  I ran by and choked back tears.  Nobody but your own mother would stop a car in the middle of traffic just to see if you were okay!  My mother was gone and so was that unique love.  I felt badly for myself.  But as time passed, and I kept running by this location,  the memory has lost its sadness and has taken on a different, peaceful feeling.  It  reminds me of how blessed I have been because when my mother was alive, she was always looking out for me.  She devoted her life and did everything she did so that I would be okay.  Being a mother myself I realize that our goal in life is to prepare our children to live without us.  My mother accomplished this goal with grace and beauty.  She was an amazing person and I was so lucky to have been loved by her.

                I deeply miss my mother, but when my mind's eye sees her slowing down traffic in her Toyota Camry, looking my way and calling out to me, I cannot help but smile.  I enjoy remembering that brief yet meaningful moment.  Today as I ran by the spot, I thankfully waved my  arm in the air and called out, "I am okay, Mom.  I am okay!"  Even though she was not there, I know she heard me.