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.  

Accidental Advice: How Five Simple Phrases Have Changed My Life

Sometimes the most enduring pieces of advice can be delivered by the most unlikely of people at the most unexpected times.  There are days that I forget my most needed grocery item or why I walked into a particular room, but I easily remember a handful of treasured statements spoken to me over the years.  These phrases were delivered casually, mostly by people who did not intend to impart lasting wisdom.  But for some reason, these words resonated with me and have found a special place in my heart.  These phrases frequently pop into my head often as I experience the happenings of daily life, either to inspire me or to reinforce a simple truth. While I have gleaned different meanings and messages from these pieces of advice at different times in my life, the wisdom embedded in these phrases is truly timeless.

1. "It's not you I don't trust, it's the other guy."

Spoken by my anxious father when I was learning how to drive, this phrase always accompanied a denial to my request to borrow the family car.   As an innocent teenager, I could not relate to these seemingly unfounded concerns.  Nothing bad was going to happen to me so why were my parents always so worried? Now that I am a parent, I can answer this question easily!   Adults see the world very differently than children.  Growing up means that you know about the parts of life your parents shielded you from when you were younger.    Having a child makes you feel vulnerable.  These words make me appreciate how deeply my parents loved me.  My youngest son is turning twelve this year and wants to be more independent.  I will be thinking of this phrase often as he begins to ask me for more freedom. 

2. "Everything is two trips."

I think of this truth every time I get home from the store only to realize that I have to go back to fix a problem.  Maybe the cashier overcharged me for an item or I forgot to buy something I needed.  Perhaps I bought the wrong size or a piece of the product was missing from the box.  Whatever the reason, rarely can you succeed at an errand, or anything, in just one take.  This phrase, spoken by my beloved godmother and aunt Tessie, makes me chuckle at the never ending frustrations of life.  There will always be some wrench in the plans, some fly in the ointment, some complication with which to deal.  I smile broadly when I think of Auntie Tessie, her love, and her many words of wisdom.   Before spring break one college year, she wrote a list for my sister titled, "Tessie's Tips for Safe Trips."  Number one on the list was "Don't go."  

3.  "If it's not behind you, you won't hit it."

This statement seems obvious and kind of silly, I know, but for me it serves as a healthy reminder to relax.  Several years ago, I became friendly with a young woman who worked as a community support worker for my son.  We bonded instantly because we shared similar personality traits, including a tendency to over-think, over-analyze, and worry about a wide variety of situations, most of which had not and probably never would happen.  One day we were arriving home after an outing and we were pulling into my driveway. When she questioned my as to why I was not backing the car in, I told her that I was too nervous to do so. I admitted that I never learned to use the car mirrors to maneuver into parking spaces or to make judgments about what direction my car was turning.  I was afraid to hit something behind me.  So at the ripe old age of thirty-seven, she began to teach me how to back up my car using the mirrors, reassuring me by saying, "If's it's not behind you, you won't hit it."  I hear these words just about every time I shift my car in reverse, even though I now have a back-up camera to help me.  But over the years I have broadened the meaning of this phrase.  I now think of this advice when I need to be calm, when I need to stop worrying about something that does not exist.  

4.  "Your son is so teachable."

When my son Tommy started school, I completely overwhelmed by his diagnosis of autism.    He could not communicate with words, had frequent tantrums, was unable to focus his attention, and suffered physical discomfort from a sensory integration disorder.  I remember feeling a sense of horror when I put him on the school bus the day after his third birthday to attend a public preschool special education class.  What was going to happen to my son without my presence by his side?  What was he going to be able to learn, now, or ever?  Thank goodness he had an understanding teacher, who communicated with me via journal on a daily basis.  Sensing my worries, one day she shared with me the name and telephone number of a parent whose son was in  Tommy's class.  Her name was Roberta.   Her son was six and getting ready to move out of the preschool level.  I was reluctant to call and ask for help and advice, and stared at the number in the communication book for a few weeks.  I remember being teary-eyed when I finally reached out and made the call.  The woman on the other end was cheerful and positive, two qualities I didn't realize the mother of an autistic child could possess.  She told me she had been volunteering in the classroom and had observed Tommy.  Roberta told me, "your son is so teachable."  Teachable?  Teachable?  Hearing that word felt like being thrown a life jacket on the open ocean.  Hearing that word rescued me.  As Tommy's mother, I believe I knew it was true inside my heart, but I needed to hear it.  I needed to hear someone else, a stranger, a neutral party, tell me.  Hearing that world changed my world.  It helped me adopt a positive mindset in all aspects of Tommy's development, at home and at school.  Tommy will always need to learn, but he will.  Tommy is teachable.  Thanks Roberta!

5. "Worry about the things you cannot replace."

I felt like a queen living in a palace when I bought my house.  I remember standing in the kitchen, looking down the hallway, and marveling at its length.  Compared to my apartment, this two-bedroom ranch with a front and back yard was expansive!  My husband and I were focused on keeping the property looking great, and we took great care remodeling the inside and landscaping the outside. Although I had been a teacher for several years at this point in my life, I was not yet a mother.  After I arrived home from work I wanted peace and quiet.  So I would  quickly get annoyed when my neighbor's sons and their friends would run up and down the street, throwing balls, and making noise.  I particularly disliked the instances when these children ran through my front yard and threw balls that loudly struck the fence. One day I came home from work to find three kids standing in the middle of my lawn, hanging around my lamp post.  I went into full teacher-mode and sent them away with a stern lecture.  I am not sure how it happened, but later that evening my neighbor's from across the street were in my driveway talking to my husband and me.  I shared my story about the trespassing kids, their disrespectful and rude behavior, and how much it bothered me.   At some point in the conversation my neighbor Cynthia told me to, "worry about the things you cannot replace."  The comment meant nothing to me at the time.  Later I realized that when she spoke those words to me her mother had recently passed away.  I think of her words often, especially now that I have lost my own mother.    Her words remind me to focus on what is important in life- people.

The Final "First"

     Tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of my mother's death, and I am anxious to have the day come and go.  Over the last year I have been constantly remembering the "last" moments of our relationship.  These memories are numerous and are triggered frequently.  A seemingly insignificant action or word can now evoke a powerful emotion because it unearths a memory of the "last" time we ever did this or the "last" time we ever said that.  While these final memories can make me feel sadness, they can also soothe me with a sense of gratitude and peace.  I am deeply appreciative that I was given such a beautiful person to be my mother and I know she now lives in the paradise of heaven.

     It has been the events I classify as "firsts" that have been the most unexpected and painful to endure over this last year.  The "first" time I reached for the telephone to call my mother, as was my habit at least twice a day, only to realize that I could not talk to her anymore.  The "first" trip to the cemetery to lay flowers at her gravestone.  The "first" family gathering without her presence.   The "first" important activity or milestone achieved by one of the grandchildren not witnessed by my mother.  The "first" holiday celebrated without her. The "first" time my birthday passed without hearing her voice wishing me a happy one, the most difficult "first" moment for me by far.

      Over the last year the list of  mournful "firsts" grew and grew with only one end in sight, and that end is finally here.  Tomorrow's anniversary will not be a day when I miss her more deeply or think of her more often.  As I am mothering my own children she is never far from my mind and I will never stop wishing she was here with me.  Tomorrow's anniversary serves only one purpose.    It is the final "first."

     I remember the "last" time I spoke to my mother when she was still cognizant of my words and presence. We were in the car on a Sunday, traveling again to the emergency room, desperately seeking another miracle.  I had one hand on the wheel and one arm across her chest as she slumped forward in the passenger seat, too weak to sit up straight.  She said ,"I cannot open my eyes.  I am just so tired," to which I responded, "It's okay, Mom.  Just close your eyes and get some rest."

Autism Awareness Day

My son is highly functional, but because of his autism, his days are full of numerous challenges, unrecognizable to you and me, that he must overcome while still managing to look "normal" to an indifferent and judgemental world. Autism has shaped our family routines and defined the depth of the relationships that we have with each other, our extended family members, and our friends. Autism has often been the decisive factor in determining where we can and cannot go and if we can go, how we will participate. Autism creeps into our minds as we dream about what the future may hold. Autism reeks havoc on our expectations, forces us to adjust and accept, hardens our resolve, strengthens us and exhausts us. Autism is there when we go to sleep at night and is waiting for us when we rise in the morning. Autism is a force to be reckoned with, day in and day out, week after week, year after year. For families like mine, everyday is "Autism Awareness Day."

For the Love of Belle

I will never forget that hot summer day when my husband and I traveled to the breeder's house to select what would become our first family pet.  When we spotted one precocious puppy that climbed on the heads of the rest of her siblings and did a belly-flop into the water bowl, we knew we had found our yellow lab!  We named her Belle, took her home, and had no idea what a tremendous impact she would have on our lives.


Walking Belle for at least three miles each day became part of our daily routine.  She grew from an energetic, playful puppy to an energetic, playful, eighty-five pound adult.  Belle possessed every well-known and beloved characteristic of a Labrador retriever.  She would incessantly retrieve any object we could throw at her.  She allowed admiring strangers of all ages to pet her.  She jumped with joy at the sound of her food being scooped out of its bag and at the sight of anyone at, or near, our front door.  She sat in front of us when we needed a hug, beside us to share in our snacking, and kept us warm at night as she lay at our feet.  Belle became as treasured a part of our family as any of her human relatives.


When our son Tommy was born a few years later, Belle became a caring and protective big sister.  She faithfully sat beside his highchair at mealtime catching falling pieces of food.  She used her body to shield him from household dangers. She endured his far from gentle signs of affection.  Belle was up with my husband and me on those sleepless nights.  Whenever Tommy was upset and cried, she would always come to check to see if he was alright.  Like all labs, Belle's emotions were written all over her face and in her soulful eyes.  Her concern for him was evident.  A definite loving bond had developed between the two.  I have read stories about how loyal dogs who loved their family members so much sometimes acted heroically to save them from danger.  My story is a bit different.  In our case, Belle's love for Tommy saved her life, not his.


Like all labs, Belle loved to swim.  When she was a puppy, we trained her to retrieve an orange float toy at the beach.  Belle would sit beside us on the shore line, her full attention on the toy we held in our hand.  After we threw the toy into the water as far as we could, Belle would run into the ocean on command, dashing fearlessly into the waves.   She would paddle to the toy, scoop it into her mouth, pivot, and triumphantly return to shore with the prized possession.  She became so well-trained that her obedient retrieving routine would attract the attention of people walking by who often stopped to watch the beauty of her swimming, the one and only activity that would truly maker her tired.  In the water, Belle was in lab heaven!  She would not want to stop until we dragged her from the water by her leash.  Our beach routine was well-established, and we never had a problem with her behavior, not until one day in early June, 2001.


The weather was windy but clear as Belle began her day obediently retrieving her toy. Several family members came to the beach with us that day, and our son Tommy, then thirteen months-old, was sitting with them on shore.  I was closer to the waterline, throwing Belle's toy into the water and she was having her usual fun bringing it back to me.  For some reason on one unremarkable throw, Belle bolted rapidly into the water as usual,  but she could not see where the toy was floating.  Whenever this happened in the past she would turn around in the water, her head looking much like a periscope, until she located it.  This time, however, she simply turned toward the horizon and began a strong, swift swim out into the open ocean.  I called to her, thinking she would certainly turn around, but she did not.  I ran in the icy cold water, still calling to her, but she kept swimming away.  I walked to the location of the orange float, the water up to my chin, and I held the toy up high so Belle could see it, but she was not looking back.


As desperation and panic filled my heart, alarm also had arisen on shore.  Belle was fast becoming a yellow dot on the horizon, swimming out past the buoys.  There was no lifeguard because were were on a private stretch of beach.   A family member ran to the neighboring beach for help, but the lifeguard there said he could not leave his post.  Nobody had a boat and Belle was too far out for anyone to swim to help her.  A crowd had gathered on shore, everybody shouting, "Belle!  Belle!"  I was in the water as far as I could safely swim, calling for her to no avail.  The ripples of the water blocked my view and I could not longer see her.  I could see only the ocean.


I remember the events of the next few minutes as if they happened in slow motion.  Water was splashing in my face and I could hear the wind and the muted voices of those yelling back on shore.  I then heard a screaming that I was all too familiar with, that of my son Tommy.  He was in the arms of one of my distraught family members.  The volume of her voice yelling for Belle and the stress of the situation had scared him so much that he became extremely upset and had begun to wail.  As I turned my head to see him and make sure he was alright, I heard somebody yell, "She's coming in!  She's coming in!"  I turned my head back to the ocean and between the water splashing across my face I saw a yellow dot that became bigger and bigger as it came closer. It was Belle, heading right for me, heading for shore!


She paddled toward me I was ready to take her in my arms and help her.  After all, she had been swimming for a while and I prayed that she would make it close enough to me before exhaustion overtook her.  Much to my surprise, however, she swam to me and then past me.  She was heading for shore.  I chased after her, running through the water as quickly as I could, and saw her gallop out of the water and directly to Tommy's side.  Other than being annoyed that I would not allow her back in the water that day, Belle was unscathed.  She did not even seem fatigued, though her quiet demeanor later in the afternoon convinced me that she knew she had done wrong and was sorry.


When my family heads to the beach now we take many precautions to make sure Belle does not go on any more "joy swims."  I have shed tears thinking about what might have happened that day.  I count my blessings that Belle is here with us and pray that she will be part of our family for many years to come.  I still do not understand why she swam away from me that day, but I do understand why she returned.  Something was wrong with Tommy and she had to see if he was going to be alright.  If it were not for the love of Belle, she would not be here today.  Belle's loyalty to her little brother saved her life...and a big piece of mine as well.




This article was submitted as part of contest to Just Labs Magazine in 2006.  It did not win, but was awarded an honorable mention and was available for online viewing.


Belle never went on another "joy swim," but did enjoy many years as a loving member of the Marcello family.