I've been forgetting a lot lately and have chalked it up to the lingering fog that has settled on me for a while since my mother's death. I was sharper and more focused in those early days, doing what needed to be done, swooping in with laser-like precision on the tasks at hand, all the while opening my mother's door and my heart to those who came to commiserate, console, and be comforted themselves.
But for the past month or so I've been slightly off-center, unfocused, out of touch, and very touchy. This hazy period will likely pass and I've tried to cut myself some slack. When the hectic weeks of "on behalf of my mother"-related activities slowed down, so did the oddly comforting shield of shock. I've now consciously crossed the threshold into that world of "after..." and it isn't an easy place to live. Everything looks the same but it's not.
Palpable sadness shares space there with the daily world's expectations that I be as I was before and that I can be counted upon to show up. That seems to be my challenge: sometimes my body is there, but my mind is elsewhere. More than that, however, the real challenge turns out to be showing up for myself. What do I need right now -- which can change from day to day -- and what will that take?
The past few weeks have been a blur with my focus riveted on the devastation and fall-out in the Deep South due to Hurricane Katrina and related disasters and missteps. Like many others, I compulsively followed the unfolding stories, swept away as it were by currents of disbelief, despair and yet hope for them all. Now I have settled into what (for me) is the "after" period while Katrina's displaced victims remain squarely in the middle of their own "right now".
Turning back to my own life the past few days, my attention and heart have been caught by delayed news closer to home.
I learned practically by accident that Mary V. died. I spotted her name on the front page of the Council on Aging's monthly newsletter and while shocked, I wasn't surprised. I'd last seen her in May at a volunteers' appreciation luncheon. Into her nineties, Mary could be counted on to attend community functions and still exercised clout on local boards. I first met her over a decade ago and we hit it off immediately. Mary had been a nurse in her professional life, always a mother, and an advocate for women and children. Decades previously, she was instrumental in starting up a shelter-based program for women and children who needed to escape violence at home. She and a small group of other can-do women saw to it that this program found a real home and did it with no money!
We'll be holding the 10th
Service of Remembrance & Healing for victims and survivors of domestic violence on October 2nd, 6-8 p.m.. Mary will be missing that night. I began to notice her adjusting to change when she could no longer walk in the candlelight vigil in the streets, settling instead for seeing us off at the front door of the church and waiting there for our return. That carried as much weight as anything and I hope that she knew it. Last year she was wheelchair-bound, using the elevator to reach the lower floor for the gathering that follows the service. But she was there as she had been for so long, and because of our remembering and missing her this year, she will be again.
Yesterday I learned that a woman I'd known only briefly had also died. Frances B. came to our weekly writing group and made a lasting impression. She was outwardly bristly, which I found to be challenging, but she soon learned that she could drop that with us. She was a former teacher and was smart, deliberate and curious so over the weeks, as we came to know one another in the group, she settled in and the transformation was amazing. It showed on her face as it opened before our eyes. She dropped the dour demeanor although she was still demanding -- not completely without cause. She set the bar high. Still she opened up to share her experiences, life as an aging woman, and how she felt -- this in the context of "capturing the experience of life" on paper.
Frances was helped to the group by a personal caregiver who wheeled her chair when she was unable. We'd make room for her at the table and gradually she moved from a place near the door to one closer to the rest of us. The soft whoosh of her oxygen tank pulsated, distracting at first then as natural to us as the pace of our own breathing. A former smoker, she now suffered with emphysema. She, like Mary, was a woman of courage who kept showing up until one day she didn't. Off and on, she'd had medical emergencies but we would keep in touch. We'd talk occasionally and I got used to her breathless speech as she reiterated her enthusiasm for the group and plans to return as soon as she felt strong enough.
I just wasn't prepared for her death. I'd sent a postcard last month and never heard back but didn't think too much about it. Yesterday I casually asked someone at the assisted living facility about her and learned that Frances had died in July. This Wednesday we'll remember her when we gather.
Mary and Frances were very present in their own lives. Like Dot, my mother, they were admirable in their ability and willingness to show up -- a theme that seems particularly important to me lately. Not always easy to know, these women were strong, intelligent and filled with determination. If I'd ever asked, they'd all probably have told me that they were just doing what they had to do. So must we all.
