My Grandmother was  3 yrs old when she sailed across the Atlantic from Germany in 1890.  She was with her parents (my Great Grandparents), Chris and Lena, and her older brother Moxie, also known as Max.  Hannah’s Mother told her a story of how a great storm almost rolled the ship over on its side!  At least, her Mother was quite sure at the time, that they would not make it to America!

Gramma didn’t remember her voyage.  So she had no adventure filled stories to pass down.  And so far as I know, how they came to settle on the upper great plains is a mystery.  They had given their destination as PA.  I wonder why they continued on, westward.

Seven more children were born to Chris and Lena.  We have an old photo of the entire family, when Gramma was probably a teenager.  She didn’t look very happy.  As she told my Mother, she had a good childhood.  Her Father was a tailor.  We have a picture of him in his shop.  He was older by then.  Tall, thin, mustache, stern looking.  Gramma apparently didn’t talk much of her parents, or her life back then.

She was 17 going on 18, when she married Ole in 1904.  He was 13 years older than her.  He came from Sweden.

Its strange how our parents can influence their children just by telling them the stories of their lives.  Ole was a very good man and provider……when he was sober.  Gramma’s sister would tell folks that she couldn’t understand why she married Ole.  She was so young, and attractive.  She could have had any man she wanted.  But she married that no good worthless Ole!!

Hannah and Ole had 11 children.  My Mother was the 9th.  As my Mom told it, Ole was a jack of all trades.  But mostly, she remembers he repaired and rebuilt shoes when she was a child.  However, at one time, early on, Ole had a resturant, in a basement.  Gramma told the story of how she came down the steps and asked Ole for some money to buy groceries.  Ole had been drinking and apparently wanted to show off in front of the customers.  He had a pistol, which he pointed to the ceiling and fired afew times.  Gramma ran back upstairs while Ole and his friends had a good laugh.  While Ole insisted he shot to the ceiling, Gramma told my Mom, that there were bullet holes in the wall where she had been standing.  I think I would have went up those stairs, out the door, down the road, and never looked back!  Or perhaps I would have found a baseball bat and returned to the basement resturant!

Mom recalled how, in those days, they had the old wood burning stove for cooking.  And the washboard, kerosene lamps, outside privy………thats just the way it was back then.  They didn’t know they had it tough.  It bothered Mom that they didn’t have a permanent home.  They always rented.  And when Ole drank away the rent money, they would have to move to another place.  Mom always said they must have lived in most of the houses in that little town, at least it seemed that way. 

Mom had one good dress, and one good dolly.  She never had a pair of new shoes.  She always wore the shoes that Ole’s customers never picked up.  Most were not very comfortable.  Mom loved her Mother very much.  It was said she was Hannah’s favorite.  Mothers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but I think they do.  Gramma would tell Mom stories and comb her long wavy dark hair.  It seems that Hannah was a gentle woman.  I never heard any negative stories about her. 

Sometimes, Ole would “tease” Gramma.  He would make it alittle joke for the children.  Then Gramma would pretend to tell him to straighten up and leave her alone!  I don’t think Ole was the villian he was made out to be.  He had several years of sobriety, at a time.  One of my aunts remembered him in his rocking chair, reading the paper.  And she would climb onto the chair, in the back, with her feet on the runners, and rock back and forth with him.  He never said a word, they just rocked and he read.  My aunt was smiling the whole time she told that little story.  It was a special memory for her.

At a young age, Hannah lost her teeth.  I suppose that was not uncommon in those days.  So Mom didn’t seem to have a memory of her Mother, with teeth!  But she did remember how hard Gramma worked to maintain the house and cook the meals.  She was no slouch!    And Gramma loved pets!  She had a bald headed canary!  It just didn’t have any feathers on its head!  She had a gold fish, a dog, and a cat!  As a matter of fact.  Gramma had several gold fish!  They just kept disappearing from the bowl!  Her son-in-law tried to tell her it was the cat!  But she wouldn’t believe him!  Finally, on the right day, at the right moment, the son-in-law saw the cat in action, and ran to get Gramma!  Why, she was just shocked to think her cat was feasting on her gold fish!  My Mom said that cat was a ”watchdog”.  Whenever a stray dog would come into the yard, the cat would head for the roof of the house.  And then, when the dog passed near it, the cat would jump onto the dogs back!  They had many a good laugh watching the frightened dogs exiting the yard! 

Hannah was in her 60’s when she passed away.  Old, back then, relatively young now.  She had sugar diabetes.  She wouldn’t go to the doctor.  So over time, it got worse and worse until it finally killed her.  Ole lived to be 97.

Mom didn’t go her Mothers funeral.  She had just given birth to me a week before, and the doctor forbid her to travel.

I often wonder what Hannah was really like.  She must have been a wonderful Gramma, because she took in three of her own grandchildren, to raise, when her son got divorced.  Times were hard, but she kept those children and raised them to be wonderful human beings just as her own children turned out to be.

Can I love a woman I’ve never met?  If she was my Gramma, I think I can, and do.  I have two aunts left now, two out of 11 children, still living.  I have a need to talk to them, and listen to their memories of their Mother, Hannah.        Beautiful Hannah.

Doing alright?  Is that good enough?  Will it get better?  Can you make it better?  My experience has been that you really have to work at it……making it better.   Drugs help.  Prescription anti-depressants that is!  I’ve been taking them for many years. 

I have never been a strong person.  I crumble pretty easy.  In adverse times, I am not the one to lean on.  I will do the leaning, thank you very much!  But I will say this, I am a survivor.  I have kept going.  I have picked myself up.  Dusted myself off.  And got on with it.  Because there is nothing else you can do.  Except kill yourself. 

My brother had a good friend who did that.  This guy was “sad” all of his life.  A bad childhood.  Abusive Father.  A Mother who didn’t care.  He married his high school sweetheart and their marriage was extremely volitile.  One long argument.  He became an alcoholic.  Then he quit drinking.  He took the prescription drugs.  He did alittle therapy.  The wife divorced him.  They had two grown sons and a daughter in high school when they split.

Nothing ever made him happy.  But my brother would make the 1 1/2 drive just about every weekend to see him.  They would hunt together.  And talk.  They shared their innermost feelings.  Mostly about the Dad’s.  Probably about the Mom’s too.  My brother knew his friend had been contemplating suicide for a long time.  He talked and talked to his friend about it.  He begged him to think of his children.  How would this affect them for the rest of their lives? 

I know my brother talked long and hard for years to keep his friend going.  Then one day, the call came.  The friend had written a well thought out letter.  Then he called the police department and told them to come out to his farm.  He told them where they would find him. 

He shot himself.  It was over.  He just couldn’t keep going.  He said in his letter that he could not keep living like he was.  He would rather be dead.  My brother was devastated.  Years have passed now, and he still asks himself if there was something more he could have said or done.  Guilt crowds his heart.  He will never get over the suicide of his friend, his very good friend.  It doesn’t matter how many people tell him there was nothing more he could have done to stop it.  He will always wonder……..could he have made a difference.

We don’t talk about it anymore.  There’s no point.  And you and I can talk about why we are sad or depressed until hell freezes over and it probably won’t change anything either.  And don’t forget…..there’s this chemical in our brains…..yada, yada, yada. 

I know whats bugging me.  And I can tell you I’ve “let go of it”.  But thats a lie.  I so admire people who can rise above tragedy in their personal lives.  I see folks who have experienced the very worst things, and let go of them, freed themselves.  Yes, I envy them.

But one thing I can say for myself; I just keep going.  Because there are days when the sky is so blue it takes my breath away.  There are sunsets so beautiful they can make you cry.  There is the sound of rain on the roof at night.  Lets not forget the wind blowing through the trees.  I will keep going to see and hear and smell and touch all these beautiful things of nature.

And I will keep going for the babies that are born into this extended family.  Holding a newborn is the most precious moments I have ever experienced.  Its like looking into the face of God.  It is the purest thing you will ever know. 

So just keep going kids.  Life is worth living.  And while I grieve so very deeply for my beloved Mother, I must look to each new day.  For while I cry, at night, in my bed, there is a new, fresh day coming.

Then someone at my side says; “There, she is gone!”

“Gone where?”  Gone from my sight.  That is all.  She is just as great in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her.  And just at the moment when someone at my side says:  “There, she is gone!”  There are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout:  “Here she comes!”

                            And that is dying.

                                                                        Anonymous

That particular passage comes from a small booklet that Hospice provides for caregivers and their families.  The grief is a bit easier to bear because of it.

I surprised myself.  I did not fall to pieces at Mom’s funeral service as I had feared.  We requested that only immediate family view her.  And then the casket would be closed to the public.  When the time came, I went to her side as a frightened child.  I broke down and sobbed as I searched her face and hands.  I wanted to touch her.  I knew she would be so cold, so cold.  I cried, almost out of control.  I stepped away.  My sisters each took their turns.  My brother stood back, he did not cry, still in disbelief.  The girls cried more than I had ever seen them cry before.  They, the four of them, are all older than me, as is my brother. 

I went back again, to Mom.  Crying, I fought to touch her.  I still couldn’t, afraid of the coldness.  Finally, I touched her hand.  So cold, so stiff, so not Mom.  I caressed the left side of her face.  The side affected by the stroke.  It was hard.  I stroked her right cheek.  I was surprised that is was soft and pliable.  I felt a relief.  Though still so very cold, it felt ………more natural.

I came to her casket several times in the hour that we had with her.  Each time I touched her hands more.  I touched her hair, her forehead.  I laid my hand on her chest, as I did when I found her the morning she passed.  Except this time, her chest was hard, like a rock.  It hurt me to the core.

We had Mom in her favorite flannel nightgown.  We had planned for her to wear a new gown.  But it was better that she be in the one she loved.  The warm one.  It was worn at the elbows.  That didn’t matter to us though.  As long as she was comfy.  We also had them put her heavy blue blanket in with her.  The one she always kept on her feet at night.  Just before they were to close the casket, for good, the blanket was to be pulled up around her neck, so she would be cozy.

All these things were for us.  To help us with our grief.  Anything to ease our breaking hearts.  Did she look down from Heaven and smile at her babies?  Loving us more for missing her so?

The flowers I had ordered were beyond beautiful.  I was so overjoyed.  They were breathtaking!  And the bouqets we received from other family and friends were just as lovely.  Flowers, to heal the heart.

Mom’s casket was beautiful.  Wood, a warm golden color, with angels at each outside corner.  As we followed her down the aisle of the church, a recording of “Softly and Tenderly” by Rebecca Lynn Howard, played.  We all wept again. 

The mass was beyond my expectations.  The priest said all the right words, in such a loving manner.  My closest cousin read from the Bible.  He had lost his brother just a year ago, to cancer.  During the service, another song; “The Old Rugged Cross” sung by Alan Jackson.  When the service ended, we followed Mom back out, down the aisle, as “Softly and Tenderly” played again, only sung by Alan Jackson this time.  Later on, there were many, many comments on how lovely the music was.

Now it was time to make the short journey to the cemetary.  She would be laid to rest with my brother and my Dad.  I must tell you that it was very cold that day.  The trees and shrubs were white with heavy frost.  The wind swept down from the north and it was bitter.  The sky was overcast.  Everyone gathered around the casket, and Brother Martin began to speak.  My sisters all shook from the cold.  Each one trembled almost violently.  But I was unaffected.  I did not shake, but stood still, and cried. 

When the reading was over, each one of us took a rose from the spray of flowers on her casket.  Two dozen red roses, her favorite.  And seven white roses (for each child she bore) forming a cross in the middle.  A tiny pink rosebud for the grandbaby she lost many years ago. 

The crowd began to break up and hurry to their vehicles, out of the cold.  I stood with my hand under the spray, touching the casket, caressing it.  How difficult it was to leave Mom there, to drive away.

Tomorrow, my two remaining sisters (the other two went home, out of state) will return to the cemetary.  Its about an hours drive from here.  I will kneel at Mom’s resting place, and tell her how much I love her, again.  I know she will hear me.  I know she will see us.  I know she is finally happy.

She must have had another stroke.  Monday morning she couldn’t swallow anymore.  Her neck was stiff.  She couldn’t speak at all.  Her eyes never closed from that point on until her passing Wednesday morning. 

Everyone, including me, says it was a blessing she didn’t linger.  And its true.  I couldn’t have watched her dehydrate and slowly ebb away……..its best she went when she did.  I knew the time was close, just not that close.  I went into her room around 8:00am.  I cheerfully said “Good morning Mama”!  I took one look and I knew.  I touched her face.  It was almost cold.  I touched her chest.  It wasn’t moving.  I lifted the covers.  The Hospice people had said when a person begins to die, their fingernails will start to turn blue.  Moms fingernails were purple and her fingers were turning the same color.  I picked up the phone and dialed my sister.  I said “I think Mom’s gone”.  She got here in no time at all.

She entered the bedroom and began to softly cry.  She put her hand on my shoulder.  I was numb.  I did not cry.

She and another  sister had made funeral arrangements less than a week before.  Everything was paid for in advance.   We called our Hospice nurse.  We called the funeral home.  The man who had made the arrangements was on his way home from another call and was able to come right over.  He sat at the table with us.  We had coffee.  We waited for the nurse.

I went back into the bedroom.  I put my hand on her chest again.  It was still warm.  Her torso was still warm.  But her face was cold.  Her hands and arms were cold.  I began to cry in total disbelief.  The nurse arrived.  She hugged my sister and then me.  She was so sweet.   She talked with us for quite awhile.

Then she and the man went into Mom’s room.  They came out and made preparations …….a path through the house…..out the back door……down the ramp my brother-in-law had built for Mom.  The ramp was going to make it easier for Mom when she left the house.  She only used it twice.  Now it would be used to take her out of her home, out of my life, on a gurney.

That day, two of my sisters, and two niece’s stayed with me.  My sisters began to tie up all the little details there were for the funeral.  In mid afternoon I was elected to drive to another town and order flowers.  I ordered what I wanted.  Money didn’t matter.  You only have one Mother.  She deserves beautiful flowers.

And so, just after dark, everyone left.  They volunteered to stay with me, spend the night.  But I insisted they go and leave me be.  I cried.  I sobbed.  I went to Mom’s room and cradled the sheets she had lain on and died on.  I carefully folded them and put them in a plastic bag.  Then I sealed the bag.  I held her pillows to my face and breathed in her scent.  I took the pillow cases off and folded them, placed them in another plastic bag, and sealed it too.

I went into her bathroom.  There was the washcloth I had used to cool her face.  I folded it.  I opened a cabinet and found her powder and powder puff.  Breathed in the lovely scent, and placed them by the washcloth.  I took her “Carmex” lip balm.  I had been applying it to her lips several times a day.  I took all those items and sealed them in a bag too.  I took everything and put them in her Lane chest.  And there they will stay…….until…….I myself am gone too.

We waited until Monday to have the funeral because I have two sisters from out of state. 

In the morning we will make the hour trip to the town we grew up in.  There will be a private viewing, just for immediate family, before the full Catholic funeral mass.  I am so afraid.  When I see my beloved Mother in that casket…….then her death will be ………too real to take.  I don’t think I can do it.  I’m so afraid.

She will be laid to rest with my Dad and my brother, in the little cemetary west of town. 

Why are cemetaries so peaceful?  They are all so beautiful, in a way.  Beautiful beyond words.

Our little cemetary sleeps in the lap of a big hill.  Monument Hill.                                   God, give me strength.

And I thought, if she did “pass”, it would be quietly, in her sleep.  I never thought in a million years that cancer would get her.  But cancer doesn’t discriminate.  It preys on people of all color and age.

She came down with a cough, Labor Day weekend 2006.  A chest cold, we thought.  Better get to the doctor and nip it in the bud.  He said we should get an x-ray.  We did.  There was a white blur on the lung, near the heart.  “Cancer”?  my Mom asked.  “Doubtful” he answered.  But there did appear to be some pneumonia so we got some meds for that and set up an appointment for a cat scan. 

Then we were sent to a pulmonary specialist.  He said we needed to do a biopsy.  So we set up that appointment and he did the procedure.  He came out and told me that he didn’t need a lab to tell him this was cancer.  Ok, but we are not telling Mom till next week when you have the proof.  Ok.

I thought she would fall to pieces when he told her.  I really did.  Her health has been precarious these past few years, and she would go into a panic when something went wrong.  But she was calm and said she expected to hear that it was cancer.  I couldn’t believe she didn’t react negatively.

Well, she was in denial, thats why.  She was thinking maybe God would pass his hand over her lung and make the tumor go away.  Hoping He would anyway.  The tumor is right behind the heart.  And the aorta is a bit enlarged.  Plus the cancer doctor says there are some tiny specks on the other lung too.  Surgery is out of the question.  It would be a very difficult operation, especially at her advanced age.  Chemo is definitely out as we all know the side effects of that can be worse than the cancer itself.  They said we could think about radiation.  NOT!  Like we are going to let her throat be burnt and have the quality of life be miserable!

All those options didn’t matter anyway.   She declined so quickly, everyday, she got worse.  It was happening way too fast!  The doctor said she could have a year!  Ten weeks later she is confined to bed!  She apparently had some mini strokes.  We didn’t know what was happening.  In less than one week she went from being weak and needing help to the bathroom, to being totally bedridden and barely able to speak.  We are changing her diapers now, in bed.

Last weekend we thought she was dying.  I never cried so much in my life.  I think I am the one in denial now.  To look down on her, in her bed, her blank stare…..having to keep her dentures out now because she is having difficulty swallowing, putting in and taking out her hearing aids, spoon feeding her………….I feel so sorry for her.  Why her?  But why anyone?

I’m not angry with God.  I’m not questioning Him.  I guess I’m just in disbelief.  Not my Mom.  Not my Mom.  How long will she suffer?

Mom has told me the story several times.  For the last 40 some birthdays, anyhow!  Sometime after she had given birth to me, she heard a baby crying.  She said she knew it was her baby!  She just knew!  She told the nurses, but naturally, they blew her off.  So she managed to get up and go to the nursery.  There I was, with my wittle head stuck between the bars of the crib!  You know; the up and down railings of the side.  So anyway, Mom gave them nurses a tongue lashing and they carefully unjammed my head, which, Mom said, had little dents in it from being stuck!  My siblings never let me forget that part!

After I am home from the hospital, Mom sees that I am getting a case of thrush.  And if there is a young person reading this, who doesn’t know what thrush is; its a white thick coating on the tongue, a bacteria.  Mom got the doctor to come to the house and told him his nurses were not sterilizing the nipples and bottles for the babies at the hospital!  How do we know that it wasn’t because my Mother wasn’t properly sterilizing my bottles?  We don’t, really.  But she reemed that doctor a new one!

So I didn’t have a very good start in life.  Oh, it could have been worse, much worse.  But I’m the type who doesn’t do “worse”, I do “miserable”.   Thats right.  Stuff that happens to me isn’t really really bad or horrible.  Its just miserable.  And thats the way its been from day one!

So I’ve lived near the Missouri River my entire life except for the 16 years I lived in another state.   That makes for 36 years by the river. 

When I was 10 years old, my 8 year old brother was in the hospital, dying.  My Mom took me to a window and pointed to the Missouri River.  Kind of cliche, but she said to me “the river waits for no man”.  When I didn’t understand, she explained that time and the river keep going, and they won’t wait for little brother.  I don’t know if I understood, then, what she was trying to tell me. 

I have the greatest respect and love for that river.  It has taken many lives in its powerful undercurrents.  Even with the dams that have been built on it, it can’t be entirely controlled.  Its still unpredictable and mighty.  And I have a healthy respect for it.  I love it too, in a way too hard to explain.  Its about heart.  About spirit.  Freedom.  Happiness.   Love.  All from another time, I think.  The past.  I think I was happy once, a very long time ago.  I’m sure of it.

I remember that I was not comfortable in that crib!  My legs were too long!  I couldn’t stretch out, at all!  I couldn’t sleep.  I must have dozed alittle bit though.  I don’t remember Dad getting out of bed.  He was a great one for getting up in the middle of the night and snacking.  Well, not snacking.  Perhaps raiding…..mmmmm…..devouring any leftovers.  Apparently he was on his way back to bed, and I stood up at the end of the crib.  I saw the huge shadow of what I believed to be a gorilla!!!  Yes, I started crying!  Big time!  I was really, really scared!  Then, suddenly there is Dad.  He is trying to quiet me down.  He’s a little grumpy too.  I tried to tell him about the giant gorilla I saw.  I tried a couple of times.  He just didn’t want to hear the story!  He wanted me to lie down and stop crying!  And thats all I remember about the gorilla!

We lived in a little house, in a little town, on the northern great plains.  My parents raised seven kids in that little tiny three bedroom house!  There weren’t even any closets in the bedrooms!  Just a clothes rack.  And what wouldn’t fit on the rack, went under the bed in boxes.  Mom said when they put new windows in the house, they found corn cobs between the walls!  Typical old fashion insulation!  Cobs didn’t work very well though!  I remember one winter, there was frost on the bedroom wall and the blanket stuck to it! 

We’re talking about the late 1950’s and early 60’s.  Which really wasn’t all that long ago, compared to the hard times the folks that came before us must have had.  No matter how bad you think you have it, there is always someone else out there that has it ten times worse than you!  Remembering that last sentence has kept me from throwing in the towel many a time!!

And…….thats the only gorilla memory I have!  I consider myself lucky!

No, I was never physically abused, by a parent or anyone else for that matter.  I’m not an alcoholic.  I’m not addicted to drugs.  I don’t smoke.  I don’t drink.  And, in case you started to wonder, I don’t pray either.  Oh, I believe in God.  I just don’t talk to him.  Or any of his relatives.  I can’t.  I’ve tried.  I can’t make it sound sincere.

Already you’re saying “another run of the mill mid life crisis”.  Not!  Its the same one from my first day of kindergarden!

I warn you right now; I’m not a writer.  I will ramble.  I am not college educated.  I will misspell.  Did I just misspell misspell?  I don’t read alot.  I don’t do crossword puzzles.  I watch alittle tv.  I don’t do sports.  So, I guess I’m a thinker.  Not a doer!  I just think about doing.  Yep!  I’m a gem alright!  “A piece of work”!  I have been called that several times.  Is that an insult?

I don’t know if I will write my life story here, yet.  But I think I will start with some memories.  I have to tell you, we lose so much, with time.  We forget.  Then something jogs the brain and sometimes something lovely comes back.  Or not.

My Mom is 88 yrs old now.   We just found out she has terminal lung cancer.  The changes I’ve noticed, besides fatigue and weakness, is that her mind is quickly fading.  It had actually started last summer.  Forgetting a bit now and then.  But after the diagnosis, there has been a sharp nose dive.  So, it gets me to thinking that I better save some of my memories, bits and pieces, here and there, somehow. 

All for now……………….later then.