A life worthy of recollection

I can’t help but reflect on the life of an older friend and her family as we say goodbye to a beloved wife, mother, grandmother, aunt, sister, and friend this week.

I guess I’ve known her and her family for nearly 20 years now.  There were times when we’d sit in my friend’s backyard when we had gatherings and dinners, back when she was a little more spry and communicative.  I don’t remember many of details of these occasions, just that she had MS, which limited her in some capacities.  She wasn’t always in a wheelchair, so I didn’t know what her abilities were, how much she could do.  Isn’t that how it is?  We try to draw conclusions by what we see overtly, rarely making a correct assessment.  I knew one man growing up who was completely engulfed by MS and incapacitated, while my teenaged best friend has lived with it unseemingly for over a decade.  I was tentative with Anna (and people I didn’t know well, regardless of their physical abilities) so I tended to shy away from greeting it and her much, uncertain as I was.  I was preoccupied with my young family at these gatherings.  Or maybe with just myself and my insecurities and inability to know how to be.  I’m afraid I retreated and quietly refused to engage as much as I could have.

But my memories of Anna always include Kim.  Kim is Anna’s daughter, but has also spent many years as her caregiver.  A common phrase was, “I have to take care of my mom” when there was a conflict in schedules or we wanted to get together.  It was a regular refrain, just as much a part of Kim as Dr. Pepper and canned frosting.  I never thought anything about it really.  And how could I?  I had no frame of reference, no context for anything like caring for a parent.  And, like I said, I was too preoccupied with my own self that it never occurred to me to open my eyes any further.

Over the years, this family became an extension of our family.  I didn’t see Carl or Anna very often, but they were there in the background, familiar characters in the story of Kim’s daily life.  Somehow, though, her parents seemed to know who we were too and welcomed us into their hearts any time our paths crossed.  Their warmth and acceptance were calming and we began to slowly know each other better.

It wasn’t until my kids were quite a bit older that I began to peek up from the mess and chaos I perpetually found myself in that I had the wherewithal to pay attention to others.

And maybe this corresponded with when Kim went back to school.  I couldn’t fathom how she managed to care for her own family as well as her mom (and sometimes additional parents) on top of her homework and studying.  I just knew she was used to taking care of her mom and that she seemed like Super Woman, able to juggle everything without a blink.

I always admired the respect she had for her mom and the positive light she portrayed her in.  Of course we giggled about her affinity for the mall and her buys on QVC; I knew her mom liked to go out to eat and to be with the family.  And although I’m sure it was taxing to make time in her schedule for such things, Kim always seemed happy to comply and to spend time with her mom.

I’m sure there was a time of grief—and perhaps it’s been ongoing—for the more traditional experiences they never had as mother and daughter.  Those thoughts made me feel a little wistful for Kim and I felt sad for her missed opportunities I felt were necessary.

But over the years I’ve come to realize what had really been going on.  I’ve noticed how much time Kim has been able to spend with her mom, probably more than almost anyone else I know.  Not the once a year fatastical trips around the world where the focus is outward and extravagant, but in everyday, close-up kinds of ways that most of us will never take advantage of.

I never actually thought about the care Kim’s given her mom until not too long ago.  I had no idea what it entailed; and, to be honest, I’m still not sure exactly what all she did.  I know she got her ready for bed and tended to her personal needs, but we’ve never really talked much more about it.

Kim’s not only been caregiver to her mom, but she seems to be the one in charge of the family.  Not entirely or officially, but the gathering place, the one the others turn to, the one who knows what’s going on and who seems to make arrangements.  And that could totally just be from my vantage point as the outside friend.  But sometimes the middle child acts as peacemaker and the connector among family; and, in my mind, she starred in that role.

But as I’ve spent more time around aging people, it’s hit me how devoted Kim has been, how much patience it takes to check in regularly, how much energy it takes to sit quietly and to listen and to consider ways to increase comfort or to anticipate needs.  She is a marvel, and I’ve commented so many times over the years that maybe she should’ve been a nurse instead of a teacher.  And we’ve laughed at times when her home became such a center of convalescing that if she had just one more patient she would have needed a license.

Looking back, maybe as we would all conclude, obviously I should’ve visited more.  But that’s a lesson to apply to future friends because regret should do nothing more than propel us to better action ahead.  And yet I’m grateful for even the sparse interactions we had.  I couldn’t imagine my busy and full and varied life’s activities and wants crammed into a shared room with just a tv for company.  Visiting her humbled me immediately and I felt almost ashamed of any complaints I’d voiced recently, kind of like a confessional.  I realized how much I had as far as material comforts as well as diversions, and I vowed to appreciate it all more once I left.  It was easy to let her talk, to listen to what she had bottled up, to ask questions about all the characters in her life’s story, to notice the family pictures collaged on her wall, to determine what made her proud in life.  She never spoke without referring to her family, her kids and grandkids, and of course Carl, the love of her life.  She would tell me the story of how they met, how long it’s been that they’ve cared for each other, and how devoted Carl’s been to meet her every day for lunch.  The love they share is evident and palpable, something to envy in this day of disposable relationships.  Her oral memories became my pep talk, and she was my cheerleader, subtly reminding me to take care of my own people so I too could look back on my life with them with fondness and satisfaction that I’d loved fully. 

It’s interesting, at funerals, as we reflect on the people who have come into our lives.  Many times I haven’t really known the person and as we spend an hour talking and sharing, I’m always regretful that I didn’t make more of an effort to become better acquainted.  And I end up wishing I’d invested a little more, for I realize I missed out, that these are amazing people, that everyone has a story that we assume we already know.  But I’ve learned that we can learn from absolutely everyone, that when we learn to invest and come in close, we are taught and inspired and better off for the time we spent together.  I’ve also come to believe that we are in one another’s lives on purpose.  Maybe we wonder why or we suspect that it’s all just coincidence, or, more likely, we don’t give it a thought.  But maybe we should pay attention to the people in our circles, in our lives—even those on the periphery.  Because maybe there are others like Anna—and Kim—who are meant to be right where they are, to enhance and enrich and to teach us in specific ways we weren’t aware we needed.

And so I’m grateful for this lovely lady, full of spunk and life and honesty, who opened her frail and failing arms to me, just another friend of her daughter.  She made me feel like she wanted me there, that she was glad I’d come, even though our connection was a tiny thread.  She taught me to find the good, to open my heart a little more to the potential friends in my path, to honor motherhood and marriage, to prioritize family, to share my faith, and to appreciate the tiniest slivers of joy around us.  While I’m sad for this part of Kim’s life to change, I’m so grateful for the example she’s shown of unselfish love, devotion, and long-term care.  I’m a more aware person, and I hope to become more thoughtful as a result, because I’ve been a bystander to this most loving of mother-daughter relationships. 

Drowning in the past

I think Avery was trying to persuade me to do something water-related this past summer; I can’t remember the circumstances exactly.  But I fell back to my pat-answer excuse as to why there was no way I’d be able to do that.  Forgetting that she’d heard it all before, I told her the story of when I was young.

I’d been on a little blow-up row boat in the San Diego bay, just paddling along, doing just fine.  Till I was done.  I stepped out of the raft and, instead of landing on the soft salt-water flooring, I became completely immersed, way over my head, deep (it felt).  I floundered and panicked, not knowing how to swim or how to help myself.  I was terrified and alone, unsure what would become of me.  Thankfully, my uncle visiting from Scotland noticed my plight from the shore and came to my rescue, pulling me from my peril.  I simply explained this to Avery, “I almost drowned when I was little, and I’ve been nervous around water ever since.”

To which she replied, “So did I.”

Taken completely off-guard, I realized she was right!  I had totally forgotten that.  We were staying at a hotel with some friends and were swimming with the kids in a great pool with a waterslide.  They were pretty young and needed to be caught at the end of their rides, which we were happy to do.  But at one point we turned away, distracted, and forgot to look for them as they took another ride; maybe we didn’t realize they had gone back up.  Callum and Avery were together, with no one to catch them at the end.  So when they went under without us to bring them up, they panicked, petrified, submersed, unable to swim.  Avery, as the big sister, was doing her best to hold Callum up while she stayed under the water.  She told me later she remembered reading some quote on one of our walls or the fridge about putting our family first.  So she took it upon her to save him above herself. You can only imagine the flood of emotions that surged through me when she told me that.  When we realized they were struggling, we were stunned and terrified, not knowing what exactly had happened.  When we finally reached them and got them out, Avery was blue.  They were fine, thank goodness, but everyone was shaken.  Rightfully so.  I felt intense anguish, and a pit in my stomach formed.  Whenever they mentioned it over the years, I felt that same shame, regret, sorrow and pain.  They’d almost drowned.  On my watch.

So when she matter-of-factly told me she’d experienced the same thing I had and I noticed she was happily moving forward in spite of it, I felt a little abashed.  Then humbled.  She was right. She had almost drowned.  But she chooses to leave that experience in the past rather than cart it behind her, letting it weigh her down, whenever she has an opportunity to enjoy a new water activity.  She is not tethered to her fear; that event doesn’t define her as mine does.

Ever since that morning on the bay so many years ago, I’ve hesitated around deep water.  Yes, I boogie-boarded throughout my youth, but I’ve felt uncomfortable on boats ever since and avoid any water craft and activity related to deep water if I can.  That tiny scare all those years ago has effected so much of what I’ve allowed myself to do.  I’ve never been water skiing or off a diving board.  I hate going under water at all; instead of feeling free, I feel claustrophobic, like it’s closing in on me.  Yes, I learned to swim and spent much of my summers as a young girl in San Diego in pools and the ocean, but I’ve shied away as much as possible over the years.  And I’ve always hated watching my own kids out on the lake on rafts, afraid they’d endure the same trauma I had or, worse, that I’d have to go rescue them.

But Avery’s observation was an awakening for me, now in my late 40s, maybe 35 years later.  She is so right.  Why do I allow one instance to limit me and to influence so many of my decisions?  Why have I not filed that memory away properly instead of leaving it on my desk as a constant reminder that water can potentially be dangerous?

As I’ve thought about my wise little girl and her confidence, I’m so relieved.  And proud.  She is not defined by her past.  She refuses to let something like that change her future or what she wants to do.  And I’ve wondered how many of us in the world are like her.  Or like me.

I hate to admit that I’ve let this affect me for so long.  And, to be honest, I doubt I’ll ever fully embrace water fun.  But I know I’m not alone.  So many people play the victim card and refuse to get back in the water after a traumatic event.  It’s comfortable to stay on the shore, to slap down the explanation about our pasts as an excuse to sit this part of life out, to refuse to engage because of fear.

We’ve all been hurt, so cliche, such a catch-all phrase; but truly we have.  We’ve endured break-ups, rejections, losses, misunderstandings, being called out, fails, not being chosen, health crises, lost hopes, being misjudged, whatever; it’s all part of the human experience.  But why do we sometimes insist on hanging on to some of these negative experiences and weave them into our beliefs about ourselves and what we’re capable of?

My daughter’s quick retort caused me to reflect.  Are there other pieces of my life I’ve decided about based on past experiences?

I remember being judged as a younger person as being self-righteous and stuck-up and shy.  Tough labels to overcome.  I was so insecure and inward-thinking.  I always felt so un-cool, not athletic in the least, unsure if I had any talents—certain that I’d missed that line.  I could definitely produce supporting details for each of those bullets if I were writing an English essay.

But some people I know have experienced genuine hardships—real or contrived.  They may harbor a word to encompass what they’ve gone through: abandonment, rejection, or abuse maybe.  But the question that comes to mind is, what good is that doing?  To stifle our progression simply because we’re too stubborn to relegate earlier life events to the past seems counterproductive.  It’s as if we’ve built a shrine and are continuing to collect relics to place at its base as penance or like we’re creating a case and are constantly looking for supporting evidence for our spiral notepad.  Which, by the way, we will always find.  We see what our brain tells us to look for.

Just an interesting observation, this interchange with Avery. I’ve been asking myself some hard questions as a result of her comment and am encouraged by her no-nonsense, forward-thinking approach to life.  And while I may or may not decide to don a suit and certify as a scuba instructor anytime soon, I’m anxious to see how else I’ve been subconsciously limiting myself simply because of past negative experiences—actual or imagined.