Grace In Surrender

The irony is not lost on me when my Japanese student comes up with the irretrievable word on the tip of my tongue as I am trying to teach him English. Or when my six-year-old is able to finish the sentence I started better than I can. I’m approaching 50 so I look up “menopause symptoms” on the computer and am relieved to see memory issues included. It’s just a momentary reprieve, though. The fear of Alzheimer’s disease lurks just under the surface.

My mother is suffering from dementia most likely caused by Alzheimer’s, and with her, everyone who cares about her. The matriarch we all knew and loved is fading fast. A frail and confused little person replaces her, repeating herself constantly and getting panic attacks that can only be alleviated temporarily, until she forgets whatever explanation or comforting words helped her to begin with. General terms take over the specific ones she would have preferred to use; cream cheese is “white stuff”, colander is “the thing with holes”, and the symbol of her lifelong faith is reduced to “the t-shaped thing”. Her concept of time is distorted. An event that happened just months ago, if recalled, might as well have been from decades past. She can name some family members, but not all, and she is inconsistent even in that. At this point it is unclear if it is only the name she has lost or the entire memory of the person.

As my mom began her descent, I experienced flashbacks to my junior high years. My dad's mother had come to live with us for a while after it was deemed unsafe for her to remain in her little apartment out in the Midwest. I didn’t have any concept back then of what a devastating thing it is for a person to lose their mental capacities. To my 13 year old self, it was kind of funny how Grandma would say the same inappropriate things (she was a character, after all) and ask the same ridiculous questions (no, I did not acquire a boyfriend in the five minutes since you last asked me) over and over. In fact, I didn’t know my grandmother before she came to our house so it wasn’t like I could see a change in her.

I remember the day when my father, a stoic man who really never engaged in conversation with his nine children, approached me in preparation of my grandmother’s arrival. “She forgets things”, he warned me, “and I don't want anyone to make fun of her.” When you can count the total number of words your father ever said to you, you hang on to them. This must have been serious business for him to break his silence. He must have really loved his mother. I will even say that when he uttered those words, I was suddenly able to see him as a real, vulnerable person, and I began to love him, in a way that was beyond mere filial duty.

It was okay having Grandma live with us, from my perspective at least. She was fine physically, she said humorous things, she didn’t seem disruptive. Then came the night that my just-older brother and I still recall as one of the most traumatic in our lives. Grandma took a wrong turn in the dark hallway and tumbled down the stairs. She broke her hip, and that was the beginning of the end of her time in our branch of the family tree.

I remember accompanying my dad to visit her in the hospital, following behind his long strides, looking up to him. He would come home after a long day at work in the city and go to his suffering mother. As she was recuperating, she would beg him to take her home, exclaiming “I promise I’ll be good!” It was heartbreaking as he explained the situation gently again and again. He would literally pull his own hair out as she insulted the nursing staff, but he remained tender towards his mom.

I took my cue from my dad, and one day I decided I would go by myself to visit my grandmother after school. It was in walking distance, but it was definitely some big steps out of my comfort zone for me to go there. I sat there with Grandma and began to make awkward conversation. When a nurse came in and asked “Who do you have visiting you today, Gertrude?,” she said she didn’t know and she’d never seen me before in her life. Knocked down easily, I trudged home not feeling nearly as good about myself as I did on the way there.

These experiences from my formative years come back to me now. I’m in my dad’s place this time around. I see the change in my beloved mother. I know how painful it is to lose her slowly while she is still here, just as Dad did with his mother. (He actually died almost a decade before his mother, but he lost her way before that). I know it is important to be as kind as possible to those who were once the most powerful people in our world, now the weakest. My father was by no means a “hands-on dad”, but he left that message indelibly etched on my spirit.

So it turns out that this degenerative dementia exists on both sides of my family as I have seen it firsthand with both my mother and my paternal grandmother. It would not be particularly paranoid to fear getting it myself, especially when I can’t come up with that perfect word, find the item I placed somewhere special, or forget why I walked into the room.

When it became obvious that our mother could no longer live alone, we siblings had to communicate with each other to make decisions on her behalf. In each conversation I was a part of, my mind couldn’t help but replace “Mom” with my own name. Will my experience mirror my mother’s? I imagine my four children one day having similar discussions about me. Which might not want to face my decline at all? Which would want to help, but maybe not directly? Would any of them want to deal with me moving in?

Sometimes my mom will call me needing reassurance that I am well and my husband and children are okay. She cannot recall their names or ages or what they are up to, but she knows they are her family. She feels a compelling need to check on her “little chicks”, as she calls us all. And that is when I know she is still in there. And when I hope my own children will always be able to find me.

Little Kindnesses

My daughter is getting ready to graduate from high school as salutatorian of her class, and she is all set to start her Ivy League education in September. She is a talented singer and actress, a hard-working and intelligent student, a leader in extra-curricular clubs, and a fun-loving regular teenager as well. She's a wise old soul type, so much so that I have turned to her with my stresses and concerns for years, even though I know I shouldn't. We laugh and talk as friends; I won't apologize for that because she is well aware I'm also her mom. I know I will have tears when she leaves home for college not only because I will miss her like crazy, but also because I am so proud and excited for her that I could burst. I could list the dozens of academic and other accomplishments which fill me with that pride, but before she leaves, I want to remind her of some small acts of kindness she performed which were not listed on her college applications but that are etched forever on my heart.

Dear Abigail,

When your dad and I took a vacation to England three years ago, your toddler sister trusted you. You implicitly understood her sensory issues and helped her feel secure at bedtime by sleeping with her and indulging her in the strange rituals that soothed her.

When we left to bring your older sister to college four years ago, the first thing you did was to sit at the kitchen table and write her a letter.

When I was pregnant six years ago and having a particularly bad sickness spell while trying to pick you and your brother up from school, I ended up vomiting on myself and in the driveway. You helped me out of the soiled clothes and into the shower, you laid out clean pajamas on my bed, and you wrote me a sweet note in which you even asked me not to make a big deal of your help.

When you were a first-grader and we came home from Russia after adopting your brother, you made sure to scrawl a letter to Santa to inform him that we had a new little boy in the house who would need some gifts.

When you were four years old, your dad witnessed the horrific events of 9-11 from his workplace. He made it to a colleague's apartment where he called us, crying. When you had your turn on the phone, you could tell he was upset and you told him that when he got home you would cheer him up "by talking about farts and other inappropriate things". You were able to make him laugh.

Abigail, "source of joy", I love you so much and am obviously pleased with you for all of the usual reasons any parent would be. But I want to remind you that the little kindnesses which I have seen you show time and time again really are the most important things. Bring those with you out into the world, and with all your other amazing gifts, you will make it a better place.

Mom

Tenacity

             

Her defining trait was apparent by virtue of her very existence.  And it has evidenced itself over and over again. 

Just before my 43^rd birthday, I was floored with a surprise pregnancy.  An unlikely event under most circumstances was even more unlikely since I had gone almost 12 years since my last pregnancy.  I dealt with unexplained secondary infertility between my first and second daughters.  Clearly it was to continue after my second, so much so that we presumed we would have no more biological children.  We adopted a son when our girls were school-aged, and the three kids were growing up together for a few years when we found out we were having another baby.

I knew the odds were not great at my age, but after two weeks, just as I began to let myself embrace the good news and had my first OB appointment, I started bleeding.  It was steady.  I was scared and devastated and tried to comfort myself with the idea that I experienced a miracle just by becoming pregnant again in the first place.  I called the doctor who simply advised bedrest, and at the suggestion of a friend, I also began with progesterone supplements.  I’d already had a sonogram a couple days before, and all looked fine then.  My husband and I sought a second sonogram from another OB to figure out what was going on.  I was resigned and sad and continuing to bleed.

At that sonogram, I heard the words I will never forget, “It looks awesome”.  I wondered how that could be, with all the bleeding, and also even if it looked good now, how long would it last under these circumstances?  I was advised to continue to take it very easy and continue to take the progesterone.  I had what is called a sub-chorionic hematoma, which is basically a “bruise” or blood clot where the placenta attached itself to the uterine wall.  The important thing was for the blood clot to get smaller and the fetus to get bigger.  For right now, this baby was hanging in there.  I called my husband from the parking lot and told him the great news, “Shrimpy is holding strong!”

Eventually, of course, the bleeding did subside over the course of a few weeks before it finally ended.  The pregnancy continued, monitored closely due to my age.  After the 20 week sonogram, I got the news that the baby had a two-vessel umbilical cord instead of the usual three.  This could be nothing or it could indicate an abnormality, and being high-risk to begin with, I was advised to get further testing.  And so it continued.  Things kept popping up—inconsistent biophysical profiles and non-stress tests, intrauterine growth retardation—and things kept looking okay after all.  This tiny fetus fought the odds every step of the way.

Because of all the concerns, my labor was scheduled to be induced a few days early.  It is probably symbolic to say it, but the baby opposed being born on the assigned date and in the manner to which I had become accustomed.  Claire arrived by emergency c-section just after 1 the next morning.

Then came nursing.  This newborn, only hours old, was strongly resisting having her head positioned a certain way.  She got downright mad and turned her head in the opposite direction.  The lactation consultant declared she had never seen anything like it.  Little Claire was quite literally flexing her muscles on her very first day.  While she soon began to willingly breastfeed, she did exert her preference and only ever accepted the right side.

Suffice it to say that the toddler years continued in much the same way.  Things didn’t go as they typically do; sleeping and eating were challenges, and they remain so.  Claire is by far the most spirited and strong-willed of my four children, and believe me, she had some tough competition. 

My little girl is now a five-year-old kindergartener.  In September, she got to be Star of the Week in her class and make a poster all about herself.  One of the prompts on the poster began “I’m special  because…”, and when I asked Claire what she wanted to write, she didn’t hesitate to say “I never give up!

Under her tough exterior, though, lies Claire’s very tender soul.  She loves animals and babies, and she’s the most sensitive person I know.  Her sensory processing issues make every touch, smell, taste, and sound more intense for her than for the average person.  It’s difficult to parent such a child, to say the least, but it’s also a beautiful thing to become awakened to that level of perceiving everything around us.

Recently I overheard Claire playing with her 14-year-old brother, who takes karate lessons.  She wanted to spar with him, but he told her he couldn’t because he would end up hurting her.  “Don’t worry, “ she said, “even though I’m little, I’m really strong.” It’s true, and I look forward to spending my golden years watching where her tenacious spirit takes her.

Satisfied

This year will mark 30 years ago that my husband and I met, and 24 years that we have been married.  We conceived three children together, and adopted another on two trips across the world.  We have shared interesting experiences, challenging times, lots of laughs, and definitely some passionate moments.  But if you ask my husband what he values most about our time together, he will not hesitate to give an answer that would surprise most people.  He will say that he loves when I read to him.

We discovered this beautiful shared experience back in the late 80’s.  I was a new college graduate living in an apartment and holding my first real job in rural Virginia; he was just back from a year abroad and working in New York City.  We visited every few weekends.  This particular time, he had traveled to see me, and on a whim, I picked up “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” from my shelf because I had never read it before.  I began reading it aloud, he listened attentively, and the rest is history.  I read the book all night long, and we laughed hysterically until the morning light.

Over the years, I discovered that if my husband came home perseverating about work issues or was overwhelmed with stress, if I offered to read to him, he would almost jump at the opportunity.  He could forget his worries, connect with me, and enter into a new reality all at once.  He would tell people that it was the most caring thing I did for him; he would probably still say that.

When our first two girls were 6 and 2, I decided to try doing a Family Read Aloud time, and I began with the first Harry Potter book.  My husband and older daughter listened while the younger one played nearby, but by the end of the book, it was just he and I again.  Eventually I read all seven of the Harry Potter books out loud to him, with the girls around for some of them.

The reading material for our sessions has varied as much as it possibly could.  He loves Stephen King, so I have read a few of those novels, but I read all my Oprah’s Book Club picks to him, too.  We both love funny books, and the spiritual and inspirational ones are my favorite.  Sometimes it is material we feel like we need to muddle through, and it’s easier to handle if we do it as a team.  It was recommended that I read “Liar’s Poker” for my job at a brokerage, for example, and we even read “How to Buy a Used Volkswagen in Europe, Keep it Alive, and Bring it Home” together.

A lot of couples enjoy travel, shows, parties, movies and meals out, and we do as well, but there is something about sharing a book that provides another level of intimacy.  We pause as needed to share our thoughts, feelings, connections, and predictions.  We see through new eyes, but in a familiar voice, and in our own bed.  We are outside ourselves and more fully inside ourselves at the same time.

We both go to sleep satisfied every time.

The Universal Language

     I feel like I have the perfect job.  When my third child became school-aged, I started working part-time as an English instructor to adults.  To me, it was an ideal situation because I had the freedom to choose what my availability would be and use my college education as an English major.  Whether I taught on Saturdays when my husband was home or during the week when the kids were in school, I got to know students with native languages of Japanese, Spanish, Farsi, Portuguese, and more.

     It was exciting to be working again after several years home full-time with my children, and it was energizing to train in a completely new career.  Before long, though, I did experience a certain impostor complex  Who was I to instruct these adults, most with far more life experience than I, in such subjects as making travel plans, going on work interviews, making presentations, and handling any number of the bureaucratic travails of a newly arrived foreigner?

     One day, though, in conversation with an older Persian student, the subject of parenting came up.  Immediately the sparkle of connection and understanding lit his eyes.  Despite a language barrier, we completely related.  He laughed as he shared stories of his wife's worries over their rascal sons during the growing-up years.  He looked at me with affection and an increased desire to understand every one of my words when I talked about the personalities and quirks of my growing family.

     I noticed with some of the Spanish-speaking women I taught that the topic of our children would have the same effect.  These students may have handled more situations and challenges in the world, and I may have had the upper hand in knowledge of English language and American culture, but being moms completely leveled the playing field.  My ability to teach English conversation, and their ability to learn it, soared when we made this connection.

     Eventually, I became pregnant with our fourth child and took a few years off from my part-time work.  As my little one approached kindergarten, though, I decided to go back to my job.

     Before long, I found myself teaching a Japanese man and feeling that same impostor complex.  Who was I to teach this worldly professional how to discuss education, resumes, and work experience?  We struggled through it...and then I came to the realization that he has a kindergartener, too.  We bonded over childhood fears, eating habits, and sleep schedules (in our cases, the lack thereof!).  Our level of communication increased exponentially.  I have been able to help him more with kid birthday parties, communicating with teachers, and celebrating American holidays than I was ever able to assist in any of the other areas.  We laugh a lot more, and we are all the more motivated to both teach and understand English.

     I really do have a great job.  And if love is the universal language, parenting is a very common dialect.

What I Learned About Parenting from Watching Football

1. Anyone on the team can recover a fumble.  Although I am the primary caretaker in our household, I have learned that anyone in the family can help to turn a situation around.  Whether it’s an older sibling helping a younger one with a school problem or my husband averting a meltdown by providing a change of scenery, I can call upon others in the family to assist when needed.

2. Know when to punt and know when to go for it.  Sometimes it is better to cut your losses and leave that birthday party, that grocery store trip, or that family obligation early.  But sometimes it is really important to be there, and so you take your chances with a tired or irritable kid…and those times it tends to work out okay.

3. Occasionally, the play needs a review.  We can all benefit from learning how to do better.

It's Complicated

“Why did you adopt”?

It’s a question I often get when people find out our son came to us that way.  It’s an understandable curiosity. 

From the outside, it sure doesn’t look like a fertility issue since he arrived after two biological kids, and before another.  (But that is part of the reason).  From the outside, it kind of looks like it’s because we wanted a boy since he’s the only one.  (But that’s really not the reason). 

How do you explain a calling?  How do you explain a feeling, a voice, a push so strong that you almost feel no choice at all?  How do you explain having been so touched by a situation, a knowledge, a chain of events that you are compelled to act out of your comfort zone?  How do you say all that without sounding crazy? 

So usually I just say, “It’s complicated.”