Reality bites

Pain.

I've had a particularly hard day today.
There's no evidential reason for it. This date has no special meaning; no birthdays, anniversaries or holidays. But today, it seems, the reality has hit me like a ton of bricks.
Today I reached for the phone to call her at least a dozen times.
Today I know she's not just away visiting one of my sisters; she's not where I can physically go and visit her.
Today I realize that.
Today I want and need to see her, to touch her, to talk to her.
Today I want to fall asleep, then wake up to find all of this a bad dream.
Today I'm impatient and want whatever it takes to soften this pain to actually soften it...now.

Yesterday was two months.

Perhaps that's why I'm feeling what I'm feeling today.
Perhaps it's just part of that roller coaster ride others have told me about -- one day up, the next day down.
Perhaps it's because when coming out of the movie theater the other night and a friend asked if we'd like to have some dinner before going home, I realized for the first time, that my husband and I don't have any reason not to stay out. We don't have anything to go home to.
Perhaps, for some unknown reason, tomorrow will be a better day.
Perhaps it's because when I asked my friend, whom also lost her mother about six-months ago, if she ever reaches for the phone to call and check on her mother, she said, "No. I'm relieved that I don't have to do that anymore."
And when I asked her if she misses caring for her mother, and going to her mother's house every Sunday, doing household chores, running errands and taking her mother shopping, she also said, "No, I'm relieved that I don't have to that anymore."

My friend sees no gray. Everything is black and white, so I knew to drop the subject at that point, because there was not going to be any understanding on the part of either of us.

I cared for my mother -- helped her to bed, to the bathroom, to get dressed; took time off work to take her to doctors and other appointments; and took her everywhere I went. The friend and former Methodist minister who performed my mother's funeral told me that I, too, would likely feel relief at some point, and he warned me not to feel guilty. That certainly hasn't happened; I don't imagine that it will.

My older sister, whom loved mother very much and also misses her, believes my pain comes from the fact that mother lived with me, that we did most everything together, that we were so much closer than she was to mom. Although my sister misses her, too, she says it's not the same, that she didn't see and talk to her everyday.
So, is that a mistake? Being too close?

Mom became the purpose to my driven life -- not just after she moved in with us -- but long, long before that.
Today, I feel as though I have no purpose. My house is a wreck (totally out of character for me); I move in slow-motion; I'm unable to concentrate on anything at all; I have no desire to go anywhere or do anything; I haven't actually cooked a meal in more than 10-weeks; and I just want to stay in bed.

I fear talking about this with family or friends, because I don't want anyone thinking I need "help - asap."

Today is the first time I've called for my mom and she isn't there.

Hurdling the first 'first'

Yes!
The Pecan Pie was absolutely delicious and my mother would have been proud!
Now, wait 'til you taste the Pumpkin Pie (see below).

We had a lovely Thanksgiving - just the four of us at my son and daughter-in-law's beautiful home. She went all out, baking a turkey with dressing, fresh green beans, sweet potato gnocchi, roasted carrots and parsnips and - of course - gravy. The turkey was so moist it just burst with flavor with every bite. The steamed green beans were cooked with bacon, pecans and pepper, making them (for me) the surprise of the day with their spicy deliciousness. And the sweet potato gnocchi and roasted carrots were just as tasty.

My son and his wife were both so kind to understand the hurdle of "my first 'first.'" And equally as kind when I presented them with two of Granny's cross-stitched ornaments, and cried.

It's funny - there are things in my house that I don't want moved, and then there are things that I want to share with the rest of the family. I can't explain the difference.

Mother called her portion of the house her apartment -- her bedroom, a bathroom and her living room. For the most part, her rooms remain basically untouched, and I don't want things moved around or removed just yet. Other than a few small pieces of jewelry, she didn't have anything of any value, but she did leave a will with instructions on which of her children where to receive which items that were of extreme value to her. Jewelry went to daughters, but her marble coffee table was to go to my brother, and since he lives out of state and was here during my mother's transition into the Lord's arms, it only made sense that he would take the table back home with him.

My brother will learn today that I didn't really want the table removed, that it changed the feel and makeup of mother's living room, and that it seemed like a piece of my parents (as well as my childhood) went with the table. Isn't it funny how we attach ourselves to some things and not so much to others? My mother's wedding ring, a watch my father had given her when she graduated from high school and other pieces of jewelry went with my sisters, but the coffee table has had the most effect on me. Both of my parents enjoyed that piece of furniture. It's where my mother would put her treasured hurricane tracking maps every June through November; as a child, I'd lay on the floor in front of the coffee table and fall asleep watching TV with my parents and sister; it's where mother put her crystal candy dish that she'd store her hard candies in for those times she'd lose energy; it's where she put the flower arrangements she receive monthly from her church; and it's where she placed her magnificent Nativity at Christmas time.  It isn't the table. That can be replaced. It's the fact that something as inconsequential as a coffee table can have such unforseen value to one.

Just like my mother's recipe cards. I'm not ready to part with them. They are small index cards all in her hand-writing and, for me, each one tells a story of how much she loved caring for her family, how much she enjoyed cooking, how much she looked forward to trying new things and how much she taught me.

I lost quite a bit of weight during the month before and after my mother's passing. It's certainly not the way I'd like to lose it. I'd far rather have her here and the weight on my hips.

Unfortunately, since the reality of her passing is hitting home, I've eaten my way through each dark cloud of blues, gaining all of the weight back. That's another question I can't answer -- why some of us find so much comfort in food.

My Pumpkin Pie is one of those things. I've been baking this pie from scratch, using our carved Halloween Jack-o-lantern, for about 38 years. Mom encouraged me back in the 1980s to enter the pie in the local county fair. So, I did, and for nine years straight (until I stopped entering the pie) I won blue ribbons for my Pumpin Pie. Here it is:

Sydney's Pumpkin Pie

Mom and I go to the local pumpkin patch that is hosted by a small Methodist church and buy a bunch of pumpkins every year. Since I no longer have any children at home, I don't carve them -- but I do use them as decor throughout the house. These were used as a centerpice on my dining room table, but once Halloween was over, they became pumpkin smoosh.

Cut the pumpkin in half or quarter and place face down on a cookie sheet. Put in a 350-degree oven and bake until a knife inserted comes out easily and clean. No need to remove seeds at this point.

Once the pumpkin is cooled, scrape the seeds and strings and remove the skin. Cut into smaller chunks and put the chunks (a few at a time) into a food processor. You'll need about 2-cups of processed pumpkin.

Here's rest of the recipe:
2-cups of freshly processed pumpkin          3/4-cup of sugar
1/2 tsp. salt                                                   1 1/2 tsp. of ground cinnamon
1 tsp. ground ginger                                     1/2 tsp. ground nutmeg
1/2 tsp. ground cloves

3 slightly beaten eggs                                   1 1/4 cups of milk
2/3 cup of evaporated milk

1 9-inch unbaked pie shell

Combine the pumpkin, sugar, salt and spices. Then blend in the beaten eggs, milk and evaporated milk. Pour into the pie shell. This is a big recipe, so be sure to have the edges of the pie shell crimped high.
Bake at 400-degrees for about 50-minutes or until a knife inserted halfway between center and edge comes out clean.

Using leftover piecrust pastry and small cookie cutters, I make leaf shapes. Bake them for about 10-15 minutes and after they have cooled, I place on top of the cooled pie.

Mom would have enjoyed our quiet Thanksgiving - especially the new recipes shared by my daughter-in-law. I do believe -- and hope -- that we've begun a new Thanksgiving tradition. Spending the holiday with my son and his wife was more joyous than they know, making the 'first hurdle' easier to bear. I'm thankful for the decades of memories resulting from the long line of family traditions, but I'm also grateful for new traditions in the making.

Sure is good pecan pie

On this day before Thanksgiving, I woke up in a panic. Who's going to make the Pecan Pie and gravy for tomorrow?

Although as a child, I remember my mother being responsible for making the entire delicious Thanksgiving feast, it was her Pecan Pie and her homemade gravy that she'll always be remembered for at this time of year.

And of all the things I learned from my mother: sewing, cooking, baking, crafting, raising a child (and a husband), house-cleaning and so much more, I never paid any attention to how Pecan Pie was made. Can you believe it? Frankly, I assumed it was something I didn't want to know. It's always been my favorite pie and yet, there was some kind of mystery that surrounded its mushiness, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know what the ingredients were. What if I found out and then suddenly didn't like it anymore? I know how silly that sounds, but it happens.

Side bar: My husband was eating what he thought were meatballs at a wedding reception, when I said, "When did you start liking mushrooms?" He nearly choked and couldn't spit the one in his mouth out fast enough, after chowing down on a half-dozen of them.

Until today.

Today is the first of many firsts still to come in the next 12-months.

Today is the first time that my mother and I are not in the kitchen together preparing for what would have been tomorrow's full-house. Back at the start of September we had already decided to ask my brother from Texas, my sisters from central Florida and their families, and my son and his wife to come to our house for the holiday that traditionally brings families together. It had become a chore for mom to travel -- so everyone agreed. It had been years since we all spent Thanksgiving together and mom was really looking forward to all the chatter.

That's what she liked the most -- when her four children would start talking and reminiscing and the girls' voices would begin to move up an octave and then another octave and we'd be talking so fast it all sounded like one continuous sentence and it became increasingly difficult to keep up with us. She'd just laugh and laugh.

After she moved in with my husband and me, Mom and I did everything together -- especially at holiday time, and that included working in the kitchen with her walker (we called it her Cadillac) in tow. We might have worked together on one recipe, or we might have worked separately on two dishes.

But when it came to pies, mom's specialities were most certainly Pecan Pie and Apple Pie and mine was the Pumpkin Pie. So, I set out in search of her recipe.

I know what you all are thinking. "Can't you just find the recipe online?" or "Are you kidding? Pecan Pie is easy to make."

Well, how would I know it's the same unless I found her recipe?

So, I spent this afternoon in the kitchen, all alone - missing her more today than the day before - and attempting my very first Pecan Pie after 39-years of marriage.

Mom's Pecan Pie
Beat 3 eggs in a bowl, add 2/3 cup of sugar, a dash of salt, 1 cup of Karo dark corn syrup (I know. There's a recipe on the back of the bottle, but it's not the same), and 1/3 cup of oleo (Yep, that's what her recipe card said, but I used butter) melted. Mix thoroughly and then add 1 cup of pecan halves. (I actually used 1 cup of pecan pieces.)

Then pour the whole mixture into a 9-inch unbaked pie shell. As you can see, I cheated, because I wasn't in the mood to make my own pie crust.

I put my own touches on it at this point and strategically placed pecan halves on the top of the pie before putting it into a moderate oven (350-degrees) for 50-minutes or until a knife inserted halfway between center and edge comes out clean.

And the finished product...

So, I hope it tastes as good as it looks. Right now, I'm pretty satisfied, but we won't know until tomorrow.

All of our plans for a huge Thanksgiving of family togetherness fell apart after mother passed away. I'm not up to all the company and still would prefer staying in bed with the covers pulled over my head. But my husband and I will be going to my son's house tomorrow. There, he and his wife will see to the feast this year, and who knows? Maybe a new holiday tradition will begin.

Truth is, I've never made gravy, either. I don't eat it, I don't make it. But for some reason, I did pay attention to my mother when she'd make it, so who knows?

Mom, I love you and miss you. Today has been tough and tomorrow will be tougher still, but I'm grateful for all you taught me and I promise we'll toast our Pecan Pie to you!

How Sweet It Is

The picture in yesterday's post was taken in 2007 at Dixon Springs, a park in southern Illinois for which my father had great passion. As a surprise for my mother, the Willow-Oak tree (a mere sapling at the time) was planted by my sisters and me in 2002, in memory of my father -- he'd have loved it.

The trip back to southern Illinois in 2007 was just my mother and me and was an opportunity for her to share stories I had never heard and for me to listen.

                                          Photo taken at a one-room school house that was
                                          converted into a two-room bed&breakfast in
                                          Metropolis, Ill.


We had an absolutely great time. We (I) drove there, stopping along the side of the road for lunches we had packed; pulling over to take photos any time we felt the desire; and reminiscing about my parents lives both in southern Illinois and later in southern Florida. We laughed, we cried, we listened to country music for the first time, and we talked and talked and talked.

That is, of  course, what I miss the most -- talking to her about anything and everything. I cry in the silence of my hollow home, but trust that time will soften this pain.

Today is the Monday before Thanksgiving. Normally I would be helping my mother wrap the hand stitched Christmas ornaments she's made for each of the girls in the family for at least the past 25-years, if not longer. She would give them to daughters, daughter-in-law and grand-children at Thanksgiving. We all look forward to receiving them and have special places for them during the holiday season. I have a small artificial tree, that I've had for as long as she's been making the ornaments, that I smother with the little cross-stitched delights.

The night before she passed away, my mother had one of those "awakenings" you often hear about. She was completely pain-free for about three-hours and was filled with life, spirit, joy, smiles, energy and the will to see how many ornaments she had completed this year.

She could only find three, but kept insisting she had made five. We stopped looking for them when my husband announced he had made dinner, (maybe there will be more on that and my mother's "awakening" at a later date) and we never got back to looking -- until last night when I found 12 completed ornaments!

I can't believe there are 12 of them and I'm so excited to have found them. The actual ornaments are not made, but the cross-stitching is completed and now I have a new "mini" purpose: to do the finish work and mail them out to my sisters and my brother to surprise them and their daughters!

                                                                   How sweet it is!

The Reason

Blogging...a new adventure for me. One that I'm hoping will help me heal.

I lost my mother less than two months ago. The pain of losing her increases everyday.

My mother was 94-years old and led a long and fulfilling life. I am, shall I say, of boomer age, and I feel as though I should not be struggling with this as hard as I am. But...

My mother has been the purpose to my extremely driven life, my best friend and confidant, my advisor, my teacher and my biggest cheerleader.
She encouraged me, fought for me, appreciated me and loved me unconditionally. She is the reason I am who I am today.

When we lost Daddy to Alzheimer's disease, she was there to help me through it and I was there for her. She lived with my husband and me for the past 11-years. She went everywhere with us -- even a Sunday afternoon shopping at Sam's Club was a fun family-day outing. We took her on cruises, camping, to concerts, movies and everything in-between. She was there when I got home from work, ready to hear all about my day, and I was there when she'd wake up each morning, ready to hear about her dreams.

So, my hope is to talk about my mother in ways I cannot share with my husband and to find a new creative outlet for sharing the talents my mother passed on to me.

I look forward to my healing journey.