Day 1 in the life of a motherless mother. Seek Beauty.

Posted by BecomingBetty

We buried my mother yesterday. She died on a Friday and we buried her on the following Monday. There was no real time for grief between death and burial. As the oldest child – the only child living in the U.S. – the responsibility to make arrangements fell squarely on my shoulders.

There was shopping for suitable clothing for burial to be done, clergy to be found, scriptures to be selected. Although Mom had “pre-planned” the service, there was still a 2 hour appointment at the funeral home.

there were phone calls to be made and announcements to be written. Worst of all were the fires that needed to be put out and the ruffled feathers that needed to be soothed.

Death brings out the worst in some of us.

I spent Sunday night doing difficult work – consciously working through anger and resentments and letting them go. I learned that forgiveness TRULY is for the forgiver and not for the perceived transgressor. I entered the funeral home on Monday with only love and sadness in my heart.

I didn’t arrange a meal, but my cousin surprised us all with a trip to Denny’s, where we enjoyed fellowship and more than a laugh or two.

Today, though, it is my first day back to “normal” without my mom. Tuesday is always my “day off.” That doesn’t stop me from fielding a handful of phone calls and responding to emails, and today is no exception.

As with most days, I had a to-do-list. Mine was pretty simple: run, cry and get a massage. I managed two out of three. I decided that calling to make a massage appointment would take too many spoons, so I let myself off the hook on that one.

Grief is a funny thing. I can be laughing one moment and then something that Mom would say or do hits me in the gut. Something will happen and I think, “I should call Mom.” I think of all of the days when I forgot to call her, or when I was tired and thought to myself, “I’ll call in the morning.”

I remind myself that forgiving myself is possibly more important than forgiving others.

I ticked “cry” off of my list early and often. “Run” was harder. I donned my cold-weather running gear quite early in the day, but I found other tasks to put off the run. I revised my monthly Amazon subscriptions (twice), I rearranged some flowers that I brought home from the funeral. I made tea, ate a snack and played with the dogs.

finally, I kicked myself out the door. I wore a heavy fleece jacket over my long-sleeved technical shirt and a baby-alpaca cap on my head. I drove to the park where my favorite trail “lives” and I checked Facebook and Instagram for “likes” while willing myself to get out of the car and run.

I took a deep breath and opened the car door. I shed the cap and the sweater, knowing I would be too warm after a mile or so. I queued up my playlist and started my GPS watch. I think I made it 200 or 300 yards before the cold wind cut through and chilled me to the bone. Teeth chattering, I turned tail to call it quits. On the (short) trip back to the car a small voice spoke. “You have a jacket and a cap. Use them.” I did just that.

I paused the GPS and I pulled on the warmer clothing. Returning to the trail, I set off at a slow, steady pace. I paid attention to my breath and to the path. Fallen leaves covered hidden roots and rocks. Running safely became an exercise in being present. I did look around me and saw the brilliant hues of autumn. As I emerged from the first loop to the second (of three), I saw bluest skies in the clearing. As I ran through the meadow I skipped over puddles from the previous days’ downpours.

I stopped time and again to take photos to attempt to capture the moments of sheer awe at the world I have the privilege to run through on my two feet. I exited the second loop to make my way to the third loop and found what is normally a trail to be a six-inch deep pond / stream. I decided “let’s not get crazy now,” and decided that multiple loops around the “middle” loop would do.

I looped the “middle” loop three times, all in the same direction. Each trip round the loop I discovered something I hadn’t noticed before. On the first trip it was the view of the fields and trees across the clearing. On the second trip it was the low-hanging branch that I could reach up and touch. On the third trip, it was the prints of an unknown creature in the mud beside my own footprint.

Although I did, indeed, become quite warm in my cap and jacket, I made it 3.5 miles. I got to check “run” off of my mental list. As I guided my car through the twists and the turns of the parking lot to return home, I saw a brilliant crimson tree with the sunlight shining through its leaves. It was so beautiful that it took my breath away. I stopped the car to snap a photo which, of course, didn’t do it justice.

I returned home and inhaled the heady fragrance of a yellow rose the size of a peach. I sought out color and fragrance and sound that gave me glimpses of joy, and that joy brought me comfort. #Comfortandjoy was the hashtag I adopted for an abandoned attempt at building a MLM empire. It’s become my new theme for living through grief.

Today’s lesson was evident – seek beauty. It is everywhere. Enjoy it with every breath. Seek out beauty and find joy. In them, find comfort.

They call it the present because today is a gift.

I love it already!

Posted by BecomingBetty

There is a story about an old woman, recently widowed, who is moved to a nursing home. The woman is blind and cannot live independently. She waits, without family, in the lobby as her paperwork is completed and her room made ready. A staff member describes the room in great detail to her as she waits. “I love it already!” the old woman exclaims.

The nursing home staff member asks her, “How do you know you love it? You haven’t been inside it yet.”

The old woman, blind but wise, says, “The actual room and its furnishings has nothing to do with it. I’ve already decided that I love it. Happiness is a decision you make on purpose.”

I’m paraphrasing the story. I saw it originally on Facebook, and a google search showed that a similar story, but not quite the one that I remember was written by Joyce Meyer in “The Mind Connection: How the Thoughts You Choose Affect your Mood, Behavior and Decision.

It’s been some time since I wrote a blog post. To be honest, I’ve been feeling very sorry for myself. We discovered at the beginning of August that my 88 year old mother’s cancer had caused pathological fractures in her spine and right hip. She elected to have 10 radiation treatments to “beat it back” to alleviate the pain. Although I begged her to come stay with me for the duration of the treatments, she steadfastly refused to leave her home.

The treatments were harder than she expected. Due to the area that was being treated, there was a lot of irritation and inflammation in the digestive tract. She was frequently nauseated and vomiting, and there was nothing that I could do about it. Once the treatment started at the cancer center near her home, it couldn’t be transferred to the sister center near mine because of differences in equipment and dosages.

The day after her last treatment we received a call that she was gravely ill, and that management at her independent living community had determined that she was no longer independent enough to stay in her home. She was a danger to herself and potentially others. She had to leave, and I needed to be there when they broke the news to her.

I finished up some urgent matters at my office and drove south to Mom’s home. I packed up a handful of things in case I needed to stay overnight. When I arrived, Mom was sitting in her chair. Although we hadn’t spoken, she acted like she was expecting me. “I’ve decided to take you up on your offer to come stay with you. It will be a little vacation at your house – let’s see how it goes. I need some help.”

I was delighted that she had made the decision on her own. I knew that once she arrived at my home, she was unlikely to return to hr own, but we didn’t talk about that. I tried to get her to just get into the car so that I could help her (and so that my family could help me…) She refused. She needed to “clean the house,” and she couldn’t miss her doctor appointment in two days. I decided to stay with her for those two days.

To make a very long story very short, the doctor appointment never happened. Instead, my very sick mother slipped into a rapid decline and ended up spending the next two weeks in a series of moves that included two emergency rooms, three hospital rooms, two nursing home rooms and a bunch of procedure rooms.

I was with her night and day for more than a week that seemed like an eternity. Somewhere around day 4, my mom started to disappear. She changed from my loving mother to a scared, angry woman who told me that I was evil. She went from praising the staff to believing that they were possessed by Satan.

She was treated for electrolyte imbalances and a urinary tract infection. Each time they discovered a deficiency, I grasped onto hope that correcting it would bring my mother back. It didn’t.

She finally settled into a nursing home for rehabilitation. She was unable to do even the most basic self-care chores for herself.

I really, really wish that I could tell you that she is like the old woman in the beginning of this post and that she was determined to like her room before she even saw it. Instead, each time I would visit her in the nursing home, she would berate me. She would accuse me of tricking her into agreeing to stay with her so that I could put her into a nursing home where they torture her, make her fly on trapezes, tie her to the bed, punch her in the stomach, and leave her alone in the dining room for hours and hours without help. Gradually, I came to accept that the person that I love as my mother has rather suddenly disappeared.

One trip she told me that I am not her daughter anymore. Another time she told me that there are two of me. One is evil and one is her daughter, and she is not sure which one I am. She tells me that she wants to go home – but now she thinks that home is in Kidron, where we lived for many years, but she hasn’t lived there in a decade. Every visit, she asks me how her mom is – my grandma – who died when I was a little girl. Every visit, she tells me that she wishes that she had just died.

For two weeks at least, it seemed that everything made me cry. I stopped doing the things that I love to do. I stopped doing the things that help me to function – to stave off anxiety and depression. Instead, I cried. Sometimes I raged – I would scream in the car driving down the road when nobody could hear me. I have often told other caregivers “You cannot pour from an empty cup,” but when faced with the same sort of scenario in my own life, I poured and poured and poured until there was nothing left to give, and it still was not enough.

I would start projects – writing projects, crochet projects, cleaning projects -and then I would abandon them. My living room became filled with half-done afghans, dish cloths and hats.

One day a few weeks ago when I didn’t have court or client scheduled, I didn’t get out of bed until past 10:00 a.m. I’m an early riser. I get up, make coffee and then journal, meditate, and study. My husband knew then that something was very wrong.

We were blessed with a beautiful weekend in late September. My husband suggested a boat trip to an island. Reluctantly I agreed to leave – immediately. Instead of packing a large cooler full of food to prepare, we left with just our clothing and toiletries, a couple of packs of lunch meat, a loaf of bread, a bag of trail mix and another of potato chips, and elected to treat ourselves to a whole weekend of restaurants.

Although I used to run many miles each month, I had stopped doing that, too, over the course of the summer. There was a charity run scheduled for Saturday that weekend on the island, and I decided to register and do my best. I joined several hundred runners at the start line. There were several times that I had a hard time seeing the road because the tears were flowing so hard. I wasn’t in physical pain -it was a mental and spiritual battle. I crossed the finish line with tears streaming down my face. I started something, and I finished it. The 5k run didn’t become another unfinished project.

I wish that I could say that I snapped out of my funk and began living life again immediately after that 5k, but the truth is that it took another week of slowly beginning again to use the tools that helped me to function after the last crisis in our family.

Anyone who has followed me on Facebook or in my blogs for any period of time knows that I tend to post the happy things. My life is spent cultivating joy whenever possible. It’s easy to find joy in a flower when life is smooth sailing. Applying the tools is much more difficult when the waves are crashing and it seems that the world is burning down around you.

I’m learning that people can’t hurt our feelings. It’s our own thoughts about events that hurt us. It’s our own thoughts about life that bring us joy.

For those weeks in September, I spent all of my energy trying to find a solution for Mom’s mental decline. I spent hours combing my memory trying to find signs that the dementia was there all along and I just missed it. I spent hours trying to convince her that she’s in a place for help and that she still has a life to live if she just tries. that “project” took all of the time and attention from all of the other “projects” in my life. I finally realized that making myself miserable and allowing depression and anxiety creep back into my life – forgoing joy and happiness won’t bring my mother joy. It won’t bring her peace. It won’t make her want to live.

I choose life. Mom will be 89 in a few weeks. Whether or not she emerges from this event, her life is nearing its natural end. My visits always upset her. I no longer see her every day. It’s not good for her, and it’s really horrible for me. If she tells my kids that she wants something, I send it. I’ve stopped worrying so much about what other people think about the matter.

I’ve finished crocheting two cowls and I’m almost done with a poncho that I started at the beginning of summer. I ran again this week. I am back into my morning routine. I go to sleep giving thanks and I wake up anticipating a great day.

I am here to love my life, no matter what may come. It’s the only life I have, and I’m not about to waste it. This weekend I am setting up my office in a different room in the same building. I don’t know exactly what furnishing will fit or how they will look, but I love it already. I’m going to learn to knit on Thursday. I don’t know what I will make, but I love it already.

I don’t know what may come, but I’m certain that I can find beauty and comfort in it. I love it already!

Special Delivery

Posted by BecomingBetty

When you begin listening for the voice of God in your life, he speaks in many ways. Sometimes, it is that “still, small voice” in my head during a meditation. Other times it is looking up to see a sunbeam playing across the floor bringing just a little light into a dark moment.

When I pay attention to “living, instead of existing,” God manifests. Perhaps you will say that these moments are simply coincidences. I choose to view them as the breadcrumbs left behind to show me that I am still on the right path.

God sent two messages to me last week via “special delivery.”

I adopted “comfort and joy” as a little personal theme, brand or motto a year or so ago. I post photos of teacups or flowers, bright colored yarn or even close-ups of my dogs. If it brings me comfort or joy, it’s a likely candidate for my instagram hashtag, #comfortandjoy.

I have an eye condition that makes it difficult to read sometimes. I do as much of my reading on a screen as I can because I can tweak the contrast and the font size to make it easier to see. As a result, I rarely look at “real” books anywhere anymore.

Last weekend I went on a little shopping expedition to two of my favorite thrift stores. At the first, where I have never even glanced at the used book rack, I was forced to stop a moment by the shelves because a couple of people were admiring objects in a curio and blocking my way. I turned to the bookshelves to pass the time, and my eyes lit immediately on a daily devotional about “Simple Abundance” with “Comfort and Joy” in the title. I picked it up and paid for it.

At the next stop, I was waiting for my son to try on some clothing. I had already checked out the dishware and found no teacups that called to me, so I walked to the book shelves. Just the day before, I had reviewed my Amazon “Wish List.” On it was Regina Brett’s book, “God Never Blinks.” I’ve enjoyed reading Regina’s newspaper columns for years. She has inspired me on many occasions. I “follow” her on Facebook, and although I frequently have considered buying her book, I just haven’t gotten around to it.

Just as at the previous shop, the first book that I saw “called out” to me. Its bright orange cover drew my eye, and into the cart it went.

Those books sat on my coffee table for several days, untouched. I opened the cover of “God Never Blinks” and saw an inscription from a daughter to her mother on Mother’s Day 2012. It made me a little sad to know that a carefully chosen gift had made its way to the Salvation Army store.

I turned the page, and saw that the author had autographed the book, and my amazement that this little book had found its way into my hands was magnified. I turned to the Introduction section, and as I read the words, I knew that I had discovered a soul sister. Tears streamed down my face.

I’ve been reading from these two books for a week now, with no hint of discomfort – no visual distortion. Now, I read a lesson each day. I want to keep turning the pages and consume the entire book in a single sitting, but it would be over too quickly. Instead, like a box of expensive chocolates, I will savor just one each day, letting the words sink in slowly.

God didn’t just send me a message. He sent me an autographed copy. Thank you for your words, Regina, and thank you to unnamed “favorite daughter” who bought her mom and autographed book in 2012 that would be delivered into the hands of another mother nearly 5 years later.

Perfect Sense(s)?

Posted by BecomingBetty

12983773_10154170302648223_4397169664801694898_o Over the past six months or so, my life has been enriched through the use of essential oils. I’ve read some of the science behind them, but to be honest I really don’t understand *how* they work. I just know that for me they *do* work. This post isn’t really about that, though.

I’ve been fighting a cold / sinus infection for a week. The essential oils have been helping me feel a little better than I usually do, but yesterday, something changed. I made a batch of essential oil-laced bath bombs to share. I opened my favorite essential oil – the one that I call happiness in a bottle – and took a whiff. Nothing. I held it up to the light to see if perhaps the bottle was empty. It was half full. I opened the next bottle and again, nothing.

Although I was feeling congested, I was still able to breathe in through my nose. I opened the cinnamon and the peppermint – odorless. I opened the peanut butter. Nothing.

Confused, I ran to consult “Doctor Google.” He said that anosmia (the absence of the sense of smell) has a number of causes, not the least of which is sinus infection and nasal congestion. I flushed my sinuses with my neti pot. Still nothing.

i lamented to my husband that the I wouldn’t be able to taste the dinner that I had planned. Graciously, he suggested that I save my labor for another day and offered to feed himself and the “boys.” I ate my flavorless baked potato and a salad. If not for the varied textures, I’m not sure that I would have been able to differentiate between them.

Back to Dr. Google, I wondered if perhaps my neti pot could damage my sense of smell. I came upon a discussion thread filled with individuals who had been living without their sense of small (and sense of taste) for long period of time. One professional chef related how she had battled depression. Life just wasn’t as vibrant without tasting and smelling.

I thought back to my essential oils. After battling anxiety for years, I’ve found something that really helps me. My emotional aromatherapy is something that I not only enjoy – it helps me feel and think “better.” If this anosmia were to persist, how would I go back to “before?”

I ate some flavorless popcorn as I watched television with my husband. At the suggestion of a friend, I stuck some basil essential oil up my nose. It cleared my sinuses, but I couldn’t smell it. I gave a longing look at the essential oil diffuser in the bedroom and debated as to whether or not I should turn it on. Would it help me drift off to sleep ifI couldn’t smell it?

I woke up this morning and still couldn’t smell a thing. I couldn’t “wake up and smell the coffee.” I started feeling pretty sorry for myself, to tell the truth.

If I had to give up a sense, which would it be? I couldn’t imagine not seeing a sunrise or hearing music. Without touch, how would I avoid injury? Before this experience, I suppose I might have said “smell,” but I find myself rethinking that position. Taste protects us from consuming spoiled foods and makes life richer. Smell and taste go together, I have discovered.

We depend upon our sense of smell to warn us of danger – fire, smoke, spoiled food. what a marvelous creation the human body is. These five senses work so perfectly together to keep us safe – to enrich or lives.

As I pondered the senses, I doused the tiny ants that had made their way into my kitchen with a spray of white vinegar and peppermint essential oil. Suddenly, the acrid smell of vinegar penetrated my head and I smiled.

I ran to unmold the bath bombs and my head was filled with the odor of “joy” (yes, joy has a smell).

Today, I give thanks for a world filled with smells and tastes, touches and sights and sounds. It all makes perfect sense.

Just write what you know.

love,

~Be~

The $600 Washcloth

Posted by BecomingBetty

I like to crochet. It is a great way to occupy my hands in the evening when I watch television with my husband. It’s hard to eat popcorn when your hands are full of yarn. I am also a “gifter.” I love to give little gifts. I like to gift what I make, as well. For the past several years, I have crocheted warm scarves in the winter time. Most of my family members have (at least) one. I have at least 20 of them stacked on a shelf in case I need a gift for someone on short notice. They are great to make in the winter, but when the weather gets warm, I usually stop crocheting.

This year, I discovered cotton yarn. I’ve discovered the joy of making face cloths, scrubbies, and dish cloths. I love to make them in bright colors. They make me happy.

I can buy a perfectly nice washcloth at the store for $4.00. I can buy a deluxe washcloth for $10 – $15. I can buy a handmade washcloth just like the ones I am making on Etsy for under $10. Depending on the stitch, these washcloths take me 3-4 hours to make. The materials cost $1 – $2 depending on which brand of yarn I buy and whether or not it is on sale.

When I am making washcloths, I can’t earn money as a lawyer. I suppose, in that regard these pretty little pieces of hand-made fabric that will soon be stained with makeup or food are pretty expensive. However, I’m a believer in doing more of what makes me happy.

Crocheting washcloths is almost a form of meditation for me. I don’t have to think beyond the next stitch. The feel of the yarn and the rhythm are comforting. The bright colors are uplifting. There’s nothing about this little activity I don’t enjoy, and it’s cheaper than therapy.

As I mentioned before, I’m a gifter. If you find yourself the recipient of one or more of these $600 washcloths, you can be sure that I like you, and that I think you, too, deserve a $600 washcloth, and a whole lot more.

love,

~Be~

Comfort and Joy

Posted by BecomingBetty

Happy New Year! I’m quite late for a New Year post, I know, and believe me, that’s actually a good thing. You see, 2016 is the year when I make good on my promise to be good to myself.

“You cannot serve from an empty vessel.” – Eleanor Brownn

Historically, I have run in the new year and then spent hours poring over journal entries and blog posts from the previous year, decade, etc. to see where I’ve come from, and what track my life is taking. This year was different – the clock struck midnight and my husband and I shared a sparkling grape juice toast with our youngest son before heading upstairs – together – and falling peacefully asleep. There was no attempt to review the past – no tears shed at past hurts, and only one resolution: to be good to myself.

2016 is the year of comfort and joy. This is the year of self care and learning to say, “no,” when necessary. I’m taking time (and making time) to do the things that bring me joy. I’m allowing myself to enjoy the things that bring me comfort.

This is the year of silly songs at the break of dawn, loose leaf tea in fancy teacups, essential oils that smell like liquid joy or comfort in a bottle, and beautiful fibers that wind themselves into scarves and blankets while my eyes watch the television.

Thanks to the efforts of my husband and children, I once again have a “sacred space,” (named the Betty Room by my hubby) where I can sit quietly to read, pray, meditate, and contemplate. I’m also getting a new bathtub with enough depth to soak – more comfort (and some joy, too).

My first bit of advice for 2016 is to make room for comfort and joy in your own life. Experiences that comfort us and that allow us to feel joyful replenish the energy that we deplete when we give. Although giving to others without expectation of receiving anything in return brings its own rewards, when people take from us without giving, over and over, it can take a spiritual and physical toll. Seek out joy. Seek out comfort. Make your own happiness, and then share from that vessel that is no longer empty.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.” – Psalm 23:5

We can pray for comfort and joy, or we can seek it out. I had a difficult Monday with a difficult adversary in a difficult proceeding at work. It was bitterly cold, and when I stopped my car for gasoline, I opened my back door to retrieve a hat. When I went to shut the door, it would not latch. Believing it to be frozen, I took it to a local auto repair place hoping they could quickly thaw it so that I could be on my way to a court proceeding. It turned out to be a broken latch, not a frozen one, and replacement parts had to be ordered. There was no way to fasten the door shut (except, possibly the rope and duct tape that my cousin suggested) for the 45 mile drive, so I had to beg for mercy from the party with all of the power in that situation. The tone for the tense email exchange that followed was probably largely imaginary. The tone of the voice in my head as I read the email response was set by the morning I had already had.

I wouldn’t go nearly so far as call that person an enemy, but it nevertheless the terse nature of the exchange (real or imagined) created a drain on my joy. I set my little table with one of my favorite teacups as I brewed a fragrant pot of tea. I rubbed a few drops of my favorite essential oil blends on my temples, and I allowed the aromas from the tea and the oil to surround me with beauty, comfort and joy. That’s probably not what the Psalmist had in mind, but soon I was singing again.

My husband said, “boy, you’re in a good mood!” I explained my quest for comfort and joy. Sometimes you have to “fake it until you make it.” When you’re faking joy, though, it quickly becomes real as it infects others with smiles (or even laughs).

I’ve had a tough week so far, but my cup runneth over. Being good to myself is my only resolution for 2016. Actively seeking comfort and joy is the first step toward achieving success.

Happy 2016.

~Be~