Remembrance

It's hard to believe it’s been two years. Two years since Mom breathed her last breath, just down the road from where she breathed her first breath 87 years before.

Mom as a young woman

Mom and her sisters

Mom and her sisters about 25 years ago

Mom and my brother, Larry

Snow covered her grave on the one year anniversary. I remember how much she hated the snow, hated winter, hated driving on slick roads. Summer suited her well. I remember the summer days she spent reclining on a blanket in the back yard, soaking up the rays. If I close my eyes, I can remember the fragrance of her suntan oil, mixed with the baking grass beneath her blanket. I loved sneaking up on her and spraying her with the water hose she kept handy to mist herself when the sun baked a bit too strongly. We both giggled and I ended up as wet as she.

Mom, reading in bed while doing her beauty treatment

Waiting for a quiet moment to pick up her book

In winter, when the sun barely shone, she huddled into her chair, wrapped in a blanket, in front of the heating stove and read books about castles and romance. Her Gothics, she called them. Years later she moved on to Stephen King and similar authors. She always had a desire to be scared out of her wits--and to share that fear with me. I remember sitting on the sofa late at night watching horror movies with her and then dreading having to go into my dark bedroom alone to find the string to the light bulb that dangled in the center of the room.

Mom and me

Mom and me

A trip to Florida in the 60s to visit Uncle Johnny

A Mystery Trip I took Mom on to the Smokies

So many things I now wish I had said to her. Also, quite a few I wish I hadn’t said.

She wore her opinions on her face like her favorite shade of lipstick. If she liked you, you knew it. If she didn’t, well, you knew that, too.

I didn’t know most of her friends by their names. I knew them by her nicknames for them. It was obvious how she really felt about someone by their nickname; like Blabbermouth or Stinky. When I chastised her for being so judgmental, she informed me she wasn’t judging, she was observing.

Dancing was one of her favorite pastimes. When the music started, she was on the floor dancing. She especially loved dancing with young men with dark hair and “hairy faces.”

A kiss from a visiting singer

We had a few adventures together. Like the trip she made to NYC to visit me. I took her to see "Dracula" on Broadway. She loved it so much that she insisted upon waiting outside the stage door to get Frank Langella’s autograph. When he emerged into the alley, she ran up to him for the autograph and when he leaned down to her five-foot frame to hear her talking in her Kentucky twang, she grabbed him and laid a big kiss on him. A few weeks later, Mom passed out in the streets of Harlan and Dad took her to the hospital. They discovered she had been hemorrhaging and needed a blood transfusion. I laughed and told her, “That’s what you get for kissing a vampire.”

Life is short. Grief is not. I still have days when I wish I could call her one more time. Hug her one more time. Shop until I drop one more time with her. Hear her stories one more time.

I recently spent some time in Florida during the Christmas season. I kept thinking how much Mom would love to be there, basking in the sun. 

I still find myself picking up an item in a store and thinking Mom would love this and then remembering...

I thought it would get easier over time. It doesn't. I still have moments when my heart wrenches inside my chest like a wrung out dishrag and tears come. Thankfully, the space between those moments has grown longer.

I regret I didn't get to say good-bye. I wish I could have sat and held her hand during the process. I long to tell her I love you, Mom.

My joy comes in knowing where she is. I prayed for her salvation since I was twelve years old. I didn’t know until the last few days of her life that she was confident in where she would go when she passed. So, one day, I will see her again.

I miss you Mumsie. Keep dancing.

Dancing at the Christmas party one month before she died

A Few True Words

Fear. Trepidation. Sadness. Miles of unfamiliar countryside drew me toward a reunion I dreaded. My mind had made excuses for months—no, years. I would have to face a major part of my growing up years that I wasn’t sure I could face.

Why did I hesitate? Was it because I had devoted so much of my time, tears, and fears in an effort to be her salvation all those years ago? Did my anxiety over her choices, my sleepless nights as I worried about her, and my fears about her safety make me avoid facing her now? Was it because I doubted I have the strength to relive it. Or did I fear I would need to be the support system again, after all these years? With my own health issues to deal with, did I have the strength to be strong enough for both of us again?

As I followed the directions from the emotionless voice of my GPS, I chatted with God about my concerns. Jonah had nothing on me. My mind cranked out excuse after excuse as to why this was not a good idea. With my mobility issues, I brightened at the thought that perhaps her house had steep stairs I could not navigate and then I could pull back out of her driveway and go home with a clear conscience. I hadn’t called her first to tell her I was coming. That made it easier to back out. She would never know I was this close.

My GPS announced in its familiar non-committal voice that I had arrived at my destination. I pulled into a graveled driveway that circled around an oak tree with leaves in the beginning throes of fall color. A ramp led to the front door. God had removed my excuse for leaving.

I sighed, grabbed my cane, and trudged across broken quartz stone that sparkled in the autumn sun. At the top of the ramp, I breathed in a prayer for strength and knocked on the red door. No response. Another knock, louder. Still no response. I pulled out my cell phone and called her. No answer.

I turned with a sense of relief, navigated the ramp and then crossed the field of sparkling rocks to my car. Surprisingly, relief changed to regret by the time I turned the key to leave. The realization that I needed to see her one last time, before it was too late, squeezed my heart. Tears welled up and then overflowed as my tires crunched on the gravel. I wouldn’t have the chance now.

My phone rang after about one minute of driving. It was her. I pulled to the side of the road and answered, “Hi, Medelle. Are you at home?”

“Who is this?” a wobbly voice asked.

Tears welled up again, “It’s Karen Nolan” I gave her my maiden name—the one she knew so well.

“Oh, Karen. Where are you?”

“I’m about one minute from your house. I came to see you.”

Only the sound of sobbing came through the phone. As she calmed the tears, she said, “The door is unlocked. Just come on in when you get here. Can you give me five minutes to get dressed?”

“Sure. I’ll see you in five minutes.”

I spent three of the minutes sopping up tears and wiping away mascara from my cheeks. Then I turned my car around and headed back.

 The oak tree hung over my car as shadows danced in the cool breeze. My cane clacked on the ramp. I rapped a rhythm on the door and turned the handle to enter the domain of my dear childhood friend who had increased my prayer all those years ago. I called out for her. A now unfamiliar voice, weak but lyrical, replied, “I’ll be right there,” from the end of a dark hallway.

As I waited, I browsed the photos of her family that filled the living room. She had always wanted children. Now she even has grandchildren. I smiled at each beautiful face, grateful the Lord had blessed her to overflowing in spite of everything. In her kitchen hung a sign that said “Medelle’s Kitchen.” I remembered how much she wanted a home of her own, even at the age of 12.

A door creaked, and there she stood. The teen-aged girl with short-cropped blonde hair, the girl who had a special knack for getting into trouble and sending me to my knees, now stood a little jagged, holding tightly to a walker, and smiling at me.

 All I could think to say was, “We’ve gotten old!”

She replied, “Who’s gotten old?”

She reached out for me and we hugged, and cried, our arms stretched across the walker. We hung on for dear life, a life we once knew. Our hearts melted and we were one again.

The walk down the hallway required effort, but she made it to the sofa and dropped her tortured body next to me. We reminisced, talked about our families, and then she broached the subject that froze my heart.

The approach of death is obvious when the disease is brutal. Her condition left no doubt about the severity and progression of the process. In spite of the weak, trembling voice, I still saw the sparkle in her icy blue eyes—the same eyes that changed to green when she secretly drank alcohol at the age of thirteen. Even though her hands lacked the strength to pull herself up from the sofa, she clung tightly to mine as I told her how much I loved her and how important she had been to me back then.

When her healthcare aid arrived, Medelle cried as I bragged on what a fabulous pianist she had been. As a freshman, she was accompanist for the choir and even played Handel’s Messiah for their performances. When I said she was the best pianist at the school, she sobbed and said, “Nobody has ever told me that before.”

           

We all had to have tissues then.

Why hadn’t I told her that before? Just a few truthful and honest words--words that could have made a difference in the life of a troubled young girl. Who knows, maybe a few of those words would have kept this day from being necessary. Perhaps a few more words of affirmation and encouragement would have kept her focus on God and not the ways of the world that destroyed her body.

Her death will be the result of sin. But whose sin caused it? Was it a troubled girl who needed comfort, love, encouragement, and validation? Or was it because of the rest of us who did not give her what she needed.

I prayed for her back then. I attempted to keep her out of trouble. I gave her friendship, mixed with mentoring. But I waited forty-five years to tell her the words that made her cry.

When I stood to leave, she asked her aid to help her stand up. She wanted to pray with us. We stood together, encircling the walker, hands tightly in her grasp as she prayed.

She thanked God for answering her prayer and sending me (I had no idea she was praying me there). She thanked Him for our friendship and asked for protection over my family and me. She thanked Him for the good and the bad in her life, and that there was much more good than bad. She thanked Him for the gift of forgiveness for her mistakes. And then, she told God that she was ready to come to Him whenever He was ready.

After more hugs, I returned to my car a changed person. I thanked God for lessons He is still teaching me. I thanked Him for pushing me to come and face my friend’s impending death and then blessing me with her increased faith. I know now that even if I never see her again on earth, we will be together in Heaven some day.

A few true words. I promise to say them more often. It may be those few words that change a life. I know three words that would have changed my life during my childhood-I love you.

What few words would have made a difference in how you lived your life?