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Childlessness Revisited

Childless by choice. That is what I am, who I am. I made that choice years ago, when I realized I had married a man who was unfit for fatherhood, frankly unfit to be called human, for reasons I won’t go into today. By God’s grace and providence, I didn’t have children with that selfish piece of human excrement. And when I later married a man who would have made an imperfect but decent dad, my mind had already been made up; I was not going to have children. Ever.

And so I didn’t.

Divorced again, for going on seven years now, I’m a few years (ahem) past the age when being a mom would be possible for me. Neither would it be something I would want now: waking in the night for feedings, changing diapers, chasing a toddler around, and dealing with all the changes a child would create in my settled life. Nevertheless…

Two of my dear friends back home recently gave birth. One of them is at precisely the age one expects to be starting a family, and the other is a little older. The older one is actually almost my age, only a handful of years younger, and she just had her second child! The first one was born a couple of years after I was full into menopause. A teacher like me, she quit her job and jumped head-first into full-time-mom, and her happiness has been palpable ever since. A few hours ago, her toddler became a big brother. I know she and her husband are over the moon, and I am as happy for her as I could possibly be. And just a tiny bit jealous.

I don’t want a baby. I never did; that’s why I didn’t get pregnant when I could. I still don’t want one. When I was twenty I didn’t want the upheaval, the mess, the work, the constant interruptions, the worries and the potential heartbreak, and by golly, I sure as heck don’t want those things now! But I do want something. There is something missing, and I would be dishonest to deny it. And so I must admit that I want something I will never have outside of the providence of God. I want a family.

It’s perfectly right that I find myself now, a woman of  un certain age, and I don’t have a family. I didn’t make good choices as a young person, and my life didn’t follow the path that most people’s do.While in college, I read several books about the sustainability of the planet and overpopulation and such. One book I read was even called “Childless by Choice,” (Marian Faux) and it definitely impacted me. So I made a conscious decision in my mid-twenties to be childless, and that choice stayed with me. I never wavered. Until recently.

Middle age has a way of making you rethink the decisions you were so sure of when your life stretched before you like a long country road. I have begun to see that this road has an end, an unthinkable idea when I was 20, 25, or even 35, and it appears that the end is even less inviting when it’s reached alone. It’s one thing to face your mortality with a house bulging and bouncing with children and grandchildren; it’s quite another when your house is quiet and calm. At this point in my journey, I wish I had had children.

Some would say I do have children. In way I do because there is no doubt my students, many of them anyway, love me. One of them is now in her thirties (told you I was middle aged) and is among my four or five closest friends. Another, a recent grad from NC, calls me his “mamá blanca” (he’s African American) and I count his mother as a very good friend. Two others, graduates in the past four years, are coming to Europe this year and contacted me so they could come see me. One of this year’s graduates says she’ll show me around her home island of Crete if I come, which I absolutely will. Two others hugged and kissed me after graduation as if I were family, and I have no doubt I will see them again one day.

So in spite of not ever having given birth, I suppose I do have children. They are the kinds of children who will become friends one day, and for that I’m grateful. Does it make up for never having children of my own? Does it fill the empty place where my own “family” should be? If I’m honest, I have to say no. Nevertheless, I am not unhappy, and my life feels generally quite full. Nevertheless, perhaps one day…

 

God sets the solitary in families;

He brings out those who are bound into prosperity;

But the rebellious dwell in a dry land. Ps. 68:6, NKJV

 

Three Cat Night

Yesterday I went to Brussels and “adopted” three adult cats to foster. I intended to foster two but I ended up with three because eight was too many.

Ahem. Well.

There were two cats on short time in a shelter in Brussels. They are two of eight or so that were in the cattery there, all adult neutered males, and all have been there for over a year, some for two years. I went for Bambi and Toby because they have been there the longest, over a year each, and they are only a few weeks away from their time being up. When I arrived, I fell in love with Alban, Mingati, and a sad tuxedo cat. And I stood in the sterile, concrete cattery and tried my best not to cry. I was mostly successful. But only mostly.

I managed to get out of there with only three cats to foster, but with a heavy heart and a determination to find homes for as many of them as possible. For now, Benny (The Cat Formerly Known as Bambi), Toby and Alban are safe in my upstairs guest bedroom. They have a veterinarian appointment on Monday for a check up and then hopefully they will be ready to be adopted.

Mingati, the handsome tabby with Bengal markings, is on a short list as well, but I didn’t take him because there is a lady interested in him. He is on a 12-day quarantine to buy him some time. He is gorgeous.

Mingati

Mingati: his curious face and his stunning Bengal-like coat!

Although Mingati still has a lady interested in adopting him, he isn’t out of the woods yet. Until he is safely adopted, he is not out of the woods. In fact, as you might imagine, any animal in a shelter is at the mercy of the people who run the shelter. Sometimes decisions are made that are in the best interests of the animals, and sometimes decisions are made for expediency. That is why the No-Kill movement is so important, and why so many people are on board.

Alban in the middle, Toby bottom left and Benni bottom right. Top left and right are two who remain at the shelter.

Alban in the middle, Toby bottom left and Benny bottom right. Top left and right are two who remain at the shelter for now, but they are in my heart.

The tuxedo boy, top left, is very sad and shy, but he loves attention. Top right is a fat-cheeked small cat who loves rubs and snuggles. Not pictured are a small, inquisitive tabby, a bigger friendly tabby, two reverse tuxedo cats who love people, and I can’t remember if there are any others. All are sterilized males, and I think they are all two to four years old.

So for now, we think they are safe there, and Benny, Toby and Alban are here with me. But that isn’t the end. I’m not the end for these little ones. They need their forever homes. My own George, Gwen and Maggie are mine; they and my little dog love me and they need the majority of my attention and love. So these fosters and the ones left at the shelter must be adopted. You see, this is how no-kill works; people like me and you, we adopt these animals temporarily and work our butts off to find forever homes for them. We work really hard to find their homes because we have a vested interest; they are living in our homes. We have much greater motivation than shelter employees. It’s pretty simple, really, and it’s proven to work.

I love doing this because I know I’m making a difference. These cats deserve a chance and I’m helping to give it to them! It feels good for me, and at the end of the day, when they go to their forever homes, it will feel beyond good for me and for them. I can hardly wait.

Until then, I’m having three cat nights. Well, to put it precisely, they are six-cat-one-dog nights. And days.

But George isn’t going to put up with that for long!

George, my alpha cat.

George, my alpha cat.

So help George out and spread the word!

A footnote: be aware that when you look for no-kill information, you will find some naysayers. They are wrong. Keep digging before you make up your mind. 

Gueneviere: Gratitude in Fur

Gueneviere: Gratitude in Fur

Gueneviere can’t resist the opportunity to lay her head down…her head on the cushion from one of my mom’s pets’ beds, her bottom resting on my precious friend Mary’s hand embroidered cushion. And then Gwen herself — she was Mama’s baby. I am more grateful than I can express that I brought her home with me after Mom died. Knowing Mom loved her and now I love her makes me happy and grateful and warm.

Final Installment in: Ferals and Fosters

“Where are the boys?” I asked, when I could only see Pepper sitting on top of a box.

“I don’t know,” answered Jay. We started searching the room, and Jay noticed a hole in a box underneath another box. We moved the box on top and opened the other one, and there were Sampson and Stormy, snuggled up together. “Oh, dear,” I said, as Jay picked Stormy up. I gathered Sampson up and he stiffened but didn’t resist. I put him in the carrier and zipped it up. I wished them luck and headed home with my little ‘fraidy cat.

Sampson remained in his little circle bed inside the wire kennel for the first half day. Then he ventured out to eat. Later that evening, to my surprise, I heard him meowing. I had never heard him vocalize at all before! I went up and walked into the room. For the first time in his little life, he didn’t run from a human. In fact, he didn’t seem at all afraid. He was cautious, and he was curious. And lonely. This was the first time in his short, four or five months of life that he’d ever been alone. He finally didn’t have his brother and sister to lean on, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to be held but he sure wanted me near. So much so, in fact, that he actually approached me! This, too, was a first. Now he wanted me around, let me pick him up without fear, and snuggled up as I petted him. I hung out with him for a while and he finally began to play with me as I dangled a feather that was attached to a plastic stick.

That evening, when I went to bed, I heard him meowing again, all alone in his room. He was very insistent and loud. I hardened my heart, knowing I mustn’t teach him that meowing loudly was the way to get his needs met. Soon it became quiet.

By the next afternoon, Sampson was a different cat.  He wanted to be held and touched; he meowed for attention, and snuggled up against me when I held him. He called for me when I wasn’t in the room with him, and he wanted to come out and be with me and the other cats, which I tried to do, but he was overwhelmed by them, and they were afraid of him (as I expected) so I continued to keep them separate. He loved my company, though, and he wanted to play and be touched all the time. He became such a little lover-boy that I neglected my own furbabies a little so I could be with him over the next days. I was quickly falling in love with this little guy.

On my lap: finally comfortable with human contact.

On my lap: finally comfortable with human contact.

Well, I knew I was in danger of ending up with FOUR cats instead of the three I had, so I put an ad on our local community’s facebook page. Within two days, a lady contacted me and asked about him. They had recently lost their beloved black cat and their other cat was lonely; they wanted to have a companion for her, as well as for them. We talked for a few days then arranged for her and her husband to come and meet him.

They arrived earlier than planned, but no matter. I brought Sampson down to see them and he stiffened up immediately, as I was sure he would. The wife and I chatted and then I held him out to her and said, “Would you like to hold him?” and she eagerly took him from me. He was clearly uncomfortable but he watched me for clues. When he saw I was calm, he consented and finally relaxed a little. She unhesitatingly fell under his spell and it was clear she wanted him. The husband watched Sampson, whose fear was unmistakable. “Do you think he’ll relax with us and our other cat?” he asked me. I could only be truthful. “I don’t really know,” I said, “I would expect he will, but it might take time. And if it doesn’t look like it’s going to work out for any reason, just let me know and I’ll take him back.” They exchanged a look and she said, “We want him.” So I gathered his belongings and bit back tears, and I let them take my little sweetheart out the door. And then I cried like a child.

Over the course of the next few days, I learned that the other two kitties were doing great. Without Sampson’s negative influence, they were coming out and socializing with the family, finding favorite hangouts in the house, and generally becoming normal house cats. And Sampson? Well, he quickly adjusted to his new home and family, even snuggling under the covers with them at night! My darling little fellow loves to watch his new daddy play xBox and climb the enormous cat tree they have. And sleep in his new mommy’s arms. Getting updates from both the adoptive families makes me indescribably happy.

I have discovered that I’ve never done anything as rewarding as this. As much trouble as they were, as many loads of laundry and and as much money as I spent, the happiness I feel knowing they are loved and learning to love is beyond mere words. I possess a very clear understanding of  how much BETTER their lives are now than if I’d not gotten involved. If my friend and I had not let our feelings turn into action, these little guys would be cold, hungry and afraid. And the little girl would undoubtedly be pregnant by now, about to give birth to more hungry, cold, frightened kittens. We stopped that cycle, at least for them.

Let’s not let ourselves think that we can do nothing, or that we can’t do enough. Every time we say, “the problem is too great,” or “I can’t handle the pain,” remember the difference two women made in the lives of three feral kittens. This won’t be the last time I cry for the voiceless ones, and it won’t be the last time I act on their behalf. And I’m sure it won’t be the last time I fall in love with a formerly feral foster feline!

Reaching up for a kiss on the head

Reaching up for a kiss on the head

Ferals and Fosters, Part Three

So here I am, a working woman on her own, and three kittens who were definitely acting out: pooping and worse — PEEING on the bed precisely where I would sit and speak sweetly to them, offering them treats and head scratches. *sigh* A few days, and a few loads of laundry later, and the mattress was UNDER the bed, safe below some thick plastic, and the kitties were easily prevented from hiding. UNDER! Whoever heard of a mattress UNDER a bed?

Whatever. Little by little, two of the three began coming out of their shells, letting me pet them, playing, being curious and mischievous, and generally loving life. Within perhaps three weeks, these two little darlings were not feral in the least. They were, in fact, at between four and five months old, ready to be sterilized and given their shots, and shortly thereafter, they were ready to be adopted!

Unfortunately, one of the kitties simply would not be domesticated. While he couldn’t hide, ‘Fraidy, as I had been calling him, effectively avoided me by running to the far side of the bed, and as it is a queen size bed, I couldn’t reach him. He would watch his siblings get scratches and loads of lovings, but he wanted none of it. The only time I could get to him was if he was in the kennel and I crawled in after him. Which I did for a week or so, then I gave him a week without doing that, and he became even more afraid. So I would crawl into the kennel and pick him up gently by the scruff and hold him for a few minutes. He was still fearful.

By now Christmas break was approaching and I had an airline ticket to the US for a week; I was worried. I didn’t know what I would do while I was gone, especially if brother and sister were adopted before then. I had to keep trying. I told my friend, the one who trapped them with me, that he needed a new name, one that wasn’t a self-fulfilling prophecy. “Oscar,” she suggested. “Gideon,” I replied.  Then I continued,  “Clint Eastwood, cuz he ain’t afraid of nothin’.” She responded, “Leo. Leo the Lion!” “Oh, that’s good!” I said, but before I could get used to it she said, “no, Sampson. Tough guy.” And so Sampson he became.

The other two kitties couldn’t get enough attention and I had a family ready to take both of  them within a week of posting the ad. They said they’d be ready to take them home within a couple of days. Sampson, on the other hand, continued to be afraid of everything remotely related to humans. He wouldn’t scratch me, though. He even stopped stiffening up when I reached into the kennel for him and pulled him out. And he’d be very quiet and docile while I held him and talked to him, scratching his little head. Sometimes he’d even purr a little. I remained hopeful.

The future family of the two tame kitties offered to take all three while I was out of town. I would take Sampson back as soon as I returned. So I held back tears as they drove away with all three kitties, and hoped for the best.

When I returned I contacted the adoptive family immediately via text. “I’ll be there to get Sampson this afternoon.” The wife said, “Okay…” then she continued, “We’re considering letting you take both the males home with you.” I was taken aback, but I would happily take them all back if it wasn’t working out. “What is going on?” I asked. She explained that the longer I was gone, the more anti-social ALL the kittens had become. The only one remotely friendly was the female, whom they’d named Pepper, and even she had reverted to some of her feral behaviors. I said, “You know I told you that if they don’t work out, they can come right back home with me; don’t fret. I’ll be there this afternoon and pick up any or all of them, whatever is best for you and the kitties.” And I headed upstairs to put fresh litter in the catbox and fresh water in the bowl.

I arrived to get Sampson, and I figured I’d probably be bringing Stormy, whose name references the wildly popular series, Dr. Who, home, too. Jay and Yvonne welcomed me in and we stood chatting for a few minutes. Finally, Yvonne looked at me and said, “We’ve decided we want to try to keep Pepper AND Stormy.” The couple exchanged a look. “We want to give them a week without Sampson.” I said, “Okay, that’s a great idea. It’s likely Sampson’s fear has had a negative effect on the other two.” They took me up to the room where the cats were staying, and only Pepper was visible. “Where are the boys?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” answered Jay. We looked around for them but only saw Pepper, sitting quietly atop a box. “Uh oh,” I thought, “they’ve managed to escape!”

To be continued…

Ferals and Fosters, Part Two

Yesterday, I posted about our base’s feral cat problem, and the three cats a couple of friends and I decided to rescue. Kittens, actually, about three months old. Feral kittens, to be precise. And they were coming home with me. Why me? Because I was the sucker of the three of us that was willing to spend the time trying to socialize them.

Now you should know, gentle reader, that I’m a terrible foster mom for cats. One of my cats, Maggie, is a failed foster. She came to me after having been found in a car engine as a tiny kitten. I tried to find a home for her but finally resigned myself to the fact that she would be mine. And she is; she loves me as much as any animal I’ve ever had, I think. I can’t imagine giving her up.

Maggie, my failed foster

Maggie, my failed foster

There were only two possible ends to this, neither of them good. One, with me as the crazy cat lady with six cats and no boyfriend (ever) or two, with me in tears watching my darling little furbabies ride away with their new family. Nevertheless, I brought the three little lovelies home.  I set up a borrowed extra-large kennel in a guest bedroom. I covered everything up, even putting a large shower curtain on the bed, under the fitted sheet, to prevent permanent damage from potential accidents. I blocked off ways to get under the bed because it is vital that kittens who need to be socialized not be able to hide from the human. My plan was to let the kitties out when they felt more comfortable, and to come in and sit with them often, letting them get used to me, begin to trust me, and eventually, hopefully become domesticated enough to be adopted.

The first night I left them free in the guest room while I slept down the hall, and all was well. They scampered into the kennel in the morning and I latched the door and went to work. That evening, I went and sat with them for an hour or so, working on my computer and talking to them softly. The following morning, there was a pile of cat poo in the middle of the bed. Well, no real damage done, I thought, and off I went to do laundry before work.

Three little fosters...

Three little fosters…

The next morning, same thing. And the next, the poo was surrounded by a veritable small pond of pee. And on top of that, they had managed to get under the bed. Well, then. An hour or so later, there was more laundry in the washer, the kittens were back in the kennel, and under the bed was once again blocked off.

The next morning, exactly the same scenario. Seriously? I mean, SERIOUSLY?

To say I was frustrated would be a vast understatement. I was seriously considering taking them back to the Kitty Kabana…

To be continued…

Ferals and Fosters, Part One

A few weeks ago, the military base where I work began talking about “getting rid of” the base’s feral cats. This particular military base is home to families from a lot of different countries, all either NATO or partner nations. Relatively few of the families are American; our presence is so numerous that we have to live off base. Which is fine with me; I love living out among the Belgians! But I digress.

Pet ownership is as popular in Europe as it is in the US, but the attitude regarding spaying and neutering is vastly different. While becoming more accepted, elective spay-neuter remains the exception. The prevalent paradigm in some countries is even that such surgery is cruel. This means, of course, that when families on the base where I work get a cat or a dog, there is a high likelihood that the animal will reproduce at some point in the near future. Add that to the fact that sometimes a family will PCS (Permanent Change of (duty) Station, i.e. “move”) and simply abandon their cat, and you have a recipe for exactly what has happened here on the base, and particularly near our ancient school buildings: cats give birth to kittens, kittens don’t have human contact, and POOF! Feral cats.

Our base’s history of feral cats is long and colorful. There is even a story of one falling through the drop ceilings and into a classroom! You can stop laughing now. Or go ahead and laugh; it is pretty funny, I admit. And several friends have adopted kittens that were born homeless to feral parents. When such kittens are adopted as soon as possible after they are born, they quickly socialize to humans. Such is exactly the case with my friend John and his best pal, Bruges.

John and Bruges right after he was adopted from the base

John and Bruges right after he was adopted from the base

 

So recently a few of us resident cat-lovers decided to do something about the problem. We began advocating for the cats, and two of us went so far as to trap three little black kittens living under the math building. Their mom had already moved on, and they were probably about eight or nine weeks old. They were easy to capture using a humane trap, and we took them to our colleague’s little shed beside her house; we call it the Kitty Kabana. For a couple of weeks, these fairly wild little creatures were doing fine: eating and protected from the elements. Unfortunately they were not becoming any less wild. After reading a couple of articles on taming the kittens, we realized they needed to be inside a home, getting used to having people around. Whose home? Ahem. Mine.

Want to find out what happens? Stay tuned…

Doing Good Across the Globe

Some people are drawn to causes that help children. Or maybe their passion is in finding a cure for cancer or Alzheimer’s. Others enjoy contributing to charities that fight poverty or hunger. Christians are called to help spread the Gospel, and many do that by supporting missionaries or local churches. I’m pretty fond of all these particular causes, myself. I’m a Christian with several friends fighting cancer, another whose mom (and the rest of her family) is dealing with Alzheimer’s. A lot of people I know contribute to World Vision or Compassion International (including me!), and most of my Christian friends give to their churches and to foreign missions. All important and good causes. My most important projects, however, are not always the most popular because the needs that speak to me most loudly are those of animals.

Right now one of my favorite causes is called Nowzad. Nowzad is an organization that rescues stray, abandoned or abused animals in Afghanistan, provides animal welfare education to the Afghan people, helps care for and humanely reduce the stray dog population, and helps soldiers rescue dogs and cats from the front lines and gets them the heck out of there, often sending them home (to the USA, UK, Canada, Italy, and other partner nations) to the families of soldiers serving in the line of fire. Lately I’ve been trying to help Lisa get out of the line of fire. She’s adorable, but so are all of them.

I’d invite you to take a look at some of what these good people are doing and support the cause, if you are so moved. These are good people doing good work in a dangerous and frightening place. I’m proud to help them do it!

Buddies

Two of my rescues: Hillcat, the tuxedo tripod who has already crossed the Rainbow Bridge, and George, my little black baby who continues to live with me here in Belgium. Each has his own story, but we’ll save those for another post.

And shortly I’ll be posting about just how important animal causes are to me…stay close!

Home for Christmas

Being home for Christmas is a bittersweet mixed bag. On the one hand, it’s important to be with my dad. On the other, I think I really get on his nerves sometimes, and in spite of how similar we are in personality, we don’t have all that much in common. And then there are all the other memories, regrets, and unfinished business that being home dredges up, between me and my dad and my stepmom, too, but most having to do with my mom and her side of the family.

Having lost my mom three years ago just a few weeks prior to Christmas, I find the season to be very difficult anyway. Last year I stayed home in Belgium, and for Christmas Day, it was pretty lonely, but friends came from Sweden for New Years, and we had a lovely time in Bruges, Brussels, and Liege. Dad was disappointed that I didn’t come home though, and I knew I needed to try to go home this year. So I went. I ended up being terribly melancholy, and very nearly depressed. Heck, if I’m gonna be melancholy, I’d rather be thus with my dog and cats nearby.

Driving through Mom’s hometown on the way to Dad’s family’s old home place, he had Ray Price in the CD player, and I swear, could he have picked any music that would have reminded me more of her? She loved his music, and For the Good Times would’ve had me nearly in tears anyway, so driving by places so filled with memories of her with that music in the background was almost more than I could stand. So I looked out the window and pretended to be daydreaming and bit back the tears.

Dad has been remarried for over forty years. There is little connection between him and my mom now; there’s just me. I know I must remind him of her, and that’s not exactly easy for him, I suppose. He has his own regrets and painful memories. When his own mother lay dying, he tearfully apologized to me for all the bad blood between him and Mom; it was very difficult for him but to his credit, he did it. The only other time I ever saw, well, heard him cry was when I told him via telephone that she’d died; he simply burst into tears, incredulous, and cried, “What?!?” I know he loves me, but I don’t think he loves having me around all that much. He wants me home, but when I’m actually there, it’s not really pleasant for him. But not being there, when he hasn’t got all that many Christmases left, steals something from both of us that will leave me with even more regrets. I’ll never get over not being with Mom on her last Thanksgiving; I don’t want to miss Dad’s last Christmas. But is that how you’re supposed to live? Making decisions based on what will leave you with less guilt?

There is so much baggage in my past, probably as there is in just about everyone’s. I don’t know quite how to carry it. I feel as if I’m shifting it from one hand to the other all the time, as one of my favorite authors once said. It’s filled with things said and unsaid running continuously through my head, an endless reel of regrets and what-ifs.

 

Regrets

Frequently over the past months, I’ve heard people talking about regrets. Mainly they talk about not having any, not regretting anything you’ve done because it’s helped shape who you are today. It’s a good argument, at first glance, but it doesn’t hold up under pressure, at least not for the serious believer in Christ, and I would venture not very well for anyone with a conscience.
I regret a lot of what I’ve done over the years, from the time I was a little girl until now. Some things I’d do over if I could for my own benefit, like ignoring the outside influences that ruined the piano lessons I loved with all my heart, causing me to finally stop playing altogether. I would love to go back and change that; I am so musical, but it has very little way to manifest itself outside of singing, and I’m only a fair singer. Others are choices that caused a lot of pain for me and often for others. Two failed marriages scream to the top of that list. If I had married wisely, or not married at all, how very different my life would be now. I might be working in Spain or NYC, or I might even have children, for goodness sakes!
Some regrets are more painful, mainly because of the way my actions have hurt others. When my mom’s mother, my beloved Mimi, died in 1994, I immediately regretted not having spent as much time with her over the course of the preceding year as I had prior to that. It was all because of a stupid romantic entanglement that stole my attention away from her when she needed me. She had been so incredibly important to me, even living with us until I was about five years old, and when she died I deeply regretted having spent so little time with her over that year. Those choices haunt me still.
You would think, with that experience behind me, I would’ve made different choices with my mom. For a long while, I did. Then my career began to fail, and I finally had to take a job that moved me farther away from her. As a result, I didn’t get down to see her as often as I had before. When my aunt, her sister who lived with her, died last June, Mom started simply refusing to let me come. I think it was partly because she was depressed but also because when I came, I worked rather than just visited with her. She had so many things around the house that needed doing, and I wanted to clean out my aunt’s room.  Mom really didn’t want me to do that; it hurt her too much to even consider, so she simply wouldn’t let me come. The last six months of Mom’s life, I spent almost NO TIME with her.
Finally, last Thanksgiving, I decided to go see friends in New England instead of seeing Mom. I don’t usually do “family things” on that particular holiday. You see, I love the concept of Thanksgiving; I am very grateful for all the myriad of blessings I enjoy. But Thanksgiving has been marked in my life by unhappy events, from my paternal grandfather’s death in the 80’s, which resulted in my dad’s family’s relative denial of the holiday, to my mother’s drinking in the 80’s and 90’s that ruined several Thanksgiving celebrations on the maternal side of the family. So when Mom began getting sick, I was in Massachusetts. I returned just in time to fuss at her over the phone, try to get her to go to the emergency room, make her promise to go to the doctor on Monday, and then get the call, at school, that she had died at 6:00 in the morning, just hours before she would’ve seen her doctor.
I don’t know how to process all of that without regrets. It seems a hard-heartedness would be required, and it just isn’t in me. My heart is soft. I feel everything keenly. And so I live with a profound regret over having neglected Mom in the last months of her life. I wish I had coaxed her to let me come down by promising to just visit, or take her to lunch, or go with her to the doctor. I wish I had chosen to spend Thanksgiving, her last Thanksgiving, with her. I wish, I wish, I wish.
You can’t go back. You have to go forward. So I face front and lean into my future, but not without regrets.