It was Christmas morning in the sick house. I’d been ill for days with no relief in sight and it looked like Mike had come down with this virus from hell as well. Dad was moved to memory care and was not doing well and I’d yet to go over to visit. We had to clear out the old apartment within a month but I could barely get out of bed. I did not send out Christmas cards, I did not finish my Christmas shopping, I had not made any meal preparations, and frankly had no desire to eat. I was watching the Nutcracker the night before and thought of calling my mother-in-law to tell her it was on when I remembered she was gone. This was possibly the worst Christmas ever. I know for sure it was the worst one for Mike. My own mother made Christmas a nightmare until she disconnected from me for a blessed decade. Up to that point, I would go into the season wondering what sort of mayhem she would create. She never failed to disappoint. As a result, I don’t have high expectations of the season. I don’t have children or grandchildren to lavish gifts and time on, the family I do have left is greatly diminished, and due to caregiving I have no spare time for volunteerism. The church I was attending decided to close, and even if I had a place for a Christmas Eve service (and there are plenty to choose from in this city of churches) I am too sick to participate. These thoughts caused me to wonder if I could remember a good Christmas. I had to go back to my childhood when I was living with my grandparents. Christmas eve service at midnight and as we left each child would get a box of candy. There was always one really good piece of chocolate in that box. The night would be quiet and crisp and the car would be warm as we drove home. This was in the days before car seats and I could lie stretched out on the back seat looking up at the stars as Grandpa drove. The next morning the tree was up and presents were under it. Grandma had been baking Christmas cookies for weeks and now we could have as many as we wanted. The house was filled with the aroma of food cooking. Mom had driven in from Detroit and we were all together. Grandma kept things on an even keel, but once she was diagnosed with cancer, things went downhill and Christmas was never the same. This virus that I’ve been railing against is actually a gift. It’s made me stop to consider where I am in life. I’m coming toward the finish line. Who knows how many years we have, but I’m definitely past the half way mark. My mother-in-law is gone, and I suspect my father-in-law will die of a broken heart. He’s 95 with Alzheimer’s and can’t find his wife. My time as a caregiver is drawing to an end for now. It is time to plan on making good memories. Happy New Year.
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There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace. - Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 (NIV) 2015 really kicked my ass. We felt a tremendous amount of loss last year, from our car getting totaled to the death of several of our loved ones - the year left us spinning. Grief and loss overwhelmed us and we needed time to process everything, yet it kept coming. While trying to care for our own broken hearts, we were also trying to care for Mom K. as she was adapting to her new reality of being in a wheelchair, losing her brother to Alzheimer’s and watching her daughter grieve the loss of her husband unexpectedly. We’ve spent time traveling back and forth to Texas to help Mike’s sister adjust to her new reality and to try to help with all the maintenance a house needs. Fortunately (sort of) I’ve been laid off from my part time job and have time to do all this. I confess, I've felt dazed and numb for several months. However, I refuse to be defined by loss and I refuse to be a victim. It’s time to get moving again, even if it’s only in baby steps. Painting is once again happening in my studio. I can’t say I’m setting the world on fire, but one of the paintings for the Freedom 58 project seems to be done. I hope. It’s been put aside to look at it again once the second one is completed but it’s movement in the right direction. Last night we went over to Mike’s parents’ apartment and helped Mom call her youngest (and now only) brother for his birthday. There are still things to celebrate and that is our focus. It is the season to move forward. Like posting this blog. During the year I throw ticket stubs, photos, brochures and whatever kind of mementos I may pick up along the way into a box in my office. At the end of each year I go through the box along with my journal to review where I’ve been, what I’ve done and what things have happened. Then I create a scrapbook. I started this habit about six years ago after a trip to France and it’s proven to be a worthwhile exercise in many ways. This year’s review had a lot of obituaries. In fact, another one was added on December 29th when a college friend passed away. Well meaning friends keep telling me 2016 will be better than last year and that it can’t get worse, but of course that is nonsense. Pain and misfortune do not follow a calendar and it certainly can get worse. However, I’m hopeful that things will get better somehow. While the friends and family I’ve lost won’t come back, the Artmobile is still totaled, and I’m a year older (I won’t get that time back), still I keep hope. Hope that I will grow from the losses, hope that I still have a future, and hope that I won’t just be older but wiser as well. I’ve been pondering a meme on Facebook that said in effect “I’m not the same person I was at the beginning of the year” indicating growth and depth through a year's experiences. I'm not so sure I can make the same claim. When my mother died, I spent time pondering about how I’d changed during the seven years I looked after her. I couldn’t put my finger on when the changes had occurred, but I was not the same person. I had developed more depth and compassion…more patience and more faith. I can’t say that this year of loss has wrought any great or small changes in me. I’ve barely had time to begin to process one grief when another came my way. Wave after wave of loss – wave after wave of grief. Rather than grow, I seem to have shut down a bit. I suppose I had to in order to weather the storms and continue to see after the needs of my in-laws. But it’s time to stop withdrawing and time to try to step forward again. Time to get into the studio. Time to try to start writing again. Time to breathe and take a step forward. While I know I’m a bit late in saying this, Happy New Year. “For whatever you think of me, any thought you might allow
I’m not who I would like to be, it’s just who I am right now” – ‘Fragile’ by Ralston Bowles There I sat, alone by design, at another funeral. It’s the fourth or fifth one since April and I was looking toward another one in a week or so for my brother-in-law. I sat alone because there were so many long-time friends and acquaintances at this service and I couldn’t face them. This was a service for Gary’s family and I didn’t want to draw attention to my own griefs. One more condolence and I knew I’d lose it so there I sat, in the middle of a row, with four seats on either side of me trusting that no one would recognize the back of my head. There were some solid musicians playing at Gary’s service, the minister who officiated at my wedding. They were there to pay tribute. I’ve heard Ralston Bowles play many times over the years and he’s a flippin’ musical genius. But today, his voice was singularly beautiful as he sang one of Gary’s favorite songs by Andraé Crouch. For a moment I forgot myself as I listened to him. I forgot where I was or why I was there. Ralston had transported me for a brief moment and I am truly thankful. I really thought I could do this. I thought I could come and share the grief of another family and offer comfort. But once the service was over and I spoke to a couple friends I realized I could not stay. I was saved by a text. A friend had gotten lost on the way to the service wondered if I could meet her for lunch. Yes, oh yes! I had to get out of there. And so I said some goodbyes, signed the guest book and fled. Now I’m home, changed and in solitude. I’ve received an email from my sister-in-law who has taken me up on my offer to come stay with her. In fact, she’s asked if I’d come down before the funeral to help. I’m more than glad to be of some help and comfort and will be leaving soon. I can do one on one. It’s crowds of people I can’t deal with right now because I’m feeling quite fragile. If you are interested in learning more about Ralston Bowles and his music, go to https://www.earthworkmusic.com/artists-ind?i=1039 You can hear his music here: https://www.reverbnation.com/ralstonbowles When our good friend died recently, my heart was broken into thousands of pieces. Not only did we lose Don, but it refreshed the grief of losing his wife three years earlier. One of my longest friendships and most dear, I thought my heart couldn’t break any more. I was wrong. Monday, after work, Mike sat down and said, “Chaz* has died.” I stared at him and thought he had lost his mind. Our brother-in-law is a healthy, intelligent, vibrant, and engaging man. He and Mike’s sister were due for a visit soon. This simply did not make sense. My mind was struggling with what he was saying and I kept saying, “No” over and over. Mike had to be wrong but the sadness in his eyes finally convinced me and I broke into wracking sobs. Among his many accomplishments, Chaz had been a pilot for decades. He flew in the Navy and continued to fly privately when he got out of the military. As an engineer, he worked in aeronautics and when he retired he spent time with other retirees refurbishing aircraft. He had built his own planes over the years. His cars were not parked in the garage, since parts of planes inhabited that space. A couple of years ago he purchased a glider and was enjoying it immensely. Sunday, he took the glider for another flight. It was a lovely day for it and he was happy to be in the air again. When he wasn’t back by late afternoon a member of the glider club contacted the local sheriff’s office to see if there had been any reports of a downed plane. The search began. Through pinging his cell phone, he and the plane were found. Chaz was pronounced dead at the scene. My heart, which has been ravaged by loss over the past few years, is broken even more. Our family is overwhelmed with grief and it seems to be never ending. Prayers are always appreciated. Most likely, this blog will be on hiatus. I trust you’ll understand that. Peace. *His name has been changed to protect his wife’s and family’s privacy. The morning was shrouded in fog which gave it a quiet beauty. As we pulled into the cemetery, a group of mourners emerged from the mist to our left. I pointed to Mike and said, “Over there” and we made our way to the small group. Today was the day we’d join Don with Jan. The weather was fitting. Mike and I joined their children and one grandchild to lay him to rest. As we waited, we reminisced. Stories of Don and stories of Jan. Laughter, tears and waiting. And waiting. And even more waiting. Where the heck was Don? Wasn’t the internment at 9? One daughter said she thought she remembered 9:30 and that number sort of tugged at my memory, too. But the sexton was there waiting as well, and the family hadn’t contacted him. The funeral director must have arranged for him to be here this morning. After about twenty minutes, another daughter went over to speak with the sexton to see if he had any info. He called the funeral director who was still in another (very close) town and would be there shortly. There had been a mix-up on the calendar, but the delay gave us more time to remember, talk, weep and hug. Earlier, I had mentioned to Mike that I was out of tears. I was wrong and they fell freely. Again. Turns out, Don was late for his own funeral. An irony since he was a very prompt and considerate man. But it is also funny and he’d appreciate the pun. The late Don Upp. Rest in peace, Don. You are deeply missed. Another week, another grief. Truly, I know that life is made up of losses. I also know that as you age the losses come more frequently. I just didn’t think I was that old, yet. Three years ago, one of my closest friends died. While she was over 20 years older than me, we had a special kinship not unlike sisters. We met in college studying art together. A friendship was forged and for the next 30 years we traveled together, studied together, painted together and delivered art and hung shows together. Our families meshed as we shared laughter and tears. When she died, it was a serious blow but her husband and children were still part of my life. We grieved together, and did our best to move forward. Early Tuesday morning her husband and our friend Don passed away. It was a bit of a shock because although he’d been hospitalized the doctors had told him they’d be re-evaluating his progress in a month to see if he should go into assisted living or be able to return home with help. Our visits were filled with great conversation and laughter and I was able to catch up with his out of town children. Mike and I visited Sunday afternoon with plans to be back later in the week. Less than 48 hours later he was gone. While I deeply grieve the loss of Don, it also brings back the loss of Jan. I’m grieving losing her all over again. Don is gone, the house is being emptied and will be sold. I have tons of wonderful memories in that house, in her studio. Every inch of that house was imprinted with Jan and Don’s creativity and art. She did mostly watercolor and after Don retired from his career as a metallurgical/purchasing engineer in the auto industry, enlarged his photography into a second career. He has a lovely book of photos of the Pacific Northwest that you can look at here: http://www.blurb.com/b/168800-the-pacific-northwest Two mornings ago, I woke up in the wee hours with a start. “I’ll buy the house,” I thought. “It’s a wonderful house. It’s got all those memories and connections, I can have my studio where her studio was…I can hold onto them.” In the cold, clear light of day I realized that wasn’t realistic. The only reason I ever went to that town was to visit them. I have no other reason to live there. I don’t know anyone and really don’t want to leave my neighborhood and my city. I have to let it go. Cue the theme from Frozen. Let it go. Let it go. Easier said than done. Here come the tears again. A couple of weeks ago, I attended a funeral of a friend who died at far too young an age. A generous writer and editor, friendship came easy to her. Her funeral was the most eloquent I’ve been to in no small part because of all the speakers were professional writers and editors. Her loss is keenly felt.
I asked the church office if there was a recording of it and for a small fee, I was sent a CD of the celebration of her life. I thought I could listen to it again without so much emotion, but the tears poured forth anew. Tears not only for the loss of this friend, but for all the friends and family I’ve lost over the past 5 years. The losses are piling up and because it’s the nature of life, they will continue. It is just the way it is, as much as I hate that fact. There have been many times when I’ve been comforting someone who is mourning. Often they are told, “You’ll get over it.” That’s not really true. The truth I tell people engulfed in sadness, is that you’ll learn to accommodate the grief. Eventually, it won’t be quite as sharp, nor as often. You can learn to be happy again. But you will always have a piece of your heart missing. The only solution to avoid all this sorrow would be to insulate my life from pain. Form no friendships and no attachments of any sort. Then, there would be no pain because there would be no loss. But there would be no joy, either. I have dear memories of laughter, struggle, tears, failures and triumphs shared. Oh yes, it hurts. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. The key turns, the door opens and I step into the studio. How long has it been? One week? Two? More? I honestly can’t remember but the plants need watering. It’s obvious I was hopeful of returning soon when I was last here. My palette is laid out, colors mixed and all is covered with a sheet of thin plastic to keep the paint fresh for the next day. To no avail. I find the paint scraper to clean off the glass, but I don’t have the heart to put out new paint. Instead, I study the photo of the model and analyze the drawing. In the last painting session, the values improved but I once again drifted off in measuring and have to re-draw and make adjustments. I sigh. Will I ever get these paintings done? I was so excited when I was first contacted for this project. So much so, I volunteered to do two portraits rather than one. Another sigh. I turn my attention to the plants. I can do something about that. Finding two gallon jugs, I make the trip down the hall for the janitor’s closet. I forget to take the key with me, so it’s the restroom sink instead. Back in the studio, I see the poinsettia is blooming and I rotate the pot. I notice one of the plants is looking quite bleached out. The full light is too much for it and I need to move it. I’d moved the small palm the last time I was here and it’s much happier in its new location. I give it a drink. The plants are not too bad off but the water soaks quickly into the dry soil and shortly the greenery perks up. When was the last time I watered my soul? I’ve been so busy dipping into my spiritual reservoir to give to others that I’ve failed to recognize it has run dry. Sorrow upon sorrow fills my life right now. Watching my in-laws slowly losing ground, a friend entering hospice care, another friend’s husband with only a few months to live…one emotional weight after another creating a desert in my heart. Rather than spend time trying to paint when I’ve nothing to say and no energy to say it, I decide it’s time for quiet meditation to tap into the Living Water and refill my spiritual well. I select some CDs that currently speak to my heart and just soak it in as I quietly sit in the studio. It’s a struggle to still my mind – there are so many things that need attending to. But I’m worth fighting for, so I stay with it. Hebrews 4:11 comes to mind. It is labor and diligence that helps us enter into rest. It takes about 20 or 30 minutes to finally settle my mind and get to a place of prayerful meditation. While it is time well spent, when it is over the issues of life come crowding back in. It seems the well needs more time being filled. Time I don’t have in this season of life. But it is a start and I now recognize the need. But I am so weary. Poor little mama. She could never catch a break. She was the surprise baby that supplanted the youngest brother and he never forgave her for that. She grew up in an angry household. She escaped to work in a factory in Detroit only to meet a very handsome man, elope and have a brief, but disappointing marriage. Motherhood didn’t work out for her, either. It just wasn’t her thing and one of the wisest things she ever did was give me to my grandparents to raise. By the time I came around, things had mellowed out a bit so it wasn’t quite as hard as she’d had it. One thing she did do very, very well. She was a hard worker. She worked for a major retailer, slowly climbing up the ranks in the bookkeeping department. Women didn’t hold managerial positions in her time, but she did make it up to office supervisor. She gave everything she had to that company, and yet when things got tight in the economy, they showed her the door via early retirement. The one thing she loved and was loyal to, didn’t love her back. She thought I’d be her entertainment during retirement, but she just couldn’t be in relationship with me. When I drew the line and spelled out my boundaries, she chose to disconnect. For a decade. Actually, a bit more than a decade. Still, when she was in need, I did step back in. I took care of her the last seven years of her life. It was rough on both of us, but she suffered the most. And then, she died. We buried her in the autumn in the same cemetery as her parents and grandmother. She was laid to rest in a new section of the cemetery – far away from her family. The sexton told us we couldn’t lay a headstone until the following year. Because of other emergencies that life brought to us, I couldn’t get the headstone until this spring. I chose a small, pretty design. Nothing flashy, but it was the same color as her parents’ and I thought she’d like it. There was a family reunion in the area last weekend, so I went to visit. Two hours, two phone calls (to Mike to call the sexton for me), and copious bug bites later, I finally found her headstone. It was wedged in between two other large family stones and looks like someone took a shoe horn to fit it in. You can see in the close-up photo that the stone on the right is an inch away. The stone on the left is the same. Nowhere else in the cemetery are the grave markers jammed together like that group. I was deeply saddened. My poor little mama. |
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July 2021
Donna KemperDonna Kemper put aside her art career to care for a mother she hadn't seen in over a decade. For seven years she followed her mother's journey into dementia, caring for her and putting forgiveness into action. Categories
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