Memorial Day-Year Two

Yesterday was Memorial Day, a time to thank those that had given so much for the cause of freedom, as well as to remember those that have passed.    Yesterday my Dad and I traveled to all the cemetaries locally that we have family or friends buried.  We went to a small cemetary in Upland where my Dad's childhood friend lies and put down a grapevine deer that my Mom had bought for just that purpose many years ago.  It was a feeling of closure finishing something she had started and brought my Dad the same feeling.  We then traveled to Fairmount to place some flowers on the grave of my paternal Grandmother and Grandfather.  We cleaned up around the stones and placed flowers.  For you movie buffs out there, this is the same cemetary that James Dean is buried in-but I digress.  We then made the long trip north to Gardens of Memory to lay flowers on my Grandparents, my recently departed Aunt and Uncle and my Mother's graves.  The cemetary was bustling with activity.  There were flags everywhere, cars parked everywhere, and cemetary employees everywhere.

It made me think.  Normally these places are pretty solitary.  When I visit them, my Dad and I, or my husband and I are usually one of very few people there.  I began to think about my own mortality, as cemetaries are wont to make you do.  I have no children and will, unless God intervenes, have none.  My husband and I will be buried in the same area that my Mom and one day my Dad will inhabit.  Our hope is that somebody will continue to decorate the graves when I'm gone and since we near by, just happen to drop a couple of roses on ours.  But this also made me think.  Does that matter to me?  It matters to who is left, of course, but should it matter to me?  It mattered to my Mom and does to many, but I am quite sure, I won't care too much when I'm gone.  Even if I had kids, it would be no guarantee that I would have flowers on my grave.  Case in point.  Though my Uncle and Aunt had flowers on their grave yesterday that their children must have placed, most of the time, I am the only person that puts them out.   They have children and grandchildren that live close, but I put them out. 

So it begs the question.  What does it say about people that have nothing on their graves.  I visit cemetaries on a fairly regular basis.  Being a history nut, I like to see where historical figures lay.  So I see all sorts of graveyards in all sorts of conditions.  Most of the ones I visit are very old and though these people are fairly famous, they seldom have anything at their graveside.  Unless you are Stonewall Jackson or someone equally as famous, eventually, as generations pass, where you lie will be forgotten. 

So, for future geneologists, who will be tramping around Gardens of Memory is Huntington, IN., wondering about my tick on the family tree,   I've made it easy for you to find me.  I'm close to Karen and Richard, Robert and Helen, Bruce and Judy and Una.  I'm not too far away.  Pretty much the way it has been my whole life.

So, Memorial Day year two, that is, two years since my Mom's death, was relaxing and uneventful.  Though provoking, as it always is, but ok. 

Happy Birthday to Me

Birthday's are funny things.  While at once, supposedly, the most special day a person can celebrate (being that this is the only holiday on the calendar that is JUST YOURS) it can be a difficult reminder of change in ones life. 

Most people lament getting older.  Though there are downsides to this, that hasn't been a big deal for me.  I can hear people saying, "wait till you get to my age then we'll talk!"  But aging in my household was always seen as a gift.  My Mom was sick most of her adult life, so every year she got to celebrate another birthday was a victory.  So being raised in that environment gives me a unique perspective on birthdays that others may not have.  My husband says that birthdays were never that important to him.  He just isn't "wired" that way.  But, as I told him last night, birthdays are the only days on the calendar that are just yours.  Every holiday is designed around something or someone.  Even Mother's Day includes all mothers.  Your birthday, though you probably share the date with many on the globe, is YOUR day. 

So, when I woke up this morning, listening to my IPAD chirp at me with the multiple happy birthday hits on Facebook, I received texts and got a "happy old day" from my Dad on the phone, I wondered back at past brithdays.  Even though I won't do much today and it may not be the most "special" birthday I will ever spend, it will be less stressful or less dramatic than some. 

I'll pick one out to share with you.  Two years ago this week and day, I was in Rochester, Minnesota at the Mayo Clinic with my Mom and Dad.  Mom was there being tested to see what was slowing killing her and making her an invalid in the process.  It was our last stop on the diagnosis train.  We had gotten the news that they still didn't know what was wrong with her and we were going to have to spend another week up there.  My birthday fell on a Sunday that year on the exact same day as Mother's day.  So we were celebrating two holidays away from home, in basically a hospital-albeit an above average and fabulous place-still a hospital.  Not the first birthday I had spent in a hospital with my mom, but this would be the last. 

That Saturday, despite being in pain, emotionally distraught, and physically wrecked, my Mom, her way,  made a point to make the day as special for me as she could.  We took their van out of the downtown and found a local Wal-Mart.  We loaded her up in an automatic wheelchair/cart and went inside to get some supplies for the next week.  My Mom shooed me away so she and my dad could go to the bakery.  I knew they were getting me a birthday cake, but I let on that I didn't know.  My mom then disappeared.  Knowing she couldn't control that cart very well, I was somewhat concerned.  But my fears were allevieated as she came around the corner of the jewelry counter, putting along in her cart with a big mylar balloon clutched in her hand.  She had a big grin on her face that I will never, ever forget.  She was so pleased that she was able to go off by herself and get me a balloon and her face was so happy.  A bit of normalcy, in a very unnormal situation that caused us all to chuckle. 

We got our things and went back to our hotel room at the clinic, also with a Mother's day card and things for her in hand.  I didn't keep that balloon, though now I wish I would have, but it was vintage mom.  Thinking of me before herself, thinking of others despite her pain.

She didn't live long after those days at the clinic.  She steadily declined that summer and though she had plateaus, we finally lost her in November.  Though I've said this before to people, and in this blog, those two, sometimes hellish, weeks at Mayo Clinic are some of the most treasured moments I will ever remember.  God gave me two uninterrupted weeks with my parents.  Two weeks of chuckles and giggles at silliness, sitting and watching episodes of the Golden Girls, holding close to each other in our fears and just being together.  Was it hard?  Yes.  Was it something I wanted to have over with?  Yes.  Would I trade it for anything in the world?  No way.

So, as I sit here, in comfort and minimal stress this May 10th, 2011,  my mind goes back to May 10, 2009.   A time I thought horrific that now has become sublime. 

That's a message to all of us.  Make each birthday special.  You don't have to be showered with gifts, you don't have to eat until you pop, you don't even have to be at home.  Just enjoy the moment.  Remember the good times, try to make the bad times less bad, and remember those that love you.

I may never be the number one priority to anyone on my birthday that I was when my mom was alive, but the memories I will have will be enough to get me through the rest of my birthdays.