Things you might not know about my Grandma

My grandmother, Elizabeth Bradley died Monday morning. You probably already know that by now. We miss her now, but the truth is, we've actually been missing her for years. Sometimes suddenly, and sometimes gradually over my grandmother's last several years, she has left us a little at a time. So profound is the difference between the "Grandma Elizabeth" of my childhood and the "Old Ma" of these last several years,  I offer the following in tribute to the sturdy, vibrant woman whose life of nearly 88 years we will celebrate tomorrow.


http://www.dossfuneralhome.com/obit2.html 

The following are some things I'd like to share about my grandma; things you may not know, or things you may have forgotten.

1.            My grandma did a lot of fun things with us when we were kids. She and my grandpa took us fishing. And she dressed the fish; I can remember plainly the thud of the hammer against the fish's head on the picnic table as she gave the fish a good sturdy whack before cutting into it behind the gills. She took Ben and Jonathan to the gun & dog auction, and she happily got up at the crack of dawn to go yard-saling with my mom, Aunt Myrna, Jessy and me.

2.            She read us stories when we stayed with her on sick days, and she made us jello and tapioca pudding. She also introduced me to that fabulous breakfast treat: peaches & cream Quaker instant oatmeal...with oreos crumbled on top. Yum! Cornbread, Tang drink mix, popcorn, homemade noodles cut with the noodle disker, and of course, there was the special RED birthday cake. These were her special treats for us.

3.            She was my grandpa's most faithful farmhand, even after they were "retired" and living in town. He still needed someone to open the gates.

4.            She did not add enough sugar to her iced tea or pies, and she only allowed a tiny sliver of cool whip with a slice of pumpkin pie (or any other dessert that required a garnish of cool whip). So, Dad and Uncle Duane would bring their own tea and cool whip to Christmas, Thanksgiving, etc. My parents had conflicting opinions as to why my grandma, who was certainly a good cook, used sugar/cool whip so sparingly. My mom's opinion was that grandma was convinced excessive sugar in one's diet brought on diabetes; my dad's take was that she was "too cheap" to buy sugar.

5.            My dad had only recently learned (when he took over her grocery shopping for her) of her daily addiction to the above-referenced "fruit and cream" variety pack of Quaker instant oatmeal (though she didn't add the oreos daily...or at any time except when entertaining grandchildren). My dad was shocked/awed/appalled/betrayed to learn that this woman whom he knew to be the most frugal of the frugal purchased this product. He would have been surprised to learn she even knew such a product existed and purchased it as an occasional luxury splurge. To learn that she consumed it as a DAILY INDULGENCE...wow...let's just say that's not how he claims she raised him.

6.            She never owned a TV with a remote control. She never bought a converter box, and she never bought a digital TV.

7.            She also never threw anything away.

8.            She loved clothes. And shoes. And purses. And costume jewelry. All secondhand, or homemade, of course. It's one personality trait that left years ago, as evidenced by the fact that she completely wore out her last purse. She used to switch purses multiple times per season. She gleefully dug through piles at yard sales and racks at secondhand stores, often remarking how hard it was to find good stuff "these days" at yard sales.

9.            She carried my grandpa's wallet in her purse from the time he died until she did. She told me she kept an "emergency $20 bill" in it, "just in case" so Grandpa could help her out if she ran short at Aldi's or KFC or wherever. I checked her purse recently. His wallet was still in there, but the $20 had long since been spent. I wondered at that point if she even remembered why she carried that wallet with her anymore. I also wondered why on earth she insisted on lugging that heavy purse around with her everywhere, when she could barely even lug herself around anymore.

10.       Her middle name was Adelaide, and she didn't particularly care for it.

11.    My grandma was a practical pessimist. And why wouldn't she be? The fifth of 8 children, she lost her dad when she was about 10 years old. She lost her firstborn in infancy. A daughter, Janet Faye. Nearly 20 years ago, she lost her husband, my Grandpa Pearl. Almost 12 years ago, she buried a son, Duane, and a little over a year ago, she lost her daugher-in-law, my mother, Diane. She survived all but one of her seven siblings.

She often made comments, such as, "I just don't see why I'm still here. Why hasn't He taken me home yet?" That was the sort of comment she would make regarding death. In response to one such comment she made at the visitation of one of her siblings, my dad replied, "You're not dead yet because He's waiting on your attitude to improve."

Toward the very end, she sometimes wouldn't even comment. We would ask her how she was doing, and she would often just turn her hands, palms up and shrug in a helpless, frustrated gesture that said it all.

When I was a child, she was often quoted saying, "Life's a bitch, and then you die." Now, please understand, my grandmother didn't swear. Except for when she would say "Life's a bitch, and then you die." So, yes, she had a generally pessimistic attitude. But it was because she was looking forward to going home; not because she was looking back and dwelling on all the heartache she had endured. So, maybe we could say she was very optimistic about her pessimism.

But in your hearts revere Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that lies within you. --I Peter 3:15

God Hears a Child's Prayer

(It’s past midnight, and I’m not proofreading this. Sorry.)

I have been at times lately, greatly concerned about the spiritual health of my firstborn. It seemed like, early on, he was on the right track. I don’t remember what exactly his first word was (other than mama), but I do remember that his first three words were “socks,” “hot,” and “amen.” By age two, he even had his own unique version of the sign of the cross; he would tap his throat following a prayer, just a minor deviation from the standard forehead, belly button, left shoulder, right shoulder protocol. It was absolutely thrilling to a mother who had prayed so fervently that God would spare her the anguish of losing her firstborn,

But then, as he approached his third birthday prayer life significantly deteriorated.

He would listen while I prayed aloud at his bedtime, until he became old enough to protest. “Mommy, no prayin’!” he would insist. I realized that perhaps my praying had been a little overwhelming to a toddler/preschooler who already seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Perhaps I should have stuck with an Our Father or Guardian Angel Prayer, but do you think I did? Nope. In the interest of formation of his young conscience, I included a lengthy discussion of sinfulness, repentance, and forgiveness in the nightly prayer. Then I moved on to thankfulness for our health, followed by a plea for healing of Grandma Diane and for continued healing of John. Finally, I closed with a request to keep “mommy, daddy, John & Baby Patrick safe”. I’m sure I from time to time as the need arose and time permitted, I threw in a request for more or less rain, world peace, or the election of a fiscally libertarian and socially conservative president.

It’s easy to see in hindsight why I might have turned him off of the whole prayer concept. But recently, he seems to be putting the pieces together, a little at a time. When he remembers it, he likes to take his “God book” to Mass with him. (It’s a book of children’s prayers with a convenient carrying handle for the preschooler on the go.)

And, until recently, he adamantly refused to fold his hands, bow his hands and even pretend to pray before meals. Now, I’d like to say this recent development (him finally participating in mealtime prayer) can be credited to Matt & I taking a stand and refusing to pray (and thus refusing to let the meal begin) until everyone solemnly folded his hands and prayed together. This seems unlikely, though, as meals for John are simply a mysterious ritual for which he has no real use.

His daily diet goes something like this:

morning hot chocolate, apple juice with miralax, apple juice, two frozen peas and half a can of cranberry sauce for lunch, followed by naptime water, afternoon hot chocolate, iced tea for supper with one chicken nugget and 3 tablespoons of BBQ sauce, then bedtime water.

No, I don’t think his new compliance on the prayer issue has anything to do with the threat of not getting to eat his fish sticks. Rather, I think it has more to do with the fact that his younger brother (ever eager to please, or maybe just scared straight) caught on to the prayer routine and gleefully takes a moment away from blowing on his food (ever mindful of safety, that Patrick is) to clasp his sticky hands together and wave them around so everyone can see he’s big enough to pray just like everyone else.

At any rate, John has finally been joining us in prayer now at mealtime for the last couple weeks. His prayer goes like this “Blessusso, blessusso,” then mumbling gibberish for the rest of the prayer. He finishes up with the sign of the cross, which really reminds me of a flight attendant instructing passengers in the proper operation of the emergency oxygen masks, and usually goes something like “Father, Holy Son, Spirit, God on High...A-MEN!”

So, now comes the part I really wanted to share with you. My number one purpose in writing this blog is to maintain a record for myself of at least some of the amusing things my boys say or do, and this morning, John did something that is, at least to me, worth recording.

I heard him hollering from the parlor (that’s right, we have a parlor, not a livingroom, and it has a davenport, not a couch…you can laugh here…it’s a joke) something I didn’t immediately understand. I came in from the kitchen to figure out what he was saying, which was “I’m spending time with the Lord.”

“Ok. Good,” I said, or something like that, and went in to see what this meant.

He had procured not one, but two step stools, and was apparently holding a prayer service of some sort. He had used one stool to climb up into the window seat. (It is in fact a high window seat, but he does not require the stool to climb up onto it; however, I bought the stool at a yard sale last weekend so it’s a new favorite toy, and has a role in whatever game is going on). The second stool, he had actually placed on the window seat and was, of course, standing on it. Thus, he had constructed a dais and explained seriously and patiently, “Mom, I’m praying. We have to be quiet in church.” “Ok,” I said.

I tried to go on about folding clothes while he mumbled gibberish, punctuated occasionally by a very plainly articulated “Lord, hear our prayer”.

He kept getting mad at me because I was supposed to “be quiet in church.” But I wasn’t saying anything, so I couldn’t figure out what the problem was. Finally, he got me to understand that I was supposed to be praying. So, I started with “Our Father”. This seemed to satisfy him, except for I was supposed to intone “Lord, hear our prayer” at the end. So, I Our Fathered some more, and I Hailed Mary, and I Confessed to Almighty God and to You My Brothers and Sisters. All were acceptable, as long as I punctuated them with “Lord, hear our prayer” every now and then.

When it was made clear to me by the lector that  I was not yet finished, I continued praying an unscripted prayer, dutifully inserting “Lord, hear our prayer” here and there. I figured it couldn’t hurt me anyway.

All the time I was praying, John was praying lilting mumbling gibberish, interrupted every so often by “Lord, hear our prayer,” (again, the slow articulation was in stark contrast to the rest of the prayer.)

Finally, I looked up from my praying after a few minutes, and John said, “Church is over. You can go now.”

So, I did. I went back to my laundry. With a smile.

I think this immensely gratifying, happy mom moment prompted me to share John’s spiritual struggles tonight because I can’t share my own. I have instead taken a moment to reflect on just how normal my little boy is. I think about cancer every day, many times a day, but he doesn’t, and for that, I thank the Lord.

For the fact that he doesn’t know the debt of gratitude I owe for his healing, I thank the Lord.

And that thoughts of cancer may never consume his consciousness, I pray to the Lord.

Lord, hear my prayer.

Good night, and Good Friday.

I need another project?

I am an accidental blogger. I became addicted initially and superficially thanks to the feedback from the guestbook sign-ins on John's jounal. The guestbook entries from family, friends, and strangers lifting my family up in unceasing prayer was powerful medicine for my aching heart. But as time went on, I found joy in journaling. It was cathartic. John was not the only one who needed healing from cancer. Though I did not suffer physically from cancer, the disease affected all aspects of my life.

My relationship with my husband would never be the same. How I view myself as a mother was forever changed. My career was jolted and completely halted, before veering off in an exciting and scary new direction. The experience was so rich and painful. So beautiful and ugly all at the same time. Shattered were my pride and self-reliance. Broken emotionally and naked spiritually, I had, in the midst of my grief and regret, an opportuinty to experience the healing power of the Holy Spirit in a way most people never do. And with this came the opportunity to use a gift God gave me to share His mighty healing power. So, I e-shared the ups and downs of the experience on the web. I shared the medical stuff and the non-medical stuff. The things that made us patients, and the things that tested our patience.

Six months. Thirteen hospial visits. Eight cycles of chemotherapy. Three surgeries, at least. A few blood transfusions. Dozens of shots. Scores of blood draws. Months of nightly intravenous feedings. Two many tests to count. And then when that was over, six more months of pills (for a child too young to swallow pills), more tests, needle pokes, and a monthly pee-in-the-bag test. Then oral surgery to repair the tooth decay left behind in the wake of John's jaw tumor and chemotherapy.

John was healed. His port-a-cath was removed January 2010, eighteen months after he was diagnosed. He was a little more than two years old and about six weeks shy of welcoming a new baby brother.

My mom (John's grandmother) rejoiced with the rest of this as John reached this incredible milestone which had seemed so far away eighteen months earlier. She rejoiced even in the midst of the news that her own cancer had returned. After 15 years, the unthinkable had happened. My joy in my son's healing was dampened by my heartache of my mother's relapse. The normal I had so desperately wanted was not to be had. Cancer, it seemed, would never be out of my life.

I started a CaringBridge website for my mom to share updates with those interested, but posts were rare. Knowing from the outset that the odds of a good outcome were slim for her this time around (though she would not admit it), I found it nearly impossible to pour my heart out in the manner that had been so easy for me during John's treatment. I stopped writing on John's website too. You may have assumed that I was just not interested. You would be wrong. I just couldn't face writing how I really felt. Since I couldn't write what I truly felt, lest I actually feel what I truly felt, I wrote nothing. To write a sugar-coated, pollyanna version of the ugly truth was of no value to me.

I haven't posted anything since October 12, 2010 (or somewhere around that date). That was the day my mom died.

But, oh, how I have missed writing. There are so many things I have wanted to write over the past year but have avoided doing. I've missed a lot of opportunities to record some really rich insights, missed opportunities for feeling and healing. I would like to keep a private journal for "me only" to read. But I know I lack the motivation to write without an audience, be it a real audience or an imagined one. On the other hand, I want so desperately to keep a record of the little everyday joys of motherhood to one day share with my children. If I wait until I possess enough intrinsic motivation to wirte for "me only", it will never get done. So, for now, this is the closest I can come to pouring my heart out to myself in a journal.

My intent is for this blog to be an account of our real life. The normal parts and the not-so-normal parts. The mundane and the extraordinary. Laughter and tears, vomiting and poop. First words, first steps, first days of school. Potty training and weaning. Cooking and cleaning. Sowing and reaping. Sewing and ripping. Old dogs and baby kittens. Bottle calves and visiting goats. Maybe it's something you want to read; maybe it isn't. But it doesn't matter. It's (first) for me to write, and (second) for you to read. I intend for it to be raw and largely uncensored. That being said, the provocative and profane will be politely omitted, as will complaints about my dearly beloved, Mr. Clark. I'll allow you to assume our marriage is perfect.

Tax season is here. My kitchen re-decorating project is unfinished, as is my bathroom re-decorating project. And my parlor re-decorating project. I'm seriously lacking physical exercise, and my life is generally disorganized. The last thing I need is another project. But, I'm starting another project anyway.

We'll see how it goes.