Mumma Dear

Recently I wrote about my father, my daddy. Lately, my mom has been on my mind.

I called her Mumma Dear. Yeah, I called her Mom too, and when we worked together, I even called her Marie, but when it was just her and I, she was Mumma Dear.

If I turn out to be half the person my mother was, I will be a happy woman. She was the kindest, most loving individual I have ever met. She really loved people, treated them with respect, and in return was well respected. She loved people that didn't deserve it, she supported her friends with every ounce of her being and she sacrificed everything for anyone who resided in her heart. She was the bravest woman I have known.

She was my best friend, and while she has been gone almost 7 years, there are still moments every day that I want to call her. She always knew just what to say. She always knew the trivial answers to every day questions, and while she was a teetotaler, she knew her booze. You didn't want to go against her in Trivial Pursuit. She'd smoke ya every time.

She lived with poise and grace. I am still absolutely amazed at how she held her head high in face of adverse events. She was a strong woman with an infant and a 6 year old when my father was very seriously injured in the line of duty as a police officer. She did what needed to be done, she held us all together. She held her head high through 2 battles with cancer, always with a smile. That brilliant smile.

At http://www.alpena.cc.mi.us/facets/Issues/2004/NonFictioin/wieske_mother.htm you can read about her last moments, but keep in mind, she was so much more than this. She lived with her disease. She wasn't dying of ovarian cancer, she was living with it. Amazing lady!

There wasn't anything my mom couldn't do. One year at Thanksgiving all the guys were out hunting and a storm came through and wiped out all the power. Mom, ever the inventive one, took the turkey out to the barn and sparked up the barbecue and finished it there; started the propane in the travel trailer to finish the green bean casserole and potatoes. When the guys got back they were absolutely astonished that dinner with all the trimmings was ready. I wasn't surprised, that was just who my mom was.

While she wouldn't have said shit if she had a mouth full (one of my dad's pet phrases) she didn't take any guff either. I remember once that a customer at the car dealership where we both worked was being rather foul mouthed and belligerent with my mom about something that was absolutely not her fault, and not under her control. She held her head proudly and let him vent, but when the f bomb came flying out she adamantly stated, "Mr Bazanna, you do not have the right to use that language around me." He was shocked, flustered, and embarrassed. He apologized profusely, cleaned up his act, and a few days later returned with flowers for this classy lady. Pretty cool.

She could cook like nobodys business. She loved her husband and her kids with all her might. We ALWAYS came first. I would give just about anything to spend just 10 minutes with her drinking tea and laughing. I realize now that I have spent 1/5 of my life with out her. How have I managed, how have I survived? Here's how... she raised me right. She taught me what I needed to know, how to act, and how to treat people. It wasn't formal lessons, not intentional, but by just being the person she was, I learned how to be a woman. I hope she knows I am trying to live up to her standard.

For those of you that knew my Mumma Dear, you know what I say doesn't even scratch the surface. For those of you that never had the honor to be in her world, I wish you all your own Mumma Dear. Someone, be it your biological mother, an aunt or just a family friend; I hope you all will think back fondly on some female presence in your life that showed you how to live with grace. I know she made me who I am. I'm trying Mumma Dear. I hope one day you can be proud of who I become.

LIVING with dignity

If you read back in my blog (Waaaaaaay back, like the first few entries) I went on about Terri Shivo and her right to die with dignity. I still firmly beleive everything I said back then. It is part of who I am...

In the last few days however, I have been thinking along another plane. While everyone should have the right to die with their dignity intact, everyone should also be allowed to LIVE with dignity.

Case in point... I rode the elevator with a woman yesterday who was pushing an empty wheelchair. She was frantic to get out of that elevator, announcing to everyone that her friend shouldn't be walking such long distances and she was coming to her rescue with this wheelchair. As she got off the elevator and almost ran people down trying to get to her friend, her friend was merrily mosying along the corridor, doing just fine, thank you. When speedy wheelchair lady met up with her friend, there was a loving yet terse discussion. It included the phrases "I don't need no damn wheel chair" and " If I get too tired and fall down, it's my own damn fault." Huzzah for you, Lady. Live your life. Walk that long hallway if you want. Refuse the ride if you want. She was living her life with the dignity that her well meaning friend was trying to take from her.

I remember taking my mom to Florida a few months before she died. We had a long walk from gate to gate in the Atlanta airport (HUGE!) and not a lot of time to get from point A to point B. I talked her into letting me give her a ride in a wheelchair for a few reasons...

1. to save her strength for the days ahead while we visited with her folks.
2. so we could carry all the carry on items we had between us (pre 9/11 you could take a small herd of goats on a plane with you as long as you could haul them all with ya)
3. because she was sick. She had ovarian cancer, her feet were swollen to unnatural sizes, and she was tired.

She relented and allowed me to push her through the busy airport but put her foot down about our arrival in Ft. Myers. "They WILL NOT see me in a wheel chair." she said rather sternly (as stern as my mom could be). OK, I could go along with that. She walked through that airport at a brisk pace, and then realised she needed to slow down. She didn't want to be huffing and puffing when we met them in baggage claim. She chose to sit down for a few minutes when I conveniently noticed a bathroom and claimed I needed to pee (anyone who knows me at all knows I could go DAYS without peeing). I farted around in there as long as I reasonably could (Pun intended; Mom would be proud) and we were off again, at a slower pace, to the baggage claim area. She walking into that cavernous room with her head held high, her brilliant smile sparkling on her face and her dignity intact. Huzzah!

I have the sweetest little old man for a patient tonight. He is a 76 year old Greek man, barely 5 feet tall and with a sly smile. He is bleeding from somewhere, but the doctors can seem to pinpoint the exact place. He is frustrated, frightened and just plain tired of all the poking and prodding. He told the Doctors he wants to go home and eat ravioli (Greek guy eating Italian). They tell him he could go home and eat ravioli but he will continue to bleed and may die. "But, I'd die with a full belly, right? What's so bad about that?" Yeah Doc, what's so bad about that? Give him his dignity back. Forget your garden hoses that you want to put in places where no flowers have ever grown, this man wants ravioli and he wants his dignity back.

I remember a man, face mis-shapen from multiple cancer surgeries practicing over and over and over again the phrase "Her mother and I". When the preacher asked "Who gives this woman to be married to this man today", he wanted to say it loud and proud. He did it, everyone else cried, but for that day, he lived with dignity. I miss my sister-in-law's father very much. He was a very kind and brave man. I imagine him and my son doing some wild things together. I will never forget hearing him repeat endlessly "Her mother and I". Not an easy task through your tear let alone when you only have 20% of your tongue.

Let them live with dignity! It's hard, we mean well, but we take it away from them when we insist on them taking a ride, when we won't give up looking for answers when all they want is ravioli, when they struggle to say 4 easy words. Rejoice in their achievements, their independence. Let them LIVE!

Silly Momma

Sometimes I can be a silly girl.

Tonight, driving into work, is a perfect example.

I got to thinking about home, ya know, where the heart is... My son's got strep throat. I wanted nothing more in this world than to turn the car around, drive 250 miles north and buy him a Popsicle. I'm his MOM. That's my job! I'm suppose to take care of my boy when he's sick. Instead, here I am 250 miles away, driving to a building where I will take care of other people's people and not my boy, who needs his momma.

I called Rebecca, my dear friend/S-I-L to be and asked her through silly momma tears if she would do me a favor and go to the store and buy Popsicles for Edward and take them to him and tell him they are from his Mom. I could hardly speak; poor Rebecca must have thought I'd finally blown my cork. He needs Popsicles damn it, and if I can't get them for him, I'll move mountains to make sure he has them.

(Here's a funny note... when you spell check popsicle, corpuscle come up as an option. Too funny!)