Remembering Annie

Dear Ann:

Sometimes it seems like just last year we said goodbye, at most, no more than five, since you graduated from ATC training and went on to bigger and better things. The memories are still so fresh, can it, truly, have been a lifetime ago?

You stood at the ball field one night and held my children’s hands, huddling together against the chill of the autumn fog-bound Biloxi evening, laughing with the joy of simply being alive and outside in the fresh air. I took a picture of you all, six eyes gleaming redly in the technology not yet proficient at doing away with it. I look at it often, and think of what a fine woman you were, then, and, no doubt, are today.

My daughter speaks of you with love, for you were the first grownup in her life to treat her as something other than just a little kid. She laughed with delight at the way you pronounced some of your words, your accent so very far and foreign from our own southern drawls.

You cooked for us one night, do you remember? Coq au vin, and it instantly became a household favorite. My son, for years, when asked his favorite food, always said, “Chicken the way Annie makes it.” I’m sure that if he could, he, too, would speak of you with love, for even before he knew what the word really meant, he loved you; you were his first crush. I don’t think any other woman in his life ever quite measured up to you.

I have an undying gratitude to you for not only loving my children, but also for loving me. In particular, for the way you told me what to expect from basic training, saying you wish someone had let you know beforehand, so it wouldn’t have all been such a surprise. You gave me tips on using rubbing alcohol to clean the bathroom faucet without leaving spots, the wonders of toothpaste to take black marks off those god-forsaken tile floors, and that if I took my bath before hitting the rack I could be up and on the walk in time to keep the DI off my case. And you gave me one more tip, one that has meant more to me than any other single piece of advice from any other friend, co-worker, or family member. You said to me, “If you must cry, do it in the shower, so no one can see.”

Ann Beneke, wherever you are, dream peacefully tonight. Your always and forever friend, Pat.

It's never easy. No matter their age, they always leave us too soon. The road to serenity is a hard one, and all uphill. But those left behind move on, eventually. Tears subside and grief diminishes, but neither is so far out of reach that it can't be recalled immediately by a favorite scripture, a song, this morning's sunrise, or a breeze.

perspective on grief

Grief takes on different faces for different people. Oh, I am way familiar with the basic stages, and until recently thought I was well equipped to handle them all. On the way back to Texas from Kennesaw Jim was talking about Mom, and the rest of the family, and reliving all the trauma and tribulation of his teenage angst-filled years. I just let him talk, and from time to time murmured something non-committal, just so he’d know I was still listening. Dad had given him an envelope, as I drove through western AL and he sat shotgun and reviewed the contents, I heard his voice change. Had thought I knew pretty much everything about him, but discovered there is a whole previously undiscovered side to hubby. He broke down once, reading a stupid bad final grade on a report card, for gosh sakes, and then, mercifully, slept, waking only when we stopped for gas in LA. Usually we swap drivers with each fill-up, but I should have known better. From the time we left the welcome station just east of Marshall, it was a wild ride. He kept to the speed limit, yes, but had set the cruise control and it seemed he was hell bent that nothing deter him from maintaining that chosen velocity. You know how when our soldiers first come back from a combat zone the FRG tells us not to let them drive for 48 hours? Well, that same edict should apply to the first 48 hours after a parent’s memorial services, too. He talked and he talked and he talked, mostly about nothing, but then he started talking about how we should sell everything we own and run away to Australia. I just held on for dear life and let him rant, praying silently that if this was my time, then, so be it, Lord, just take me home to Glory and don’t let me suffer too much on the way. We made it here, oh dark thirty, and then he couldn’t decide what he wanted to eat, he had talked about twelve different things on the way, and when I offered to fix his desire he didn’t want what we had but something not in the kitchen and totally unavailable at that hour in our tiny Texas town. He was up for what seemed like forever, just couldn’t settle, and of course he wanted me to be up, too, so he’d have a focus for his anger, but by dawn on Sunday I’m going on no sleep for way too many hours and it was all I could do to stick with him. He finally just collapsed in his made-for-two great room chair, and I crept off to bed. When I got up three hours later, thanks to kitty’s insistence, Jim was sleeping restlessly in our bed. And in the kitchen to fill the empty treat bowl, discovered all sorts of food wrappers on the table and counter. Seems hubby went on a feeding frenzy, not being able to decide on any one thing, he had nuked everything he could find in both freezers. He slept until time for work on Monday. The anger is still there, just under the surface, ready to bubble up and explode with no notice, as it has for three days now. The woulda-coulda-shoulda-mightabeens are sometimes almost more than I can take. And I’m still holding on, but I wonder how he would have handled it if there had been no one to hear and mutely accept his tirades. He’s still eating everything he can find, and every time he walks in the kitchen kitty decides it’s time for him to eat, too, so I’m spending an uncommon amount of time fixing for the two of them. If in the future I EVER say I’m adding another male to my household, somebody please shoot me.

so what are YOU going to do about it?

Another Mother’s Day has come and gone, but history is always there. Sometimes the memories are so painful it’s hard to catch my breath, for the growing up throwing up years were anything but kind. Chaos reigned supreme in that house where there was no mother’s knee to sit on, no hugs of encouragement, no for-no-reason kisses, because emotions were not to be publicly displayed. If you hurt, suck it up, tamp it down, bury it deep, no tears, just be glad for what you have and get on with the day. And if you were happy about something, anything, better not show it, because sure as shootin’ there’d lightning fast be a way to bring you down. Not a lot of mirrors in our house, because to look in a mirror for more than the couple of seconds needed to check your teeth was vanity. And, OMG, don’t even think about glancing at your reflection in a shop window. Jewelry? Not until you have a wedding ring. Makeup? Forget about it. Don’t expect to hear the words “I’m proud of you,” for pride was a sin. If you did something good it was because you were supposed to, if you did something bad you just confirmed her fears of who you really were deep down inside. And never, never, never ask if you were loved. Because you would not like the answer. And, no, not just me and my childhood. The sister I knew swore for years that she had been adopted. Oldest brother ran away from home every chance he got until the day he and the Marine Recruiter sat in the living room while Dad signed the papers and Mom refused, trying with all her might not to let him escape her clutches. It was the only time I ever saw her cry; tears of frustration rather than grief. And then a short time later youngest brother was ripped from friends and shipped off for his senior high year, no reason given other than because she was afraid he would turn out like his brother We were, for the most part, kept at home except for brief stints of school and church, and away from other people, besides the few and far between she deemed acceptable. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I realized not all families were like ours, and only when I went to college that I learned there was a 13-letter word to describe our situation. But, then, I learned too much, and so after one semester of freedom was pulled back home and married with five day’s notice to someone from a family they had “checked out” and found better than the alternative. When friends asked why the wedding was so quick she told them I was pregnant. Not true, but, oh, well, women in that era were still little more than chattel, and while it’s true that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, for me, there were no options. I didn’t have the guts to say “no.” And when a few months later my first pregnancy ended in miscarriage, it somehow seemed like only what I deserved. It was only after she died that I began to have an inkling of why she was the way she was. Orphaned at two, she grew up with no one to teach her parenting skills, no person to encourage her with anything besides slaps and kicks, raised by a series of “cousins” and working for a meager living by the age of ten, totally on her own at fourteen when she fled the Ouchita. I think the first time in her life she experienced love from another person was when she met Dad. And even then the people in her life tried to sell her into marriage with a moneyed friend. Hence, the elopement to another county, a justice of the peace and witness wife roused from their bed in the dead of night, and marriage vows read under a street lamp. The middle of the Depression, the only thing they had was each other and the refurbished chicken coop they called home. And then the oldest child died the day before the fourth was born. Lord, lord, it’s a wonder she had any sanity about her at all. I think it was only after the grandchildren arrived that she felt comfortable receiving a hug from anyone. Years of therapy did not bring me self-esteem, for you cannot restore what has never been. One counselor said, “OK, so, they screwed up your life, what are YOU going to do about it?” And so, a year after she died, I found a modicum of closure when I left a letter on her grave, asking forgiveness for not being the daughter she wanted, for being the daughter who lived instead of the two she loved and lost, telling her it was okay that she was not the kind of mother I thought I needed, but expressing gratitude that she had given me life. But the acorn does not fall far from the tree, reasons are not excuses, and I am too soon old and too late schmart. My own children have suffered dearly for my lack. I can only hope that someday they might leave a letter on my grave, forgiving me for not being the mother they deserved.

the longest goodbye

How do you say goodbye to someone who doesn’t know you’re saying goodbye? Hate Alzheimer’s. Hate it, hate it, hate it! When Mrs. Reagan called it the long goodbye, she wasn’t preaching to the choir. Those of us who have been intimately involved with the devastating effects of this disease suffer from another type of grief, a stage beyond the normal, because this is an ending that seems to have no end. We are told that in the midst of life we are in death. I get that. But this kind of death just goes on and on and on. There are memories, yes, but none recent. This year there was a Mother’s Day card that was read to her by those around her and perhaps she hugged to her chest but her lucid moments were so few and far between that the words on the card could never truly be shared. Alzheimer’s is a thief; it robs our loved ones of the ability to love us back. And, that, to me, is the saddest aspect of all.

anniversary

Raised my hand for the first time and swore to defend this Country against all enemies, foreign and domestic, in February. Three months later did it again and then immediately got on a bus headed for yellow footprints at LAFB and Basic Training. Thirty-eight years ago today. Still remember the pre-dawn yawning mornings on the walk ready to march to chow. And the sweltering heat of midday straggles to and from classes where they taught us how to be successful female soldiers. How many new airmen will get sore feet is indelibly etched in my mind. But our arsenal was made of skirts and berets, not carbines, our only ammo lipstick and eyeliner. And our curriculum was about how to sit with decorum, how to stand properly for pictures, and how to look good while marching across the parade ground in heels. Not one darn thing about actual defense of a country, this one or any other. Unless you consider coffee a weapon. And, thinking back, some of the gluck I drank over the years at various far-flung-world-wide-godforsaken-outposts, while never lethal, too often would have qualified as a biohazard. And I remember as soon as the first inspection and confiscation of personal items was over and the DI walked out of the bay, I stripped and rushed to the shower, because the one thing my Daddy told me about the military was not to ever let them see me cry. I remember the way I felt the first time I stood in uniform at attention and heard My National Anthem played by the post band. The tears flowed again, but on that day I didn’t care who saw. That summer my feet grew two sizes. I lost ten pounds. Not too long after graduation, the pounds were back but the marriage was gone. These days I still get up at oh dark thirty every morning but don’t spend money on makeup, normally wear penny loafers instead of heels, and do NOT miss the grinder even a tiddly bit. But the way I feel about service to my Country has not changed. And I’d do it all again. In a heartbeat. In the blink of my un-mascaraed eyes.