tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46703822103343155922023-11-15T07:38:53.889-08:00gg's hopeInasmuch as I'm starting a new phase of my life I hope to give and get help from many different sources. Don't know exactly how it will turn out but am anxious to see.Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-52940322174458291492016-04-07T13:19:00.001-07:002016-04-07T13:19:50.219-07:00Residual Pain<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I wish I could find an appropriate way to transition from Book 2 into Book 3 but I avoid it whenever I think about it. These were perhaps the most painful days of my life and it’s easier to keep them buried with my dark secrets. But this exercise would not be complete or honest if I didn’t add the bad with the good. Unfortunately this period is painful to remember but a very real part of who I am (I like to think who I “was”) so I ask you to try and understand. They were strong and true demonstration of that part of me I try to forget but they did happen and I bear responsibility for that weakness. It was part of my fractured life and it must be brought to light if this essay is to have any truth in its entirety. Those days encompassed a dreadful slide down a slippery and treacherous slope. I live with the bumps and bruises in my twilight years and I’ve yet to find a reasonable explanation for my failure. I can, however, offer a weak excuse to help you understand. I don’t entirely understand it myself but I will go to my grave exploring the what’s, why’s and wherefores’.<br />
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I turned sixty years old; the kids were at varying stages of their teenage years and we were all facing new challenges every day. Teenage years are difficult ones for growing and changing bodies. Hormones were running wild in young bodies and my aging post menopausal body was less able to handle the evolutionary hills and valleys ravaging so many different personalities. The boys were busy trying to identify and prove their manhood while the girls were approaching womanhood determined to remain “cool” while proving their femininity. I, who had been so involved with their development up to this time, found myself in the background. I was totally unable to get my arms around what they were doing and with whom they were doing it. I worried no less and felt more and more frantic watching their new lives emerge around and without me. It was that old feeling again of abandonment and not being needed or wanted. While I recognized it as a necessary phase and normal part of the growing up process, I longed for inclusion. In my uncertainty and exclusion, I worried more. I felt sidelined and worried about what they were doing, with whom they hung out, and more specifically where they hung out. My imagination was exploding with fast new generational divisions. I feared they were ill-equipped to handle increased sexual and emotional demands challenging their young minds and bodies at such an alarming rate. The boys became more and more independent, reaching further away from the homestead, stretching their good looks and fearlessness to the limit. And the girls? They became more beautiful, secretive and aloof than ever before.<br />
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My beloved husband and father, John, never missed a beat in the family sagas playing out. He was the gentlest most accepting man in the universe. He was a veritable “blue bird of happiness”. I don’t believe it was in his ken to ever have a negative thought about anything. He remained always trusting and upbeat. His belief and mantra was ”not to worry; everything will be okay; worry never solved anything; these kids are great; they love us; and we love them; they’re just going through a teenage phase of growing up.” He insisted I worried too much and that when or if I ran out of things to worry about, he’d give me a new list to think about.<br />
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I supplied him with what I felt were more than enough to make me crazy. The girls were enrolled in a private all girls school and had few friends their age in the local co-ed public school.<br />
Consequently there were few afterschool activities in which they could participate. The boys found their own amusement. With no names mentioned, one of them took great pleasure in “streaking” the local high school girl’s basketball finals tournament. As the crowd silenced for a needed winning free shot, he and his red-headed friend ran across the gym floor with nothing on but face covering ski masks. (They were easily identified by their red hair ) Another of the boys had great fun jumping the ice cakes on the Hudson River after school to “rescue” a stranded deer. Thankfully, he was rescued by our local police and EMS. Another ‘s activity involved drinking illegally obtained (stolen from home?) beer under the bleachers at the high school football field. Yet another was suspected with urinating in the hot air ducks of the high school heating system. Many calls from local high school officials believing illicit smoking of “funny cigarettes” was taking place. Included in those calls were reports of some forged absentee excuses (they were able to sign my name as well as their own!) At one point evidence was indisputable that one of the girls was too familiar with marijuana and we decided she needed outside counseling. We contracted with a local “drug counselor” only to find out his idea of counseling was to smoke pot with the student during their weekly session! <br />
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With love and solid family grounding we somehow survived those rocky roads. However, I do believe the worst was yet to come. <br />
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I began to drink each day to get through the bad times. It felt good. I could ease the pain and guilt. I didn’t feel it so much when it was buried in a fog of liquor. I adored these children and loved my family. How could I be so stupid myself to abuse liquor? I surely didn’t want to feel the pain and guilt of those times. And it was patently easier to numb the pain with a few scotches and to enable myself to believe that we were okay. <br />
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This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to admit much less put into words. And because it is so painful to remember it’s even more painful to write. I can only credit Almighty God and that mystical, mysterious guardian angel assigned to me at birth. Sometimes they whisper in our ears; other times they scream and shout. Mine whispered in my ear on the day one of my beautiful grandchildren was born. She told me I deserved better than I was treating myself and certainly worthy of more love than I was denying myself. She told me forgiveness was the greatest gift we can give ourselves. And the greatest gift we can receive.<br />
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I’ve not had a drink since that fateful day some 25 year ago. Nor have I wanted one. I pray I’ve learned my lesson. It’s so much better to face demons than to bury them.<br />
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Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-82479876476958621912014-02-28T12:06:00.004-08:002014-02-28T12:06:29.686-08:00Lesson Learned - Letting Go<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At that moment I wanted to die. I had never been so shocked and worn down as when my beautiful Em walked out of my kitchen, slamming the kitchen door and looking over her shoulder as she shouted “Fuck you.” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">She was my second daughter and I loved her from the depths of my heart. She was an adorable child, always smiling and laughing and making us smile. We had a rocky few teenage years as she and I struggled to keep our selves on reasoned and straight paths These years can be tumultuous at best but they were particularly thunderous for both Em and me. She was so clever and daring that I often didn’t know what to tell her NOT to do. She was light years ahead of me in imagination and curiosity. Em was a free spirit who felt strangled by a mom who couldn’t understand or who didn’t have the energy, time or inclination to deal with her roller coaster emotions through these troubled teenage years. Parents everywhere were overwhelmed with the society’s life altering choices offered to unsuspecting young people. Drugs were rampant and readily available, sex was advertised and free for experimentation and something to play with before one was mature enough to think about or deal with the consequences of such new found freedom. It was in the awful 60’s and early 70’s when youth culture was advertising and preaching “anything goes … make yourself happy … love easily … be free mentally and emotionally ... Ignore anything that annoys you and embrace everything that delights you. You are special and should make yourself happy and satisfied in all you do and feel. The mantra of the day was “if it makes you feel good, go for it, life is short and we are entitled to complete satisfaction as we give and receive love.” We anesthetized our minds and bodies to diffuse any and all pain. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We lived in a small, close knit community where everyone knows everyone else. Joanne, a friend of mine, passed Em as she marched toward the train station dragging a suitcase behind her. Joanne honked the horn to wave and noticed that Em was crying and clearly distraught. She slowed the car and asked her if she wanted a ride. Em simply shook her head as the tears continued to flow down her young and tortured face.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“No thanks.. I’m going to the train station,” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Are you all right Em? Can I help you with that suit case?” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Em didn’t even slow down. Joanne said she looked straight ahead and resolutely kept walking and said,</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Nope, I’m fine. Thanks anyway.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Joanne was a licensed clinical therapist who sensed something was wrong. As my long time friend, she turned around and came to my door to make sure things were okay at home. She found me sitting at the kitchen table, head in my hands, trying to stop the tears, </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“My God, Maggie. What happened? I just passed Em walking to the train station with a suitcase and she was clearly upset and crying.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Nothing Joanne. She and I just had a final and awful fight about her recent bitchy behaviour. And with those words, the tears started to flow again. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“She refuses to follow any household rules, answers back, shows no respect for any one in this family and defies her father and me at every turn. She didn’t even come home last night and refused to tell us where she was or what she had been doing. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And her ridiculous eye rolling and shoulder shrugging set me off on a nasty tirade. I told her if she couldn’t or wouldn’t play by the rules, she would have to leave. She looked me straight in the eyes with such hatred and said quietly “okay”. I continued trying to engage her in a reasoned conversation and pleaded with her to talk to me. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">She walked without a word to her room and came back a few minutes later dragging her suitcase behind her. She glared as she walked past me and reached the door. She opened it, looked over her shoulder and said,</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Fuck you” and slammed the door behind her. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“I couldn’t catch my breath for a minute. This was my cherished baby, my joy and my toy. I loved her unequivocally and couldn’t believe what had just happened. My heart was hammering and the room - really my world - was spiraling out of control. I was terrified and numbed with shock. I collapsed into Joanne as if her body could absorb all this pain. She embraced me silently, murmuring the eternal words of comfort in an effort to console me.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Shh, shh. … let it go, Maggie … “ </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And we rocked there together until the sobbing and tears subsided. I was left empty, deserted, somewhat insane and scared to death. Joanne’s presence and caring embrace made me shake and cry convulsively. She was smart enough to hold me silently and let me empty my soul of all those tears. Had she spoken any words, I would not have heard them. I was drowning in fear and sorrow, pity and regret and crippling fear and anxiety for the future.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Then, after God only knows how long, I was consumed with thoughts about Em’s safety and was able to focus on her instead of the awfulness of what had just happened. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“My God Joanne, she’s only a kid, 17 years old.? Where would she go? I don’t think she has any money. I don’t think she has any friends in the city.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was just about to call people who knew her and who might have an idea of where she would go when the phone rang. It was her sister, calling me to tell me Em was safe and not to worry. She had listened to Em’s story and knew I would be frantic with worry. She told me Em needed to think things through in her own mind and to give me space to do the same. She said Em promised to call me in a few days and that she was okay and would be staying with her until things calmed down. These days were sheer torture for me. I was consumed with worry and guilt for all the things I could have, should have, would have done had I been smarter and more understanding. I’m afraid I had been so frightened by what might have been that I lost track of what was actually taking place. Em was fighting for independence and emancipation. She had always been a few steps ahead of me and this was but a continuation of that journey.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We spoke on the phone several times and after several weeks we agreed to meet for lunch as a small intimate cafe and had a very long over-due soul baring. Without going into the minute details of our exchange, suffice it to say it was the very first time she and I had been completely honest and open with each other. All the expected words of remorse and deep rooted love for each other flowed easily and without subterfuge. We loved each other despite our differences. We freely acknowledged a clear generational gap in what was considered acceptable behaviour. And if the truth were known, it became clear that we needed to each decide on our own what was right and not impose rules and regulations on each other. Our lives were our own and each of us was free to choose the paths our journeys would take with clear and open understanding and acceptance of the differences.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This honest give and take was the healthiest conversation Em and I had ever had. Acceptance, understanding, openness and truth dominated through tears and anguish. She recognized my chagrin and worry about what night happen in this new and unknown world of the 60’s and 70’s If Em was willing to experience, explore and live these exciting adventures with full awareness of possible pitfalls then so should I. I would support her always in her mature decisions, worry endlessly about her activites and safety, and love her passionately through it all. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And she actually expressed gratitude for my acknowledgement of our new roles. She was a mature woman who was confident in her responsibility for her choices and particularly for the tools she had been given to handle them. I would remain always as her loving mother. Nothing could change that. But we both came to the realization that we needed to communicate better. We could no longer fear disapproval from the other. We were no long having mother/daughter agreements or disagreements with one another but now would be having mature, adult exchanges. Differences would be discussed and accepted or not based on individual evaluations. Our conversation would be adult to adult with both trying to grasp the wisdom and lack thereof of each discussion. And if not, then so be it and move on.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This cafe discussion were part of time earned wisdom for Em and me. Mine or may not be accepted by Em as hers not be right fort me. But they were real and our own to cherish, treasure and share with one another. Time heals, changes, grows, disappoints, reveres, appreciates and loves whatever is ours to own. </span></div>
Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-56203679447537254482013-11-29T18:14:00.001-08:002013-11-29T18:14:49.171-08:00FLIGHT FRIGHT<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Sometimes there just is no way to
explain how and why events happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Abby and I were enjoying a wonderful,
leisurely drive through the country side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The sun was shining and enormous fluffy white clouds floated easily
across the impressive blue sky. We had our favorite tunes on the radio and
marveled at the lush green meadows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fat lazy cows munching on the new growth
beneath their heavy feet created a sumptuous countryside scene that might have
been painted by any one of the great American painters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“God was surely in His heaven and all was
right with the world.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">And then all of a sudden, without
any warning whatsoever, it happened. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">I was locked in place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked to my left and right and tried to
twist around to look behind me but I was bolted securely in place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m tried hard to stay calm and concentrate
on what was happening around me but just couldn’t figure it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Men, women and little kids are working their
way down the long narrow aisle separating rows of seats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are dragging packages and small
suitcases behind them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The line stops
moving forward every few minute as someone reaches up and hoists a package up
to one of overhead cubicles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">I tried to focus on what was going
on and suddenly realized I was sitting on a plane, strapped into my seat with a
seat belt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what the hell am I doing here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where am I going?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would never take a trip without Abby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And where is she?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Has she gone ahead of me or is she still
coming?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am very confused and
frightened, feeling abandoned and alone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why am I sitting solo on an airplane?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did I get here?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where am I going?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why
can’t I remember? Am I crazy? Where is Abby? She always travels with me. Where
has she gone? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Where is that lovely lady who
brought me here? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why didn’t Abby bring
me? Why is that strange lady sitting next to me in Abby’ seat. Why am I
strapped in like a prisoner?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to
get out of here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I begin to wrestle with
the straps holding me down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m locked
in tight with a dog-like harness holding me down. I can’t release the belt and
was just about to cry out for help when I heard an enormous roar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plane lurched forward and shook with such
violence that it threw my whole body back against the seat. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">I continued to struggle with the damn
straps holding me down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Holy God … what
is that roaring noise? And why are we moving so fast? We’re going much too
fast. My heart was thumping rapidly and I began to really panic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I struggled to get up but the straps had me
locked in place. Someone, help me please, I shouted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">The lady sitting in Abby’s seat
reached over and placed her hand over mine. “Shh, shh, shh, … “it’s okay,” she
said patting my hand as she gently placed her hand over mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s the plane taking off. We’re going to be
just fine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try and relax and we’ll be
safely in the air in just a few minutes.” She stroked my hand and arm and
smiled at me as she whispered comforting words. I was happy to have her next to
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked into her wide trusting blue
eyes and while I had no idea who she was, her presence calmed me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">She was very pretty, with shocking
white hair that framed her kind, wrinkled face. She had a sweet smell of lilacs
about her that reminded me vaguely of someone I knew a long time ago. Her
piercing blue eyes held such deep sadness that it unnerved me a bit and it was
difficult to hold her gaze. She continued to caress my hand and I could feel my
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">I awakened to the Captain’s strong
voice telling us we were fifteen minutes from our destination, Denver,
Colorado. He told us the temperature on the ground was a mellow 70 degrees and
it was a beautiful day. He thanked us for flying Delta and wished us a trip. I
opened my eyes and stretched my cramped arms and legs. Abby turned tentatively
to me and said, “Hello there … how are you feeling?” “Just fine,” I answered.
“It was a very smooth flight, wasn’t it?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-69247223069086472262013-11-09T09:35:00.001-08:002013-11-09T09:35:36.387-08:00Pretty Darn Good<div class="st" style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; margin-top: 1px; text-indent: 20px;">
I’ve just returned from a wonderful, peaceful and relaxing time at the ocean where the only requirement was to arise each morning, walk gently through the new day, with absolutely nothing needing to be done; no tasks, no chores and no place to go. Sitting on the beach watching the waves break at my feet, systematically and relentlessly repeating themselves every few seconds piqued my imagination and forced me to think about the continuity and unending flow of life. I was comforted thinking about all the years that had gone before and those yet to come. And then, I suddenly felt very old. I made a conscious decision to honestly search my soul and focus on discovering my true and innermost thoughts about this process of aging. I had this unexplained desire to understand where I was in the moment and how I would or could face this last chapter in my life..</div>
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I hadn’t previously thought a whole lot about it, but as I began to search my thoughts I reached an amazing discovery. As I pondered how I felt in the very core of my being - not surface stuff like aches and pains - but deep down in my heart - I experienced an epiphany of sorts.</div>
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Certainly my life had been filled with many things; some good, some bad; some happy, some sad; some disappointing, some uplifting. But in spite of all those things, I hadn’t been aware that time was moving as quickly as it did. The last time I looked, I was twenty years old, blond and blue-eyed and I weighed a mere 120 pounds. I awoke one morning and the “me” I saw in the mirror was someone else. I didn’t see it coming and suddenly it was here. I still didn’t feel old but sure enough, I was.</div>
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Old age, I decided, might be a gift. To be finally close to knowing who I am, probably for the first time in my life, is a startling revelation. It’s refreshing to realize my physical body has little if anything to do with it. After so many years of worrying and fretting over appearances it finally just doesn’t enter into the realm of what’s important. It makes no difference whether I’m tall or short; whether I need to lose 5 or 50 pounds; whether my skin is taut or wrinkled; whether my hair is perfect or my clothes are fashionable. It certainly makes no difference whether I’m rich or poor because there’s not much left on which I want to spend my money. I have all the material things I need. I’m getting too tired and feeble to travel afar and many of my old traveling companions are gone. I’ll still hold my stomach in when I have my picture taken and I’ll still try to look my best to “impress” others but I no longer despair over my body. I no longer count on my bras and underwear to provide support. Comfort is what I most desire . Perhaps I should burn my bra now even though I never thought of it in the 60’s when it was the “cool” thing to do. I’ve worn my last pair of high heels and fashion boots. I choose to sleep in and old t-shirt rather than a black negligee or nightgown. I no longer agonize over how I look. It is what it is and it makes little difference in the total picture. As the saying goes, “I’m comfortable in my skin.”</div>
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I certainly would never think about trading my loving family or amazing friends for a flatter belly or fewer age spots on my hands and face. As I've aged, I've become more accepting and kinder to myself. I’m less critical and like myself a lot better. I'm freer to eat what I want and behave the way I feel. I’m pretty much completely honest with myself and others and don ‘t hesitate to say exactly what I’m thinking. People have every right to shake their heads and comment “don’t let her bother you; she’s old and says whatever comes into her head.”</div>
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I’ve become my own best friend. I don't always make my bed, and I sometimes buy some silly, stupid thing just because I like it. I’ve earned the right to be lazy, messy and extravagant. I’ve seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon before they’ve felt this unbelievable sense of freedom that comes with age.</div>
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I can read deep into the night and not get out of bed the next day till noon. I can live in the past and remember the good music, the special teacher in 3rd grade, my first boyfriend and first kiss. Yet I often can’t remember what I had for breakfast that morning. I can rejoice or weep at those memories. I’ll forget a lot of things in my past but then some of them are best forgotten anyway. Sometimes I’ll even remember the important things and either laugh or cry over those memories. Over the years my heart has been broken and then miraculously, somehow been rejuvenated. I’ve lost loved ones and seen great suffering. This has served to strengthen and enrich my compassion. How can you not feel and learn from the suffering and pain of those we love? Broken hearts are mended by understanding and acceptance. How can we know pure joy if we never experience deep sadness?</div>
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I am blessed having lived long enough to have grey hair. The lines forever etched in my face are either hard earned groves or delightful laugh lines. How many people never have the opportunity to laugh? How many die before their hair turns grey? As I get older, I sincerely don’t care what others think of me. I don't question myself as much and know I've earned the right to be wrong.</div>
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Being old has set me free. I like the person I have become. I won’t live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be. For the first time in my life, I don't need a reason to do the things I want to do. If I want to play games on the computer all day, lay on the couch and watch old movies for hours or don't want to go to the beach or a movie, I have earned that right to say “no.” I put in my time doing for others, so now I can be a bit selfish without feeling guilty.</div>
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How many of us put off things we wanted to do because we had no time? How often have we turned down our favorite dessert because we’re watching our weight? How often have we said to our kids “later, honey, I’m busy now?” Life has a sneaky way of accelerating as we age. Days get shorter and our lists of “things to do” get longer. And then one day we awaken and realize we may not have the time or the energy to accomplish everything on our list.</div>
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So, I’m going to get up off that couch and take a ride on a merry-go-round. I’m going to watch the sun set at night and rise in the morning. I may even try para-sailing. I’ll listen to the song birds sing and the wind rush through the trees. I’ll count the circles in the lake made by the rain drops splashing on the water. I’ll call an old friend just to say “hello” and I’ll have ice cream for dessert at both lunch and supper. I’ll kiss my husband of 53 years and tell him I love him more today than I did all those many years ago.</div>
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I feel sorry for the young. They face a far different world than mine. We feared the law, respected our teachers, listened to our parents, prayed hard and I almost never felt the need to use gutter language. “Father knew best” and mom was our best friend. We relied on our parents, teachers and God to mold and form our young minds and knew nothing about mind-altering drugs.</div>
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Life was much easier. We weren’t faced with 30 plus choices of cereal or cookies or fruit at breakfast. We ate what we were served and if we didn’t finish it we believed it would be sent to far-off lands to feed the hungry. We expected our President to tell the truth when he spoke to the American people and we certainly expected our priests to keep their zippers up. Arithmetic wasn’t considered fun; it was hard work learning those times tables. We ate together as a family at dinner and talked about what was important to us and learned key lessons about the importance of leading good and fulfilling lives. We cleared the table and did the dishes. We did our homework and went to bed without having television violence and trauma uppermost in our young minds. Our lives were slower, more serene and incredibly simplistic and peaceful.</div>
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I am grateful to have been born in a kinder, gentler world. I read somewhere (and now that I’m old I can’t for the life of me remember where it was or who said it) but it’s a great line that I wish for all us old folks – “We’re born kicking and screaming and everyone else in the room is smiling. May we live our lives so that when we die, we’re smiling and everyone else in the room is crying.”</div>
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The above is but a mere compilation of all that I've seen, experienced, discovered, read or learned from others. Old age is not too bad!</div>
Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-92057151090468341092013-10-25T09:57:00.000-07:002013-10-25T09:57:03.931-07:00Hi There Georgie Girl
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I try to capture in a few paragraphs an idea of who I
am and from whence I’ve come. This will
not be an easy task. For reasons not
totally understood by me, I have blocked out huge portions of my life not the
least of which is a total and complete lack of recall for my early childhood
years. I will share with you what I do
remember and hopefully you will gain a little insight into who I am.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Now in my 80th year I become more and
more interested in the previous 79 years, particularly the earliest years for
which I have litle or no memory. Often, instead of looking ahead as we so often
do in our earlier years, I find myself looking back in time. It’s as if I began to live, not as I entered
the world kicking and screaming, but on the day my mother died when I was 12
years old. Her death was so wrenching
for this young pre-menstrual, bewildered, and frightened child that every
protective mechanism I possessed kicked in.
An impenetrable wall surrounded my broken heart so no one could ever
reach it again. The scars remain and
to this day I try to remember my early years.
What was my mother like? Was she
short or tall? Did she like to sing and
dance? Did she knit or sew or
paint? Was she happy? Did she like being a mom? There is a lingering and ever present search
for buried memories that will only be satisfied when she and I are once again
united in eternity. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
One thing is eminently clear as I reflect. A mother is the center of a family, the glue
and tape that holds things together, the protective mat that cushions every
fall.. Without a mom, the basic structure is fractured and splintered. No father, sibling or relative can capture
that bond in the same way. We need her
presence to make us whole. I buried my
beloved mom and I never fully recovered from the shock. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I was packed up bag and baggage and, without a great deal of
fanfare and no understanding and I found myself in a convent boarding school in
Albany, NY. I was terrified. To my young and confused mind, overcome with
sadness and grief, this was yet another painful abandonment. Distant relatives choreographed an extraordinary
effort to ensure I would be not only protected and educated, but also molded
into a polished and sophisticated young woman.
well versed academically and socially.
Family members possessed strong ties to the religious order of the
Madams of the Sacred Heart and clearly wielded a great deal of authority. “ “Tickets”
from friends and contributors to this elite organization of educations and my admission
to this special academy was effected. I
was, bewildered, frightened and crippled by loneliness as I arrived at this
strange new place where I would spend the next five years of my life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
The Academy of the Sacred Heart at Kenwood was one of
eight exclusive and elite boarding schools for young ladies from privileged
backgrounds. It was run by the religious
order of the Madams de Scare Jesu, or the Madams of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Their
dedication to providing the highest level of education to young woman and their
lofty goal of charity and service to God combined to build a foundation for my
future. Unquestionably, the five years
spent in their care was the guiding force in making me the woman I became. My
classmates were daughters of the wealthiest American, European and South
American families. We were vigorously immersed in academics and were challenged
and stimulated at every turn. There were
no electives for us. We were required to
study math, science, English, history, and all the romance languages in
addition to four years of Spanish and French.
We were taught to diagram sentences endlessly as well as become
proficient in “critical things for ladies of privilege to know”; how to set a “proper” table; how to curtsy,
sit up straight, say please and thank you and address our elders in a
respectful and lady like manner. Every
evening we were required to dress for dinner and an unwritten dress code for
genteel ladies was understood and strictly enforced. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
While the first few weeks were sad, frightening and very
lonely, I soon responded to the care and concern so consistently present. I was wrapped in the loving arms of these
holy women who surrounded me with comfort and solace. I came to love every
minute of my time there and credit them with molding me into the person I am
today. I will be forever in their debt.
The day I graduated, at the vulnerable age of 17, I begged the Mistress
of Novices to allow me to enter the convent.
I was terrified to be out on my own and lose the comfort and support I’d
come to expect. She smiled sweetly and calmly suggested that I test the real
world and the waters of life more fully before making up my mind. She sent me on my way with hugs and
encouragement. My story gets boring and
unimportant for the next 3 years as I struggled to find my path. In the 50’s, young women simply did not live
alone. After graduation typically, one
went on to college, lived at home with mom and dad, or got married. Since there was no mom or dad, no money for
college and no young man to marry, I found an apartment and a job and entered
into the very lonely next phase of my life.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
I was all of twenty years old when I met and married my
wonderful husband . If the truth were
known then, I would have married the first decent guy that came along. I was longing to love and be loved. Some one
or thing was watching over me when John came into my life. He has been my true soul mate, friend and
love for over 50 years. We have 8 wonderful children and 18 marvelous
grandchildren. Clearly I would not have made a proper nun! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
My twilight years are now ones of reflection. I continue to try to resurrect childhood
memories that are tucked away deep in the darkest corner of my soul. It has been said that if we live long enough
our lives come full circle and by looking back we’re able to better understand
who we really are. I suspect we can
live a lifetime and never discover the whole truth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
It remains my hope and dream for this last chapter of my
life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-85762967144070650152013-08-23T16:04:00.001-07:002013-08-23T16:06:51.694-07:00LOST CHANCE<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">For well over a year, as I
walked my dog, I passed a curious little old man sitting alone on the same park
bench every day both in the morning and the evening. Did he stay there all day? Was he someone’s husband, father, or
grandfather? Did he live alone? Did he
have friends? Was he stiff and sore with
the aches and pains of old age? Could I
have occasionally brought him a nice hot cup of coffee or a morning
pastry? What if he was lonely? Would he have enjoyed a friendly chat with
someone just passing by? What did he eat and where did he go for lunch? I never
found out, and now, too little too late, I’m sorry I didn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">The seasons came and went but
he remained a constant. On hot summer
days he appeared to be enjoying the welcome shade provided by the huge Maple
tree behind the bench. The Fall offered
a sweet cushion on the hard bench and under his sneaker-clad feet . Over his head and behind him a blanket of
nature’s spectacular brilliance of Fall foliage danced around him with each
gentle gust of wind. I walked my dog along the same route day after day and he
and I had reached a certain familiarity over time. Allthough we never actually spoke, it had
become a morning ritual for me to smile at him and mumble a “good
morning.” He, in turn, would smile back
and courteously tip his hat and respond with “and a good morning to you too.” In the evening the ritual was repeated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">He was always dressed neatly
and looked very well cared for. His ever
present hat changed with the seasons but always sat with a certain dignity upon
his head. Some times a few gray hairs
peeked out from beneath its brim. In the
summer he wore a tan canvas fisherman’s hat.
As the weather begin to chill, he changed to a dark green corduroy one
with a little brown and gold feather tucked into its band . He wore tan chino slacks in the warm weather that
seemed to be staples in his wardrobe .
They were always clean and pressed with a sharp crease down the legs. The difference in cooler weather was that the
slacks were a dark charcoal or a deep forest green. Some even had a touch of plaid flannel visible
from beneath a turned up cuff. He wore
colorful red wool socks under his immaculate white sneakers. Finishing off his dapper dressing was an
obviously hand-knit wool scarf wound neatly around the neck of his heavy canvas
jacket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Even his posture as he sat in
his special seat was consistent. He sat
up straight, with one arm over the back of the white wooden bench and watched
nature change daily in his little slice of heaven in the park. In the spring, he fed the ducks crumbs, tossing
them from his gnarled arthritic hands. Some he had even given pet names and he
called<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">them softly by name, …
“here Sadie, here Max, here Junior.”
As they waddled toward him he admonished them to share and play nicely;
not to grab and squabble over the crumbs; he told them he had enough for everyone. When the crumbs were gone, he would shoo them
away and caution them to be safe. In the
fall, he simply sat silently and watched the leaves turn color. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">He had captured a little
slice of heaven for himself and it was a peaceful and gentle gift to those of
us who witnessed it. The sight of this
old man made me hesitate for just a minute to take a deep breath and thank my
God for all the beauty sourrounding me that I fail to notice. It became my morning prayer for all of us who
rush frantically through our busy days not taking the time to see that beauty,
love and compassion all around us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">And then, suddenly the day
came when my friend wasn’t there. I
didn’t know his name; had no way to find out where he lived; or whether he was
alive and well. Yet, after a few days of
missing him I stopped at his spot on the bench and sat in his special
place. The leaves had all fallen from
his tree and some were now lying curled and crunchy on the ground beneath my
feet. I did this for a few days and it has become my morning chapel. It’s a special place to think, to meditate,
to heal, to laugh and to cry. It’s a
haven for me to look at and evaluate both the good and the bad things in my
life. I sit there in his special place
on that white bench in honor of this friend and stranger. I have slowed down, I take deeper breaths and
I appreciate the beauty around me and take the time to “smell the roses.” What a treasured gift indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">I cherish his memory and hope
that wherever he is, the sun shines brightly on him and his beloved tree . I will always feel its warmth sifting through
the summer fullness and the bountiful autumn leaves. I have a deep sense of
sadness for the loss of my special friend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">But then I have my happy
tree! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-11451760501064246682013-08-14T12:24:00.000-07:002013-08-14T14:16:28.971-07:00Tight Sneakers<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We laughed, we cried. We celebrated. We had fun. We were oh so crowded but somehow managed to grab a little space to call our own. Imagine! Eight children born in a fast thirteen years called this home. A mom,(exhausted) dad, ever -fun-loving) always a mutt dog, usually a stray kitten, sometimes a gerbil and/or rabbit lived and loved in a really small Cape cod style house. It sat at the end of a short dead-end street beyond a circle and just before a running stream. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Strong allegiances were formed during those crowded days. Private space needed to be protected from the ever present threat of the “others.” Mel, Teresa, Susan, Christy and little Martha shared a bedroom on the second floor, Four twin beds and a dresser or two for clothes created a real feeding ground for battling sisters. “…..Don’t touch that; it’s mine; yes it is; no it isn’t; I put it there yesterday; you think everything is yours; you used it yesterday…. MOM, make her give it back! …… and on and on. “ Miraculously, this closeness generated a bond of sisterhood that remains today. It’s a precious and cherished tryst that turned into an all for one and one for all mentality. They remain the best of friends even today.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The boys, Mike and John and Timmy shared an even smaller space on the second floor. Mike and John in bunk beds and Timmy in a crib. And I think perhaps there was a small dresser shared by all three but I can’ t really remember. There was a long closet behind sliding doors separating the two bedrooms and I suspect that was used for everything else … hanging clothes, shoes, toys, and whatever was needed to keep it safe. They were so close in age they could usually wear each others clothes and that caused many battles. None of that “what’s mine is mine” nonsense - first up was best dressed. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Facts are facts facts and time hasn’t changed the reality of those chaotic but very special days. The kitchen was small and the dining area for the 10 of us could only be described as an “eat in kitchen.” But it was so much more than that. We ate 3 meals a day there, We sat on both sides of a a standard picnic table with simple benches on each side. Three sat on one side, four on the other with the littlest one in a high chair pulled up to the corner. Dad and Mom of course had a chair at each end of the table. Pretty damn crowded but one of the few opportunities of the day to laugh and cry together; to correct, scold, pout, and tattle on one another. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">House rules were established early and reinforced at every meal. Hands in your lap! No talking with food in your mouth. Chew with your mouth closed. (No one wants to see what you’re eating.) No milk, ketchup, or mustard bottles on the table. (We put them on the floor next to our seats.) Definitely no cereal boxes or jelly jars on the table. Reading the ads caused coma like early morning stupor. And finally, not all chewing a piece of celery at the same time and cracking up at the funny synchronized sound. This was dinner time and not time for silly games. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Thank God starting times at the high, middle and elementary schools varied somewhat </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">so the mad scramble for the one bathroom was less than it might have been.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Do you realize no company makes a toothbrush holder with 10 holes for stand up brushes?</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Ours were in a glass cup or simply lying on the sink top.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Don’t even think about colors - it simply was not possible to find 10 different colors so I’m certain even toothbrushes were shared!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The small coat closet by the front door was home to jackets, hats, mittens, sweaters, and boots. (Think 20 plus boots taking up space!) And at times (rainy days) it was a perfect hiding place for hide and seek. All other gear wound up stuffed and shoved into that tiny space and landed on the floor. The scramble to find matching mittens, shoes and socks was an exercise in futility even for those who got there first. “Hurry up guys … you miss the bus and you walk to school … don’t expect a ride from me” was my morning mantra. Somehow, someway you managed to get to school every day - usually on time - sometimes with only one sock (or none) - some times with red ears because you couldn’t find a hat in the stockpile, but always with a hug and kiss and my love. One day, when I was especially frazzled and Mike couldn’t find his hat, I made him wear one of the girl’s big fluffy, furry hats with the tie under the chin. He was mortified and I knew instinctively he abandoned it in the snow as soon as he was out of my sight! (Damn, I liked that hat too - it was one of the better Christmas presents for the girls - big, soft and fluffy - adorable!) </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So many memories of these happy, funny times in our little slice of heaven. Intertwined with the chaos, confusion, disorder and jumble there was enough love and devotion to heal the hurt, quiet the noise and calm the confusion. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Our awesome dog, Waffles, was an ever present guardian of the chaos. While she always stayed close to the youngest child, she never lost track of the others. Only when she was standing guard beside a sleeping infant in the canvas carriage on the front lawn did she lose sight of the others. She followed them everywhere and often had to decide which one needed her most. When the kids went their separate ways in this small village the poor dog broke out in hives with worry. I never had to wonder where they might be because, wherever they were, Waffles was with them. Sitting in front of Pop Berger’s in town, at any of the parks or playgrounds in the village, at Scoop and Judy’s or Elliotts Variety and at times right into the classrooms at school. The ever patient and loyal Waffles was a constant guardian. Many were the times I was called to school to pick up the dog. She would wander the halls, checking into classrooms looking for whichever one she was missing. Some teachers (the fun ones) welcomed her. Others, (the dull ones) were not too happy with her entrance into their academic space! And none of us will ever forget loyal and faithful Waffles stubbornly planting herself directly on the hill directly in front of the red wagon that you planned on riding down the hill, through the circle and into the brook. You would take turns getting out of the wagon and pulling, kicking, yanking , screaming for her to get out of the way. She would sit down until you got back in the wagon and then she would move to the front to stop you from going. This went on through many attempts to make her move. But she stood firm. She knew her job and she wasn’t going to let you risk life and limb going down the hill. Such a sweet and loyal dog. We all loved her to death!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And ahh, the kickball games in the street in front of our house. Home plate was a piece of cardboard laid in the middle of the road between Nicol’s house and ours. First base was the corner post of Nicol’s fence, second was the manhole cover by the circle, and third was the big tree at the foot of our front yard There were always four or five little kids fighting for each ball behind the catcher at home plate. A miss by the catcher started a mad scramble for the ball so it wouldn’t roll into the brook at the end of the street. “Batter up” and let the game begin. The lineup always caused an argument. Little kids wanted to “be up” first and the big ones wanted to get their “ups” before the inning was over. Little ones got up to 20+ swings until they finally connected with the ball. Running bases was more fun than hitting the ball! “Big Hitter, Big Hitter” shouted the peanut gallery . The big kid would smack the ball and the little guy on base took off, usually the wrong way. If he was on 3rd, he’d make a beeline back to second; the little kid on first would turn and dart to home. Mass confusion reigned as every one shouted and screamed directions. The game usually ended with scores like 48 - 2 after probably 15 - 20 drawn out innings. But boy did these kids play ball with heart and energy.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Happy memories beget more happy memories and it was tiime for us to move on. </span></div>
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Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-74256116642138596372013-01-28T11:56:00.000-08:002013-01-28T11:56:44.077-08:00PAIN AND RELIEF<b><br /></b>
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The day is crisp and clear and the rays of sun dance a peppy ballet over the soft white caps as they bob in and out of view atop the grand and glorious Hudson River. Meandering along the ragged shore I am consumed with conflicting thoughts and emotions. Colorado blue skies and Rocky Mountain Highs have nothing on the glorious Hudson Valley today. The beauty is breathtaking and a rare gift. The wonderful sunny day, the sparkling water, colorful sailboats and majestic Palisades framing this special place are indeed treasures. Walking alone with my thoughts, bundled up against the gentle breeze from the west, everyone and everything seems to be dancing to the same drummer. Life and beauty are in synch. Yet, I find myself sad and out of that rhythm. I need to force myself back into it.</div>
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My beloved husband has Parkinson’s, a progressive and degenerative disease with no cure. The previous slow advancement accelerates a little more rapidly with each passing month. As it continues to extract its toll, John goes deeper into his inner self to some kind of special place where no one can enter. He lives there most of the time now, by himself, and becomes less and less communicative. He's beginning to look like any one of the old men in nursing homes around the country, sitting in his chair and staring out the window as he drums his fingers to some strange melody that only he can hear. We can’t begin to imagine what he is looking at or thinking. I guess in a way it really isn’t our business after all. We can only hope he’s thinking happy thoughts and enjoying pleasant memories.</div>
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When he was first diagnosed with Parkinson's seven or so years ago, abnormal tremors and slow movements only minimally influenced him. We used to laugh together and refer to his “Tim Conway shuffle.” We’d tell him to stand up straight and pick up his feet. We’d walk along beside him and count off ” hep 2, 3, 4; left, right, left right,” and he’ d move right along. We knew Parkinson's was a progressive and degenerative disease but we were always hopeful. Over the past few years he's advanced from walking unaided albeit with shuffling feet, to a cane, to a walker, and finally to a wheel chair. Today he's unable to navigate on his own and is totally dependent on those of us who love him.</div>
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I know it's time for me to go back in time and relax and "smell the flowers". I need to laugh out loud at least once a day and get outside myself and see the world around me. Most important, I need to remember to give John a hug every day. I’m losing my perspective as John's disease progresses and I find myself more focused on what we have lost than what we have. This is not like me as I’ve always been an “Up” kind of person. My glass has always been ½ full instead of ½ empty! What is happening here?</div>
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These last few weeks and months, as things have deteriorated steadily, have been an epiphany of sorts for me. I m realizing the hardest thing for me to give up is the expectation that things will get better; that John would attempt to do more; that we would glide into a peaceful and content ending to a happy and fulfilled life. Lowering these expectations is hard and painful. Perhaps less painful if I am able to reprogram myself to expect little and take pleasure in the occasional hints of a smile or joy or some sort of momentary engagement. I can no longer expect him to respond or react to the things that used to please us both. His muddled brain seems to pick and choose only a very few things and only occasionally will it generate a response of any kind. When he does talk, the thoughts are disjointed and hard to understand. He'll ask if MY kids are coming over and when I tell him OUR kids are coming over, he'll smile and then his eyes fill with tears. That damned veil is pulled down again over the windows to his soul. He looks vacant and confused and a few tears may flow and slide down his cheek. All I can do is give him a hug and sit gently and silently with him until he dozes off to sleep. I know he has vanished back into his own private universe where no one is allowed to enter.</div>
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It's hard not being able to share thoughts and feelings with him but it becomes easier if I no longer expect that privilege. I’m grateful for whatever he's able to give me. I fought giving up the hope for many months but it's clear and present a little more each day and reality cannot be denied. Yesterday he asked me out of the blue.. "where are YOUR kids now?" "what are they doing these days." Only God and John know where he is at such moments!</div>
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Dying is a natural part of life but the slow deterioration of this damnable Parkinson's disease and other dementia causing illness is indeed like a long slow goodbye. The sun rises and sets and the seasons come and go. Like the leaves on trees, when we've had our time in the sun we fall to the ground. It's to be expected and is part of the natural process. It's painful for us who love them so much to lose the brilliance of their spirit a little each day. We endure the loss a little at a time when what we really want most, and feel so conflicted admitting to, is their peace and serenity. We want the pain and suffering to end and to help them get through this process of dying with peace and dignity. We’re tired and exhausted and worn down by witnessing their slow journey toward peace. We’re exhausted caring for them and the gut wrenching feeling of loss we must face every day creeps up little by little. It could destroy us if we allowed it. We need to give ourselves permission to go on by ourselves while we still attend to their needs. We cannot allow the pain of loss to become so intense as to consume us. We can miss them, grieve for them, and never, ever get over the loss or forget. Or we can begin to move forward and remember the unique and wonderful years we shared. The worst part is the lack of companionship and the silence of their imprisonment. We will forever miss that sharing of intimacy and closeness.</div>
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Life is as consistent and eternal as the waves in the ocean, as the stars in the sky, and as the chang</div>
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Life is as consistent and eternal as the waves in the ocean, as the stars in the sky, and as the change of seasons. My hope for the future is to trust the power of positive thinking. I resolve to be courageous and to grow and improve each day. I will be grateful for being able to look back with a smile as I try new things. I will meet new people, ask lots of questions and keep myself mentally and physically well and healthy. I will acknowledge that I, and I alone, are responsible for my well-being. Only I can control how I feel. And because I want to feel challenged, respectful and happy, I will focus on the positive things in my life now and in the past. I will work every day to remind myself that my good fortune is in having had this wonderful man as my partner and soul mate for so many happy years.</div>
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And most important to remember is that together or apart, we are only but a small part of this magnificent universe. And an absolute must for me is a faith in a merciful God who will walk with us through this journey.</div>
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I find comfort in putting my thoughts and emotions on paper. I don’t often get the opportunity to share them with others. If any of this is helpful to another, I am grateful; if it's difficult for anyone, I am deeply sorry. It's been a bad couple of months and will probably not get a hell of a lot better any time soon. But I love this man with a passion and am grateful that I'm around to take care of him. I pray and believe it brings him comfort.</div>
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When John died a big part of me died along with him. He left his footprint on my heart and soul and I am terrified that I’ll forget the exquisite love affair we had for 55 marvelous years.</div>
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My beloved John died as he lived, peaceful and serene, surrounded by his loving family. We knew the end of his long struggle was near. His poor tortured body was beginning to shut down. He was tired and worn down by infection and weakness. He fought with great strength and courage until he had nothing left to give. He was finally ready to put his head back and say goodbye. And he did so with peace, dignity and acceptance - no twisting, no turning, no agitation, no anxiety.</div>
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He had been in and out of consciousness for several days. He knew we were all there with him as we talked gently and reminisced about the many good times we shared. I held his hand, gently stroked his head and shoulders, gave him ice chips to suck, and wiped his eyes and face with cool cloths. He would open his eyes, nod his head and smile at a special memory. It was about noontime on the day he died and someone mentioned there was soup in the kitchen if anyone wanted something to eat. He indicated that everyone should leave him and shooed them out with a weak hand gesture and a mumbled “Go – everyone.”</div>
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Then he reached out and pulled at my hand “No – not you – you stay,” he mumbled.</div>
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He pulled me close to him and I thought he wanted to tell me something. Instead he weakly guided me to him, chest-to-chest, heart to heart. He kissed me slowly and deeply as if we were new young lovers. His kiss was so loving, so sensual, so deep; so strong yet so gentle that it spread warmth and passion throughout my body. It literally took my breath away. He gently broke that connection, opened his eyes, and looked straight into the windows of my soul and kissed me again. We both knew we were saying our final goodbye. I gently stroked his face and he closed his eyes. I put my mouth next to his ear and said almost inaudibly</div>
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“Oh Johnny G, are you going to go and die on me?”</div>
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He nodded a careful slow and tender response.</div>
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I could only whisper softly …</div>
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“It’s O.K. love … I’ll be sad and will cry … but it’s O.K. … I’ll be O.K. You’ll be O.K. You can go my love … just let go … I know how tired you are … so very tired ... you’ve worked so long and hard for peace ... It’s O.K … I’ll cry … I’ll be sad … I’ll miss you every day for the rest of my life … but it’s O.K. … Go now … I’ll love you forever … now go and rest … you deserve it my sweet, sweet husband.”</div>
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He died that evening at 11:00 o’clock, very quietly and I think, untroubled.<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; text-indent: 0px;">d. I do cry; I am sad; and I will always miss him.</span></div>
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He always said he wanted to be buried at sea and the kids and I determined we would honor his wishes. His body was cremated and we took his ashes to the ocean at Long Beach Island for one last visit to the sea he loved so much. Each of us carried a small container with a bit of his remains and stood together at the edge of the pounding surf. The never-ending waves washed over our feet and just as quickly returned to the sea again and again. It was a mystical, undisturbed moment to think private thoughts about this wonderful guy and the unwavering love connecting us to him. As we silently tossed his ashes into the pounding surf, we were filled with love and homage for this gentle warrior of a man.</div>
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We watched quietly as bits of his ashes were gently swooped up and carried out to sea by the ocean breeze. We had nothing left to do.</div>
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My comfort now? Perhaps death is not a sad ending —- it just might be a joyous new beginning.</div>
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Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-46142979537395245452013-01-28T11:45:00.002-08:002013-01-28T11:45:12.000-08:00HOW SOMETHING SMALL CAN CHANGE A LIFE<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Graduation loomed ominously over the last few months of life at the Convent boarding school. I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do. My mother's sister and her husband offered me a place to stay until I could get settled and make some plans for my future. They picked me up on graduation day not because they particularly wanted me with them, but because no one quite knew what to do with me. They elected not to actually attend the grandiose graduation ceremony but to arrive later that day to collect my belongings and me. Their absence sent a pretty strong message and was a precursor of things to come. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The Commencement ceremony was held in the very ornate Gothic chapel resplendent with pomp and circumstance. At one point, each graduate, dressed in a white, flowing, floor length gown was presented with a white rose by her mother to signify coming into womanhood. If one's mother wasn't available, we "borrowed" a relative or friend to fill in. This was a particularly emotional and poignant time for graduates and guests. It was yet another lonely time for me. I was only a few years older than the twelve year old child who walked through those doors just four short years before, but surely not yet a woman. The difference between then and now, however, was that while I was still frightened and unsure of my future, the challenges ahead would be faced alone without the loving presence of those wonderful nuns. My roommate's mom tried to fill the gap sweetly and sincerely as she kissed me and handed me my rose. It was gentle and sincere but it didn't quite fill the void. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Nice, well-bred young women had few choices in those days. One lived at home with mom and dad, went to college, or married some nice young man. Since there was no mom or dad, Latin almost did me in grade wise, there was no money for college, nor were there any young men (nice or otherwise) waiting to carry me off, Ann and Roger won me. I was to "enrich their lives" and they were to afford me a safe transition to independence. They were interior decorators, in their 60's, with no children and driven by their careers. Their house lacked any warmth or excitement for a young girl. It was pristine, perfectly appointed, very polished and not the least bit inviting or welcoming. I didn't know them and they didn't know me. I had no clue what to expect, nor did they. It very quickly became clear I was not it. I was a royal glitch </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">in their heretofore staid and orderly lives. I knew no one my own age, was anxious to get on with my life, and certainly not interested in hanging out with these two stodgy old people. It was a real challenge for all of us and not one that I met very graciously or successfully, I'm afraid. My short 2-month stay was a disaster. I was miserable and made them quite miserable as well. The best I can claim is a quiet politeness and reserve and an overwhelming desire to move on. I stayed a few months, attended a 6-week intensive secretarial school and then did the unthinkable for a young woman of those times. rented a furnished room in a small town called Pleasantville (can you believe that name for a town?) I took a job as a secretary at an advertising agency in New York City and commuted to my one room in a private house in the suburbs. The next few years of my life were neither happy nor unhappy - they just were. I trudged along on my journey toward independence and while I didn't die of sadness, I continued not to live. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Reflecting on the day I moved into my furnished room on my own, I realized it was my 18th birthday. I remember thinking that I had not celebrated a birthday in all those years since my mother died. That thought didn't particularly surprise me or even make me sad. My musings consisted of "hmmm, what a good day to be doing this. It's like giving a birthday present to myself." I was certain there was no one who knew or cared that it was my birthday. And, in fact, whether or not I had been born didn't seem to matter to an awful lot of people. I was sort of "hanging out" and not really making much difference in the whole life scene. There was no emotion in thinking about it. It simply wasn't important to me or anyone else at that time. Since there was no one around to celebrate a birthday, I had no choice but to ignore it and I learned to handle it by pretending it didn't matter. It was a strange epiphany of sorts and qualified as a Peter Pan, never-never-land thought, the kind that prompts a shrug of the shoulders and an "Oh well, so be it" reaction. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I'm just Irish Catholic enough to believe in a guardian angel assigned to each of us during troubled times. The poor guy assigned to me had her work cut out for her. I was in limbo, a misfit, wandering aimlessly through each day. I went to work, ate, and slept with no goal other than to put down roots and find a home apart from Kenwood. Without a clue and certainly no clear plan for accomplishing this, I was running in place and not getting anywhere. Not until, that is, I literally bumped into my wonderful John, husband to be, at a party given by a friend from work. That invisible angel must have been sick and tired of my aimless meandering and decided she'd had enough. I was not yet 20 years old but I swear she literally shoved me into his arms. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It was a 3-day Labor Day weekend and friends were looking forward to one last long weekend of fun and sun before the lazy summer was over. One of my co-workers had a summer cottage at a county park and there was a end of summer celebration planned at the clubhouse. A few of us from the office went and by the time we arrived, the party was in full swing;. There was lots of laughing, good music, plenty of beer, lively dancing and many very tanned, muscled and gorgeous single guys looking for a good time. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I discovered at that party that life can indeed turn on a dime - or spilled beer! Mine turned on an explosion of spilled beer, loss of dignity, embarrassment and a very strong desire to go into a fetal position, put my thumb in my mouth and hide. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The partying had been going on since early afternoon and the clubhouse floor was awash with spilled beer, making it a slippery gangplank challenging anyone to walk it. It was an accident waiting to happen and I stepped right up to meet the challenge. Gingerly walking across this sea of foam, dodging the dancing crowd, my feet went out from under me and I slid - not so gracefully - along the slosh and landed right at the feet of a stranger. The unexpected rap into the back of his legs caused him to fall back over me, spilling yet more beer all over both of us. He looked over at me as we lay side by side in the mess, smiled, and said, "Wanna' dance?" That was the beginning. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After we picked ourselves up and tried to wipe the beer from our clothes, we started to laugh. Without missing a beat, he put his arms around me and moved me onto the dance floor to the applause of all in the room. He was funny, a great dancer and very attentive and we were immediately attracted to one another. I think it's called "good chemistry." We spent every bit of time we could find together over that long weekend and throughout the next year. Notwithstanding the fact that I was desperate for love and acceptance and probably would have married the first kind and gentle man who would hug me, I truly liked this unexpected and extremely nice man. The more time we spent together, the more comfortable we became and the more we enjoyed each other. Additionally, while it's a hell of a reason to get married, raging hormones were screaming and would not be denied. Pre-marital sex was simply not an option. I may have had trouble learning Latin and conjugating verbs, but the lessons of purity, virginity and no pre-marital sex were crystal clear. I was overwhelmed with love for this sweet, caring and thoroughly good man and we married six months later. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And wonder of wonder, I was completely and totally happy. Eight babies and thirteen years later, I was obsessed, consumed, overwhelmed with diapers, colds, runny noses, laundry, homework and the many challenges of being a young (very young) housewife and mother. I loved what I was doing and knew instinctively that I had found my way. My life was my home, my husband and my children. I knew in my heart "Whoa - this is a lot of kids ... slow down ... take a breath" - in those days blind obedience to "the Church" was the way of life for good Catholic women. God would provide and there was no need for forbidden birth control. This had been deeply ingrained as a matter of faith and conscience. Consistent with being a good girl and always trying to please others, I brushed aside my doubts and forged ahead. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Thankfully, there is no more uplifting thrill and sensation than to be greeted by a smiling baby early in the morning, bouncing at the side of his crib, calling for you with excitement and joy, ready to begin his new adventure. Walking into the room and iis one of life’s greatest plelasures. It's as if a shade has been pulled up on every window to let sunshine stream in . The room changes from a silent, hushed gray to a dancing, brilliant yellow. The world comes alive as you open that door. It's reanimated as the coffee begins to percolate. And fill the air with its sweet aroma. The dog sleeping at the foot of the child's bed stretches and yawns and begins to thump his tail on the floor in greeting. You can hear the birds chirping outside the window edd your whole body and mind overflow with love and joy. Babies are pure and unencumbered happiness. They adore you just because you are - no questions asked. They care not if you're tall or short, fat or skinny, black or white. They fill you with all the warmth and love you could ever need. When I walked into my babies' rooms each morning and saw the pure, unadulterated delight in their huge smiles, my heart and soul were filled with peace. They would reach out to me and squeal with sheer joy just because I was me and they loved me. They healed every wound, removed every scar, filled every hole and untangled all the cobwebs in my brain. Their purity and innocence melted the hardest heart, mended the most broken and replaced all despair with hope. There can be no greater gift. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">John and I never had enough money and never enough time. We often had to look through the couch cushions to find nickels and dimes to pay the milkman. But God, how we loved those kids! Ours was a happy, close, chaotic and fun family. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I wish with all my heart that I could do it all over again. I'd be much more relaxed, I'd smile more and frown less. I would read more books and I'd read them slowly and enjoy that special quiet time with each child. I'd listen more carefully when they tried to tell me something. I'd be gentler and less rushed as I brushed their hair. I'd sing along with them as they brushed their teeth and not be in such a hurry to get them into bed. I'd move more slowly and take more time to enjoy each moment. I'd let them read the sides of the cereal boxes as they ate their breakfast and prepared for their days. I might even allow them to keep the milk bottle on the table. Their opinions, though they were only little people, would be respected and honored. I'd spend more time playing games and less time cleaning and would be much more spontaneous and willing to break away from schedules. I could never love them more but I would tell them more often until they came to know how special and unique each one of them was. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was a liberated woman long before it was fashionable to be so and John always did more than his fair share of housework, shopping, tending to kids, etc. He can still polish the chrome in a bathroom better than I can. On those occasions when he sensed I was overwhelmed, he'd pack all eight kids into the back of the station wagon (usually with the mutt dog right along with them) and take them to the park or grocery shopping or just out for a ride to give me some time alone. He was a sensitive and caring man who instinctively knew when it was time for me to have a break. The two of us were a terrific team and we happily rode the roller coaster of life. The family was a powerful force of ten and those were exhilarating years for all of us. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As adults, all kids are blessed with good health, good partners, adorable kids and they remain good friends and enjoy each other’s company. They often sit around the dining room table and reminisce about those days with lots of laughter and good humor. One of the most endearing compliments they give their father speaks volumes about this sweet and gentle man and his wonderful personality and disposition. They talk about how they loved to see him come through the door at the end of his day because "Dad was home and now the fun could begin." What a tribute to a very special man. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But just as that sun comes up each day and the moon comes out each night; just as each tide comes in bringing us treasures from the sea only to take them away again with the next tide, so too did those special and wonderful years move away. And as often and as forcefully as I tell myself it's absolutely the way it should be.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I mourn the loss of those precious times but will never forget the lessons taught.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i>There is a time to laugh</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And a time to cry</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And there is a time to accept</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And a time to deny</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There is a time to be strong</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And a time to be weak</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And there is a time to listen</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And a time to speak</i></b></span></div>
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Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-65714606480184054882013-01-15T15:54:00.000-08:002013-01-15T15:54:01.031-08:00GOD HELP US ALL <br />
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<b>GOD HELP US ALL </b><br />
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Is it wisdom, frustration, or simple acceptance and common sense? My God given drive and need to make this world a better place has been imbedded in my soul for as long as I can remember. It’s always just been there. Nothing I’ve searched for our wrestled with. It’s as much a part of me and as natural as taking a breath. I can’t see it, describe it well, smell it or fully understand it. It’s just ever present. It doesn’t surprise me nor does it intimidate me. It’s flow is as natural as the flow of a country stream skipping downhill and sliding over glistening bedrocks. It’s strength is as powerful as the pounding surf and its presence as warm and bright as the morning sun. <br />
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So why after 80 plus years of living have I lost my mission? There must be more I can do, Notwithstanding physical limitations wrought by advanced age I no longer feel the drive. I’ve lost my hope and my faith. It’s been taken away by living and I can no longer capture it. I no longer shrink when I see the horrors and tragedies of nature and human kind. They have become so common place that I no longer feel them. They’ve managed to creep so far under my skin that I’ve become almost immune to them. The horror of man to man and nature to man no longer shocking. Nor do I have any better understanding of the why’s and wherefore’s of their existence. Ruwanda, the Sudan, Haiti, Malawi, 125th Street and the South Bronx, Hurricane Sandy, Katrina and Seaside Heights? Where was He in Sandy Hook? And so many more horrors near and far that we never see or hear about. Why were not His loving arms there to embrace the young Indian girl who was stoned to death before crowds of cheering people because she chose to love a man of her choice. And those sweet innocents in Newtown had no place to hide … no safe haven … no soothing arms to hold their shaking bodies.<br />
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I seem to have lost my energy and my resolve. I’m pleading with and begging my God to awaken my heart and soul once again. I’m confident that He hears me but am not hearing his answers. I’m trying to believe He’s speaking to me through friends and families but I’m either not listening or He’s speaking too softly for me to hear.<br />
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I’m trying to believe that calmness is one way to show and be patient with my faith in God. I’m trying but that doesn’t seem to be working.<br />
Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-66100783361403085032012-12-27T08:21:00.001-08:002012-12-27T08:23:15.401-08:00GOLDEN AGING<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I've been holding on by my fingertips, struggling to keep my sanity as I continue to age, age, age. I've tried - I really have tried - to remember it's all part of what we signed onto the day we were born. I think I may be living too long. At 80 years the signs of old age cannot be denied. Each morning as i put my feet on the floor (gratefully),I groan and grunt, stretch my stiff arms and legs, swirl my shoulders to try and ease the aches and pains that crept in during the night, and I know I'm old. No denying it. These are well known movements, familiar but hardly welcomed. They have become habit forming and are easy, albeit someway painful, as I face the new day. I lay back on the pillow, gingerly bend my knees and raise my stiff legs to form a springboard for getting out of bed. I have to try a few times before getting enough “oomph” behind it to be able to sit up on the edge of the bed. So far, so good. Next I slip my bony feet into my well loved and well worn scuff slippers. I shuffle into the bathroom feeling along the wall and holding onto the door jams as I go, until with a few more twists an turns I drop on the toilet and pee a few drops. Only a little in the bladder as the rest has quietly slipped into the miraculous " Serendipity adult leak proof panties. Ah the miracle of modern technology for the old folks! They keep me cozy and dry through the long night. (We've all heard that we come full circle if we live long enough, up to and including back to diapers.) And now the fun really begins. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I begin to assemble my aged body into a modern bionic woman. … First, rescue my teeth from the denture cup where they smile up at me . I say good morning to my old friends. Next I reach for my delicate little hearing aids that are so tiny it's hard to see them. I carefully check which is up and which is down; which is for the right and which for the left. I place them gently into place and voila ….. nothing! I must need new batteries Now this is a challenge. The batteries are tiny, slippery, and hard to see. I shuffle back into the bedroom to pick up my glasses so I can read the size and direction scratched onto this miniscule piece of tin. I determine which side is plus and which is minus. Success! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now comes the easy part of the ritual. I brush what little hair I have left and my brush catchers the end of the hearing aid and it falls to the floor . “Okay “ I tell myself - …. “no sweat - I just need to be patient and repeat the whole damn process. “</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Now comes the rough part… Into the shower , soap up and drop the soap; soap up again and drop the soap again. After 3 or 4 iteration so this test of pure determination, I find my towel and get out of the shower into the freezing - and I mean freezing cold bathroom. My teeth are clicking together from the cold and I quickly pull a sweat shirt over my shivering body. (No sense struggling with a bra at this age.) I’m nolw semi-dressed and ready for breakfast. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But first, the March of the multi-colored pills. Two dynamite little light blue ones for pain; one huge orange horse pill for anxiety; one white circle for blood pressure; one oblong slip and go down for cholesterol regulation; One 81 mg of baby aspirin (again full circle and back to diapers and baby aspirin). Now that my pills guaranteed to add years to my life are obediently taken, I cook a nice warm bowl of oatmeal and sprinkle it with delicious brown sugar and a bit of half and half and sit down to enjoy my treat of the day. Do you think the fact that I consider my warm, delicious, creamy oatmeal my major treat for the day speaks volumes about the qualify of my life? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I'm now over an hour into my day, I still have not spoken nor heard a human voice. The silence of living alone permeates the air and the only sounds to be heard are my own voice saying ‘Dammit… where did I leave my glasses/book/newspaper I've looked everywhere.” sometimes can be heard, “Dammit - now what am I going to do ….I spot my glasses under my bed. I slowly dip down , knees cracking and pain zapping down my sciatic nerveI. I spot them on the floor under my bed. Now this is a whole other story and I I won't bother you with all the details. Just picture an 80 year old, stiff, gray haired old lady, trying to get down on her knees to look under the bed for glasses. And if I'm lucky enough to succeed in getting sown on the floor, the trick will become how to get bak upright. I finally grunt and groan and piss and sass enough and manage to grab my walking cane . I swing it low and around under the bed until the glasses pop out. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now comes the long, lonely and usually pretty empty day. I search for things to do. I can't knit anymore because of arthritis. I can’t do handwork because eyes are failing. I love books and do read a lot -love my Kindle. I refuse to turn on the television unlit late afternoon. I can only clean out so many closets and drawers. Cooking is no fun at all for only one person. Easy to snack and nibble out of boredom but know I need to exercise self control. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Lots of procrastinating because I must go for a walk in the fresh air …. Lots of advice about muscle atrophy and weakness …. Many “use it or lose it” advice… Lots of “you must walk through the pain - A few “wait and see, in a few months you’ll feel so much better” comments. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m tired now … think I’ll take a nap! </span></div>
Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-23021140163665675002012-06-24T16:32:00.001-07:002012-06-24T16:32:25.647-07:00TROUBLES SHAREDA friend and I have mysteriously and magically have "connected" through our writing. He and I have never met and probably never will. Reading some of his work on an internet blog has awakened an insight into the pain he expresses in his writing. His words have the ability to generate soul searching and tickle so many nerves of my own making me want I want to help. I really don't know if he reads my blog but want him to know I am thinking of him and praying he finds the peace he badly so longs for. Perhaps knowing he's not alone and that his demons, while very real, are not what define him. I ask him to take a deep breathe, throw his shoulders back, stand up straight and raise his eyes to the sun.
Who isn't in pain? Who hasn't been in pain? All of us hurt. You're not alone. You have lots of company. If you screw up this life you'll cause a hell of a lot more pain for a hell of a lot more people than you think!
Thinking a whole lot about you and feeling such a connection through your soul searching writing - Told you before you're very, very good and to waste such talent would be the worst possible action. Having lived with so many drunks, having been one myself, and allowing old debit booze to take over my own precious life gives me the right to lecture.
Please my friend, get yourself to the VA. Or not. But for God sakes (and the rest of our sakes) get over your demons. Take a pill; go to church; fall in love again; get outside your crusty broken shell and look up at the clear blue sky; smell the flowers; check out the waves at the sea shore; climb the majestic mountain; feel the warm purifying pond water and swim with the dolphins or soar with the eagles. Just do it. You can do anything you want as long as you want.
You are a life worth saving and I want to read more of your wisdom. And don't take too long to get yourself together. Remember, I'm an old lady and don't have an awful lot of time left!Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-86782611799295107172012-06-17T07:27:00.000-07:002012-06-24T16:36:53.771-07:00UNHAPPY FATHER'S DAY DAD<My father was a complex and mysterious kind of guy. His bizarre personality and life style are hard to capture in words, but I will try. And although not a strong physical presence in my life, he lurked there and his shadow shaped and formed my future. It dragged me along my rocky winding path, as twisted as a braid, entwined with confusion, love and loss, and impossible to predict.
He permeated my life with a clouded and veiled once-in-a-while presence ... rather like a strange phenomenon that floated in and out of my early vision. He appeared only every so often to remind me that he really did exist. I kept him buried deep within my soul with all the sorrows and puzzles in life that we never understand but that we need to accept if we are to survive. Any connection to him was mysterious and troublesome and I long ago determined that he was a ghost of a man too painful to try to understand. His life was exactly that -his life – and clearly one over which I had no control. His existence could only have meaning for me if I allowed it to limit my reach for happiness. Not until I got older and wiser did pieces of the puzzle fit. My father was a challenge to love and though I don't profess to have loved him, there is some peace in understanding him just a little. How do I describe such a complex man?
He was born into high society, the son of a renowned and respected Supreme Court Judge. His mother served as "Mistress of the Manor" and very little is known about her. Her mission was to bear children and run the Judge's home with dignity and decorum. Based purely on stories I heard, the children were raised almost exclusively by Irish Nannies who pampered and fussed over them. It's reported that he and his siblings had their every physical need catered to but very few of the emotional ones met. My father, in particular, grew into a spoiled adolescent who believed his privileged status entitled him to instant gratification.
He was tall and handsome and perfectly groomed at all times. I have clear early memories of this easy-going, devil-may-care- kind of guy whose presence could dominate and electrify a room. I don’t believe I ever saw him without a crisply pressed shirt and carefully knotted tie. A cheap blue or green “Scripto” lead pencil was always sticking out of his shirt pocket along with his ever-present pack of Kool cigarettes. In retrospect I believe he probably suffered an obsessive compulsive disorder. He was fiercely protective of his personal belongings and unerringly consistent in his habits. Each night, before going to bed, he meticulously laid the table for his morning breakfast. He set out a matching cup and saucer for his coffee to the right of a delicate little pedestal eggcup and a small bread plate for his toast. A juice glass was perfectly placed just above the spoon resting on a precisely folded linen napkin. The same small saucepan he used each day to boil his morning egg was placed on the stove with exactly the right amount of water waiting. Pepper and saltshakers were centered above the place setting and his treasured Scripto pencil along with the tall skinny box holding fragile extra lengths of lead placed alongside, thus completing his daily ritual. It might have been the only semblance of his upper class upbringing that he retained, insisting on cloth napkins and china plates even when we were struggling for money to pay the milkman.
He was tutored at home, never attended public schools and received a first class education. Well versed in the Classics, he learned Latin, English, math and history and studied the great philosophers of the past. He developed that aristocratic grace so common in the wealthy and high society as they were groomed for positions of power and influence. He was taught to speak in a confident and commanding voice that magnetically attracted others to his point of view. He was eloquent and had the ability to charm in order to influence. He could captivate an audience and wasted little time on superfluous conversation.
As a youngster, I had very little interaction with him. In those days, "children were to be seen and not heard." The few one-on-one’s I had with him were a result of some errant infraction of the rules that caused me to be sent to him for discipline. I like to think he loved me but am more inclined to think he tolerated me.
He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, acting on every instinct, spirit or impulse to satisfy his insatiable thirst for pleasure and comfort. He was unable or unwilling to sacrifice his own needs for those of others. He had never been held accountable for his actions and he showed no signs of changing to meet the responsibilities of a growing family. I like to think he loved my mother and all of us, but I'm less than sure even of that. He was a product of his protected upbringing and had a talent for dismissing anything that might cause him discomfort.
Perhaps it was those early years of being spared the shame or pain of his actions, protected, excused and forgiven by his own mother and father that caused him to lack ability to deal with unpleasant events. His adolescent years were roguish and troublesome and he developed a total disregard for rules and regulations. He became expert at absolving himself of any responsibility.
He was a brilliant and gifted student who succeeded academically with little effort. He avoided failure by barely meeting only the minimal requirements. His father was so well respected and admired, the family had became expert at burying inappropriate events lest the Judge’s reputation be sullied. The Judge demanded strict adherence to the old Irish creed:“ never air your dirty laundry in public.” My father and his siblings learned very early on that the family reputation was to be cherished and protected at all costs. They were trained to fiercely avoid any public disclosure of transgressions and that all misdeeds would be hidden lest the family name be tarnished.
Dad really ran amok during the restrictive days of prohibition and he found himself before the courts time and time again. He entered his teens during the prohibition era and seized every opportunity to circumvent any restrictions. Police silence was purchased and arrest records disappeared. Traffic tickets were hidden, fights and bar room brawls were buried and settled with the almighty dollar. They never made it to the police blotters. His total lack of accountability and excessive partying at age 17 got him into his first serious encounter with consequences.
He wound up paying the price for his poor judgment for perhaps the first time. After partying particularly hard one evening he drank himself into oblivion. In his drunken state he decided he wanted to "see the world" before he settled down. He went into NY City and signed up to join the French Foreign Legion. When he sobered up he found himself not only in the Corp, but being shipped to France assigned to drive a French Red Cross ambulance through German and French enemy lines. His influential father could do nothing to save him from this fate and perhaps even, once and for all, gave up trying and decided Dad should suffer the wrath of his irresponsible actions.
He grew into a charming, pampered, spoiled and weak man who was completely amoral. He failed to consider consequences before acting nor did he do anything he didn't want to do. And he had a hell-of-a-good time doing it. He never met a person he didn't like and his creed was "yesterday's gone, tomorrow may never come, live for today."
Should he be forgiven? Was it his fault? Was it a sickness? Was he amoral? I really don't know the answer to those questions nor do I need to know them now. I have to believe his sad, terrible journey into hell had nothing to do with me. Perhaps he had an ingrained weakness in his character. Such a belief might make his behavior somewhat tolerable. And even more interesting to note, his actions never really surprised anyone who knew him. Others had always stepped in and picked up any slack.
When my mother died before her 50th birthday, suddenly and unexpectedly, my father appeared to feel anguish and loneliness but clearly had not a clue as to how he should handle such pain. It slammed full force into his gut, confusing him and preventing him from finding a place for it. And as always, it was all about him. He hurt; He would be alone; He was in pain. Her death was sudden and unexpected; He was forced to suffer. And suffer he did as he sank further and further into despair. Instead of picking himself and us out of the depths he began his furious journey into alcoholic hell with a vengeance.
He chose the life of a vagabond or what then was referred to as a "knight of the road" a.k.a. homeless bum. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, he became one of the poor, disheveled vagabonds seen wandering up and down highways in search of the next odd job, or more realistically, the next cheap bottle of wine. He drank, slept and wandered - drank, wandered and slept - and then drank again.
That was the sum total of his existence. We later learned that he followed the weather and in the spring and summer traveled north and in the fall and winter he migrated south with the snowbirds. He worked sparingly and only when he had to. He sometimes worked as a grounds man for a traveling circus, a short order cook, a janitor at any institution that would hire him, or at whatever menial jobs might pay him just enough to buy another bottle of Muscatel. He disappeared from my life and I resigned myself to never hearing from him again. I was to learn, however, that along with his meager belongings he carried a next-of-kin card with my address listed as an emergency contact.
While I didn't think a whole lot about him during those busy days with my young and growing family. I was vaguely aware that he was in and out of jails, indigent missions, Salvation Army flophouses, and homeless shelters. Each time I passed "one of the bums of the road" I might wonder where he was but that was the full extent of any connection.
I was soon to learn that along with his few belongings he apparently carried a card with my sister’s and my address on it as emergency contacts.
One very ordinary day, with no advance warning, I received a phone call from the administrator of a Salvation Army "bunk house" in Poughkeepsie,NY. The caller told me my father was “in residence” and too sick to stay in his 50 cent a night room any longer. (Apparently transient "guests" could sleep there but weren't allowed to die there!) To do so would be to break the "house rules." He told me Dad would be moved to a government-run poor house and was expected to die within the next few days. The Salvation Army was bound by regulations to let the next of kin know before transferring a "sick guest".
That call was like a kick in the stomach for me. I was sad, frustrated, confused, and mad as hell. What did he want after all these years? He couldn’t really expect me to drop everything and jump in to save him from himself. Without dwelling on the past and without looking too far into the future, I called my sister, Mary Ellen. We reluctantly agreed we couldn’t ignore his sad and lonely plea for help. We had to help him if we could.
We drove to the Salvation Army house and picked up this dying, skin and bones shell of an old man. He was semi-conscious, had no teeth, wore dirty and torn clothes, needed a haircut and shave and pretended to know who we were. With his meager life belongings in a brown paper bag, we carried him out and took him to our local hospital. Our doctor was not optimistic about his prognosis and said he was one of the frailest and sickest patients he had ever been asked to treat. He had chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, emphysema, only one lung, heart failure, malnutrition, liver disease and multiple other manifestations of the life he had led. His lung had collapsed and he was convulsing and had very little chance of surviving.
Yet, somehow, miraculously, after a few days hovering at death’s door, and much to everyone's amazement, survive he did, and began to rally and improve. Mary Ellen and I agreed we had no choice but to share "joint custody of our father". He was too weak and frail to wander very far, certainly too sick to drink, and unable to breathe without oxygen for what would remain of his fractured life.
This bonus (and final year) of his life was a time for healing, for him physically, and perhaps for us emotionally. We got to know each other and maybe even to like each other just a little bit. He could no more change his ways than the proverbial tiger could change. With all his faults, he continued to be a funny and likeable old guy.
He sported a full, thick head of wavy gray hair, still sprinkled with specks of black after 50 years of bodily abuse. He was over 6 feet tall and weighed no more than 150 pounds. He was so skinny and had such long legs that when he sat and crossed them at the knees, both feet remained flat on the floor. Somewhere along the way in his travels, he had lost two fingers and claimed he couldn't remember how it happened. He had no control over the muscles in his eyelid and the left eye was so paralyzed that it remained always closed. Consistent with his life-long practice of ignoring unpleasant things, both physical and emotional, his solution was simply to scotch tape the eyelid to his bushy eyebrows to keep the lid up. It looked pretty strange to see this wiry old man walking around with his eyelid scotch taped open but he ignored it and pretended it was not unusual at all. Didn't everyone scotch tape his or her eyelids open? He viewed it as a workable fix to something that was nothing more than an irritation. Why not simply laugh about it and hold it up with scotch tape?
Notwithstanding his physical limitations, he refused to stop smoking. The doctor had told him (so Dad said) that at this point the damage was done and he could continue to smoke. He still had not lost his amazing ability to bring people - even doctors over to his side of a story.
Driving a car was yet another example of his tenacity and his inability or refusal to accept what might be limiting for him. I had tried for months to persuade him that it was no longer safe for him to drive. He convulsed and had mini seizures at unexpected times and he contended he could feel when they were "coming on." He swore he had plenty of time to pull over to the side of the road. In desperation I finally told him I was going to ask the motor vehicle department to revoke his driver's license. He was unhappy with my threat but didn't fight it very hard. I soon found out why. He simply went across the state line from New York to Connecticut and applied for a Connecticut license. Without computers and the advanced databases we have today, this was relatively simple. Without missing a beat, when asked on the application if he ever had a license revoked in any state, he simply checked no, smiled and thanked the license clerk and walked away with his new Connecticut State license. New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Delaware would be next!
Amazingly, he still possessed that unique charisma he was born with and once again captured and charmed everyone he met with stories of his years on the road. He glossed over the outrageous realities of his unbelievable escapades with astonishing ease and finesse and by the time he finished telling his stories they seemed like exciting adventures. He was downtrodden but not defeated and continued to pretend that everything was just a part of his fun-filled game of life.
And finally, after so many years of avoiding anything unpleasant, his final challenge arrived and he had to accept it head on.
When it was discovered that old, untreated tuberculosis contracted from his years on the road had reactivated, he was hospitalized. During examinations the doctors also found a cancer forming in his remaining lung. Dad accepted (or more likely chose to ignore) the inevitable, thanked the doctors for their help and signed himself out of the hospital, absent medical approval, and "hit the road again." He somehow obtained an old junk car (no driver's license, of course because it was revoked in all surrounding states and with fierce determination, he set off to drive around the country to say a final goodbye to each of his eight children. He barely made it 200 miles to Delaware. He checked into the very posh Dupont Hotel in the middle of Wilmington, Delaware, (nothing but the best, no Hojo’s for this guy) bought several bottles of whiskey, drank two of them and died with a third, half empty bottle, clutched in his hand.
And then this phantom of a man died - just as he had lived - drunk and alone.
As stated in Ecclesiastes, "A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance." His death was undeniably a time to weep and a time to mourn - to mourn not for Grenville, the man - but for time and love lost – for what might have been but now can neverGeorgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-32706801819738211872012-04-07T10:10:00.001-07:002012-04-08T10:52:05.979-07:00April 9 <b>HONOR HILL </b>
There is a beautiful little 17th century chapel situated on top of a hill covered with a blanket of yellow daffodils. Surrounding the chapel are hundreds of gravestones sitting up high and proud for all to see. Generations are here who have lived and loved in our little village. It was a delight for me to meet and learn from a tired, white haired and wrinkled old man who I watched as he struggled to walk up the hill. He used his cane and stopped briefly at many of the headstones. At some he brushed tears from his withered cheeks and at others I could hear him gently chuckle and tip his hat as he struggled higher up on the hill.
He appeared to be getting more and more fatigued as he moved on and I walked over to him and asked if he needed some help getting up such a steep hill.
“No, but thank you so much. I come here on every nice day to say hello to many friends who have gone before me. To walk past their head stones is to be reminded of what great friends they were and to discuss what I have yet before me. It’s very comforting as I read their names and remember.”
He pointed to the right and said, “See there – that’s old Johnny. He was the best. He loved his family, his God and his community with passion. He taught me so much in life and is now teaching me in death as well. He and I had many laughs over the years and I miss him still today. “ He twisted around a bit and with a wistful look in his sad eyes he pointed further up the hill and said, “….and up there Emma is waiting for me.. and Joey ….. and Mike. I need to move on … they’re waiting for me.”
I watched him struggle on, holding his cane and stopping every so often to share a bit of himself with his old friends. His wisdom was a special gift for me. I had never been a “big cemetery” visitor, but I sure as hell will be from now on. It’s the finest honor we can give to our departed loved ones. He was a wise old man and I will be sure to honor him when the time comes.Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-57554832259693509222012-04-04T13:17:00.002-07:002012-04-07T10:12:50.880-07:00April 7 <b>GLISTENING IN THE SAND</b>
It was a glorious sunny day and as I walked along the lonely stretch of beach I thought of one of my favorite expressions – “God’s in His Heaven and all’s right with the world.” A gentle breeze whispered to the reeds and rushes along the dunes and I felt a tremendous peace settle over me. I reached my hand above my head to capture the wayward strands of hair blowing before my eyes and it was then I realized that I had lost an earring. Not just any old earring but one of the very special ones given to me by my husband before he died. I quickly lost that sense of peace as I retraced my steps hoping to spot it glistening in the sand. It just was not to be. The tide was coming in and I was certain it had been washed out to sea. I went home saddened and feeling that awful sense of loss not only for my precious earring but whenever I thought of my beloved.
A few days later, as I began my daily walk by the sea, I passed an older gentlemen using one of those metal detector devices to scan the sand. He stooped over slowly to pluck an object fro the sand. He looked over at me and said, “Well now, will you look at this? Someone must be missing a beautiful earring.”
I was thrilled and told him about my loss a few days before and he just smiled and nodded his head. “Of course he said. I’m not at all surprised. Don’t you realize you’ve just witnessed an angel at work? When all seems useless, we often have our own angel stepping in to help us out. It seems like you have a very special. I bet it’s your late husband working remember to thank him.”Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-74203920132117480342012-04-03T13:55:00.000-07:002012-04-07T10:12:18.176-07:00April 6th – E = EVERYTHING MUST GO
I thought I was ready for it and that it would be a relief to “downsize.” It almost tore me apart! Although I was not one to hold onto “things,” because they were just that … “things,.” after 60 years of running a household and caring for eight kids, a husband and several dogs, I had amassed quite a collection. I foolishly thought … Enough! I’m going to get rid of a whole lot of this “stuff” and downsize. I certainly don’t need it.
I decided to sell my house, clean out my closet, and move to a neat little condo where I no longer have use for those oversized frying pans and spaghetti pots. I certainly didn’t need the mismatched dinner plates, cups, saucers and soup bowls. I had milk, water and juice pitchers, ash trays and silent butlers, cut glass and crystal, Limoge and Dalton, to say nothing of demitasse and Irish coffee sets. Their only function was that of dust collectors now. My beloved husband died; my wonderful kids were all grown and living on their own; my home was no longer the home I loved so dearly. It was just one more “thing.” Time to move on, I thought.
I scheduled an Everything Must Go Tag Sale. What a complete and utter fiasco. I stood like a sentinel at the door and every time a person would pick up one of my “things” I panicked. I would remember a moment in time, an event or joy or sorrow connected to that particular “thing” and just couldn’t bear to part with it. It belonged to me – to my family, to our history – to my kids. I felt like little pieces of myself were being fractured and disrespected. I’d smile at the remembrance of the many Sunday dinners and the very special holiday spent together as a family; the Christmas trees, the Thanksgiving turkeys, the picnics, the stick ball games and barbecues. I could picture the large refectory table in the dining room resplendent with china and candles and centerpieces. I’d see my sweet husband sitting at the head of the table and my kids seated around . I could could hear the happy chatter.and feel the energy. It was unthinkable to allow those special keepsakes to go to strangers. They were the anchors of our history and no one who hadn’t lived the experience would ever be able to appreciate their value. We needed them as precious reminders of past blessings . The ash trays would never be used again; no need for a silent butler; no sense in the dust collectors or the oversized serving pieces. I may not have needed them any longer but my children and future generations would need them to reflect and cherish their history and traditions. I sure hope so.
The sale was to be held from 9:00 -5:00 .on a Saturday. By 10:00 o’clock, with tears in my eyes, memories in my heart, and gratitude in my soul, I closed the door and placed a big sign saying, SORRY – SALES OVER.Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-2577114543222976222012-04-03T08:08:00.000-07:002012-04-07T10:11:55.053-07:00April 5th - <b>D = Death and Dying</b>
The tears flowed freely down her cheeks . She drew in a deep breath and mumbled to me, “I just can’t do this any longer. It’s killing me and I feel so useless. If only there was something I could do.” I covered her shaking hand with mine and replied, “I hope you’ll listen carefully to what I’m going to say. It’s important for both you and your mom.” I began to speak and gazed into her sad tortured eyes and said softly,
“Ah my friend, watching you sit beside your mom during these last few days of her long life touches a cord deep in my heart. You may not recognize it now but trust me when I tell you that these final days and hours with you are the finest gift you can give her and her finest gift to you as well. To be able to sit quietly next to her, stroke her hair, hold her hand, put your arms around her and bring her close to your heart is giving her the strength and tools she needs to die with love and dignity. Dying is hard work and your mom is clearly very tired. Her body is working really hard to accomplish this final task yet her mind and senses can remain calm and at peace. She needs your support now more than ever. She's feeling your love and devotion and that's bringing gentle comfort to her tired body. Your presence along this final leg of her journey is some kind of miraculous salve that eases any pain she might have. She can feel your gentle strokes and your strong arms holding and guiding her. Just as she caressed your hurts as a child too are you comforting her now by letting her know how much you love her. It is your finest hour in all the many years you've spent loving each other.
And she’s giving you a special gift with her long goodbye. My mom died years ago of a cerebral hemorrhage and was dead when she collapsed to the floor after a full, active day. The suddenness and unexpectedness of it caused a deep and fracturing crack in my heart . It has left a void that can never be filled. I never had the chance to say goodbye. I couldn't hold her hand, stroke her hair, and comfort her with soothing tones. I know it’s impossible to feel peace during these awful days but they will become treasured memories in the days ahead. A day won’t go by when you won’t think about this wonderful woman and these thoughts will be blessings from her as she pops in and out of your mind. Her unexpected “visits” every now and then will help you through the bad times. You and your mom are connected in a magical, mystical way because of these final days. Embrace every one of them and hold them close forever. “Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-82487286925429880352012-04-02T08:52:00.002-07:002012-04-02T08:52:41.363-07:00April 2nd 2012 Alzheimer’s Disease
I am alone, abandoned, anonymous. What the hell am I doing sitting alone on this plane? Why can’t I remember? Am I crazy? Where is Abby? Where has she gone? Who is that lovely lady who brought me here and who the hell is sitting in Abby’s seat next to me. And why am I strapped in like a prisoner. I have to get out of here but I don’t know how to get rid of this damn leash that’s holding me down.
Holy Good God … . what is that roaring noise? And why are we moving so fast? We’re going much too fast. I struggled to get up but the dam leash has me locked in place. Someone, help me please. The lady sitting in Abby’s seat reached over to me and placed her hand over mine. “Shh, shh, shh, … “it’s okay,” she said. “It’s the plane taking off. We’re going to be fine. Just try and relax and we’ll be safely in the air in just a few minutes.” She stroked my hand and arm and smiled at me as she whispered comforting words. I was happy to have her next to me but I had no idea who she was. She was very pretty, with shocking white hair that framed her kind, wrinkled face. She had a sweet smell of lilacs about her that reminded me vaguely of someone I knew a long time ago. Her piercing blue eyes held such deep sadness that it unnerved me a bit more and it was difficult to hold her gaze. She continued to caress my hand and I could feel the anxiety slowly drifting away and I was able to relax. I put my head back against the head rest and fell into a welcomed sleep.
I awakened to the Captain’s strong voice telling us we were fifteen minutes from our destination, Denver, Colorado. He told us the temperature on the ground was a mellow 70 degrees and it was a beautiful day. He thanked us for flying Delta and wished us a good day.
I opened my eyes and stretched my cramped arms and legs. Abby turned tentatively to me and said, “Hello there … how are you feeling?”
“Just fine,” I answered. “It was a very smooth flight, wasn’t it?” She nodded her head and asked me if I remembered feeling confused before we took off. I replied, “Of course not. … why do you ask.?” She smiled quietly and gently reminded me that sometimes the Alzheimer’s Disease plays funny tricks on my mind. She took my hand and said “Okay, love, let’s go on home.”Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-79261410180900933102012-04-02T08:50:00.001-07:002012-04-02T08:50:41.967-07:00April 4 – C COOKIES, CANDIES, CUPCAKES AND ICE CREAM
It was a fine sunny day with fluffy white clouds sweeping across the clear blue skies. I sat across the street from the newly painted bright pink building that was nestled between two large 3-story Victorian buildings. The sweet little building was no more than fifteen feet wide and perhaps twenty feet in depth. It's very size made a huge statement and my eyes were immediately attracted to this midget among giants of a building. It was one story high and set just a speck back from the street. This created a miniature "garden" in front that served as home to a large pink ceramic pig named Penelope. Eight little piglets that appeared to be scampering playfully around their mom’s feet surrounded Penelope. She stood, smiling delightfully, as she seemed to beckon and welcome patrons to the newly opened Pink Pig Confection Shoppe. Each piglet had a name painted on its haunches identifying the many delectable and exciting sweets for sale.
I smiled and just had to go in. I crossed the street to investigate this new addition to our Town Square. But first, I had to stop and pat Penelope Pig's shiny head as she stood guard at the front door. Only then did I enter this sweet little building. I opened the brightly painted magenta door and inside found pure magic. As I stepped thru the entry, I heard the tinkling of a pantry bell and immediately every one of my salivary glands was awakened by the intoxicating smells of chocolate, cinnamon, cherry and every imaginable sweet scent. Smiling clerks whose names were clearly visible on their bright yellow nametags came forward to welcome me. The owner who calls herself The Wizard of Sweets was first to greet me, followed by Jumping Jack, Jolly Polly, Gladys Glowworm, Leaping Lizzie, Flippin' Frog, and Wacky Willy . Each wore their bright yellow nametags proudly and moved among the parents and toddlers explaining the many different treats they were ready to serve. Candies, cookies and cupcakes were shaped like miniature red fire engines, adorable little flowers in all colors, licorice striped zebras, golden tigers and bears, marshmallow kitties, and dark and light brown puppies of all breeds. There was such a cacophony of voices, ‘ooh’s and ah’s’ and “Please Mommy, I want that’” through giggles and laughter that it was difficult to hear the names above the chatter. Of course, there was a Peppermint Pink Pig called a Penelope, a smooth pinkish colored sticky delight called a Cheery Cherry, a smooth clear vanilla wafer loaded with chocolate chips called a Kissy Coin, a citrus flavored delight called a Lemon Louie, and last but not least, an enormous tower of different flavored ice creams piled high into a cone called a Magic Kingdom. The ice cream was whipped to perfection right there in the shop and was a pure culinary delight of all natural ingredients. All treats could be topped with sprinkles, gummy bears, peppermint chips or any combination of nuts.
This enchanting little place had fed not only my sweet tooth but my heart and soul as well.Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-8332697109788950352012-04-01T10:13:00.001-07:002012-04-01T10:13:12.914-07:00April 3, 2012 B FOR BIRTHDAYS
What people don't understand about birthdays and what no one ever tells us when we're eleven years old, is that we are also ten, nine, eight, seven and even down as young as two or one year old. We carried all those years along with us and they brought us to this, our eleventh year, They are a part of our very essence and will never go completely away. They remain with us always. Some days we might say something stupid and that's part of us that's still ten. Maybe some days we still need to call our mothers for help because we're frightened or need an answer to something we don't understand. We may even need to be cradled in her arms and have her wipe away our tears. We will still need to be soothed by her tender touch on our bowed head. That's the part off us that's still five years old. And perhaps some day when we're all grown up, we will cry like we did when we were three years old. We may be so sad and frustrated that we don't know where to turn. And that's okay too because that's the part of us that is still three.
Indeed, we carry every age within. When we are 50 or 60 or 70 years old, some where, some place deep within our souls those qualities so much a part of us when we were only toddlers or teens or young adults remain with us still. We will still feel the need to laugh and cry like a three year old, rejoice and celebrate like a six year old, We can never forget to touch all these spaces deep inside ourselves that are still so much a part of who we are. I hope we can sing Happy Birthday with gusto and joy. Birthdays are very special days on this journey of life and we need to honor them. We need to reflect, reminisce and celebrate a whole birth week or birth month. Certainly a day is not enough for the miracle of who and what we are and what we yet to become.Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-65835740183145709722012-01-22T12:09:00.000-08:002012-01-22T12:25:18.675-08:00MEMORIES OF MY LOVING SISTER, MARY ELLENMary Ellen was an exceptionally strong woman who was well known and loved by her many friends and neighbors in her long-time home of Newtown, Ct. She will be remembered as one who loved her God, her family and her country with passion and vigor and will live long in the hearts and minds of those who knew her.<br /><br />Many of you are here to support those of us left behind. She adored her beloved and devoted, husband , Ennis with a special kind of once-in-a lifetime love. She worshipped her children and grandchildren and was forever in awe of the many blessings and happiness they brought to her . But make no mistake …. She was a tough old Irish broad, strong and forceful on the outside but a great big mushy marshmallow on the inside. I’m certain she’s screaming at me right now for even suggesting such a thing but “ she’s the one who went and died on us so now I can say what I want”. I can say what she said so often to me over these many years “Knock it off Punky …. You don’t know what you’re talking about… now you just listen to me.” <br /><br />And God in heaven, how she loved you kids - Matthew and Patty Gillen, (Mallory and Keilly), John (Spike) Ennis, Jr. (Karen, Katie), Meghan Vaughan (Cola, Eliza, Molly), Joanna Lambert (David, Haley), Christopher (Erin, Grenville, Maia),Mary Atkinson (Abby, Emma, Maggie, Ellen) and yes, there was always room for one more, a little great grandchild, Lucas. I remember asking her many years ago how she managed to stay sane after the deaths of three of her children. Her answer to me was simple and honest and true. She said ” Punky, I was in so much pain I just had no room for anything else. I couldn’t’ be comforted by you or anyone . It was my pain to bear and I just had to get through it. “<br /><br />So many to love but so much love to give. I lost count a long time ago of the actual number of nieces and nephews begotten by this large clan but she loved and cared about each one. She reminded me often how lucky we were to be so blessed with such a large and boisterous family. It was one of the treasures she held so dear. <br /><br />Mary Ellen was certainly not one to hold a grudge. She rolled with the punches and dealt with the blows as they came. She and and I had many, many arguments and fights over the years – too many to remember; most long forgotten. She was no easy opponent and as stubborn as a mule when fighting for something she believed in. We long ago had to agree never to discuss politics. She was a died-in-the-wool republican and considered me a flaming liberal democrat and there was no place for both of us in one conversation. <br /><br />One might think Mary Ellen and I would have clung to each other and supported each other throughout our whole lives. That, however was not always the case. As we became submerged in our own adult lives that dependency waxed and waned and we became buried in our very different lives. <br /><br />While we harbored a deep and abiding love, we didn't depend on one another. We had learned to survive around others instead of with them. We became expert at going it alone and called upon our own strength to cope with trials. We cared and always knew where the other was but found our way with our respective families . That was enough most of the times. She snuggled down into the bosom of her new family and I did the same with mine. <br /><br />She and I became true friends again in later years. Clearly Mary Ellen and I handled our complicated adolescence and young adult hood differently. She, I believe, was most profoundly shattered by our history. Her defense was to decide at a very early age, she would never suffer the torture of losing someone she loved so much ever again. She determined the only safe way to protect herself from that awful wrenching pain was to make certain she never really loved so hard again. She was not going to allow anyone to get close enough to hurt her so deeply. For self protection she needed to shield herself from caring too much. When relationships became the least bit threatening she had this uncanny ability to simply remove herself from involvement. We remained in touch in a most guarded manner, joined in heart but removed from each other physically. <br /><br />I, on the other hand, tried to make everyone my friend. I needed to prove to one and all that I was an okay person, capable of loving and being loved. I was in a constant search for whatever love and friendship I could grab. Years went by and Mary Ellen and I kept busy loving and being loved by our respective families. We became secure as the years progressed in our own little niches but I think both missed the closeness we’d had as children. Thankfully we found the way to talk about it and we worked to discover why our lives had become so isolated from one another. We agreed we wanted our children to know each other and perhaps form some lasting family ties. <br /><br /><br />The crack in our relationship as sisters was not something either of us planned or welcomed. We had both been so severely scarred by abandonment that we needed to prove to ourselves and others that we were deserving of their love and that we were worthwhile. Each of us had to do it in our own way. Mary Ellen, the ever thoughtful and consummate intellectual, marched ahead with deliberation. We lost touch right after school for many years. Never really “lost touch” but we definitely lost “connectivity.” She met and married a wonderful man, a lawyer who was by all standards part of the “privileged” life. His family was extremely wealthy and as is so often the case, much of that family wealth followed them throughout their years. They lived happily in Connecticut and we saw each other only occasionally. They often included us in holiday parties with their friends and I think we even spent one or two Thanksgivings with them at their enormous house in Connecticut. Our kids were friends only because we were “family” and saw each other only occasionally even though they were close in age. <br /><br />Mary Ellen faced enough tragedy and heartache in her life to last a lifetime. She lost her first born in a freak accident when he tripped and strangled on the side of his crib. A second child died of SIDS and a third died after only 11 days of life, an extremely premature birth. She and Ennis sank further into their private space of grief. Everyone who knew and loved them had to feel on the outside looking in – even one so close as her sister. <br /><br />We never stopped loving each other but we never were really able to recreate the closeness we felt as kids. She was afraid to love again lest she feel that awful pain ever again. We continued to search for understanding. More than 10 years ago, I stumbled upon a sweet card that spoke clearly to me. It was a picture of 2 little girls, taken from the back, sitting on a bench,overlooking the ocean . They had their little arms around each other. I shared it with Mary Ellen . It spoke volumes about our search for where we’d been . <br /><br />August 12, 1994 <br /><br />Dear Mary Ellen/Doots/Ellen, <br /><br />This card made me smile but it also made me sad. How come we don’t really talk? We talk about kids, grandkids, in-laws and on and on ad nauseam. I know (or at least I imagine we did!) we used to lie in bed as kids and talk/dream/remember/hope about all kinds of thoughts and emotions. I miss that! I think we’re missing out on a lot. Must be because I’m 60 years old today and thinking about how quickly life has gone by and wondering how I could actually be this old. <br /><br />I have a very dear friend dying of cancer at age 52. As I spend time with him during these last terminal weeks, it’s clear to me that we don’t have an awful lot of time to make sure we do all we can with our lives and ourselves. I just know you and I had this special love and sharing years ago, but somewhere, somehow, we’ve lost something really precious. There is so much of you I don’t know and so much of me you don’t know. But I do know I love you and hope we can find a way to remember and resurrect our childhood closeness.<br /> <br />• I vaguely remember as a kid drawing a crayon line down the middle of the double bed we shared to delineate “your side” and “my side.;<br />• I know I wet the bed until I was almost a teenager but don’t know why; I certainly can understand your drawing the line!<br />• I don’t remember much about mom and I bet you do;<br />• And Dad – I have no feelings other than sorrow for times lost; <br />• I don’t remember the war years, or Jerry, or gas and food rationing; <br />• I don’t remember how I felt when Jerry died; <br />• I don’t know why Bob left for California and never returned; <br />• Why did Mickey go to Texas and marry 5 times; <br />• I don’t know why we used to get the drunken phone call on New Year’s Eve from Bob saying he missed us; <br />• I don’t know why Gren, Ben and Peter were so removed; I adored them but never felt their love;<br />• I don’t remember elementary school; <br />• I don’t really remember those first few weeks at Kenwood; I know we were scared but were we crying or just resigned; <br />• I don’t remember having to stay with Aunt Janet for what seemed like a very long time or why we had to go; <br />• I don’t remember staying with Conde and Frances and for the life of me I don’t know why he left me money when he died; <br />• I don’t remember how I survived my last year at Kenwood without knowing you were there; <br />• I hardly remember the awful time with Ann and Roger right after Kenwood; <br />• I barely remember your wedding and as a matter of fact what I did and where I lived up until my own. <br />• The next 15 years are a blur of babies, diapers, colds, fevers and confusion; <br />• Who was I; who were you; where were we both during those years? What were we feeling and thinking?<br />• Why didn’t we spend Thanksgiving and Christmas together as families?<br />• Why wasn’t I more of a presence for you when your babies died? I was there physically but not really a comfort to you;<br />• Why am I a Democrat and you a Republican? <br />• How come you’re the only one of us that’s not a drunk? How come Gren, Ben, Bob, Peter, Mickey and I all had to stop drinking? <br />• Why were you so present and comforting when little Marta died? <br />• Why didn’t we both wind up in straight jackets? Were we too wily or was it that marvelous Sanctifying Grace that kept us in lead; <br />• What the hell happened to all the time and what can we do with time we have left<br />• What caused us to reach the point where we only talk about surface and unimportant things? <br />• Will we ever be able to bring back some of that precious closeness we had as kids? <br /><br />And so my sister, my friend – this is not a criticism of either of us. It’s simply an observation. I know you must hang up after our telephone conversations sometimes and think to yourself: ”I love her because she’s my sister, but God is she boring.” And I’m not – and you’re not! We both are pretty terrific people who have a wealth of knowledge and experiences buried in our backgrounds. We should leave much more of a legacy for our kids than you and I have known. <br /><br />All my love dear sister, <br />Punky <br /><br /> <br />POST SCRIPT: The letter was written when I hoped we both would live another 20 years or so. It was not to be and we buried Mary Ellen in Newtown Ct. last week..Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-51331476185122047742011-06-29T08:58:00.000-07:002011-06-29T08:59:11.358-07:00Year's Gone ByMy curfew was the street lights. My Mother didn't call my cell, she just yelled our name and we came in. My friends and I didn't text, we just knew what time to meet on the front steps. I played outside with friends, not online. If I didn't eat what my Mom made, then I didn't eat. Hand sanitizer didn't exist, but you COULD get your mouth washed out with soap if you said a bad word. Never drink out of a hose because it will make you really sick. Never pluck an icicle hanging from a tree and suck on it. Never ever suck a snowball stuck to your woolen mittens that gramma made. You're sure to get hives on your tongue. <br /><br />Remember sliding down " High Street" on your rusty old sled (or better yet on an old piece of cardboard) - when you had to do the old body " tip and twist" as you flew like the wind own the middle of the road. And then remember the long, torturous haul back up the hill for yet one more ride? <br /><br />Remember those crisp, clear, fall days when you climbed that enormous oak tree and then jumped from the highest limb you could reach to the raked leaves piled high beneath? No leaf blowers then so we had to remember to move the rake out of the way before jumping so it wouldn't crack us in the head. And later, remember the delicious smell and sweet aroma of those same leaves burning in the crisp fall air. <br /><br />Kick ball and dodge ball were not banned or considered "dangerous". Nor was wiffle ball or running bases that was played on the street. We had to be quick to run to the side of the road for the few passing cars that interrupted our game. The telephone pole was first base, the manhole cover, second, and the big oak, third. <br /><br />Remember jump rope, double dutch and hopscotch? Will today's kids ever marvel at the snap of crisp white sheets flapping in the breeze on the backyard clothes? Clothes pins will be unknown. The sound of a "choo choo" chugging along the track is no more. What will become of the favorite childhood book "The Little Engine that Could?" The Good humor bells no longer call us from our houses on the gentle summer evenings after supper. The old guy driving the beat up truck with the clanging bell annoucing his slow drive through local streets carrying fresh fruits and vegetables for our tables is gone forever.<br /><br />The familiar sounds of milk bottles clanging as the morning milk was delivered to our doorsteps. The race to be first to pour off the thick sweet cream that formed on top. The milkman's arrival was the signal to pull ourselves out of our warm beds and stand shivering over the hot air vent in the floor as we dressed quickly to keep warm. Then we could probably hear the thud of the newspaper thrown by the neighborhood kid from his bicycle as he fled by on his daily morning deliveries. He needed to hurry so he could catch that on-going sandlot ball game before the school bell rang. <br /><br />And whatever happened to seesaws at playgrounds, or those wonderful little tin wind up toys? Will we ever again see the awful pink, plastic hair rollers hidden under a kerchief at a drive in movie? In fact, where are the drive-in movies? <br /><br />What memories! The litany goes on and on and I can't help but wonder what today's youngsters will mourn in the next 50 years. I hope they too will have special memories to embrace .<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span>Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-60703498364927874882011-06-02T13:10:00.000-07:002011-06-02T13:12:08.189-07:00Happy Father's Day Indeed. <br /><br />My father was a mystery, an enigma, nothing but a glimpse, a shadow floating in and out of my life every so often. Never a strong presence, if in fact a presence at all, he lurked in a gray, opaque and odd sort of way, seen only as if looking through a window pain coated with steam. His shadow hovers in its peculiar way at the least expected times. <br /><br />He was a renegade who abandoned everything in the pursuit of some illusive happiness that he seemed unable to grasp. His bizarre personality is hard to capture in words because my interpretation, assessment, emotions are tangled and twisted with threads of love, hate, disbelief, sympathy and finally compassion. Thinking of him surfaces some bruises but he was a force to be dealt with. I've lived, loved and lost and will never fully come to grips with this incredible man. <br /><br />He always floated in and out of my vision as a clouded, once-in-a-while veiled presence, more like a strange phenomenon than real. I think when he did appear so unexpectedly it was only to remind me that he really did exist. I kept him buried deep within my soul with all the sorrows and puzzles in life that we never understand but that we need to accept if we are to survive. Any connection to him was mysterious and troublesome and I long ago determined very early on that he was a ghost of a man too painful to try to understand. His life was exactly that -his life – and clearly one over which I had no control. His being could only have meaning for me if I allowed it to limit my reach for happiness. Not until I got older and wiser did pieces of the puzzle fit. He was a challenge to love and though I don't profess to have loved him, there is some peace in understanding him just a little. How do I describe such a complex man? <br /><br />He was born into high society, the son of a renowned and respected Supreme Court Judge. His mother served as "Mistress of the Manor" and very little is known about her. Her mission was to bear children and run the Judge's home with dignity and decorum. Based purely on stories I heard, the children were raised almost exclusively by Irish Nannies who pampered and fussed over them. It's reported that he and his siblings had every physical need catered to but very few of the emotional ones met at all. My father, in particular, grew into a spoiled adolescent who believed his privileged status entitled him to instant gratification. <br /><br />He was tall and handsome and perfectly groomed at all times. I have very clear memories of this easy-going, devil-may-care- kind of guy whose presence could dominate and electrify a room. I don’t believe I ever saw him without a crisply pressed shirt and carefully knotted tie. A cheap blue or green “Scripto” lead pencil was always sticking out of his shirt pocket along with his ever-present pack of Kool cigarettes and silver lighter. Looking back, I believe perhaps he suffered an obsessive-compulsive disorder. He was fiercely protective of his personal belongings and unerringly consistent in his habits. Each night, before going to bed, he meticulously laid the table for his morning breakfast. He set out a matching cup and saucer for his coffee to the right of a delicate little pedestal eggcup and a small bread plate for his toast. A juice glass was perfectly placed just above the spoon resting on a precisely folded linen napkin. The same small saucepan he used each day to boil his morning egg was placed on the stove with exactly the right amount of water waiting. Pepper and saltshakers were centered above the place setting and his treasured Scripto pencil along with the tall skinny box holding fragile extra lengths of lead was placed alongside, thus completing his daily ritual. <br /><br />He was tutored at home, never attended public schools and received a first class education. Well versed in the Classics, he learned Latin, English, math and history and studied the great philosophers of the past. He developed that aristocratic grace so common in the wealthy and high society as they were groomed for positions of power and influence. He was taught to speak in a confident and commanding voice that magnetically attracted others to his point of view. He was eloquent and had the ability to charm in order to influence. He could captivate an audience and wasted little time on superfluous conversation. <br /><br />During my "at home years" "children were to be seen and not heard." The few one-on-one’s I had with my father were a result of some errant infraction of the rules that caused me to be sent to him for discipline. I like to think he loved me but am more inclined to think he tolerated me. <br /><br />He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, acting on every instinct, spirit or impulse to satisfy his insatiable thirst for pleasure and comfort. He was unable or unwilling to sacrifice his own needs for those of others. He had never been held accountable for his actions and he showed no signs of changing to meet the responsibilities of a growing family. I like to think he loved my mother and all of us, but I'm less than sure even of that. He was a product of his protected upbringing and had a talent for dismissing anything that might cause him discomfort. <br /><br />Perhaps it was those early years of being spared the shame or pain of his actions, protected, excused and forgiven by his own mother and father, that caused him to lack the ability to deal with unpleasant events. His adolescent years were roguish and troublesome and he developed a total disregard for rules and regulations. He became expert at absolving himself of any responsibility. <br /><br />He was a brilliant student who succeeded academically with little effort and avoided failure by barely meeting minimum requirements. His father was so well respected and admired, the family became expert at burying inappropriate events lest the Judge’s reputation be sullied. The Judge demanded strict adherence to the old Irish adage “never air your dirty laundry in public.” My father and his siblings learned very early on that the family reputation was to be cherished and protected at all costs. They were trained to fiercely avoid any public disclosure of transgression and that all misdeeds would be hidden lest the family name be tarnished. <br /><br />Dad really ran amok during the restrictive days of prohibition and he found himself before the courts time and time again. He entered his teens during the prohibition era providing ample opportunity to violate the law. Police silence was purchased and arrest records disappeared, traffic tickets were hidden, fights and bar room brawls were buried and settled with the almighty dollar. They never made it to the police blotters. His total lack of accountability and excessive partying at age 17 got him into his first serious encounter with consequences. He wound up paying the price for his poor judgment for perhaps the first time in his life. After partying particularly hard one evening he drank himself into oblivion. In his drunken state he decided he wanted to "see the world" before he settled down. He went into NY City and signed up to join the French Foreign Legion. When he sobered up he found himself not only in the Corp, but being shipped to France assigned to drive a French Red Cross ambulance through German enemy lines. His influential father could do nothing to save him from this fate and perhaps even, once and for all, gave up trying and decided Dad should suffer the wrath of his irresponsible actions. <br /><br />He grew into a charming, pampered, spoiled and weak man who was completely amoral. He failed to consider consequences before he acted nor did he do anything he didn't want to do. And he had a hell-of-a-good time doing it. He never met a person he didn't like and his creed was "yesterday's gone, tomorrow may never come, live for today." His drinking and self-gratification robbed him of every bit of human dignity he had and he "hit bottom." He had lost any self-respect and disappeared into alcoholic oblivion so painful to everyone that knew or loved him. <br /><br />I have to believe his sad and terrible journey into hell had nothing to do with me and everything to do with a terrible sickness. This belief makes his actions at the very least tolerable. <br /><br />My mother, his one true soul mate, died before her 50th birthday, suddenly and unexpectedly. This was the one blow he couldn't handle. He clearly felt anguish and loneliness and he had not a clue as to how he should handle such an awful insult to his emotions. It slammed full force into his gut. He simply couldn't understand why, how or who caused this and his confusion prevented him from being able to find a place for it. As always, it was all about him. He hurt. He would be alone. He was in pain. Her death was sudden and unexpected and he had to suffer. And suffer he did as he sunk further and further into despair. Instead of picking himself and us out of the depths he began his furious journey into alcoholic hell with a vengeance.<br /><br />He chose the life of a vagabond or what then was referred to as a "knight of the road" a.k.a. homeless bum. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, he became one of the poor, disheveled bums seen wandering up and down highways in search of the next odd job, or more realistically, the next cheap bottle of wine. He drank, slept and wandered - drank, wandered and slept - and then drank again. <br /><br />That was the sum total of his existence. We later learned that he followed the weather and in the spring and summer traveled north and in the fall and winter he migrated south with the snowbirds. He worked sparingly and only when he had to. He sometimes worked as a grounds man for a traveling circus, a short order cook, a janitor at any institution that would hire him, or at whatever menial jobs might pay him just enough to survive. He disappeared completely from my life and I resigned myself to never hear from him again. I was to discover, however, that along with his meager belongings he did carry a next-of-kin card with my address listed as an emergency contact. <br /><br />Neither did I think a whole lot about him during those busy years. I was vaguely aware that he was in and out of jails, indigent missions, Salvation Army flophouses, and homeless shelters. Each time I passed "one of the bums of the road" I might wonder where he was but that was the full extent of any connection. <br /><br />Then, out of nowhere, I received a phone call from the administrator of a Salvation Army "bunk house" in Poughkeepsie,NY. The caller told me my father was “in residence” and too sick to stay in his 50 cent a night room any longer. Apparently transient "guests" could sleep there but weren't allowed to die there! To do so would be to break the "house rules." He told me Dad would be moved to a government-run poor house and was expected to die within the next few days. The Salvation Army was bound by regulations to let the next of kin know before transferring a "sick guest".<br /><br />That call was like a kick in the stomach for me. I was sad, frustrated, confused, and mad as hell. What did he want after all these years? He couldn’t really expect me to drop everything and jump in to save him from himself. Without dwelling on the past and without looking too far into the future, I called my sister, Mary Ellen. We reluctantly agreed we couldn’t ignore his sad and lonely plea for help. We had to help him if we could. <br /><br />We drove to the Salvation Army house and picked up this dying, skin and bones shell of an old man. He was semi-conscious, had no teeth, wore dirty and torn clothes, needed a haircut and shave and he pretended to know who we were. With his meager life belongings in a brown paper bag, we carried him out and took him to our local hospital. The doctor was not optimistic about his prognosis and said he was one of the frailest and sickest patients he had ever been asked to treat. He had chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, emphysema, only one lung, heart failure, malnutrition, liver disease and multiple other manifestations of the life he had led. His lungs had collapsed and he was convulsing and had very little chance of surviving<br /><br />And die he did! ... just as he had lived, drunk and alone, penniless ... friendless ... destitute ... a sad and lonely, sick old man. Should he be forgiven? Was there anything to forgive? Was it his fault? Was it a sickness? <br />Was he amoral? I really don't know. I do know, however, <br /><br />As stated in Ecclesiastes,<br /> <br />"A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance." <br /><br />His death was undeniably a time to weep and a time to mourn - to mourn - not for the man - but for time and love lost – for what might have been but now could never be.Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-42414497346891830302011-04-19T13:46:00.000-07:002011-04-19T13:54:16.324-07:00GROWING OLD – AUGUST 2005<br /><br />I’ve just returned from a wonderful, peaceful and relaxing time at the ocean where the only requirement was to arise each morning, walk gently through the new day with absolutely nothing needing to be done, no tasks, no chores and no place to go. Sitting on the beach watching the waves break at my feet, one after the other, systematically and relentlessly repeating themselves every few seconds, piqued my imagination and forced me to think about the continuity and unending flow of life. I was consumed and comforted thinking about all the years that had gone before and those yet to come. And I suddenly felt very old. I made a conscious decision to honestly search my soul and focus on discovering my true and innermost thoughts about this process of aging. I had this unexplained desire to understand where I was in the moment and how I would or could face this last chapter in my life.. <br /><br />I hadn’t thought a whole lot about it until now, but as I began to search my innermost private thoughts I reached an amazing discovery. As I pondered how I felt in the very core of my being, not surface stuff like aches and pains, but deep down in my heart, I experienced an epiphany of sorts. <br /><br />Certainly my life had been filled with many things, some good, some bad; some happy, some sad; some disappointing, some uplifting. But somehow I hadn’t been aware that time was moving as quickly as it did. The last time I looked, I was twenty years old, blond, blue-eyed and weighed a mere 120 pounds. I awoke one morning and the “me” I saw in the mirror was someone else. I didn’t see it coming and suddenly it was here. I still didn’t feel old but sure enough, I was. <br /><br />Old age, I decided, is a gift. To be finally close to knowing who I am, probably for the first time in my life, is a startling revelation. It’s refreshing to realize my body has little if anything to do with it. After so many years of worrying and fretting over appearances it finally just doesn’t enter into the realm of what’s important. It makes no difference whether I’m tall or short; whether I need to lose 5 or 50 pounds; whether my skin is taut or wrinkled; whether my hair is perfect or my clothes are fashionable. It certainly makes no difference whether I’m rich or poor because there’s not much left on which I want to spend my money. I have all the material things I need. I’m getting too tired and feeble to travel afar and many of my old traveling companions are gone. I’ll still hold my stomach in when I have my picture taken and I’ll still try to look my best to “impress” people but I no longer despair over my body. My bras and underwear no longer need to provide support. Comfort is what I desire most desire now. Perhaps I should burn my bra now even though I never thought of it in the 60’s when it was the “cool” thing to do. I’ve worn my last pair of high heels and fashion boots and choose to sleep in and old t-shirt rather than a black negligee or nightgown. I no longer agonize over how i look. It is what it is and it makes little difference in the total picture. As the saying goes, “I’m comfortable in my skin.”<br /><br /><br />I certainly would never think about trading my loving family or amazing friends for a flatter belly or fewer age spots on my hands and face. As I've aged, I've become more accepting and kinder to myself. I’m less critical and like myself a lot better. I'm freer to eat what I want and behave the way I feel. I’m pretty much completely honest with myself and others and don ‘t hesitate to say exactly what I’m thinking. People have every right to shake their heads and comment “don’t let her bother you; she’s old and says whatever comes into her head.” <br /><br />I’ve become my own best friend. I don't always make my bed, and I sometimes buy some silly, stupid thing just because I like it. I’ve earned the right to be lazy, messy and extravagant. I’ve seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon before they’ve felt this unbelievable sense of freedom that comes with age. <br /><br />I can read deep into the night and not get out of bed the next day till noon. I can live in the past and remember the good music, the special teacher in 3rd grade, my first boyfriend and first kiss. Yet I often can’t remember what I had for breakfast that morning. I can rejoice or weep at those memories. I’ll forget a lot of things in my past but then some of them are best forgotten anyway. Sometimes I’ll even remember the important things and either laugh or cry over those memories. Over the years my heart has been broken and then miraculously, somehow been rejuvenated. I’ve lost loved ones and seen great suffering. This has served to strengthen and enrich my compassion. How can you not feel and learn from the suffering and pain of those we love? Broken hearts are mended by understanding and acceptance. How can we know pure joy if we never experience deep sadness? <br /><br />I am blessed having lived long enough to have grey hair. The lines forever etched in my face are either hard earned groves or delightful laugh lines. How many people never have the opportunity to laugh? How many die before their hair turns grey? As I get older, I sincerely don’t care what others think of me. I don't question myself as much and know I've earned the right to be wrong.<br /><br />Being old has set me free. I like the person I have become. I won’t live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be. For the first time in my life, I don't need a reason to do the things I want to do. If I want to play games on the computer all day, lay on the couch and watch old movies for hours or don't want to go to the beach or a movie, I have earned that right to say “no.” I put in my time doing for others, so now I can be a bit selfish without feeling guilty.<br /><br />How many of us put off things we wanted to do because we had no time? How often have we turned down our favorite dessert because we’re watching our weight? How often have we said to our kids “later, honey, I’m busy now?” Life has a sneaky way of accelerating as we age. Days get shorter and our lists of “things to do” get longer. And then one day we awaken and realize we may not have the time or the energy to accomplish everything on our list. <br /><br />So, I’m going to get up off that couch and take a ride on a merry-go-round. I’m going to watch the sun set at night and rise in the morning. I may even try para-sailing. I’ll listen to the song birds sing and the wind rush through the trees. I’ll count the circles in the lake made by the rain drops splashing on the water. I’ll call an old friend just to say “hello” and I’ll have ice cream for dessert at both lunch and supper. I’ll kiss my husband of 53 years and tell him I love him more today than I did all those many years ago. <br /> <br />I feel sorry for the young. They face a far different world than mine. We feared the law, respected our teachers, listened to our parents, prayed hard and I almost never felt the need to use gutter language. “Father knew best” and mom was our best friend. We relied on our parents, teachers and God to mold and form our young minds and knew nothing about mind-altering drugs. <br /><br />Life was much easier. We weren’t faced with 30 plus choices of cereal or cookies or fruit at breakfast. We ate what we were served and if we didn’t finish it we believed it would be sent to far-off lands to feed the hungry. We expected our President to tell the truth when he spoke to the American people and we certainly expected our priests to keep their zippers up. Arithmetic wasn’t considered fun; it was hard work learning those times tables. We ate together as a family at dinner and talked about what was important to us and learned key lessons about the importance of leading good and fulfilling lives. We cleared the table and did the dishes. We did our homework and went to bed without having television violence and trauma uppermost in our young minds. Our lives were slower, more serene and incredibly simplistic and peaceful. <br /><br />I am grateful to have been born in a kinder, gentler world. I read somewhere (and now that I’m old I can’t for the life of me remember where it was or who said it) but it’s a great line that I wish for all us old folks – “We’re born kicking and screaming and everyone else in the room is smiling. May we live our lives so that when we die, we’re smiling and everyone else in the room is crying.” <br /><br /> All of the above is but a mere compilation of all that I've seen, experienced, discovered, read or learned from others. Old age is not too bad!Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4670382210334315592.post-33444629786736713742011-04-19T13:39:00.000-07:002011-04-19T13:45:52.491-07:00FINAL GIFTMy friend, <br />As you sit with your mom during these last few days of her long life touch cord deep in my heart. You may not recognize it now but trust me when I tell you that these final days and hours with you are are the finest gift you can give her - and that she gives to you. To be able to sit quietly next to her, stroke her hair, hold her hand, put your arms around her and bring her close to your heart is giving her the strength and tools she needs to die with love and dignity. She's feeling your love and your devotion and that's bringing gentle comfort and easing any pain she might have. Just as she comforted you as a child, so too, are you caressing her and letting her know how much you love her. It is your finest hour in all the many years you've spent loving each other. <br /><br />And for you .... she's giving you a special gift by her long goodbye. My mom died years ago of a cerebral hemmorage and was dead when she collapsed to the floor after a full, active day. The suddenness and unexpectedness of it was a deep and fracturing wrench in my heart and has left a void that can never be filled. I never had the wonderful chance to say goodbye, I couldn't hold her hand, stroke her hair, comfort her with soothing tones. A day doesn't go by when I don't think about this wonderful woman. I am just now beginning to recognize those thoughts as a blessing from her because she will remain with me always. You and your mom are connected in a magical, mystical way because of these final days. Embrace every minute of them and hold them close forever. <br /><br />You are both in my prayers.Georgiana Keoghhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12128463542615910755noreply@blogger.com0