The Thief

Joan on her honeymoon

I am watching you wither away and there is nothing I can do but love you. Dementia is more powerful than I am. I’m just a human. It has the power to weave its way into the lives of anyone it wants. It doesn’t care how old you are, what kind of life you’ve lived, how much money you have, or how well-known you are.

It was clever. It snuck in like a thief but didn’t steal anything right away. It waited and watched. It wasn’t greedy at first. It took a little here and there so we wouldn’t notice—a misplaced item, a forgotten word, a memory. After it stole the little pieces, it wanted more. It took your short-term memory, your grandchildren’s names, and the way you understand and interact with the world. It will soon take the last of your independence, your children’s names, time and place, and who you used to be. You’ll forget about me and only know me as the kind woman who hugs you and tells you everyone is safe and sound when you can’t find the babies who grew up years ago. I wish I could put bars on our windows to keep the thief out.

You can’t count on dementia to be the same each day. It doesn’t like predictability, structure, or schedules. Sometimes it swirls you around until you don’t know up from down and other days, you’re just a regular old lady with a touch of forgetfulness who knows the name of the president and season. Every day is a surprise.

You tell me about your day and how busy you were—where you went, who you saw, and what they said. A stranger would believe you, but I know you spent your day traveling through time, and that busy day you had was decades ago. Time travel is exhausting and disorienting. No wonder you can’t always remember when and where you are.

You swear people break into your home and leave food in your fridge and cupboards. “Mom, why do you have eight boxes of granola bars and three family size bags of chips?” You look at me and say, “Oh, those aren’t mine. Those were here when I moved in.”  Cleaning out your fridge is a guessing game.

I ask to look in your purse to make sure you have your debit card. Your purse is full—a brush, three combs, one glove, pictures, old greeting cards, junk mail, and $10 in change. Your debit card isn’t there and I panic. It’s in your pocket. “Oh, I don’t know who put that there.” It’s the same answer you give me when I ask why a watch you haven’t worn in forty years is in your purse.

You are angrier than you used to be. You accuse your twin sister of going through your purse and stealing your money. She is the target of all your wrath. It’s as if a lifetime together has reached its breaking point and sibling rivalry is alive and well. You yell at her and strike out. Your words drip with anger. “Mumma always said you can’t be trusted. Daddy said to act right and come home right now!” You were sixteen when your father passed away.

Lately, is seems like your disease is on fast forward and we are losing you more quickly. I can’t keep up. I thought I’d be ready but I’m not. I look at your face and try to soak you in. I touch your soft silver hair. I wrap my arms around your shrinking body. I want to scoop you up and hold you forever. You are more than my mother-in-law. You are my mother and I am your daughter. You love me like I’ve always been yours, and you’ve always been mine. My heart will break when you don’t know who I am and how much I love you. I’ll never be ready.

I’m Going Through Changes

I’m almost embarrassed to admit I only know the song “Changes” by Black Sabbath by watching the hilariously inappropriate animated series Big Mouth. It’s a show about a bunch of middle-school kids going through puberty—changes to their bodies and how they related to the world; overactive sex drives; hormone monsters; anxiety mosquitos; depression kitties; talking vaginas; and the such. There is nothing funnier than Maya Rudolph as Connie the Hormone Monstress. The show opens with a cover of “Changes.” I totally relate to the lyrics, “I’m going through changes.”

As part of my treatment plan for breast cancer, I take a tiny white pill every day that successfully launched me into early menopause. The type of cancer I had thrives on estrogen. So, no more estrogen. I have an Anti-Hormone Monstress. I’d like her much more if she was voiced by Maya Rudolph.

I was hoping for a few more years before I changed. They told me about the side effects—hot flashes, mood swings, joint pain, weight gain, etc. Here is what they didn’t tell me:

• I sweat in places I didn’t know were possible doing absolutely nothing other than breathing. I look like a glistening crazed maniac with pools of sweat underneath my eyes.

• You can measure my irritability on the Richter scale:
  • 1-2. I love you, but the sound of your chewing makes me want to impale my eardrums with the spoon you’re using to eat your cereal.
  • 3. Any words that leave your mouth will be met with complete distain and exasperation.
  • 4-5. If I could legally run you over with my shopping cart, I would. Consider yourself lucky I can only imagine lighting your face on fire with my sweaty eyes.
  • 5-6. I want to turn your cereal spoon into a shiv.
  • 6-7. My vocabulary consists of every conjugation of fuck, which I string together to strangle you with like piano wire. But that’s only if you’ve really pissed me off.
  • 7-10. We’ll just have to wait and see. There’s only so much my mood stabilizer can do.

• Weight gain isn’t just a number. My perky fat rolls are now a droopy testament to cravings that alternate between greasy, sugary yumminess to greasy, crunchy happiness.

• The switch to my brain is controlled by my eyelids. Before menopause, my brain would switch off the moment my eyes snapped shut. Now, closing my eyes zaps my brain to life and every single thought I have is electrified and replayed over and over.

• My depression, anxiety, ADD, and menopause compete in cage fights for the title of Brain Fog Champion of the World.

• My talking vagina can be one cranky bitch sometimes.

• I spryly get off the couch only to walk like my 80-year-old mother-in-law across the living room.

I’m going through changes, but if it means no more cancer, I’m good with it. Ok, maybe not good, but I’m fine with trading in estrogen for another day with my family.

My New Normal in the Time of COVID-19

My new normal is working in my pajamas and not brushing my teeth until noon. I roll out of bed fifteen minutes before the beginning of my work day to make a pot of coffee, feed the cats, and corral my hair with a plastic clip. I don’t even bother brushing it first. No make-up. I haven’t worn a bra in days. It looks like depression.

I sit at my desk in my bedroom for hours. I talk to voices that used to be faces. I sit in virtual meetings on mute so no one can hear the dogs barking in the other room. I leave my new office long enough to say hello to my sister-in-law in the living room, collect my Uber eats delivery, and grab a Diet Coke from the fridge. I’m a hermit with a head-set. My connection to people is a string of instant messages and emails.

My work day ends by closing my laptop—no goodbyes over cubicle walls; no see-you-tomorrows; no drive home to clear my head. It’s like I’ve snapped my fingers and am instantly home. My bedroom is a bedroom again. I take a nap, make dinner, hang-out with the family in the living room (steps away from my “office”), and go to bed at my usual time because tomorrow is a work day. One day is identical to the next and I don’t even care what day of the week it is.

Before COVID-19, I dreaded going to work, not because my job is dreadful, but because I just wanted to stay home and hide from the world. I didn’t realize going to work and being in the world helped me manage my depression. Depression loves my new normal. It’s been trying for years to keep me home in my jammies. It loves that I don’t shower every day or brush my hair. It loves my isolation and our long conversations. It loves that I look like I’ve given up.  It loves that I look like I feel. It loves that it’s my new co-worker I have coffee with in the morning instead of my best friend.

I don’t know how long my new normal will last. We live in a strange, frightening new world. Social distancing is a word I didn’t know existed before the COVID-19 pandemic. Stay-at-home orders, quarantines, and travel bans are part of our everyday language. Personal protective equipment and ventilators are on everyone’s minds. It’s not just my depression that loves my new normal. My anxiety thrives on every uptick of COVID-19 cases and the real possibility of someone I love dying. It’s not my usual fear of death. It’s so much more.

There’s much I don’t have control over right now, but I can define my new normal. It includes hope, hair brushes, and hot showers. It includes creativity in place of naps, FaceTime coffee dates, and inhaling fresh air. It means telling depression and anxiety to keep it down during work hours. I’m thankful I can work from home, and so very grateful for those who leave home to save lives, keep our world running, and give us hope. They normalize the world that is anything but normal right now.

I’ve Been Squirreled!

Having Attention Deficit Disorder as an adult presents some unique challenges, especially when you have to be a productive employee and an attentive mother and wife. A squirrel is no longer an animal in my world. It’s a verb. Sorry, I meant to pay attention to you, but I was squirreled. I would have finished that super important project, but I was squirreled. Damn squirrels! Hey did you see that fat squirrel out the window? Who’s that walking by with the cute dog? I like cats. Hey, here’s a link to a funny cat video. Did you see that fat squirrel?

Here’s a snapshot of my life with ADD.

Jenny at work

Department head: “Jenny, do you have anything you want to say about this super complicated, convoluted policy we just came up with?”

Jenny: Shit. The only thing I heard were the introductions at the beginning of the meeting. Okay, just smile. “Nope. Sounds good to me.”

The absurd, logic-defying policy rolls out.

Jenny: “Who the hell agreed to this?”

Also, Jenny at work

Manager: “Jenny, I need you to write this last minute, super important legislative report by noon today.”

Jenny: “No problem. I’m on it!”

I write a sentence. Oh, an email just popped up on my screen. I better read it. Crap, I need to write this report. Oh, another email. I fall into a rabbit hole of emails that can clearly wait, but I answer anyway. Focus! I write two brilliant sentences. Oh, I need a cup of coffee. Whoops, I just spent fifteen minutes wandering through cubicles on my way back from getting my coffee that’s now lukewarm. A few more sentences. Hey, what’s this piece of paper you just put on my desk? Nothing important? Great, let me read it in detail and make edits. Oh, another email! I better go to the bathroom. Now, what was I working on? Shit! The report! Manager walks by. “How’s the report coming along?” “Almost done,” I say. 11:45 – I write like a bat out of hell with super-focused precision for fifteen straight minutes and finish the report. “Nice work, Jenny.”

Jenny at home

I better clean the kitchen. Oh, this random thing doesn’t belong here. I’ll put it in the office. Wow, what a mess. I need to rearrange things in here. Oh, this is something the kids made when they were little. I better put it in my special treasure trove. I spend the next hour going through every single treasure. Better let the dog out. I wander outside with him. Ugh, these weeds. I start pulling weeds and then notice the patio furniture is in disarray. Wow, the patio needs a good sweeping. I go into the garage to get the push broom. Hey, I left a glass out here in the garage. Weird. I better go put it in the kitchen sink. I start to empty the dishwasher. Ugh, these cupboards of full of things we don’t need. Better open every cupboard and pile everything on the kitchen counter. This junk drawer is a mess, too. The contents of the drawer are dumped onto the counter to sort through. It looks like a bomb went off in the kitchen. I now have an overflowing Goodwill box and a full trash can. That made me thirsty! I open the fridge to get a Diet Coke. Wow, what a mess. I start cleaning out the fridge and now the sink is full of dirty Tupperware. I start washing the dishes again. Geez, I wonder why I feel so tired. Babe, I’ll finish the dishes after my nap. I wake up. Not a dish in the sink. My sweet husband washed them.

Jenny during conversations with her family:

Mike: “Babe, listen to this hilarious story. I’m going to say the person’s name I’m talking about fifteen times.” The story concludes.

Jenny: “Wait, who are you talking about?”

Kylie: “Mom, I want to talk to you about this problem at work.”

Jenny: “I’m all ears.”

Kylie: “So, what do you think I should do?”

Jenny: “About what? Hey, do you want to go to Starbucks?”

Jenny writing

I can’t use the word distracted again. Let me use the thesaurus on my phone. Hey, I got a Facebook notification. I spend the next hour stalking people on social media, reading random articles posted by a friend, and watching a few funny cat videos. Right, I need to get back to writing. I look up distracted in the thesaurus. Oh, frenzied is a fun word. That leads me to the word corybantic. Wow, what does that mean? I look up the definition. Oh, it means frenzied. Back to the thesaurus. Oh, berserk is a neat word. I then start singing the berserker song from the movie Clerks. Hey, I wonder if that actor is in anything else. I then fall down the IMDB rabbit hole and don’t find my way out until forty-five minutes later. Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be writing. What’s another word for distracted? Let me check the thesaurus.

Never a dull moment, my friends.

One Sassy Mother

Jenny with sassy girl #1

Jenny with sassy girl #2

I’m a sassy gal. It goes without saying that I’m a sassy mom who raised sassy, strong women. I’m honest in a way that is completely inappropriate and embarrassing. My grown daughters share with me the bits of wisdom and advice I gave them during their formative years and I can’t believe my absolute absurdity. I either sugar-coated the shit out of something or told them the good, bad, and ugly. I either told them everything or nothing at all. There was no in-between. There are things I wish I would have told them when they were younger, like my struggle with depression, but I didn’t want them to worry. Maybe they did and I just didn’t know.

A lot of times, I gave my girls a heaping pile of sass with a side order of unwelcomed advice and attitude. I sprinkled in my opinions, observations, nagging suspicions, and worry. When they gave it back, I was petty, pushed buttons, and pouted. It was hard to tell the teenager from the mother. I shared my moodiness and negativity willingly, even though no one wanted it.

I have a sassy sense of humor that can be a little dark and questionable. Does that stop me from sharing it without discretion? Absolutely not. I will say the craziest, most incredulous nonsense just to hear my girls’ authentic, addictive laughter.

If you want to see real sass, I dare you—I double dog dare you—to mess with my girls. I won’t fight for myself, but I will go medieval when it comes to my beauties. I won’t be polite about it and I won’t compromise. I won’t back down until you back away. I will not hesitate to rip your face off, figuratively of course.  I’m not a psychopath.

Yes, I’m a sassy, stubborn mother. I’m a little bit of a handful. But I’m also the mother who encourages her girls to dream, chase adventure, be true to themselves, live in awe of the moon and the stars, love deeply, and love life. I’m the mother who reminds them they are brave, brilliant, and so much bigger than any challenge that comes their way. I champion them, cheer for them, and celebrate them.

I am the mother who loves them to infinity and beyond.

What if?

My best decision was marring my best friend in 1990.

It’s human nature to ask what if. What if I said yes instead of no? What if I chose the road less traveled? What if I left home three seconds later or turned left instead of right? What if everything was different?

Life is a series of choices. Sometimes your life is shaped by the choices made by others before you even knew you had a voice. Sometimes the choices you make have a profound impact on those closest to you, and even those with whom you may have shared a handful of moments. Every second presents us with choices to make, some mundane and insignificant, but others shatter your world—the life you made for yourself, dreams you chased, a future you thought for sure was certain. Sometimes life presents you with one opportunity to make the right choice. Sometimes we get to make the same choice time and again until we learn to choose better. Sometimes we never learn.

My life has been a series of calculated choice—each decision led me away from a life of poverty, addiction, and abuse. I chose hope. I chose to end cycles that passed from one generation to the next. I chose me. I could have easily made other choices, no one would have blamed me if I had, but I wanted more for myself. It wasn’t going to be gifted to me. I fought for it.

What if my parents would have made different choices? Would I be as stubborn and strong as I am now if I hadn’t struggled every day until I left for college? Would I choose to be as compassionate as I am now if I didn’t know what it felt like to carry around pain and fear I collected as a kid? Would I be as creative as I am now if writing and reading stacks of books hadn’t been my only escape from a chaotic, violent homelife? Would I be as hopeful as I am now if hope had not been the only thing I had growing up? Would I diligently manage my mental health now if I had not watched depression and drug addiction destroy my parents? I could choose to see the tragedy in each choice my parents made, but instead I choose to see triumph. That which did not kill me makes me stronger. That may be true, but it sure hurts like hell.

What if I would have made different choices? I’ve made choices out of fear that absolutely broke my heart. I’ve made decisions I knew were right, but hurt those I love. I chose with my heart instead of reason, and chose reason when my heart begged me not to. I chose to be stubborn and irreverent, when being open-hearted and open-minded would have made all the difference. I chose skepticism over faith, pessimism over positivity, pride over humility, and doubt over confidence. I chose passivity when I should have shouted from the rooftop and anger instead of forgiveness. I chose denial when confronted with facts and chose to believe my worst fears couldn’t possibly be true.

But I chose to try again, knowing I can be better.

There are choices I am so proud I made—being hopeful, going to college, reaching out for help, marrying my best friend, getting out of bed every day, buying a home, raising strong, sassy girls, loving with my whole heart, writing, letting my self be vulnerable when I needed to and strong when I had to, and never giving up.

What if I am living the life I’ve always wanted?

I am.

Did I Actually Write That Nonsense?

The one thing I have perfected as a writer is the beginning of a story—no middle or end; no inciting incident; no idea where it’s going or what it wants to be. I then squirrel it away for years, sometimes twenty. I was a completely different person twenty years ago and it is painfully obvious when I re-read the words of a twenty-something aspiring writer who never cracked open a thesaurus. It does make me appreciate how far I’ve come and am excited to say I’ve had several of my short stories published. It wouldn’t hurt to dust off The Chicago Manual of Style. Who am I kidding? I bought the laminated tri-fold. Its quality is described on Amazon—water resistant, lightweight, compact, and durable. My writing has two of those same qualities. I’ll let you be the judge.

For your reading pleasure, here are the gems I dug out of my squirrel nest. Be prepared to be underwhelmed:

• “Mitch’s enthusiasm could be seen by the blind and heard by the deaf.” Let me first apologize to the blind and deaf communities. That one is painful.
• “He would have noticed two damp towels laying on the cold bathroom floor.” Ugh, seriously? Does anyone care the bathroom floor was cold and the towels damp? Lazy.
• “Her limp, mousy hair falls straight… hanging lifeless over her shoulders.” An ellipsis has no business in this sentence. These words have no business in this sentence. What the fuck is mousy hair? So embarrassing.
• “She would rather pluck out her own eyes than let anyone see her hurt.” Uhm, that’s not how vision works.  People can still see you even if you pluck out your own eyes. I want to pluck out my eyes so I can’t see this horrible writing.
• “Although she loves Chris and has allowed him to explore every curve of her body, she has not let him inside her soul. He has tried to scale them, but he always loses his footing and falls to the hard ground below. So, he stands outside of those walls and licks his wounds.” First off, I just threw up in my mouth. “Let him inside her soul?” That’s not a thing. The thought of him licking his wounds just made me throw up again.
• “Janie worked six nights a week at Heartstone Nursing Center, changing Attends and cleaning up vomit off the cold linoleum floor.” What is up with these cold floors? Heartstone? What a marketing nightmare. Do you really want your mom staying at a stone-hearted facility?
• “Even when you don’t know where you’re going, you end up somewhere, usually at a place called Regret.” I think I was trying to be deep. Did you see what I did there? Regret is the name of the town. So, so bad.
•  “I went to wash my hands as to not spread germs.” That’s just the right thing to do, people! Good hygiene is everyone’s business.
• “Maggie, her legs crossed” – that’s it, folks. Not even a period or point. I didn’t even finish the sentence. The story just stops.
• “Maggie lay supine on the hospital bed with her eyes closed.” That’s a little clinical and redundant.
• “Tim kissed Maggie’s parched lips ever so gently, yet passionately enough to remind her that she was still alive. It was like an unexpected rainstorm over the desert in which the dry earth drew long awaited water to its depths.” What a sloppy, disgusting kiss! So gross, Tim! Keep your saliva to yourself.
• “As he left, the majestic pink petals of the single rose fell to the floor.” That’s ineffectually dramatic and ridiculous. What the hell are majestic petals? Get it together, Jenny.
• “His voice was small and fragile, as if the words he struggled to speak would slip from his tongue on to the cold, grey pavement.” It’s not just bathroom floors that are cold, my friends.

I leave you with this gem. “The house was a hideous gold-brown color that reminded me of baby poop.” Yep, I actually wrote that. Jealous much?

Doesn’t Everyone Lie on Their Driver’s License?

The weight on my driver’s license is a lie—a complete fabrication that may have been true at one time, but it’s just speculation at this point.  I renewed my license and picked a weight I could live with.  I didn’t go crazy, but there was a good thirty-pound difference between reality and what I wanted to believe.  I knew the man taking my picture wouldn’t dare challenge my creative license.

Now, to complicate things further, my bank is nosy and asks what the weight on my driver’s license is every time I pay a bill online.  The answer is the lie I used two licenses ago—a good twenty-five pounds less than the current lie.  To be fair, I really was all those weights at one time, just not on the days I visited DMV.  Everything else on my license is true—my eyes are blue and I’m a donor.  Generally, I lie a little, but not a lot (unless you count each pound, then yes, I lie a fuck- ton).

I never struggled with my weight during my teenage years.  I thought it was perfectly normal to see one’s ribs.  I don’t remember thinking much about it.  My mom was a great cook when she was so moved, but I mostly ate free lunches at school and cereal for dinner. Usually just one or the other.  My tummy was too nervous to eat, anyway.  Growing up in fear and uncertainty tends to do that.  Now when my tummy is nervous, I eat past that shit.

I didn’t become all-consumed about my weight until my first year of college.  My tummy grew accustomed to the three meals per day offered in my dorm.  Did you hear what I said?  Three meals per day!  That was two meals more than I usually had.  As an added bonus, my boyfriend took me out to eat on the weekends.  I had won the lottery. My prize was fifteen extra pounds my freshman year.  I gained another fifteen by the time I got married the end of my junior year.  I was still skinny—my dress size was still in the single digits, I wore a bikini on my honeymoon, and the weight on my driver’s license was true.  My first baby and twenty extra pounds came along after graduation.  I gained even more weight after the second baby.  Looking back, I would love to be that weight again.  I gained more, lost some, gained it back and then some. 

My body changed. There was a lot more of me. Things that were solid now jiggle and sag from added weight. I keep trying to push my tummy fat up to my boobs, but it doesn’t work. I mean, if I’m going to be overweight, I should at least get to have bigger boobs. No such luck. My butt has a shelf my cat lounges on when I’m trying to get ready in the morning.

Having grown up without much food, I make sure I have plenty around.  I over-feed my pets, house guests, and myself.  When I feel bad, I eat. When I feel good, I eat. It’s my reward for making it through dark times.  I recently realized my reward was hurting me, so I’ve made some changes.  Starbucks, Dairy Queen, and food trucks miss me, I’m sure. My goal is to get to the weight on my driver’s license. 

No more lies.

Why I Write

I’m standing in front of you naked and showing you every wrinkle, sag, imperfection, and fat roll.  There’s no hiding behind baggy sweatshirts, makeup, or control top underwear.  I’ve given my secrets names and lit a candle so you could see the dark places within me.  I’ve exposed my soft underbelly and I’m vulnerable to your sharp jabs.  This is what it feels like when I share my writing, but I do it anyway, because leaving the words bouncing around my insides is more painful than the fear of releasing them.

I’m an emotional writer.  I want you to feel what I write.  I want you to sink into the environment I’ve created and live there.  I want you to feel angry, frightened, joyful, and hopeful. I want you to face your foes, fall in love, and breathe deeply after the wind has been knocked out of you.  I want you to forget you are reading a story.  You are the story.

I started writing as a kid.  It was my escape from the pain and fear I felt every day at home.  I would share my stories with my best friend, Adrienne.  She was my biggest fan. I wrote until I didn’t anymore.  I stopped after my dad read my diary out loud to me and I heard all the words I wrote in secret spill out of his angry mouth.  I knew the words hurt him.  My words became painful to see and hear so I kept them inside after that.  I let fear and vulnerability shut down my creativity.  I didn’t write again until I was an adult with a mortgage, two children, a full-time job, and overwhelming exhaustion.  I wrote here and there and stuffed the pages away.  I wrote on the back of fast food bags and napkins and left them isolated and hidden from the world.  I wrote a thousand words of nothingness and stopped before they became anything other than broken thoughts and false starts.

A dear friend presented me with the opportunity to submit a short story to a new online literary magazine called the Fictional Café.  It was accepted and became the first story published on the site.  All Things Buried is a story about hope in a hopeless situation.  I started writing it as a teenager and didn’t finish it until I was in my mid-life.  It was terrifying to share but it set me free.  I’ve been writing ever since.  Here’s the link to the story that started it all:  https://www.fictionalcafe.com/all-things-buried-by-jenny-cokeley-4/.  I hope you enjoy it and become the story.

Tales from the Nursing Home: Margaret

When Margaret was younger, she wasn’t a striking woman.  She had deep-set eyes trapped behind think-lens glasses, a long, off-centered face, and a bit of an overbite.  She couldn’t stop a man dead in his tracks or even earn a second glance when she walked into the room.  She was a quiet woman with a gentle demeanor who faded into the background.  She had a serious stride that hid any trace of playfulness or grace.  She wore a dab of rouge and a touch of lipstick, never red. 

I did not know Margaret when she was a young girl or even during her mid-life.  She was an 89-year-old woman whose thick chestnut hair turned to white wisps and deep grooves encircled her mouth and spread across her face.  Her legs could no longer support her slender body and she spent the rest of her life in a wheelchair she could slowly propel when she wasn’t overcome with fatigue. 

When I met Margaret, she lived in a world of confusion highlighted by brief moments of clarity that added frustration and loneliness to her life.  Her husband of fifty years suffered a heart attack several years back and they were never blessed with children, although they tried.  Margaret’s friends were long gone, not that she could remember their names.  She would ask me why the Lord hadn’t taken her yet.  She felt she had lived a good, Christian life.  She prayed every night she wouldn’t wake up.  She didn’t view death as something to fear.  She was ready, but had to wait.  It wasn’t her decision.

Margaret would often come to me in tears.  She felt ashamed and embarrassed that she showed such emotion.  As a minister’s wife, Margaret had always been the shelter that protected others from the harsh realities of life.  She had no time to cry for herself when she had to wipe away the tears of others.  She had to push away her own feelings of insecurity and doubt while she smiled sweetly and offered encouraging words of advice.  As a girl, she was told to be strong and never show her weakness with tears.  It wasn’t until dementia began to tighten its grip that she was forced to acknowledge her loss and loneliness.  I sat with her, held her hand, wiped her tears, and spoke softly.  That’s when I realized Margaret and I were alike.

One of my most vivid and touching memories of Margaret was seeing her sitting in the dining room after all the other nursing home residents had left.  In front of her, the memories of her life were scattered across the table revealing the Margaret I had never known.  With every picture she touched, she came alive as memories flooded her mind. 

When I first saw her sitting at the table, I was overcome with sadness.  This wonderful woman had nothing left but a table full of distant memories—her childhood home; her brother carrying her on his shoulders; her wedding day.  The pictures freed her from confusion, if only for a little while.  It was my youth that did not allow me to see that these pictures were Margaret’s shelter. Her smile lit up the room and my heart.

The moments I spent with Margaret validated my life’s purpose.  Like Margaret, I became a shelter to those in need of love and comfort, often pushing away my own need for compassion and understanding.  When I held her hand, we were both comforted.  The soul of a woman in her early twenties was intertwined with that of a woman in her late eighties.  She showed me the treasures hidden behind white hair, wheelchairs, and bewilderment.  To me, Margaret was a beautiful woman.  Her beauty was revealed in her comforting touch and soft voice, her caring spirit and sincerity, her generosity and goodwill.  I can honestly say she was the most beautiful woman I have ever known. 

I was on maternity leave with my first child when Margaret passed away. I didn’t get to hold her hand and say goodbye to her.  I’ve carried her picture with me for twenty-five years.  I look at it every day and it reminds me to be compassionate and comforting to others.  Everyone needs a hand to hold and an encouraging word once in a while.  Margaret knew that better than most—my beautiful, sweet Margaret.