Jan, As usual you have brought tears to my eyes. I was picturing my grandmother in the nursing home before she passed away and all of the uncaring help that was their for her final days. if only we could go back and tell them who she really was. how she raised 6 children, 10 grandchildren and 19 great grandchildren before they took her from her home and put her in that unfeeling place. i had never forgiven my family for this until now. Thanks to you maybe I can think of the good times we had in the pass and hope that well she was in that horrible place that maybe that is also how her final days were. Filled with memories and looking for to her time with god. Once again thank you for your wonderful memories and the sharing of them with us. I hope the Aunties are doing fine and also you. Take care, Toni -----Original Message----- From: j <[email protected]> To: [email protected] <[email protected]> Date: Friday, September 01, 2000 4:39 PM Subject: [DC] Sunday Afternoon Rocking >Note: Because of the holiday, Sunday Afternoon Rocking is being delivered >early. > > As They Were (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series) > >Afternoon All, > >"What was she like?", they asked me. "We see them as they are now, as they >come to us...but we don't often know how they were." And surprised and >gladdened they had asked, had given me the opportunity to tell them about >the vibrant life someone I loved dearly had loved, I began to tell them... > >For some time now, I have been visiting with frequency those places I once >was exposed to only periodically. I am becoming a bit more used to them, >to the smells of strong cleansing agents meant to cover the smell of urine, >of medicine, of the unpleasantries that seem attached to those final days >of aging. I am becoming used to seeing folk in every stage of their final >years, some aware and some not so, some sadly accepting and knowing, some >cheerfully greeting the days that are theirs now. Nursing homes no longer >shock or disturb me to the point of avoidance, and somehow, from the frame >of reference I now regard them, I see the folks that dwell there in a far >different light. > >There was no one quite like her in the world, I thought. She was magical, >some beautiful fairy godmother that stepped from the pages of one of my >storybooks, and only existed when I visited Tennessee. She was the >beautiful lady with the pretty and not at all practical dresses and >matching accessories. She was the lady who loved to dance and loved to >laugh and had more friends than I could count. She was the maker of more >than just cakes..but cakes that took some time to think through. And the >little touches like "coconut Easter grass with jelly bean eggs" were those >magical things practical busy mothers did not have time to attend to. She >was the aunt who, never having had children of her own, delighted in >escaping the kitchen where her sisters were preparing a family dinner, for >the sole purpose of thinking up escapades to entertain a lonely little >girl. She was the one who slipped out with me after bedtime to catch >lightening bugs, poked holes in a jar-home for them and let me slip them >under the covers with me to watch until I fell asleep. She was the one who >took time to slip off to a bookstore, where my eyes grew wide at the >possibilities, and bought a book of my very own so long as I promised not >to begin reading it until I went home. I mustn't have my "nose in a book" >when we could be "playing"! She was the one who planned picnics in the >park just with me, who didn't tell when I wanted to slip up at night for a >snack. She slipped me a "frog skin" when I left to go back home with my >parents, and I would sit and smell the dollar bill all the way home because >somehow her fragrance had managed to attach itself. > >She lays in a hospital bed now, mumbling sometimes, but incapable of speech >or memories or awareness of where she is. She does not know my name. I am >not sure she remembers her own. Although she was once the same height and >size as my adult self, she now weighs no more than a small child, and she >lies curled up in a position that belies the frame she once had. They come >to change her, come to see that she is getting nourishment, come to inject >medicine and clean her...but they never hear her laughter, never see her >dancing, never know the lady who loved the color pink so well and wore it >at every opportunity. I wonder how many of them wonder... how many of them >think that this bare shell of a person was once perhaps more vibrant and >alive than they. Two did...because they asked...and surprised me...but how >many? How many who tend to her? How many visitors who happen to glance >into her room bother to realize? And sometimes I want to shout down the >halls, "Let me tell you who she was! Who she really is!" The thought is >futile...except in terms of my own growth. > >I look at the others now with new eyes. The man who drools from the side >of his mouth, whose glassy stare tells me his awareness is now gone...who >was he? Did he fish once with a young son? Did he escort a beautiful >young daughter down an aisle? Did he come home one day with a bouquet of >flowers to surprise a wife? The lady who stands and writes invisible >numbers on a wall...was she a teacher? Is she at her blackboard trying to >explain to a group of students how to perform a mathematical >operation? Did she tie shoes, and dry tears, and pull baby teeth to wrap >up in a tissue for a child to take home to mom? They have a story, all of >them. Every one of them has been vital and active, laughing and >mobile...they all have a story. Some I can talk to and their eyes will >brighten when they realize someone wants to hear. Some I cannot, and I can >only imagine stories for them, appreciating that those stories indeed are >there. They have been where we are, they are where many of us will >be. They come to the final stages of life with a story. And somehow, if >we can only learn to look past the clusters of them in all those unpleasant >stages of aging, if we can only train our eyes to see beyond what appears >to be there...they still have a lesson for us, a deep lesson about life and >mortality, closure and aging, youth and appreciation, a lesson worthwhile >to learn. > >Next time listen. Listen with your eyes and smell with your ears...give >them time to tell you, and their families a chance to tell you, when they >cannot or won't... imagine...you won't be so far off base. They lived the >lives we live...and they are we and we are them. > >just a thought, >jan > >Copyright ©2000JanPhilpot >.________________________________________________ >(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be >shared...simply share as written without alterations...and in entirety. >Thanks, jan) >Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday >Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per >week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to >[email protected] >_________________________________________________ > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > >==== DanvilleCrossing Mailing List ==== >My family Coat of Arms ties at the back ...... >is that normal ???