That First Pivotal Event

I love this picture- my mom looks so happy.  I'm the little cutie in the front.

My mother, Lillian Jeanette Rankin of Defiance, PA, died when I was five.  Five and a half, actually (that "and a half" is very important when you are five).  The story I grew up with about her illness was that she had thought that she had a hernia, but had put off getting seen for it until summer was over.  By the time she went to the doctor that fall it, that "hernia", in reality what I learned later was colon cancer, had spread to her liver. Her doctors said that there was nothing that they could do. 

Mom and I on our last Easter together.  

I was in kindergarten.  I remember coming home from school and seeing my mom on the couch waiting for me.  She would prop herself up, put her arm around me, and listen to the fascinating events of my kindergarten day.  I knew that she was sick, but had no idea what was really going on.  I have a picture (that unfortunately I can't find right now, but I will soon, and I'll post it when I do) that I treasure of her rocking me to sleep some time near that time.   I have a hairnet on my head to protect my "beautiful" naturally curtly hair.  My mom's hair is dyed its usual red, and she is wearing a mustard colored shirt.  If you look closely, you can see a little drool spot beside my sleeping face.  It's all very 1960's.  And I love it.

Then one day my mom had to go to the hospital.  Her sister, my aunt Kate, and my half-sister Glenda, who I had never seen before, and who I never saw again (she was almost 30 years older than me) had come to help out and be with my mom.  Back in those days kids weren't allowed in to hospital rooms, so I sat in the lobby when everyone else went to see my mom and waited.  It seemed to five year old me like forever.   I didn't really understand what was going on, didn't understand that my mother was dying.  My 14 year old sister Lynette (Lyn) got to go up to my mother's hospital room.  Fourteen was the magic age.  My sister tells how one day my mom asked her to read aloud The Lord's Prayer.  When she got to the line that said "yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." my sister just couldn't say it, so she skipped it.  My mom pointed out that something was missing, and my sister just said that "this Bible must be one of those new revised editions."  They both knew that just wasn't true. 

When my mom could tell that her time was short, she made her nurses wheel her downstairs in a wheelchair to see me one last time.  They didn't want to do it, thought that it would be too hard, that she was too weak, but she wouldn't have it.  She was coming downstairs to see her daughter. 

I didn't realize that it would be my last time with my mom, that I would never see her again on this earth.  She looked really thin and pale and weak but she was my mom, and I loved her no matter what she looked like.   She gave me some hugs and talked to me a little about I-don't-remember-what, and then she was taken back up the elevator and she was gone.  How incredibly hard that must have been for her. 

I don't remember when I heard that she had died, I don't think that I really understood what was going on.  I remember all of the adults around me crying, and wishing that they would stop.  I remember feeling like they needed to stop, feeling like someone needed to be in charge.  Feeling like maybe if no one else was going to step up and be charge, then I needed to. 

It seems like they cried for a long time.  My dad especially.  During that time I remember having dreams that I had to drive the car, that we would be going along down the freeway and for some reason I would have to take the wheel and drive. 

I don't have that dream any more, but I often still feel the need to "take charge".  Mostly that need has served me well.  Its gotten me through some tough times.  I've also learned, and continue to learn, though, that sometimes as much as we would like, there are things that we just can't control.  Things that we can't fix.  But maybe, that's okay.

I still miss my mom, and wonder what it would be like to be able to call her on the phone just to talk, to ask her opinion on what color to paint my bedroom or other trivial things.  I wonder what it would be like to watch her age, and listen to her complain about it.  She died at 42.  I wish I knew her more- knew what she thought about things.  What were her political views?  I have no idea.  Did she date other people besides my father?  No idea.  How did she feel about her often tumultuous relationship with my father?  Couldn't tell you.  I don’t have a single thing that she ever wrote.

So, that is why I am writing this blog. I want to share my stories, some of the things I've been through, things I've learned along the way.  Life is busy, but this is something that I want to make time for.  For myself, for my kids, for whoever is interested.  I have no plans on dying any time soon, too many lessons still to learn :)