A Dollop of Meringue

Not to Be Out-done

Will asked for and received a jacket for church.  Isn't he the most handsome EVER?  (Love the CTR ring, too.)

I was thinking about Sunday church services yesterday.  It's an interesting thing to go to church every week.  It's not required in the sense that there is a paycheck or grade attached, and it can be a bother to get everyone dressed and ready to go.  Yesterday was Fast Sunday, so I was plotting and scheming all morning to put together a tasty meal that could be ready immediately when we walked through the door in the afternoon before everyone expired of hunger.  And, let's  not even discuss the fact that we are there for three hours! 

But, despite the bother it is so worthwhile.  I think it is worth it for all of us.  I love being taught by my brothers and sisters in the gospel, I love the relationships that have been built out of years of shared experiences, and I love knowing that my kids are experiencing something of the same thing.

Church is not perfect.  There are folks there at bug me with a capital B.  I disagree with some politics, parenting, even interpretation of scripture.  But, when Brother K got up to voluntarily speak over the pulpit during Sacrament meeting and told us that it is his goal to get up once per decade I just loved it.  He's one of the smartest and most accomplished gospel scholars I think I'll ever know, and I was pleased to hear his humble and quirky list of things for which he is grateful.

So I'll keep going, week after week.  It gives me hope for my own wrinkly little soul.

Looking Forward, Living Now

I thought about calling my mother-in-law today.  She's been dead for four and a half years now, and I haven't thought to call her in a long time.  But Sunday would have been her 74th birthday and I baked her a cake, so she was at our house for her birthday party.  In a sense.

Paul had an achy chest yesterday.  He moved some furniture over the weekend, and then lifted weights at the gym on Monday morning so he figured he had pulled a muscle or two or three.  But, in the middle of the night he got that midnight panic borne of too much knowledge and too much pain and took himself to the ER.  He was worried about a pulmonary embolism, which plagued our friend a year ago, and which can be very dangerous.  The diagnosis was "only" pneumonia and he was filled full of an IV antibiotic and some Lortab and sent home.  He will be fine.

But, I thought this afternoon that I should be sure to tell his mom what had happened so she wouldn't be upset with me.

Nope.  I can't do that.

I am sounding morose, which is unfortunate.  I am not morose and we have had a lovely holiday season.  I'm just entering that stage of my life where I will be saying goodbye -- hopefully temporarily -- to my kids one by one.  David has been working on his mission papers while home for the holidays.  So, our joy at his homecoming was dampened by our knowledge that he will be heading off for a substantially longer period of time very soon.

But, in the meantime, I will enjoy these moments:

My niece enjoying the CRAZY chicken leg hat her aunt Susannah made and sent.

A super-stylish and camera friendly Will.

A brother and sister who thoroughly enjoy each other's company.

Looking for American Indian rock art in a winter desert with my lovely daughter.

And a son who is not afraid of the future, not one bit.

My Ghosts

I have been walking with my ghosts.

Thanksgiving ended, and I savored my mother's mother's fruit salad.  It is unique and old-fashioned and delicious.  And because I know that salad, I think I  might know a little about a woman I never met.

Sinterklaas was Monday night, so I pulled out Oma's handwritten recipe for her beloved butter cake.  It brings me such pleasure to hear her voice in the details: "Keep mixing and mixing and turning until the bowl is more than one-half bowlful."  I can hear her quavery voice with the Dutch accent that never left, and the way she always ended a phone conversation with a "Bye bye!" two octaves higher than her regular speaking voice.

I thought of Paul's recently-departed father as I bought delicacies at the Olde Dutch Store.  I passed on the pickled herring and salted licorice.  No one but him would eat it.

As I pulled out all the Christmas decorations, I thought of Paul's mother.  Although I chafe at a knick-knack filled house, she loved it and my holiday-decked shelves look like hers.  Over the past month I made four out-of-character trips to the mall to collect all four pieces of Hallmark's noisy and slightly kitschy Peanuts Band mostly because they reminded me of some of her decorations.

I finished my grandmother's history last week.  It was a bittersweet accomplishment.  She asked me to help her with it after we finished my grandfather's life story in time for Christmas in 2007.  She and I worked on it together for two years or so until it became too hard for her to hold on to the details.  She made me promise to finish it, which proved surprisingly hard to do.

After her death two Decembers ago, I pulled it out occasionally and worked on organizing and editing what she had written.  I never got very far.  I told myself it was because I was so busy with Bert and my children and Paul and the band and Relief Society.  But I think I just did not want it to be finished.  Finally, about a month ago, I focused and concentrated.  I pulled out all my notes, sifted through photos and documents, and listened really closely to hear her voice.

And now it is printed.  I'm excited and pleased to have my dad pass out 45 copies to Grandma's descendants.  I think I honored her expectations and wishes, and that she is pleased.

But I am sad that I will not be able to conjure up her ghost quite so readily.  I do miss them all so.

Every errand for my father-in-law Bert always starts out as an irritation.  Today was not any different,  but I received the same gift that I receive nearly every time I attempt to do anything for him: the annoying errand transformed into something lovely and graceful as soon as I let it.  I assumed that would change with his death, but it hasn't.

We sold Bert's blue minivan.  It used to be our van, but then a year ago we bought a newer model.  He needed a vehicle which was easier to get in and out of than his little white Mazda and that would accommodate his oxygen tanks and groceries.  He had not driven in over a year by then, and we knew he would not drive again, but he needed something to be taxied around in.  Our van fit the bill, so he bought it. 

And, then he died and Paul and I were left to take care of a seemingly endless list of belongings and details.  Anyone who has disposed of another person's worldly assets knows what a tedious and lengthy process it is.

Two weeks ago, I got a little time and energy and thought I would attempt to sell the van.  I listed it on an internet classified site, and waited for calls.  Eventually a young mother with three small children decided it was her van -- we agreed upon a lowered price, she asked her mechanic brother-in-law to inspect it, she met me at the bank, she bought it and I signed over the title.  It seemed simple.

But, I had forgotten that nothing is simple with Bert.

This morning, she called me from the Department of Motor Vehicles.  She could not register her new van.  The DMV's computers showed Bert as deceased and a transaction involving a dead person requires a special affidavit.  She was 25 minutes from my house, but could I come and fill out the affidavit?  Right now?  And, her brother-in-law had to leave for an appointment, so I could I drive her home?

I had met her twice, and my dear friend (Paul's "other brother") had met her and we knew she was a lovely woman, and in definite distress.  She (a Utah-born American) and her Italian husband had just left behind their once-robust but now floundering bed and breakfast in Rome to make a go of it here, near her family.  Her oldest child, of the three, is 39 months old. 

I imagined her standing in line, frustrated, with little kids pulling at her and getting tired and restless.  So, I abandoned a long list of Monday morning chores and drove in to town.

When I walked in to the DMV I was expecting long lines and irritated faces.  What I found instead was a beautiful Samoan clerk chatting with my new friend.  The baby was being passed around to other smiling clerks and the security officer, and the other two children were home with their father.  The affidavit was waiting for me and the clerk walked me through filling out and signing the paperwork.  I got to hold a delicious-smelling three-month-old who cooed for me and then fell asleep while his mother paid the taxes and registered her new vehicle.

And then I drove them to the new rental home they moved into yesterday.  I got to hear more of their story, and enjoyed the conversation.

My interactions with Bert followed this pattern more often than not.  He, or a doctor or a nurse or pharmacist or neighbor, would call me when I was right in the middle of something "important" and I would have to stop what I was doing and scramble to go to his aid.  I would be annoyed and inconvenienced.  But eventually I would come across courteous and gentle people willing to help me and the problem would be solved.

Each and every time I allow myself, I learn something about service and graciousness.  Each and every time I am touched by the goodness in this world.

Band Tour is the *B*E*S*T*

I dare you to predict the outcome of this scenario: load 82 high school band members and 12 chaperones into a chartered coach at 8pm and drive them through the night to Disneyland, unload them all at 10am at the gates of that hallowed amusement park, and set them loose.

You'd expect mayhem, maybe? Or at least general grumpiness, right?

But it did not happen. And that, my dears, is the beauty of the marching band.

We've returned from band tour, and we had a fabulous time. You know, I never set out to be a band mom and would never have aspired to booster president but it has been a great experience. And, watching the kids vacation together (and compete at RCC's competition on Saturday) made it all worthwhile.

Some highlights:

I was one of the "chosen" six chaperones allowed to go behind the scenes at Disneyland. It was nifty to feel important with my special red badge and go through Minnie's big blue door in ToonTown and hang out "back stage." But I know why they forbid photography backstage -- it's just like any alley way or back street. No magic there, I'm afraid. I did hang out and watch some cast members rehearse, and I poked around their instrument room.

The band loved marching down Main Stree. That was a fairly thrilling highlight for a lot of the kids. And the wacky goggle-eyed middle-aged semi-retired music teacher who was our guide delighted in prancing around in her purple sweater ensemble as she pointed out that they had lit the castle purple in our honor. She is who Tinkerbell will be if she ever grows up!

The next day we drove the kids to Seal Beach. It was the last of the lovely weather days, and we had the place to ourselves. There were two rather major mishaps -- a stingray bite (youch!) to the tender foot of one of our really nice boys, and some banking problems for our poor band director. Luckily, I am no longer the Freak Out Booster. I passed that baton freely to a newer mom, so I got to just enjoy the day while she worried and fretted about drowning teenagers and bankruptcy (both financial and moral!).

Thursday evening and Friday afternoon we went to Riverside City College so the kids could participate in some clinics with master musicians and marchers. RCC has one of the best marching bands in the country, and the kids are happy to take their notes. We saw this year's show (a work in progress) -- Zorro. Last year it was Les Miserables. Crazy fun.

Friday night the kids all got dressed up for a dinner cruise. Man, they felt fancy. We boarded John Wayne's old boat The Wild Goose for a trip up and down Newport Harbor. Our DJs for the dance portion of the night were just two of our boys, and they got so caught up in dancing that they were neglecting their duties. So, my iPhone and I stepped in. I was so happy -- my square old lady tunes were actually COOL. I'm thankful to the Beatles, Elton John, ABBA and the BeeGees for improving my rep.

Saturday, we spent the day back at RCC where the kids rehearsed, competed and watched a bunch of other bands. Then they loaded up the buses again and headed home.

I was a busy booster the whole week. My assignment was mostly food. I had prearranged most of it, and was charged with picking it up and then dishing it up. The thing that kept me sane was that our friend William (now jokingly referred to as Husband #2 by my parent friends) needed to go to Palm Springs and offered to drive Dorothy and me from Salt Lake to Anaheim and back. He also made himself available for two of the days to help me pick up food, ice, bandages and other miscellanea. He's the best kind of friend, although he kept saying, "Okay, Sunshine. What made you pick this restaurant in this part of town?!" as we would drive his rather conspicuous Volvo through some sketchy neighborhoods. He saved my bacon on several occasions, and Dorothy was so relieved to not have to ride the bus home as we witnessed the girl drama begin in earnest.

I had a great time. The best part is getting to know the other parents -- we all turned into kids again. It was a really fun group this year, and they helped and worked their tails off. We laughed more than the kids, I think, especially when I nearly ran down a group of Chinese students with the luggage cart. (Inside joke, I'm afraid!)

I'm a little sorry to see the season end, truthfully.

The Fine Art of Selecting Deli Salads

I've been feeling a wee bit sorry for myself lately. With Bert's death behind me and most of the details all wrapped up, I've felt a bit at loose ends. His final month was so HUGE and time-consuming and IMPORTANT that everything in my "real life" has seemed a bit diminished, somehow.

And, I got to thinking: I spent a lot of time caring for my mother-in-law from about 2005-2007. Then, when she died I felt more free to assist my grandma until she died in 2009. And, then it was Bert's turn. I've taken a meal to someone every week (sometimes more often!) for more than six years. That's not to toot my own horn, just to illustrate that I've got some serious time on my hands.

In addition, my first little bird has left the nest. He'll be back, of course, but it will always be temporary. He'll be home after finals in April, but really just to get ready for his mission. When he gets home from that, Dorothy will be finishing up her senior year. And so on, and so on.

Two of my "defining" roles are being seriously challenged and redefined right now, and it is really hard.

So, it is nice when I'm reminded that things aren't really what I fear they are. I pulled out a talk I had read by Elder Jeffrey Holland titled "Remember Lot's Wife." It was a New Year's address and he spoke about facing the future with faith. It is a well-written reminder about faith and hope. He suggests re-reading Paul's epistle to the Philippians, which I did. Chapter 3:13-14 stuck out, again:

This one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

Darn if I didn't need to be reminded that God always has good things in store. I just need to trust and have faith.

And then Dorothy had me proof-read an assignment for her. She was assigned to write a personal narrative. I was happy to read it, especially since I had read and graded at least a thousand 10th grade honors personal narratives back in my school-teacher days. (Hello, Utah Core Curriculum!)

Well, the thing knocked my socks off. Dorothy has a tendency to do that to me. She surprises me. I think I have her pegged or figured out (she's a scientist! she's great at math! oh! she's a musician!), and then some new facet of the grace and ability that is "her" will reveal itself and I have to re-think my gorgeous daughter.

Her narrative was a beautiful reminder to stop mourning the darling chubby little boy that was David and the fierce dog-impersonating girl that was Dorothy and appreciate the nearly fully-formed adults they are becoming. Those days past were wonderful, but that does not mean there are not more wonderful days ahead.

 

Here's her piece if you are interested. You can read it to humor a proud mama.

The Fine Art of Selecting Deli Salads

            I don’t want to admit how good I was at untangling the oxygen tank cord from the pile of yogurt and pudding containers. We were holding up about six other customers, all moms and old ladies. I was trying to undo Granddad from his groceries. I will admit that at the time it was embarrassing. But now I think it was hilarious. I wouldn’t trade those trips to the local grocery store for anything.
            Let me give you a little background. My granddad had failing health for the last few years of his life. After Grandmother died, my parents moved him closer to us to a nice place about three minutes from our house which meant we could help him all the time. We went to his condo every Sunday, and quite often after school. My older brother David and I would drive him to the grocery store every week, since he couldn’t drive and because it kind of drove my mom crazy to take him herself. It was a little ritual for two years before he passed away in September of this year.
    Here is one of those times…
            “Do you want to go get Granddad today?” asks my brother. David is tapping the steering wheel and not looking at me. He makes it really easy for me to tell he doesn’t really want to go. That makes it so much sweeter to make him do the right thing. Besides, David always perks up after we get started shopping.
            “Yes, we have too,” I respond, always the good child. “You know how much it means to him, besides, when else are we going to be able to go? Come on. We’ll have a good time once we get going.” I punch him in the arm for emphasis. I can tell he’s hesitating, but he’ll cave -- he’s so easy. This happens every time we have to take Granddad grocery shopping. Sometimes I’m even the one who needs to be convinced.
            We now get to have the fight over who has to call Granddad. He’s not very good with phones. He always answers on the last ring, can never hear you, and blasts your ears out. I punch in his number and he picks up. “Hello Granddad!” I almost have to yell.
        “HELLO,” comes blasting through the phone. I love his ‘hello.’ He almost always yells it (even if you are two feet away). I never can decide if he is genuinely surprised, or maybe it’s just that he loves yelling.
        “It’s Dorothy. Do you want to go grocery shopping with me and David today?”
        “Okay.” It’s always a simple answer with Granddad.
        “David and I will pick you up in ten minutes.”
        “Okay.”
        “Be thinking of what you need us to pick up.” It sucks when we forget supplies, since we only do this once a week. “Ten minutes, Granddad. I love you. Good-bye.”
        “Bah-bye!” He replies. It’s his catch phrase.
        I am always scared he didn’t understand me. If you can’t tell, he’s not the best communicator. But I know he’s smart, and I know he knows we’re on our way.
        We then go to his house and get him ready. His condo is just outside our neighborhood. Once inside we see the floor littered with all the familiar crumbs that seem to always be there. No wonder my dog loves coming to visit Granddad. We have to help with his computer since there is always a computer problem which needs to be solved. Then we focus on getting him ready to go: heaving on shoes, finding his wallet (no small test), hooking up an oxygen tank, calculating how much oxygen he will need for the time we’ll be gone, going through the pantry to figure out all the food he needs, and loading him into the car. Done! Then we need to go back and find the phone that fell out of my pocket.
        We finally roll up to Peterson’s Market. We almost always go to Peterson’s because we love Peterson's, we know where everything is, and they have great sales. Plus it’s harder to lose Granddad in a small store. Granddad loves a good coupon so we can spend over a hundred dollars (and two hours) when they have a good case lot sale.
        Now the usual routine kicks off, starting with David and I having another argument. This time we bicker over who has to help Granddad shop for deli salads. Now I love deli salads, and I love Granddad, but I don’t love reading the little signs and pointing out which one is crab salad twelve times to a big elderly man who’s talking really loud in the middle of a store where any of my friends may be coming around a corner any minute.
        “I’ll go get the bread, you stay with Granddad,” David hints. But I know what he’s up to, he doesn’t like ordering with Granddad, either.
        “No, I’ll go get the bread,” I reply. I’m very nonchalant. We continue, trying not to have Granddad notice.
        I lose. I sulk over to the counter, where I can smell the mayonnaise, and see Granddad trying to make out the little signs. I wish he had his reading glasses.
        “No, that one is the crab salad,” I say for the umpteenth time. I can feel the deli clerk’s stare. We are holding up her line. I hope she can’t see how red my face is getting.
        “How much is it then?” asks Granddad, again.
        “Two dollars.” Hurry up already!
        “Buy two half containers of that and two of this, this, this..... This one.” Ahhh, finally! It takes us an eternity, but we finally figure it out.
        The rest of the trip involves picking up juice, milk, frozen dinners (they were having a sale, yay, they must have known we were coming), bypassing the vegetables, bread and anything else that looked good to Granddad. Then we reach the display of their sale: a whole aisle of boxes of canned food is spread out before us. Oh, sweet! Here comes a half hour of picking out the perfect combo of beans, corn, peas, and pineapple. This is heaven to Granddad. These case lot sales were practically invented for him.
        On the way to the cashier Granddad pulls ahead of me and my cart, which isn’t a good idea when your oxygen cord tethers you to the tank that’s stored safely in the cart.
        “OH!” exclaims Granddad when he is yanked back a foot. I chuckle. Here we go again. Six out of eleven trips he gets tangled somehow. You would think it would have stopped happening after the first dozen or so times. I now have to work my magic at getting him undone, while we stand in the middle of the aisle hold up a line of shoppers. It’s actually quite fun holding up all of the Saturday afternoon shoppers -- all the little old ladies, and busy moms.
        We pay, after we (again) hunt for, and then figure out how to use, his debit card. I’ve gotten good at it even if Granddad can’t seem to master his pin number. We load up to leave, snag the ads for next week on the way out, and snack on the donuts Granddad bought for us as a treat.
        Looking back on those days, it makes me very glad to know that it made his week every time to just run errands with his grandkids. Now that he’s gone I would not have wanted to spend that time any other way than with my Granddad.

Fall Break! (don't you dare call it UEA)

You know, sometimes I really want to give up this parenting gig. It's pretty full of worry and hard work. Taking off to parts unknown can sound pretty appealing.

But then, school is out for a few days and I get to actually hang out with the kids. Hanging out is much different than driving them to the bus, picking them up after school, driving to soccer, piano, church activities, marching band.... The last two school years have been tough since the elementary school went back to a "traditional" schedule. Without the 3-week break every nine weeks there seems to be much less fun and much more hectic.

So, I wanted to grab hold of this four day weekend and remind myself that hanging out means doing the fun things.

On Thursday, Catherine and I loaded up the party van. We were armed with snacks and letter-boxing clues. (Although, the snacks did not last long enough and lunch did not come soon enough for one child -- notice that "smile" in the last pic?)

Our first stop was a park halfway up Parley's Canyon. The leaves and veiw were stunning. Then we zipped up to the little town of Midway with no plan and found a canyon and trail mentioned in one clue and took that hike. It was a little longer than we expected, and so lunch was delayed. Also, we had left Dorothy (and Trevor) home so no one picked up a trail map. Oops. It's hard to Google a trail map for a remote mountain valley, I'll tell you what. Luckily, my iPhone doubles as a compass and with some tenacious pacing and counting we found the clue-box and got our stamp. (It was a pretty sweet find because our good friends and letter-boxing professionals had NOT FOUND THAT BOX! Score!!)

We then went on the prowl for lunch. We hit up Lil' Scrappy's Timp Freeze on Midway's Main Street and had some yummy burgers and fries for lunch. We also had what may be the world's best milkshake, too -- Pumpkin Pie Shake. It was soft serve ice cream blended with an entire slice of really good pumpkin pie. Catherine is still dreaming about it.

Then we drove home.

On Friday we went to Gardiner Village, along with the rest of Salt Lake County. I won't say more about that.

On Saturday, Dorothy, our friend William and I went down to watch the BYU football team absolutely cream Idaho State University. We really just watched the band. It was so warm that we left at half-time. David, as usual, looked very spiffy in his uniform.

Today, we started a new tradition.

My grandmother's birthday is this week. She would be 90 years old. I think of her a LOT this time of year. She had a wonderful old elm tree on her front lawn that lost all its leaves at the same time. She would hoard the leaves and keep them dry (even if that meant bagging them temporarily) so the grandkids and great-grandkids could come and jump in them. It is such a wonderful memory, and made late October really special. It has been a void to not have her birthday to celebrate the leaves to jump in.

So, Catherine and I decided that a birthday party was in order. The weather was still outrageously gorgeous, so I whipped up a Jell-o Poke Cake for a birthday cake and some Rainbow Jell-o. We invited any of the family that could make it. It was last minute, but my uncle and aunt and four of their kids met us for a rousing round of This Is a Fork and This Is a Spoon as we sat around the headstone.

Sacrilegeous? Nope. Just a super fun way to remember a wonderful woman.

Fun! Filled! Weekend!

Friday, I loaded up Amelia and Will and we headed to Provo for the BYU game. They were playing Utah State University, and it was an early game. Dorothy was too tired and Paul was swamped at work, and we needed to leave early to avoid delays caused by the (never-ending) road work along I-15. (Seriously? When is that road going to be finished?!)

We had an early dinner at Wendy's and then found the band warming up on Helaman Field. That blue sky and those leaves turning on the mountain make my heart sing. (We'll pretend it wasn't 90 degrees. We'll pretend there was a nip in the air, okay?)

Amelia had been to a full game day experience, so she told me what to expect. After warming up, the band dons their jackets and shakos and marches toward the stadium. They stop in the road to perform the Cougar Fight Song and then enter the stadium.

Once inside, the band stands around while the drumline shows off for the crowd in the north concourse. They do some tricky cadences and fancy stick work.

 

They even let crowd members bang on their drums. Will did the honors. So cute, right?

The game itself, unfortunately, was a let-down for Will. It was incredibly annoying to him that the 15 minutes on the clock took much longer than 15 minutes. He kept saying, "Come on! Don't stop the clock again!" Not a big football fan, that little one.

I cannot describe what it does to this mama's heart to see her big boy so happy and involved. It makes me miss him a little less when I know he is doing so well.

Saturday started early. It was the Wasatch Front Invitational, the band competition that our school hosts. It was at Herriman High School, our neighboring school where they have AstroTurf which makes band directors giddy.

Our first band rolled in at 8:45, and then they kept coming every 15 minutes for the next seven hours. I had learned a lot from last year's event, and made only a few small changes. Our new director had a few issues with scoring and recording, but David and my nephew Trevor came to our rescue and spent the entire day in the announcers' booth tabulating the scores and uploading the audio files of the judges' comments. The best change was that my fellow band mom and good friend Debra brought her 4-wheeler and zipped me around to check on each station. It saved me thousands of steps, and I have to admit I felt pretty important being driven around like that with a walkie-talkie and clipboard in one had and a diet Coke in the other.

Our friend William covered the judges' transportation, and had them delivered and coffee-ized on time. He took great pleasure in explaining why there would not be coffee at the school (because the Mormon moms would likely make horrible coffee) and why they saw so many men in white shirts and ties at the restaurant downtown on the Saturday night of General Conference weekend.

I put Paul completely in charge of parking the buses, pit trailers and semi-trucks, and he did a fine job. There were a few hitches: the drivers' ed teacher wouldn't cancel the driving range, the sprinklers came on in the warm-up fields and the girls' bathroom backed up (bathrooms are ALWAYS my un-doing). However, all in all, it was a great day and the parents there to help seemed to really enjoy themselves. And I had several directors and the out-of-town judges tell me what a well-organized event it was. (I was glad to hear it because I felt like I lost an entire month with Bert's problems.)

Our band took FIRST PLACE in their division, which just was like putting a giant maraschino cherry on the top of an incredibly hectic and tiring day. They were so excited they hugged and cheered in the parking lot for nearly an hour. It made me realize how hard it had been on THEM to switch directors so unexpectedly.

And today? Today was one of the two best Sundays of the year -- General Conference.  We slept in and read the newspaper. We listened to inspired and inspiring messages. We played games. We enjoyed having David home. We ate delicious food: buttermilk pancakes and sliced peaches for breakfast; breaded porkchops, funeral potatoes, Sarah's Salad and Texas Sheet Cake for dinner; and chips & salsa, popcorn, and sweet rolls for watching the Amazing Race with my sister's noisy family.

Loved it. All.

Photo Essay -- Gorgeous Fall Weather, Family and a Funeral

 

It was an exhausting two days.

Many of Bert's family attended the funeral -- there are many Dutch cousins his generation who are spending a lot of time saying farewell to each other. And, once again, I was astounded by our friends who made the effort to come and support Paul and me. It means so much to see a friendly face as you stand at the side of a casket making pleasantries.

Bert's youngest brother and his wife took a 10-day hiatus from their LDS mission in Holland so he could speak at the funeral. Bert's sister and other brother also spoke and gave wonderful perspective to the man Bert is.  I asked my dear friend and Relief Society president to sing with her talented and hard-working sisters and they did a  beautiful rendition of Consider the Lilies. Paul gave some poignant remarks which helped put words to what the past three years have meant to him. The most tender moment, though, was when David offered the dedicatory prayer over Bert's grave.

I really felt like we finished the task we were given. I've had some difficult feelings about this journey, and I feel as though they have been put to rest now. I heard about my "sainthood" and "angel" status quite a lot, and kept thinking that if any of these people knew how ornery and tired I was they would stop saying that.

We sandwiched the funeral in between David's inaugural Cougar Band performance and Dorothy's family night band performance. Both events provided time to breathe and take stock of LIFE.

We went to Provo really early on Saturday. I think Paul and I both wanted to just get out of town. We found David warming up with the drumline in the stadium parking lot so we ordered a take-out Pizza Hut pizza and plopped down on the grass to watch. The weather was gorgeous and it was a nice break. Unfortunately, the Cougar football team got clobbered by their arch-rivals. Fortunately, David told us that he has a little bit of a Ute still inside him so he didn't mind too much.

The high school marching band is making progress and is nearly ready for the competition season. Dorothy is really enjoying herself this year, despite the challenges all the rehearsals present to her academic obligations. It is great fun to watch her step into herself.

And wasn't it nice for the sunset to be purple to match the high school's colors?

Goodbye, Bert

I graduated from the hardest course I have ever taken.

Paul's dad died yesterday morning at 3:45.

His death came at the end of an intense month of worry and pain.  The infection that required surgical debridement was, as I feared, the beginning of acute respiratory problems. That has been the pattern before -- infection, then inflammation.

Bert was discharged from the hospital on a Saturday afternoon. (May I offer a tip? FALL in the hospital shower if you are being forced to discharge on a weekend so they have to keep you.) I was very unhappy about the discharge, but the two very young residents who were in charge of the 8th floor would not listen to my worries. The poor nurse who was trying to help me was about to cry alongside me.

Bert was delivered by van to a skilled nursing facility. He was not in great shape and was needing quite a bit of oxygen. That night he called me to tell me that nobody had hooked up the wound vac. (Sigh. This is why you don't leave the hospital on the weekend.) So I headed up to straighten things out, and ended up staying part of the night. His oxygen needs kept increasing at an alarming rate, and he seemed really distracted and out of it. And the wound was exceedingly painful. That night the nurse called me at home to tell me he had fallen out of bed.

Sunday morning, as I was getting ready for church, one of Bert's many angels whacked me alongside the head and told me to get to the care center quickly. When Paul and I arrived, Bert had a fever and was barely conscious. His oxygen saturation was terrible and his chest hurt. He and I got a ride back to the hospital in an ambulance with lights and sirens.

In the ER, Dr. Duffy (my favorite ER doctor) believed every word I said. He sent for Dr. Ahmed (our white knight disguised as a pulmonologist) and Bert was admitted to the Respiratory ICU. Bert spent two weeks there while they tried the magic combination of steroids and antibiotics.

His oxygen needs did not improve, and he was getting very tired of the liquid diet and the intense pain in his thigh and groin. Dr. Ahmed began the conversation of end-of-life and hospice care. Bert was more receptive than I might have guessed, and we discharged him from the RICU and admitted him as a too-fragile-to-move hospice patient on another floor in the hospital. I met with very nice hospice doctors who understood my role and challenges as care-giver and really SAW me.

Bert stabilized a bit, and two of his sons came to town to see him. Paul and I were appreciative to  receive some respite from the two years of near-constant vigilance. It was a relief to know that other family would be spending time at the hospital so that Bert was not isolated in his pain and medical distress. On Monday, the hospice asked me to find another skilled nursing facility in case he stabilized so I spent the day on that horrible task.

In between all this we visited, sat watch, and laughed and cried. Death by respiratory failure is awful and can be tortuous. The patient, if on oxygen (and Bert received 100% oxygen for the last three weeks of his life) is conscious and can function very well. Bert read the newspaper and watched his favorite TV shows. He made phone calls, and teased the nurses. He had bouts of anxiety as he struggled to breathe, but the hospice was skilled at treating that tightness and anxiety.

Yesterday morning at 3:45 he stopped breathing. The nurse called and Paul and I went to the hospital to spend a few minutes in that hallowed space where his spirit left  his body. His body finally looked at rest -- for the first time in years -- and I realized that he was happy and well and reunited with his wife and parents, and the tens of thousands of his kindred dead whose genealogy and temple work he had done.

The last three weeks have been so difficult and so rewarding, and there have been real moments of grace in the hardship. Paul and I were each visiting the hospital at least daily, and that meant we got to know the staff. Most of them were so kind. On the day Bert was discharged from the RICU, Howie the very bossy and nosy unit manager entered Bert's room with a flourish and presented him with a ridiculously decandent piece of chocolate cake to break the food restrictions he had been under. A few days later, Bert's niece appeared at his bedside with kroketten and her hair-cutting supplies and I watched Bert nearly melt with the pleasure of having her massage his head and give him a haircut.

The last three years have also been difficult and rewarding. When Paul and I could see that Bert was not going to do well after the death of his wife, we determined to move him closer to us. That was maybe the best decision we ever made. Our goals were to care for him the best we could, and teach our children about service and loyalty. We wanted to have fun when we could and include him in our lives. We also decided that we would live so that, when Bert died, we would have no regrets. I think we accomplished that as well.

Bert was a difficult man to know. He was eccentric and not effusive in his emotions. He had been impatient, and often lashed out at the world as he experienced dramatic reversals of fortune. His wife was the driving force in their marriage, and so he was easy to overlook. Some family chose to remove themselves because he was difficult to know, and I am sorry for what they missed.

But I witnessed his sanctification through these trials. He softened. He learned patience. He turned to the needful and important. He grew closer to his Father. He submitted his will to Him.

I love him. And I will never be the same.