The promised Thanksgiving post

I shake my head at times when I think about my so-called Disney life. Things have gone on at The Compound that could put any dysfunctional family novel or movie to shame. I don’t tell those stories because…

I swear it’s not because I intend to put them in a novel some day. It’s because generally, all the negatives have a way of fading to nothing when emotions have cooled and time has passed. In fact, it’s my family tradition that comedy replaces high drama in as little as five minutes–or when Guinness knocks the ham to the floor.

I had no idea last October of the shit-storm my life was about to become for eight months. I try really hard not to dwell on the list called What Went Wrong, or think of the couple of people who made things worse at a most inopportune time. I make one promise to my friends: I will always give my best effort to build you up and try never to tear you down. I need that in return, so in a funny way, I thank those who vanish from my life because they can’t or won’t abide by that simple concept.

That, however, is not where I want my thoughts focused on this holiday. I’ve got world-scale things to be grateful for (and I’m more convinced of that by a little book I’m reading and will no doubt talk about once I’ve finished it). On a more personal level, if I made a list called Those Who Saved My Sanity, I would definitely leave someone out, and I don’t want to do that. Plus it would get really really really really long (Have you ever seen the acknowledgments in a TJB novel?).

I hope that I’ve recognized and thanked every person who did something kind or generous or thoughtful over those eight months and the six months since. If you looked at my LJ posts tagged “friends” and “family,” you’d see why my heart knows the meaning of “abundance.” I really am blessed.

I’ve struggled to figure out how to say this, and I think maybe parents will understand it, because they want it for their children. There’s a kind of love that, when it’s offered, is in a whole other realm because it spills over to those we love. It’s what I saw every time Tom took my mother shopping or ran errands for her or did her taxes or any of the other thousand things he did. I saw it when Tim and Jess moved her furniture–again!–or Tim teased her and called her Old Woman, which would provoke a look from her but she secretly liked. I suppose that kind of love is expected from family–even the family we create, but I never take it for granted or stop being grateful for it.

There are four other people whose acts of kindness were similar. I want them to know how much it meant to me, and maybe I should do it privately. But in a world where so much time and energy and airspace are given to the careless and the cruel, I say why not give those things to the thoughtful and the compassionate.

Lynne

After I graduated from college, I couldn’t find a teaching job, and one summer morning I was sleeping in when the phone rang. It was Lynne, who asked me if I could go by Wendy’s, pick up food for her family, and bring it to them at the hospital. She then told me some stunning, tragic family news, and for the next few weeks, we spent our days and nights in an ICU waiting room–finding ways to laugh, but learning what it was to really cry for the first time in our young lives.

There would be many more times like that over the years. The day my mother was scheduled for a bronchoscopy to confirm what we already knew, I was sitting in the waiting room alone, staring into space, when Lynne showed up with food from Whataburger. Inside me, everything just relaxed, because I knew there was a direct line of losses and celebrations from that long ago day until the present, when we’ve always had each other’s backs.

During the procedure, and afterward in my mother’s room, Lynne pulled out her stitching, a baby blanket for her nephew’s child. Lynne sewing is a sight as familiar and soothing to me as any I could ever see, and she was also a person my mother knew she could trust and turn to.

Her presence gave me strength and comfort on that day and many others. And on the last day, while I was at home for a couple of hours, Lynne also went home and got her little dog Minute, who was welcome at the hospice unit. Even though I wasn’t there during Minute’s visit, I heard she behaved beautifully. I hope my mother knew they were there. In our family, a dog is always a welcome visitor, so I know that Minute, like Lynne, brought to that evening a welcome calm, a reason to smile, a sense of peace.

Lisa

Back in May of 2005, I was having a bad day that got turned around when I went to the post office and received a letter and a package of our novels to be signed from a reader in Iowa. The things she said meant so much to me that I immediately went to my mother’s apartment and shared them with her. Mother was so grateful on my behalf, and on behalf of Timothy James Beck, that she said when our next book came out, she wanted to buy one and have me sign it to this thoughtful woman in Iowa.

Afterward, I did what anyone else would do–I came home and blogged about it. Little did I guess that Thoughtful Woman would find the LJ entry, end up with her own account, and become not just a greatly appreciated reader, but a friend to me, Tim, and so many others who now know Lisa as dogrl and the Night Nurse. The biggest surprise was that my mother remembered her promise about the book. When I sent it to Lisa, I told her what only a few people outside my family knew. My mother had Alzheimer’s and was forgetting many things, so it heartened me that she remembered Lisa’s kindness and her promise to give her a book after several months.

Lisa not only wrote my mother a thank-you note, but she thereafter sent cards on holidays and other occasions. Each time, my mother opened them with delight and surprise. As I watched so many of her short-term memories fade, that one stayed constant. That’s how much Lisa’s thoughtfulness meant to her.

One day, Lisa posted photos of her house, and I realized that her kitchen was decorated with apples. After my mother went into a residential care facility, we had to pack up and dispose of her things. I took down an apple clock in her kitchen and wondered if I could send it to Lisa. By that time, I didn’t have much hope that my mother would understand the request, but I thought I’d give it a shot. I ended up hearing what became a favorite story, and I’d like to share it.

Several years before, my mother had made friends with a group of gay men who lived in her apartment complex in Salt Lake City. These guys were wonderful to her, and one of them, Jaye, even came to Houston with her on a visit. When I asked about the apple clock, she told me that she and Jaye had gone to some kind of arts and crafts show, where she admired the clock, which was for sale. Jaye insisted that she should have it, and when they went to pay for it, the two of them stared at each other for a moment. “Aren’t you going to buy it for me?” she asked. “No!” Jaye said. “It’s YOUR clock. YOU buy it!”

After hearing the story, I said, “Well, I’d thought about sending the clock to Lisa because her kitchen is decorated with apples. But maybe you’d rather I send it to Jaye?” “HELL NO!” she answered. “He made me pay for it! You send it to my friend Lisa!” I did, and Lisa not only sent a thank-you for the clock, but she included a photo of it hanging in her kitchen. My mother stared at the photo with a smile and said, “I like knowing the clock is hanging in her kitchen. It feels good to know someone will care about it.” She hugged the picture to her for the rest of my visit.

The day I had to call Jaye and tell him that Mother had died, his sadness turned to laughter when I told him the clock story and her “HELL NO!” response. But she was right. Though they never met, Lisa was her friend just as Jaye was, and those friendships stayed clear in her mind even when other things became fuzzy or forgotten.

Marika

Another person who never met my mother is Marika, but they formed a connection nonetheless. When I told Marika how Lisa’s card and photo had lifted Mother’s spirits, and how much she loved New Orleans, Marika began sending newsy letters describing her joy at living in that city with her dog, Dash. She included photos of Dash and the sights they saw on their walks. I would read Marika’s letters and cards aloud to my mother while she stared at the pictures.

Any of you who read Marika’s LJ know that she has a unique voice that’s funny, sweet, and sassy. My mother knew that Marika was working on a novel, so she felt like a special audience of one whenever she heard from her. It seems like such a little thing, but those were some of the best moments we shared as she got sicker. Grim reality would fade away, and we’d be transported to the Marigny and the French Quarter to enjoy the life of a writer and her dog.

“I wish I could do something as nice for her,” my mother said one day. (It was her nature to give much more than to receive.) So I said, “What if I send her your linens and your towels? She might like those.” “Only the pretty ones!” Mother gasped. “Not any of the worn-out ones.” Of course, my mother’s stuff was all perfect, and she did have a lot of nice towels, so I boxed them up and sent them to Marika, who promptly sent a letter of thanks. Again, it made my mother feel good to know that some of her belongings were going to people who’d been kind to her and to me.

Marika’s notes, cards, and calls never faltered. The last letter came after my mother died, but I read it out loud anyway, because Marika has the kind of generous spirit that nothing, not even death, can silence.

Lindsey

I’ve always said that Lindsey was the daughter my mother should have had. When my mother was younger, she approached life the same way Lindsey does–full on, with enthusiasm in every moment. My mother appreciated everything Lindsey, Rhonda, and Kathy did for her, including her last birthday celebration with cupcakes in hospice. She got a kick out of the way Lindsey would quiz her, and would come out of a blue mood and share stories of the past because of Lindsey’s genuine interest and curiosity. Mother even handed over her Queen of Clean title to Lindsey after the two of them worked together to clean my house when it was empty last fall after our floors were refinished. I could tell a dozen stories about the fondness my mother felt for Lindsey, but one night defines them all.

You may not know that Lindsey has a kind of icky feeling about feet. That night, with my sister and brother on their way to Houston, Lindsey went with Tom and me to Mother’s hospice room. My mother was uncomfortable in a way that the drugs didn’t seem to help, and I had some essential oils with me. I thought I might massage her hands a little, letting the fragrance of the oils help eliminate that sickroom smell. There was no lotion for me to mix the oils with, but I had some sanitizer that had a moisturizer in it, so I mixed them with that. Instead of just sitting idly by, Lindsey made me pour some of the blend on her hands, too, and while I gently massaged my mother’s hands and fingers, Lindsey pulled back the sheet and with the most tender touch in the world, massaged her feet. While she was doing that, she kept Mother laughing and engaged. When it came time to go, she hugged and kissed my mother goodbye. Just before we left, I hugged Mother and told her I loved her, and she said, “I love you, too.” Then she added, with a gleam in her eye, “I love you more than…” and her last words were a mumble I couldn’t understand. I said, “Did you say you love me more than a Big Mac?” and she laughed and shook her head. Tom, too, tried to guess what she’d said, but she wouldn’t repeat it, and we left the room laughing. None of us knew it would be the last time she would be aware and coherent. Just as I’m glad that her last words to me were of love, I will always be grateful that Lindsey was there infusing the night with her joyful personality.

It’s not a Disney life. It’s my life. I’m so grateful for it and the people in it, including these four incredible women. Thank you, Lynne, Lisa, Marika, and Lindsey, and even though I never say it, y’all know I love you.