Sometimes gratitude creeps up on you and lightens the mood like a friend razzing you with a harmless practical joke. I was with some friends the other day, and I felt a warmth and peace that eased right into my heart. I’d had the same feelings a few years earlier when I was facing one of the toughest times of my life. Here’s a little background as to why I felt such gratitude for my friends.
My dad died in October of 2013. Although I was present for his funeral, I returned to LA where I was living and working as a Theology teacher at an all-girls school. Still grieving my father’s death, I decided to make the trip back to Ohio for Thanksgiving – a trip I hadn’t made since I moved to LA ten years before.
It was crushing to lose my father the month before. We all leaned on my mother in our own way and were grateful we still had our mother to console us and remind us that everything would be all right. I remember how her maternal presence empowered us. She was in a wheelchair at his casket, and we all stood around her and supported her as she reached out and touched my dad’s hand. “We’ll get through this,” she assured us, as she rubbed his cold hand.
Before my father’s death, my mom had been falling repeatedly, and we thought it was due to the neuropathy in her legs. X-rays showed something different. She learned the cancer she beat five years before had returned and it spread to her spine. There was little chance that there was anything they could do, and it was more than likely going to be palliative care.
Death knocks you over and you lean on those whose faith carried you throughout life. My mom’s faith was seemingly indomitable and she fought off the toughest battles that life has to offer; an alcoholic father who abandoned her family and forced her to go to work — forfeiting her dreams of going to college after a stellar academic career as valedictorian of her class, she would live on meager wages as a legal secretary to help her family survive; fighting through tough times when my dad was let go the weekend after his father’s death and trying to figure out what they could do to support their six growing children to keep a roof over our heads, food in our bellies and clothes on our backs; dealing with physical ailments as a result of diabetes, and now losing the loss of her legs to spinal cancer.
I remember sitting at her bedside before we moved her to the nursing home. She was loopy from the drugs, and she was anxious to get out of bed. If she tried to walk, she would fall, so I reminded her we can’t help her stand. She said, “I just want to put my feet on the floor to feel the ground.” Though she winced in pain, she did just that. Looking back now I think she needed to be grounded in her reality of being alive and try to feel the floor.
We brought her to the nursing home, and she was feisty. She knew she was dying but we were in denial due to the loss of our father. Mom wanted out of there and wanted to die at home, but couldn’t tell any of us this. Each one of my siblings had their turn dealing with her grouchiness and our inability to read her needs. My sister Susie finally said, “What do you want from us?”
“I want to die,” my mom snapped. It was the first time anyone heard her say it and it was a splash of cold reality on my sister.
“Do you want to die at home?” asked Susie.
My mom hesitated. She loved that house. It had all the comforts she ever wanted in one place. A nice porch, great back yard and accessible bedroom to make life easier on her. Most importantly, she said, it gave her a “peaceful feeling and comfort” and a true sense of home she hadn’t felt in a long time. She loved sitting in the large easy chair in the picture window that looked out onto the street. She didn’t want to be a burden but longed for the security and peace it offered. My sister reminded her, “My home is your home – it’s our home.” We made the plans to bring her home. It was cold the day we brought her home, snow was on the ground and there were two lone red roses growing on the vine by the garage. We told her it was a sign that dad was with us.
One by one that Thanksgiving weekend, friends trickled in to say their last goodbyes. That Friday was boisterous as we played music and were present to one another as a fire crackled in the fireplace and my sister put up a Christmas tree early, so my mom could enjoy the ambiance. Our mom’s last words to us were, “I love you all so much. There’s nothing more that needs to be said. Stay together.” She passed that Saturday, November 30th. I delayed my flight back to LA and was present for the funeral.
I was lost and needed to lean on my family during this desperate time. I knew I would be no good to my students, so I took a leave of absence and stayed through Christmas. That time of support of family and friends was critical to my healing. Sharing memories, coping with a new normal and leaning on my brother and sisters was critical for my mental well-being. There’s strength in numbers and power in sharing grief with one another. We were in it together and the wise words of our mother was a strain of light we needed to see in this dark time. The thought of returning to LA was tough.
When it was time to go, I remember walking onto the plane. My heart was heavy and my mind was swimming in confusion thinking about my mother and what she meant to me. I was leaving a tremendous support system behind and dreaded returning home to a lonely guest house in Brentwood. My friend Chris picked me up at the airport. Like a good friend, he wanted to make sure I was all right. On the ride home we talked about what transpired, and he helped me process my feelings. He picked up helping me grieve where my family left off.
We parked the car, I carried my luggage through the gate and heard some rumblings in my house. I opened the door and standing there were all my friends from LA to celebrate my return. I literally didn’t recognize the place. They had pooled their resources and talents and given my bachelor pad a badly needed makeover. Each person put her stamp of our relationship into the walls and floorboards of that home. My friend Tiffany made an ofrenda, a Mexican altar with pictures family and friends dear to me. My friend Veronica choose the perfect painting. My friend Cherie, an interior designer and color specialist, pulled together a stunning design. I thought of something my mother used to say. She lived in multiple places throughout her life. “It’s not the place that makes a home, it’s the people.”
This week when I was with my friends at United Cerebral Palsy, I had that same feeling I had when I first entered my guest house in LA and was greeted by my friends. For all intents and purposes, the facility at UCP is sterile and institutional in nature, but there is an undeniable spirit of home there. My friends invited me into their place. My students and I reciprocated their welcome and helped them make Thanksgiving Day cards for family and friends. I watched my friends lead a sports podcast and they invited me in as their guest for their 33,000 followers. “It’s not the place, it’s the people.”
As I venture forth this Thanksgiving holiday, I’m reminded that we are one with one another. There is power in solidarity. In frail times there is strength in moving forward leaning on one another in the human family knowing all will be well as long as we’re together in the spirit of the season. The spirit of joy prevails and gratitude is extended to all who are open to receive it.
spirit beat 