TRANSITIONS
Life has been a dream and a gift; and am eternally grateful for every day above ground on the right side of the grass. And, in addition to gratitude, trust, hope and compassion frequently bubble. Have been reflecting on transitions, the psychological adjustments to changes, and sense a need to spend some time re-experiencing some of the changes in my life. The first, and perhaps most traumatic, was the death of Mom when I was fifteen, brother Dan was ten, and Dad was forty-six. The date was May 16, 1955.
A couple hours after midnight I was awakened in the North bedroom by a barking Chum. Chum was my Pekinese dog who we kept on a leash in the kitchen near his water and food bowl each evening. I threw off the covers and went downstairs to the kitchen to discover Mom lying in milk on the kitchen floor. Mom had not been feeling well that day. After Sunday Mass she came home and spent most of the day on the living room couch in her church clothing. She remained awake and had noticeable swelling around her neck, somewhat like mumps.
During the early morning Mom apparently had gone downstairs to have something to drink. On the counter beside the refrigerator was a half full glass of milk, on the floor was the milk carton, the refrigerator door was open against the back door of the house and Mom was lying in spilled milk on the floor with her head resting on the bottom refrigerator door ledge, supported by the cupboard door on the left. I immediately called Dad, removed Chum from the kitchen, carefully pulled Mom to the middle of the kitchen, and began artificial respiration. It was too late. Mom was gone. Dad called the coroner, and Mom was taken to the funeral home. We later learned she had suffered a pulmonary embolism.
Perfect, hidden, depression is how I would describe the grieving process following Mom’s death. To date, tears about Mom’s death remain perfectly hidden. A memory is having three of my Defiance High School classmates-Becky Bricker, Barbara Ward and Nancy Potts-and Becky’s Mom, Marlynn Bricker, come to the funeral home for the viewing the evening before the funeral. The funeral service was at St. Mary’s Catholic Church, Defiance, Ohio and her burial was at Riverside Cemetery. The following day it was back to the chores and the grind, no time for grieving, no time for experiencing and recycling the slinky-like shock, anger, rationalization, and acceptance. There was simply “stuff” that needed to be done: school, dishes, laundry, church, and running the hardware store, a family-owned business. A special task for Dad was working with the State Highway Patrol to obtain a special driving permit for the 15-year-old author to drive 13 miles to and from high school because Mom had been making the daily journey in a 1954 Buick Special.
The summer was full of working at the hardware store, going to church, playing golf with Gabe Parker at Defiance Country Club, and visiting Becky Bricker and her family, Marlynn, Harley, Bob, John, Jim and Tim. The comfort of the Bricker family was rewarding and good for peace-of-mind.
To this day, I wonder where the grieving tears are hidden about Mom’s death. It feels like we were simply too busy to have time to grieve; however, perhaps the need was simply for distractions to hide the pain and grief. In 1974, nineteen years later, at the Personal Arts Center in Golden, Colorado, the author was coached to chat with Mom while she was doing Monday laundry and Tuesday ironing. This was nice and felt good; and the author has been able to be one with her ever since, mentally, emotionally, physically, energetically, cellularly, and spiritually. Looking at her picture is cause for wanting to know more about her, give her a hug, and the tears are felt around the throat, simply hidden. For a perfectionist, certainly cause for more inner work to uncover the lonesome tears.
