Letting go…

Letting go of painful situations is never easy and fear tries to trick you as you travel the shattered road. Give it to God and don’t take it back.

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Seashells and Shadows

A shadow of herself
is all that remains
just a glimmer
of the woman
who she
A shadow of herself
walks on the shore
collecting seashells
she doesn’t
to collect
to touch
to hold

Least We Forget (I Cried)


BP Oil Spill 2010
by Jeanne Marie
My life was not lived on the ocean, but my lifelong dream was to end out my last years here. Two years ago, by the grace of God and a few miracles, my husband was able to move us to Florida, before we were even old enough to retire. My fantasy/dream became a reality.
The ocean is the only place my heart has ever called home, the only place I have ever longed to live. When I was still a baby, my mom and dad would drive to Plum Island in MA before the sun came up so they could dig clams. I would be bundled in blankets and more than half asleep. But I remember my dad digging a shallow hole in the sand, for my mom and me, because we would be warm below the wind.
As she cradled me, my dad would dig bushels of clams and Mom and I would sleep.
My lullaby was the seagull’s song, the scent of the wet sand and the lull of the ocean’s waves. I have lost my mom and dad, but I never thought I could lose an ocean.
My soul connects with the salt water and the sand, the shells, the huge, gentle manatees that I met ten years ago on a visit to Florida. Every single life form gifted to us from the blue salt water is precious.
I cry every day as I watch the news, cry in pure frustration and anger at what BP HASN’T done to contain the oil spill, at the mistakes they have made, the chemical dispersants that made it worse.
I cry for every family already living in the black mire, generational lifestyles-gone, homes saturated by dangerous fumes, jobs destroyed, the long line of beach dependent cities that will go down before this is over.
I cry for the innocent, smothered, oil drenched pelicans.
I cry for every single sea creature that is strangled, tortured or killed by the oil. I cry for Louisiana and for all the coastal areas that had not even recovered from Katrina yet.
When I have any tears left, I cry for our shattered dream, growing old together hand in hand by the ocean. So little, in the big picture, so big in our life. My ocean, the one constant I could count on throughout my life, my ocean, always there for me, destroyed by corporate greed. I walked the beach this past Sunday and I cried as I picked up dead crabs, even a dead baby shark. Who could have ever dreamed that the ocean was for sale to the highest bidder?
Restitution Wanted. To BP Corporate Employees. All that we want from you is what you took from our ocean and our lives. Every damn thing you possess. Every night’s sleep, your health, every dime, every dollar, your homes, your yachts, your fancy cars, your livelihood, your stock portfolio, your Swiss bank accounts, the futures of your children, the designer clothes in your closet, everything single thing that you own should be stripped from you and put to use for the cleanup. Still, it will never be enough. Perhaps we should see if you can breathe in the tar-balled, oily water.
BP, your actions and lack of, are just one more shocking example of Corporate Terrorism. What you have done is a crime. All in the name of oil and money. What do your parents think of you now?

“Do You Remember When You Used To Call Me Grace?”

The scent of fresh coffee lured me from my bed. As I filled my birthday mug, (“I’ve got it all, a career, a family and a headache!”) the coffee’s aroma triggered a flood of memories. I closed my eyes and I was standing in front of my father’s wood stove, offering my small shivering body up to its’ warmth, as I watched the percolator pop coffee into the glass knob on the top of the pot. The ancient farmhouse kitchen smelled of yesterday’s baked bread and stale tobacco, the morning’s burning wood and fresh coffee.
I didn’t want to open my eyes because I knew that the reality of last night’s supper dishes and my dog’s wet pee papers would rush up to greet my eyes. It felt comfortable to feel eight years old, to revisit my childhood, if just for a few moments.
I could see my mom as she bustled around the kitchen, shoving huge pieces of wood down into the stove, stirring last night’s embers with the rusty iron poker, the flames roaring up as she quickly replaced the heavy black cover.
Her long black hair was “set” with bobby pins. As she removed the pins, and ran a brush through her hair, it fell down around her shoulders in soft waves, streaked through the front with white. She walked over to me and took my hand.
I lifted my eyelids, the vivid memory faded; only the smell of fresh coffee and a vague image of my mother holding my hand remained. I felt uneasy because my mother’s hand had felt as frail as a tiny child’s as I’d enclosed it in my own firm grip.
I settled into my daily routine that Monday morning, (write a lot, clean a little) as the present erased the past. However, I couldn’t shake the image of my mother’s hand, tucked into mine.
Monday evening my twenty-five-year-old daughter, Jennifer, called me. “Mom, I have some bad news. Nana had a stroke and she’s in the hospital.”
“Is she okay? How bad was it?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I’ll call you as soon as I find out.”
I spent Monday night on the couch with the phone beside me, waiting for news. All I knew was that on Monday morning, Mom had driven herself to the hospital, and she hadn’t told anyone which hospital she was going to.
My mom and most of my family live in Boston or New Hampshire. I live in Oklahoma, so there was nothing I could do but wait while my family tracked her down.
Tuesday morning, I learned that it was a slight stroke; still, I made plans to fly to Boston on Wednesday. I talked to my mom on the phone and she told me not to fly out, that she was okay. Then she began to cry. “I’m coming and that’s it.” I said.
It was the longest flight that I ever flew to Boston, ten hours to make a five hour trip, thanks to storms over Chicago.
Late Wednesday afternoon, at last, I walked into my mom’s hospital room. As she saw me step into her room with my daughter and my tiny granddaughter, her eyes filled up.
“This is my Jeanne, this is my daughter,” she emotionally declared to the nurse and her roommate, Dorothy. (They’d met my daughter the day before.)
I dropped my purse and rushed to my mother’s bed. After carefully moving the IV tubes aside, I gathered her up into my arms. Her body felt thin, unfamiliar, and her face was ghostly pale.
Her terror was obvious as she clung to me.
Our roles reversed in that instant.
She was confident that everything would be okay now; her Jeanne was here! It was my job to validate that belief.
The worst things get, the sillier I behave, usually handling tragedy with humor. I knew that to behave any other way would frighten my mother, so I took a deep breath and shoved aside my fear. Always the comic, always the problem fixer, that’s me.
I didn’t know what to do now; but, I pretended that I did. I knew that I couldn’t cry in front of Mom. She was frightened enough.
I wanted to cry.
She looked so small and pale in that bed, her face a sickly shade of white, her eyes begging for reassurance.
Instead, I sat down and listened in amazement. She described her drive to the hospital, her lurching entrance and her six hour stay in the emergency room waiting for a bed to become available.
“I told you didn’t have to come, honey,” she finished. “I’m okay.” However, I could sense her pleasure as her eyes drank in my presence.
“Ya, and I want to see you while you still are!” I teased.
My two-year-old granddaughter, Rachel, observed her mom, her grammy and her nana. Her big blue eyes were wary, unsure of what was happening, somehow sensing our fear. I realized that we had four generations of women in this hospital room and I wished that I’d brought my camera. Reacting like a journalist, even now.
After an hour or so, my daughter took Rachel and left for home.
I stayed with Mom, and as we laughed and joked our way through the afternoon, I realized that in just a few hours, she looked much stronger. I decided to drive to her trailer to pick up the pajamas and personal items that she needed.
“Do you want anything special to eat?” I asked her, as I prepared to go.
“It’s funny, but all I can think about is shrimp,” she replied. “But, I don’t know where you can get any.”
“I’ll find some,” I promised.
I returned with a large order of jumbo fried shrimp. I smiled as I watched her peel away the fried crust and eat the shrimp hidden inside. When Dorothy’s friend called, she asked what was going on, she said it sounded as if we were having a party.
We were. We were celebrating life.
The three of us had turned the gloomy hospital room into a women’s social hour, ignoring reality with all of its’ pain. The nurses began to call it the “resort room.”
I decided to wash Mom’s hair. As she leaned over the sink, I wet her hair and began to massage shampoo into it.
I was shocked. Her hair was fragile, extremely thin, and her head felt like an infant’s in my shaking hands. I squelched my alarm, and I kept up the banter as I toweled dried and styled the thin gray strands. I gave her a quick makeover, a little blush, a little lipstick. She exchanged her hospital gown for a pink and purple flowered robe.
Now, she looked like my mom. She felt better too, though she’d been too weak to groom herself. She decided that she would take a walk.
As she exercised, faltering steps up and down the hall, determined to make her legs obey, I was in awe of her determination. I forced my arm to stay inches behind her back, not protectively around her, as I wanted it. I understood how she must have felt when I took my first steps. After our walk, we approached her bed and she fell into it, exhausted. I could see how much strength it’d required for her to take those short steps.
“Do you remember when you used to call me Grace?” she asked, her face inches from mine as I tucked her into bed.
We both smiled at the memory as I leaned down and kissed her baby soft cheek.
When I’d been a hippie, nonconformist teenager, I’d decided to call my mom by her first name. Although her mother had expressed intense disapproval at the lack of respect it implied, Mom just accepted it as a phase I was going through, and I don’t even remember when I began to call her Mom again.
But I’m sure she did.
As she napped, I watched over her, thinking of the promise that I’d made to her when I was fourteen. Working together in a nursing home, I’d seen the neglect and the loneliness the patients endured. I knew I couldn’t allow my mom to live in a nursing home, not in my lifetime. Back then, I’d vowed to her that she’d never spend a day in a home; a promise often repeated through the years. (Today, there are many excellent nursing homes available, but I’ve never been able to erase the memory of the shoddy home where I worked.)
Now, I wondered if I was strong enough to keep that promise. As I watched her sleep, knowing that the time might come soon to make a decision, I discovered that my heart already knew the answer. It was a promise I’d find a way to keep. I’d create a safe haven for her amid my hectic life, my cramped house and my shaky marriage.
When the doctor came in that evening, he explained that Mom had suffered a series of mini-strokes and that the MRI had shown that this was just one of many. I felt a chill in my bones. We’d laughed the bogeyman away; but tonight, the doctor called him out of the shadows to stand in front of us.
Mom and I listened, along with my niece and her husband, as the doctor explained the results of mom’s tests. He told her she’d die within a year if she continued to smoke, and they discussed the nicotine patch he’d prescribed for her the first day.
He told her that she had blockage in the carotid arteries in her neck and backwash in her heart. She also had a mitro-valve prolapse, but we’d known that beforehand. They’d found several new heart murmurs. Quite a list.
I thought of all the years she’d eaten her favorite foods; fatty fried steaks, thick greasy pork chops, rich, creamy gravies, butter thick on her bread, three teaspoons of sugar and cream in her coffee.
He said she couldn’t go home to take care of her brother, or even herself, until she became stronger. He treated her with respect and compassion as he attempted to persuade her to go to Northeast Rehabilitation, to recover. No, she couldn’t go home, even if I stayed with her for a few days; she needed a hospital. He promised a short stay and a full recovery. This time.
He looked at me as he finished his request with, “This is what I’d recommend for my own mother.”
My mother, a strong, self-sufficient woman, hates being helpless or at the mercy of other people. I understood. She had instilled the same principles in me.
She has always taken care of others, so it was a giant leap to for her to imagine others caring for her.
Just two months ago, at sixty-nine, she’d taken her severely disabled younger brother from an abusive group home and became his full-time caretaker.
We all wondered if that had contributed to her own stroke.
So did he. He cried when he first learned of her stroke because he thought that he’d killed his sister. His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning when he was wheeled into her hospital room on Thursday, and he saw for himself that she was okay.
When I left the hospital that night, I carried my mom’s assurance that she’d go to the rehab, “For a few days.”
I tossed around on the couch that night, never falling into a sound sleep, so I got up when I heard my granddaughter’s early morning giggles. My grandson soon joined us. We cuddled on the couch under a quilt while I basked in her and my six-year-old grandson’s innocent happiness.
As we played, I realized that I had become what my mom used to be when my own kids were young, a grandmother, in spirit as well as name.
After a while, I showered and reluctantly left the kids to drive back to the hospital.
I was due to meet my mother’s sister at 9:30, to discuss Mom’s and my uncle’s options just in case Mom couldn’t care for him or herself.
As we stood in front of the hospital, under gray skies, rain falling, puffing on cigarettes that could also kill us, I felt as if I’d changed–become a completely different person from the woman I’d been four days ago.
I felt like an adult, for the first time in my life. Not even becoming a grandmother had made me appear or feel any older; I often had to show an ID when I bought my cigarettes and I’d thought that I’d stay girlish forever.
That had all changed in a heartbeat. I literally felt myself change as I accepted the responsibility for my mom and her future.
“You’re the only one she’ll go with, you know,” my aunt told me.
“She won’t go with either of your sisters or your brother. She’s always told me that if she was unable to take care of herself, she’d go to live with you.” I understood that. Out of her four children, I was the only one to tell her that I wanted to take care of her in her golden years.
My younger sister had stayed with Mom until I’d arrived, but her husband and Mom didn’t get along, with good reason on my mom’s part, so that left just me at the hospital with Mom.
I went upstairs and we spent an anxious day waiting for the staff from the rehab to come and evaluate Mom’s condition and to decide if they’d accept her as a patient.
As I watched the physical therapist put Mom through her exercises, I cringed inside. I felt helpless when I saw the pain on Mom’s face, yet, I was proud of her spunk as she pushed her body through the moves. When the therapist finished, I noticed that Mom had soiled the back of her nightshirt and her bed. (Mom had already mentioned her incontinence to me.) I knew that one of her worst fears was having to use a diaper, but I couldn’t let her soil herself and not tell her.
First, I went to the nurses’ station and asked Mom’s nurse to come wash and change her. Perhaps she could give her a Depends to wear, until she strengthened her muscles.
Then I went back, explaining to Mom that she needed a change of clothes and a Depends, just for a little while.
The nurse told Mom that women begin their lives in diapers and often end them the same way. The way she explained it, made it seem okay, normal, and it happens to everyone, like gray hair.
As I look back, I know I should’ve changed Mom, but I felt as if I was about to lose control of myself.
I was right. I barely made it downstairs before the damn broke.
I was so brave until that moment, but the indisputable proof that my mom was ill, dependent, hit me hard. As I went outside in the rain, I began to sob for the first time since I’d heard about my mom’s stroke. I stood there gasping and choking as I tried to hold back the agony and the fear that all of my efficiency had hidden.
“I had to put a diaper on my mother,” I cried softly, over and over, my arms wrapped tightly around my body. I slowly rocked myself back and forth under the gray mist.
“I had to put a diaper on my mother.”
People avoided looking at me as they walked by on their way into the hospital.
I couldn’t stop the tears as I walked back in, so I ran straight to the rest room. Every time I cleaned my face, looking into the mirror to estimate the damages, the tears would gush again.
My mother’s condition made me feel vulnerable; she was my strength, how could I be strong if she was weak? She was my audience, my biggest fan. She encouraged me; her pride in my writing spurred me on.
Then too, if life could catch her, surely it could catch me. My mother could mend my heart when no one else could; she was always there, waiting for my call.
I thought of all the happy phone calls we’d shared this past year, her pride in my
I needed my mother–she was a glorious thread in the tapestry of my life.
I felt guilty that my thoughts about losing my mom were centered on me and how I would feel if I lost her.
I returned to her room. She lay in the white metal bed, clean and smiling. She’d declined the offer of a Depends.
“Were you crying?” she immediately asked. So much for pretending.
“No, it’s my allergies.”
She knew that I’d been crying, but she let it go. I left her at 4:00 P.M., with a map to Northeast Rehabilitation in my hands.
An ambulance transferred her to the rehab that evening.
Saturday morning, I arrived at Northeast and we spent the day together, reading, talking and visiting. I arranged her clothes so that she could easily reach what she needed. She was already doing so much better. I was going home Sunday, so as I prepared to leave that afternoon it was difficult to say good-bye. We hugged and said, “I love you,” a dozen times.
She smiled at me from the bed as I was walking backwards out the door. I tried to memorize her face and capture her love. I didn’t want to leave. I might never see her again, and although that was true each time that I’d visited and left, now the threat seemed more real.
Then I realized; she has no guarantee of my safety either! The risk of me being hurt or killed would be high for the next twenty-four hours. I was driving into Boston and getting on an airplane. Taking stock of my own vulnerability to death helped me to leave her.
Two years ago, a drunken driver killed my young son-in-law, Donnie, as he was on his way to work. One moment Donnie was alive, the next–he was dead. His death taught me to value every moment God bestows on me.
As I left Mom to fly back to Oklahoma, I needed to remind myself that death doesn’t make an appointment; it comes when it pleases to each of us and each day that we’re alive is a gift.
I placed her in God’s hands and I thanked Him for the time that we’d just shared, for another chance to look each other in the eye and say, “I love you,” while it still mattered.
It’s been two years since my mom’s stroke. Today at age seventy-two, she’s still taking care of her brother and living one day at a time. We’re enjoying each bonus day that God allows us. Last summer, after talking about it for ten years, we finally rented a cottage at Hampton Beach in New Hampshire. We spent our seven days swimming and sunning, talking and enjoying each other’s company and I realized what a precious gift we were giving to each other.
As she lay on the hot sand, covered with towels to protect her still pale skin from the sun, she asked me, “Do you remember when you used to call me Grace?”
I just smiled.

NOTE: My mom went to play with the angels in 2009. I miss her everyday.
Tulsa Friends of the Library 23rd Annual Creative Writing Contest
First Place, Published Essay, “Remember When You Used To Call Me Grace?” 2000.

What Sort Of Woman?

Eighteen hundred miles from here there’s a place that she calls home, but it isn’t.
She left it behind long ago, this gypsy’s child who could not deny her urge to roam.
On the distant shore she still calls home there’s ocean air she longs to breathe…
the endless blue she aches to see, winds that howl all the way to her heart,
”Come home to me.”
When her longing for the ocean overwhelms her senses, she goes.
Sand castles that take so long to build; yet, never meant to last.
Waves that crash ice cold, slap against her legs, deliver burning blows, sting away her past.
As she tries to absorb the ocean through her skin the surf takes her pain and
batters it away, beats it senseless against her shins cleansing the memories from her head.
The salt in the air, the sun on her face must go straight to her head, drive her half insane
because what sort of woman lifts her body off the sand but lets her soul remain?
Still, home is just a word she doesn’t care much to define and her soul knows where it belongs.
In the early morning hours, one last plunge, she shares the waves with a wayward dog.
Their eyes meet, sentiment is shared, “This ocean it is mine, for this moment, it is mine!”
Dried kelp, empty crab shells, seaweed, rocks, she gathers with a fury she can’t explain
because what sort of woman flies to the ocean and attempts to carry it back home on a plane?
She hauls back a suitcase filled with rocks, stones of every shape and hue.
Still her ocean slips away, not even this gypsy woman can possess the bewitching blue.
She flies away, minus her soul, maybe she’ll return to stay, maybe when she is old.
Painted by many, photographed by even more, none have ever captured
the Lady’s true essence nor managed to carry home the sandy shore.
“I want to live at the ocean,” she tells him when she walks off the plane.
He mourns for the longing in her eyes, her lust for oceanfront property undisguised.
She knows the answer before he speaks, money stands between the ocean and her door.
She’ll have to settle for a visit each summer.
Meanwhile she’s returned to frozen lobster, dirty dishes and unwashed floors.
She gently arranges her cache of shells, goes back to work not quite resigned.
“If I ever sell a book,” she whispers, “I know which cottage I’ll call mine.”