One Year Later

It's been a little over a year since I lost my mother, and almost one month later, my aunt Lil. She was my father's sister and lived in Florida. At the age of 94, she had lived a long life, but in the last several years, her legs had become weak, her eyesight worsened, and she was feeling the effects of diabetes. She and I always had a special connection.

Those first few months were difficult--I just didn't feel like doing much of anything, and my mind felt somewhat clouded. I laid low, and except for the responsibilities required in my role as Chair of the Sarah Neuman Board (a nursing and rehabilitation facility), I took my time and acted in the moment. What did I feel like doing that day? That was what I did and what a gift it was.

I felt I had gotten through my mother's and aunts's deaths in a way that acknowledged what happened but also allowed me to have some distance and see it in a more detached way. The hot flashes that began right after mom died subsided 2 months later as quickly as they started; in retrospect, I understand the deep sorrow and stress I had been feeling while mom was ill. It was as if my mind, body and spirit needed time to rebalance themselves. And some time around the end of October, I started to come out of the fog and move to the rhythm of my former life.

A slow transformation had taken place. I saw the value of what I had learned during my sabbatical year, and how it had anchored me in the worst emotional crisis of my life. I had taken my sabbatical as a way of exploring my own spiritual life, but now I saw that having a strong spiritual core provided a calm and supportive base for my daily life. I was comfortable not only living it but also talking about it.

As more people asked about what I was going to do, how I would incorporate the past year into my practice, it became clear that the spiritual component of "holistic" health coaching was often ignored or given short shrift, not for lack of importance, but because of a discomfort with broaching what feels like a sensitive topic. For me, it felt natural, and didn't depend on remembering specific information. It incorporated everything I had learned and experienced up to that point, and was organic in nature. This is the work I am born to do.

Ida's Mark

My dear friend Ida is 98 years old and lives in a continuing care retirement community (CCRC) in Redding, CT.

We first met in 1996 in the hallway at Sarah Neuman. I was with my then 5-year-old daughter, Kate, and Ida was coming from her husband's room. She spoke to Kate first, and we exchanged some pleasantries. After a few minutes, Kate came out with a response that just delighted Ida. We've been friends ever since.

For many years, Ida lived in a house in Pleasantville, and I would occasionally visit and take her to the local diner for lunch. She lived alone, as her husband had passed away soon after she and I met. Although she suffered hardships throughout life, Ida's optimistic disposition always found the positive take on any a situation. As the years unfolded, I learned that Ida's husband had suffered from depression and she had lost a child to lupus, a disease she herself suffers from. She's developed other ills, including macular degeneration, and had to give up needlepoint, a favorite pastime we both enjoyed.

One of Ida's favorite topics is her grandchildren, and she now has a six-year-old great grand-daughter as well. She is very proud of these young adults, and I've heard so much about them that I feel like part of the family. They visit her often and share a close bond. At the time, Ida's surviving daughter lived nearby, and the family kept in close contact. One day several years ago, Ida reported that she had fallen, fortunately with no major injuries. After the second fall about nine months later, when she blacked out and had to crawl back to the house, I suggested it was time for her to move into a facility where she wouldn't be alone. After much research and many visits, she moved into the facility where she still lives independently today.

It is no coincidence that Ida shares my grandmother's name. She's a present-day grandma to me, comforting and inspiring. One day, I took mom to meet Ida, and they, too, became fast friends. We visited regularly, either dining at her place or going out to a local restaurant. My dad joined us one time as well, and Ida got to know my family as I had hers.

As someone who does not have a particularly good memory, I am astounded by how sharp Ida is, always asking me about events I'd discussed on a previous visit. She has given me advice on a wide variety of issues, and we speak quite freely with one another. In the past few years, Ida has developed spinal stenosis, and finds that if she rides the stationary bike, it keeps the pain at bay. Can you imagine a 98-year-old riding a bike daily? Where she was once isolated, Ida now has lots of friends and enjoys her life. She is happy being in such a beautiful place with interesting people, and knows that if she needs more care, it is right there for her. In fact, she regularly visits people who are in the nursing part of the facility. It's not hard to see why she has lived such a long life, despite the challenges she's faced.

Ida is the quintessential role model of aging gracefully. Since my mother died, Ida has been like a guardian angel, sharing in my sadness and knowing how to give comfort. I know she misses mom too, and yet, when we are together, we talk about the present, what we are looking forward to, and how grateful we are. Ida has made her mark on me in the most profound way.

Life Without Mom

The house is blissfully quiet and still. An airplane buzzes overhead. My first thought is to call mom and talk, about anything and everything or perhaps nothing in particular.

That’s not an option anymore.

It’s been a busy week, with my aunt’s funeral in Florida and getting my youngest daughter back to college. A lot of moving around, so being still and quiet has its appeal. I start thinking of how life has already changed in the past 5 weeks:

--I talk to mom in absentia

--My siblings and I have a weekly call

--I check in with my dad daily

--There are acknowledgment notes to write

--I've started to get hot flashes!

The last is an interesting phenomenon, and not welcome especially in the heat of the summer. Something must have been triggered in my body’s chemistry (undoubtedly due to stress). I’ve not had time to focus on possible remedies, but I’m going to get busy and see if I can’t “re-balance” things. It’s obvious something is “off-kilter.” Amazing my body presents a living illustration.

The Jewish holidays are approaching, when mom and I would cook together. She and dad starting coming up to our temple years ago to attend services, and it was a time of being together to start a new year. As much as I have been trying to take one day at a time, I am keenly aware these days are almost upon us, and I know we will all feel the loss, the hole, the empty place that mom would have occupied.

I am told that getting through the first of everything over the next year is a process in itself, and after that, it will get easier. Just allowing time to pass is healing. When I’m busy, and I’ve seen this with my father too, it is easier, with other activities to occupy and distract us. It’s the quiet times when my thoughts drift to mom. And for my dad, the evenings and weekends alone are the hardest.

Being in my body keeps me rooted here on earth, and so yoga, exercise, meditation, spending time with friends and family, and work all help to keep me grounded. I still remind myself it will take time tofeel as if life is normal. Or maybe it will just be a new-normal.

Unmoored

It's finally starting to sink in. Or, rather it's starting to feel real: mom not being here, in my life. I wake up thinking about her. She's in my dreams. I try to remember when I last had a real conversation with her. The weeks in the hospital are all a blur.

It’s been ten days since mom died and eight since the funeral. During the last day of Shiva (having people over to sit with us and remember my mother), I started getting a sore throat which turned into an upper respiratory infection, complete with cough. My favorite naturopath reminded me that grief is the emotion associated with the lungs, so it’s not really a surprise where it hit me.

My life is up-ended, figuratively and literally. It doesn’t help that we moved in early June. I become confused by things I have known for years. Which way to go to the airport? Scheduling two things on the same day. Not sure whether I’ve done tasks. Discombobulated. Unmoored. My mom was an anchor, always there, and she isn’t anymore.

I am driving and start to cry. I never thought she would die. I knew she was going to die some day, but I had no awareness that it could possibly be so soon. Which in many ways is terribly naïve—and ironic. We all know people who are unwell, and who live with illness and disease every day, sometimes so valiantly, or not, but they live and get through their days.

Mom took such good care of herself and dad, made sure they exercised and ate their greens. She was vital up to the day she went into the hospital with the aortic aneurysm. And 11 weeks later she is gone, not from the operations themselves but from the infections and complications. Her body was strong but she would not want to have lived in a weakened and needy state, and we knew it. So, in the end, here was this beautiful, vibrant, healthy woman who loved her life and loved us so well, and whose time had come.

And that is the point, I guess. We never do know. And those trite expressions about appreciating life, having no regrets, and not taking people for granted, well, I know what they're talking about. It does make me wonder if I will live my life differently from now on. It's possible. I just need some time to get my bearings again.