There are some things that need to close. Doors on a cold day. Windows on a rainy day. A relationship turned volatile. A box of cereal. A refrigerator door. A can of paint. A toothpaste tube. A bottle of wine. A car door.
And there are things that might be closed. A career. A conversation. A formal education. A letter. A box of chocolates. A garden gate. A party invitation.
And then there are the closures that might not really ever be closed.
My dad passed in March of 2019 at the age of 93. Being that I was still working, my sister was traveling the country, and then COVID happened…our family never held a celebration of his life.
My aunt, my mom’s younger sister, passed away last summer. My cousins held a lovely family celebration for their mom in December. Photos were shared, stories were told, letters were read, hugs were given and received, ashes were scattered. I had a real sense of her life – a life well-lived, well-loved and valued by those who knew her. It felt good to be there and remember her together.
Then my mom passed in January at the age of 98. I was able to be with her in her last days, as she gently took her last breaths. There had been family chatter about a celebration for both Mom and Dad, but everyone is busy. School. Work. Health issues. Could we even gather everyone together to share stories and to celebrate their lives? When? How? Where?
And then I realized…the entire generation before me was gone and I felt a more urgent need to gather our family and create our own celebration, our own closure for the generation that came before us. But still the questions of how, when and where befuddled me.
Until my niece told me she and her family would be in town from Virginia for a weekend in June. June. School was out. The weather would likely be nice. I’d be available…so I put out the date and lo and behold (a phrase I first learned from my aunt)…everyone and I mean EVERYONE could make it. So we had a date.
We would celebrate.
We would have closure. Right?
The celebration was coming together – we’d gather at my niece’s house and we’d have a potluck – each family bringing a favorite “memory” dish to share – “heart attack potatoes”, Hello Dollies, Boston baked beans…. I gathered photos, letters, scrap books and trinkets that have been stored in the nether regions of my garage to decorate the room and offer a chance for people to explore Mom and Dad’s history. I created a “Tom and Betty” photo book for each grandchild. I made a Bingo/Jeopardy game of facts about their lives. We were ready.
And on June 14th, in true “Densmore” informal fashion – we gathered, we told stories, we laughed, we were LOUD, we ate, we played “Bingo”, we celebrated summer birthdays with cake, we took a photo on the front steps and then suddenly… POOF…it was over (before the root beer floats even were offered!)…everyone was off for their next family weekend event – another party, a sports event, a visit to a hospital bed (that’s another story)…Hugs were quickly shared. Good byes were said. “Tom and Betty” books and to-go dishes were gathered. Car doors were closed. And the house emptied…
We did it. It was done. The story was told. The celebration happened. I had the…closure I’d been looking for…Didn’t I?
Is that what it’s called? I admit to feeling relief that the event happened. That we all gathered and celebrated, but I’m not sure I feel a sense of closure.
I’m not sure there is such a thing when talking about people who played such an enormous and important role in my life. Am I really able to actually close that book? Or is it just a chapter of my book?
Or maybe it is just a part of a never-ending life story…
I’ve been emotional the last few days and I hadn’t identified why. That happens a lot these days. Then Blair asked me what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day and friends started asking me how I’m feeling about Mother’s Day.
Ahhhh…there it is…there’s the answer to my emotional state. My answer when asked about Mother’s Day? I’m basically ignoring it. I know that this Mother’s Day is going to be different. It’s my first without my son, Niels and the first without my mom. So really, it doesn’t feel like the year that I want to celebrate motherhood. Because being a mom is hard. Damn hard. With all the big and little joys come the big and little sadnesses. The worst sadnesses.
This morning I decided to go on a solo walk with Dug. We walked to Panama Bay for a coffee for me and a croissant for Dug. I always take a deep breath when I’m there and I give a tap to Niels’ photo as I exit the shop. Today my favorite barista, Maddie was there and she unexpectedly came out from the shop as Dug and I were waiting for my drink. I didn’t see her approach so when I turned and saw her next to me, I was surprised. She is the sweetest woman. (Really, a girl in my mind, but she’s getting ready to transfer to UCSC so…) She came to me and with her soul-searching eyes said, “I just wanted to check in on you and see how you are this weekend.”
I never know what’s going to come out of my mouth when I’m asked that question. Today, with Mother’s Day on my mind, my eyes immediately brimmed with tears and I said…”Niels is my last thought before I fall asleep at night and my first thought when I wake up in the morning.”
Maddie simply looked at me, gave me a long hug and after that sweet, quick moment of connection, she went back to work. It was such a sweet, gentle caring gesture.
So how will I celebrate Mother’s Day tomorrow,? First, I’ll give Blair a big hug. I’m so grateful she’s here with me. She brings me so much comfort and joy. And then when I’m feeling all the feels, I’m going to take some time to think about the concept of mom. For me, a mother is someone who takes care of others. Someone who sees others’ needs and gives of her heart to fill theirs. Maddie certainly did that for me this morning.
And to honor all the moms on their motherhood journeys, I’m going to spend some time thinking about all of the mothers in my life. My mom, of course is the first. But there are also all the moms who also raised me – Mrs. P, Mrs. C, my sisters, the women who mentored me in my early career, my mother-in-law, and my friends who are still finding ways to take care of me as I navigate my feelings of loss.
I’ll also listen to the voicemail Niels left when he called me on Mother’s Day last year when we were in Hawaii. I will cry BIG tears.
And I will remember one comforting “ism” that my mom always told me when I was feeling sad. It’s helped me more times than I can remember and I’ve often repeated it to others. She told me…Crying is cleansing. So I’m going to let the tears roll, embrace my feelings and let my tears comfort my heart.
I will try my best to cleanse my broken heart. I will do as my mother told me to do.
And I will honor all the moms (of every sort) who are holding up the world with their loving, caring hearts.
How do I hold on to Niels? How do I keep him a part of my life? It feels that little by little he’s slipping away. We gave away so much of his “stuff”. We sold his condo. We closed his accounts. These tasks are all mundane. These are all just normal “adulting” jobs. Normal except for the reason. Each piece, each act, each closure feels like another part of Niels is tumbling away from me into the ocean – leaving me only with memories…and I’m terrified that they will also dim and be swept away with the waves.
I have knowingly and purposefully created places in our house to “hold” Niels. There are photos and trinkets and books and pieces of paper with his writing. (Nothing exciting, mostly reminders about meetings, some math being worked out…but it’s his handwriting.) I talk about him. Heck, I talk to him. I recently found myself talking with him as I took an afternoon walk around the Chico campus. His “force” is strong there. I write about him.
I have that sweatshirt by my bed. I have his baby blankets and Spike, his monkey stuffie, too.
I keep in touch with some of his co-workers. Using his game systems, they created a gaming area in his honor in their break room. I’m not sure it’s had much use yet in “busy” season.
Don’t @ me about the “Hans” vs “Han” – I know better and I gave them bad info – Niels would be so disappointed in me!
I stop by Panama Bay and give his photo a love tap.
But I still feel that he’s slipping away from my reach…piece by piece…act by act…moment by moment.
A couple days ago, I stopped by the post office to do some mundane tasks – I needed to pick up some postcard stamps. I also wanted to follow up on Niels’ “change of address” form. (Weird – what do you write in the “forwarding address” box?) While there, I had an experience that brought me an answer to my question…How do I hold on to Niels? Here is the story of my 15 minute trip to the post office. I recorded my experience on my phone when I got in the car with my sobbing, snuffly voice:
I’m sitting in my car in the post office parking lot…sobbing. I don’t want to forget this moment…
…I stopped at the post office to get some post card stamps and ask about Niels’ change of address. I walked up to the counter when it was my turn and very matter-of-factly told the postman that I had turned in change of address paperwork for my son who had passed away, including the death certificate, etc. I told him I didn’t get a receipt and I wanted to know how I know that the request had been processed? The postman simply said, “You’ll get something in the mail and it will take 3-4 weeks.” I said “thank you” and stepped aside to put the stamps on my postcards.
As I was standing at the counter stamping my postcards, a woman stopped and tapped me on my arm. She said, “I’m so sorry about your son. You went up there and stated his passing so matter-of-factly, as if it didn’t matter and the response from the postman showed that it didn’t matter”. She said that it did matter. My son mattered. She kept saying, “Saying your son died is not normal and it will never be normal”. She also kept repeating, “I’m so sorry about your son. I’m so sorry about your son”. “It’s not normal.” Then this perfect stranger hugged me, the dumbfounded woman who stood in the middle of the post office, sobbing. And after the hug and a final, “I’m so sorry about your son,” she silently walked away.
I finished stamping my postcards, dropped them in the box and went to my car.
Mind you, I didn’t cry at the uncaring response from the postman because in the aftermath of a death, there are myriad tasks that you just do…sleep walking through them, talking to strangers as if you report your son’s death every day of your life. As if you’ve been preparing for these moments. So yes, I did just matter-of-factly state that my son had died. And the stranger was correct. It shouldn’t be just a simple statement without a human response, a bit of human connection. There must always be emotion. Could the postman not have said, “I’m sorry for your loss. You’ll get something in mail in 3-4 weeks” ? It’s not much, but those five extra words would have meant a lot.
The stranger’s gesture, the moment this woman took to express her sympathy with me shows that humanity, human connection, just a few caring words matter. Hugely. Never doubt what a few kind words mean to people. I will remember this gentle woman’s gesture of humanity and be reminded that there are people all around us who just need a kind word…we just need to pay attention to see where we can share our hearts.
And with her words, she reminded me that Niels mattered. His life was more than a piece of paper, a form, a change of address. I’m so grateful to her for taking the moment to remind me that Niels mattered and that it is not normal to state, “My son died”. It will never be normal. It will never be easy. And I will keep him with me by being grateful that my son LIVED, by allowing the memories of him that pass through my mind and heart every day make me smile, cry, laugh, chuckle, and…to be reminded that Niels mattered.
To know Niels was to love him. He mattered. I love him and he matters.
And there are very good people in this world. Niels was just one of them.
Our medical system and its people are overworked, underpaid, and not user-friendly.* Remember that whole “Heroes work here” anthem from COVID days. I bet they aren’t feeling that love lately. Everything seems to be a struggle…for them and for the system users.
If you know us, you know that we are big fans of the UCSF system. The facilities may be old, but the people are amazing – patient care is their thing. Last week we saw “the goddess” (per my most recent post) so you already know her.
On Saturday morning, two of Glen’s friends stopped by to make their final preparations for their trip for “footie” in England. These two true and loyal friends took one look at him and drove him with Blair straight to UCSF. I was in Chico when I got the call that they were taking him, so my 2 1/4 hour drive home turned into a 4 hour drive to Parnassus. I knew that he was going because of the swelling in his extremities and that it was not life-threatening (Dr. Yom had said likely rheumatological issue) so it was not an emergency…but it was urgent.
The four of them arrived at UCSF ER and after getting Glen checked in and settled in the waiting room with Blair – the two friends took off (one for Dublin, Ireland) and Blair and Glen started the ER dance…By the time I arrived, they’d been there for 3 plus hours without much hope for moving through the system quickly. (The waiting room was packed.) The hospital is in the mess of remodeling so when I got there, I had to wait in an outer area to be escorted to the waiting room where we were told that three doctors had “called out” for the day. In the circumstance of being extremely short-handed, the doctors were also the nurses and the custodians. I literally watched the doctor empty a trash can from the tiny exam room as he prepared for his next patient. At one point, the staff came in and because the waiting room was over-crowded, they asked all non-patients to leave the room and wait in the hallway. There were no chairs in the hall so you constantly had to dance around the guerneys and wheelchairs, etc. as they careened down the corridor.
Eventually (after hours of waiting), Glen saw the ER doctor in a VERY small exam room. He asked some questions and made a quick assessment. He suggested that Glen might be best sent to the “clinical observation” unit where he’d get more tests and a rheumatologist would be called. He told us he might have to stay over night because there wouldn’t be a rheumatologist available until the next day.
Well…surprise, surprise, surprise!!! Before Glen was sent upstairs, he was called back to the VERY small room because there was not one, but two rheumatologists there to see him. As they were asking both of us questions, it became clear that Glen was the highlight of their day…week…month…career?! They said that they think he has a rare (treatable) condition and he was a textbook case. One doctor was googling it on his phone while the other was asking questions. They were practically giddy with glee as they were discussing the symptoms with each other. As I say this, I don’t want it interpreted as bad or disrespectful care. They were an awesome pair and very forthcoming with information. The “googling doctor” had me take a photo of the google page he found with photos and information about the condition. We think that they had received the ER doctor’s report of Glen’s symptoms and they zipped down very quickly at the prospect of having a “remarkable” patient. (We learned when Glen was being treated for cancer that there was no better news than that you were “unremarkable”. It always gave us a chuckle of relief when he got that news.) After an inspection of his hands and feet, they agreed upon a course of action, including the prescription that if it worked quickly, as they expected it would, would confirm their diagnosis.
So after they left, Glen was released and the three of us were escorted upstairs to the “observation” unit. As we were heading up the elevator, the transport team said that this unit had been moved six+ times as the remodel was happening and it was hard to keep track of where it was in the maze of buildings, floors, and elevators. My sense is that those people have to keep a sense of humor to get through the day! Upon arrival to the unit with no walls, but with a gorgeous view of the ocean – too bad it was foggy – the staff in the observation unit was very quick to get Glen a bed and start the process of checking him in.
At this point, it was after 7:00 pm and Blair and I hadn’t eaten since 8:00 am. We were starting to get cranky – never a good thing. We talked to the charge nurse about finding food. She said everything would be closed down (lord knows everyone in a hospital eats meals at the “regular” hours – not), but she gave us directions to a place that would be open a few blocks away. Helpful, but…at that hour when we didn’t know what the next steps were…did we really want to leave and come back? We asked her the odds of him staying overnight and she basically said…”up to you”! Not exactly that, but the end result was she called someone and that person gave permission to keep him overnight. In the end, it made sense since he didn’t get to x-ray until after midnight and I’m not sure when the ct-scan occurred.
Long story long…on Sunday Glen went home feeling much better. The rheumatologist’s diagnosis appeared to be spot on! We had a plan!!!! Two new medications were prescribed that would take care of the most urgent issues. So the prescriptions were called in…all was well until as we were literally pulling away from the hospital, Glen got a call. One of the prescriptions would not be covered by insurance and it was going to be expensive. And, neither of them were in stock so they’d have to be ordered. Ugh. Oh well. We can deal with it.
And here I finally get to the point of the title of the post…so I went to the pharmacy today to let them know I could make multiple trips to pick up the meds – we wanted him to get started asap on whatever was available so they did not need to wait until they were both in. They told me that the delivery truck was going to be three hours late, so pick up would be at the end of their office hours today. Okay. Not great, but okay. Then I asked if both meds would be on the truck and the tech couldn’t answer my question. The pharmacist overheard the conversation and nonchalantly said that one of the prescriptions was on back order. I asked what that meant and she said…she didn’t know when it would get here…if ever. I asked when we were going to be told that information…no answer.
So I went to another pharmacy (our usual location) where I asked if they carry the prescription. They don’t. She told me she couldn’t even look it up to see if it was in stock for delivery to them or if it is on back order. That’s when I cried. Right there at the counter. I’m a regular at this pharmacy (#gettingold) so she knows me. I think I just about made her cry as she wanted to help, but had no recourse.
So here I am. At home. Waiting for the rheumatologist to call us back. I told Glen that I will drive back to UCSF to get the prescription if I have to…I just want him to have this “miracle” medication so it can continue to do its magic for him. He’s had enough pain and when we can see a solution, but can’t get our hands on it…so frustrating.
And just when I thought I was finishing this dissertation, Glen came out to tell me that he called his primary care doctor because he has to see her this week (per the rheumatologist). He laughed because it’s just another Monday in California – except apparently it’s Cesar Chávez Day so the medical offices are closed. Of course, they are!
And another addition to the story…as we were about to give up for the day, a nurse from UCSF ER called to check in on Glen. We told her the difficulty we were having with the prescription and she said she’d call us within a half hour. Long story longer…she called around and found the prescription at a pharmacy in Oakland…could I pick it up?! You betcha!!! After being disconnected two times, I finally confirmed that the Oakland pharmacy had the meds and would fill the order…TODAY!!!
I practically cried again at the Oakland pharmacy when she handed me the prescription. (It’s only a couple days worth, but it’s a start!)
“Heroes work here” and I cried at the pharmacy!
What a day!
*I just read an article…all of the UCs are going on strike tomorrow. Thank goodness we got this at least partially resolved today!
There are people in your life and then there are people in your life. I’m going to backwards to go forwards and tell you about a special “people” in our life.
In 2008, Glen was diagnosed with “base of tongue” (head and neck) cancer. In typical Glen fashion, he used all of his connections and resources to do the research so that he could make the best treatment plan decision, including who would be his guide – aka radiation oncologist – aka ray-doc (my spelling). Long story short (because it’s really his story to tell)…that brought him to UCSF at Mt. Zion. If you’re really bored, you can read our blog from that experience here: https://gtptoh.blogspot.com/2008/06/initial-posting.html (Note that Glen wrote at the beginning and then as he started treatment, I wrote most of it. Scroll to the bottom of 2008 on the right, “Initial Postings” if you want to read from the beginning.)
2008 was a big year for us…Yes, Glen got the scariest diagnosis that no one wants to hear and then Niels graduated from high school a few short weeks later and then a few short months later he headed to Oregon for college. In July, we took Niels and Blair to Eugene for orientation. Glen had just begun treatment and we were still blissfully ignorant of the road ahead.
By the time we took Niels to Oregon to move into his dorm the third week of September, Glen had (barely) lived through treatment. (I like to say that they pretty much had to kill him in order to save him.) In our enduring ignorance, we didn’t realize that treatment was only the beginning. We were slow to understand that a patient’s journey doesn’t actually end when treatment ends. All of that chemo and radiation is cumulative and there were many more painful and challenging months ahead for Glen and in different ways, for me as a bystander.
So those couple “move in” days in Eugene have stuck with me for many reasons – mostly emotional. (Emotions are one key to memory retention.) First, obviously I was dropping my first-born off into the unknown so I was feeling all those “mom” emotions – love, sadness, joy, excitement, sadness, hope, sadness, fear, love, sadness…any parent gets it. In addition to the usual mom stuff, I had the added layer of concern for Glen.
As had become so clear during those grueling months of treatment, Niels had always been my source of staying grounded. He was my sounding board. He always saw things clearly and could could articulate what needed to be done in a respectful and effective way. He could negotiate a peace when needed, provide a voice of reason, or present some common sense solution. I know. I know. He was barely 18. But he was an old soul. And here I was in the most traumatic period of my life with my husband and my “rock” was leaving. I know. So selfish.
So there were all those emotions. And then there were the emotions having to do with Glen. He was a shadow of himself in some ways – mentally and physically exhausted, in pain (also mentally and physically), and feeling all the feelings of his son leaving the nest. Basically, we were a mess. I remember sitting in the sad little hotel room the last night knowing (and celebrating) that Niels was off experiencing his first night as a college student. (I think I warmed up a can of soup for dinner that I purchased in the lobby. No celebrating for me.) As I ate my soup, I stared out the window looking over the parking lot…I needed to be strong for Glen – or was it for me? But I was crying. For me. For Glen. For Blair. And even for Niels.
On our last morning in Eugene, Glen and I stopped at Voodoo Donuts and bought dozens of donuts. We went back to the dorm to deliver the treat to his hall and to say our “good byes”. I remember that I clung to Niels. Hard. Until it was awkward and then I pulled away and because Glen wasn’t able to drive…with tears running down my cheeks, I jumped in the driver’s seat and we headed home. I felt so empty.
Through this whole period of duress aka treatment+, who was there by our side helping us deal with the physical and emotional pain? Who was listening, guiding, laughing, crying, giving hope, sharing the hard truths, and generally holding us up?
Enter Dr. Yom, the diminutive giant, our “ray-doc” who treated Glen in 2008. In our house she is known as the “goddess”. Angel would also work. Therapist. Confidant. Cheerleader. Bad-ass. Butt kicker. Queen. I could go on, but you get it. She lived through that period of our life right by our sides. She carried us through. Glen would email her in middle of the night, he didn’t think he’d make it through the night and she’d answer his email in 10 minutes. I don’t know how she knew. I don’t know that she slept. She was ALWAYS available and ALWAYS present. I think that maybe…she cared too much for her own good. (Sidebar: She was very private, but occasionally we saw a personal side of her. One day she told us she was going camping for a few days. She was not a “camper”. She was nervous. We couldn’t believe she was taking time off! Yeah her! She was nervous about practical things…like the dark and critters. I gave her my headlamp from the 3-Day to help her make the treks to you-know-where in the night. She survived, but I think it was her last camping trip!)
And then we jump some 14 years down the road…new health challenges began to emerge for Glen. We’d been warned of the possibilities, but human nature (i.e. denial) takes over and of course, those possible down-the-road side effects were for “other people”. Not for Glen.
So why all the background information? (aka – Will she ever get to the point?)
Over the years, the frequency of Glen’s visits with Dr. Yom have been reduced to…almost never though he has an annual appointment with her assistant (I forget the correct title.) In November, he asked and was granted an appointment with the goddess herself…but he had to wait till March. Until today.
So now we are in the present when we had the honor, pleasure and joy of having an appointment (more like a visit) with Dr. Yom. And yes, I’m a tagalong. Glen invites me to come and I almost always do.
I felt so many emotions as we drove to the city. While the radiology department has been moved from the Mt. Zion location to the new Mission Bay building, the smell of the hand soap hit me as soon as I walked in the door. For Glen, that smell is a warm fuzzy. For me, not so much. We were early so we waited. Without staring, I did what I always did to pass the time…I looked around and imagined the emotions of the people in the waiting room. So many possibilities. Glen got the call to go to the exam room and then…there she was…our goddess, Dr. Yom.
I was surprised to find that my eyes immediately filled with tears at the sound of her voice. I felt a sudden fullness of my heart – a feeling of comfort, respect and a kind of love. After warm hugs, she went straight to Glen’s chart with questions and with her usual sense of humor, she got to the bottom of a lot of his symptoms.
But here’s the part that sums up Dr. Yom. Even though her group had already knocked and opened the door to tell her she was late, she stayed with us for 10 more minutes. When we were preparing to leave with prescriptions, instructions, a bit of hope…she paused and said…”I know that your son died. I’m so sorry.” She shared her memories of him – she remembered that he was a Duck. She asked about the circumstances of his passing. She asked about Blair (by name) wondering how she was doing without him. We paused a few more minutes to take time to share some photos, some tears and some stories of both kids. We shared…a moment. A connection. Another hug. And maybe a few more tears for me.
Dr. Yom is not your run-of-the-mill doctor. She is not normal. She is a humanist. A caregiver. A giver-of-care.
She is a goddess. And a badass. We will be forever grateful for her care. And we will forever stand in awe of the Queen. Dr. Sue Yom.
How much do they want to know? Do they really want to know?
How much do I want to tell them? Do I really want to tell them?
Do they want to know that I just saw a recipe for shrimp tacos that Niels would have loved and I would have made for him…but never will be able to make for him? So I cried…
Do they want to know that I saw that man walking down the street – he had a bun and a beard and walked just like him and I took a quick breath thinking…maybe…and then I cried?
Do they want to know that I woke up from a dream where he was walking down the street with Glen and I waved…only to see them walk on…so I cried?
Do they want to know that as Blair and I ate our traditional St. Patrick’s meal on Sunday all I could think about was how much Niels enjoyed coming over to say hello to our guests and to share a plate full of corned beef and Colcannon…so I cried.
Do they want to know that I have his sweatshirt next to my bed…I can’t wash it because it smells like him and there are times when I reach for it before going to sleep and I cry?
Do they want to know that I cry because he’s just the person I need to talk to when I need advice so I look at his photo, close my eyes and wait for him to guide me…yet he’s not here to help me so I cry.
Do they want to know that my heart aches for his sister when I see her watching a YouTube video that they would have laughed about on Sunday evening…so I cry for her.
Do they want to know that when I talk with his co-workers about how much they miss him I smile to know how much he was loved and then I cry because they miss him, too.
Do they want to know that EVERY damn Star Wars reference makes me smile as I anticipate asking Niels about it when I see him on Sunday…and then I cry.
Do they want to know that when I walk down the hall and pass his photo I pause and send him a kiss and then I cry? Every time.
Grief is personal. It can be shared, but there are unwritten rules and expectations and I’m learning about the boundaries as I go…and sometimes I break them knowingly or unknowingly.
Grief doesn’t end. It is always right there at the edge of everything I see, everything I do, everywhere I go.
I never know what will remind me that my boy is not here. Yesterday it was a key lime tart recipe. Tomorrow it may be the sound of the crack of a baseball bat or a saxophone warming up at the concert.
So…I just wait…sitting on the edge of the seat of life to see where I will see him, where I will hear him, where I will feel him.
Mom and I enjoying a snuggle about a year and a half ago
The Circle of Life is real. And it’s impossible to say those three words without singing it and for me…that song ALWAYS brings a tear to my eye.
When The Lion King came out in the 90s, Blair was about three and Niels five. We were not big movie-goers, but of course the three of us went to the matinee at the old Walnut Creek theater on California Blvd. I was mesmerized by the music and the story, as were my kids; Blair in particular. During the entire movie, she sat on the edge of her seat and quietly asked appropriate 3-year-old questions about what was happening on screen. She was so curious and completely enthralled by it all. She carried around a stuffed Nala for years and played with a whole host of Lion King figurines, recreating the scenes from the movie and creating her own. I think I still have some of those in Blair’s “childhood” box. I probably have Nala (and Simba), too.
As the movie ended and after the credits rolled, we needed a stop at the restroom. There was a bit of a line, but I eventually took Blair into a stall while Niels patiently waited outside the door. As we were taking care of business…I overheard a 60ish year old woman and her 80ish year old mother come in to the restroom talking about that rude girl who had “talked throughout the entire movie.” They were so annoyed that the girl’s mother hadn’t “taken her out of the theater until she could be quiet.” OH NO – don’t you mess with this mama lioness and her cub!
I immediately knew that the catty, complaining women were the ones seated behind us in the theater because throughout the movie, they kept shushing Blair and tapping the back of my seat. While I was able to ignore them in the theater, I had finally had enough of their grouchy, grumbling grievances and I whipped out of that stall and said to them in an overly sweet voice, “Perhaps…if you don’t want to listen to children at a children’s matinee of a children’s movie, you should consider going to the 10:00 pm showing.”
For some reason, that experience has stuck with me. It definitely did not ruin the movie though because it’s the ONLY movie I’ve ever seen in a theater more than once and we saw it 5 times! I still LOVE that movie (and the play, of course) and now after these last six months…its message is even more meaningful.
When the circle of life happens in the order that things are meant to happen…it can be a comforting experience. Or maybe an experience that is expected just feels right? I don’t know for sure, but in the last months I’ve experienced one passing that was unexpected and definitely NOT right, not the natural circle of life order of things and then last week my 98 1/2 year old mom passed which was a peaceful, expected ending to a long, full life – just as the circle of life prescribes.
I was fortunate to be with my mom in her last days. By the time I arrived, she had already said her last words and closed her eyes for the last time; she was peacefully resting in her bed. As I sat and reminisced with her, I reminded her of all the people who loved her – those here on this earth and those who were waiting for her to join them.
As I watched her quietly sleeping in her final hour, I saw that her breathing was slowing. I had dimmed the lights and was holding her hand. She was completely calm and peaceful with no sign of pain or worry as I watched her breathe – in…..out…in…out…
In those last quiet moments, I had two thoughts and I whispered them to her.
I told her that she was the strong woman who had brought me into this world 66 years ago and the woman who had nurtured me and carried me through this world. Now I was honored and glad to be the woman who could be there to carry her into her next world. Together in that moment, my mom and I were completing our Circle of Life.
I thanked Mom for that honor…and as I said those words, this Sunday school song from long ago popped into my head and I couldn’t help myself from quietly singing it to her…as I watched her breath continue to slow…
This little light of mine. I’m gonna let it shine.
This little light of mine. I’m gonna let it shine.
I’d like to tell you another story. It’s connected to my last story…but you’ll have to wait until the end…
Last week, we got the call…Mom had changed and it was time to get in the car and head for Pasadena. I had the honor and privilege to be with Mom in her last days. And I had the honor and privilege to spend some time with the caregivers who gave Mom loving care and who gave me peace of mind as I lived far away.
Now where does this “Roberto” fit in to the story? He’s the very sweet nurse who waved and smiled every time he walked past Mom’s room. His demeanor just made you smile even if you were feeling blue. I had met Roberto a couple times before. He is one of those people who draws you in with his twinkling eyes, his quick smile and his giggle. His Spanish accent is also very endearing. The last time I was in town, he helped my brother-in-law with an issue that I won’t even go into here…but trust me…it was not part of Roberto’s job description, yet he pleasantly, happily did what he could to help him out. Clearly, Roberto is in the right profession because he just makes you feel better when he’s in the room!
The day after Mom passed I was back in her room packing her belongings and when Roberto saw me, he immediately came in to console me. His deep brown eyes told me that he truly cared for Mom and he asked if he could hug me. He also wanted to tell me a story from his first day on the job. The entire time he told me this story he had a smile on his face, a twinkle in his eyes and he was quick to giggle as the story unfolded.
Roberto – Day One – or I should say Night One as he worked the night shift?
Having Roberto on the night shift was a good thing for Mom as she was a night owl. Night shifts are usually a little more relaxed and for this reason, Roberto had some extra time that he could use to visit with Mom. The two of them seemed to have developed a nice relationship in the wee hours of the night. Here’s the story as told to me by Roberto…
On Night One, as he walked the halls checking on his patients, he saw that “Mary” (her given name though she went by “Betty”) was awake with the light on. As usual, she was playing cards so he went to her bedside to greet her and see if she needed anything. He said, “Hello, Mrs. Densmore, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Roberto.”
Now I know Mom and I’m sure she looked back at his twinkling eyes with a twinkle in her eyes. He then asked her if she needed anything. She told him that she was cold, so he glanced around the room looking for a blanket. When he brought her the small blue, crocheted lap blanket (for Mom, everything was always some shade of blue), she told him no, she didn’t need a blanket. It was her hands that were cold and as she said it, she reached out to take his hand. As he took her hand, she put her hand over his and then he covered both of her hands with both of his. Her hands were indeed cold. Mom looked at Roberto and then she slowly pulled his hands to her lips and kissed them and thanked him.
Roberto told me that he was a little surprised and a little uncomfortable by the kiss and yet he knew it that it was such a loving gesture. So he thanked her for the kiss and asked if there was anything else he could do for her before he gently pulled his hands away and headed out into the hall to take care of his other patients.
As he turned to wave goodbye “for now”, Mom looked at him with her twinkling eyes and a devilish smile, and then she gave him a wink and a wave. As Roberto told me about the wink, he gave me a wink. So sweet.
Roberto told me that on this – his very first shift, he had been a little uncomfortable by the exchange with Mrs. Densmore. He walked directly to the nurse’s station where he uncomfortably giggled as he told the charge nurse about his experience. He told her that he had felt a little “violated” by the sweet old lady in 26B and then he went on to check on his other patients.
Roberto told me that though his first day had started out a little oddly, by the end of his week he understood that it was nothing but a sweet, generous act shared with him by a sweet little old lady who was also a bit lonely.
That was the beginning of Roberto’s and Mom’s beautiful love story. He continued to take care of her and he took joy in being with her. He said that every night he spent some time playing cards with her. She couldn’t remember how to play, but that didn’t matter because they would just chat and take turns putting cards down on her tray. This is how their evening rendezvous continued…
I’m so grateful for the joy and the love that Roberto and others shared with Mom in her last years. I know she was lonely, but never alone. She never complained about anything; she never made any of us feel guilty for the amount of time that she spent alone in her room. And when anyone entered her room, she always showed joy and appreciation that they were there. She often would say, “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but thank you for coming!” (My sister and I received the same greeting!) It made it so easy for visitors and staff to care for her and just be with her because she made them all feel worthy and appreciated. I’m so grateful for that. I’m so grateful for her.
As I share the story of Roberto and Mom, I’m reminded of my last post about Niels and how his kindness was received by the staff at Panama Bay Coffee shop. I shared about the daily “gift” he gave them by arriving with a smile, a giggle and by simply being kind. When my friend Kimmy read that post, she texted me and said, “Joyce (aka “potato sister” to her), you know who raised him, right?”
Today, our social media threads are full of advice for starting the New Year off on the right foot. We get information about how we can eat cleanly, celebrate a dry January, get organized, start exercising, create a practice of gratitude….the list goes on and on and all of it is great advice although maybe it’s a bit ambitious and unrealistic?
There are also so many feel good stories today including wedding engagements, travel photos, inspirational music videos and dogs…so many dogs. (My favorite feel good story!)
And then there are the devastating headline news stories. It’s hard to figure out how to live in a world that feels so topsy turvey and often upside down.
This morning, I read a post on Threads about a person who said that when they entered a coffee shop, they were welcomed warmly because they always came in with a smile and a friendly demeanor. Those of a certain age will remember “Norm” of Cheers fame. He’s a great example of that phenomena though “Norm” maybe wasn’t always Mr. Cheery!
Well, let me tell you a story about Niels, the “Norm” of his favorite coffee shop. Just one more reason why I loved him so and miss him so. It’s also another example of what it means to others when you are kind and friendly. It’s so simple. Really it is…
Once upon a time…
A couple weeks ago, Blair and I (Glen was ill with pneumonia) were invited to visit Niels’ Walnut Creek office. We had offered to donate all of Niels’ gaming equipment to them and our timing was great because they were remodeling so they created a memorial gaming center in their kitchen lounge in Niels’ honor. They asked us to come to see it and even provided lunch.
Part of Niels’ Moss Adams family, plus Blair and me
As we were sitting around the conference table enjoying lunch, one of his colleagues mentioned that the employees at Panama Bay Coffee that is around the corner from the office, wanted us to stop by so they could meet us. The employees had been missing Niels and had only recently heard the news; they were pretty devastated.
As Blair and I drove away from the office that afternoon, we realized that we hadn’t taken the time to stop by Panama Bay, but agreed we’d go soon. Later that evening, we met a couple of Niels’ colleagues for a glass of wine and they arrived with a big bag FULL of “goodies” from Panama Bay.
photo credit to “John Alexander” from the Google search of Panama Bay
First, Blair and I were disappointed in ourselves that we hadn’t taken the time to stop by earlier in the day to personally pick up the unexpected bag and to meet them. Honestly, we were already a bit of an emotional wreck that afternoon and maybe it would have been too much. Still…
So we came home and opened up the bag full of goodies and when I say full…I mean coffee, cookie mixes, tshirts, gift cards, and most importantly…hand-written personal notes from each employee telling us why Niels was their favorite customer. Yes, open the flood gates…Please indulge me as I share some excerpts of their remembrances…
The letter started with “To those who love Niels…”
The news of his passing was heartbreaking…we miss him every day…we want to share why we hold our memories of him dear to our hearts…
Niels always had a smile on his face…if it was busy he would be so understanding and wait patiently…if he was working through the weekend…he never voiced an ounce of irritation. He loved what he did and who he did it with…Niels taught me patience and forgiveness. He would always share his joy…he would pay for his coworkers drinks…and he was always surrounded by laughs and smiles…a truly happy person.
Niels never failed to make me laugh or smile…he always came with a funny story or joke. I loved watching him cross the street and I would have his drink ready to hand to him when he walked in…he would always be so surprised and happy. He was kind and sweet and stayed a couple minutes to talk…I wish I could thank him for being the best regular customer at Panama Bay.
Niels was always so kind, gentle and patient. He will be missed.
Niels was so hard working. I don’t remember him having many days off. He was a patient and kind soul. I remember seeing him on a phone call walking by and he was so giddy and happy, like a kid. That’s how I always have and always will picture him in my mind.
I always had great conversations with Niels. He always treated his coworkers and always had a smile on his face.
From the first time I met him, he was a genuine and kind soul. I loved our conversations…he came with the best energy. He left a lasting mark on all of us at Panama Bay Coffee.
From the Ava, General Manager: Niels was one of a kind. He was a part of our Panama Bay family. Niels will live on in all of our hearts. Thank you for bringing Niels into this world for us to get to know and to love.
She went on to ask if we could bring them a photo of Niels. They want to “share” the story of Niels with their Panama Bay community. So we did. We took in a favorite photo of him. It was taken at a wedding of a colleague and we only have it because she shared it with us.
Thank you, Payton.
Thank you, Ava and the rest of the Panama Bay for being such an important part of Niels’ life. AND for sharing your Niels story with us. You’ll never know how much it means to us.
And for the readers – (assuming you’re still reading)…It is SO simple.
Be kind. Wear a smile. Be giddy. Act like a kid. Tell a joke.
Take time for a short conversation.
Pay it forward.
Make someone feel like they are the reason you are there.
Be patient. Forgive. Be kind.
Bring your best energy to everything you do.
And lastly…don’t forget to take care of yourself. Because if you don’t…you may not be able to continue to be all those things to all the people who love you.
And finally, to Niels…we can continue to love you by trying to be more like you.
That’s my New Year’s resolution. Be more like Niels.
From inside the “castle” that is Panama Bay. Yes. You do. Panama Bay brews joy and so much more. Thank you, Panama Bay for bringing a bit more of Niels to us all. #PanamaBayCoffeeCo @panamabaycoffeeco #newyearsresolutions
A mustard stain on her shirt? That triggered a memory that will forever bring me a smile and a regret.
We were at an A’s game. The kids were just old enough to start roaming the stadium on their own. Niels was ready for lunch so we sent him up with a $20 bill to purchase a couple hot dogs. (…”things sure were cheaper back in the day” said the old lady storyteller)
Now everyone knew that Mom hated catsup…especially on her hot dog, but still, as her newly independent son prepared to bolt up the stairs toward the concessions, she gave him a stern reminder that she ONLY wanted mustard on her hot dog. You know where this story is going…when the hot dog conquerer arrived and proudly extended the gourmet meal to his mom, it was slathered in mustard AND catsup.
Now, Mom must have been “in a mood” because she had a bit of a hissy fit. And by a bit…I remember it now as a fit way out of proportion to the “crime”. I mean WAY beyond reasonable. It was one of those low moments in parenting where you have to think…what was REALLY going on for her at that moment…but we won’t try to analyze that all these years later. Just know that it became a part of our family lore.
And Niels loved to tell the story of how his mom “lost it” over some catsup. He always got a good laugh out of it at someone’s expense. And he always started it with…”I love my mom, I love my mom, but…
It’s not a flattering story…and yet it does bring me a smile at remembering the laughs it got as Niels retold it billions of times* (only a slight* exaggeration). It also brings a regret that I went so off the rails at a moment that should have been memorable for more important reasons…like maybe a son’s budding independence and pleasure in “providing” for his family? Sheesh. #mommistake #parentingfauxpas #wtfwasthat
And here’s the “never say never” story –
Guess what today is? It’s “eat my words” day! Yep. Getting a tattoo today. Never in a billion years did I think I’d say those words or do that thing. But…people change. Circumstances change. Thinking changes. And today…I’m getting a tattoo to honor and remember my son…that catsup loving boy who grew into a Star Wars loving man.
Yes, that was a hint…Stay tuned for a photo – but for now know that my tattoo will always bring me a smile remembering Niels.
Can We? Will We? 