Little Dirty Feet

This morning I noticed there were footprints on my hallway entry floor. Dirt footprints left behind by my tiny nieces who left this morning with their parents and big brother to drive back to Ohio and take with them all their giggles and their stuffies, shoved into their arms after we were done hugging goodbye. 

My brother and sister-in-law expressed regret over waiting to eat their favorite Himalayan dish at the food truck down the street until last night because it meant they couldn't eat it again before they left. My son and my nephew stayed up until midnight trying to squeeze in all the time they could together. My 16-year-old daughter slept between her two tiny cousins because she promised them a sleepover last night which meant instead of sleeping on separate beds in the same room, they slept on the same bed in the same room. 

We were all just grasping our last hours together. Ohio is far away and we all feel it. 

The pile of shoes by the front door is gone. Crocs, Nikes, hiking shoes left with their owners. The house is quiet and empty. I cleaned up the dirty foot prints and immediately regretted it. To have family is a gift. To love them this much is a greater gift. 

To have to say goodbye blows.

Happy Birthday

 Today is my birthday and I find myself replaying the day my mom died. Not what I expected to wake up to today but okay, here I am. Good morning grief, you sure are a sneaky little bugger. 

She and dad would call me on my birthday and mom would tell the story about the day I was born. Mom had been in a head on car collision when she was pregnant with me and when I was delivered (naturally), both her legs were in casts, one up to her thigh, the other up to her knee. One can imagine how my birth went. Dad being no help until one of the nurses yelled at him to hold one of mom's casted legs is my favorite part of the story. Then they would sing happy birthday to me and tell me how proud they were of me and how much they loved me. 

I have to remind myself those phone calls stopped a few years ago. There is a bittersweetness as most memories that come to mind skip the most recent years and hang out in the joyful years. The years where I would wake up and my dad would stand at the foot of the stairs singing, "Here she is, Miss America" as I descended said stairs. The years of watching them become grandparents. The years of grabbing friends or family and driving through the night to show up at mom and dad's place in Florida to soak up some sunshine, get rest and play card games. 

And it's all over now. Again I have to remind myself of the most recent years. They were tired and fading and ready to leave this world. God answered their prayers and took them home. It is a good thing, right? 

I know it is, but good things hurt.

Remember who you are and whose you are

"Remember who you are and whose you are." My mom said that to me every time I left the house. Every single time. If she had a little extra time she would even break it down for me.

"Who are you?"

"Suzanne Eaton, your daughter."

"Whose are you?"

"God's."

"I don't want you to ever forget that."

"Got it, mom."

I'm not sure if she knew what a naughty stink I was in high school, but it did often put a small damper on the plans I was getting ready to partake in. The repetition of it all was annoying to me as a teenager. It felt like everything about God was just that, repetition, pithy sayings, and behavior modification. Immense amounts of work to be weird, not have fun, and still continue to disappoint an all-knowing God. I would go through seasons of rebellion then repentance/penance trying to climb my way back to being a good girl so God would be happy with me again. 

I had it all wrong and was without excuse. I was a moron. The church I grew up in had it's share of legalism, but my pastor and my youth pastor did not. I watched first-hand as my parents grew out of a works based faith into a faith built on redemption and grace, but it just didn't click with me. Not until I moved away and grew up. Now I get it. To whom I belong informs everything else. 

Who am I?

Suzanne Price, daughter of Jerry and Bobbie Eaton, wife of Dan Price, mother of three 

Whose am I? 

God's. 

I promise mom, I won't ever forget. 

The Alto is Missing

I grew up sitting next to my mom on Sunday mornings at First Baptist Church of Mentone, IN. Our roots ran deep at First Baptist. Both my dad and mom grew up in the brick church with beautiful two story stained glass windows. My Uncle Jim would walk up to the pulpit on Sunday mornings, prompting us to grab the hymnal from the back of the pew in front of us. He would call out a page number, invite us to stand and he would lead us in a hymn with the piano and organ playing along. My dad would sing the bass line and my mom would sing the alto line. My mom's voice was strong and pure, no vibrato. I would stand next to her and attempt to sing the melody but would often slip into the alto. I now hear harmonies before I hear the melody. 

Bobbie Jane Eaton was the living example of a country house wife. There were pancakes and bacon for breakfast, sandwiches for lunch, meat and potatoes for dinner. Her days consisted of rising early, prepping food for the day, studying her Bible, working the yard and garden, cleaning the house, running errands, feeding the family, working the family business, and all the other things running a home required. She played the supporting wife and stay-at-home mom role beautifully. Many didn't know was she was a gifted artist and deeply creative. She had a thirst for knowledge and a sharp mind. When dad came home after a difficult meeting at work or at church, he would sit with mom ask her advice. We all leaned on her. She was our safe place.

Mom had her teaching degree and spent the early years of their marriage as a fourth grade teacher. Once my brother was born, she decided to quit her job and stay home to raise the family.  Mom would tell me the story about the day she knew she wouldn't go back to work. I'm not sure how old my brothers were at this time, but she and dad had been discussing whether or not she should go back to teaching. Then one day my oldest brother came through the door after school and called out for her. Mom came out to see what he wanted and he responded, "Oh I didn't need anything, I just wanted to know you were here." She said at that moment she knew she wasn't going back to work. 

We were always first. Dad was always first. She never sang the melody, always the alto. 

The time had come for the parent/child role reversal and as difficult as that can be for everyone involved I was ready. She had faithfully taken care of us all her life and she would be able to see all that I had learned from her;

Love God and serve Him first

Love your husband and serve him 

Love your family and serve them 

Love your church and serve them 

Love your friends and serve them

Love your community and serve them

Love, serve... repeat. Love, serve...repeat

And then mom came to live with us-newly widowed, worn out body, dementia ridden mind. She was tired and mourning and needing to be cared for. We cared for her. We loved her. We served her. And still she loved us more, served us more. Love, serve...repeat.

The first Sunday she went to church with us we sang, "How Great Thou Art." Suddenly, I'm eight years old standing next to my mom at First Baptist Church. For three precious months I stood in church next to my mom and heard her sing. Her voice left three weeks ago. We still stand to sing on Sundays. I now sing the alto, not as confident and strongly as she did, but I'm trying. 

Diabetes

I have uncovered the algorithm for grief. If I put on mascara, grief will show up. 

My doctor sent me a message this morning reminding me I need to come in for another heart test. There are no signs that anything is wrong with my heart, but I did mention a few months ago that I couldn't catch my breath when working out intensely or hiking on an incline. I know, crazy. I think it's weird people exist who aren't short of breath when doing these things. But the kind doctor gave me an EKG on the spot. It was all clear. She mentioned we may want to do another test where I wear a monitor for a few weeks, but then she dropped the subject and we moved on to more fun things like my risk of diabetes. 

I know for a fact that we are waiting on my doctor to sign off on my mom's cause of death so we can get the death certificates finalized. Mom died of a heart attack. Mom and I went to the same doctor. I don't think my doctor's message was coincidence. 

I'm not sure wearing a heart monitor in the midst of this unpredictable grief nonsense will give the most accurate reads on my situation. Did someone just kindly ask how things are going with your mom? There goes my heart as it simultaneously drops and accelerates while my brain scrambles to figure out how to best answer. 

"Um, she died two weeks ago. No, we didn't expect it. Yes, we are so grateful for the three long months we had with her. No, I'm not sure what I'm going to do next. Thank you for asking. I'm sorry I've made this awkward. That was really kind of you to check in. Oh, what is this monitor I'm wearing? It's a heart monitor. No worries, I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that my mom just died from a heart attack." 

And then I will go home, attempt to get my heart to calm down, and once again wipe the mascara off my face. 

Eleven

Mom's heart stopped beating at 11:00 am seven days ago. Currently it is 10:35am. I feel like I'm getting ready to go break up with a boyfriend that has no idea it is coming. It has to be done, but I'm deeply dreading it. 11:00 is coming whether I want it or not. 

Should I keep myself busy and distracted? Should I sit here and wait? How should I act? If I allow it all to run through my mind again, will that keep my mind spinning or will it help? 

Who wrote the manual for this? Anybody? I wasn't ready to be alone in my house today. I wasn't ready for any of this. I want to make a joke to ease the tension I feel, but it's really weird to tell yourself a joke.

"How do you Top a car?" 

"You Tep on the break Tupid."

Yeah, that was weird. 

But in fairness, all of this is weird. And hard. And a little Tupid. 

Three Months

Mom woke up apologetic every morning for being "late." I would remind her she has nothing pressing and if she did, I would wake her up in time. She would come sit at our kitchen island, take the pills I set out for her and wait for coffee and breakfast. While she waited she would look out the window and say,"Not a breath of air out there. It's very different than Indiana. Is Oregon always this beautiful?" I would tease her and say "I sure hope there is a breath of air out there, we are in trouble if there isn't." And she would giggle and say, "You know what I mean." 

Every morning. Mom's dementia meant repetition. Repeated conversations, repeated schedules. Our best conversations were over breakfast. She would ask how old our cat was, how long we had lived in this home, if she had thanked me properly for coffee and breakfast. And then she would stop, look at me and say, "I know what you and Dan are doing for me. I hope you know how grateful I am." 

"I know mom. I hope you know how grateful we are that you are here with us. We love having you here." 

And we did. She would then proceed to ask about our plans for the day and then greet my husband and children as they came down the stairs. "Good morning handsome." "Good morning beautiful." 

Some mornings we would talk about dad, how much we miss him and how happy we are that he is in heaven. Every time we got to the part about dad crossing over from death into life, she would hug herself, rub her arms and say, "I just got goose pimples." 

Three months of daily repetitions. And then on September 19th the repetitions stopped along with her heart. Her heart filled our home for three months, and then it went away. 

I have some new morning repetitions now. Wake up, force my feet to move, go down stairs and make coffee for two, not three. Don't get out pills and supplements - the police officer took those with him after the paramedics left, don't make breakfast-no one is hungry anyways, convince myself that a shower is a better choice than going back to bed, put on her wedding ring and then cry at my reflection in the mirror because I look so much like her. Life was better with her in it. But that isn't our choice. The day will come where I can reflect on mom crossing over from death to life, hug myself and say, "I just got goose pimples." 

 Just not today, and probably not tomorrow.