20 Years

Dad died 20 years ago today. For once, something really does seem like it happened that long ago. Twenty years sounds like a really long time, and it is. A generation. RIP, Dad.

It's Not Over Yet

Mom and her brothers: Al, Ray, Mom, and Art

I was just at the point where I thought, “I don’t know if I really have anything left to post to the blog.” Maybe at anniversaries, but I had nothing more to say. I’m not one of those bloggers who writes daily or weekly or even monthly “columns” of useful or interesting information. I pretty much write what I hope will be helpful to me. It’s not exactly, or maybe not only that I’m being self-serving. It’s really just all I think I have to offer.

Then two weeks ago today, I got a phone call from my Aunt Marian. Marian is the wife of my mom’s younger brother, Art. As soon as I saw the name on the caller i.d., I knew why she was calling. Uncle Art had died at 4 that morning. He’d been in the hospital or a nursing home since December. She didn’t know what they would consider the cause of death; he had Parkinson’s, and a number of other health issues. His latest problems were all respiratory.

I expressed my condolences, thanked Marian for calling, and asked her to call me back once the arrangements were made. I wasn’t seriously considering attending the funeral, but I did want to know the details.

The thing is, I did not expect that the news of Art’s death would affect me the way it did. Even though on some level I was expecting it, I was stunned. The news affected me rather strongly. It sent me deep inside, which I guess is really me withdrawing into myself while I try to process something. I’m still not sure why I had such a strong reaction. Art was the youngest of the four Leininger children, 2 years younger than Mom. Al and Ray (first and second respectively in birth order) had died years ago. I believe Ray’s wife Geneva has also died, but Al’s wife Analie is still alive, and of course, Art’s wife Marian. And yet, Art was the last of the Leininger children in that generation. In some ways, I guess, it is the ending of an era.

Mom did not stay particularly close to her brothers during the time we kids were growing up. Art and Marian, along with their kids John and Kris, were by far the ones we saw most often. Even with them, I think my dad was more of the driving force to spend time with them. We liked Uncle Art and his family. Uncles Al and Ray, the rarely seen, were much crabbier, I thought, and scarier.

The evening after I received Marian’s call, I sent an email to my siblings, letting them know. I told them Marian would be getting back to me with additional information. Two or three days went by, and I heard nothing back from Marian or my siblings. I couldn’t believe they were just going to not respond. Then Marian called again. During all the arrangements, she had forgotten if she was supposed to call me back or not. She asked if she could email the information to me, which I was fine with. Then we actually had a nice chat. My last few (and infrequent) encounters with Art and Marian over the phone while Mom was staying with us were on the strange side. In fact, I think I’ve always thought Marian a little odd, and Art seemed to be growing more so. But first when I talked to Marian last year to tell them Mom died, and now again with Art’s death, she seemed surprisingly fine—not odd, even likable. It was refreshing to have this talk with her.

The next day, the email with Art’s funeral information arrived, and I forwarded it to my siblings. Lo and behold, they each wrote back. Paranoid? Me? Well, perhaps just a touch over-sensitive.

The day after Marian first called me with the news about Art, I was already over the initial shock. I still don’t fully know what that was about. But as soon as you think, I have nothing more to write, look what happens. Not always a death, I’m assuming, because I do actually have another entry I want to write when I get the time, which is Mom-related but not death-related. So here’s to Uncle Art, and I hope to write again soon.

The First Anniversary

Written Feb. 16:

Saturday, February 12, was the first anniversary of Mom's death. It seems impossible to believe that it has been a whole year already.

The last few weeks have been difficult for me. Knowing the anniversary was so near, my emotions--all of them--have been right at the surface. It's hard to maintain a steady course when the waves are so constantly roiling.

When Mom died, there was the relief that now she would be at peace, and she no longer had to suffer. There were all the details of the death to handle, from getting the death certificate signed, to notifying family and friends, planning the memorial service, settling the estate, and all the other countless little things that needed attending to. There was adapting to life without her, without having to care for her, to arrange to have someone at home with her at all times, to dealing with (often fighting with) the health professionals and caregivers, and trying to figure out what is best for someone who could no longer communicate. Missing her was not immediate.

But now I miss her. As I continue to recover/uncover all of her, and not just who she was for the last few years as the Alzheimer's slowly robbed her of more and more of her functionality and her self, I miss that whole self more and more.

March 6:

I never finished that post, and now, today it is the one-year anniversary of Mom's memorial service. (On a side note, it is also the one-year anniversary of my friend Shelly's 52nd and final birthday party, the one I couldn't attend because of the service. Shelly died of pancreatic cancer in June). I have read in a couple of different places that it is the leading up to the first anniversary that is more difficult than the anniversary itself. That has certainly been true in my case. It seems that roiling emotions just relaxed into calm waters on the actual day of the anniversary.

Jeanne and I (and Cleo, the wonder dog) drove to Green Bay that day. It was the Saturday after the Packers won Super Bowl XLV, so of course our first stop was at the Packers Pro Shop at Lambeau Field. Someone asked what that had to do with remembering Mom. She and Dad had season tickets to the Packers games for all the years they lived in Green Bay. Mom preferred watching on TV, so when my brothers got older, they often went with Dad instead. Now they have inherited the tickets. Mom would sometimes tell me how when they first moved to GB, the games were still being played at the Green Bay East High School field. All four of us kids graduated from East. Cheering for the Packers was something Mom could still do even after watching most other TV shows became meaningless for her. Our visit to the Pro Shop may have been motivated by self-interest, but it's not like there are no connections to the Packers in my memories of Mom.

After the Pro Shop, we drove to the cemetery. The flat headstones were all covered with snow, so we trudged around in the vicinity of the grave, but under the snow was a layer of ice, so we couldn't dig through to the headstone itself. That was no big surprise, and it was okay. I don't need to see the marker to know it's there.

Then we drove to the nearby McDonalds to use the restrooms, and saw Kaap's Fine Candies next door. I won't go into the long history of Kaap's in GB, but will say that it was an old German restaurant, with a bakery and candy shop. Everything they made was out of this world. Otto Kaap is long gone, as is the restaurant with its dark wood interior on Washington Street, but the candy shop survives on Webster Avenue. Jeanne and I had to stop, and we picked out a pound of the best dark chocolate candy I've had in a very long time. And I eat a lot of dark chocolate! Even though I'd never been in this store location before, just being in a store called Kaap's, with pictures of the old restaurant, and the familiar candy boxes, brought a lot of memories back.

Positive memories (except for the bedevilment of knowing I may never again have a cheesecake like Kaap's used to make; that recipe was not saved when the original restaurant closed, and I've never seen a cheesecake like that--tall and light--again. What a loss!).

By the time we left Kaap's, it was snowing and getting dark, so instead of dinner at Titletown Brewery (a restaurant Mom was pleased to introduce us to), we drove home. All day long, I felt so calm, even peaceful, as cliche as that sounds. It was nothing like the emotional weeks leading up to this first anniversary. Go figure. The "grief book" was right on target about this.

And yet, it took me three weeks to write this. Ah, I'm sure it's just because I've been busy.

Next

Now that I am no longer caring for Mom, the obvious question is, what does this blog become? The title states its original reason for being. I wanted a place to write about and share what I was going through while trying to care for my mother as she was slowly dying of Alzheimer's. Now that she is gone, the answer seems clear--for now, at least. Now this is about grief. This is so much about grief that I thought it was too much, and I didn't post what I wanted to post in September. Let me take care of that now.

Two years ago, around Thanksgiving, one of our three cats suddenly became very, very sick. We first realized it on a Wednesday afternoon. We called the vet's office, described her symptoms, and they said we needed to bring her in right away. But here's the thing. It was our day with our granddaughters; Avri and Kiana were over. They were 2 and 4 at the time. And Mom had just gotten home from day care. There was no way one of us could handle all 3 of them. So we waited until Thursday, and Jeanne took her in while I was at school. They kept her over night, on IV fluids. We almost lost her. But she was a strong cat, our Juno, and she recovered. We had to give her subcutaneous fluids (think of kitty dialysis with an IV bag); I think we started with either every day or every other day. Eventually, we got her down to once a week, but she had kidney failure, so this was a rest-of-her-life thing. And pills, which I think she hated more than getting stuck with a needle and pumped full of fluids until she looked like a camel. But Juno was strong; the vet said she had never seen a cat recover as well as Juno did.

Then this September, she developed pancreatitis. She was throwing up, couldn't eat or drink, and eventually started an almost constant oozing of blood and runny stool. It was a mess. We became regulars at the vet's office, even stopping at her house a few times to pick up meds. But nothing worked, and on September 16, we took her in one last time. The vet took one look at her, and said, "She's ready. She's in pain, and she wants to go." We'd said most of our goodbyes at home, including having the other cats and the dog having one last moment with her. But said our final goodbyes, and the vet administered the shot. Our baby was gone.

I didn't feel I could write about Juno's death when it happened, not because I didn't want to, but because I felt that it was too much. Too much what, I'm not sure. Too much death, not enough balance. I am not a morose person, but sometimes I think this blog is. So why am I writing this now? I'm struggling (more on that in a later post), and I think I've found a new direction for the blog (sort of), and first things first. Juno is gone, euthanized 3 weeks before her 1th birthday. Her sister Selu is meowing at me as I write this, telling me to go to bed so she can go to bed with me. Sounds like a good idea, but first, my little Juno tribute.

The 3 girls in their youth

Juno

Juno and Selu, sisters, in one last photo