Author: admin

            As the mother of twins, I love spending one-on- one time with my children. It doesn’t happen often, but once in a while the calendar throws a day at me when I can go on a date with my son or have girl time with my daughter. Last Saturday was such a day. 

            John and Graydon headed to the mountains for a waterskiing lesson, leaving Margot and I an entire Saturday to fill with fun. For days I kept thinking of something cool to do. Sure, there’s shopping, and even though I love to shop and she loves to shop, I wanted to do something more than that. I wanted to share an experience with her. Enter the Yiasou Greek Festival.  

            This festival began more than 40 years ago at Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Cathedral in Charlotte’s Dilworth neighborhood. My own mother took me to me to it when I was young— all the way from rural Cabarrus County. For years I treasured my bright blue plastic cup that read “Yiasou” because it was so big city. 

            When I discovered the festival was going on this past weekend, I jumped at the chance to share this experience with Margot. Clad in our sundresses and crossbody purses, we headed south on I-77 for a day of culture. After spending 30 minutes finding a parking space, the first lesson of big city living for Margot on Saturday, we walked to the festival. 

            A kind soul gave me a free ticket when I walked up to the gate, and off we went. Margot’s first order of business was finding the face painting booth, which is by far the most important feature of any festival for her demographic. That and cotton candy. 

            After scoping out the menu, she asked the woman wearing Cleopatra-style make-up (which she actually pulled off) to paint a unicorn on her arm. (It was either going to be a unicorn or a mermaid, but the unicorn generally wins.) This talented woman painted the cutest unicorn ever on my child, and our festival fun continued with a stop in the beautifully painted sanctuary and a trip to the rides section.       

            Let it be known that were no rides when I was a kid at the festival, but now there are, and even though they are small, they are to be respected as I soon learned. First, Margot rode the swings, which I was too tall for, so I just watched her and took photos like every other mom in America does in an effort to chronicle each second of their children’s lives. Then we saw the spinning teacups. 

            This wasn’t your ordinary teacup ride. No, these were spinning teacups that swung around — continuously. Realizing that this was a two-person ride, I suddenly thought of all the times my mother did something for me out of her comfort zone that she didn’t want to do — riding the waterslide with me at Lake Myers, staying at the hotel pool with me while all of her friends did something else, riding Space Mountain at Disneyworld, the list goes on. So off I went to buy more tickets for the ride. 

            While waiting in line, we met another little girl we’ll call “Sally.” She seemed to be alone and asked if we would ride with her. “Of course,” I said, not knowing what I was setting myself up for. Sally proceeded to tell us all about herself, including how she rode this same ride at age 3 only to throw up after. With that bit of sharing, we hopped into our teacup and immediately began steering the wheel to make it spin as fast as possible. 

            Sure it was hot, and I had only eaten a banana that morning, but I was fine, I told myself. That is until we began swinging and spinning at the same time. At first I closed my eyes behind my sunglasses to try and comfort the terrible discomfort that was taking over my body. Sally kept spinning, and so did Margot until she noticed that her mother was about to hurl. Immediately my daughter removed her hands from the steering wheel, and to be fair, so did Sally after I made the official proclamation that I didn’t feel well. 

             I scanned the area for any buckets that might be available for my use, and finally laid my head on the steering wheel praying to any Greek God that was available to make this torture device stop. (Fun fact, the rides at the Greek Festival last at least twice as long as the ones at Carowinds.) 

             We eventually came to a stop, and I was able to pull myself together without getting sick in front of everyone, their gyros and our new friend, Sally. Sure it was a Wink of Goodness that the ride stopped, but it was an even bigger Wink to see how concerned my sweet Margot was about me. She kept asking how I was doing and made sure I was okay. She held my hand while we walked into an air-conditioned building so I could cool off. 

            We spent the rest of the day eating, browsing colorful crafts and watching some spectacular Greek dancing (how can those guys kick that high?), but the highlight for me was being with my girl and seeing yet again what a beautiful person she is. Opa!

            Every Friday I share the Winks of Goodness I experienced throughout the week in the hopes of inspiring you to do the same thing. I’ve found that writing down and formally acknowledging these suckers gives them more power. I encourage you to share your own Weekly Winks on my site (still figuring some technical stuff out on that if you have trouble) or social media. So look around and write it down — share the goodness.   

Saturday— I finally made it to Lake Tillery, where I got to lounge in my favorite hammock in the world. This is my happiest happy place. 

Sunday— The Tots and I played fetch with the resident dog at Lilly’s Bridge Marina at Lake Tillery. Who knew such joy could come from a slobbery tennis ball. 

Monday— My son, Graydon, and I walked the two-mile loop at the lake. He held my hand on and off. That never gets old. 

Tuesday— I rearranged my home office in order to begin some kind of fresh start. (Fingers crossed that this clears the fog that is plaguing my brain.) Now I have a panoramic view of the trees in our back yard. Why didn’t I do this years ago?

Wednesday—Designing Women is officially on Hulu. I cannot stress enough how awesome this show is and how it so accurately portrays strong southern women. Watch it! Go watch it now!

Thursday— The breeze felt like a baptism today. 

Friday— The high school football players worked carpool this morning at The Tots’ school for Spirit Day. Their bright blue jerseys are so cheerful, and I love seeing the different ages of students help and support each other. Go Spartans!

Happy weekend!

            She loved butterflies. My dad and I don’t know why my mom loved butterflies so much, but her affinity for them is evident throughout my parents’ home. There’s a metal butterfly hanging outside of the carport. There’s a stained glass one sticking out of a plant in the living room. There are shirts with butterflies embroidered on them, along with a butterfly wallet in her drawer. And now there are butterflies on the bulletin for her memorial service. 

            Mom left us nine days ago, and in those nine days, the world has completely changed — or at least my corner of it. My mother once told me that she thought that she was invisible. Though I understood why a southern, soft-spoken, confrontation- averse woman would think that, I never thought that about my mom. Even when Alzheimer’s tried to erase her, she was anything but invisible. Now she is everywhere. 

            I see her on Union Street when I drive past the house where she bought my pageant dress secondhand. I see her when I pass the CVS that stands on the land where my piano teacher resided. I see her at the McDonald’s where we ate pancakes before cheerleading at Saturday morning football games. I see her at the library where I read my way to a free Carowinds ticket when I was nine years old. 

            At my parents’ house, I can smell her, and when I’m brave enough to look at her bed, I remember the last few days of her life and then the last minutes. I don’t like being that brave.

            I suppose there’s no perfect way to die, but mom’s last night went as smoothly as it could. I was sitting on the bed with her, and my husband and dad were also in the room. The hour or so before she stopped breathing, I spouted out a David Letterman-like Top 10 list of our best times together — Christmas Eve dinner at The Waffle House, going out late in New York City after we called dad to tell him we were in for the night (her idea), singing Moonlight Bay in the round during bath time, playing hide and seek behind bolts of fabric at The Remnant Shop. All of it. 

            And then I told her it was okay for her to go and that we would take care of each other. As stubborn as my mother was, this is a woman who told her Hospice nurse that she wasn’t ready for a walking cane yet, she took her last breath and took off to a new world. 

            One of the best and worst things about being from a small town is that everyone either knows everyone or is related to them. In this case, it was the best thing because the man from the funeral home was one of my mom’s best friends’ sons. When he got to the house, we reminisced about the trips my mom and his mom used to take together. Though they are now both gone, their stories live on, and I needed those stories so much that night. 

            I have no idea what heaven is. I know that my mom will live in my heart forever, and I also know that I’ve seen an awful lot of butterflies since she left. Dad saw a yellow monarch flying around the back door a few hours before she died, another one brushed my windshield as I drove back from the funeral home and another one greeted me after my run yesterday. 

            Two days after her service, my son’s teacher presented the class with a caterpillar that will soon evolve into a beautiful butterfly. (They named him Larry, which my mother would have thought was hilarious.) These colorful winged creatures are my mother’s way of letting us know that everything is going to be okay, even though right now it feels like it never will be.

            A friend told me earlier this summer that you don’t have to be with someone physically to feel their presence, and I believe that that’s true. I know my mother is watching over us, protecting us as best she can, and I know she would want us to get on with things. So with each new day we try. Some days we try harder than others, but every day we keep our eyes open for the fluttering flash of a yellow butterfly, a Wink of Goodness from my beautiful mother. 

NOTE: Weekly Winks will return next Friday. Even though this past week has been one of the hardest in my life, there were too many winks to count (butterflies, a rainbow, a covered dish dinner cooked by United Methodist Women and the list goes on). My dad said it best yesterday. “It doesn’t make sense that people are mean in this world when there is so much love.”    

            Every Friday, I share the Winks of Goodness I experienced throughout the week in the hopes of inspiring you to do the same thing. (Yes, I know it’s Saturday, so please refrain from calling the blog police. It’s been a crazy week.) I’ve found that writing down and formally acknowledging these suckers gives them more power. I encourage you to share your own Weekly Winks on my site (still figuring some technical stuff out on that if you have trouble) or social media. So look around and write it down — share the goodness.      

Saturday— I enjoyed approximately 30 minutes of lounging on the lake in a tube, complete with a drink holder and headrest, that my husband found floating in the lake earlier this summer. (We average finding one lake toy a year on the water — floating Winks of Goodness.)

Sunday — I finally finished pressure washing our driveway. I began this project earlier this summer right when mom got sick. It was then that I discovered my passion for pressure washing any and all things. I think this might be my future.  

Monday— James Taylor’s Your Smiling Face came on the radio while I was driving The Tots to their first day of school. They asked me to turn it up so they could sing along. When I picked them up from school they were smiling from ear to ear because they had such a good day. I adore bookend days! 

Tuesday — Margot and I heard Rainbow Connection, one of my all time favorite songs because it is one of the best songs of all time, while we were sitting in a waiting room. 

Wednesday— I helped The Tots write thank you notes to their aunts and uncles, as well as a dear family friend. This is the kind of thing that was never accomplished when I was working at the magazine because there simply wasn’t time. 

Thursday— I read some of Bad Girls Throughout History by Ann Shen to Margot, yet another thing I didn’t get to do as much as I wanted to when I was working at the magazine. These courageous women inspired both of us. The cool thing is that the ones who were financially successful gave most of their money to charity. 

Friday— John and I cancelled our date night to go see my mother who is not doing well at all. On the way home we stopped at a restaurant in my hometown for dinner at the bar. One of our friends was playing in a jazz quartet there, so we ended up having date night after all, plus I got to eat North Carolina trout, one of my absolute favorite foods. 

This past June when my cousin, Liz, visited from California, she mentioned something a friend of hers had noticed about folks from the South. As Liz, who is originally from Northern Virginia, continued talking, I braced myself to hear, yet again, the hokey stereotypes that have plagued our region forever — we fry everything, we marry our cousins, we talk too slowly, we say fixin’, etc. To my pleasant surprise, she didn’t say any of those things. 

            Instead, her friend noticed that people from the South always talk about “the breeze.” At first I laughed off her friend’s observation, and then my husband and I started listening to our conversations. That’s when we discovered that we do indeed talk about the breeze every single day, sometimes more than once a day — each. It’s as natural as ordering hush puppies at a barbecue joint. 

            When I step on my stoop in the morning to see if the weather is good for a run, the breeze is often the deciding factor. When we contemplate eating on the patio, there needs to be a breeze, but not too much of one because no one wants their napkin to fly off the table. When we go out on the boat at night, we check to see if the breeze makes taking blankets a requirement. When we think about lighting our fire pit, we investigate which way the breeze is blowing. When we’re trying to decide if it’s too hot to mow the yard in the evening, we check for the breeze.

            And if you think about it, the breeze is the beach’s greatest asset. No matter how fancy your getaway digs are, we all enjoy the constant breeze as soon as we step out of our cars at the coast. It’s also the first thing we miss when we return home — that and hanging out in a wet bathing suit all day long and eating Calabash shrimp. 

            My guess is the South’s obsession with the breeze goes back to the days when we didn’t have air conditioning. People most likely stalked the breeze in search of some relief from our oppressive humidity. It doesn’t take a scientist to deduce that warm temperatures would make a slight wind a hot commodity, but I think the breeze plays a more important role in our lives because it’s a beautifully natural Wink of Goodness. It simply comes out of nowhere to make you feel better. 

            When I experience the breeze, whether it’s a cold or hot day, I think of it as Mother Nature exhaling and letting me know that it’s okay for me to exhale with her. It’s like when you’re a kid, and your mom puts your hair behind your ear when she’s saying something comforting. It just makes you feel better without explanation. 

            The other day I was sitting at the breakfast table with my parents at their house. It overlooks a meticulous lawn dotted with scattered trees. Though it was one of those dismally hot days that make even the best southerner yearn for pumpkin spice and hayrides, Dad saw the breeze and immediately got Mom’s attention. “Look, the breeze is blowing the leaves around,” he said. And just like that, the breeze worked its magic once again.   

            Every Friday, I share the Winks of Goodness I experienced throughout the week in the hopes of inspiring you to do the same thing. I’ve found that writing down and formally acknowledging these suckers gives them more power. I encourage you to share your own Weekly Winks on my site (still figuring some technical stuff out on that if you have trouble) or social media. So look around and write it down — share the goodness.          

Saturday — My husband and I enjoyed a date lunch outside at a cozy café, while The Tots attended a bowling birthday party. It was so nice to have an actual conversation in date-like form, not to mention the yummy salmon sandwiches we devoured. 

Sunday— A beautiful bright red cardinal danced on the string lights hanging over our patio mid-morning. Our guess is that he was teasing our cats, but we enjoyed the dance nonetheless and named him Kenny. For newbies to North Carolina, the cardinal is our state bird, and if you see one, it’s good luck.

Monday — The Tots and I spent the day at Discovery Place Science in Charlotte, where we saw a live frog that truly looked like Kermit (same exact eyes). I almost asked him where his banjo was. 

Tuesday— After a difficult visit with my parents, two beautiful teenagers took my daughter out for an evening of girl time (dinner, shopping and frozen yogurt). When Margot came home, she told me that she had fun feeling normal, as normalcy has been scarce this summer. 

Wednesday— The Tots and I went to the water park at Carowinds. The laughter from my son, Graydon, as I came down the slide with the big dip at the end screaming my head off was priceless. We finally managed to snag a piece of summer. 

Thursday— When I asked Margot’s new teacher if my daughter could make a worry box, she brought out Margot’s worry box from last year. Her former teacher wanted to make sure Margot had it if she needed it. 

Friday— I grabbed a few quiet minutes early this morning to read a devotion that was spot on and finish Weekly Winks. Happy weekend!

             The best summer job I ever had was working on an assembly line at my father’s machine company. Though I don’t remember the exact year (I think it was the summer before seventh grade), I do remember working away while Z100 blared out Top 40 tunes all afternoon. Remember that “We don’t have to take our clothes off” song? I heard that over and over that summer.

            Before you start reciting child labor laws, know that I had a worker’s permit and that the work I was doing did not involve machinery. I was merely gluing rubber caps on printer motors. Yes, we had to use paint thinner to get the black glue off of our hands at the end of the day, but I had a ball — and I made a friend. 

            An older gentleman named Bill Dorton worked beside me. He had reddish blonde hair, was probably in his upper 50s or early 60s, and always rolled up his jeans. One day while we were talking, he asked if I’d ever eaten Lemon Gooey. When he discovered that I hadn’t, he proceeded to share the recipe with me. I scribbled the information down and delivered it to my mom when I got home. We made our first batch that night. 

            It was instant goodness, and it immediately knocked mom’s awesome chocolate pan cake out of the number one slot in our family’s dessert rankings. I’m happy to report that Lemon Gooey still holds the top position, though during my college years it was challenged by my mom’s key lime pie. (Apparently we are partial to citrus desserts.)

            There’s so much to love about Bill Dorton’s Lemon Gooey. First of all, every time I make it, I think of that summer. Second, it’s delicious, and there’s nothing healthy about it. Third, it’s easy to make, but it doesn’t look or taste easy to make (important qualities in any dessert). Fourth, you can bake it for any occasion. Not all desserts can swing that. Just try showing up at a Fourth of July picnic with a Yule Log cake. 

            While I enjoy baking, my daughter, Margot, is obsessed with it. We watch every baking show we can find, and sometimes I make videos of her when she’s whipping up a treat. After taking a bite of something, she often critiques the dish in traditional Paul Hollywood and Mary Berry style, complete with the accent. (Both are from The Great British Baking Show.) Baking is something fun we can do together, and it’s also a sneaky way to practice fractions. 

            The Tots and I made a batch of Lemon Gooey right before my mom went into the hospital this summer. We gave some of it to our friends who had just moved into a new house, and because it keeps so well, we gave some to the nurses at the hospital that cared so lovingly for my mother. You can buy all the gifts in the world, but taking the time to bake for someone is special because it makes them feel special. It says, “Hey, I think enough of you to subtract an hour of my Netflix binge-watching schedule to create something yummy for you.” Try to do that with a Whitman’s Sampler. 

            Since my mom has been home, people have brought over a ton of food for my folks. There’s the shell casserole from my cousin, the cold cuts and rotisserie chicken from church friends, and the peach cobbler from neighbors. These are all Winks of Goodness because each morsel means that someone cares that my parents are getting what they need during a difficult time. You can’t measure that on a nutrition label. 

            I’m not sure when I’ll bake another batch of Lemon Gooey. My friend, Meredith, won’t let me into her house unless I bring some with me, so I suppose the next time she has a dinner party, I’ll make some. But whatever the occasion, you can bet that when I pull out my hand mixer, I’ll think of that summer working alongside Bill Dorton and that evening when my mom dropped whatever she was doing to help me make my first batch of Lemon Gooey. Neither of us had any idea that we were creating a family legacy. We were just a mother and daughter doing something fun together. 

Bill Dorton’s Lemon Gooey

Ingredients

1 box of lemon cake mix (I prefer Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme.)

1 box of confectioners sugar

1 8-ounce package of Philadelphia Cream Cheese (Why would you even think of using low-fat?)

3 eggs

1 stick of butter, unsalted and melted

Instructions

Mix cake mix with 1 egg and butter with a hand mixer. Mixture will be stiff, pat in bottom of sheet pan. (I use a butter-sprayed glass dish.) Set aside. Mix softened cream cheese, confectioners sugar and 2 eggs. Beat 5 minutes with a hand mixer. Pour over the top of mixture in pan. Bake 30 to 35 minutes at 350 degrees. It’s best to let it sit overnight before serving. Somehow that seals in the gooey factor.  

NOTE: This recipe is also in the Recipes for a Cold Springs Pig-Nic cookbook published in 1987. Olivia Jones submitted it. We’re all connected in Cabarrus County. 

This is my new thing. Every Friday, I’m going to share the Winks of Goodness I experienced throughout the week in the hopes of inspiring you to do the same thing. I’ve found that writing down and formally acknowledging these suckers gives them more power, so welcome to the first edition of Weekly Winks.

I encourage you to share your own Weekly Winks on my site (still figuring some technical stuff out on that if you have trouble) or social media. So look around and write it down — share the goodness. 

Sunday — My sweet daughter, Margot, made a home spa for me, complete with a stone massage. She used the glass stones from one of my vases for my “Stress Relief” massage. Other types of massages available from the menu she wrote out included: Karate Kid, Punch, Soft and Relaxing. 

Monday — After visiting my mom, I stopped at Target on the way home. The cashier, who had to be in her early 60s, had a darling tattoo of Tweety Bird on her wrist — in color. How can you not smile when you see that little yellow canary?

Tuesday — As The Tots and I drove on the interstate, Robbie Dupree’s Steal Away came on the radio, and they immediately asked me to turn it up so they could sing along. They proceeded to belt out the lyrics perfectly. All those hours they’ve listened to Yacht Rock Radio with me are paying off. 

Wednesday — The Tots’ aunt and uncle gave them a book about shells (a casualty from their downsizing), so Graydon and Margot brought all of their shells downstairs at breakfast and began trading with each other. Turns out store-bought shells are not nearly as valuable in this game as ones that are found. 

Thursday — I was stuck in traffic on Catawba Avenue during an evening storm, and another mom in a mini-van needed in my lane. I motioned for her to pull in front of me, and she smiled back. Then when she pulled in front of me, she waved “thank you.” This is how it’s done, people. 

Friday — Jefferson, one of our two awesome tabby cats, decided to curl up on my tummy while I snoozed this morning. Perfect bliss. 

            For someone who hasn’t gone anywhere this summer, I feel like I’m traveling all the time. Each day I commute between two parts of my life — the part that is thriving and the part that is dying. There’s no time change involved, yet I’m constantly exhausted, trying to be who I’m supposed to be in each scenario.  

            When I’m with my mom, who spends most of the day lying on the couch napping and not eating much of anything, I yearn for my kids and distract myself with my phone like a teenager. When I’m with my children, I feel guilty that I’m trying to enjoy myself, knowing that my mom is lying on the couch napping and not eating much of anything. I’m constantly checking my phone to see if my dad or Hospice has called. In both instances, I maintain a constant numbness that doesn’t allow me to cry or laugh. Sometimes it’s hard just to breathe. 

            After weeks of beating myself up over this, I decided to just let it be — or at least try to. If I can tap into a stream of happiness in either world, great. If not, I ride it out and hope for a better wave next time. So far I’ve found that this strategy serves me better than trying to be something that I’m not. My son calls me out the second he sees my fake smile anyway, so there’s no use in trying to fool him or anyone else. 

            Still I worry that I’m fooling myself. My mom isn’t going to be around much longer, and I have no idea what that looks or feels like. Right now, I’m busy organizing her care and making sure she has what she needs. There hasn’t been much time to ponder what the new normal will eventually be. When I do venture into those thoughts, I quickly think of something that needs to be done. My friends tell me that there will be time to process and grieve later, so I’m taking them on their word that that’s true.

            In the meantime, mom still smiles occasionally, and her eyes twinkle when she does. Typical mom, she apologizes for being lazy while she’s lying on the couch, not remembering that she has cancer. Her Alzheimer’s makes sure that she can’t recall that, which is probably a good thing. “It’s okay to be lazy,” I tell her. 

            As she naps, I either doze off with her or wander around the house. Because she’s at home now, I get to visit the museum of my youth on an almost daily basis. Rummaging through drawers and closets, I discovered a box of old photographs, the horse mask I wore in my first play and a slew of certificates commemorating any occasion you can imagine. (My citizenship award for good behavior in sixth grade, complete with a scratch and sniff sticker, is a favorite.) 

            These are all Winks of Goodness, but these winks sting because they remind me of a time when things were different — a time when mom took care of me and Hospice meant a free pen from their booth at the county fair. I realize that roles and situations change. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, and no matter how challenging it is, I’m grateful that we’re following life’s natural order.

            Now I keep all of my kids’ photographs on my phone and computer, they each have a paper fish hanging in their rooms from one of their first plays, and I save every certificate (sans scratch and sniff stickers) they earn. One day these artifacts will bring smiles to their faces when they least expect it and have no idea how much they need it. 

            Last night, my husband and children looked through the box of photographs I found at my parents’ house. Many of them were of trips my mom and dad took after I left home, but some captured moments of my childhood. The Tots loved seeing my class pictures from elementary school. They laughed at my Dorothy Hamill haircut (the only time I’ve ever had short hair), sun-sensor glasses (why was this ever a thing?) and Mr. Bill T-shirt (Mr. Bill still rocks). 

            I smiled because I was finally able to enjoy both of my worlds at the same time. Looking through these dusty photos, I knew exactly who I was supposed to be, and I rode that wave as long as I could. 

When I was first pregnant with twins, I was determined to do everything right. I bought a notebook to record my eating so my doctor would see that my nutrition savvy alone would be enough for me to win “mother of the year” in the delivery room. In one column I wrote the date and time of day, and in the other I wrote what I ate — blueberries for breakfast and salads for lunch. Then everything changed. 

            I was sitting in my home office one morning early in my first trimester when I became terribly nauseous. Minutes later I got sick and continued to do so multiple times a day until I gave birth. Needless to say, my notebook went by the wayside as I spent most of my time hunched over the toilet. 

            Nothing would stay down except junk food — think Pop-Tarts and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (the super cheap kind). When I explained this to my doctor, he told me not to worry about it because all he cared about was calories. “You just need to take in calories,” he said. 

            I feel like I’m in that same place again sans the Pop-Tarts. No, I’m not pregnant, but I am going through a tremendous life change, and it’s not in any shape or form the way I planned it.  

            When I resigned from my job in May, I had such grand plans for the summer. The Tots and I were going to play tennis, visit museums, swim at the pool and spend a stress-free week at the beach, a week where mom didn’t have to worry about deadlines for once. 

            Two-and-a-half weeks after my last day at work, my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and we were told that Hospice would be best for her. A few days ago, we admitted her into a nursing home, something my dad and I never wanted to do, and something that he still can’t digest. 

            Now our summer days are organized by visits with my mom, meetings with her care team, updates to family members and phone calls. Sometimes The Tots go with me, other times they hang out with their other grandparents or dear friends. The fun I promised my children is scarce, and I have horrible guilt about that. Our beach trip has been cancelled because there’s no way we can leave during this time, and we don’t want to, as the oncologist gave my mom four to six weeks. Of course, we have no idea how that will play out, but we want to be here for it — all of it, no matter how hard it is. 

            During the past two weeks I feel like I’ve been thrown into the Olympics for Winks of Goodness. Dealing with my dad’s denial and devastation about my mother’s diagnosis, which is understandable after being married for 60 years (together for 64), and his cognitive issues can be maddening, leaving any signs of goodness few and far between. Regardless, I keep looking because I need a handrail to hold as I walk this journey for my mom. 

            I see winks from my children, as their 9-year-old minds try to understand what’s going on. I see it when my son pushes my mom in a wheelchair to the nursing home’s beauty shop so mom can get her hair done. I see it when my daughter pulls the covers up over my mother. I see it when they converse with friends of the family they don’t know but who have heard all about them. And I see it in the staff at the nursing home. 

            The day we checked in, I went out into the hallway to get some air. A nurse named Charlene saw me and walked up to me just like the nice cool girl does to the new girl at school in an ABC Afterschool Special (those were the absolute best).

            Charlene could tell that I was trying to take it all in, so she gave me a casual tour of the place, informing me that the next day was Superhero Wednesday. Her smile was such a beautiful sight during such a dismal day. 

            Mom has been there a week now, and she is receiving excellent care, but my dad still can’t digest she’s there, and sometimes I feel like his angst is worse than the cancer. It’s a huge adjustment for both of them. (I believe the clinical term is “transition.”) Regardless of what you call it, it’s heartbreaking and beyond frustrating at the same time. We often say hurtful things to each other, and at one point over the weekend, I threw my Corkcicle across the parking lot out of anger. (Fun fact, the Corkcicle only suffered a small dent, so these tumblers really are worth the money. They should advertise the fact that you can throw them on asphalt in fits of rage and they’ll be just fine, as it truly is a selling point. Also, please note that no one was injured.)

            During last night’s visit, dad and I had a good conversation, but it was about to take a turn into “Tense Town” when a social worker suddenly brought in a white poodle. Truth be told, I’ve never been crazy about poodles, but this poodle was different. Flaunting her frizzy ears and floral scarf, Sasha (how sassy is that name?) walked up to me like we’d been friends for years. If a dog can give the expression, “I know how you feel, sister,” this dog did. 

            I quickly picked her up so mom could pet her, and in seconds, mom’s magical smile appeared as she began petting Sasha’s chin. For a few minutes, the stress of the situation subsided, and all we could focus on was this little dog. It felt so good. 

            The social worker promised to bring Sasha back on Thursday, and I hope I’m there when she does because that dog has magic powers, even though she refuses to wear bows on her ears. She’s a walking Wink of Goodness, and I’m so grateful she walked into our lives. 

NOTE: If you are visiting my parents, please do not mention this blog, as it would only confuse the situation. They are not very computer savvy these days. Thank you.