Thanksgiving always makes me nostalgic. For many years when I lived a three-hour drive from my Mom and Dad, who lived just outside Detroit, Michigan, I drove “home” to spend Thanksgiving Day with them no matter what the weather brought along. I remember once it was so foggy that I tried to head out three times, driving the 45-minute route to the turnpike only to find out they had closed the road. I turned around and drove back home to wait until the fog lifted. It lasted well into the night, so I went to bed early and then got on the road at six o’clock in the morning. Spending time with the family for the holidays was never optional for me.
I’m glad that I now have so many great memories to keep me company since both my mom and dad have danced into the light. My mom’s years of ulcerative colitis resulted in her higher risk for colon cancer, something that seems logical now but was not recognized in 1996 when she was diagnosed. She was 73 in October 1997 when we lost her, and it felt so wrong because she was always young at heart and someone who you’d expect to live, well, forever. Losing my mom carved a big hole in my heart. I keep a journal that I use to write to her since she passed because it has been hard for me to stop writing letters to her, a regular practice throughout my adult life after I moved away from home.
My dad seemed to do well until he turned 89. It was around then that he lost his friend and the woman who had become his constant companion after my mom’s passing. She had surgery that resulted in complications, and she never recovered. When Dad lost his dear friend Dora, it had an extreme effect on him. After that he began showing signs of dementia, and it just progressed until in early 2010 he went to live in a supervised facility. His decline was rapid, but he was not aware that his health was suffering as badly as it was. When he passed in April 2010 at the age of 93, he died peacefully after falling asleep after my sister, who was his caregiver throughout his decline, had left his bedside for the night. The nurse called her with the news shortly after my sister returned home. It was almost like he did not want to leave as long as she was there and waited till she had gone home. Even with his decline we talked fairly regularly, though he had a lot of difficulty hearing and understanding me on the phone. I miss him and our conversations about music and language, two of our favorite topics.
For me the nostalgia of the winter holiday season reminds me how important it is to celebrate the blessings of being together, no matter what we do. The scale of decorating and baking for me now is certainly less extravagant than in years past, but it is still something that means a lot. With every song I hear, I think of my dad’s music, and with every cookie I bake, I think of my mom’s tireless efforts in bringing us close as a family to celebrate the spirit of a loving holiday season.
Thanksgiving always makes me nostalgic. For many years when I lived a three-hour drive from my Mom and Dad, who lived just outside Detroit, Michigan, I drove “home” to spend Thanksgiving Day with them no matter what the weather brought along. I remember once it was so foggy that I tried to head out three times, driving the 45-minute route to the turnpike only to find out they had closed the road. I turned around and drove back home to wait until the fog lifted. It lasted well into the night, so I went to bed early and then got on the road at six o’clock in the morning. Spending time with the family for the holidays was never optional for me.
I’m glad that I now have so many great memories to keep me company since both my mom and dad have danced into the light. My mom’s years of ulcerative colitis resulted in her higher risk for colon cancer, something that seems logical now but was not recognized in 1996 when she was diagnosed. She was 73 in October 1997 when we lost her, and it felt so wrong because she was always young at heart and someone who you’d expect to live, well, forever. Losing my mom carved a big hole in my heart. I keep a journal that I use to write to her since she passed because it has been hard for me to stop writing letters to her, a regular practice throughout my adult life after I moved away from home.
My dad seemed to do well until he turned 89. It was around then that he lost his friend and the woman who had become his constant companion after my mom’s passing. She had surgery that resulted in complications, and she never recovered. When Dad lost his dear friend Dora, it had an extreme effect on him. After that he began showing signs of dementia, and it just progressed until in early 2010 he went to live in a supervised facility. His decline was rapid, but he was not aware that his health was suffering as badly as it was. When he passed in April 2010 at the age of 93, he died peacefully after falling asleep after my sister, who was his caregiver throughout his decline, had left his bedside for the night. The nurse called her with the news shortly after my sister returned home. It was almost like he did not want to leave as long as she was there and waited till she had gone home. Even with his decline we talked fairly regularly, though he had a lot of difficulty hearing and understanding me on the phone. I miss him and our conversations about music and language, two of our favorite topics.
For me the nostalgia of the winter holiday season reminds me how important it is to celebrate the blessings of being together, no matter what we do. The scale of decorating and baking for me now is certainly less extravagant than in years past, but it is still something that means a lot. With every song I hear, I think of my dad’s music, and with every cookie I bake, I think of my mom’s tireless efforts in bringing us close as a family to celebrate the spirit of a loving holiday season.
5 6 7 8
© 2004–2011 Donna Peach. All rights reserved.