SCAD

In 1989 my dad died. He’d been sick for about a year and a half. Somewhere at the halfway mark, we thought he was getting better. “It’s a miracle,” declared the doctors. They were wrong and we were heart broken.

I was a Senior in high school, developing my life plan which wasn’t looking too rosy. I was a shit student. In fourth grade my parents bought land and built their dream house and I declared, “I want to be an architect.” My mom clung on to that and so by the time my senior year rolled around, I was searching for colleges with an architecture program. My first choice would have been UVA or VaTech, but remember how I said I was a shit student? Yeah. Those schools were not going to accept me. So, along with caring for my dad, my dear mom began the task of figuring out where I was going to go to school. And I give her full credit: she found SCAD.

Art + Design school didn’t exactly appeal to me. I wanted Greek Life and big lecture halls, but my mom worried I’d drown in either beer or the large number of students. And she was right. I most likely would have fallen flat on my face for multiple reasons.

My dad had been so sick from chemotherapy that he didn’t talk much around that time. Hell, he hadn’t been a big talker or feeling-exchanger ever. Then one day, I was driving him to an appointment and he began talking seriously about my future. “I think your mom is right. SCAD seems like a good option.” It’s a conversation I won’t forget.

In April we buried him and I received my acceptance letter in May. I know at some time my mom drove me to Savannah. I remember sitting with a college admissions person, who had a kind face, but I hated the south. It was hotter than hell and humid. There were no people anywhere —— a few students milled around, but they didn’t look anything like me. Their hair was died vivid colors and they wore big, chunky doc martins and piercings adorned their faces. I had pleated shorts and lip gloss and a hair scrunchy. Was I really going to spend the next five years here?

In August my mom said I didn’t have to go. I could go to community college and stay until I felt better. But life at home wasn’t fun. There was anger and sadness and I felt fear because if I didn’t leave for school now, would I ever? All my friends were gone. They’d left in August to set up dorm rooms and everyone seemed so damn happy. SCAD started in September and I was a nervous wreck. I felt lonely and off balance. But I knew I couldn’t stay at home, so I forced myself to go.

And that’s how I went to SCAD. My mom drove my brother and I nine hours south. She bought me a small sign to hang on my wall: “Go For It.” She was 48 and it must have been killing her to leave me in Savannah so soon after losing my father. That drive back to Virginia must have been hell. I cried softly into my pillow that night, trying not to wake my room mates. But it was thanks to my mom that I made it there.

Last weekend, I visited for the first time since 1994. So many memories came rushing back. I made some wonderful friends at SCAD. Friends for life. I could see our ghosts strolling the cobblestones of River Street and eating pizza at City Market. Shadows of our younger selves walking to class or rushing off to a party.

I received my Bachelor of Architecture and went on to have a career as a licensed architect. I keep in touch with many of my college buddies thanks to cell phones and social media. We laugh about all the crazy times we had.

Today SCAD buzzes even louder with creativity. My heart ached to be back in the classroom, learning new skills and exploring in art. Marriage, kids, life…you forget how it was when you were in those glorious years from 18-22….the freedom you had. Not that I would give any of that up, but I was so happy that I got the chance to embrace what life had to offer. What SCAD had to offer. Savannah and SCAD are like twin flames. You can’t have one without the other. They welcomed me and I will forever be grateful for what I gained from that experience. Thank you, Mom, for finding SCAD, encouraging me and finding the strength to let me go. I only wish you could tour it with me. You would have been very happy.

The rope in my hands

Last October I knew we (me, husband and kids) were going to travel back to Virginia for Thanksgiving. I’d struggled over the decision because for years, we’d hosted the extended family in California for the holiday. Maybe it’s because it’s fall and that’s my favorite season, or because it doesn’t hold the same pressure as Christmas, but I truly love Thanksgiving. I’ve got the plates with Turkeys, the tablecloth, the napkins, the serving bowls in the shape of leaves, etc.

I even got the tradition going that we’d run (walk) a 5k in the morning, eat yummy snacks and then have our feast in the late afternoon/early evening. So, letting someone else host has been sad and difficult for me.

Last year, the first holiday season of my mom being in her memory care home, had me distressed. Part of me wanted to go on a trip, time to celebrate somewhere else, memory free. But guilt nibbled all over me. My poor mom. Could I really leave her ? Not acknowledge the season with her? Of course not. We needed to travel back to Virginia and spend time with her. The logistics aren’t important, but know that I was feeling mixed emotions…mostly sadness.

I started to visualize my hand holding a rope. I had it tight in my grasp and then, finger by finger, I’d let go. The rope moved over my palm. That’s as far as my visualization got. I never saw the end of the rope, it just slid continuously over my palm. To me, it symbolized letting go of expectations and sadness. I needed to let go or I was going to burst.

It wasn’t easy seeing my beautiful mom in her memory care place. I wanted her in her kitchen writing a grocery list or warming her hands on a morning coffee mug while she looked for deer outside the window. I went every day to see her. I held her tight. I told her how wonderful she is and how much I miss her. Thank God, the facility made us all wear masks, because my tears absorbed into the fabric without her noticing.

For our Thanksgiving celebration with her, we opted for a meal out. I picked her up and drove her back. Everything went pretty well. But I knew she was done before dessert arrived. I whispered to her if she was ready to leave and she gave me a nod. On the drive back she chit chatted about things from her past, when suddenly, completely off topic, she said, “Louise, do you believe in God?” To hear her remember my name was music to my ears. Her question wasn’t unusual. My mom has an unshakeable faith and often wondered out loud if I believed. I said, “Of course mom. I do.” Then she went on to say, “You need to let go. Just let go. I need to let go too.”

Of all the words my mom could have chosen?! Tears streamed down my face and my throat hurt as I strained to keep my emotions in line. Was she giving me permission to say good-bye to our old lives, that she was going to be okay and I should let the guilt go?

It’s been about six months and I’m set to go see her again. I had to deal with a big injury this year, so flying up to visit hasn’t been easy. Again, my inner voice is saying that the rope needs to remain on the palm of my hand and not in a tight fist.

Heavy Heart + wishes

This past week was a heavy heart week. They come and go…heavy hearts.

Boy, do I miss my mom. I get a phone call with her every week from her memory care home, but it’s short. Sometimes it’s sweet and sometimes it rips my heart out and grinds it into the floor. Her voice can sound so vulnerable and confused. Sometimes angry. I feel so sad for her. And for me. I have a hard time believing God would have wanted this for her. She’s been a solid person, someone who has lived through World War II in London, cared for a husband with cancer and stood by another husband and his family who had a whole bunch of issues.

I wish I could go into that memory care home and bring her to my house. Cure her. Let her enjoy my children like she used to….she’d love to see how my daughter as grown into a lady, how my son has grown big, strong and a gentleman. She’d be so happy cradling my cats, or helping fold laundry or sharing a meal at our table.

I can’t think of her without tears welling up and my throat feeling raw from the attempt not to break into a million pieces.

I wish I was stronger, more resilient. I’m so thankful for the times we shared, for the laughs, hell, I’m even sort of grateful for the fights. I can duke it out with the best of them thanks to her. I’d just love to have one more day. One more day of her clear headed, completely with me. My heart is heavy

Bright Eyes

Bright eyes, burning like fire

Bright eyes, how can you close and fail?

How can the light that burned so brightly

Suddenly burn so pale?

Bright eyes --- sung by Art Garfunkel

This was one of my moms favorite songs. I can’t hear it without choking down tears. If you’ve watched the beautiful film, Watership Down, then you’ve heard it. It played in the 1970 version and in the Netflix remake. The story focuses on a warren of rabbits and after the fearless leader has seen that his rabbits are safe and secure for the next generation, he lays along the river bank, taking his last breath. The music begins to play and his soul lifts and romps through the green hills with the Black Rabbit --- guiding him home. *I am crying now.

My mom just loved the tune. Growing up my cousins would come into town around Christmas and we’d all go out to a big brunch at the Marriott. There was live music and my mom would always ask the musicians, “Bright Eyes? Do you know it? It goes like this….mmmm, mmm, mmm…mmm, mmmm, mmm.” Sadly, they rarely knew the song.

The lyrics are about leaving this earth. Is it a kind of dream? Floating out on the tide? Following the river of death downstream, Oh is it a dream?

Yet for me, this represents my moms dementia. How can her blue sparkly eyes have paled so much? Is she stuck in a fog? A dream? To slide from your family, your friends, your life is cruel. She’ll never be in her kitchen again cooking or puttering around the house filling vases with flowers. There are no calls on birthdays. No specially wrapped gifts that only she remembered. The warning signs were there several years before she moved into a memory care community and I’m riddled with guilt. Guilt that I should have demanded to go to doctors’ appointments, been more present when she first got tested or flown to her to be part of all the legal paperwork. It’s clear to look back and foggy staring forward.

I miss her. Only my mom complimented me and gave me confidence on my parenting, career and dreams. It wasn’t always a perfect relationship, but as the years ticked by and I had my children, we grew together in news ways.

I grieve for the lunches, the laughs, her yearly visits and all her motherly touches. I cry knowing she’s struggling, stuck in a strange in between, knowing something is wrong, but being too confused to understand.

I don’t want her to suffer. Or experience panic and fear. I want her to close her eyes, listening to the soft lapping waves of the river, smelling fragrant flowers and spring grasses, only to find herself walking side by side with the Black Rabbit.

Wandering over the hills unseen, Or is it a dream?