Oh, Those Childhood Christmas Memories

As a kid, I have a number of Christmas memories. Definitely one of middle-class privilege.

On Christmas Eve, we'd get dressed up (which I came to despise) and go to church down the street. I never understood why we had to wear our "fancy" clothes, which meant frilly dresses and hair bows. Even though the church was close by, we would whine about how cold it was still in the van. Ma or Mom would remind us that the temperature needed to raise up.

Church would be filled with a brief sermon, but mostly holiday carols by the choir. We also would have small individual candles. One year, one of our hair caught on fire from the candle and due to our long, black hair. I'd never smelled burning hair before that. We'd see our school friends also all dressed up and looking forward to presents.

Either before or after church, we would drive around different neighborhoods and look at the lights. We would do our neighborhood, and then if there was time - go the "right" neighborhood of Geist. Surely, they would have even better lights. And they did.

Then, we'd come back home and change into our pajamas, which were usually matching and we had gotten to open the night before. Ma would make hot cocoa for us. Then, we'd come down to the living room to open the presents we had wrapped for each other. We each took turns so we could see what each other got and Mom could take photos. At the end, we'd gather up all the Christmas wrapping trash. Maybe we'd open the things and put in the batteries of things that needed batteries. Then, up we go to bed so Santa (i.e., Ma and Mom) could do their work.

For most of our childhood we had a real tree. Ma and Mom would go to a tree farm and get one fresh. We would use the metal tree stand/bucket that my Grandfather made. Kim and I would have to take turns water the tree so it wouldn't get dry and thus the lights start a fire. (These were the cautionary tales I heard as a kid.)

We've been told we were pretty good kids. We wouldn't sneak out of bed or anything like that. Often, Ma and Mom would have to yell to get us up, because we were still in bed and sleepy. But eventually, we'd make our way downstairs. We'd have to wait on the landing of the stairs until Mom was ready with her camera. Then, when she was ready, we could go down the hallway and into the living room to see the Santa presents and also get our stockings, which often turned out to be a big present in and of itself.

The stocking - in our house - not only had candy, but a variety of pragmatic toiletries. A new toothbrush, cotton balls, toothpaste, and anything else small and slender that could fit. Peanuts with the shell were used as filler along with the holiday candy.

By noon, we had moved to the dining room and put all of our candy in a large, metal bowl. I'm sure Ma made something for Christmas Day lunch. I love you Ma and Mom. Thanks for all the Christmas-es you gave us.

We had a great Christmas as kids. We got many presents and Ma and Mom really did want us to have what they didn't have when they were little. I think they really loved shopping and giving. And as much as I'm sure I loved the toys and material things, now as an adult, I find it hard to think of really anything  I would want. Sure, there'd be some small little things or books, but even those things, I know I could do without. As an adult and as someone who is trying to pair down and simplify, I would much rather enjoy time with friends and families with a movie, theater, or art exhibit. Making breakfast or brunch - and just hanging out.

Tomato, Cabbage, and Sausage

Growing up, Ma was typically the cook. But, there were a few dishes that Mom specifically cooked. One of the dishes was a tomato, cabbage, and sausage dish. I remember her making it often as a kid, and I guess I liked it. It's a sweet entree. Fairly cheap and quick to make.

Below recipe yields about 6-8 servings.
Prep time: 15 mins.
Cook time: 30 mins.

Instructions:

• One head of cabbage
• Five small tomatoes
• A meat type sausage or a meat substitute; but something that will stay together while cooking
• Small can of tomato paste
• Salt, sugar, pepper, and garlic

Cut cabbage into bite sizes pieces and place in pot with water. Cook until it starts to get soft. Then, drain. While that's cooking, cut tomatoes into small pieces. After the cabbage is drained, put tomatoes and tomato paste in. Add seasoning as desired. You can also add the meat or meat product. If it's already fully cooked - you're fine. If it's not, then cook before putting into the cabbage mix.

Cook a little bit more.

As I'm cooking in my kitchen in Chicago, I think about where Mom is now. She's recovering from a fall and will soon get out of physical rehab to go back to her assisted living apartment. I think that she'll probably never cook this dish again as her meals are prepared for her daily.

I wonder, does she miss not cooking? I know she misses her house. But, she's adapted.

Other signature dishes of Mom? 

• Wrapped grape leaves
• Baklava
• Peanut brittle
• Taffy

When a Home is a House; House is a Home

I can't believe it's been almost a year now since Mom had her major cognitive issue that began a series of events unforeseen to me. I don't know why. My two moms never married, and when Ma began her health decline, Mom took care of her until the very end. Who did I think would take care of Mom? But, somewhere in the back of my head, I remembered her saying, "Liz, I don't expect you to take care of me." I know that was a long time ago, and even Mom couldn't have seen what was ahead.

From the hospital to rehab to an assisted living apartment - all of this in the short span of about three months. And, I thought that was hard.

As we came to the realization that she would not be returning "home," which a year ago - we would mean the house on Hilltop Lane. The house that she bought in the early 70s and that my sister and I knew all of our childhood.

Her home quickly turned into a "house."

We came (or, should I say... I came) to understand that we needed to empty her home as quickly as possible so that we could do light renovations and get it on the market. This was not an easy feat. Weekend by weekend, we would spend as much time as possible at her home going through boxes and boxes of accumulation from decades of world travel. The downstairs was fairly easy. It was the "junk room" that took the longest. There were boxes within boxes, not to mention all the memories that came with the unpacking.

For those who know me, they know that I do documentary photography. They know that I too, am a "saver." But at this point in our journey, all I wanted to do was get this shit job done. It was time and emotion, that I hadn't expected for my summer of 2013. I videotaped with the Flip camera some, and I did photograph the her home in stages, but I just didn't have the energy to do it as well as I wanted.

While Mom had the junk room, I had my own hell - my bedroom closet. For some reason, I still had boxes of memories from 3rd grade. I had papers, pictures, and letters/notes. I had old boyfriends' stuff. In the evening, I would go through as much as I could (typically with a beer and internet music playing). At one point, I had to stop and bring some boxes up to Chicago. I promised my spouse that over Winter Break, Spring Break, or Summer I would get through them.

Fast forward, and I hear Mom refer what used to be her home to the house. She now calls her assisted living place - her home. I call it the brand name or the apartment. It's still hard to think of it as home, but for her sake, I'm glad she thinks of it like that.

The many bumper stickers or carved wooden signs are true. Home really is where you make it. A house is the brick and mortars. The four walls, floor, and ceiling. A home is where people live. Where people talk, cry, sleep, and eat together.

Mom has been so courageous this year. Things are still rough, but we've gotten through it. I've come to know and love my three of my cousins, my Aunt, and Uncle so much more. I appreciate more than I can ever say all that they have done for Mom and me.

Even tonight, I'm alone at her home, while she recovers in rehab from a recent fall. But, the house is on the market, and I try and stay positive that the right family will be the right match for our house; and make it their new home.

Mother/Daughter Walmart Phenomenon

Lately, I've become very conscious of a mother/daughter phenomenon at Walmart. It's the adult daughter with the mother shopping together. For me, it's my mom in a Walmart mobile shopping cart and me following close by trying to get her to move on. For others, it's the mom pushing the cart and the daughter in tow.

As I pass these pairs, I make eye contact and give a smile to one or both of the couple. To the daughter, I try and communicate - I know how you're feeling. Try and be patient and don't raise your voice.

To the mom, I try and communicate - I know this is not the kind of situation you thought you'd be in. The role reversal and the feeling of disempowerment. Yes, you are still the mom. Sometimes, you have to remind us of this.

The cart will be filled with items like Poise Pads and Depends. You're shopping at Walmart, so you know that budgets are tight, and that if you could shop other places - you would. But for now, it's Walmart.

My last trip with mom, I let her roam around without me hovering and I did some work at the in-store Subway. Trying to give her the freedom to roam at her own pace; giving me less frustration. I thought it worked out well.

The Drive Down/Back

When you travel back and forth regularly, you find that there are certain points that mark your way. For me, traveling south from Chicago to Indianapolis, one of my first markers is seeing the South Holland water tank that reads, "Youth, Faith, and Family." I think to myself - I would never want to live here.

For almost the past year, I have driven back and forth from Chicago to Indianapolis to take care of my mom, since she had (what she calls to this day a 'stroke) a few falls as well as self-medication mismanagement. Between the falls and the trauma that came with them and not taking and then over-taking medication - Mom ended up needing to goto the hospital. While she finally stabilized, she couldn't go back home, but went to a rehabilitation center.

I quickly found myself in the decision-maker role, and one of the first decisions was to choose a rehab place. Since I've known the higher ed system for over 12 years now, I thought - I can do this, it's like doing a campus visit day! What is a good fit? Who will both of us be comfortable with? Who can I trust  my Mom with at such a vulnerable time?

After visiting three places, we landed on Kindred. Besides the first impression that they seemed more professional and organized, I also met "Dave." He was one of the nurses I met, and my "Admissions Officer." He sold Kindred well as I grilled him with my interviewing questions. He spent a lot of time with me and answered all the questions well. This was my top choice.

Finally, the exit ramp to I-65 South. I am now officially not in the Chicago area. I always feel like once I get on 65, there's no turning back. I've done this drive so many times, I could do this drive with my eyes close. I know every turn. Every pot hole. I know how to pass the trucks safely. I know the two exits that have the cheapest gas and the cleaner restrooms.

So, I handed off Mom to Dave and the rest of the Kindred staff. Some- better than others. But Mom liked Dave the most. He worked only on the weekends, but they got to be really close. She trusted him and his opinions. He made time to listen to her and talk with her. I decorated her room with photos and always brought her flowers. There were high moments and low moments. Like the time she seemed worse, and I was on the phone with my sister crying. Or, when she couldn't write her name.

Driving down the road, I see the windmills. In the evening, approaching them, I see a vast field of red flashing lights - like UFOs. In the daytime, you come upon them and can't help but wonder what Don Quixote would think. They don't look that large, but continuing over the hill, I try and picture how small I would be if I could get close to one. I fantasize me driving off the road, through the fields, to get to the base. I'd stand by one with my virtual yardstick and put my hand level on my head like I was a growing eight year old.

Nearly six weeks later, Kindred starts talking about her release and next steps. Back home with additional paid care? Assisted living? I personally didn't think she could go back living independently, but it's up to her. She talks about going home the most. Until the next time I visit - when she decides on assisted living. I'm surprised, but relieved.

After the windmills, I look for the black and gold of Purdue University. I never even thought of applying to Purdue, but some of my high school friends went there. It's a big place like UIC. The Boilermakers. Seeing the "Welcome to Purdue" gives me comfort that I'm less than 1.5 hours away from Indianapolis. If I was on the bus, this is when I would call Ma and Mom to get them ready to leave the house to pick me up. If I didn't want to have to wait and stand in the cold, I'd call them as I passed Purdue.

Sometime since the last visit, she decided to go into assisted living. I'm not sure who changed her mind, but I have a feeling Dave and some of the therapists had something to do with it. I quickly started looking for assisted living places. I took this very seriously, because I imagined this would be her last "home." I visited three different places and none of them were "perfect." I was astounded by the cost. One night I did the math and felt incredibly sad that I was calculating money with her life.

The last marker is the sign for "Whitestown and Brownsburg." It reminds me of where I am - Indiana.

Mom has now been at her assisted living place for nearly eight months. We both have done our best to adapt. It's not been easy, and I hate it when I get so frustrated with her. When go to Wal-Mart and I see other daughters with their mom, and they are almost abusive. I promise myself in my head - I'll never be that bad, but I know I've been close. I know it's not her fault, and she knows she frustrates me. That's the sad part. Because then, she feels bad too.

Then, the 865 pass comes. If I want to go by the house, I veer right to 465 East. If I want to go down to the apartment, I go left to 465 West. I breathe out knowing that the four hour trip is almost done. Finally, I get off the Interstate and am in the city of Greenwood heading south on SR 131 and SR 135. I'll pass numerous retail shops and the golf course, and then I'll be "home." I love you, Mom, and I only want to be as happy as you can be. You took care of Ma for so many years, and you deserve the same dignity, respect, and love. I wish I could do more.