On Being Thankful

 Lately, I've been thinking about my mom and dad.  Thinking about them a lot.  And I am thankful for the infrastructure and scaffolding they built, because I see and feel it in so many different ways.  I think about how much they would enjoy their grandchildren and now their great grandchildren, my dad in particular.  He would, I imagine, have great patience with Jackson, his oldest great grandson who has special needs.  I believe he would delight in each developmental step Jack takes, although I think he would tire quickly of Jack's echolalia and some other quirks of his cognitive disability.  I mean, let's not make the guy a saint--but since he's dead, maybe he is.  He would delight in how smart Beau and Ethan are, be excited at their burgeoning interest in sports, especially baseball.  My dad would laugh aloud at the kindergarten humor of Jameson and Ace.  And his great granddaughters, Millie, Sloane and Georgia, would have him wrapped around their little fingers.  On occasion, when any of the grands do or say something that particularly strikes me, I can almost feel my dad looking over my shoulder, grinning, applying his seal of approval.

My dad died on November 29, 2008, his 80 1/2 birthday, so he's been gone awhile. It was relatively quick; he fell getting out of the car (the giant Cadillac de Ville that had an ashtray duct taped to the console between the seats) and it was, literally, downhill from there.  I'm thankful I had the good sense to immediately drive down to Chicago when my sister called to say he was in the hospital, awaiting hip replacement surgery.  I'm thankful I had a boss who told me to go and only called to see how things were going, this in the days where remote work wasn't even a speck on people's radar screens.  I'm thankful my sisters, who lived close to the hospital, opened their spare bedrooms to me.  

This is where the Dad Jammies come in.

Initially I anticipated a couple day stay, which turned into a week due to complications before and after the surgery.  Consequently I needed a few essentials to get me through, including pajamas.  At that time, Target carried a brand of soft cotton jammies under the Nick and Nora label.  I stopped on the way to the hospital and grabbed these off the rack because I thought they would be comfy and warm.  They traveled back and forth to Chicago with me during that time.  When I first drove down, the yards were decorated for Halloween.  At the end, Christmas lights were festooned across porches, shrubs, yards.  Strange what you noticed and now remember.

I am thankful that over the past 16 years, I resisted any urge to donate the jammies, especially during the moves of the last 2 years.  A safety pin now holds the top closed and the bottoms lost the drawstring somewhere along the line, so I've knotted the waistline and shimmy them up over my waist, always with relief that they have learned to, "Stay."  When I am sad, feeling the weight of my world, and I wish I could have my dad hug me, I wear the Dad Jammies.  They are very effective.  In the summer, when the winter pjs are relegated to the bottom of the pajama drawer, once in a while I catch them peeking up at me, as if to say, "I'm here.  You're okay.  I got you."

As for my mom, who died in 2015, I believe she would be more than a little overwhelmed by her great grandchildren.  When we would invade my parents' Chicago home for a visit, Mom was so excited to see us but that excitement was quickly quelled by the reality of what she was in for.  I always thought she was hoping for a gentle spring rain of a visit, when it was more like a Category 5 hurricane.  She loved them too much even when they drove her crazy.  I think it would have been similar with the great grands.

My mom lived for 4 years after her abdominal aortic aneurysm ruptured.  Fortunately she was able to be at home with a saint on earth live in caregiver.  At first things were touch and go, so I went down frequently to spend the weekend.  As her health improved, the visits spaced out to monthly until she died.  However, I did call her every night on my way home from work.

"There's my Mary," she would say brightly.  

Once in a while she would tell me, "You don't have to call me every day.  I know you're busy.  You have a big job."

And I would reply, "I like calling you, Mom.  And someday, when I can't call you every day, I'll miss talking to you."

"You will?" she'd say.

"Of course I will."

And oh.  I do.

An indulgence at my mom's was to soak in her whirlpool tub, then wrap myself in her warm and cozy robe.  After she died, I brought the robe home with me.  When I wear it, it's as if I'm sitting next to her on the couch in her living room while she watched Turner Classic Movies from her hospital bed.  Again, I am thankful that I didn't put it in the donation bag over the years.  It hangs on the back of my closet door and just seeing it every day can instill a sense of comfort and well-being and you'll make it through today because you're my daughter.  You're my Mary.

I'm thankful I have these to hang on my ever increasingly weary bones.  Yes, those are skiing duckies.

Gentle readers.  I am also very thankful for you.  Blessed are we who can spend time with family and friends.