by Kathy Brasby | Oct 24, 2014 | Seasons
We talked about our planned trip to Europe this morning. My husband and I have saved and dreamed of a special anniversary adventure: three weeks somewhere in Europe.
“But what about your mother?” he asked.
And it struck me: I’m in a narrow place in life where concerns for parents, children and grandchildren all press against my plans. Could we be gone so long and so far away with loved ones in some sort of crisis?
It’s been two years since my mother’s stroke. Here’s some of what I wrote shortly after the stroke:
Chaos wrapped its stubborn tendrils around my ankles and brought me stumbling to my knees last week.
My mother, vibrant and energetic at 83, crashed to the floor with a stroke and now we wait. We sit beside her hospital bed, counting her breaths, charting every twitch of her toes.
Hopeful. Fearful. Will she survive this attack on her brain and her body? How well can her body heal?
And what have we lost?
Chaos swirls like a dripping fog, drenching us with plans draining away.
Plans have drained away. But the chaos has sorted its way into a new routine. New life has replaced the pain and confusion. Mom is still with us.
I’ve grown. I’ve rearranged priorities. I’m more patient with the special needs of others.
I don’t know what that means about our anniversary trip but I do know that, in these narrow places, he and I adjust and we learn to love in fresh ways.
We’re richer for it.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 21, 2014 | Stories
The best thing about moving with children is the stories that sprout.
Our move forced our kids to pack up their bedroom stuff. Not the furniture and not the clothes. But the toys and mementoes were their business.
Our 6-year-old son embraced the challenge. He dragged empty cardboard boxes into his room and managed to tape them closed himself. He wrote his name on the outside and added them to the mountain of boxes in the living room.
His system worked perfectly and his boxes were transferred to his bedroom in our new home.
I had noticed, a couple of weeks before, that he had gathered all the decorations from his sister’s birthday celebration and squirreled them away in his closet.
On moving day, when I wandered into his room with a knife to slice through the tape on his boxes, I discovered his happy little secret.
He’d filled his boxes with a cloud of inflated birthday balloons.
The story has lasted a lot longer than the balloons.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 17, 2014 | Seasons
When Erwin started using his checkbook as a calendar, his son knew it was time for a change.
Erwin had paid the bills all of his life, carefully recording business expenses in a faded green ledger book.
But one day he had to pay a bill and refused to write the check. “Not today,” he said. “It messes things up.”
He pulled his checkbook out of his shirt pocket, where he stored it every morning when he dressed, and pointed to the page where he had already written in dates.
Jim studied the checkbook. “I don’t understand this.”
Erwin shook his head. “It’s clear as can be. Right here.” He pointed to an entry. “See the date? That’s what I’m doing.”
Jim had trusted his father’s financial judgment forever but this was something new. He glanced at his mother, who shrugged, and he turned back to his father.
“Well, we need to pay this bill today, Dad. What should we do?”
Erwin pushed the checkbook back into his pocket. “We can’t.”
Jim knew the teenager who had just mowed their grass waited outside for his payment. He considered options and pulled out his wallet to pay the young man.
But the bigger issue remained. “Dad, could I look at your ledger book?”
The look revealed pages of numbers carefully written in but scattered across columns like autumn leaves, with no pattern. How would his father get his taxes done? Pay his bills?
What was past-due?
And Jim knew it was time. “Dad, we need to talk about your checkbook.”
Erwin’s eyebrows lifted. “Sure, if you want.”
As Jim asked questions, Erwin became more and more vague to answer. Finally, he pushed the checkbook to Jim.
“You take it. I can’t do it anymore.”
Jim ran his own business, interacted with his own family including young grandchildren, and tried to find time for an occasional golf game.
But he knew this had to be folded into his life.
It was that season for Jim.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 10, 2014 | Seasons
Harvey’s eyes lit up when his wife walked through the front door of the nursing home and made her way to where he waited.
“Good morning, Honey,” she said, leaning down to kiss his forehead before settling into a chair beside him.
“I’ve got great news,” he said. Her eyebrows lifted. “I walked last night.”
“You did?” She glanced down at his wheelchair and his limp legs.
“I’ve been practicing,” he said. “I can show you.”
“Uh, well—“
Harvey leaned forward, gripping the armrests on his wheelchair. “I just need you to help me get up.”
She glanced around the lobby. “I don’t think I can help—“
“Oh, you under-estimate yourself. We can do this.” Harvey settled back in his wheelchair. “I practice every night.”
His wife sighed. ‘I think we should wait for a little help. I can’t do this alone.”
She knew that he hadn’t walked in over a year, not since he had fallen.
“All right. We can wait, I guess.”
Dreams, more vivid than the orange sunset, captivated Harvey’s days. Many of his nights included walks to friends’ houses, to the basement, and to the park.
She patted his arm and gave him a hug. “How are you feeling today?”
“Good. Did I tell you that Jerry visited me last night? I don’t know why he came but we had a good talk.”
Harvey’s wife smiled. Their oldest son lived 2000 miles away and only came on special occasions. She was pretty sure he hadn’t slipped in during the night for a visit.
“And did you enjoy talking with him?”
“Of course. He’s planning to move here soon so he can live with me.”
“That’s great. I’ll bet that made you feel good. He loves you a lot, doesn’t he?”
Harvey nodded. “I guess so.”
Every day, Harvey’s wife came to kiss his forehead and hear his dreams. She loved him a lot, too.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 6, 2014 | Stories
Sometimes you face your fears with determination and courage. Sometimes you face an angry mama cow the same way. Especially when the stick keeps breaking.
My mother was always game for helping with the livestock on the family farm. We had a small group of black Angus cows that needed to be moved to a new corral. Mom dried her hands on her dishtowel and jumped to the task.
Black Angus cows can be aggressive in their nurturing skills. This means that, when they had a new calf, they could be a bear to move into a new pen.
They’d rather knock you flat and then move into the new corral.
But Mom knew cattle and she scaled the fence with a stick in hand.
“You don’t back down,” she told us kids many times. “You face them and show them you’re in charge.”
So, in this case, she flailed her arms a few times, which generally got cattle moving in the right direction.
This particular cow chose the attack mode. She lowered her head and took a few menacing steps toward Mom.
Mom responded by bashing the stick on the cow’s head.
The cow stopped. The stick broke off at the end.
Then the cow lunged again. Mom slammed the stick onto her head and the cow stopped. The stick broke off at the end.
This continued with the cow charging, Mom banging with her stick, and the stock breaking until Mom was out of stick.
Fortunately, the cow had tired of stick bashing because she turned and trotted into the new pen.
“What did you do then?” I asked Mom later.
She laughed. “I’ve never gotten over that fence so fast.”
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