Turning Point

I was reminded recently of one of my favorite sayings in recovery - “We stood at  the turning point” - the turning point described as that moment when we realize that half measures don’t work anymore. It’s when we surrendered to the idea that we needed to stop drinking and that we not only needed help from a power greater than ourselves to do it, but that we had to accept help to do it. It’s the moment we were ready to change.

The turning point for me came after what should have been a beautiful week of no problems at the ocean with Jeff and my sister and the kids and I still couldn’t control my drinking and enjoy it at the same time.

I had been to enough AA meetings by that time to know at the end of the vacation that my thinking was insane - that I was choosing alcohol over my children, my marriage, my mental health - all of it. By then, I knew that I had a chance to stay sober if I could return to the amazing group of women I had met in AA who lived in the solution. On the beach that morning, I was determined that the next day I would go back to a daytime women’s meeting I knew about at home, I’d get a sponsor and I’d accept the help that was so freely offered there.

I doubted in my innermost thoughts that I would be able to pull it off. I just didn’t think it would be possible to stay stopped. The idea of doing one day at a time seemed too small. I felt like my life was on fire and I thought I needed a bigger solution. I still thought that what was making me drink were my problems with the people, places and things in my life. I was convinced of that.

However, it was that small step that changed my life and got me to this beautiful morning, sitting at my desk, in a home by the sea, knowing that I will connect with my friends today, that I will speak with family today and plan a new adventure, near the Delaware seaside this time. I had my last drink many years ago, and because I continue to practice a program of recovery, that has stayed my last one.

Admitting that I finally had enough and asking for help opened up a whole new world where I learned that just one day could make all the difference.

It did for me, and I hope it can for you.

Asserted

Sometimes our faults and flaws are available in full view for all to see. Or maybe it just feels like everyone sees them because the shame can be so big, rising, as the story of what we’ve done comes to the surface of the day around us…and we wait for the scrutiny, the criticism, the judgement.

I recently walked with a friend through a particularly hard time in her marriage - where the road was paved with resentments and conflicts that had never been resolved and all their faults and flaws were there for us to see. It was painful. I hated seeing my friend in such turmoil, hurt and fear, believing her marriage might be over. And it was also painful because I, too, had walked a similar path earlier in my marriage.

I couldn’t help but remember the darkness that seemed all around me as I was unable to get a clear decision in my mind about staying in the marriage or ending it. Those were hard times to be reminded of.

Walking as I did with her, however, showed me how far I had come since that time - far from the reactions and behaviors of the young and intimidated girl I was, only pretending to be an adult. And thankfully, I saw that I had come far from those first steps I took to assert myself in my relationship with my husband. It had been a long time since I did anything just for myself, but I found I was at a turning point where I knew that if I didn’t start meeting my own needs and my own goals, apart from my husband’s, I would lose myself once again, and perhaps never be able to find out who I ever was or wanted to be.

Whenever a problem is exposed in a relationship, I believe we get a choice of whether to use the guts of it for the good it holds - for change and growth and clarity of the road ahead, or we can put our heads back in the sand only to continue struggling for air and room to be who we are. By going through the pain of seeing the faults and flaws we each brought to the marriage, I learned that I was not going to have a choice. I had to assert who I was as an equal partner. It was vital to my mental health and happiness - to my very soul.

Eventually, my friend and her husband found a way back to each other, coming across the field that had divided them, exposing the fault lines to be wary of, the rabbit holes to avoid, but also the great expanse that held their future. It’s been a wonder to behold, and something I wish for everyone going through a hard time in their relationships, and for myself - the woman I’ve become by simply stating what I think about things, what I want, and what I need. For myself, I wish continued growth in the knowledge of who I am and was meant to be by our Creator. For that, I could never be grateful enough.

Accents

I always wanted to have an accent other than the one that came  with  being from Cleveland, OH. I wanted to be different from everyone else around me, different from the conformists and the “sameness” that went along with attending St. Mary Magdalene Catholic School - the same uniforms we all wore, the same prayers we all said, the same rituals, the same expectations…Different was good and it seemed to always catch my ear whenever I saw it or heard it.

I liked the New York accent right away. It stood out so clearly different from mine. To me it said, “Hey - We are FAR from Cleveland and here is where everything big started - and we’re the best, too!” To a little girl who wanted to attention and fit in somewhere new, it sounded exciting and full of possibilities.

My love  of  the differences in how we sound didn’t  stop in NY, though.  I loved musical phrases too.

My mom would make our school lunches in the morning to the sounds of her favorite radio station, and I would go to school with lyrics in my head like, “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie” or “Is that all there is?” or “If I can make it there, I’m gonna make it anywhere, its up to you New York,” in my head all day, and sometimes out loud on the playground to whoever would listen - usually some dumbfounded child who would just stare at me and most likely have thought, “OK - Now she’s really lost it”.

My ear just naturally followed quirky sounds and I loved saying certain words and phrases. I would even put a towel on my head and pretend at home to be Sr. Mary Leonardo (aka Sr. Mary Charles Bronson) and sing in my best falsetto the responses in Latin from the mass, hitting my knees, eyes lifted in the prayerful reflection of a child in her elementary years, suddenly braking out in “Et cum spìritu tuo.”

And then… there was..French class! When I got to high school, I saw that everyone was choosing Spanish for their language requirement, but I joined the small group of students who chose French. Ahhh, France… I think I caught the French bug early on when I saw that the same berets we wore to cover our heads at church were worn by the characters on TV who were supposed to be from France.

Growing up, my Mom worked in a bakery and brought home loaves of fresh french bread that we all loved. I remember no greater piece of toast than one made of French bread and fresh butter - mmmm. Learning that we had family members not only from Scotland and Ireland, but also from the Alsace-Lorraine  region of France sealed the deal. I’ve been a Franco-file ever since childhood if for no for any other reason but the frenchy-ness of it.

Oui..If only that accent was enough…

Unfortunately, my learning style for languages didn’t allow for what was in a book or in the conjugations we did on the board. The distraction of high school would override the focus such a task demanded. Learning new ways of thinking for me would be similar to what happens with a dimmer switch that would slowly become brighter if I could be immersed in something with more of a hands on experience.

I found that the lights burned a bit brighter during a visit my husband Jeff and I took to Quebec several years ago. Well past the flexibility and focus it would take to actually learn the language, I was still surprised when a few words and phrases from that high school class came back to me. But with no discernible dialect, I fumbled for the most part, and in the end, was only comfortable with “ou sont les toiletes” (“Where is the toilet?”), and “yes sue enchante,” (a formal, “Nice to meet you”).

My husband, Jeff, had taken Latin in high school, and since there were no Romans around and I was baffled by the speed of this french I was hearing everywhere, he and I settled on saying the word “dumonde” to each other at the end of our sentences, dumonde, meaning “the world” and having no logical use at the end of our french gibberish. We just liked pretending to to fit in, and said things like, “Let’s get chocolate croissants dumonde, or the car needs gas dumonde. Oh, again,… if only the accent was enough…

Along those lines, our catch phrases for living in Naples, FL, are seasonal it seems so far and after four years here, I believe we speak a form of Naplese. For instance getting out of the car when returning home from somewhere during the tourist season, our go to phrase is “…and it’s snowing in Denver” or “it’s 25 degrees in Ohio.” And in the summer we say, “Heat? What heat” having vowed to never complain to each other about the temperature. Spoken like true natives…

Over the past few years, I’ve also become somewhat partial to “Talk Like Pirate Day” on every September 19th. I especially like saying aaargh - a general growl of unhappiness, and Ahoy for hello. I like that there are accent lovers in the world who enjoy the same quirkiness as I do. I imagine we’re cut from the same cloth.

But the accent I loved the most, the one that I wanted to have so badly was an Irish accent.I wanted it so badly, in fact, that I tried it out once on a priest in confession one day at Church when I was in second grade.

I don’t remember too well what my 7 year old reasoning was at the time, but I must have figured that in the confessional the priest would never know who I was, so I decided to give my faltering brogue a try, certain in the  protection of the screen and his little sliding door.

Being new to the whole confession game, I didn’t know or care about which priest I was getting. I was yet to learn which ones were nice and which ones threw the rosary at you, but I do remember being glad that he could only see the top of my head through the screen, being as small as I was. The anonymity was great.

So, I started, “Bless me father, for I have sinned…” and carried on in my 7 year old voice with a bunch of made up sins, trying to channel my long lost Irish relatives which sounded I’m sure like the curious conglomeration of a Clevelander, TV shows, movies and the occasional missionary nun or priest who spoke at mass on an occasional Sunday.

When I finished, ready for my penance, instead of sticking to the script I had just learned in preparing for my first communion, the priest suddenly went OFF script and said to me through the screen in a sweet tone, “Oh, where are you from, dear?” Suddenly aware that I was actually telling a whopper by pretending to be someone I wasn’t - in confession -  I was tongue-tied. I didn’t know he could even go off script, and MY script had no more than an AMEN left to it!

My next move was evidence of the height of the decision-making skills I had at the time - I ran out of the confessional as fast as I could - of course, making a quick bow at the altar, then high tailing it out the side door, never to try to my powers on a priest again.

My love of the Irish accent has never left me. It sings to me still and calls to me to play with it and take it to my heart. And if you’d indulge me, I’d like to recite a piece of the Irish you might take to your heart tonight - from mine to yours:

May the road rise up to meet ya

May the wind always be at your back

May the sun shine warm upon your face.

May the rain fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his hand.

Hero

The boy on the TV news was all smiles, beaming with pride, recognized as a hero at age 10 by the Fire Marshall for having saved his family from a house fire. He had woken all of them in the middle of the night and got them out safely.I was all smiles for the little guy, too, being a young mother at the time and imagining what a gift he was to his family.

Then it hit me like a flash. I had done the same thing, at just about his age.

After a bit of reflection the story came back to me.

I remembered that my father had been drinking one night and passed out in the living room chair with a lit cigarette and it caught on fire. I woke up to the smell of smoke in the upstairs bedroom I shared with my 4 sisters.

I ran downstairs and found my father throwing a pan of water on the burning chair.

He yelled to me to get my mother, I did, and she came running out of the bedroom.

They started yelling orders at each other about what to do to put the fire out.

I ran back upstairs to get my sisters out. Then I ran downstairs to the basement to get my two brothers out, and we all got out safely and ran to the back yard, unable to see what our parents were doing to put out the fire at the front of the house.

Triggered by news of this young boy’s experience, I also remembered something else from that night.

I remembered that when all seven of us were huddled together in the dark of the backyard,

sitting around the picnic table, strangely, I couldn’t have been happier and I didn’t want it to end. We hadn’t a clue what our parents were doing, but we felt safe there, sitting together,

with my older brother making jokes and telling stories - we were laughing and goofing around in the way that only sibling can, distracted from the frightening unknown that was just around the corner.

I don’t remember how long we stayed that way - it must have been for a while, but I do remember my mother calling us in, saying something like, “It’s all over now. Go back to bed.”

I remember filing quietly back in the house, still smelling of smoke, and getting a glimpse out the front door to see the smoldering, black chair with the garden hose on the ground nearby.

I remember that the chair was gone by the time we went to school in the morning, and the only sign that anything had happened the night before was a small burnt spot on the lawn,

and…

we never spoke about this night in my family again. Not even the next day. Never. I hadn’t even thought of it until I saw the story on the news that day.

That’s what happens when one of the rules in your family is that you don’t talk about what’s going on in your house to anyone, because, the warning goes, you can’t trust anyone, but more importantly, YOU will bring shame on the family if you do. Not the person who caused the problem. YOU will. Just keep it to yourself and forget about it.

So I did.

And life went on after that night and many more nights like it, as it does in families with mental health issues, with one unpredictable incident after another, and in our case, with all of the attention and energy going to my father’s next calamity, along with that reminder to forget about it.

Many years have passed since that night, of course. My parents have been gone for a long time, and all seven of us survived the chaos, each in our own ways. Ever true to the rules we lived with, however, we haven’t talked much about those years with each other. We’ve shared only a few stories between us, mostly with the characteristic humor that got us through.

But because of the mental strings that attach those earlier experiences to present day experiences, the memory of the fire that night remained remarkably powerful enough to punch a hole in my day when I saw that boy on TV, to remind me of having lived through such an experience as a kid - something I had pushed away from my thoughts, minimizing it, making it disappear.

From this boy’s story and many other awakenings in my life, from therapy, from facing addictions I had developed, from letting go of narratives that I carried for far too long,

I became ready to break the family rules, and by a higher power available to me, I found that I had a voice of my own. And I learned to sooth myself and settle the questions and conflicts I had carried for so long within myself.

I learned to talk to that little 10 year old that I was. I told her I thought she was brave and that she was a good daughter, and that I know she always tried her best. I told her what a remarkable gift she was to her family that night for saving them, and that I would never forget what she did. I thanked her for saving us, and I told her I was glad that we were together today.

I have said those words, in different forms, many times to coach myself up in my life, and to this day, I am still committed to saying them to that scared child I was if she ever appears in my fears again.

And from that gift of awareness and the need to heal, I found over time that I could use the troubled stories of my life to connect with others who had similar stories and needed to know they could recover from them, too. To give them hope.

So,

As the fates would have it, I worked in the mental health field for 20 years, helping others find their voices to take the steam out of their stories and make peace with the past. Doing that work, I found that even though the faces and places may be different, the stories we all carry are very similar, and I was lucky enough to see the value in my own stories and how to use them to help someone else.

So, it happened one day that early on as a novice counselor in a drug and alcohol treatment clinic, I met a new male client, about 25 years old as I remember, who was mandated to enter treatment as the result of getting a DUI. As usual for new clients, I asked him to tell me about about his mother, and in so many words he told me the following story.

He said his mother had been an alcoholic and had died about a year ago. He said his parents had divorced when he was young, and that he had always lived with his mother in the same house. He said that her drinking had been bad for many years, and he described some of the heart-breaking ways he had cared for her. He said that one day she was taken to the ER when he was at work, because a neighbor saw her having a seizure in the driveway and called 911.

He said she must have have run out of alcohol and was going to the store to get more.

And through tears, he said that HE was the one who knew how to detox her, HE was the one who knew what medication to give her and how much, having saved her many times since childhood, but the doctors wouldn’t listen to him. She had never gained consciousness and he never had the chance to save her or say good-bye because she died in cardiac arrest a few hours later.

And he went through that experience alone. And he had never told anyone else about it.

And his drinking had gotten worse since that happened.

And when he was finished with his story, I remember that I didn’t have to search for what to say to him. The words just came -

“It sounds like you were a brave and good son to her, and that you tried your best.

You were a remarkable gift to her, and you probably saved her many times.

She very likely lived much longer because she had you,

and i’ll never forget your what you did for her.

I’m glad you survived and I’m glad we’re here together today.”

I became a better counselor that day.

By listening to people’s stories, I saw the need in people that drives them to summon the courage to reveal stories about themselves to a trusted person, even a stranger with a kind face. And because of the stories, I was privileged to see in them, as I had seen for myself, that somehow, the result of the sharing is that the present begins to look different and things feel more settled.  The key is to keep doing it.

Much of what happens in life, even traumatic things, can be reasoned out and let go of with the wisdom we gain as evolving humans, with the help of others and by the grace that is available to us all for the asking.

But sometimes thing’s that happen become buried deep in our minds, our muscles and our souls. “The  body keeps the score,” as a famous trauma therapist says. Seeing that little boy on TV that day brought a story from the deepest part of my memory to the very surface of a new reality for me.

They linger, these stories, I have found, until they are told.

I believe that no matter how the stories come about in life, sharing them is proof of a truth I know -

that the Universe has a power that wants us to connect with each other because we need love,

we need healing

and every once in a while we need to be a hero.

Identification

Once I surrendered to a 12 Step way of life, I became teachable and began identifying more and more with everyone in meetings - even people with whom I wouldn’t normally mix.  I identified with cravings, triggers, and feelings, especially those that came before picking up the first drink.

To be able to identify with someone else’s story, however, was not always that easy.

For a while during my early sobriety, I focused mainly on the differences between my story and someone else’s story. This tendency I had, began to change because of a talk I had with my sponsor one night after a meeting.

I shared with her the frustration I had after hearing one of our group members, Larry, tell his story that seemed to me was mostly about every bottle of beer he drank in the Navy in WWII. As the chief critic the BB talks about, I critiqued his talk, pointing out that his story was meandering and boring and that he was just an all-around poor speaker who should have asked for some help before he spoke in front of people.

Then my sponsor explained my “job” in recovery. She said that all I was supposed to do when listening to someone’s comment or give their lead was to find one thing I could take away from it that would help me stay sober today. Just one thing. So, bad attitude and all, I tried that approach from then on and I found that over time, it helped my frustration level at meetings. I learned the meaning of “love and tolerance is our code,” from the BB, but the lesson I needed to truly connect with someone else and with the Program was to come about year later.

I listened to Larry again at the same meeting as he told his story exactly the same way, from opening to close. This time, however, I actually heard what he was saying. When he talked about the Navy this time, I heard him say that he was 17 YO and away from his Iowa farming town for the first time. He said he was never so scared, so alone or so lost in his life the first night he was on a giant military carrier at sea, heading for Europe. His duty was to take the watch on the top level over night in the pitch dark. He said that the night air was so black he could barely see his hand in front of him. That’s when he remembered that one of the keys he’d been given was to where they kept the booze. He had never drank before, but he knew what it could do, so he opened the door, found the beer and drank away the terror.

And I got it. I identified with that one thing which was the fear of being a young adult, feeling I was in over my head with no one else to count on for help; the fear of whether or not I was  going to make it through this, and the belief that I could as long as long as I could drink. I identified with that kind of fear and I knew that kind of relief that comes from alcohol and denial. I was given another piece of the puzzle that was the progression of my disease and it helped me want to stay sober another day. I had been changed.

As my recovery continued to progress, I was given another gift at a meeting one day when someone said they identified with something I said. Me. The validation that I wasn’t crazy was amazing. Being able to identifying with someone else and them with me meant so much. It was how I learned about my defects and the harm I had done to others.  I heard someone say in a meeting that we can identify and name our mistakes, faults and defects because someone else before us identified and named them, too. It meant that I wasn’t alone with them, living in the shadow of their shame.  It meant that I’m just a human being like everyone else.

Today, I know that identifying with other people and them with me is a gift of the Program that unites us in a common language.  A person who says “that happened to me, too,” is saying I understand your pain. They’re saying you fit right here. You belong. And there’s help here for you. There’s hope here, and if you follow some simple Steps, you will come to believe it for yourself and you’ll want more.

To help someone else identify by telling a shameful thing we did while impaired by alcohol or drugs or about a character defect that you, too, struggle with, is not always easy. No one likes the leveling of pride that comes along with this deal. It takes humility which is often hard to come by. But once I had the experience of sharing with someone that way, I believe that I was healed a bit a more from my own painful experiences with alcoholism. It’s as if some air was let out of that heaviness we all can feel inside sometimes when a painful memory of how things were comes to the surface once again, sometimes at the oddest moment. The Program suggests that we don’t shut the door on the past, and I believe it’s because our histories with alcoholism can help the next person identify with their own alcoholism. But leaving the door to the past open also gives us another chance to let some of the shame out, expelled, exhaled, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. I believe it decreases every time we share the truth about our own alcoholism with another alcoholic.

I learned in recovery groups that in order to have a sobriety I want to keep precious to me, I need to be a part of something greater than myself. I came to understand that it was when I felt lonely and outside the herd, as they say, that my chance to identify with someone else is lost and instead turns into comparing myself to others - a place where I always lose out. I never measure up in that state of mind where self-pity usually sits, waiting to shift my attitude to the dark side. I may not drink the day that I’m comparing myself too much to someone else, but I can sure be walking in that direction, and that is a very uncomfortable place to be for this alcoholic.

To compare my insides to someone else’s outsides is pretty much a waste of time, I’ve come to believe. Through my interactions with other AA’s, I’ve learned that while it may be helpful to try to walk around in someone else’s shoes as a way to get to know them, it can only provide a small glimpse into all the motivations behind what another person thinks and feels. Human behavior is just too complex to be used as a comparison to how I think I would have reacted to something or someone. In the end, I’ve learned that when I’m comparing myself to someone else I’m actually judging them when, honestly, I don’t really know everything about them or the situation they may have found themselves. It’s a very poor, very limited way to get to know someone.

When I first came into recovery, I thought I could read people really well. I thought I could figure them out. Now, after years in the program, I find that a better way to get to know someone is just to be curious about their lives and listen. I don’t have to measure up to anyone else. I just have to be right-sized - human-sized - to be able to do the service my Higher Power provides for me.

When I finally learned to simply identify with another person’s story as they told it, I learn once again what true empathy for another person is. If I can I stop thinking that I’m so sure about what life is like for someone else, I get to know them and myself better.  And the truth I have found for myself is that I can only imagine what life is like for someone else - human behavior is not an exact science. So, today, when I come up against my character defect of judging someone instead I try to find compassion for them. The ironic benefit of this practice over time has been that by truly listening to someone else instead of judging them, I finally understand who I am. I’ve gotten to know myself because I identified with someone else’s feelings and thoughts instead of comparing and judging their choices and reactions to life. And because I have an on-going plan for my recovery that involves continuing to grow along spiritual lines, which I believe this practice is, I finding that I fit into a wonderful recovery home of people just like me. I found my tribe, as my friend used to say.

Learning to identify and not compare myself to anyone else has given me one of the greatest spiritual gifts I’ve ever received.  There’s a Native American prayer from a 12 Step Prayer Book that I love that says it best:

“My Creator,

I seek strength not to be superior to my brothers and sisters, but to be able to fight my greatest enemy - myself. Make me ever ready to come to you with clean hands and straight eyes, so when life fades as a fading sunset my spirit may come to you without shame.”

My greatest wish is that by the end of my life, all the air is let out of the pain, humiliation and shame I’ve carried due to my alcoholism, so that I, too, may go to my Creator without the burden of it any longer. Helping other people identify and let go of their own shame has changed me and lightened my load. I am grateful for the road I’m on, able to see the sign posts that say, You Belong Here - You are One of Us. Welcome!

The Jewelry Box

Sue dreaded raising 5 year old Bonnie by herself, even though that was exactly how things were playing out. The latest plan was for her mother, Mae, to move into the assisted living complex in town, leaving Sue to finally fend for Bonnie and herself without the free built-in babysitting service Mae had provided since Bonnie was born. The three of them lived in the same home Mae and her deceased husband, George, had raised Sue and her brother, Dan. It was becoming too much to maintain and the time for a change had been put off until the recent rise in real estate values. The house sold easily, and Mae now had the financial safety net that she and George had hoped it would provide for her after his passing three years ago. At least those puzzle pieces of the future held were now in place.  

Since childhood, Sue had a picture in her mind of the dream life she would have some day and the perfect man to put in it. He would be good-looking, of course. Just having a “good personality” wouldn’t be enough. She’d already met “Mr. Personality” a few times and found herself bored with him in a week. Her man would have money, make money and understand money just as her banker father had. The annoying fly buzzing around the edges of this perfect picture, however, was always, Dan, her older brother. 

Dan considered himself to be “the responsible one,” using any chance he could to help Sue “course correct,” as he put it. He’d always been that way, including with his now ex-wife, Ella, whom he had considered to be from the wrong side of the tracks when they first met. To him, she was a project of sorts, his good intentions being only to teach her the right way to live. She eventually shook free from his attempts to control her and they divorced a year ago. Since then, he began the project of planning his Mother’s future, and came by this particular day to see how the estate sale preparations were coming and to keep tabs on Sue and her plans to move out.

Dan walked through the front door and the bickering began. “I don’t know what you have to do to get yourself together, sister, and honestly, I don’t care anymore. You’ve used Mom since Bonnie was born and the party will be over in 2 weeks when she goes to live in the assisted living home.” Sue knew he called it “home” to make her mad every time he said it over the past year. This time, up for a fight,  she said, “Why don’t you just call it lock down? That’s what it really is, Dan.” 

Ignoring her remark, he said, “So what’s the plan, Sue? You’ve had a year to get one and you still don’t know what you’re doing. I guess Mr. Perfect hasn’t come along yet, huh?” Like a punch in the gut, she felt his shot, and she shot back.“You don’t know everything, Dan, and you’re not my boss either.”

“‘Boss of you’? Really, Sue? What are you, 15?”

“Don’t even go there,” she said. “You know you wish you had Mom to take care of you instead of me. Admit it, and why don’t you just admit you wish you had my life? All you’ve got is a big, lonely house and alimony. You’re stuck, and you hate to see me free.”

“Free? You’re the least free person I know,” he said. “You have no choice BUT to live with Mom, using her car, paying off your DUI, keeping Bonnie at that lousy school.” And so it went. 

The banter came to an abrupt halt as they both turned to see Mae angling her way into the kitchen, her jewelry box under one arm, her other arm holding steady to her cane.  She placed the box on the counter and opened it. Inside were two silk mesh bags and nothing else. Each bag contained pieces of her jewelry, evenly divided between them. She said, “I won’t bicker with either of you again. It’s time to settle things. Here you go,” and handed each of them a bag. Sue said, “What’s this?”

And in a clear, steady voice, Mae said, “I’ve split the jewelry in half - one bag for each of you to do with as you will. I hope it means something to you as it did to me. Please know that I appreciate and love you both, but I’ve made different plans for myself. I’ve decided to live with my sister, Peg, and not go to assisted living.”

Both Sue and Dan were frozen in place, their mouths hanging open, saying nothing. Mae went on. “That’s the way it’s going to be, kids. It’s my life and I’m going to live it out from here the way I want to.” She had no tears. There was no yelling. She slowly turned and walked out of the kitchen and back to her chair by the bay window where she and George once loved to sit and talk. She eased into a steady calmness, grateful for the cool afternoon in the beautiful home she was so grateful to have had for so many years. She felt content for the first time in many months. She felt ready for whatever was next. “Things will be different now,” she said aloud, as if he was there. She was relieved to hear her voice again, having lost it for a while. 

She no longer wondered how it came to this, these two immature and entitled adults who were her children, constantly sparring over whose life was worse. She knew how it came to this. She and George had given them too much, initially hoping their gifts of money would be a solution to their latest problem, but finding time and again that their son and daughter saw it only as a momentary fix for their out-of-control lives. “I know we did our best with them, George, and they’ll just have to work things out between themselves the best they can,” she said to him. “Now, I can begin again, my love, and with you in my heart, face whatever lies ahead.”

The way forward had been so unclear and so muddled, then unexpectedly, yesterday, there was the answer. It came to her across time, across space, with love from George. As she was emptying her jewelry box for the sale, she found in the bottom a note she had saved from him. His crisp, clear printing looked as though he had only written it that day, opening her heart once again to his belief in her, saying, “Remember, my dear, you are the brightest gem, worth more to me than anything in the world. Shine brightly for me, always.” And so she did.