In part one of this article I talked about the fact that recent events had made me stop and ponder on 2 people who were very important in my life, each of whose presence I miss but both for distinctively different reasons. I spoke about the fact that each had left an indelible mark, either for the dignity with which they lived their life or the ability to live with the struggles that they faced. It was their kindness and their struggles in life that taught me some very valuable lessons. In Part 1 I spoke of my late Father-In-Law, Bill Kinder, who became the very role model for being a Husband and Father to my children. In Part 2, I want to relate to you the second person whom I miss dearly and the real impetus for this 2-part blog.
But this one is going to be a little different for me, because it will involve the more emotional part of telling you the story of my relationship with a person who, at times, was very enigmatic. This person was my mother, Connie Kilgore….
Connie Kilgore
As a young boy growing up in the small town of Mosby, I remember from my first vivid recollections of my parents as always at odds with each other. Each carried their own emotional baggage that only further solidified the eventual split that came when I was just 9. I still remember the day my Father moved out of our rented home, and left to live in another town. The divorce was pretty much like all, contentious to the points of who was better suited to raise all 3 boys in a stable (or what passed for stable then) environment.
From that point on was when I believe my Mother earnestly began her life of emotional isolation. While she did everything she could for providing a home for my brothers and I, she was prepared neither physically nor emotionally for what it took to raise 3 boys. We each grew into teenage years with our own set of issues, and she was struggling mightily to figure out just who she was as a person. There were periods where she struggled with depression to the point of needing to be hospitalized…and there were periods where she seemed to almost be ready to fight past the demons that haunted her for so many years.
There is one thing that I remember most about my Mom from my youth....you see, my Mom had a special gift, a gift of free-hand artistry that was breath-taking. My Mother had not a single day of art classes (save for one year in High School) but yet had the artistic talent of her peers who had spent years honing their craft. And her artistic talent was not just in drawing…she also had the gift of poetry. Her poetry, for the most part, was light and meant to poke fun at herself and the obstacles she faced. To this day I can still quote one of her more significant pieces…one that would make you laugh, and also see inside yourself. It was called “Mirror” and the first part goes like this:
“Mirror…what a funny face you have…the things you say can make me laugh,
You’re cold and brittle and say not a word…but what you say can cut like a sword”
(Mom once sent in one of her poems to Reader’s Digest, but I never remember if it was ever published. But I know that the very thought that she never got a rejection letter gave her pride.)
But the thing that my Mom was most remembered for in our little town was her chalk drawings at church. For her, it was her homage to God for giving her the talent she saw as a bridge to sanity. I remember Betty Cazzell, the woman with the most beautiful voice I heard in my youth, would sing a song as my Mom would do the drawing. I distinctly remember 2 different drawings that she did during Revival Week at our little church in Mosby. The first was a picture of a sailboat calmly floating on a lake between 2 mountains, much like the scene that you see at the end of The Lord of The Rings. (I cannot remember what song Betty sang, I just remember feeling the calm as Mom drew and Betty sang) The second one, and the one most vivid in my mind, was her haunting chalk drawing of the Cross on Calvary as Betty sang “The Old Rugged Cross”. Mom loved that one…kept it carefully tucked away and rarely brought it out for viewing.
But it was also in these crafted talents that she would also express her darker sides. I remember once seeing her draw furiously on a tablet, her anger and force evident with each stroke. After finishing and looking at it she ripped the page from the tablet, threw it into the trash and retreated to her room. When I peeked into the trash, all I saw was a caricature of an angry person screaming at the world, saying “please listen, can’t you hear me crying”. During these times, Mom’s poetry would take a dark tone…..with thoughts that belied the inner struggle that was her demon all her life.
At some point during my High School years, Mom struggled less and less with her emotional well-being and focused more on what she would do once my older brother and I graduated. So all during my High School, when my brothers and I would be at school, my Mother was taking Nursing classes in Kansas City. She would ride the bus from Mosby to KC and then back home. By the time I graduated, Mom had graduated Nursing School and announced that she was moving to Kansas City to take a position working at a hospital. The decision had been made that she would move to an apartment near to her work, and my younger brother would live with my Dad. (He actually finished 8th grade there in Mosby then went to live with my dad)
I think Mom moving to KC and both her older sons moving respectively in their own directions out of town was the first step in her emotional and physical independence….and her first step into isolation. In those years Mom was at times caring and at time emotionally disconnected. In her mind she had nudged her children from the nest, and it was time for them to fly on their own. But she still wanted us at “arm’s reach” as she used to call it. If we did not immediately come when she called, she found ways to remind us she could be emotionally cold and unfeeling. For her, our inability to drop what we were doing in our lives was akin to rejection, and she would dive deeper into emotional isolation. And that is what finally drove a wedge between her and her children.
So....over the years each of us grew emotionally detached from her. Going our separate ways, we fashioned our own set of excuses why we could justify distancing ourselves emotionally from her. And the more excuses we made, the easier it was to not answer a phone call, not send a card, or stop by to see her. And pretty soon it became easier for her to rationalize in her mind that she was all alone…left to her world with no one for emotional support except her close circle of friends she had made that lived in her apartment building on the corner of Broadway and Armour in Kansas City.
For me, the turning point in my relationship with my Mother came when I starting dating my wife. She had come from a strong Christian family, and the very thought that a person could emotionally detach themselves from a parent was a foreign thought to her. She would engage me occasionally in conversation about my Mom and I would try to dismiss it, telling her that she could never understand because she never had to worry about her parents showing love and support. But, like all good women who take the rough clay that is their spouse and mold them into the adult they become, she gently nursed me back to understanding that my Mom was a creature of God,faults and all,and deserved to be respected and shown love. And as time grew, she came to help me understand my Mom, bring her back into my life and be patient with her during the ups and downs of her emotional struggles.
So thru the years, when Debbie and I lived in Kansas City, we would invite her over for birthdays, Thanksgiving and Christmas….sometimes she would come and other times she declined. It was still the emotional roller coaster it had always been, but at least we had come to a common ground and had come to respect each others “idea” of a perfect Mother-Son relationship. And more than anything…she got to see her grandchildren. She seemed like such a different person with her grandchild, almost like the light in her eyes had returned. And I think, that, more than anything softened my heart.
It was in 1993 that Mom, after suffering an attack by one of her patients, started having seizures and strokes. One of her Dr’s diagnosed that the attack had left her vulnerable to more strokes and seizures, so she decided to leave the nursing profession, move out of her apartment she had for so many years and move to North Carolina to be near her sisters. It was a move that would once again, put space between us both physically and emotionally.
Mom loved living in North Carolina and it seemed that the little town she lived in loved her. It took her several years to find the living arrangement she truly liked, but she never had problems making friends. And she found solace in her church, East Taylorsville Baptist Church, and a home (in her heart) when she volunteered at the Hiddenite Center. There she was able to re-energize her artistic talents and seemed to find peace that had eluded her for so many years.
In 1995 I was offered a job in South Carolina and accepted it. It was my thought that being closer to Mom would help to regenerate our bond, and allow her more access to her grandchildren, including her newborn granddaughter Emily. But sometimes distance between 2 people is not about physical location and more about the desires and directions their lives are taking.
With a new job, new location, and 2 young children I let my focus drift to building a family unit I had never had. Visits to Mom that we had planned took a back seat to illnesses in my wife’s family and a job that seemed to want to demand all my time. I would call her on the phone, talking for 15 to 20 minutes at a time before politely excusing myself and saying that Debbie needed help with the kids. What I was really doing was unintentionally driving a wedge between us because of a fear she might not live up to the expectations of a Grandma that I had set for her.
And so, once again, she retreated to the comfort of her emotional isolation.
Over the next few years it seemed our only contact was whenever Mom would have one of her many strokes and would be hospitalized. My Aunt would always call me, let me know she was back in the hospital, and give me a status. I would get in the car, drive from South Carolina to North Carolina, and spend time with her in the hospital. And each time I would promise myself I would reconnect, only to slip back into old habits.
It was on one of those visits that she was diagnosed with late in life diabetes, which only further exacerbated her otherwise weak physical condition. The many strokes had left her unable to truly allow us to let her live alone in her little apartment, so we moved her to a care facility in Hickory, North Carolina. The Walden House, her new place of residence, seemed to be just the tonic for her. The people there were her family, watched over her like she was their own and kept in touch with me. And for Mom and I it seemed like just what we wanted,a point where we came to realize that physical distance was what would make always make us closer.
Over time, the physical stress of getting older,the ravages of diabetes,and the effects of the now more constant series of strokes took away the one thing that was my Mom’s love, the ability to draw. And with it took away her will to fight. One day I got the call from the Director of the Walden house that Mom had had another stroke that had left her debilitated on her left side....and with tears in her eyes, and a visible weakness in her voice she told me that because of that, my Mom would have to go to a full-time Nursing Home. It was devastating....both to me and to my Mom because it meant the end of her independence.
While in North Carolina at the Hospital with her I arranged with help to have her moved to a Nursing home that was near, not only to my Aunt, but to my Mom’s old Church. There she could have friends come by, could get therapy she needed, and hopefully spend the last few years of her life living comfortably. The transition was a little rocky at first, but Mom settled in,finally getting a roommate that was perfect for her.
It was in the spring of 2008 that I got a call that Mom had another series of strokes, and that this one had left her incapable of speaking for a short time. With therapy she would be able to communicate on a limited basis, but her motor skills were forever affected. Debbie and I chatted and decided that we needed to make a trip down as a family and let the kids see Mom before another stroke took away her ability to speak forever.
We arrived that Saturday in North Carolina, got our hotel room and headed off to see Mom. I was dreading what we might find,worried that the children might not be able to handle that their Grandmother being in a state where she could not talk to them. But my worries were unfounded. My Mom, although no longer able to walk, was still able to talk and we had a great time. We wheeled her to the lobby and took some pictures of her with the kids and I. And the kids would ask her all kinds of questions about me as a child....what was I like, was I a “good boy” and did she ever have to spank me. And we all laughed as she communicated in her own way that I was a hand full.
That was to be the last “good day” I would see of my Mom.
It was a hot August morning when I got the call....Mom had just had another series of strokes which now left her virtually unable to communicate. Her body was physically shutting down a little at a time, and she was losing her battle with the ravages of diabetes. I spent an hour on the phone with the Nursing Supervisor of the Home discussing our options…no matter how hard I tried to see it otherwise, these were going to be my Mother’s last days. The Supervisor recommended that we call in Hospice and they would make sure that my Mother’s last days would be comfortable ones, with people at her side watching over her.
I spoke with the assigned Hospice worker for 30 minutes,asking all the questions, needing all the answers. She explained all the Hospice would do for Mom, how they would visit her regularly during the first stages then stay with her round the clock at the end. They would make sure that she felt little pain and that her comfort would be their goal. They would be there to answer any questions I had and were only a phone call away. And all the time all I could feel was the little boy in me crying,realizing that something I had taken for granted was slowly going to slip away.
I made one last trip to see my Mom. I had gotten a call from Hospice telling me that Mom was getting worse, that gangrene had set into her legs and that her vital organs were slowly shutting down. They needed me to be there for several reasons, not the least of which was to make certain decisions that only I could make.
I arrived there on a Saturday at the Nursing Home fully expecting to see Mom in a comatose state, but was surprised to see she was sitting up. But my hopes were immediately brought back to reality when the Hospice worker explained that it was very common for people in their latter stages to appear to have “gotten better”. And it didn’t take long to see what she meant. By mid afternoon my Mother had slipped back into her semi-conscious state, only occasionally waking up when her medication wore off or if some noise from the hall would disturb her.
For the next few days I spent my time in her room, chatting with her roommate Louise, and trying to communicate with her. She never really recognized me, but seemed to open her eyes when my Aunt would come in. Each day she would seem to be OK in the morning and fade quickly as the day wore on. But each day she would slip a little farther into a less conscious state. By the end of day Friday the Hospice worker let me know that Mom seemed to be holding on…like she was waiting for something or someone…a call or a visit. She suggested that it was probably time for me to call anyone else who might want to speak with her one last time, and then for me to say my goodbyes. I told the Hospice worker that there was no one left who would call, and that all her close family in close proximity had come to see her already. So she arranged to allow me to be alone in the room to say my personal goodbye.
It’s really hard, at the end of a life, to know what to say. What comfort can you bring to someone whose life was a struggle daily both physically and mentally? What do you tell them that can make them at peace with what they face? And how can you tell them that you will miss them terribly, that no matter how estranged your relationship might have been at time, your heart will have a hole that nothing will fill? I sat there crying…thinking about what we had missed…choking as I tried to say something. Finally I looked at her laying there peacefully and told her it was OK to let go, that we all loved her and would miss her terribly. But we wanted no more pain for her, we wanted her to be where the landscapes were pretty and the sunsets were beautiful...a place where she was free to draw to her heart's content.
With that I left the room. Because I could not be away from work any longer and because the Hospice Team told me that Mom could stay in this conditions for weeks, I decided to head home the next morning. They promised that they would give me daily reports and let me know of any turns, plus my Aunt lived there in town and could keep me apprised also.
It’s barely been but 2 years this September that my Mother, silently alone in her room in a Nursing Home in North Carolina, quietly slipped away to leave a world of physical pain and suffering behind her. It still pains me horribly that I was not there to hold her hand, tell her how much I loved her and how I would miss her, and comfort her before the Angels came. But in my heart, I knew it was the way that my Mom wanted to pass from this world. You see, that was the enigmatic part of my Mother…she loved you and needed you to be near her, but was fiercely independent and wanted nothing of constant closeness because it smothered her. And that is the way it always was....as long as I can remember.
Mom left little to this world, except a notebook of her poetry that hadn’t been lost in her moves or removed by a less than scrupulous family member. Her many paintings and drawings, all cherished by those of us who loved her, gone. Mom’s clothes I donated to the Nursing home, just like she would have liked it, and any art supplies still there remained in their care for the other residents. Her wheelchair was donated to the Kentucky Horse Park for use at their facility for the Riding For Hope Program. The only thing left were her picture albums she had of all the boys and their children. Or so at least that is what I thought.
While I was in Taylorsville making arrangements for my Mom’s cremation I stayed with my Uncle David and Aunt Susie. It was there that we made a discovery that touched us all….
While in his basement looking at a model train set my Uncle had put together, we came across some old drawings. They had been in the basement of his house after one of my other Aunt’s had passed away just weeks before. They were rolled up and held in place by a rubber band. We took off the rubber band and I was startled with what we had found. It was 2 old chalk drawings that my Mother had done many years before.
I guess they were her little gift to me…
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