Grocery Store China

Tomorrow is my mother's birthday. It would have been her 79th. The past 17 months have found me in deep reflection, and I discovered that there is danger in looking at the past disingenuously. Whether sugarcoating it or cynically eyeing it through a pair of old rusty glasses, both extremes prove equally unhelpful. My goal has been to find balance between the hard truths and the beautiful expressions of love that filled my childhood and identify how they shaped me into the quirky woman I am today. Safe to say it is a BIG goal.   

One beautiful expression of love from my momma is my china. When I set it out for guests, I am reminded about how it came to be mine. It isn't fine china, bought in a fancy store, or found at an estate sale or antique store. No, mine is grocery store china that I never really wanted.

Growing up was a challenge for me, and I spent a lot of years embarrassed by my parents.  They were not all that sophisticated and when I was young there were many years of severe financial problems. I worked from a very young age to pay for things I wanted and needed, things they could not afford. Once we moved to San Antonio, they rented a house without wheels. For a family who used to dream about upsizing to a double-wide mobile home, a house with a foundation felt like the slice of normal I had always wanted. 

My parents always dealt with plenty or want with dignity, there was just a lot more want than plenty.  No matter how poor we were, my mom was traditional and wanted me to have a hope chest full of things I would need for married life. In her mind, that included a full 12-piece place setting of china.

Our local Randall's grocery store was selling pieces for pennies on the dollar if the purchaser bought so many $$ worth of groceries.  Every couple of weeks new pieces were introduced, including platters, casserole dishes, sugar and creamer, salt and pepper, teapots, etc.  You name it, they sold it. 

The pattern was silver rimmed with dainty pale blue flowers, and a little peach included for good measure. Before I knew it, I was presented with random pieces of the set for every occasion.  My mom was excited to be able to give me something so "nice".  After a few years I had every item they made packed away for my future home, which we both assumed would find me barefoot, pregnant, and making my own butter while my husband was out bringing home the bacon for me to fry. That obviously never happened because I avoided commitment and found myself choosing the single life. I did want to get married and have kids, but not in the traditional ultra-religious way of my upbringing.  Marriage was scary, and I didn't want to parent alone, so that dream slowly but surely died over 50 years. But at least I had a full set of grocery store china.

True confession: I never really loved the pattern.  My taste was always more modern and I would have preferred to inherit her wedding china, but I never had the heart to tell her. That set of dishes has moved to all of my homes and is currently taking up residence in my kitchen cabinets.

Now, I make enough money that I could afford to replace it with something that suits my style, but I know that I will never part with it, because the love behind the gift makes my heart sing. My mom saved every penny she could to give me those dishes. Despite our difficult relationship that set reminds me that even with our family dysfunction there was deep love, perseverance in terrible times, and pure, sacrificial gifts.  It is the finest china I own and I will never part with it.

Happy Birthday mom, I love and miss you!

Lesson "Urned"

The past few weeks were full of emotion as my family prepared and hosted my dad's memorial.  Due to the pandemic, the time crunch associated with closing an estate that was reverse mortgaged, and our various schedules it took approximately eleven months to officially say goodbye.  Waiting was necessary, but it prolonged the grieving and two weeks later I am still brimming with emotion and completely deflated.    

One thing I know is that my parents would NOT want to see me or my brothers sad.  They would want us to remember them fondly and laugh at some of the more absurd moments.  So, now is as good a time as any to tell you this truly absurd, true story.  

**This is an admittedly humorous, but cautionary tale in case you too find yourself in our predicament.  Learn from the error of our ways. Trust me on this.  

My dad was a packrat (read: HOARDER) and if he had been alone, I'm quite sure he would have been on a real episode of Hoarders.  At one point he had grain trailers on the property he owned, and they were full of junk, and rats/snakes, but I digress. In his later years he lived in a house in a real neighborhood with a yard too small for grain trailers.  So instead, he had three storage sheds, a garage, an office, and an entire master closet for his stuff.  

I'm sure you can imagine how overwhelming it was to clean out said "stuff."  My brothers and I did not inherit the same packrat gene and we grew jaded, tired, grumpy, and a wee bit sneaky as we worked to clear the home and yard. Facebook Marketplace and Goodwill quickly became our new best friends, because one man's junk is another man's treasure.  We made quick work selling, donating, or trashing those treasures with barely a thought.

One of the last things to tackle was my dad's closet.  I had already sorted my mom's tiny one, but dad's was A LOT more involved.  My youngest brother and I spent an entire day sorting, discarding, bagging, and organizing stuff that dad would never wear or use again.  He and my mom sat in bed holding court like a king and queen, afraid we might give away the crown jewels or something (insert eyeroll here).  We had to display EVERY item for his review.  It was hard for him to let go, but by that time he was only wearing pajamas and slippers. We gave away more than we kept, and still had a packed closet so we tackled other closet items including knee braces, heating pads, belts, hats, pillows, and boxes of miscellaneous items.  Then we moved to the more random items. Quilting square?  There it was bolted to the wall, I'm still not sure why...  Binoculars?  Cameras?  There were a few of those. Birthday cards from 1973?  Why yes, now that you mention it.  As we reached the top shelf with extra pillows and whatnot, we found two cardboard shipping boxes, each one holding wooden boxes.  They were unmarked and we could not figure out how to open them.  My parents had no clue what they were and by this point in a very long day we had lost our patience.  Those boxes went to Goodwill with a few carloads of clothes and other random junk, er, I mean "treasures".  We felt really, really good about all we accomplished that day, we were very self-congratulatory, which, in hindsight was a mistake.

Rewind to 10+ years ago when my parents made a will and pre-paid for their cremations through the Neptune Society.  The folders were stored in their safe and contained all required information, which made it quite simple when they passed because I only needed to make a phone call.  But there were 2 things neither my brothers nor I knew:  

1. We would need those mystery boxes.  

2. We would need a screwdriver.

The morning my mother passed, while I was full of emotion and exhausted from all that had transpired, I called the number in the folder.  My brother had arrived and was in the other room while I spoke to the Neptune Society representative.  She walked me through some of the details and then asked if I still had the urns.

In an instant everything shifted to super slo-mo.  I blinked, my eyes widened, I took a sharp breath, I asked her to excuse me as I muted the phone and then snapped out of it and yelled to my brother, "Todd, THOSE.WERE.URNS!!!!!"  He rushed in displaying the same look of wide-eyed panic (now permanently seared in my memory) and tore through the house hoping against hope that we had not actually donated my parents' urns.  But, well, you see, WE DID actually donate urns. Gulp. I got back on the phone and tearfully told the representative that we did not have the urns (I conveniently left out the fact the Goodwill had them, or some TikTok thrifter).  She was very kind and told me she had an extra one. That was a relief because as I scanned the link she sent for the urn catalog (yes, those exist) my stomach sank at the prices, and also at the new knowledge that you can now make jewelry out of your loved one's ashes.  I passed.  

A few weeks later I brought my mother's remains home in a lovely, cherrywood urn generously provided by the Neptune Society.  

Over the next four months my dad declined quickly and before I knew it I was calling the Neptune Society again.  This time, the representative was not as generous and told me they could put my dad's remains in a temporary box. Eek...for several months, two boxes sat in my house, one a lovely cherrywood box, the  other a not-so-lovely cardboard box.  I always felt bad for my dad, but, I mean, not too bad because he let us DONATE HIS URN, but still it was kind of pathetic to see the two of them sitting next to each other in vastly different containers.   

Fast forward to 11 months later.  We were in their beloved home state, at their favorite spot on earth. My brothers and I privately climbed up a hill, just the four of us, emotionally prepared to permanently say goodbye.  Well we tried. Turns out, YOU NEED A SCREWDRIVER TO OPEN URNS. We yelled cut and sent Todd, the youngest and fittest, down the hill to round up the stupid screwdriver (very thankful that my nephews always have some kind of tool on their person), THEN Action! We resumed our tearful, somber goodbyes. It was a fitting Clayton goodbye to two unique, quirky people. Even in the most terrible moment we found something to laugh about and I'm pretty sure my parents wouldn't have had it any other way. 

HOWEVER, I learned from this experience and want you to know that I TOO have pre-paid for my own cremation and have an urn.  It's in a cardboard shipping box, complete with a small screwdriver, with EVERY SINGLE SIDE clearly marked, in thick, black marker, that the box should NOT be discarded because IT IS MY URN.  

P.S. - This entire experience has inspired me to clean out a lot of my own "stuff" because I am fairly certain ain't nobody who wants to deal with it when I die.  And TBH I'm using the money to fund "Operation Robin's Retirement".  

**the title of this blog is credited to Tim Hightower who popped out with it after hearing this story.  I may need to hire him for all titles moving forward.  

Letter to Daddy

Daddy!

How are you?  Pretty sure you are having the time of your life up there in Heaven.  Is it all you thought it would be?  Did everything finally make sense?  Are the golf courses amazing?  Do you think of me toiling away and missing you down here? I almost dialed your number today, but then I remembered that somehow today marks 9 months since you left.  Tomorrow would have been your 84th birthday.  The next day Father's Day.

I should have been buying silly cards about golf and tools and baking a devil's food cake so you could have your traditional glass of cake-milk (BTW, I still think that's gross.) Instead I quietly put my phone down as tears carved a trail of misery through my makeup.  Then I resolutely wrote out another memorial card to invite family to the day we formally (finally) remember you in your beloved Colorado.

Remembering you is bittersweet, at times bringing laughter and joy, and at other times bringing tears and sadness.  Today brought tears.  But yesterday, oh yesterday was full of sheer happiness and deep love for you.

Do you remember the birthdays when you gave US gifts?  I sure do, like the time when you brought home new bicycles because it brought you joy to surprise us. We probably gave you a tacky mug or another hammer...  What about the time you bought me a small safe when it was YOUR day to be spoiled? Or the last Christmas you were able to shop for gifts and bought mom and I each a Finishing Touch facial hair remover? Still not sure if I should be offended, but I'll tell you a secret, I still use it.  By the next Christmas you had lost your independence and ability to drive so you went to the garage and brought in a used drill (that didn't really work) and an old hammer so that I would have a gift.  That nearly killed me, and it meant more than any other gift, except maybe when you gave me Apache.  He was the best horse.  

There are other more private memories that you and I share and you should know that you were the BEST daddy for me. You were an extraordinary man and I was blessed that I had 51 years with you.  Every part of me wishes I had more time and could hear your voice again, or take you to Gruene to grab a Chicken Fried Steak from the Gristmill. 

Life has changed in so many ways, and I would be lying if I said that the reduction in stress has not been a huge plus; it has, and I am healthier in many ways, but also sadder.  Every minute caring for you and mom was a privilege and I have no regrets, other than wishing I had done better.  Returning to normal is not really possible when someone like you leaves, and the challenge of finding a new normal is really hard.  Since I never had my own family, when you and mom started declining, you became almost like my children.  Now I feel like an empty-nester in some ways,and have no idea how real empty-nesters deal with it.  It's brutal, but I'm figuring it out with a lot of prayer, time, good friends who listen to me whine, and well, believe it or not, working out again.  Hopefully you would be proud of my progress.

So, even though I miss you (and mom) horribly, I am so happy to call myself a daddy's girl. I love you more than you will ever know.

Love, 

Robin, aka, your favorite daughter because I was the only one (my favorite title) 😁

P.S, Merry says hi, she misses you too, and so does Zeus.

Like Mother Like Daughter

Today marks 365 days since my mama went home to Jesus.  Buckets of tears later I find myself full of memories, happy and sad, and more than a few regrets.  Our relationship was complicated, but God in his mercy allowed us a measure of healing the last two years of her life. 

For most of my life people have made comments about me looking like my mom.  It used to upset me because I chose to view her through my wounds. I regret that now.  Finally, I see her beauty.  She was lit up from the inside, and I wish more than anything that I could tell her what I see.  

When I compared a recent selfie with a photo I snapped of her a year before she passed, I was shocked how much of her I saw in my own face.  Yes, I look a lot like my dad, those Clayton genes (and chins) are STRONG, but I also see my mama. The eyes, the smile, the asymmetrical nose, the salt and pepper hair, the similar face shape.

After a year of missing her a little more each day, I no longer grow irritated to see our physical similarities. I have also begun to accept some of our shared personality "quirks", a few I most decidedly wish I had NOT inherited 😂, but there are some that make me proud. I followed after her in my faith, it is deep and solid, and continues to grow. I took after her and became strong and resilient after surviving childhood trauma, a life-threatening health crisis, and harrowing life circumstances, just like she did. I am loyal to a fault when treated right, and devoted to those I love, as was she. And she taught me how to love dogs, books, and music, all things that bring joy to me in this crazy life.  

Obviously, I am still a work in progress and will discover more similarities, good and bad, but I hope that I can at least love and serve others as faithfully, joyfully, and selflessly as she did. 

Love you mama, I hope you're dancing with daddy today. 

 

A Heart Full of Holes

 

Five years ago on a beautiful March Day, my life changed forever when I walked into the heart failure and transplant clinic.  The name on the door startled me and I almost turned around to go back to work, but something was seriously wrong with me, and I needed answers.  A week earlier I had received a diagnosis of pulmonary hypertension and my heart was beginning to fail, the question of the day was why?  

For approximately three hours I underwent multiple diagnostic tests ending in a bubble study, an odd one which required an IV injection of agitated saline (to create bubbles), that would find its way into my heart.  A nurse was brought in to administer the IV and the previously chatty echocardiogram tech suddenly stopped talking as she intently concentrated on the sonogram screen. I wondered what she was looking at because I was quite sure my heart was IN.MY.THROAT. instead of my chest by that point.  After two saline injections, the right and left atria, aka the top 2 chambers of my heart, filled entirely with what looked like smoke. As it cleared, even my untrained eye could see what turned out to be a large hole between them.

 

                                                

A doctor was called, and in walked a heart transplant surgeon. I was so scared that I forgot I was half naked, and as a "never nude" that is saying something! (if you are a fan of Arrested Development you will get the reference. 😜) When he walked in my heart sunk to the bottom of my stomach in 0.2 seconds. How in the world did I find myself on that table, talking to him?  I was too young, just a few weeks shy of forty-seven! Why was he saying things like, "that's odd?", and "why would it do that?", when talking about MY heart?  He left to consult with the critical care pulmonologist, and I was allowed to get dressed and then escorted to an exam room.  The pulmonologist gently explained that I was born with a congenital heart defect. The good news was that I would NOT need the heart transplant surgeon, but I would need more tests to determine the size of the defect and why blood was shunting left to right.  I had NO idea what that meant but it sounded bad. My tears were abated by a deep state of shock, and I was released to go about the rest of my day.  

It was surreal. I had walked into that clinic with what was originally thought to be a lung disease and walked out with a diagnosed heart defect. As I walked outside to find my car, it did not take long for me to spiral into a panic, and I struggled to hold myself together. I called a friend, maybe my youngest brother; the details are fuzzy.  Soon enough I blamed myself for failing to maintain my health. I had tried, and had gone to so many doctors seeking help, but they blamed me and were uninterested in digging deeper. Most told me I was anxious and depressed. A few told me I had mild asthma. One hinted that I was a hypochondriac. One told me I was lazy.  After years of seeking help and being failed by the medical establishment, I started to believe that they were right.  I labeled myself as a fat, lazy, depressed hypochondriac.  And I became many of those things.

              *********************************************************************       

Although it was a heavy thing to find out something was seriously wrong with my heart, the defect explained so much.  I found myself crying from relief that I WAS NOT crazy.  I was NOT a hypochondriac.  I was sick!  There was a cause and effect.  My heart had done the best it could until it simply could not do anymore and went on strike.  

Click on the links below to read some of my favorite blog posts about my experience: 

http://rustyglasses.blogspot.com/2018/04/365-days.html

http://rustyglasses.blogspot.com/2018/09/walking-away-from-miracle-forgetting-to.html

http://rustyglasses.blogspot.com/2020/04/waking-up.html

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Monday, April 4, 2022, marks five years since my surgery.  Inexplicably this anniversary is stirring up more emotions than I was anticipating. I thought this year would be like the others, but it is not. Yes, I am grateful to God for healing, rescue, mercy, GRACE upon GRACE - yet I am unsettled, tired, afraid, generally out of sorts. The past few years have been difficult.  Grieving and years of recovering from the damage the defect had on my body have been grueling.  Other heart holes have been revealed, just not physical in nature.  Most I have tried to fill myself, others I have ignored, and they have caused damage, but God in his mercy is "helping" me face a few of them now.  I would rather not, because heart surgery, whether physical, spiritual, or emotional involves a lot of recovery time. 

In this season of Lent, I am more aware than ever of my flaws and my failures. Growing and changing is challenging work and the process can be overwhelming, emotional, messy, and immensely difficult, but God still shows up for me in big ways and loves this flawed creation of his.  Oh, how I hope that this year will see me resting in him and increasing my faith as I allow him to love me deeper still.  

If you find yourself facing your own heart full of holes, just remember, new growth is possible and Easter is coming.

Engulfed

Ten years. As the anniversary approaches it feels raw and fresh. I close my eyes as the smoke rises in my memory. A deep breath later, and the acrid smell fills my senses so convincingly that I'm lost. Instantly confused, blinded by toxic smoke, stumbling in the inky blackness. Choking. Suffocating. Burning. Wondering if rescue will arrive before the grim reaper.  

I catch myself and come to my senses just before I start to fall. Heart racing. Terror pounding in my throat. Remembering. Trembling. Thanking God for rescue. Oxygen. Breath.  But still the feeling of being engulfed persists. It haunts. Teases. Tortures.

I have no idea how long I was in that stairwell. It had to be forever that I was suspended in time, falling slowly into the arms of a firefighter, but reality says it happened in seconds. Twenty more and I would not be here. Hard swallow.  

Engulf: so as to surround or cover completely...to overwhelm

The word "engulf" has a negative connotation in my mind. I think of all the times I was engulfed in terrible situations, stuck with no escape, desperate for rescue. Powerful feelings when combined with memories and flashbacks of terrifying things beyond my control completely overwhelm me.  

Yet God's grace is evident even in the severest of mercies. He never leaves me to fend for myself. Instead, he engulfs me with an abundance of beautiful things. Good things. Important things such as unending love. New mercies. Fathomless grace. Abundant hope. Infectious joy. Unearned kindness. Himself. 

 

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This year, instead of letting myself become engulfed in the fear and flashbacks, I am remembering the sweet mercies birthed in incredibly tragic situations.  I am celebrating. Waiting. Thriving. Abiding. Hopeful that God is not finished with me and is leading me to something sweeter than I can imagine. Who knows what I will be doing on day 3653? It's a safe bet that come rain or shine you will find me engulfed in the goodness of God. 

 "Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine..."  Eph 3:20

  

Winging It

 

Recently, as I was working on my shoulder exercises during a PT visit, I was pretty excited, prematurely it turns out, that I was accomplishing the movement with minimal pain.  Then I did it again and surprise(!) my old friend pain kicked down the door I thought was deadbolted shut.  As I winced, my PT, Mike, quickly and patiently reached over and repositioned my shoulder.  Ugh, I was embarrassed that after seven months of work, I STILL had to be reminded how to hold my shoulder properly.  Duh, should have learned better by now, but as he always tells me, it's muscle memory. Apparently mine have a photographic memory when it comes to doing the wrong thing.

The thing is, for ten+ years I nursed damaged shoulders and severe nerve pain all related to degenerative disc disease in my neck. After neck surgery I had periodic steroid injections, but they only brought temporary relief.  The pain was worse on the left side, and I learned to cope by rolling my shoulder forward, literally winging my shoulder blade.  

Tearing my rotator cuff added insult to injury. For weeks, the pain was so intense that I couldn't get through a day without a steady supply of pain meds.  I finally had a sedated MRI, where the nurse almost killed me with too much medication (true story), but at least the tear was confirmed. A few weeks later, and three days after my mother died, I started PT.  It's safe to say I was a mess, with a capital M.E.S.S.  Mike noticed but was up to the challenge and has become one of the only health care practitioners who has actually helped me.  He is the reason PT has been and continues to be a positive, lifechanging experience. It has admittedly been a slow process because I also developed frozen shoulder and continued to reinjure myself with more falls, seven total in 2021. It has been a vicious cycle of winging it and reinjury over and over again.    

        Still, I continue to wing it because it FEELS better, not because it IS better.  

Thankfully, I am learning SO much about pain and physical health that, at the ripe old age of fifty-one, I am finally learning to listen to what my body is telling me.  Some pain is necessary and needs to be worked through to heal; some pain is detrimental and needs to be treated and relieved. The trick is learning to tell the difference. For example, it hurts to pull my shoulder back, to "unwing" it and work on mobilizing it, but it is necessary to reach my goal of unfreezing it and getting back my range of motion. However, acute, sharp, or throbbing pain needs tending. Sometimes with ice, sometimes with pain medicine, but it should always be addressed and not pushed or ignored. I now recognize that my efforts to avoid, ignore and/or protect myself from pain have caused more damage.  This past Monday was the first time that I didn't ignore treatable pain and asked for what I needed. It was sweet relief, and I was proud to see even a little progress, proving that you CAN teach an old dog new tricks.   I am no longer my own worst enemy.

This journey is long and daunting, longer than this blog post!  It often frustrates me, especially when I look back and recognize that I only sought help because I had an obviously terrible injury. Sadly, I chose NOT to treat the nerve pain for a decade because I was not equipped to fight for myself. Years of being brushed off by doctors and physical therapists left me feeling like a whiny wimp, and I was raised not to whine. I grew a thick skin and honed a "suck it up buttercup" mantra, which did me no favors. Finding a skilled, compassionate, and attentive PT has caused me to do a lot of internal reflection and make a lot of positive changes. Things I have heard for ages are finally clicking for me, and I am changing for the better, hopefully permanently.  I no longer want to suck it up if the pain can be relieved.  Who knew going to PT would be so full of important life lessons?!

A few years ago I read "The Body Keeps the Score".  It was eye opening and one of the things that struck me was how emotional pain manifests itself in the body physically. There is an emotional component to physical healing, and a physical component to emotional healing often overlooked, at least in my life. I won't get into the details here, but I will say that as a child, I learned to cope with unspeakable things out of desperation and I sport the emotional and physical scars as a result.

For several years I have been attempting to learn healthier coping skills so that I can take care of my whole self.  It feels like I'm trying to climb Mt. Everest in a blizzard, okay maybe not that bad, but it feels insurmountable at times because I am a lot of work! I know I'm not alone. All of us experience triumphs and heartbreaks in this life.  We are shaped by good and not so good experiences. In our most acutely painful moments, we are required to do whatever is necessary to cope with the pain.  There is nothing wrong with that, it is necessary for survival.  But to thrive instead of simply survive, those old self-protective methods must be unlearned.  We must be braver than we ever imagined we could be.  We must persist and face the pain head on, sometimes pushing through it, and sometimes treating it, but always honoring it, learning from it, and moving forward.  

I refuse to be sidelined by ailments that others may dismiss either because they don't know me well, have not suffered the same, or because I hide them well, but I know what I have overcome and the miracle it is that I am still breathing. So, I will hold my head a little higher (partly because I CAN thanks to my PT), and I will continue to reflect on how physical and emotional healing intersect so I can grow into who God imagined me to be at my inception.  I hope the same for you.