Thanksgiving Trifecta

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As I write, I am listening to my go-to Thanksgiving music courtesy of Paul Winter. A piano piece, it brings me right back to holidays past. Although I am in gratitude mode every day, for blessings large, small, and in disguise, the day itself carries with it memories that will remain with me as if part of my DNA.

I grew up in a household in which the dinner was served around a large table with family and friends, and when I was older, it was held at the home of my Uncle Jim (my mom’s brother), and Aunt Sue. We would carry with us dishes prepped in our kitchen and heated up there. Stories were told, laughter ensued, and there was always plenty of food left to take in care packages. My mother called leftovers ‘re-runs’. When I went away to college, I returned home for family gatherings and was sent back with enough for several lunches and dinners to tide me over.

Three holidays leap out before me as I consider the most impactful. When I was in my middle 20’s, I decided to embrace a macrobiotic lifestyle, which meant eating seaweed, brown rice, seafood, miso soup, and tofu in various combinations. It meant steering clear of animal products and dairy. One Thanksgiving, I was invited to my aunt and uncle’s home and I hauled with me enough food to share with everyone; not that they necessarily want to indulge, but they politely, if not enthusiastically sampled some of what I brought. That, in and of itself, was acceptable to me. What was a bit more challenging was that I carted over my own pots, pans, dishes and, chopsticks. A screeching halt….part of the practice was a sense of gratitude and no over-indulgent extremes since a balance of yin and yang in food and energy was called for. I realized that I was going overboard with it and quickly modified my mindset and began to incorporate other food into my menu.

Fast forward and the year is 1998. My husband of nearly 12 years at the time, had been admitted to an ICU after falling into a coma while awaiting a liver transplant. Heart pounding, I followed the ambulance to Thomas Jefferson University Hospital in Philadelphia. Not our first rodeo, since Michael had become a revolving door patient in the six years prior when he been diagnosed with Hepatitis C. We joked that he ought to have earned frequent flier miles for each time he passed through those doors. He crossed the threshold for a final stay, on November 11th, but we didn’t know it at the time.

Our most fervent hope was for him to receive the lifesaving organ that would give him more spins on the planet. He had been on the UNOS transplant list for a few months and had vacillated back and forth between fear and anticipation. He knew that in order for him to live, someone else needed to die. This was a moral dilemma for him and I reminded him that he wouldn’t be the one to cause this person to pass. It was between them and the God of their understanding.

In the 5 ½ weeks during which he floated between life and death, I lived there with him. A few weeks into our ordeal, Thanksgiving Day appeared on the calendar. My aunt and uncle and parents insisted that I leave the hospital and have dinner with them. This I did reluctantly, since I was so tied into that place, those machines that kept his heart beating and lungs expanding and contracting and to the man in the bed whose eyes were closed and whose throat had a trach tube inserted in it. I feared that either he would die while I was away or that a liver would become available and I would have to zip back across the bridge that spanned the Delaware River that separated Pennsylvania and New Jersey where they lived. I found myself gobbling down dinner with one eye on the clock. My parents, bless them, understood and didn’t stretch the time further, so that immediately after dinner, they brought me back. A few weeks later, on December 21st after we disconnected life support, Michael ‘left the building’ into his new life. I was grateful that he had been part of mine, in the midst of joys and challenges that we faced. Nearly 20 years later, I can remember that day like it was yesterday.

In 2010, two years after my father died, my mother was put on hospice to help her transition to her destination following a diagnosis of Congestive Heart Failure and end-stage kidney disease. She decided she didn’t want dialysis and, instead, chose quality over quantity of life. She lived in Ft. Lauderdale and from May of that year until her death, I was able to wing my way Southward seven times for a few days to a week at a time. We had the most extraordinary conversations about what happens when we die. At first, she said she didn’t know. I asked her to come back and tell me when she did know. She smiled and told me she would come back as a butterfly.

The last time I saw her alive was Halloween weekend when she and I prepped goody bags for some of her neighbor kids who came into her living room and showed off their cute costumes. Weeks passed and as Thanksgiving was approaching, I asked if she wanted me to come down for the holiday. She told me it wasn’t necessary, and my response was that I wouldn’t be down until the end, not knowing how soon that would be. On Thanksgiving, I was at the home of my best friend Barb, who my parents viewed as their third daughter. I called her, and the hospice nurse answered and said that my mother was drifting in and out of consciousness. I asked her to put the phone up to my mom’s ear, so I could talk to her and she managed a few mumbled words. I told her I loved her and would call her the next day. It was difficult to refocus my attention and I left soon after and headed home with the clear sense that I wouldn’t hear my mother’s voice again in this lifetime.

The next day was November 26th and I made my morning call and the nurse advised me that it would be ‘soon’. I asked if I should get to the airport and she thought it would be a good idea. At that moment, I said to my father who had died on April 3rd, 2008, “Take care of her now.” I amended it to “Take care of each other now, as you always have.” An hour later while sitting at my desk at my job as a social worker in a psychiatric hospital my sister Jan called and informed me that our mother had passed. I let out a visceral howl, “Noooo!” as I ran to the nurses’ station to let my supervisor know the news and that I needed to leave right away. Her kind response was that I could go, but only after I informed her about what was happening with my patients. She could easily have looked at their charts, but instinctively knew that I needed to take a deep breath and focus so that I could safely drive home, pack and get to the airport. A few hours later, I was on a plane heading to officiate at my mother’s funeral. As an Interfaith Minister, I chose to do so for her and for my father since I didn’t want a rabbi who didn’t know them to read their eulogies.

The day of the funeral, as I astonishingly calmly played that role, I saw a butterfly dipping and diving into the open grave and I knew that my mom had arrived Home and that my father was there to greet her.

As I approach the holiday season once again, I have become accustomed to the roller coaster ride of emotions. At each twist and turn, I stop and allow for a sense of appreciation for these souls who entered my life to teach me about love and loss as they are intertwined.
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