Tag Archives: Grief

My Friend Caryl with a “Y”

You know that experience of meeting someone for the first time and they are so extraordinarily “something” you are sure your life has just changed for the better?  This is what happened to me almost 15 years ago when beautiful Caryl showed up on my doorstep with 8-year-old Conley.  The sweetness of her smile and gentleness of her demeanor were so comforting to me, a Mom who had been struggling for months to help her son adjust to a new city and school with no friends.  They showed up one early Fall Saturday to take Mario on an adventure – a Fall festival at the nearby Indian Mission.  Mario and I were both thrilled.

A couple of weeks earlier, Mario came home from school a little less grumpy than usual.  He told me he had met someone he was pretty sure was going to be a good friend.  Mario was excited to get to know him better because they both enjoyed cussing and, better yet, Mario shared that the new friend’s kindergarten brother was “very cool” and cussed also!  Perfection – Universe, I think we have found a match.  And thus, Conley Niedens entered our world (and it has never been the same).  After that day at the fall festival, Mario and Conley were pretty much inseparable – for better or for worse!

When I noticed that Caryl’s name was spelled with a “y” and she had a career in the design world, I started to really love and appreciate her artistic flair.  Her ability to create a beautiful and warm atmosphere – both physically and interpersonally – was unparalleled.  Warmth was something our household needed desperately after uprooting our kids from their dream home in the country 200 miles away and suddenly planting them in suburban Kansas City.  I learned that Caryl and Lyle were from Great Bend, Kansas, which really increased their likeability with our family after having just lived in Winfield, Kansas for 8 years.  Very quickly, the Niedens family just felt comfortable and familiar to us.  It wasn’t long at all until the Tamburinis were included in many weekend KU basketball or Chiefs football watch events.  We looked forward to being at Caryl and Lyle’s house because we knew it would be warm and filled with laughter (maybe a little yelling at the tv or the boys!).  She was always trying new recipes and buying me cookbooks. One time I took a centerpiece to her house instead of a dish- when I told her the florist had named it “low and lush” she quipped, “Like ME!”


I mentioned Mario and Conley were a “for better or worse” duo – and this could have gone either way in my friendship with Caryl.  When your kid is known for getting a little rambunctious with someone else’s kid – sometimes that doesn’t lead to warm and fuzzy vibes between the parents.  I so loved and appreciated Caryl’s realistic and consistently calm approach to raising boys!  I never felt judged by her or obligated to make excuses for “boy behavior.”  Caryl’s friendship was genuine and the more time we spent together, I understood our family had been adopted into her “tribe.” How lucky we have been.  

Caryl was not easily shocked, which really worked for me because sometimes shocking things came out of my mouth or my kid’s mouth and sometimes borderline shocking things happened.  She proved to be an “all weather” type of friend over and over.

Mario and Conley were roommates at a 3-day basketball camp at KU after 4th grade.  It turned out to be too much togetherness and talking for Mario.  When I arrived at KU to pick the boys up, Conley was still very wired and excited and Mario looked like he had not slept the entire time.  He was ready for major down time but that did not happen in the car ride back to Kansas City with Conley.  At one point, Mario threw a blanket over his head, telling Conley “the air does not need to be filled with your voice every second”!  Conley thought that was very funny but I could tell Mario was getting close to losing it.  We ended up solving the problem with a quick side trip to McDonald’s (my number one parenting go-to).  Caryl was very entertained by the story when I dropped Conley off and often brought it up when we were meeting new people together.  

Caryl had an amazing sense of humor.  Our friendship may not have survived our boys without laughter! Once when he was going through our cupboards for something good to eat, Conley declared, “Tell your Mom she needs to go to the store!”  Not long after that, Conley and Mario were sent to the hallway for being disruptive during the “Just Around the Corner” puberty video at school.  Never horrified, Caryl just took it all in stride as another day in the life of being a parent.  I so appreciated that and found comfort in her friendship and support. 

Caryl supported me through my various job changes (at least 6) – and was always the first to congratulate me and stop by the house with a little special gift to recognize the new beginning.  I was even a DREADED SILPADA REP for about 10 minutes and Sweet Caryl was the first (and only!) person to step up and offer to host a jewelry party!  She was also a huge supporter of my sobriety.  In early sobriety, you learn that not all friendships are necessarily “good” for you and that change is to be expected.  Caryl showed up at my house not long after I stopped drinking with a hand picked mocktail bar.  It was one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for me yet she walked in with this beautiful gift and quietly got to work mixing me a mocktail as though it was something ordinary.  But in fact it was extraordinary and so was she.

I had not known Caryl very long when my Dad passed away.  She was the first friend to stop by the house with a pork tenderloin for our family.  Just “Good People” through and through. When my Mom passed away last year, Caryl was already not feeling well but not really sure what was going on.  She took the time to look up a recipe for a braided apple bread and brought it to me warm on a Sunday evening wrapped in a lovely fall ribbon.  Completely Caryl with a “Y”! The things she did for the people she loved were always works of art made with the utmost care.  She was really proud of the spaces she worked on for Pierce and Conley as they entered young adulthood.  

Our pets always loved Caryl, another sign she was a very special person.  On the day I went behind my husband’s back and adopted a cocker spaniel, the first place I went to was Caryl’s house with little Pudgey in the back seat!  She was delighted with the little creature and sure he would be the perfect addition to our household.  Caryl was also the first to express condolences at the loss of a pet.  

Caryl made the most of every situation, including the last year of her life.  She accepted that life isn’t fair and had many conversations with her loved ones about it.  She told me last summer she was very proud of her boys and the life she had lived.  In every conversation I have had with her over the past 12 months, she mentioned Pierce and Conley and things they were doing that made her very proud.  Conley’s graduation from KU made her enormously happy.

Recently, I visited Caryl just before lunchtime at the nursing home.  She invited me to join her in the dining room and told me a little something special about each of the women with whom she shared a table.  Little did these women know, they had become part of a very special tribe led by Caryl with a “Y” – the one and only.

Caryl told our friend Kris she wanted all her friends to have a packet of wildflowers to remember her by.  She so enjoyed her back garden and basking in the sun.  One of my most cherished memories of Caryl will be this memory of her in her garden, peaceful.  An endearing goodbye of hers with me was always, “See ya later, darlin”.  So for now, precious friend, I will see ya later, Darlin’.

“We show up, burn brightly in the moment,

live passionately, and when the moment is over,

when our work is done, we step back and let go.”

Rolf Gates

The Universal Need to Grieve  — Center for Action and Contemplation

Richard Rohr writes of the necessity of grief. Learn how to enter the “weeping mode” of prayer and acceptance in the Daily Meditation from CAC.
— Read on cac.org/daily-meditations/the-universal-need-to-grieve/

The Lost Traveler and her Wahine

My eye has been twitching and hip hurting since early August, but I had my “VBFQ” (very busy fourth quarter – 4 fun trips in a row) to look forward to, so I ignored what my body was telling me.  Then my 90-year-old Mom passed away gently in her sleep. Although her passing wasn’t exactly unexpected, it’s true that nothing prepares you once you become an orphan in this world.

“For in grief, nothing ‘stays put.’ One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs.  Round and round.  Everything repeats.  Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often – will it be for always? – how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, ‘I never realized my loss till this moment?’ The same leg is cut off time after time.”

C. S. Lewis, “A Grief Observed”

This loop of forgetting then surrendering to the sudden and shattering memory of what has happened – the loss of my Mother – is my current existence.  I don’t know if this is normal, but several times a day, with no warning, I will experience what feels like a punch in the gut from Grief, and I will utter, “Mommy!” like I did as a child to summon her comfort.  The moment doesn’t last more than a few seconds – and I am able to return to whatever activity I was doing without much difficulty – but C. S. Lewis is right – “the death of a beloved is an amputation.”  I have to learn to walk in this world anew without her.

A few things really help soothe this pain.  1.  Puppy hugs (I recently adopted a new puppy whose presence in my home is like a steady source of dopamine); 2. A healthy routine (e.g., boring adherence to the basics:  enough rest, water, exercise, sunshine, good nutrition, conversations with family); 3.  Old friends – the ones I grew up with who knew my Mother best. Hearing kind words about my Mom and retelling familiar stories from my early days is of great comfort. Simply being in the presence of my oldest friends, I have found to be enormously healing.  

I am lucky to have a few such friends I have known since birth.  And each one reached out to me in my pain immediately to offer comfort, kindness and reminders of the great person my Mom was.   By sheer coincidence (or maybe not?), my oldest friend, Missy, and I had plans to spend a week together this Fall on her island paradise, Maui.  Missy gave me a chance to opt out of our plans until “a better time.”  It really felt like the perfect time to be in her presence.  After all, our Mothers were close friends and our Fathers were the very best of friends.  Between our 2 families there were 15 children, and we all grew up together.  Lots of comfort and familiarity awaited me. Exactly one month after losing Mom, I boarded a plane and headed off to the unknown.  I am not a good traveler nor am I particularly curious about “unexplored” places.  Wanderlust is not something that drives me.  But quiet companionship and a few reminders of who I really am, during this time when I feel so lost, is definitely what drove me to pack my bags and visit Missy.

When I arrived, she was hiding behind a wall with a fresh plumeria lei to welcome me.  I later learned the plumeria flower represents birth, love, spring and new beginnings.  In Buddhist culture, the plumeria represents immortality, because the tree will bloom even if it is uprooted.  Immediately, I felt like it had been the right decision to seek adventure with my old friend instead of staying home and hiding under the covers like I wanted. This could be a time of new birth. She kept using this Hawaiian word, “Wahine,” which literally translates to woman.  I learned it can also be a term of endearment for one’s closest female friends.


Every morning began with at least two hours of relaxing outside on her terrace overlooking a sumptuous garden with the sea in the background. In the background, the sounds of tropical birds I have never heard before, beckoning old friends to start the day in one another’s company, just enjoying the moment.  That’s what I enjoyed and appreciated most about our time together – there was no “daily agenda,” it was as slow-paced and relaxed as could be.  I knew there were many things on the island I would not venture out to see and this was fine with me.  I needed to move slowly, and Missy understood this. On those quiet early mornings happily tucked into her backyard paradise, my oldest friend Missy reminded me of several things and thus helped me heal the wounds broken open by Mom’s passing.  

In no particular order, here are the things my “Wahine” (Hawaiian for woman/friend) helped me to see and in her way re-ignited my spark for life:

I look great in red lipstick – Missy was surprised to see a more “subdued” look after years of sporting the brightest red lipstick I could find. When I told her several makeup artists scolded me due to it’s “aging effect,” she said that was bulls*** and I should go back to what I love (so I have);

I will publish my writing one day – One of her favorite publications has been on my “most wanted” list for years – she’s confident she’ll see my name in it one day;

No matter how broken I believe the world is today, there are many things in my life worth celebrating – a great family, health, sobriety, and friendships that have lasted decades for starters;

I am not alone in my sobriety (nothing tests your sobriety like loss – my dog of 11 years passed 12 days after Mom) – Missy decided before I even arrived to practice “Sober October” – more than anything else, THIS is what brought me to tears. Not that I am close to a relapse after everything that has happened. It simply felt like a major show of support and solidarity when my oldest friend on this earth quietly decided to join me sans alcohol for a bit.

The timing of the Universe can be perplexing and mysterious, especially when one feels like She is lobbing pain on top of pain for no reason.  It felt so good to surrender to the cosmic invitation to meet my old friend in my pain, on her beautiful island, and just sit quietly together drinking coffee for several days.  My pain subsided a little and our friendship grew a lot. It turns out I  traveled 4,000 miles to feel like I was right at home. Thank you, Wahine, for the gift of your time and presence when I needed it most.

In Gratitude for My Brave Momma

My Mom was a character. Funny, outspoken, warm and talented in many ways. You never forgot her even if you met her only briefly. There are many adjectives you could use to describe her. She raised me so I consider myself somewhat experienced in my ability to choose the adjective that best describes her: Brave. She faced adversity with courage, dignity and humor. And she wasn’t a quitter, either. She had a mental toughness I can only aspire to. This chilly Fall morning, a mere 8 weeks after her passing, I miss her so terribly but am thankful to have a deep well of experiences from which to draw upon her many acts of bravery.

This photo, for example, represents my first inkling that I had a brave Momma. It is the morning of my 8th grade graduation and it had been a hard year for our family. Only 46 and seeing the completion of her child-raising years, Mom convinced Dad to uproot from our family farm in Southern Missouri and relocate to St. Louis, Missouri, where my sister and I would attend one of the state’s highest ranked private Catholic secondary schools and live at home. This was brave on many fronts. Mom was ready to enjoy her second act exploring her personal interests. She was getting restless on the farm and wanted the rest of her life to have meaning. Reluctantly, my Dad agreed and we sold our beautiful home in the middle of a soybean field and headed to the big city. While Mom definitely had the class, experience and social skills to navigate our family through this vastly foreign terrain, what mattered most was her bravery, because there were many moments when it all just seemed too difficult for many us.

I didn’t realize this 13 years ago, but I applied the many things I learned watching Mom through those years to my own family when we made a similar move from the country to the city. I wanted to help my children achieve their own sense of personal belonging in a new place without losing their identity as my Mom had helped me do 40 years earlier. As a parent, when you change from having the home that kids flocked to during the summer and on weekends to adapting to the crazy intense competitive “helicopter parenting” in the city, the pressure can bring you to your knees. My Mom stayed strong and never lost herself during those wild teenage years of mine in the big city. While I tried to emulate her in my own experience, I definitely got lost many times because I’m not as brave as she. But I always had the gift of her example to draw upon.

As Mom grew older, she faced frightening health challenges that ultimately rendered her bedridden. The brave and strong woman who always led the way in our family was suddenly vulnerable and dependent on others for care. It was almost too painful to acknowledge at times. Especially as I watched the changes from a distance, raising my own family and charting my own “second act” as she had so gracefully done decades before. Mom managed the bedridden decade with dignity, grace and enormous bravery. Only last year, as her 90th birthday approached and she was putting her life in perspective, she said to me, “This is my life and I have to live it.” Acceptance is the ultimate form of bravery. She showed all of us that strength literally means submitting to one’s circumstances and making the best of what you have. Mom had the ability to use her mind as a place to escape to and create her reality. During times when other people could not see a path forward for themselves, my Mother declared to me she intended to live the life she had been given. I am still overwhelmed with love and admiration.

The last time I entered Mom’s beautiful pink room, instead of finding her there, big blue eyes and soothing voice, happy to see me, I found a single red rose where she used to lay. The red rose symbolizes beauty, love and courage. It perfectly represented my Mom. Her example of bravery sustains me. She saw her journey, rife with challenges, through to completion, and I am most humbled and grateful. Stepping forward into my last decades, I carry my Mom with me, and hopefully more than a little of her feisty spirit. She showed me that I can face anything. I only wish I didn’t have to do it without her.

As my six siblings and I prepare to bid farewell to both our parents back on the family farm soon, I will be thinking of their strength and love. And when I feel sad, I’ll play my Mom’s favorite love song, Rod Stewart’s “You’re in my Heart,” and think of her dancing in her kitchen. I’ll remember she will be in my heart and in my soul, and hopefully she tucked in a little bravery.

Saying Goodbye to Our Family Pet

16 winters ago, on a Friday evening just before a looming ice storm set in on the cold Kansas prairie, my 7 year old little girl was pulling beach towels out of closets to make a “temporary home” in a cardboard box just outside our kitchen door for a stray kitty. She had already named the cat “Katy,” so we knew she was probably going to become a permanent fixture on our 34 acres out in the country.

Our country home under construction. We moved in and suddenly my children’s lives were filled with “creature wonder.” Momma deer with babies, wild turkey, tortoises, scorpions, snakes, stray cats, dogs and sometimes horses were all frequent visitors and uninvited guests.

The following spring, Katy unexpectedly (to us “city pups,” unfamiliar with the ways of country life) gave birth to a litter of adorable kittens. For months, Isa and Mario’s entertainment focused around playing with the kittens. Vanilla ended up being the only one of the litter that survived. Katy was viciously killed by a couple of stray dogs while defending her kittens. To say we were shocked by the harsh realities of country animal life would be an understatement. The best we could do was adopt Vanilla (whom previously my husband had insisted would remain a garage cat) and bring him indoors to complete our family. And that is where he has stayed for 15 1/2 years.

These past couple of weeks, Vanilla slowly tapered off his eating until quitting completely the last 5 days of his life. We all had our chances to say goodbye, but the hardest was with his Mommy, Isa, via FaceTime from her work retreat. It’s so hard doing the compassionate thing when you’ve grown up with a pet. Isa used to come home from 2nd grade and stand on our back deck calling Vanilla’s name. Before long, he’d come running up from the wooded canyon behind our house, following the sound of her sweet voice. He was half wild (feral!) kitty and half domesticated pet and that’s how he lived until his last breath.

This morning was extremely bittersweet. We watched him stumble to the back door for a breath of fresh air after carrying him down from his last night in our bed. He bathed in the sunlight of our floor to ceiling windows in the den one last time. And if he could have mustered the strength, I know he would have loved to have hissed at Pudgey, the innocent but vacuous cocker spaniel. We loved him well. I can only hope he is on my Dad’s lap in heaven right now hearing about what a “Good Ole’ Good Boy” he is.

Bitter With The Sweet

I am ashamed to admit it, but I am outrageously jealous of my friends who are enjoying the companionship of vibrant and involved octogenarian parents.   This is such a selfish and unfair statement, I know.  I had great parents (Mom is still living) and they were there for me when I needed them.  So many people can’t even say the same.

So many of my friends did not have the joy of being given away by their Fathers.  I did.

10353359_10203298168127637_1688044451985770007_o

So why am I feeling sorry for myself that my parents weren’t the “take the family on a trip to celebrate our 50th Anniversary” type?  For many years, whenever we were together, Mom and Dad took the family to their favorite Italian restaurant in South St. Louis, Missouri, Giuseppe’s.

11950358_10206548818711870_6175063971893459035_o

My parents cooing with my nephew and one of the family’s closest friends over amazing Italian cuisine in South St. Louis.  GREAT memories.

I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy, though, when I hear a friend tell me she spent the afternoon shopping with her Mom and then out to dinner with both parents – and they are in their eighties and enjoying active lives.  Like the famous Carole King song, I know I need to do a better job at taking the bitter with the sweet:

“A friend of mine once told me

and I know he  knows all about feelin’

down

He said, “Everything good in life you’ve

got to pay for

But feeling’ good is what you’re paving the way for”

But you can’t enjoy the sweet without “paying for it” with the bitter, right?  That’s the deal.  Sometimes it stinks!

The morning my Dad passed away and I called my husband to share the expected but dreadful news, a feeling washed over me I had really never felt before and I told him through my tears, “I wasn’t done with him yet.”  That must be why sometimes in my dreams I watch him ride away, alone in a limo with darkly tinted windows – no room for me.  The separation of death is bitter.  Memories are sweet.  I guess I will always taste both.

10371650_10205162460893791_3626993651558874698_n

In my heart, this is where my parents remain – in their late 60’s, active, involved, enjoying life.  Laughing with me.  Together.

Nobody prepared me (or maybe I just wasn’t paying attention) for this constant ache you get from watching your parents age and then losing them.  Maybe it’s because loss from death is the first thing I have ever encountered in my human existence that simply cannot be prepared for.

And the really strange truth about losing a parent is this:  the permanent pain is because of the sweetness of their love.  Like C.S. Lewis writes in “A Grief Observed,” -“For in grief nothing ‘stays put.’ One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?”

At the end of the day, I don’t begrudge any of my fortunate friends who are still enjoying happy times with both parents.  It’s a gift and, after all, not something to be overly examined.  I had what I had and that’s it.  Boy, was I lucky.