Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day.

I remember Thanksgiving's from my childhood and the magic of the day.  Waking up to savory smells as Mama got an early start on the day's cooking.  Sitting in the floor in front of the TV watching parades.  Loading up the food and the family and heading to Grandmama and Granddaddy's.  The entire Dedmon clan gathering every year; an ever growing family and seemingly ever lasting tradition.

But, alas, life moves on. Some cousins (like me) scattered, making it harder to get home for Thanksgiving.  The Grandparents passed one by one, and the family stopped gathering for that day in November.  Mama never said, but I always suspected it made her sad.  Thanksgiving had been such an important holiday to Grandmama. I'm sure Mama missed her terribly when the day came and went without her mother.

Tomorrow will be my first Thanksgiving Day without my mother.

It's been almost nine months since Mama died.  Strange how much it hurts just to type those words.  Mama died.  But, she did.  Nine months ago.  I made it through Mother's Day without her to wish a happy day.  I made it through my birthday without her wishing me a happy day.  I'll make it through tomorrow, and I'll make it through Christmas and then New Year's, and then her birthday, and then it will be a year anniversary I never wanted to celebrate.  I'll make it through, but my god I miss her.

I've been thinking and reading about grief and dealing with loss, and there is one thing I've realized. There is no time limit on grieving.  It doesn't get easier as time goes on.  I guess it does become easier in the sense that it's no longer a raw gaping wound; once the shock wears off it's more of a dull ache -  unless you pick at it too much and find it's every bit as raw as it was 9 months ago.  The months following her passing, I was so busy that I told myself I didn't have time to give into grieving, and I still don't feel like I've actually fully grieved.  I'm not even sure what that means, or what I think I need.  Maybe to curl into a ball and cry for a week, a month, a year...?  But who has time for that?  I give in to tiny cries (usually when I'm driving) then tell myself to suck it up and dry it up.  I'm a busy lady, with things to do and people to see.  But, inside I'm a little girl who just misses her mama.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day and I will be thankful.

But, tonight I'm going to cry for my Grandparents. Tonight I'm going to cry for my cousin who chose to leave this world on a Thanksgiving Day.  Tonight I'm going to cry for the family ties that were once so much tighter.  Tonight I'm going to cry for my Mama.  Tonight I'm going to cry...

Tomorrow I will wake up and cook so there are savory smells to smell in the house.  Tomorrow I'll watch a parade. I'll talk to my Daddy and my brothers. I'll make my Happy Thanksgiving social media posts. I'll have dinner with friends. Tomorrow I'll smile. Tomorrow I'll be thankful for all of those family Thanksgiving memories.  Tomorrow I'll be thankful that I have loved and been loved enough to hurt for those I've lost. Tomorrow I will remember my Mama and be happy that I had her as long as I did.  Tomorrow I will be thankful.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day.

Thankful Heart Happy Heart

Thanksgiving was very interesting this year.  Several weeks before, I had been trying to decide whether or not to cook Thanksgiving dinner.  I wanted to go back to Chattanooga, but we just weren't ready to travel again after being gone so long and home so little this year.  We often spend the holiday with some good friends here in the Keys, but hadn't yet made plans, so we were up in the air.  Then, Scott received an email from Al.

The very first phone call Scott made to Massachusetts General Hospital back in April was answered by the admitting RN, Al Ferreira, at the MGH Center for Chordoma Care.  Al was our contact at the hospital for pretty much everything.  He navigated the red tape, scheduled the appointments, coordinated the whole team of doctors/nurses/radiologists, answered our questions, assuaged our fears, and fought the insurance company for pre-approvals and pain med authorizations.  He was a friendly face during morning rounds in the hospital after surgery; he took Scott’s stitches out, and he was a friend to just shoot the shit about Dr. Who when that’s what Scott needed.  Just a few weeks ago, he was kind enough to take time from his busy day to get on the phone with me and the insurance company fighting another charge they were trying to deny.  He was the first person Scott spoke to at the hospital and the last person we said goodbye to.  The entire staff at MGH was amazing, but Al made it all work.

So, the email said that he and his wife were going to be waking up in Key West on Thanksgiving Day, leaving at 10:00 a.m. and driving to Fort Lauderdale.  He wanted a recommendation for somewhere to get a turkey dinner about 2 hours up the road from Key West.  Of course, we suggested that since our house is almost exactly 2 hours from KW they should join us for Thanksgiving dinner, and they accepted.  I was happy to cook and we were tickled to get to host them in our home.

I have written about Scott’s battle with Chordoma, and there is a lot more about it on his Caring Bridge page.  

http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/scottyoungberg/journal

Basically, it is very rare bone cancer.  Very rare.  They call themselves one in a million.  There are only about 300 cases in the U.S. per year.  About half of those are treated at MGH, which is why Scott was there and also why we actually know quite a few chordoma patients from all over the world even though there are so few of them.  But, the one that totally blows the statistics is the other sacral chordoma warrior right here in the Florida Keys.  Out of roughly 80,000 people in our little chain of islands, there are 2 in a million.  How ‘bout them odds?

And it gets stranger.  The guy lives right here in the upper Keys.  And we have, like, a ton of friends in common.  We had never met Jeffrey and his lovely wife Shevaun before this all started, but I guess life or fate or karma or something has a way of bringing people together.  As soon as friends in the Keys started to hear Scott’s story this past spring, the first thing many of them said was, “That sounds like the exact thing Jeffery has.”  Before we knew it, mutual friends put them in touch, Scott called Jeffrey and a friendship began.  Jeffrey was also treated at MGH, had the exact same team of doctors, and basically the same procedures except unfortunately, his was significantly worse.  His chordoma was one of the largest they had treated at MGH.  His battle has been even longer and harder than Scott’s, with a few more after effects, but he is also finished and cancer free! 

Of course, Jeffrey and Shevaun knew Al, so we also invited them to join us for Thanksgiving dinner and they accepted as well.  It was quite a day of giving thanks!  Just being in the company of both Scott and Jeffrey for their first holiday since kicking cancer’s ass was such an incredibly positive and uplifting feeling. But when you added Al into the mix, one of the people directly involved in saving both of their lives, it was kind of magical.  I know Jeffrey and Shevaun both felt it, I hope Al and his sweet wife Ginger did as well.  We all tried to thank Al and tell him how much he meant to all of us throughout the whole process, but he shrugged it off.  I just hope he got a feel for how much he means to the patients he helps. 

I don’t think anyone can go through something like cancer treatment and not be changed by the experience.  Just being the caregiver of someone in treatment has changed me.  Life seems a little more precious.  I feel like I've been given a gift of seeing more clearly the people who truly love and support me and to more easily forgive and let go of those who don’t.  Sometimes it’s been surprising to learn who is in which column.  The generosity of people has humbled me.  I will be forever a more charitable person as a result of this experience.  Every day is a gift and I will try and greet each as such.

 

I am so proud of Scott for how strong he has been and how he fought and won his battle.  It was a hard year.  Cancer treatment is weird medicine…making people sicker to make them well.  The treatments were tough and I know there were days when Scott wanted to quit, but he kept going.  So did Jeffrey, so did little Madi in California, so do all of the Chordoma and all the cancer warriors every single day.  If they can wake up with a smile and a thankful heart, we should all strive to do the same.

It was a real pleasure to have such an amazing group at my Thanksgiving table this year.  As Jeffrey often says, “Peace, love and light” to you all.

Our good buddy Wood was invited to join us as well but wasn't able to make it.  He did, however, do his usual rogue decorating…

__________________

Thanksgiving

This is from my old Myspace blog, written in November of 2008.  I woke up this morning thinking about my grandparents and all my family and remembered writing this the year we lost Grandmother.  Thought I would share.  Embrace, enjoy and appreciate your family today and every single day.

 

Thanksgiving

Current mood:nostalgic

Another Thanksgiving holiday has come and gone, and now we begin the countdown to yet another Christmas and another new year. I have been thinking a lot about my family...thinking about the distances that separate us and the inevitablity of change.

If you have followed my blogs, you have already heard about my grandparents who lived in the country in rural north Georgia and opened their home to their hordes of grandchildren each summer. That same home was also the Thanksgiving gathering place for about as long as I can remember. My mother was one of 5 siblings, and between them all they produced 13 children of their own. We were quite a large clan!

For most of my life, none of the family lived more than a 3 hour drive from the grandparents house. And so it was that every single Thanksgiving Day, bar none, the entire family gathered for the day at the old home place. Grandmother would cook the turkey and dressing and everyone else would bring food. We would have so much food! There would be stories and jokes (my uncles were not called the kings of corn for nothing!) The afternoon would usually devolve into the annual football game (or the Turkey bowl as we called it) which was my least favorite part of the day....partly because I just never liked sports much, but mostly because it usually ended up with somebody fighting or crying (not always the kids!) Granddaddy would end up napping in his recliner pretending to watch football on the tv while the ladies drank coffee and cleaned the kitchen, and the kids played and hoped the day would never end.

I moved away from that area 11 years ago this month. Over those years, Scott and I have only made it back up for Thanksgiving twice. But, even though I wasn't there each year, there was something about knowing that my family had something special that most families don't share these days. We lost Granddaddy about 8 years ago, but still the family gathered for Thanksgiving. Grandmother was bed-ridden for the last 3 years, but still they gathered. Again, if you have followed my blogs, you know that we lost Grandmother in July of this year. And, it seems that finally, with the passing of the matriarch, so also came the passing of the family tradition.

This year, the family did not gather. A tradition has ended.

I worried about my mom and her first Thanksgiving with no living parents and no tradition to fall back on. We tried very hard to get Mom & Dad to come down here for a tropical Thanksgiving Day. I thought that if things were changing anyway, perhaps it would be easier for her if it was something totally different. But, they didn't come. Mom is still coming to terms with her Parkinson's diagnosis and just wasn't up to travelling. And, we made so many trips up there last year, we just couldn't justify going up. At least my parents were able to spend the day with my brother Ken and his family there in Chattanooga. We spoke with them all on the phone, wished them a happy holiday, exchanged loving words and, so, life goes on.

I know that the next generation will never gather in the same way. I realized that fact at my grandmothers funeral. I looked around at all of the cousins I was once so close to and it hit me that we might not ever be all together that way again. The ties that bound have started to loosen and fray.
I'm not so much sad, just wanted to acknowledge the passing of something special. I didn't write this poem, but it does seem appropriate.

The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving

(Edgar Albert Guest, 1881-1959)

It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell
Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well;
But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know
A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago,
When all the family gathered round a table richly spread,
With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head,
The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile,
With mother running in and out and laughing all the while.


It may be I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me to-day
We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray;
Each little family grows up with fashions of its own;
It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone.

It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends;
There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends,
Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way,
Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day.


I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad
To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad;
The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin,
And whether living far or near they all came trooping in
With shouts of "Hello, daddy!" as they fairly stormed the place
And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face
Upon her gingham apron before she kissed them all,
Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small.


Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they told;
From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the old;
All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do,
The struggles we were making and the hardships we'd gone through;
We gathered round the fireside.
How fast the hours would fly--
It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye.

Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew
When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.

A Sweetwater Christmas

~(Written December, 2007... As told to me by my Uncle Charles when I was a child. This story took place when he was 10 years old. Uncle Charlie will be 80 next spring, so the setting is Sweetwater, Tennessee in December of 1938.)~

I was asleep in my bed when I heard someone banging on the front door. I figured it was about midnight. Pretty late for company. I laid there in my bed with the covers pulled up almost over my face to keep my nose warm, but made sure to leave my ears uncovered so I could hear what was going on.

I heard Daddy cussing then heard his heavy limp across the front room, then heard him open the door. Daddy had been laid up with his foot for a while, and had trouble getting around. All I could hear were muffled mens voices, then the sounds of several people coming into the house and the door shutting. I was dying to know what was going on, but I couldn't hear anything that was being said and after a while I started to drift back to sleep.

My Uncle Bug woke me up shaking my shoulder and saying "Get up and get dressed boy. Then grab the coal bucket and come on out front." I don't know how long I had been asleep but it didn't seem like long. I jumped out of bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and started getting dressed. As I made my way to the front room I couldn't help wonder what was going on and what it had to do with me. I tiptoed past Momma's room. I knew she was awake but she had baby Claude in bed with her and I didn't want to wake him.

(Interjection here...baby Claude is my father. He was born 2 1/2 months premature. In 1938 there wasn't much they could do for a baby born that early. I'm told he was so small that a man could hold him on the palm of his hand. The hospital sent him home telling the family not to get too attached to him because he probably wouldn't live a year. Baby Claude will be 70 next spring.)

I went out to the kitchen and grabbed the coal bucket. As I did, I noticed how low the coal in the bin was getting. It had been a cold winter already. And with Daddy out of work with his hurt foot there wasn't much money to buy more any time soon.

When I walked into the front room the men stopped talking. There was Daddy in his chair with his foot propped up, Uncle Bug was standing by the door, and Granddaddy was sitting on the couch with some other guy I had seen but didn't know his name. Daddy saw me walk in and said, "Come over here son." I walked over and him and Granddaddy just looked at me till I started feeling kind of funny. Uncle Bug made a little cough noise and then Granddaddy stood up. Daddy said, "You need to go help the men tonight. I can't go anywhere with this foot so you have to go in my place. Get your coat and go on now."

I still had no idea what was going on but I could tell it was important and I knew I had to be a man. Bundling up in my coat and hat, and carrying my empty coal bucket, I followed the other men out the door. I turned and looked back at Daddy and I could tell by the look on his face that he didn't like it one bit that he wasn't the one going. But there was nothing to do about it so he just waved at me and I closed the door behind me.

We walked all the way across town to where the railroad first came into the town proper. I had been listening as they talked on the walk over and I was starting to get an idea what was happening. As the trains approached Sweetwater they slowed down and went real slow through town, then picked back up speed as they exited on the other side. I could hear a train whistle in the distance and looked up at my Granddaddy. He gave me a grim little smile and said, "Get ready boy."

As the lights of the train came into view, I saw Uncle Bug start running down the tracks away from the rest of the men, toward the oncoming train. Everybody knew that he had spent time hobo'ing and nobody in town knew more about hopping trains than Bug Alexander. When the train got close and slow enough, Uncle Bug jumped on the train and proceeded to climb up on top of the cars and walked back to the coal car. There he was standing up on top of that big pile of coal that was coming slowly closer to us and I knew for sure what I was there to do.

Uncle Bug started kicking that coal as fast as he could and as it came falling down beside the tracks I picked it up and put it in the bucket. I looked down the tracks and couldn't believe I hadn't noticed that people were lined up all the way through town filling up their bags, buckets or whatever else they could find to hold coal. I filled my bucket as quick as I could. There was Bug up there just kicking coal like a madman, and he kept it up all the way to the other side of town where he finally jumped off as the train started to speed back up.

I looked around and saw the faces of all those people and I knew what that coal meant to them, just like I knew what it meant to my family. The poor people of Sweetwater would stay warm that winter thanks to the efforts of one man, my Uncle Bug.