Strawberry Story: Freddie the Leaf

Break out the Kleenex- let's talk about The Fall of Freddy the Leaf by Leo Buscalgia

Mom had this book in her "Death and Dying" arsenal for counseling.  It's an an outstanding tool to teach and talk to children about those tough topics.  I actually got to meet Leo Buscalgia as a child and hear him read it.

A few years ago I took a graduate seminar in Curriculum Construction and Design at University of Kentucky.  We incorporated the book into our final presentation answering "What does it mean to be human?"  I completely broke down during the final performance...it's like I had blinders on up until that moment and didn't realize how much the book would affect me.

Here's a short excerpt:

"What's happening?" they asked each other in whispers.
"It's what happens in Fall," Daniel told them. "It's the time for leaves to change their home. Some people call it to die."
"Will we all die?" Freddie asked.
"Yes," Daniel answered. "Everything dies. No matter how big or small, how weak or strong. We first do our job. We experience the sun and the moon, the wind and the rain. We learn to dance and to laugh. Then we die."

You can find a full copy of the text on the Achieving Balance website.

Round 3: Three Times and you're out?

Family photo from the Philippines.

Mom's own intro Salivary Gland Cancer section of her book:

Sometimes I can actually see patterns in life as they are happening instead of the more common hindsight that comes close to 20/20. 

As I moved back to Illinois I found myself helping to plan a memorial service for my Dad.  Then my Mom and I launched into amalgamating two households into one, learning to live together again in very new circumstances, getting her to eye experts and eventaully lined up for a cornea transplant to try to recapture the vision she was losing.  About this time I made an appointment with a local chiropractor referred to me by my Colorado specialist.  He asked me about the lump on the left side of my jaw and I explained that it had been watched by doctors for the past 8 years and I had been told not to do anything with it yet because it was too slow growing to be cancerous and would be messy to remove.

Dr. DiDominico looked at me and said, "Yes, but don't you really want to know what it is?"

He referred me to a colleague M.D. in a clinic a few towns away with X-ray equipment on site.  I saw him the day Magic Johnson announced his HIV+ condition on the television as I sat in the waiting room for them to develop the films.  The doctor referred me to a head and neck specialist and the drama began.

Strawberry Story: The Big Hungry Bear

Our favorite children's book to read together, and the layered strawberry meaning makes it twice as sweet.

The Little Mouse, the Red Ripe Strawberry, and the BIG HUNGRY BEAR
by Don and Audrey Wood, Illustrated by Don Wood

Hello, little Mouse.  What are you doing?

Oh, I see.  Are you going to pick that red, ripe strawberry?

But, little Mouse, haven't you heard about the big, hungry Bear?

Ohhh, how that Bear loves red, ripe strawberries!

The big, hungry Bear can smell a red, ripe strawberry a mile away...

Especially, one that has just been picked.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!  The Bear will tromp through the forest on his big, hungry feet, and SNIFF! SNIFF! SNIFF! find the strawberry...

No matter where it is hidden, or who is guarding it, or how it is disguised.

Quick!  There's only one way in the whole wide world to save a red, ripe strawberry from the big, hungry Bear!

Cut it in two.

Share half with me.

And we'll both eat it all up.  YUM!

Now, that's one red, ripe strawberry the big, hungry Bear will never get!

The End

Credit: Don and Audrey Wood, Child's Play (International) Limited http://www.childs-play.com/

Seven Wonderful, Terrible Years

From the desk of Lois Trever-Basten:

In late 1991 my husband died after a long illness.  He was strangely surprised that I "took such good care of him," but I thought after fifty years of keeping our wedding vows to "love and to cherish" each other "until death us do part," that no other course was to be considered.

He had said his goodbyes to Janet's children, grandson Andy and granddaughter Sarah, together the light of his life.

At the moment of his death Janet had finished packing all her worldly goods in a van, ready to start driving from Fort Collins, Colorado, to our home of almost 50 years in Arlington Heights, Illinois.  As always she was very helpful in arranging a warm memorial service and a blustery, rainy burial service.

Janet and I had some important health decisions to make.  She needed to find new good doctors to take over treatment of a mysterious lump in her jaw, and I too picked an eye surgeon to replace my defective eye corneas so that I could drive well again.  My short trips to the hospital had been fraught with danger of going over curbs and rocks, several of which I had actually already done.  I had my first eye surgery very soon.  Janet found a wonderful doctor for herself, Dr. George Sisson, to be her physician, surgeon, friend and partner.

In the week following Art's death there was a stunning electrical storm which darkened our lights and disabled most of our electrical household appliances.  We spent a lot of time taking the microwave over, televisions, toaster, everything but the computer (which fortunately had not arrived yet) to various repair shops.  All of theme were very difficult to find.  We felt that we were traveling, like Joe Btfsplk, of cartoon fame, under unending showers, trying to keep dry under a tiny umbrella, while all around us were enjoying sunny weather.

The time came for Janet's first surgery on that lump called the parotid gland.  A good sized group was with me including a young lady minister and friend, a soon-to-be minister Tom Barth, the long time friend of Janet's from 3rd grade, Sue Culliton, who about that time promised Janet to take her to all future medical appointments.  Sue was destined to wear out her good car taking Janet to Northwestern Hospital, Rush, Presbyterian, St. Luke's Hospital, University of Illinois Hospital, University of Chicago Hospital, the Neutron Radiation location in Batavia.  What a promise, Sue, and how you have honored it!

During many of these surgeries and medical visits as well as the follow-ups, I have remembered Meryl Tullis' advise to look up, way up, before the torrents of tears can take over.  Between Janet's friends and mine and my wonderful church, our families and neighbors, we have never felt abandoned.  Instead we have had great support all along.

Text: Lois Trever-Basten "Seven Wonderful, Terrible Years"
Images: Joe Bflstck images captured from a great blog entry http://www.ronmartin.net/blog/archives/1312
and
http://rexwordpuzzle.blogspot.com/2010/12/joe-btfsplks-creator-fri-12-17-10.html
originally drawn for Andy Capp comic by Reg Smythe who died of cancer in 1998

On the Road Again: U-Haul Stories

One thing about the Trever-Millers, we're kinda famous for our moves.  Not dance steps, our many moves around the country.  I like to tell people I went to 14 different schools by the time I graduated high school.  We were military brats for a time, but even after my parent's divorce, I liken my mother's notions of moving to that of Juliette Binoche's character in Chocolate.  She felt the wind blow and knew it was time to go.

In her book she dedicated a paragraph to the week-long drive from Rapid City, South Dakota to Tucson, Arizona:

We again "upped the anti" in the gutsiness department.  This time we were taking our U-Haul of possessions cross country to a place none of us had ever been.  My parents flew out to Rapid City and drove our car, Sarah and Weesnick (the one who supposedly couldn't travel in cars), while Andy and I managed the big truck.  We had to struggle mightily because the local office had given us a lemon to palm off on another state.  It broke down, didn't have the power steering and automatic shift that was promised, the emergency brake didn't work, and was basically a huge gangly truck.  I drove and handled the clutch while 10 year old Andy operated the top gear shifts that I couldn't reach, "Going for fourth." (as I put in the clutch but couldn't look at him) and he would respond "Got it," so that I knew I could let go of the clutch.  It took all four of our hands and arms to turn the steering wheel, and he was the look-out since the outside rear view mirror on my side was broken.  The last night as we were driving along the highway the desert was illuminated by yellow reflector lights ahead of us as far as the eye could see.  Both Andy and I commented that it looked like the yellow brick road that we were following to our next adventure.

Originally I wasn't going to include the U-Haul story in the blog, but I found something today that changed my mind.  A drawn caricature of my mom in a U-Haul, and an account written by SOMEONE ELSE of our move from Tucson to Fort Collins a few years later.

Moving was part of mom and who she was.  That essence of the Yellow Brick Road and that the next adventure was always on the horizon haunted and delighted her.

I have no idea who wrote this, but its a wonderful description of our life on the move, and I love the imagery of mom ferreting around in boxes and the purple eye-patch brigade that saw her off.

(excerpt from "The Move")
THE MOVE

This detailed description is not for the faint-hearted, nor for anyone contemplating a move in the near future.  Consider yourself forewarned!

Part The First----Preparation

     Jan became a box fiend, ferreting out every nook and cranny for a month before the actual event.  The professional movers' estimate of $300 for the supply of boxes alone was enough motivation.  She learned to haunt the campus hallways and staircases, the bookstore ramp, the new Mental Health office finishing its move into the old TKE house.  A dear friend, Anne Price, sponsored a Garage Sale at her house for Jan the week before the move, and the $232 she cleared while lightening up on furniture possessions almost covered the $250 car repairs that week to get the old Bobcat trip safe.

Mom on Death and Dying (Water Weenies and All)

Playing dress up in Loie's dress, her groom to boot!

About halfway through my Hospice counseling after mom died, my counselor Noah began our session asking, "How's your anger?"

"My what?"

"You  know, your anger.  How are you expressing that?"

I was mystified.  He pulled a Kubler-Ross book off the shelf and showed me the five stages of grieving: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. 

Oddly, at this moment I found my anger.  My mom had trained with Kubler-Ross in the 1970s and was a death and dying expert herself.  How had we not had this conversation?  She could have left me a list, bullet points for grieving.  By nightfall I was kicking in grocery carts at the local Jewel.

This morning I read in her book of Grander's passing, a brief glimpse into mom's own grieving process for her dad. 

From the book:

My mom called me in Colorado the night I was packed to leave to tell me that my Dad had just died.  So I drove alone the next two days, stopping at the halfway mark at cousin Sandi's in Omaha the first night.  I had lots to think about en route.  My dad had had many things wrong with his body at the end: diabetes, a pacemaker put in, on dialysis, etc. so in a way it was a Godsend to have him no longer in a nursing home barely conscious and surviving.  And at the same time I realized that I was now half an orphan and it felt different.  The local minister was very helpful with my Mom and making arrangements until I arrived, but she was delighted to see me again.  We arranged for her to set up a cornea transplant for her failing eyesight.  We were being very efficient with our time, having long talks to make up for all the years apart, learning to make decisions together as a team.

That doesn't give me a lot to go on.  I wonder more deeply how mom handled the passing of her father.  She never had to grieve for her mother.  Maybe because of his age and condition she appears to slip from notification straight to acceptance.  Or maybe the two days of intense driving gave her necessary time to work through the stages.  I took a similar drive after mom's death, so I can relate.  More likely, living a life always so close to death, she managed grieving in a different way.

Flash forward another year or two to a scene during my Cornell years (1991-1995) when I'm "home" in Arlington Heights visiting mom and Loie years after Grander died.  With a four hour drive ahead of me, we sat down on the living room floor to say goodbye, my mom, Loie, and me.  We got a little....distracted. 



Water Squeeze Toy, as Google informs me.



I had what I call a water weenie- one of those plastic cylinders filled with water that slides within itself; the tighter you try and hang on to it the fast it runs between your fingers.  As I fumbled around with the toy, Mom and Loie talked about how comfortable they were with death, how they enjoyed living in the present moment and hoped I would not be afraid for them.  I went from playing with the water weenie as they spoke to tossing it like a hot potato.  We remained in the circle playing water weenie hot potato for two hours!  My mom took a picture of us playing and sent me the photo in a "Strawberry Moments" picture frame.

And that was how we talked of death and losing a parent.