I just recently read an article about a new book written by Mitch Albom, an author who I have read before. I loved his first book called "The 5 People You Meet In Heaven" which I read in one sitting and cried because it was so beautifully written. I then read his other book called "Tuesdays with Morrie", which I didn't really care for or consider as well-written as the above.
He is now releasing today a book called "For One More Day" which poses the question of whom one would like to spend just one more day with of the people that one had lost.
Have you ever lost someone you love and wanted one more conversation, one more day to make up for the time when you thought they would be here forever? I began seriously posing this question to myself and here are my thoughts:
I lost my daughter, Leslie, in July of 2002 and I would still find that being able to spend one more day with her would be too painful for me to endure now. It is still extremely difficult for me to deal with the fact that she is gone. I also believe that every parent that has ever lost a child, regardless of their age, feels some form of guilt that they were unable to either save or prevent the death of that child. Even if there was nothing you could have done, it is still impossible to come to grips with it. Maybe this is especially true for mothers, who feel that sense of protectiveness and caring for their children even when they grow older. I know that I will never lose this protectiveness, ever, for the two children that I have remaining, nor for my grandchildren, call it maternal instinct if you will. It is through my strong belief in my faith and the hereafter that I know she is protected now and that I will see her soon.
Then I thought of my Mother, who died shortly after my daughter. I always had a strained relationship with my mother until a few years just before she died. It wasn't because I wanted it that way, that's just the way that it was. During the last few years before she died, though, I did everything I could to try to form a more durable bond between us. She was ageing and I was her caregiver when her health failed. I sat with her in hospitals and nursing homes when she experienced confusion and delirium due to the deterioration of her health. Before that I also frequently took her, her wheelchair, her oxygen tank, and her, to her doctor's appointments, as well as to fun things such as getting her hair done or spending the day at Costco shopping (she loved that) or wherever she wanted to go. I insisted on getting her dressed up and taking her to family functions on the holidays even though she resisted; she preferred to stay in her home as a recluse, but I wouldn't allow it and she did have fun with her children, grandchildren and great-children. The last photo we have together is during her last visit to my daughter's house for Christmas. She is wearing a red sweater that I bought for her and she is smiling, something she had forgotten to do, due to her self-imposed reclusiveness. I also am smiling and have my arm protectively around her. I treasure that photo. I know that she loved that Christmas. I also remember her frequent phone calls before she got sick, asking me to bring her treats from McDonalds or Wendy's or Kentucky Fried Chicken, which I did. I then would spend time with her and ask her about her health or how she was doing, and frequently gave her baths or groomed her hair. She religiously watched QVC and would call and ask me to order things for her because she somehow couldn't open an account for herself.
I also was the one that made the decision, by myself, to take her off life support and I was with her when she died. For all of this I am thankful because, in my heart, I know that we finally 'bonded' and that I did the best that I could for her. I wouldn't need to spend the day with her either because I accomplished what I wanted to do and say before she died.
I then began to think of my Dad, who died at the age of 40, when I was still young. I would love to spend that day with him - that is my choice. He died before he could see his children marry, have their own children and could experience the great love of being a grandparent. He came to my high school graduation but he never was able to see me further my education and advance in my nursing practice and obtain not one but 3 degrees. He would have loved that. He would also have loved to see how well his grandchildren were raised by myself, my brother and my sister. He would never know the fine values, the ethics and the strong sense of right and wrong that he had instilled in his children. My dad made me the political person that I am today by asking me to watch the elections or the campaigns with him on television. He was a strong union man and also a Democrat. He explained to me that running this country was something everyone should be interested in. He explained, after each candidate's speech, what all of it meant and developed my foundation for caring about my country and who was running it. My dad served in 3 branches of the service during WWII. The freedom we have in this country today is not something he ever took for granted, he fought to ensure that we had it.
It is not something today that is stressed to our young people; to get involved and know who your candidates are, what they stand for, and insisting that they fulfill the promises that they made. My dad also taught me to be proud of who I was and not to ever settle for anything less. In all truthfulness, though, he wanted me to be a policewoman, he really did. He wanted me to take care of him when he got older, and I would of, but he didn't get older and I didn't become a policewoman either. In the short time that he lived, he taught me more than anyone in my life.
Yes, when I think about it, I would loved to spend that day with my Dad and show him my life. We could go out for a cold beer, something he also loved and discuss the politics of today, he would have many opinions on that!! And as far as my accomplishments in life, well, he would be so proud!
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