Sine O' Sanity: family

Showing posts with label family. Show all posts

Monday, July 27, 2026

To my mom, July 27

Monday, July 27, 1981

Sorry … I seem to be getting lax about making entries in my book to you. It's just that time passes more quickly than I realize and you are growing so fast.

But, much has happened in the past several weeks. Your sister Jessie has come to spend a month with us. I can tell she loves you dearly and she is very helpful because she likes to take care of her little brother. She'll be leaving soon, and I'm sure she'll miss you … and you her.

The doctor is thinking about having your right foot put into a cast because of the way it turns in. I'll be taking you to see a special bone doctor so he can tell us what, if anything, needs to be done.

Your nanny, my mother, called us last night to see how we were all doing. And to say she anxiously awaits our arrival to California in just a few short weeks.

Monday, July 27, 2026

I'm definitely not sorry you took the time at all to record these anecdotes and thoughts you had as an early mother. It's now been more than a half year since your passing, and I'm reminded to take things as they come.
Jessie has visited three times since early December. Twice for dad's surgeries. She loved you, too, despite whatever contrary actions/attitudes might have been interpreted in those days and ones to follow. She wants to move Dad out to New Mexico with her next year sometime to care for him. Nothing set in stone, but I'm not wholly against it.

My right foot in a cast, eh? That must be why I turn my ankle on occasion, though I've never thought there was anything particularly wrong with my feet. Fortunately, my reflexes are such that I've never done any real damage. Take care of your core, back, hips, knees, and ankles is my ongoing mantra as I age.

Aunt Carmen visited, too, in July. We had a nice chat about lots of things, not the least of which was Nana. Thinking back on the Oceanside days, it's almost like a dream now. But I know they were real and I cherish those times.

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.

Wednesday, March 11, 2026

Kidding Around: Zoo News Edition

Monday, February 16, 2026

To my mom, February 16

Monday, February 16, 1981

Feeling much better today and tomorrow I've really got to get back on regular exercise program to better prepare myself for delivery. I've been doing them off and on since Christmas but I mustn't waste any more time … blessings on you little one—with all my love.

P.S. Today is your cousin Eric's 1st birthday!!

Monday, February 16, 2026

Feeling much better on the days when I can summon some purpose to the tasks at hand, which often requires that I practically strangle any purpose out of it. A regular exercise program is a worthy goal, but an often irritating one to keep. I stay healthier than most, I'd wager, but much like you were I'm not an "exercise-freak" by nature.
Mustn't waste any more time. Heh. So wild how your words from 45 years ago echo my present situation. I'm blessed to have been your little one.

P.S. Today Eric turns 46. He contacted me not long after learning to express his concern for us over your loss. Aunt Mamie and Uncle Gary flew out to visit Dad last week. EJ paid for our dinner out while they were here. Fine gestures all.

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.

Thursday, February 5, 2026

To my mom, February 5

Thursday, February 5, 1981

The days seem so long and dreary—and of course the cold, gloomy weather doesn't make it any better. I wish you were here right now, at least I'd have you to do things for—but, I have to be patient … good things take time…

Thursday, February 5, 2026

Long and dreary. Or fleeting and aimless? I'm not sure which of the two I'm experiencing more. And we both know it's not entirely true: how we perceive things and the way they really are. I wish we were better at discerning between the two, then maybe we'd move through life as God intends: with more grace and understanding.
Other than that, I'm almost at a loss to respond to your second sentence there … I know having you here right now would not make things better, as I've plenty to do already. I believe you knew that, too, at the end, and that's why you were resigned to the end rather than prolong an undesirable and unpleasant existence. We have to be patient, too, sometimes. But we also need to know when to act. It's a scary place to be caught between stillness and action and being unable to commit. That's ultimately the lesson I pray I take from your example.

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.

Sunday, February 1, 2026

To my mom, February 1

Sunday, February 1, 1981

I will begin work on the curtains for your room soon, don't have a whole lot of time left, ya know! My! but you've been active today, I've got this awful ache in my right side. Oh well, a little pain for a lot of joy—I guess I can endure.

Sunday, February 1, 2026

And endure you did. But only so much as was reasonable in the end. Ten or twenty more years of life in that state would have hardly been a life at all. That awful ache in your side born of a rolled ankle, imbalance issues, what your doctors termed "spinal stenosis," and ultimately your failing psyche made it hard to stay active.

My God! Ya know, it wasn't until the final month that we realized how little time you had left. And as the curtain closes on that stage of our lives, we're all—me, Yume, Ewan, Paige, and not least of all Dad—now working on the next stage. A stage we explore now without you.

My mom died on January 7, 2026. She was 70 years old. It was both her time and not her time.