Mother Marty

Marty is a mother.  It’s more than a little enlightening to see the young woman who became your wife make the transition from girl friend to wife to mother.  We all evolve, daughters become wives, and wives become mothers.  

Marty made the transition, not seamlessly, not gracefully, not perfectly.  She wasn’t the perfect mother; she wasn’t “earth mother”.  Marty smoked, she cussed, she slept late, she was over bearing, she was loud, and at times I’m sure she was a bit embarrassing for our two children. 

 But Marty loved fiercely and Matt and Erin grew up knowing that fierce love.  They grew up knowing Marty was always and forever in their corner and on their side and they could come to her for anything.

She raised our children to know anything was possible.  As they watched Marty work for her doctorate they saw you could do life differently, even a little non-traditionally.  They saw how important education was and they saw how you could choose a goal and achieve it.  They saw how you could make major life changes and succeed.

Our children knew Marty was behind them and would always be there to help with ideas or advise.  She was there to help them be who they were and succeed.  

She helped Matt make a remote control paper-mâché shark and had the scratches and scars from the chicken wire they used for the skeleton of the shark to prove it.  

She helped Erin make her first (and maybe only) career video by giving her direction and running the camera and getting her access to doctors’ offices and equipment for the video.  

Marty wiped their faces, doled out medicine and made sure they were at the right doctor’s offices when the kids were sick.  She once held an infant Erin close during an exam for chronic urinary tract infections.  When they came out she couldn’t figure out why Erin had blood on her head….it was from Marty’s lip, Marty had bit through her own lip while holding her infant daughter.  

To this day I believe she saved Matt’s leg because she was persistent in ensuring he got first class care when he contracted a staph infection that moved to cellulitis.  She then did wet dry packs in the open wound for weeks.  I couldn’t do it.

Marty was at her best with the problems, whether it was school, love life, faith or a broken down car.  She was one of the world’s great problems solvers.  The kids came to her because she almost always offered solutions, solutions without judgment, well, maybe not too much judgment.

It wasn’t just our kids either.  Our house had a variety of other kids running in and out because they felt welcome by the mother of the house.  Marty was deeply involved in our church’s youth program and the young girls would go to her, the somewhat crass, loud woman with the warm heart.  They would go to her for reassurance, they would go to her for acceptance, and they would go to her for love.  

Marty always, always had love for her children and the children of others.  She was and is mother to many because of that love, because of that sometimes frail, sometimes brittle, always enduring love of a mother.

The strokes, the brain injury have not changed that.  She can’t do some of the things she once did, she can’t do many of the things she once did, she is not as expressive or demonstrative as she once was, but I know, I know Marty, I know her heart; I know she loves her kids with the same intensity and the same depth she always has.  

It is, in spite of life getting in the way, a mother’s love and that is not changed by anything.

Mother of Marty

Marty’s mother is 500 miles away and physically deteriorating.  She is 86 years old and spent Marty’s stroke years in a nursing home in her home town of Dalhart, a long way from anywhere, a long drive from everywhere.  We need to go because I think she is coming to the end of her journey in this life and time.

I met Jean in 1974, a life time ago.  Marty and I were in college when I met this woman.  She was barely five feet tall, smoked a lot and drank coffee all the time and she took me to a marvelous steak house in Lubbock that had the most fantastic cheese rolls.

To a small town, sheltered boy who was falling in love with her daughter Jean was an interesting mix of southern bell and eccentric middle-aged mother.  She was the typical southern Baptist woman attached to a large burly man.  She struck me as incredibly worldly and independent but my base view of the world consisted of west Texas.  

In the 40 years I have known Marty’s mother I have never been able to really figure her out.  She was loving, caring, smart, loyal and very passive aggressive.  She grew up a pampered only child adopted by one of the first architects in New Mexico.  She didn’t tell Marty she was adopted until Marty and I were in our 30s and Marty needed some medical history.  She simply never thought it was important.  That was Jean.

I learned pretty quickly that Jean and Marty loved each other but at times, many times they didn’t like each other very much.  Jean was to her husband, “You’re right, you’re right, you’re right as rain.”  Marty was, “You’re wrong and I’ll prove it.”  Jean mastered the art of passive aggression, Marty got the aggressive without the passive part. 

They were/are so very different.  But they are both dogged determined survivors.  Jean is so far away because we wanted her to live her last days close to her home and her friends and with her poor health we didn’t think she would be long for this world.  That was eight years ago.  Marty’s fight for survival, Marty’s instinct to live come honestly.

Jean has suffered from age related dementia for several years.  The dementia was apparent even before her husband died, she had quit being engaged, she had quit being able to fully care for herself years before Arty’s passing.   

When I first took Marty back to Dalhart after her 2^nd stroke we went to the nursing home and I rolled her into Jean’s room.  We hadn’t been there for two years because of the strokes.  Jean, who was watching television in her room, immediately sat up in her own wheel chair, startled by seeing Marty, seeing Marty clearly impaired, seeing Marty in her own wheelchair.  

It was the second time I had seen Jean, in spite of her dementia, in spite of her physical and cognitive frailty, respond as a mother.  She was shocked and clearly dismayed that her daughter, her youngest was in a wheelchair.  She looked at me for an explanation and wanted to know what had happened.  As I related the stroke stories she reached her hand over to Marty’s, grasped, then patted her hand as they sat together, side-by-side in their chairs.  It was one of her finest moments.

Any trip for us is hard because of Marty’s medical condition and overall frailty.  This trip, 500 miles, nine hours one way, is best described as arduous.  Marty wouldn’t have it any other way.  She feels called, compelled to make the trip to sit beside her mother, to touch her mother, to whisper to her mother, maybe for the last time.  

Me, I make lists of stuff, I gather stuff, I pack stuff, I load the van, Marty and her caregiver ride, I drive, and drive, and drive some more and then unload everyone and everything at your friendly neighborhood Holiday Inn.  It’s a bone cruncher.

Like our other trips to Dalhart we will make a quick turn-around.  I don’t like keeping our caregiver away from their family too long and motels aren’t a great place to care for someone who is incapacitated.  We get the accessible room, but it’s not very comfortable for any of us.

On Saturday, tomorrow morning, we will get into the van early that morning with all of the associated tools, bags and stuff that are required for Marty’s care.  We will turn the van north and I will drive as fast and far as I can without stopping or getting stopped.  

We will go see Jean and while she may not know that we were there, she may not respond to me or her daughter, we will know we were there, we will know, Marty will know, she made the trip to reach out and touch her mother one more time.

Its nine hours across Texas from central Texas to the top left hand corner of the panhandle.  Its nine hours back, it’s a bone cruncher, it’s worth the effort.

Subbing for Marty

The call came late in the evening as I stood at our front door and watched as the city repair crew dug up portions of our street to repair the very obvious water leak.  They worked until the very early morning hours to restore our water service.  The only real consequences were no bath for Marty that night and it threw me out of rhythm, and we all know I’m a very rhythmic guy.

Then the call came from my number one son-in-law, a halting, kind of plaintive call asking a simple question before getting to the larger question, he said, “Hey Marty’s Husband, what’s going on?”

Marty’s Husband, “Not much son-in-law, how’s things?”

“Oh, not too hot, your daughter is not doing well; she’s got a really bad headache and has been throwing up.”

“That sucks,” I replied with more fatherly concern than it sounds.

“Yeah,” son-in-law says, “I wonder if you could come up tomorrow to help out with Lily?”

The question itself was simple, straight forward and belied a very simple courage on the part of son-in-law.   He saw a need for his wife, my daughter, and a need for his daughter, my granddaughter, and called seeking help.  I can remember trying to squirrel up the same kind of courage, call and ask for help.  I didn’t do it very well or very often.  My son-in-law clearly loves his family.

 

My instinct in changes to our rhythm, in any changes to my schedule is to go with the real easy, “Oh, I can’t.”  “Nope,” has always been my unfortunate fall-back position.  My brain ran through the list of things I needed to do in Waco, I needed to pay bills, I needed to exercise, I needed to be with Marty and the damn water was off and she didn’t get her bath.

In the back of my mind came the old arguments Marty and I used to have, she would want to do something different, my instinctual response was no.  Instinct can be limiting and Marty hounded me to not always start with “nope” but to simply think before responding, to think what was really important, to focus on what could be better than just the same old.  

I paused, took a breath, took a mental accounting of what needed to happen for me to leave early the next morning, pushed away from my baser, selfish instincts and said, “Of course I’ll come.” 

Of course I would go; helping with my granddaughter was the priority, not the paying of the bills, not the gym, not the rhythm of life; of course I would go.

As I lay in bed that night I couldn’t help but think how much and how often in many situations like this our family misses Marty being Marty.  It was in her nature to be the matriarch, the Victoria Barkley, of this family.  She would have been right in the middle of helping, maybe to the point of too much.  She probably would have driven up that night, she certainly never would have thought about not going and she would have severely chastised me for even having an inkling of not helping. 

Our new normal mandates that I substitute for Marty, that I try to fill in the gaps the strokes took from our family when they struck Marty.  I know I cannot be Erin’s mother or Matt’s mother, I know I’m a substitute for the real thing.  I’m a pretty good substitute, the spirit is willing, but I am replacement for the real thing none the less.  Marty was a good mother.  She was a different kind of mother, one prone to profanity, one prone to telling dirty jokes, one prone to listening to you cry, one prone to offering the best and most qualified advice.  

I know how much both of our children have missed Marty’s presence, her advice, her confidence and her intimate involvement.  I know there are times in her life, when Erin feels Marty’s absence, Marty’s inability to mother, the most.  

Marty and Erin, mother and daughter, so very much alike and often at each other’s throat, only to be followed by whispering in each other’s ears and laughing out loud.  There is no bond like a mother and daughter and I think a woman wants her mom when she has her first baby, Erin gets her dad.

Marty is painfully aware of her lack of a maternal role.  I’m aware that she feels less than, that she feels guilty, that she feels she is not doing what she was intended to do. Marty’s response to my quick trip to Dallas, “Poor guy, that’s what I should be doing.”  I love that she knows, I hate that she knows.

I did the parental duty and loved doing it but, as always, missed Marty.  I didn’t wish she was pre-stroke Marty to relieve me of my responsibilities, I mostly wished she was okay and functional so she could have the same joy I did as I sat on the couch feeding our precious Lily.   I wished she could truly feel and give voice to the pride in our daughter and her husband in how they are caring for dear Lily.   I wished she could connect and feel the power of holding and feeding the vulnerable and the innocent.  

That’s where we are, the agony and the joy of recovery six years post stroke.  Marty is aware of what’s going on, she’s aware of what she can’t do what she once did.  What I hope Marty knows, what I want her to be aware of, is how much what she has been, how much of what she is today impacts my thinking and my doing.  I want her to know how much of what she was as a mother is being lived out by both her daughter and her son in how they care for their own children.

Mothers I'll Love Forever

All day, every day I am surrounded by humans of the female persuasion. I am allowed to float vicariously in an ocean of estrogen and on most days, at most times, I’m honored to be in the presence of all of these beautiful women, most of who happen to be mothers. I’m a mother lover and have the perfect perch from which to wax on eloquently about the most important mothers in my life.

My own Mom – Bettye Lou --Much to her chagrin my Mom, who loves Bill O’Reilly is the person who taught me to be a liberal. She gave me life, she taught me to empathize, through her own life she showed me how to accept differences, tolerate different ideas and if I have an emotional IQ at all, she is responsible. Sorry Mom but it’s all you.

My mother has fought macular degeneration for several years and over time her vision has become more and more limited, exceptionally difficult for someone who has always been so visually oriented. She still plays bridge, really well, every week, in spite of the macular degeneration. She has found a way. She still cooks, she still rules the house and the holidays, she still loves on her children and she has taken Marty into her heart as her own child.

My mother is the consummate mother figure and I know she has always loved me best. There’s never been a time in my life when I didn’t know my mother loved and supported me, and I know that wasn’t always easy.

My children’s Mother – Marty -- Perhaps the greatest compliment I ever heard anyone give Marty was when I heard my own mother say she would have liked to have known Marty when she was raising her children because Marty was such a good mom and would have provided insightful counsel.

I learned real passion from watching Marty with Matt and Erin. There have been many mothers who loved their children as much as Marty loves her, but none more. Marty practiced her love, exuded emotion, had remarkable confidence in parenting and always knew answers. Maybe they weren’t the right answers, maybe a question hadn’t been asked, but she always had an answer for her children.

Marty was the kind of mom who didn’t accept normal boundaries. She just didn’t recognize them. I know that part of her could be aggravating, but she was always available, always aware, always in love with her kids. There could never be any doubt about her love for her children, you could see it, and you could feel it, and if you watch her real close, if you know her well, you can still feel it when Matt and Erin are with her.

Noah’s mother -- Sarah – the daughter-in-law – Sarah is amazingly maternal, I didn’t see that coming. She is completely tuned in to my grandson. She knows what he is thinking, what he is feeling and how he is feeling intuitively.

In her, I see the same passion, the same undeniable love, the same dedication and skill that I see in Marty. She is so like Marty yet so different from Marty, I understand why Matt married her and wanted children with her. I have been so proud of how they have taken to being parents. They are going to have another child in October and I’m sure they will name this one Larry Joe.

Mystery babies mother – Erin – my daughter, a mother-in-waiting. When Erin told me she was pregnant I sat holding the phone in a kind of stunned silence. I thought about my daughter as a baby, I thought about my daughter as a young child, I thought about my daughter as a teen-ager. I have a hard time seeing my daughter as an adult; I don’t have a hard time seeing my child with a child. She has seen the best teachers in the world. Through my mother, through Marty, through Sarah, she has had wonderful maternal mentors.

If ever there was anyone capable of providing the care, the love, the kindness, the passion it takes to be a mother, it’s Erin. I’ve seen it her whole life. I saw it when she cared for her dolls and talked to them gently and sang quiet songs to them, I saw it when she begged to baby sit and parents wanted to book her early, and I saw it when she had to cut all of her mother’s bloody, matted hair from her head in the hospital. She cares for others, she is passionate about so many of the right things, and she is already a wonderful, worrying mother.

As a man surrounded by women so much of the time I could claim to be the supreme arbiter of great motherhood, but that would be stupid, even for me. The women in my life would never allow me that. What I can say, without reservation is, as a son, a husband and a father, I have seen what is good, I recognize how vital, how mandatory the women in our lives are to our well being.

I know there is a grace-filled God when I look at the mothers in my life. I wish it were so for all.

What a Grandson Should Know

Noah's coming to Waco. It's our grandson’s first visit to the Heart of Texas; it's his first visit to our house in Waco; it will be the first time he gets to meet many of our friends. He's coming to a wedding, which should be very exciting. I know Marty and I are excited. Yes, Marty gets excited about Noah. She loves her children but, she loves Noah the most.

Don't get me wrong in any of this. We are grateful for many things. We are glad Marty is still with us and cognizant enough to recognize happiness, small and great. We are glad and grateful we have the resources and capability to care for Marty in a way which makes her life better, which prolongs her life, which allows her to find moments of happiness and satisfaction. We understand it could be worse.

I understand our relative good fortune and the blessing Noah is to all; I really regret what Noah missed in not knowing Marty before she had the strokes. I fear Noah will grow up and will only know and remember his Grandma Kinard as the sick old lady in the wheelchair. Knowing and understanding what he and his future brothers and/or sisters and cousins will miss causes me sadness. That's part of why I write this stuff, so people who didn't know Marty before she was sick can understand what we all miss.

What I want Noah to know about his Grandmother is what I think Marty wants him to know. I want Noah to know how really smart Marty was, what a wonderful mind she had before strokes broke her brain. Marty holds not one, but two advanced degrees, she excelled at academia, she was a master learner. She was one of the best problem solvers I have ever known; she could almost always come up with solutions, some of which were reasonable, but she always had a thought or opinion, about everything.

Marty was an incredibly verbal person and her thoughts and comments were not necessarily bound by decorum or polite society. She saw things differently than many, she felt things more than some and she was effusive about all of it. Basically, I want Noah to know how really smart and unique his Grandmother was.

I want Noah to know that Marty was an amazing Mother. I want him to hear about the Mom who helped Matt put together a battery powered, paper Mache shark for a school project and had scratches from the chicken wire they used to prove it. I want him to hear about the video tape she helped Erin put together for her school presentation about being a physician. I want Noah to know about the time Marty threw Erin a Halloween birthday party and how she wrangled a co-worker and her husband to be gypsy psychics and how they used a walkie-talkie so she could feed these faux gypsies information about each of the kids. We all laughed for days as the kids were aghast that these strangers knew so much about them.

Noah needs to know that Marty was an excellent teacher, that she taught physicians to be better teachers and coaches. I want Noah to know how Marty gave speeches and presented seminal papers and made a difference in the lives of people who save lives. I want Noah to understand the impact Marty had on people and how people would come to her to talk and how young girls from church would seek her out for direction and assistance and advice on life.

Mostly what I want Noah to understand is that his Grandmother was an amazing woman. More importantly I want him to understand she still is an amazing woman. Marty’s will to survive when surviving seems impossibly hard, her drive to improve when improvement comes only with concerted patience and sweat, and her desire to think when the simple act of thinking requires tremendous concentration and effort overshadows all of the rest of her life.

I want Noah to understand that what Marty has done throughout her life is exceptional, but her life the last five years has been nothing short of amazing and while she may look like the broken woman in a wheelchair he needs to see what I see and I what I everyday is a hero.

They Know and Still Love Us

Mothers, Moms, Madres, Mamas’ or Maws’ are the life givers. They carry you inside their bodies, willingly accepting the abuse to their own bodies. They give birth to you, they wash your face, brush your teeth, teach you how to tie your shoes, sit through really bad band concerts, bake in the sun cheering you as you sit on the bench at games, cry when you graduate and rejoice when you finally leave. They are Mothers and Mothers keep the world alive.

The story goes that the day after I was born the nurses at the small hospital in far west Texas where I was born sent the wrong baby to my Mother and sent me to the wrong Mother. My Mom knew something was up and pointed out the mistake to the nurses. Fortunately, the mistake was immediately corrected. The telling part of the story is that my Mother “just knew”, she “just knew” she had the wrong child in her arms that day.

That’s part of the charm, the mystery, the power of Mothers. They “just know”. It’s why as children and even adults we behave ourselves. Forget the whole moral center thing, it has to do with Mom knowing, it has to do with Mom’s having this special intuitive power of knowing if you are doing well, if you are doing right, if you are doing in a way they would approve and be proud. It’s just one of the things my Mother taught me and I saw repeated with Marty, Mother’s know.

As I grew up, before I went out into the world and after, the one thing I knew for sure, the one thing I always carried with me was that my Mother loved me. It was never in doubt. In spite of what I did or didn’t do, I knew my Mother would take me back, I knew my Mother would love me. It’s just one of the things I took for granted with her and I have seen repeated with Marty, Mother’s love unconditionally.

I know I was fortunate. I know not everyone had my family experience. I know I never had to worry about my Mother’s love; there has never been any doubt in my mind that my Mother loves me and always will. Even in the worst of my adolescent angst I knew at my core, my Mother would always love me. Even as I grew and struggled for maturity and independence, I knew I could always step back and find my Mother’s love. Even as I had my own children, my own job, my own life and the constancy of our contact waned, in the back of my mind, I knew, I felt, I was confident in my Mother’s love.

It’s what I hope Matt and Erin, our children know, feel and experience. Even as their Mother struggles on a day-to-day basis to live her life, even though her cognition is diminished, even though her energy is all directed to simply getting through the day, her love for them is something that is palpable, constant and very real. The strokes have not diminished her love and her passion for her children.

Mothers made us who we are, they gave us life when we had none, they gave us understanding when we were not worth understanding, and they gave us love when we were unlovable. It’s been amazing to grow and understand all of this of my own Mother; it has been inspiring to watch Marty as she passed these lessons to our children. It has been intensely rewarding to watch as Matt’s wife Sarah passes on the same unconditional love and acceptance for Noah, and I know, because of her Mother’s love, at the right time Erin will do the same.

Our Mothers, good and bad, are why we are all here today. We are forever intrinsically linked to them. I’m really glad my Mother and I have both lived long enough for me to grow enough to understand and say this to her.