Sheila Sims Iding
December 31st . A day of celebration. Well…an eve of celebration at least. December 31st marks the end of the year and people celebrate. They celebrate the end of a year. Some celebrate that the year…which may have brought misfortune…is over. Some celebrate that the year may have brought many blessings. People celebrate. And if you think about it…it is one of the few holidays that people celebrate world-wide. No matter your ethnicity, your religion, your culture, your time zone…most everyone celebrates December 31st . Most everyone celebrates New Year’s Eve. Most everyone celebrates the last day.
I used to celebrate. Especially when you are young and hang out with other couples…you would gather and celebrate. Until that one day…December 31…in 1975. On that day it was more than the last day of the year. It was the last day of my mother’s life. She died on December 31, 1975 and New Year’s Eve took on a whole different meaning for me. From that day on…it wasn’t about parties. It wasn’t about a night of fun. It wasn’t about celebrating. December 31st went from meaning the last day of the year…to meaning the last day of my mom’s life.
She died in the hospital in the early hours of the 31st. It had just turned into the last day of the year when she died. I still remember the call. You always remember that call. You always remember that drive to the hospital. You always remember gathering in that room. I remember my dad crying. I remember him saying “I didn’t know it would be this hard to let her go.”
Because my mom had been sick since I was in first grade, there isn’t a whole lot more I remember. I don’t have the memories most daughters have with their moms. There are no memories of shopping together, cooking together, teenage attitude, heart to heart talks or motherly advice given. I don’t have many pictures in an album or many images in my mind. However, I am not without some images of the gift of her life. And I am not without some memories. And so today…on the eve of the eve…I would like to tell my mom thanks for the memories.
Thank you for your amazing courage in fighting Multiple Sclerosis. Thank you for so bravely fighting your disease for 16 years. Sixteen damn, long years. I get frustrated if I have strep for 3 days. I can’t imagine the frustration of fighting a disease for 16 days…let alone 16 years.
Thank you for early memories of house dresses that match (oh my gosh…remember house dresses?) and how we would wear them after Suzy and Sharon left for school and clean together. Thank you for letting me “help” you do the dishes. I love how you would clean the copper on the bottom of the pans and rinse it with hot or cold water. Then you would press it on my face and let my cheek guess which one.
Thank you for the one memory I have of you holding me. I had a horrible ear infection and you sat up with me most of the night. You held me on the couch and gave me orange juice. Who knew that long night for you would be a cherished memory for me.
Speaking of ear infections (which were frequent and bad for me), thanks for the memory of our one family vacation to the Mackinaw Bridge. Turns out it was our only family vacation. I remember my ear hurt so bad I got to sit in the front seat by you (ha ha Suzy and Sharon) and I remember my head on your shoulder almost the entire trip…even as we looked at the lights on the bridge.
Thank you nicknaming me “Gus”. Oh…don’t get me wrong…I have cursed that nickname. As the story goes, you nicknamed me while watching Cinderella and the fattest mouse (rat?) making her dress was “Gus”. For some reason you thought it would be a good nickname for me. Dad always called me that. The whole softball team called me that. Now only two people call me that (Suzy and Pepper) and I have learned to love the sound of it.
Thank you for your stubbornness about the wheelchair. I remember you told dad you would never use it because once you started you knew it would be forever. So he carried you so you wouldn’t have to use it. I admired his love for you. I admired your stubbornness (although I prefer to call it determination). I can’t imagine the courage it took to ask your husband to do that. Thanks for your determined stubbornness…even in the wheelchair.
Thanks for having an amazing husband. Who knew the vows “in sickness and in health” would be tested so much? I watched him comb your hair, wash your face (with Nozema), give you a bath and dress you. I watched him feed you, pray with you and carry you in every sense of the word. He didn’t know it then, but he was teaching me how to lovingly and willingly be a care giver. A genuine giver of care.
Speaking of helping you…I watched dad give you cigarettes and beer. Thank you for not giving up your vices in the face of illness. Good for you for hanging on to the things that brought you pleasure. There are probably those (including doctors) who advised differently…thanks for not listening.
Speaking of feeding and cigarettes…thank you for the honor of the times it was my day to care for you. Thank you for the times it was my meal to feed you. Thank you for the hours it was my scheduled time to give you your cigarettes. Thank you for knowing I was a teenager…a college girl…a daughter on the go. I didn’t want to be there. When we got the schedule, I hated it. When you would call for your cigarette I would ignore it like the dog barking to go out. I ignored it the first time and reluctantly gave in the second (or third) call. I admit that now (even though you probably knew it then). I regret that now. For what it’s worth…I will always regret it. Always.
Having said that…thank you for the times I wasn’t a brat about my care giving duties. Thank you for the moments we shared as I sat by your bed to feed you, give you water, give you a smoke or clean you up. Thank you for trying so hard to talk…each word a struggle. I love that the 3 things you could still say…albeit labored and slow…were: The MSU Fight Song, The Lord’s Prayer and Silent Night. Every Christmas mass Silent Night has special cherished meaning. Especially the words “mother and child”….especially the words “sleep in heavenly peace.”
Thank you for your love of music. Among the calls for cigarettes and water, were the calls for music. It was from those calls I learned to loved Andy Williams. Song after song. Album after album. There was Frank Sinatra, Ray Coniff and others…but mostly it was Andy Williams. From Moon River to Canadian Sunset to the Most Wonderful Time of the Year…it was Andy Williams. At the end of the day in Care Corner we always sing what Andy Williams sang “May each day of the week be a good day. May the Lord always watch over you. May all of your hopes turn to wishes and may all of your wishes come true.” I tucked that into the school day just for you.
Thank you for your brown hair with NO gray hairs. At age 48 you left us with NO gray hair. You go girl! To this day people think I dye my hair but at age 57 I am blessed with your brown hair (with a just a few gray ones for good measure). When people don’t believe me about dying my hair I tell them I got it from you. I got your big hips too so I appreciate the hair gift. By the way…thank you for giving your blue, BLUE eyes to Sharon. I got dad’s green eyes but she got your blue eyes and she wears them well. They have seen a lot of sadness but they are still beautiful.
Thank you for loving to teach. Thank you for teaching Sunday School at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. Thank you for it being the last thing you gave up. I remember your lesson planning. I remember dad putting up the bulletin boards for you and I remember you would take Tootsie Roll pops for your kids. (I keep a stash of tootsie pops in my classroom. I knew you would want me to.) My love of teaching came from you. My desire to teach Sunday School was my gift back to you. I even wrote that on my year-end evaluation each year. The question was “Why do you teach religious education?” My answer every year was always the same “for my mom”.
Thank you for your faith. If giving up teaching Sunday School is the last thing you let go of…it says a lot about your love of teaching…it says even more about your love of God. He must be so proud of you. Thank you for teaching us to say “The Lord’s Prayer”…and for teaching us to say it on our knees…each night. Thank you for teaching me that you don’t just kneel at the altar rail…you fall on your knees. It IS the body of Christ you are receiving.
Thank you for your remission. It was too short. But I loved watching the excitement of you trying to drive again and I remember the joy in your eyes as you reached the point where you could teach again. I remember you calling for interviews. I remember dad’s smiles. I remember the whole house was filled with a life that hadn’t been there before. And then…so quickly…so tragically…it was taken away. It was a sad tease to someone fighting a disease so courageously. I can’t imagine how that sucked the hoped out of you. I will always be sad for that but I will be glad for the window into normalacy…however short it was…however cruel it turned out to be.
Thank you for how you loved life. I didn’t know it then. I didn’t find out until your funeral. I didn’t know you were the party girl. Oh…the stories your friends told. You weren’t just the party girl…you were the life of the party. Even though I didn’t get to witness it first hand…thank you for your sense of humor, your love of friends, your zeal for life. Thank you for making it contagious…to your friends….to me.
Thank you for silently suffering. I am sorry I didn’t know how hard your days…your hours…your minutes had to be. I am sorry I didn’t realize how difficult it must be to watch your girls grow up around you and leaving you every summer to live with grandparents. How sad was that day for you when we said goodbye for the whole summer. I am sorry I didn’t realize the pain of giving up your teaching career. I am sorry I didn’t realize adversity that comes with multiple sclerosis. It took so much from you physically….I can’t even imagine what it took from you emotionally. Damn MS.
Speaking of leaving…thank you for your amazing parents. Nanny and grandpa became our parents each summer as, with school out, it would be too much for you to care for 3 kids. I can’t imagine how they changed their lives and open their home…and hearts…to us each summer. I just can’t imagine. Most grandparents love the time with their grandchildren but they are happy for them to go home and exhausted from the day/week with them. I can’t imagine a whole summer. I can’t imagine having a daughter as an invalid. I can’t imagine having to deal with the illness/death of a daughter just years before and now helping to care for the other one who was an invalid. I can’t imagine burying a daughter…let alone both of them. They truly lived the “grand” in grandparenting. I just can’t imagine how they did.
Thank you for the pride I feel in saying I am the daughter of Mary Jane Sims. The MSU graduate, the Episcopalian, the teacher, the party girl, the great friend, the courageous fighter. I would have loved a mom who took me to lunch, watched me tap dance and cheered for me at all those softball games. I would have loved a teenage fight with you, a shopping spree, a cooking lesson and a visit to help me care for my first-born baby. Instead I got a mom who taught me more lessons from that bed, fighting that disease, than most mothers have the privilege of teaching their children. You may have never gotten in back in the classroom like your fought so hard to do…but you were a teacher. I will never forget the lessons…the tough lessons…you taught this grateful student of life.
So at age 48 you were done with your fight. I’m sorry I thought you had lived a full life. Really. I said that. I told people you got to see your three daughters grow up so you had a full life. Really? When I turned 48 I cried because I am sorry I thought that. I realize now your life was cut short but your life lessons were not.
Lastly, thank you for dying on the last day of year. It may have just been your time to go. It may have just been God’s plan. But I like to think on the last day of the year you decided you didn’t want to face another year. You knew you had fought the good fight. You knew that God would greet you with a “well done good and faithful servant” because the last day was the last day of your valiant fight. Well done good and faithful mother. Love you so, Gussy
PS: I know you and dad are taking good care of Andy and sharing a “beverage” or two. I know you know I am proud of your life and I love you so. Just one more thing…”may each day of the week be a good day…may the Lord always watch over you….”