Shelley Widhalm

Archive for the ‘Hard goodbyes’ Category

Grandma’s Photos

In Aging, Grandparents, Hard goodbyes, Shelley Widhalm, Uncategorized on November 13, 2011 at 7:00 am

I remembered my grandmother’s name as Rose.

In my grief over her death on 11-02-2011 (a palindrome, by the way), I gave Grandma Roma Widhalm a new name.

During her rosary and memorial service, I read the blog I wrote last week, which I originally attributed to a Rose. Family members said rose was the right moniker for her, given her beauty and loving personality.

A dozen of Grandma’s photos, including her senior photo, were on a table. A slide show ran continuously showing moments from Grandma’s birth through her 90th year, as well as a few of the photos she had in her collection that were given to her by her children and grandchildren.

I stared at Grandma’s senior photo. She looked like me, I thought, in her eyes and the shape of her face. I asked my father and my aunt if we looked alike, and they said they saw a resemblance.

I felt like I was looking at the photo of someone who I didn’t know. Who was this beautiful woman with a serious turn of the mouth? Who was the woman who, as a child, held her younger sister, Faye, in a protective, loving embrace?

The questions simmered at the funeral the next day. It was held at a Catholic church in Elkhorn,Neb.

I half-listened to the readings and prayers as I thought of the viewing, Grandma with her hands bent from arthritis positioned at her waist.

Who was this woman, the one who I showed my new shoes to when I was six? The one whose shoes I hid when she babysat so that she would not leave me?

Who sent me birthday cards until the last year when she was too ill to pick up a pen?

Who grew up on a farm and went to a country schoolhouse?

Who married and divorced only to be buried next to grandpa?

I was fascinated, and I felt regret. Why hadn’t I asked these questions?

At the inurnment the next day, the grandchildren sat in a row underneath blankets as the priest recited the parting prayers. My aunt Kathy cried with the praying. The tears passed down the row to me, wetting my eyes and, like the crisp gray air, dampened my calm.

Goodbye became a heavy word, not just to my last grandparent but to the things I hadn’t bothered to learn. I wrote down the dates of my grandparents’ and great-grandparents’ births and deaths. It was like I had become a researcher gathering new facts that I should have already known.

I had never asked to see photos of Grandma in her youth, accepting that to me, she was just Grandma, a woman with gray hair and health problems. I took her at face value until I saw that her face resembled mine.

Maybe that was the rose that my grandma rose gave me. The beauty in wanting to keep asking questions, wondering about the what ifs.

Goodbye, My Grandma Rose

In Grandparents, Hard goodbyes, Shelley Widhalm on November 6, 2011 at 7:00 am

My grandmother, Roma Widhalm, died on the night of Election Day at the age of 91, almost two months before her 92nd birthday.

To give me the news, my dad called me Wednesday morning, but I was still in bed after working a late night covering local election issues for my hometown newspaper. I let his message go to voicemail.

Ten minutes later, I called him back and when he told me, I was surprised I didn’t cry.

My father and his three siblings have been expecting Grandma to leave us – her health had been rapidly deteriorating. She had rheumatoid arthritis, plus a few other health problems.

I wanted to visit her this summer when I was an hour’s drive from her nursing home, but I got caught up in other stuff and didn’t. I am sad and ashamed. I now carry the guilt of forgetting to schedule in the visit.

There is some comfort in knowing Grandma is where she wants to be – with her Lord. She’s wanted to join Him for a few years because her health problems make her life difficult.

I called my mother an hour later and gave her the news, and that’s when I started to cry. I was walking to work and came in and told my boss and got teary-eyed. I went to my desk and started working, trying to calm my heart.

Grandma lived a full life – she grew up on a farm, had a difficult marriage with an alcoholic, divorced when it wasn’t common and worked at a bank, earning her way in life, plus she raised four children and loved her dozens of grandchildren.

To me, she is like a rose:

She had to deal with the thorns of pain.

She could feel the silk of petals in the many hugs she got from her grandchildren.

The stem of her tall, elegant body, though curved in her later years, kept her beautiful.

And the entire rose of her being colored our view of her as the best kind of grandma that has a bounty of love.

I love and miss you, Grandma.

Girl without Dog

In Best Friends, Dad's house, Hard goodbyes, Novel editing on March 13, 2011 at 5:23 am

Yep, I’ve been girl without dog for six days. My dad, who visited me and my brother last weekend, is taking care of her until next Saturday. I “loaned” her out for two weeks for two reasons.

First, my dad had grown attached to her after being her caretaker for a few months while I was living with my mother (see previous blogs). He hinted a few times that he would gladly take her while I was working on my novel, which I finished last month.

Second, I wanted some concentrated time to work on editing my novel. With Zoey, my miniature dachshund, I have to provide her with love and attention, including playtime and walks, every day after work. I knew I couldn’t meet my self-imposed deadline to meet with an agent at a conference this month to present my book. But I decided to postpone the conference scene until my book is tight as a Ziploc bag. I still kept the deadline, but it’s extended to the end of the month.

My dad, who lives in eastern Colorado, took Zoey with him on Monday, and I worked on my novel that afternoon (I have Mondays off in exchange for Saturdays). I thought, “I’m dealing,” until I got home from the coffee shop and faced my empty apartment. I cried and the next night, too, thinking that I should just get on with my work But I hadn’t realized until Zoey was gone how attached I’ve become to my canine best friend.

I guess I’m a sucker for her doggie kisses, her wiggly-butt greetings and her rough-housing play as I try to make my bed in the mornings.

Okay, only six more days …

Zoey’s Practice Goodbye

In Dad's house, Hard goodbyes, Leaving Zoey, Missing each other, Uncategorized on September 12, 2010 at 4:34 pm

Zoey enduring one of my hugs.

Zoey stays with me every one of six weeks, because my dad, who is caring for her, has to travel to Nebraska to get treated for macular degeneration. He used to live there and did not want to change eye doctors when he moved to Eastern Colorado in August 2008, coincidentally the same month I moved to Northern Colorado from Alexandria, Virginia.

A week after I took Zoey to my dad’s house, I talked to him on the phone, and he said she was doing just fine and loves his big backyard. She is very social and likes attention wherever it comes from, and it seemed she didn’t miss me.

But I know the truth. I had visited my dad in mid-July. While I was there, he fixed something minor in my car, which I had to move back to the driveway to load it up with Zoey’s and my stuff for our drive back home.

Dad held Zoey on his lap, but she saw me “driving away” and started squirming, yelping and crying as if I was going to leave her. I didn’t, of course, and hugged her after locking up my car. But I got no kisses back. It seemed that Zoey figured she was safe with me back in her lair.

Goodbye Zoey

In Babysitting, Confrontations, Dog sitting, Hard goodbyes, Leaving Zoey on September 5, 2010 at 10:06 am

When my mom said she would no longer babysit Zoey, I took that cute, adorable puppy with me on “an errand” and called my dad. He told me to not sell, get rid of or drop Zoey off at an animal shelter (I would rather drop myself off than her). He said he would take care of her until I moved into my own place. (It took me awhile to do this because I was facing a potential layoff during the Great Recession, but, as of yet, I still have a job).

A couple days later of my mom and I avoiding each other (this was in October 2009), I put up the white flag and asked her if she wanted to get coffee. She said, yes. While we sipped lattes, I told her that I was sorry for expecting her to take care of Zoey, She said that she was sorry for some of the things she said, and so did I.

But then a week later, I came home from work and my mom was in a very bad mood. She snapped at me a couple of times and physically pushed Zoey away. I suggested kenneling Zoey.

Mom said, “I want her out of here.”

And that was that.

So on Friday, October 16, 2009, I took Zoey to my dad’s house to stay with him. Two days later, I gave Zoey a big kiss and hug goodbye and tried not to cry as I drove 123 miles from his house in Eastern Colorado to mine along the Front Range. That night, I couldn’t sleep because I kept crying. We were separated, not only by distance but by something that had nothing to do with her, or maybe it was all her (and me).