And The Horse You Rode In On

Posted on November 2, 2014 by Laurie Samsel Olson

The Wicked Witch. That’s how a Wizard of Oz personality test on Zimbio.com once pegged me. “Vile, foul, odious and deleterious to all.” My vocabulary is above average, but I still had to look up the last two adjectives to be sure I understood. Hateful and toxic. Hmmm. OK, I know those online personality quizzes are intended for entertainment and the results are arbitrary, but let me just say this about that …

And the horse you rode in on.

If you’re a regular reader of my weekly essays, you know that my mother and I had a robust repertoire of catch phrases for use on almost any occasion. This one came in handy when one or both of us were annoyed about something or with someone. To be candid, it’s only part of a rather off-color phrase. The opening two words are not appropriate for a family column, and Mom and I rarely, if ever, used them. It was sufficient to refer to the poor, four-hooved bystander. Besides, contrary to the random result of one Zimbio quiz, I have always been the Pollyanna of my family. Vulgarity is generally not my style; playing “the glad game” is.

Nevertheless, about four months after Mom passed away, “and the horse you rode in on” came to mind pretty much on a daily basis … including those first two uncouth words. I was emerging from denial; the oh-so common stage of grief that allows you to shut out the enormity of what has happened. Although I had watched her life slowly fade, her breathing stop, and the kindly morticians remove her body, my heart could not believe she was really gone. I remember breaking down in tears one evening after work and crying on my husband’s shoulder, “I can’t believe I have to live the rest of my life without her!” It was the truth. I honestly couldn’t believe it.

Anger moved in just as soon as denial moved out. It happened when family from the Pacific Northwest gathered at my house in Nevada to distribute her belongings. It wasn’t enough that I had lost her. Now I had to part with many of the things she held dear. Teacups in our shared China cabinet, elephant figurines from her vast collection, quartz crystals, small animals carved from soapstone, Christmas decorations, framed family photos, books, movies, hats, clothes, furniture. We were scattering her life in much the same manner we would scatter her ashes a few months later.

The only way I could get through that weekend was to convince myself that dispersing her belongings was the best way to honor her. As a Depression-era child, she attached great value to her possessions. Parting with anything was painful for her, which is why a broken bird feeder became yard art under the crabapple tree outside her window and several cracked water tumblers remained in the kitchen cabinet. In a generation or two, I reasoned, very few of her belongings would have meaning to descendants who didn’t know her. Scads of it would end up in second-hand stores with two-dollar price tags. Wasn’t it better for her children and grandchildren to receive and enjoy mementoes that they considered priceless? After all, as the late George Harrison said, “All there is ever is the now.”

This reasoning certainly helped … until I watched everyone drive away with loaded-down cars and trucks. Practically overnight, anger consumed me. Zimbio was right. I became the dreaded Wicked Witch.

Everything that anyone did or said was irritating. At home, I was angry with my husband because our lives had not instantly changed after Mom’s death. We had freedom but we weren’t using it. We didn’t spontaneously stop at restaurants for dinner after work, watch movies in bed, go on outings with the family or do any of the carefree things we had imagined. Our routine was the same; except Mom wasn’t there. At work, I was angry with the mountains of paperwork, the confounding complexity of some procedures, the disturbing lack of documentation for others, and the perceived futility of it all. Our department director had three, simple house rules — “No mean. No loud. No negative.” I was in almost constant violation of the last one.

The reason for this irrational resentment toward every person, place or thing on the face of the Earth completely escaped me. That is, until my brother decided to part with a memento Mom had specifically saved for him. He had his reasons, and he also had every right to make this decision. My intellect was aware of that. Regardless, all of my pent-up anger erupted in his direction through every electronic method available. Text messages and voicemail recordings that must have made his cell phone hot to the touch came pouring out of me. A week or so after both my sister and I had sufficiently alienated him, she phoned me and quietly said, “Um, remember Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s explanation of the five stages of grief? Maybe you should read it again.” The line went silent for a moment.

A simple “duh” is the best way to describe my reaction. I have worked in social services for more than 25 years; many of those years providing advice and comfort to people in crisis. How could I have forgotten that anger during bereavement is misplaced rage? I was not ticked off at my husband, my job or my brother as much as I was just goldarned mad that Mom had left me. Immediately, I felt the fury dissipate and a sense of calm wash over me. It was like taking a deep, cleansing breath. The Wicked Witch went packing and Pollyanna came home.

In the weeks following the disagreement with my brother, apologies were extended and our respective parts in the debacle were acknowledged. Still, the hurt cast a dark shadow over the June weekend we gathered at the Oregon Coast to scatter Mom’s ashes. Since then, a few brief text messages, perhaps one phone call, and an occasional comment on a Facebook post have comprised the sum total of our communication. Last weekend, that finally changed.

On Friday I hitched a ride to Oregon with my son and daughter-in-law. My son, an electrical contractor, needed to finish some work on my sister’s kitchen remodel, and I saw it as a perfect opportunity for a visit. On Saturday my sister and I went to see our brother and his family at their small farm across the Washington state line. He had initially responded to her text message with a litany of irrelevant excuses; the kind one dreams up as a diplomatic way to say “no.” She replied that we were coming anyway. It was a bold move to melt the glacier that had formed between us, and it worked.

As soon as I saw my brother, I began weeping. To be fair, I wasn’t crying just about our estrangement. Lack of sleep over another matter had made me particularly vulnerable. Sometimes, though, destiny has a way of mystically weaving unrelated experiences together, and my tears triggered an immediate thaw. My brother took me in his arms and told me everything was all right. Then he said, “I know what will make you feel better. It always makes me feel better when I’m sad.” At his behest, I changed into his wife’s work boots and sweatshirt and followed him down a muddy trail along a line of tall fir trees to the old red barn at the bottom corner of the pasture. The air was clean from recent, heavy rain, and the scent of hay drifted from the stable like heavenly perfume.

“Here you go,” my brother said and filled my cupped hands with apples freshly quartered from a stash in a nearby plastic bucket. “You know how to feed a horse, don’t you?” I nodded. Tank, a four-hooved giant with kind eyes and a gentle soul, poked his head out of his stall. Slice by slice, he carefully nibbled the sweet fruit from my open palm. When the treats were gone, I caressed Tank’s rust and white muzzle and stroked his powerful shoulders. I kissed the air, he leaned in close for a soft smooch on his nose, and my soul surrendered to the serenity enveloping a green, wet hillside on a misty Washington morning. In that precious moment, the catch phrase Mom and I had assigned to annoyances took on a sweet, new meaning.

To my brother, if you’re reading this, you were my knight in shining armor on an October day that will forever be a cherished memory. With all my heart, I love you …

… and the horse you rode in on.

(Photos of horses, pastures, barns and all that is serene — courtesy of my sister-in-law, Lori. Big smiles courtesy of enduring love.)

Accept Gifts Graciously

Posted on October 19, 2014 by Laurie Samsel Olson

Just before my 9^th birthday in 1963, my father paused his maritime career and took what he referred to as a “shore job.” He often recalled, with a wink and a smile, that a comment I made led to this regrettable decision. I barely remember it, but I did look up at him one day while he was between voyages and innocently asked, “Why don’t you come home at night like other daddies?”

The decision was regrettable because, within a few hours of clocking in on his first day at a dog food plant, he was seriously injured in a freak accident. He and a co-worker were moving a large, heavy meat cutting machine that suddenly tipped over, trapping him underneath and breaking multiple bones. We were told he would have died instantly had he not thrust out his arm and, with superhuman effort, kept the contraption from crushing his chest. For weeks he was hospitalized; immobilized with one leg in traction. My birthday was celebrated at his bedside.

When my father was finally released, he came home in a full body cast and with an arsenal of medical equipment. A hospital bed equipped with a trapeze bar took over one corner of the living room, and a pair of wooden crutches leaned against the wall nearby. Parked in the covered breezeway between the garage and the house was a long, flat gurney outfitted with over-sized rubber-rimmed wheels for manual propulsion.

Mom was not employed outside the home at the time of the accident but, as soon as the shock subsided, she began applying for bookkeeping jobs in medical offices around the area. She was quickly hired by a team of orthopedic surgeons, and my paternal grandmother began to spend weekdays at our house in the San Fernando Valley so she could look after my father, sister, brother and me. Most weekends, she returned to her tiny apartment in downtown Los Angeles.

One Friday evening, without any forethought, I asked if I could spend the weekend with my grandmother. She was 75, decidedly puritanical and not inclined to engage in active pastimes that would interest a fourth-grader. Nevertheless, the two of us got along quite well in those days. Within minutes Mom was washing my hair over the kitchen sink and telling me to be a good girl. She handed me a one dollar bill (about $7.50 today) to pay for a treat or a toy in case we went shopping. At first, I politely declined. “You don’t have to do that,” I said. More than 50 years later, I still recall her reply.

“Learn to accept gifts graciously.”

During that weekend, my grandmother and I rode the original Angels Flight rail cars up and down the steep incline between Olive and Hill streets, listened to evangelist Dr. John McGee preach at the colossal Church of the Open Door, and sang hymns in a nearby park with a few of her friends. At one point, we wandered through a cluttered five and dime where I picked out a thick coloring book and proudly paid for it with the gift from my mother.

My memory may be fuzzy on some childhood moments, but the lesson involving the one dollar bill is vivid. It was a singular comment made by an ordinary mother to her young daughter; not taken from a book of etiquette or borrowed from an illustrious poet. She never said it again. She never wrote it down. Yet, it was so powerful a message that it is permanently etched on my heart. Mom’s words have reminded me to practice being gracious many times over the last five decades. However, it wasn’t until preparing for this week’s column that I suddenly saw it as a piece of advice that could have helped me through the sometimes grueling years as her caregiver.

In a past column, I described how Mom earned the nickname “The Only One” by periodically lamenting about shouldering more than her share of the responsibilities in our family. The rather unflattering moniker grew into a term of endearment over the years but, speaking as a recent graduate of the caregiver corps, I think it should have been an accolade from the beginning. Imagine a 39-year-old with three children ranging in age from 4 to 11, a seriously injured husband facing a lengthy rehabilitation, and a household budget blown to smithereens. Pulling the family through that dark period probably ticked off three of the four requirements for sainthood … and we weren’t even Catholic.

To be fair, though, Mom could not have brought us through it alone. Gracious acceptance of her mother-in-law’s generous gift of weekday homemaking was critically important.

In a plot twist worthy of M. Night Shyamalan, the partnership prevailed despite the fact that Mom and my grandmother were never particularly fond of one another. Their relationship was guarded at best. As the story goes, my grandmother never thought any woman could live up to the high standards she set for her only son. My mother, in turn, viewed her as a Class-A critic and meddler. Regardless, they managed to set aside their differences to achieve a common goal. The two of them orchestrated a relatively uncomplicated tag team to ensure that the four people they both loved most – my father, sister, brother and I – had everything we needed … and more.

Clean clothes drying on an outdoor line, the aroma of freshly-baked apple pie, southern truisms repeated with a lingering Texas drawl, and black-and-white episodes of the inaugural season of General Hospital became staples of weekdays with our grandmother. When Mom returned home from work in the evening, she was greeted with a warm dinner and a mostly contented family. Weekends were spent swimming in our backyard pool, enacting Wagon Train on the wheeled gurney that was supposed to be parked in the breezeway, and playing with the puppies that came along after our Collie had an unchaperoned visit with the neighbor’s German Shepherd. My sister, brother and I were not necessarily oblivious to the hardship that had befallen our family, but the blow was softened significantly because of the commitment Mom and our grandmother made to each other.

If this story was a made-for-television movie, it would conclude with Mom and my grandmother becoming best of friends through shared adversity. Real-life isn’t always punctuated by Hallmark moments, though. The two of them remained wary of one another for the rest of their days. That in no way devalues their temporary alliance.

Photos of Mom from this difficult chapter of our lives provide a hint of the exhaustion she could not entirely escape. I can only imagine what would have become of her, and those of us who were depending on her, had she not joined forces with a rather unlikely partner and followed the same, simple rule she passed on to me.

Learn to accept gifts graciously.

It’s All About Me – Part Two

Posted on October 12, 2014 by Laurie Samsel Olson

Last week, bushy-haired 1980s comedian Al Franken paved the way for a brutally honest depiction of life for an over-extended caregiver. This week, white-haired 60-ish Dorothy Zbornak makes an appearance to put her Midas touch on the “It’s All About Me” story.

Rewind to 1989 when television’s Golden Girl Dorothy (played by the late Bea Arthur) desperately tries to find a medical reason that she is persistently tired and suffers from recurring flu-like symptoms. In the second part of the episode “Sick and Tired,” she finally connects with progressive Dr. Chang (portrayed by Keone Young) who diagnoses Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Dorothy is comforted that her months-long struggle with the elusive symptoms is the result of a genuine illness, even though there is no treatment. Dr. Chang calmly advises:

“Try to adapt to it. Rest when you need to. Eat well. Eliminate stress if you can. Right now there is no cure and no one thing that relieves the symptoms in everyone.”

Dr. Chang is a fictional character, but art often imitates life and his lines in the script ring true for me. It’s not just because I have had periodic run-ins with Chronic Fatigue (and Immune Deficiency) Syndrome since 1994. I’m also sure that, had I visited his television-studio office while taking care of my mother, he would have offered similar counsel to try to curb the burnout I experienced during her final years.

If you are a caregiver … or anyone who is hanging on for dear life to the knotted end of a frayed rope … go back and read Dr. Chang’s guidance again. Write it on your heart. I certainly wish I had stumbled upon a rerun of that episode on some late-night cable channel a few years back. My life as a caregiver was practically the antithesis of his vision.

Since late 20th Century pop culture is today’s story-telling vehicle, let’s assume for a minute that I could take a Quantum Leap á la Sam Beckett and put right what once went wrong. What would I do differently? What would I do more often?

Sitting on top of the “do differently” list is my stubborn refusal of offers from friends to sit with Mom or run errands. “Thanks but we’re doing OK” was my standard answer to the sweetest suggestions from the sweetest people. I never doubted their ability to help. I just didn’t want to impose on them, show weakness, relinquish control or somehow displease Mom by altering her routine. I couldn’t see that saying “yes” would not have produced any of those results and that “yes” actually would have been the strong answer. People who offer to help mean it; they want the opportunity to do a good deed for someone they hold dear. People who accept help are buying time; the most precious and sought-after commodity on earth.

On the “do more often” list, I would take the principle of accepting help a step further and ask friends or family to lend a hand periodically. The only two people who managed to effectively shoulder past my resistance to their good intentions were my sister, Leslie, and my daughter, Jennifer. They each have stubborn streaks at least as wide and deep as mine. It was not unusual to find the roses trimmed, the furniture dusted or the floors cleaned anytime one or both of them were around. It took several years, but I finally accepted the fact that they were always going to turn a deaf ear to my refusals of help. Eventually, on occasion, I took the initiative and sought out their assistance. Asking for help. What a concept. It’s not a cardinal sin or a punishable crime. It’s smart.

Back on the “do differently” list, you would find me making better choices about multi-tasking. Some of the worst experiences I had while taking care of Mom involved outings that required divided attention. One holiday season when she was still capable of staying home alone for a few hours, I decided to take my two young grandsons out to buy gifts for their parents. Mom loved shopping and wanted to go along. Instead of promising to take her another day, I acquiesced and soon found myself trying to navigate a wheelchair across a busy parking lot while holding tightly onto two little boys. Inside the first … and last … department store we visited, everyone wanted to go in different directions. It’s often said that it’s much better to do one thing at a time and do it well, than to do two or more things poorly. I’m here to tell you; that adage is hackneyed but true.

To wrap up this imaginary leap through the quantum accelerator, I would add three simple things to the “do more often” list – time alone, choosing what’s important, and sleep.

One summer afternoon, when I felt as though I was about to fly out of my skin from pent-up stress, I asked my department director to approve a last-minute leave request. He did and, when I left the house the following morning, I didn’t do one errand for anyone else. I strolled lazily through my favorite garden nursery, shopped leisurely for clothes and looked at shiny cars for sale. Whether I actually bought anything, I don’t recall. What I do remember is that, by the time I returned home, I was as refreshed as if I’d been floating on a mountain lake somewhere far away. I should have taken the hint and scheduled more “it’s all about me” days.

As a manager, I encourage my staff to continuously organize and reorganize their work in accordance with what is most important. It’s a puzzlement that I had trouble remembering to do that very thing during the years I cared for Mom. Most days it wasn’t too difficult to ignore recurring clouds of pet hair in the corners of the hallway or a pesky cobweb hanging out of reach from the vaulted living room ceiling. However, I couldn’t let go of the idea that the house needed to be spick and span when out-of-town family came to visit. My furious, late-night cleaning jags were legendary. I’ll never understand why I thought it was a higher priority to exhaust myself with white-glove minutiae than just relax and enjoy the visits.

Last but not least, to put the most important thing right that once went wrong, I would take every opportunity … no, I would make opportunities … to get more sleep. Increasingly as the years passed, I would find myself nodding off while watching television with Mom. Sometimes, but not often enough, I gave in to it and actually napped. To no one’s surprise, my inattention never triggered the untimely demise of a beloved sitcom character or allowed a pathetic dance team to take home the Mirror Ball Trophy. Looking back, I can also see that a short slumber when Mom was napping would have had a greater return on investment than catching up on chores. I tried to get by on too little sleep all those years and it exacted a toll both physically and mentally. It’s taken more than 10 months to finally feel rested and, with apologies to Reader’s Digest, sleep is really the best medicine. Laughter comes in second.

So this is the list I brought back from my quantum leap. While it’s not technically a “note from my mother,” it’s a very important lesson learned from caring for her. And it’s a “note to self” that I intend to practice even though my caregiving days are behind me.

Accept help. Ask for help. Do one thing at a time and do it well. Schedule “me” days. Prioritize. Sleep.

As Dr. Chang told Dorothy some 25 years ago, there is no one thing that works for everyone. My list may help you hang on to the knotted end of your frayed rope, but you may think of other strategies that will help you scramble back up that ragged rope to the safety of a solid platform. Whatever your approach may be, remember this.

Care receivers are expected and allowed to be Al Franken every day. Their needs are paramount, and rightfully so. This will never change. What can and should change is the misguided notion that the caregiver must wait for some distant, bittersweet day when it will be their turn to rest, to sleep, to dream. It’s a perspective that, perhaps not surprisingly, is mostly held by those dedicated, exhausted individuals who are assisting a loved one day in and day out. If you are one of these weary souls, give yourself the opportunity to slow down and carve out some time to call your own. Look in the mirror and tell yourself that at least for this hour or this day:

“It’s all about me, Al Franken.”

It’s All About Me, Al Franken

Posted on October 5, 2014 by Laurie Samsel Olson

Remember the bushy-haired, bespectacled comedian from Saturday Night Live who was certain the world revolved around him? He sat at the sardonic news desk; ever interested in how current events would affect him (dramatic pause), Al Franken. He declared the 1980s the Al Franken Decade and drolly imparted tips on what viewers could do for him.

Being a care recipient is a little … no a lot … like being Al Franken. Your needs come before anyone else in the family. Your routine dictates everyone’s schedule. Your crises, medical or otherwise, each become a crisis for the entire household. As appealing as it may sound to be the focus of attention, I’m fairly certain most care recipients don’t revel in driving the “Frankenbus.” The route is fraught with tricky twists and turns that could tip that big, unwieldy thing on its side at any time. There are no seatbelts, no power steering and, worst of all, no power brakes to bring the crazy ride to a screeching halt.

On dozens of occasions during the years my mother drove that bus, she voiced the concern that she was a burden. One day she would worry that she was tiring me out and ruining my health. Another day she fretted about keeping me from participating in activities with friends and family outside the four walls of our home. She apologized repeatedly because we couldn’t go out to eat without sitting in the restaurant parking lot for 15 minutes while she carefully tested her blood sugar and injected insulin to counteract the meal she was about to order. She was troubled that I was whittling away at my sick leave to take her to medical appointments and missing work to tend to her when she was ailing. As many times as she verbalized her worries, I’m sure she silently turned the same thoughts over in her head hundreds more.

Farewell Christmas Card 2013

Our modus operandi was generally to find humor in otherwise dismal situations, so eventually her concerns turned into one of the coded messages I’ve often referenced in these columns. If one of us was fussing about something and began to lose sight of the big picture, the other would interrupt and say,

“It’s all about me, Al Franken.”

It was always good for a chuckle and a quick reality check. Once in a while, we would add Al’s simple reasoning to this narcissistic phrase. “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and dog-gone it, people like me.”

Mom commemorated this coded message in the Christmas card my family was entrusted to deliver after she passed away last year. She died just a couple of weeks before the holiday, so there was little decorating or celebrating in our household. The best gift I received was that card, the first in a secret series of posthumous missives. Some I’ve already shared with you; others will make appearances as this continuing saga unfolds.

Vacation – 2003

“It’s all about me, Al Franken,” was not a signal reserved exclusively for Mom’s low moments. She was known in our family as “the only one,” but she was not the only one to periodically feel trapped by our circumstances. I was never tired of her; just tired and, as the years passed, it began to show. As Sarah Ban Breathnach wrote in her 1995 daybook, “Simple Abundance,” it is not the temporary pressure of work (or caregiving) that causes burnout. That, she says, “comes from living unbalanced for years; when what was supposed to be a temporary situation becomes a lifestyle.”

It wasn’t until the last few years of Mom’s life that the feeling of being constantly tired erupted into full-blown caregiver burnout; the kind that Ms. Ban Breathnach calls the “soul snuffer.” Thankfully, I remained fairly skillful at exposing only surface frustrations in Mom’s presence and censoring my deepest feelings of anguish. As far as I know, she was unaware that occasionally the weight of our arrangement overpowered me, and I would pour my heart out to anyone who would listen in person, on the telephone or in an email.

When I worried, aloud or silently, it was about many of the same things Mom did. The culture at my workplace was genuinely “family first,” but I still felt anxious about my dwindling sick leave and postponed projects. Sometimes I imagined what it would be like to go on an outing and not have to heft a wheelchair in and out of the trunk and patiently help Mom slowly transfer back and forth. I wondered how long God expected me to go on, especially since I was approaching my 60s and couldn’t help noticing that the time to pursue my own lingering dreams was slipping away. Worse yet, I watched my two grandsons’ childhood racing past, and I couldn’t be present for milestones like holiday pageants or Cub Scout ceremonies.

Every time I lapsed into self-pity about our circumstances, I would inevitably feel guilty for my selfishness. My paternal grandmother’s admonishment, “Don’t be ugly,” would drift through my head and I would, indeed, feel ugly all the way through. My sister, my daughter and my closest friends would reassure me that it was natural to feel frustrated when holding down a full-time job, caring for someone who was completely dependent on others, and trying to capture a moment now and then with the rest of my family. At the time, their kind words didn’t make me feel any less ugly, but as with so many things in life, the image in the rearview mirror is crystal clear. Just looking at the photos posted with this column — from 2003, 2008 and 2012 — I can see the physical changes in both Mom and me, and I can truly understand the multiplying pressures of our years-long journey.

New House – 2008

Indeed, caregiving and care receiving is a journey … and it’s not for the fainthearted. It is the most advanced course of study anyone will ever take on earth, regardless of whether you are the one providing care or the one receiving it. The highest level of trust, commitment, patience, compassion, love and forgiveness are prerequisites for both parties. How else could one get through the ugly moments and gladly return to the arduous path?

Somewhere in Mom’s last year of life, I realized that our time together was growing short. My periodic pity parties came to a halt. I knew what I had always known — that the only way I was ever going to be released from my caregiving obligations was to lose Mom. The finality of that solution was no longer an abstract idea in some distant, foggy future. Suddenly I felt like Diana Prince spinning into Wonder Woman or Popeye consuming a can of fortifying spinach in one gulp. I heard myself saying repeatedly, “I would take care of Mom forever if she would just stay.” And I meant it. The price of freedom was far too high.

In the end, there was no way to pause the journey or avoid the divergence of our paths. Mom was headed to an ethereal destination, and my name was not on the guest list. Instead, I was advancing toward a new beginning here on mortal ground. Our separation was inevitable and heart-wrenching.

So many months later, I am no longer constantly tired, my accrued sick leave is growing, and I have the freedom to go just about anywhere I please, anytime I please. Yes, it’s nice, but I would give it all up if I could have Mom back here with me. As I write this, I can hear her whispering the double-edged truth … that today and every day … whether I like it or not, it is now …

“… all about me, Al Franken.”

Al Franken left Saturday Night Live and went on to become a U.S. Senator from Minnesota. I probably will not pursue politics (the thought makes me shudder) but I am confident that I can do anything I want. I can become the person I was always meant to be because, just like Al Franken, I am “good enough, I’m smart enough, and dog-gone it, people like me.” More than that, I’ve got my invincible gold bracelets, my can of body-building spinach and Mom’s enduring love in my heart. Nothing is more powerful than that.

To The Pretty One

Posted on September 14, 2014 by Laurie Samsel Olson

My mother signed off on the 19-year-old farewell letter that was the subject of last week’s installment by pairing two of our most often repeated and beloved axioms.

All my love always to “the pretty one” from “the only one.”

For first-time visitors to this webpage and as a refresher for repeat readers, the words set inside quotation marks are coded messages. Essentially, they are my family’s encrypted versions of “I love you.” Like any good catch phrase, there are stories behind these two. This week I’ll tell you about “the pretty one.”

“The pretty one” is rooted in a tiny little comment I once made to a friendly stranger. While our family was vacationing in Palm Springs in the late 1950s, someone sitting poolside admired my sister, Leslie, for her intelligence. As any jealous, bratty little sister might do, I interrupted to sing my own praises. “And I’m the pretty one,” I said smugly.

That vainly precocious remark drew immediate laughter and a lifetime of teasing. I know when my mother or other family members have repeated it, they have done so with fond amusement. The sad thing is that, deep down, I actually believed it for years. My dark-haired, slightly plump sister was the smart one. I was the pretty one with blond hair and a slim build.

My sister held me up from the beginning, as seen in this 1954 photo for a 1955 calendar.

In reality, Leslie and I are both smart, but for the record, she is far prettier than I ever was. I came to this belated conclusion several years ago while browsing through family snapshots and portraits. It isn’t because recent images document that I am no longer blond and slim, and she now wears clothes that are smaller than mine. It isn’t because she won a baby pageant long before I arrived. It’s because in every photo of my sister, her genuine inner beauty shines through on her kind face. She has a pureness about her that is rare.

Our paternal grandmother used to say, with a slight Texan accent, “Don’t be ugly.” She meant, “Don’t be mean.” Well, my sister could never be “ugly” if she tried … on the inside or the outside. To finally, fully understand this beautiful truth, and to profoundly appreciate her presence in my life, is as powerful as it is humbling.

As noted in last week’s installment, Leslie was the daughter who was seemingly destined to take care of our mother in her last years. Destiny laughed in our faces, but she was always just a telephone call away. Whenever I was frustrated, tired, confused, scared, feeling sorry for myself, or otherwise in dismay about the sometimes leaden weight on my shoulders, normally all I had to do was talk to her to regain balance. When that didn’t quite do the trick, she was knocking on my door within 24 to 48 hours.

Over the years, she sacrificed hundreds of hours of sick leave and vacation time to travel from Oregon to Nevada and camp out in our guest room for a few days, a week or longer so I could have an occasional break. She took charge the moment she walked inside; determined to minister to every adult, child, dog or cat within her loving reach. I practically melted into her arms with each hello and, of course, Mom was always overjoyed to see her O.D.D. (Older Darling Daughter).

Together the two of them would check things off the “honey do” list Mom assembled between visits. Whether it was a special shopping trip, adding information to the family tree books or whipping up a mouth-watering new recipe from a magazine, they accomplished things that I typically did not have the time or energy to tackle. I often told Mom, with a good-natured chuckle, that I felt like the proverbial custodial parent because the non-custodial parent racks up points for doing the fun stuff.

Christmas 1960 — Still holding me.

Yes, the three of us made an unbeatable team. We were blessed with support from other family and friends, and I will mention them as this story unfolds from week to week, but today is all about my sister’s unselfish devotion to Mom and to me. My ardent prayer is that every primary caregiver everywhere has someone like her on their side. She was there through the good and the bad, until the end.

There are certain pivotal moments in our lives that we can never forget. Willingly or unwillingly, we relive them as if they happened yesterday. For me, one of those moments was Mom’s final breath. The funny thing is, I didn’t actually see it. I knew Mom’s breathing had become more ragged that icy December morning as she lay immobile in her hospice bed. Regardless, it took me by surprise when she suddenly drew a deep, shuddering breath, exhaled loudly and then was utterly still. Hastily, I beckoned Leslie into the bedroom. Neither of us moved a muscle or breathed ourselves until Mom’s breathing suddenly resumed. I stepped into the hallway and turned on my cell phone to anxiously try to call our brother back from an errand. It was in that instant Leslie ended up being the one sitting at our mother’s bedside when she finally did take her last, trembling breath.

No one would blame me if I said I felt guilty, cheated or disappointed that, after caring for Mom so many years, I should miss those last few seconds. On the contrary, I find it poetic that Mom’s firstborn was alone with her. The pure, unrehearsed beauty in it breaks my heart.

The family gathered at the Oregon Coast six months later to share memories, sing songs, and set Mom free at one of her favorite spots. At dusk, I realized I had forgotten to scatter the pale pink petals I had collected from Mom’s Nevada rosebush. Leslie and I drove alone to the seashore, walked barefoot out to the waves, and gently let the water and wind carry the petals away. I stepped back a ways and, without her noticing, took several of the most precious photographs one could hope for on such a solemn day. They capture my pretty sister in the fading light saying good-bye to our sweet mother on a serene beach with a company of seagulls on patrol.

If you haven’t already come to this conclusion, the title of today’s installment is not just a reference to my mother’s coded message at the end of her farewell letter. It is my heartfelt dedication of this essay to my sister … our mother’s Older Darling Daughter … and my hero.

“To The Pretty One.”

Leslie 2014

Notes From My Mother

Nothing left unsaid … and other words to live by

Category Archives: Parent

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Accept Gifts Graciously

It’s All About Me – Part Two

It’s All About Me, Al Franken

To The Pretty One

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