Family: Past, Present & Future

In the first pages of every book is a dedication page. Authors use this page to offer up the work that they have created to someone they hope to honor. During the final stages of edits, I was asked to begin thinking about who I wanted to dedicate my work to. My answer came quickly: to my family. But that felt incomplete. Instead I sent this to my editor: To my family: past, present and future. That felt right.

At the time, I don’t think I fully comprehended how true that statement is for me. I started writing because of my loved ones active addiction. But as my understanding deepened, I realized that the dis-ease, dis-order and disconnection that I believe addiction is, came long before my adult child’s battle with addiction began.

As I looked back on my life, I recognized that my father’s fear and hurt caused by his father’s addiction had been handed down to me. I carried that same fear and hurt with me as I raised my children.

Today, on All Saints Day, I realize that death doesn’t break the family bond. It may shift it a bit. But it is still alive and well in every action that I take. I still think about the poverty that my dad faced as a child. It changes the way that I see those who are less fortunate than me. Because of him, I see a familiar face when I look at people who struggle financially. I remember my mother’s terror while my two oldest brothers were in Viet Nam. Watching her come undone every time a new death was reported will never leave my memory. When I see a military family who has lost a loved one, her level of despair is the lens with which I see them. The experiences of my parent’s lives created bonds that will always link me to them. Those bonds will connect to my children and then their children.

It’s All Saints Day today. My body knows this day without the need of a calendar. The death of my mother was a profound loss in my life on this day 24 years ago. As the days grow shorter and the leaves begin to turn, like muscle memory my body and mind return to that day as I sat at my mother’s bedside. The windows were open and the air was warm. The room was quiet, just like she always was. As the day turned to night, there was a peace that settled over us that hadn’t been there before.

She was dying from the complications of diabetes. For six weeks, my sisters and I took turns sitting vigil with her. Initially, I was scared. I was weary from watching her suffer and I was afraid to watch her die. My husband had to talk me into going home again to say goodbye.

That last night as her breathing became irregular, I started to feel as if we were not alone in the room. It felt like a holy presence blanketed us. I sat with her after her breathing stopped for a few minutes as if watching her until she was out of my sight. I wanted to remember her.

I felt that there was something poetic about being the last life (of 6) that she brought into this world being the one that ushered her out of it. The experience changed me.

Last week, I read a Richard Rohr post from one of his daily emails where he talked losing his mother. It offered me a perspective of death that solidifies the connection I feel to my family, past, present and future.

There is solace for me in his description. It is a reminder of the connection I still have with my parents, grandparents and loved ones who are no longer present in this world. It tells me that I have to keep working for those grandchildren yet to enter this world.

I pray for you and hope this post will help you find peace in whatever loss you’ve experienced and hope in the future that lies ahead.