The End. For Now.

Well we made it. Today came and went without extremes.

Last night Gwennie and I sat on my bed and both got a little teary thinking about how we'd no longer be "within a year" of our mother. We're now officially "a year ago." Although today comes with a sigh of relief, knowing we've mastered what's considered to be a challenging milestone in mourning, there's also a sadness that because we're beyond the one-year mark, that we need to somehow be less sad, be less connected, be less frequently impacted. Mourning, remembering, and paying tribute to our mom this year as been just as much about processing the loss as keeping her close to us. So now that her death is a year less fresh, there is a fear that we need to be a year less vulnerable and a year more collected. In reality, today is just a day, like any other. There's no schedule to recovery. Expectations are a dangerous thing, and the less we expect of ourselves with respect to how we should or shouldn't feel, well that's just about the best gift we can give one another.

We started today by chowing an impressive percentage of the holiday cookies we'd made last night with Matthew and Chantel. It's a Christmas Eve tradition that Gwennie and I did the few years before Mom got sick.  There was nothing unusual about it: multiple casualties, too much red icing, not enough white, the annual "Christmas is Gay" cookie, all to the soundtrack of the 4-disc box set of Mom's beloved, Manheim Steamroller. After we sufficiently digested, we brunched at Bon Savour, a french bistro in the neighborhood that I frequented with Mom during her weekly trips to Dana Farber Cancer Center.

Then, the post-brunch ink fest took place...

We did it. Mom was forever memorialized by burning off a small layer of flesh by a dude named Lucky who's parlor was decorated with bald eagles and where Playboy is standard waiting room reading material. Lest I say, I was a champ, considering this was my inaugural sail. Gwennie is now a seasoned veteran.

About three years ago I took a series of classes in integrative health practice, largely at the encouragement of my mother. At the end of our Reiki I class, the Reiki masters had us sit in an outward-facing circle with our feet on the ground and eyes closed. They weaved in and out of us, placing their hands on our shoulders, moving from student to student, as if to share this new energy that we'd each been empowered with. Quietly and lovingly, one of the masters then opened my hands, scribed a reiki symbol on my palms, closed them together, and brought my hands to my heart. I sat there in silence, with my hands on my heart and tears rolling down my face.

For all the eye-rolls I'd given my mother about her trips to the New Age Spa, I found my attunement as a Reiki practitioner, unexpectedly emotional. I love Reiki because it is something that surprised me. It meant something to my mother, which she taught to me. It's something I share with my patients and their parents. It's something I brought with me to Haiti, when I had very little else to offer. It's something I can do to myself when I need to breathe. And above and beyond all, it's something I practiced on my mother that she loved.

I remember, after her Ommaya port was placed, doing that very symbol on her bald, sutured head, and whether she said it to make me feel better (as mother's often do), or because it really worked, she said it made a world of difference in her pain. My tattoo will remind me of my mother, of what we shared, and that I want to remain dedicated to the simple power of touch between one human and another, as a means of connection and healing. Not to mention, it ups my badass factor by at least a solid 25 percent.













Gwennie's tattoo is simply: maman, which is "mother" in French. It's what she called our mother, and what our mother called her mother. There's no long explanation to its meaning or mystery to the importance of the word. She traced the letters from one of Mom's journals so it has her touch, and there it will be forever, even though she is not.

And there you have it: a year that started with the loss of the most phenomenal, influential, and significant woman of our lives, and ended with croissants and tattoos. If there is anything I take away from these 365 days, it's gratitude. For my friends, young and old, from all walks of life, who despite my not returning their calls/emails/texts because school had me trapped in the library, thank you. For my father, who is now fielding way more "I'm not sure what to do with my life" phone calls then I think I even dumped on my mother. For my teacher, who despite seeing me almost fail repeatedly, kept reminding me that I am good at what I do, and thanks to her, I am one semester away from graduating. Thank you, to my manager and co-workers, who've made countless switches and accommodations for me to be with my mother, and even in the year following when I needed. My family, who keep my mother living in their daily lives and never shy away from reminding us of who she was, thank you.


To my Matthew, who met me not two months before my mother's condition became terminal, but who never swayed, never flinched, never broke. Thank you, for not taking me up on the countless number of outs I tried to give you in the beginning, for spending hours hugging me and catching tears and snot all over your shoulders, and for being the partner dreams are made of.

And my dear, wonderful, absurdly amazing and strong sister. I asked her once to please, just take care of herself, make smart choices, and not give me anything to worry about, because I couldn't handle one more mess to have to clean-up. She's exceeded my every expectation and I would have never survived this without her.

This Time Last Year

Trepidation. I think that's how I would best describe the attitude with which Gwennie and I approached Thanksgiving this year. As we crept through October, without our even realizing, emotions became more and more fragile and tears a regular occurrence. There's always a certain sadness that comes with the leaves changing. Someone more well-studied than I might disagree, but "back to school" always reminds me that I'm one year farther away from my youth, when things were simple. And now fall has new meaning: it's when Mom became a hospice patient. Crunching over leaves reminds me of navigating her wheelchair along the paths at McLean this time last year. I went to open a trunk full of blankets the other day and burst in to tears, because there was the prayer shawl my mother started wearing daily this time last year. Now I'm pulling out holiday decorations, that in almost two weeks from this time last year, I will have packed up from her room. This time last year, I was celebrating Thanksgiving with my mother.

My days are compartmentalized in to what exactly I was doing this time last year. This time last year I was hunting for socks that wouldn't make her feet swell by day, and writing her memorial program by night. This time last year I was hanging on by a thread, desperately seeking answers I would never get. It is all such a blur to me.

Now that I've realized my rocky days are related to my "this time last year," I've embraced it. Because in a few short week, "this time last year" won't exist. And I'll welcome that more than you can imagine.

And Thanksgiving was amazingly easy, perhaps because Gwennie and I have so much to be thankful for.

We've settled on a memorial weekend to celebrate Mom. Gwennie and Chantel are coming to Boston to spend the weekend with Matthew and I. We'll shop, we'll brunch, we'll listen to the electronica New Age holiday tunes of Manheim Steamroller that Mom loved. We'll no doubt watch White Christmas multiple times, and maybe even throw in A Christmas Story, to which she always responded "garbage in, garbage out." We'll make our traditional politically correct holiday cookies and eat fondue. And because she would love to hate this... we're getting memorial tattoos. Oh yes. Mom, I am getting a tattoo.

And then perhaps, I may lay this blog to rest. I think it's time. There will be no more "this time last year." Thank goodness.

Thanksgiving, 2009

A Week in Haiti

I just got home from a week volunteering in Haiti at Bernard Mevs hospital in Port au Prince. Enough colleagues of mine had gone before me that I had an idea of what I was getting in to, and we've all seen the pictures of the tent cities and piles of rubble, so even that was no surprise. I knew it wouldn't be pretty or easy. But I'd wanted to go since January, and now was finally my opportunity.

There was no shortage of losses, both young and old. Even that, I was prepared for. It's not the United States where we feel compelled to do everything in our power to save every person from death, in Haiti you have to be far more realistic because resources are so incredibly limited.

So I was pretty surprised when my tears finally came, and they only came once while I was there. I was walking to my 4th of 7 12-hour night shifts in a row, when a woman appeared to have a seizure and hit the concrete outside the emergency department hard. I checked her breathing, I checked her pulses, I checked her pupils: all fine. She just wouldn't respond to me. And out of nowhere, she started sobbing and screaming and shaking on the ground. It wasn't until a security guard came to me and said that her mother was inside the emergency room. She'd had a heart attack and was very close to death. By this point we had an audience and people were trying to put her on a stretcher and put a c-spine collar on her and check vitals signs... all these steps and motions we just automatically go through because we're trained to. We got her sitting up and cleared the crowd, and after some convincing, responders backed off the need for an exam, and brought her some water. In my rusty french, I offered to bring her inside to be with her mother, but she didn't stay at the bedside long, and outside I sat with her and couldn't help but put my arms around her. That's when they came, a flood of tears so unexpected I almost started laughing. Because I saw many lost and many suffer that week, and all I could do was support these families and parents, but for once, I really knew how this woman felt. It didn't require my stethoscope or critical thinking or medication, but it may have been my finest nursing moment while I was there.

The older I get, and the more challenges I face, the more astounded I am with how poorly some people handle adversity. They cop out, they run away, they disappoint, they make excuses, they point fingers, and blame everyone else except themselves. These people, from what I saw, are made of the most tough stuff a person can be made of. Mothers would lay down sheets on the hard ceramic floor of our pediatric ward and share with the mother next to them, stranger or not, while their children lay on cots. They shared food, stories, and clothes. They sang and cried together. And it reinforced everything I took away from losing my own mother: life isn't about the stuff we acquire, or the paycheck we make, the or the clothes we wear, because that can all disappear in the matter of minutes. It's about what we have inside that makes us bounce back.

It was such an honor to be part of their world for a week, and no doubt I gained more from the experience than I offered. But I, with the help of the night staff, did do one hell of a job cleaning and reorganized the unit. So that's a bonus.

Here are some pictures from my trip. To learn more about the organization I traveled with, check out Project Medishare.

4 hours old, 37 weeks gestation 1.96 kgs

 This little girl was hospitalized for dehydration, but her 10 year old brother never left her side, so he slept under her crib, and she inevitably always ended up under there with him.

Miss Sephora also preferred the floor with her mom. 

 Baby Girl Charles and Macinlove.

 Miss Christina and her amazing mother.

 My little Sarah gave me a run for my money during what will probably be one of the longest shifts I've ever worked, but who was acting like a cranky little 2 year-old in no time.

Mr. Macinlove's very first bottle.

Mom's Graduated from Yale

Written July 31...

Long before she was even diagnosed with cancer, my mother made her wishes clear, that she wanted to be an organ donor. Because of her cancer however, she could no longer be an organ donor, and being the forever generous woman that she was, she donated her body to Yale Medical School for anatomical research.

Not everyone has the luxury to plan out their wishes ahead of time, but in our mom's case, very little was going to go unplanned, terminal prognosis or not. She even had a document drafted by her atourney appointing me responsible for her remains. If she were still with us, she would have written, "Preparing for Your Death, 101." Because she was strong and thought of the unthinkable, we didn't have to make any decisions in the wake of losing her. I'd communicated with Yale Medical School ahead of time, she'd signed all their paperwork, and we'd even arranged for her "ride" through Carmon Funeral Home to Yale.

When I got the call last Friday that Yale was "ready for us to make arrangements" to pick her up, it was if she'd died all over again. I was devistated. I think somewhere in my head I'd let her go away on vacation for these last 7 months, but then all of a sudden, here she is again, and oh yeah, she's dead.

It was completely unexpected, both that they'd call so soon (they'd originally said anywhere between 6 months and 2 years), and that I fell apart all over again. It's hard to express what thoughts consumed me without coming accross grusome, but you must understand, I was responsible for every bump and bruise,  every calorie that went in, and knowing what came out. Taking care of her body was my life. And I just had the incredibly overwhelming desire to know exactly what they'd done with her, who worked with her, where she was kept, if everything was put back where it belonged. It's hard to admit, because I can only imagine how this can come as crazy, but I wanted to see her. I just felt like I had to see her. Just as I was always there when she came out of surgery, I just wanted to be the first person to hold her hand and say, "you did great Mom, you did great, it's all over now."

I called Carmon Funeral Home and was greated by their lovely receptionist, Erin, who knew me right away, and had me on the phone with John in a moment's time. You can imagine my embarrassment when I lost it. I'd talked to them countless times before she passed, and when they picked her up at McClean in December, they were greated by smiles, and cheers, and well-wishes. We tried to make my mom's death as positive as it could be, but somehow, in discussing plans to cremate her remains, the finality sunk my heart. He was, in only the way I can imagine a funeral home director can me, so kind and patient. He even entertained my questions about viewing her body with the most diplomatic and non-judgemental answer you could imagine, followed by a gentle but strong, "however I hightly discourage it." No kidding. What was I thinking?

In speaking with the director of the full body donation program at Yale, he was able to tell me that my mother was part of a full body anatomy class for first year medical students. She had 4 students, and proved to be a wonderful teacher. He expressed what a gift donations are, especially younger people, because it's rare that a donor isn't pushing triple digits. He also shared that the students had a memorial at the end of their semester, and each one shared an expression of thanks to their "teacher and donor" for allowing them to experience the human body first hand. And I was immediately put at ease...

Relenting control for these last 7 months was extremely difficult. In the beginning, I had urges to call Yale and ask what her status was. I had nightmares that she was scared and would wake up not knowing where she was, but I tried to stay strong and focused because I know that's what she would have wanted me to do.

And despite the hardship that came with the news that it was time for cremation, my unsettled fears turned to feelings of gratitude, that my mother was such a generous, strong, and giving teacher of these students. Professionally, I recognize that every life-saving procedure I participate in is directly impacted by the gifts of those who didn't survive.

Talk about the gift that keeps on giving.

Mom has some company

Gwennie here.

When many of you came to visit my mom at our house, you may remember being greeted by a barking but harmless dog named Casey. We adopted him in the middle of my 7th grade year from the Humane Society... he was timid and emaciated, but he had a big smile on his face and convinced us that he was to be the next member of our household. He quickly became a central personality of our neighborhood and the mascot of The Talbot Group, despite some unnaturally pungent flatulence.

I've been taking care of him since my mom passed, and I know he's felt that loss ever since. Despite Paul being the one who fed him and everyone passing him biscuits on the daily, he developed a special relationship with my mom. He never left her side, from when she ordered her first business cards from the basement of his first house to when she was landing A-list clients in the beautiful office of his second house. And when she got sick, he only took breaks from lying next to her bed to go outside or receive a biscuit from one of his many providers.

Today, I had to make the incredibly difficult decision to lift him up to doggy heaven. He's been eating less, he developed an irritating skin condition, and that tail just wasn't wagging anymore. Aside from that, I'm moving into an apartment complex that doesn't allow dogs. To get him adopted at his age (13!) and throw him into a completely new environment would've been unfair to him. So it was either put him to sleep today in my arms, with someone he knows and loves, or for someone to adopt him, where he in all probability would've declined even more rapidly, just for someone else to have to make that decision, and to die in the arms of a complete stranger. It was perfect timing, really... I moved into an apartment on my own for the first time shortly after my mom died, and I couldn't have asked for a better roommate than that old, devoted, overgrown puppy-dog. I truly believe he held out for his final duty: to keep me company while I slowly grieved and processed my mom's passing. I spent countless nights curled up next to him on the floor, bawling my eyes out while he just lay there and let me cry. Now that I'm okay and moving on, I think he knows his job is done.

Holding someone in your arms while they take their last breath never gets easier. But I'm comforted by the fact that after he passed on, the vet left the room saying "you made the right choice". No less, he is reunited with his one and true owner, my mom. I know that he's getting a whole bunch of love from my mom right now, and passing gas that makes everyone around him plug their nose.

Rest in peace, my sweet puppy Casey. I hope we gave you the life you might never have lived if we hadn't adopted you, and that my mom feeds you all the chicken you can eat.

Remember the Green Chair

I have been meaning to blog for months, but just haven't been able to execute it. There is so much to say, and I wonder what's worthy of sharing, what's fleeting, what's too much?

There have been natural cycles of good and bad days. As time goes on, the nature of our missing her changes and takes on new meaning. Where initially there were times we purely forgot, and would dial her number only to find it disconnected, we're now inundated with unmeasurable sadness with the loss of knowing we can't talk away two hours with her. I could have never anticipated how difficult Mother's Day was going to be. The week leading up to Sunday, I was constantly cleaning my email in box of "Buy Mom a New (Choose Your Material Good Here)," and couldn't figure out why I'd burst in to tears over the littlest thing, couldn't sleep, ate a steady diet of cheese and chocolate, and just could not seem to get a grip. What seemed obvious to everyone around me, was that of course I was a wreck. The world was reminding me constantly that I don't have a mother to celebrate, in the traditional way at least.

I spent the weekend celebrating my dear friend Maura's wedding. My mother loved Maura. It was just a few months after we graduated college that Maura lost her father. In a way, it was the safest place I could have dreamed to be. Surrounded by friends, celebrating someone my mother knew and loved, who understood, survived, and was creating her new family. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I spent Mother's Day evening at a small burger joint in Boston with Matthew, pouring tears in to my my cheeseburger and onion rings (two of her faves), reminiscing about the mother's days past, and how truly wonderful they were. I realized I wasn't upset because I didn't have a mother to celebrate, I was upset because I'd had the most wonderful mother ever, and had celebrated like crazy with her- I just missed her.

Then it was a week of recovery before Gwennie and I ventured to our aunt and uncle's basement in Canton, CT, for what we fondly refer to as "Remember the Green Chair 2010." After my paternal grandmother died, my father, aunt, and myself flew to Virginia to clean out her things. I was a sophomore in college, still a bit shell-shocked, and handed a box of sticky dots and told to put one on anything I wanted. Needless to say, I wanted EVERYTHING. What I didn't realize, was what I wanted was my grandmother. Instead I ended up with a huge storage space jam-packed full of old lady (sorry Piggy) furniture. When my dad and I went to clean out this unit, he slid the door up, and there, staring us in the face, was the green chair. Leather, shiny, monster, which held my grandfather for years before I existed. I looked triumphantly at my father as if to say, "aren't I the most considerate daughter you ever dreamed of for keeping your beloved father's green chair for you?" But I barely had time to gloat as I realized my father was lugging said chair straight towards the dumpster.

I learned the most important lesson to date that day, one which has served me every day of my life: people are not the things they leave behind.

So, when any debate came whether to keep a certain item of my mother's, Gwennie and I would get dad and speaker and he'd say, "remember the green chair." And we'd remember the green chair. It added much needed humor to a task which could have been painfully depressing. But oh, what she saved...

Gwennie's baptismal candle?
My teeth?
The manual to my graphing calculator from 1995?
A VHS of Bill Cosby stand up?

The Canton Town Dump is in for a rude awakening. We did however, relish going through baby clothes, pictures, cards, etc. But because enough time had gone by, and we remembered the green chair, we were able to separate all her keepsakes from her, and know what was worth holding on to, and what was not.

Gwennie and I unwound after the mass exodus with tuscan salads at Maximia and a soft serve from Carvel for dessert: two standards whenever we were home visiting Mom. We talked about how we missed her and when, and how as much as we know we can figure things out for ourselves, we still wish she was around to act as our sounding board. For as different as Gwennie and I are, we both agreed that she was hands down, the least judgemental, most accepting, impressively patient mother, two children could have ever asked for. For all the things she may have struggled with in her own life, big or small, she was always able to be so objective and walk along side us in our personal journeys, but never tell us where to go.

So speaking of journeys, Gwennie and I are managing quite nicely on ours if I do say so myself. Gwennie's gotten in to every college she applied to for the fall, but is still waiting to hear from UCONN, which has turned out to be her first choice. She toyed with Boston, Austin, California, North Carolina, all for good and different reasons, but when the smoke cleared, she realized that at this point, the idea of completely uprooting and starting over sounds way to overwhelming. Connecticut, although not where she wants to spend the rest of her life, is still home to her.

I am back in school full time, working part time. I presented my master's research work last week, which has been a two-plus year long endeavor for me. I am officially, one year from Monica Talbot, MSN

Thank you for keeping us in your hearts and thoughts. We enjoy the check-ins and shout outs, although even now the effort to respond to all of them is overwhelming, they do not go unappreciated. Spring and sprung around here, and we're looking forward to fresh beginnings.



Still River Cafe, Mother's Day 2009

Circle of Life

If the title of this post evoked memories of the Lion King, with baby Simba being raised above his village of animals, in front of a background of vibrant orange (Disney) African sky, with Elton John chanting those lyrics we've all come to know and love... then bingo.

That is precisely what I was going for.

I have been wanting to post for weeks, but really am at a loss of words (insert your own joke here) for what to say. I thought keeping up the blog would be easy; a way to let people know how we're doing, what we're doing, how we're coping, etc. But that's really quite boring because it is the same thing every day: some days are amazing, some are unbearable, but the good far outweighs the bad.

Since losing my mother, there have been 3, maybe 4 occasions during which I was sure I wouldn't survive getting off the floor. Not without a paper bag at least. This is when I owe an especially impressive amount of gratitude to my boyfriend, Matthew, who is often the one to peel me off said floor. But lately, I've been able to do it myself. My last "episode" you might call it, was during a time when I so desperately needed to hear my mother validate me, assure me, that I have made the right choices. It's never about anything in particular, but just during a juncture when you know you can go one of many ways, you make a choice, and you need to know Mom supports you. In the midst of sobbing through a roll of toilet paper, I stopped. If she were alive, there was nothing she could tell me that I didn't already know. She had spent the last 28 years helping me through times just like this. Although it would have been good to hear it out of her mouth right then, I already knew what she would have said to me, and I picked myself up. I have the confidence, strength, and sense of self, that she'd been nurturing all along, it is just up to me now to muster it up when I need it most, rather than dial her number.

Since then things have been a bit easier. I take comfort in knowing she raised me, and when I feel I need her, all I have to do is look within.

My energies are otherwise focused on being back at work, rebuilding my home, slowly unpacking boxes from her house, and finding new nooks for her favorite things.

I think of my loss, and thank the fortune on which it came to me. We lost our mother, sure, but with time to love her, thank her, and say goodbye. Not in the face of catastrophe or natural disaster. What the country of Haiti and its people is experiencing is unimaginable. I am one of thousands of nurses who have volunteered to aid in the relief effort, but in the meantime am left here to feel helpless and hopeless. I think of how I would feel if that was how I lost my mother, and am grateful.

In the face of suffering, I learn the most precious news of all: two of my dearest friends are expecting their first child. Tears of helplessness and longing turn to those of hope and joy. With loss of life comes gift of life. Thank you Elton John, for the Circle of Life.

To read more about my efforts abroad, go to Children's Hospital Boston for Haiti through Partners in Health. PIH is a phenomenal Boston-based organization that has been in Haiti for over 20 years, and is sending health care providers and supplies to Haiti as quickly as possible. They were there first, and won't leave. If you haven't already donated, please consider doing so.

Gwennie here

After reading Monica's most recent post and then talking to her on the phone, it occurred to me that this would probably be the best way to reach out and let everyone know that I'm doing okay. As Monica said, the emails and cards are so touching but so numerous that it's sometimes overwhelming to respond to all of them.

Again, I'm doing okay. There are moments when I think of Mom in a happy way. When I know I'm doing something she wouldn't approve of (like going over 65 on the highway), I feel guiltier than I ever did when she was alive. Sometimes a song that reminds me of her comes on the radio and I'll just smile. And then this morning it occurred to me that I had the bag of jewelry she had at McLean and decided to wear her beautiful (and totally ancient) Seiko watch. As I struggled with the clasp, I remembered helping her put on her jewelry when I was little before she went to work. Little memories like that pop up in my head all the time, and for that I am so, so grateful.

Then there are other times that I sink into a rut that seems impossible to get out of. I was walking around New York City on Monday and got a little lost because I couldn't remember if the even streets went east or west. My mom used to live in New York and would always be able to answer questions like that without skipping a beat. I typed "Ma" into my phone to find "Maman" and pressed Send. When I remembered a second later that she wouldn't pick up it was like she died all over again. Tears started streaming down my face under my sunglasses and all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry. However, I kept trudging on and eventually met up with good friends was able to come out of it.

The amount that I miss her is the heaviest thing I've ever felt. But my memory of her, especially from the last 8 months, is like a warm blanket I can wrap myself up into and immediately feel close to her again. The other thing that helps is the emails and cards from all of you. I feel so badly because I don't always respond, but please be assured that they are more than appreciated. My sister and I have felt so supported through this whole process and feel especially so now. So thank you :)

I wish everyone a happy New Year. If 2010 isn't better than 2009 (or 2008, or 2007, or 2006, etc) I give up.

New Beginnings

Cliche title, but true.

It's been two weeks today since my mother passed. The first week was no less busy than all the weeks before, because even though we didn't have my mother to care for, there was lots to do. This past week is a bit different. It has been about marinating, sleeping, processing, sleeping, crying, sleeping, sleeping, sleeping.

Until now, it's been a cycle of being manically productive and "on," then crashing, but then having to pull out of it quickly to be back in the game. All of a sudden, there's no needing to rapidly regroup. Mom isn't waiting for me to recover from a mini-meltdown. I can actually slow down now, which has lead to the craziest development of all: I'm TIRED!

It is an exhaustion that I can only compare to that of a new parent perhaps. No matter how many hours of sleep you get, your body is still reeling from the energy spent for months on end. And the appetite! Where did it come from? I could spend endless hours on the couch, in pajamas, eating egg salad and popcorn. Oh- and cookies. Holidays + Deceased Mother = Mass quantities of cookie deliveries and 5 extra pounds. Bonus.

Emotionally, there have been a few surprises here and there. I got home to my condo after my first shift back on Christmas Eve and was in the best mood. I literally caught myself humming Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer as I walked up to my door. Then out of nowhere, it occurred to me that I would never buy my mother a Christmas present again. Never. Then it spirals in to wishing I'd gotten her an early present this year, or wishing I'd splurged on something better last year, or wishing I'd just done more period. Somehow I always end up back at: did I do everything I possibly could?

This question haunts me. I won't ever know if any of those hundreds of options would have made a difference, all I can try to remind myself is that I did the best I could at the time. Decisions made seemed logical at the time, but now sometimes I wonder. The "what ifs" seem to be my greatest hurdle.

I wish I had the energy to respond to each and every one of you who has reached out to Gwennie and me. The mailbox overflows daily, and I have stacks of unopened cards that I haven't gotten to because I want to give each and every one of them the attention they deserve. The sentiments you've shared about our mother will sustain us, and the compliments you pay to us really aren't so much a reflection of who we are, but further testimony to our mom. We are who we are because of her.

This year has been a tough one, and I was worried about coming home Christmas night to an empty condo after my second day back at work. I got a little teary, but then I remembered last Christmas. I was having a hard day, and within minutes of calling my mom, she and my sister were in the car. Two hours later they arrived with cheese, crackers, and shrimp cocktail in hand. That night we went to downtown Boston and saw Marley & Me. A movie on Christmas night had been a family tradition for years. As we exited the theatre, Mom and I just trailed right behind Gwennie as she happened to turn in to another theatre playing Doubt which happened to be starting at that very moment, and before we knew it, we were having a two for one night at the movies. The one and only time I'd ever done this was with my mother: Housesitter and Sister Act. I will never forget it. This made me smile.

"Are you sure you want to delete: Mom?"

This is the tiny little window that stared me in the face from my cell phone this morning. I knew I had to bite the bullet and just do it: take "Mom" out of my phone. It's just a number, her phone is disconnected anyway, but still, it was a hard thing to do.

How come there was "no-I'm-not-sure-I-want-to-delete-Mom-but-I-know-I-have-to" option?

This is a quick post. I am back at work today for the first time since I left mid-shift after learning the cancer had spread to her cerebral spinal fluid. That was in August. I barely remembered what bus to get on. Gwennie too is back to work this week, taking it a day at a time.

We are really okay. I think how "okay" we are surprises people, but when you have the priviledge of sending your mother away peacefully and painlessly after months of decline, maybe the hardest part went away with her. Of course we have our moments, and who knows how tomorrow will feel, being Christmas, but as for now, we are holding strong and steady. If we were even to waiver the slightest inch, we'd be caught by a massive sea of friends, family, and co-workers who have engulfed us with love and support. It is truly amazing.

More to come about the wonderful service last weekend, with plenty of pictures and details. Thank you for checking in, and stay tuned.

Elisabeth Monique Guerlain Talbot

February 26, 1953 ~ December 12, 2009

Leaving a legacy of optimism, perseverance, courage and elegance, Elisabeth “Babette” Talbot, 56, of Avon, CT, passed away peacefully on Saturday after a long illness. Her daughters, Monica and Gwendolyn, and her husband, Paul Fischer, were at her side.

In addition to her dedicated daughters and husband, she is survived by her father, Bernard Guerlain of Nokomis, FL and Rockport, ME; her three brothers, John-Nicholas “Nick” of Denver, CO; Thierry of Montpelier, VT; and Peter of Boonton, NJ; as well as her four sisters, Claude Guerlain (Karpuk) of Northborough, MA; Natalie Denoyer of Fairfield, CT; Caroline Feroleto of Easton, CT; and Stephanie Guerlain (Haschart) of Charlottesville, VA; and all their spouses. The father of her children, former husband and lifelong friend, George “Pat” Talbot, of Justin, TX, also survives her. She was predeceased by her mother, Fanny Guerlain.

Babette cherished the gift of motherhood and time spent with her daughters. She reveled in the people who enhanced her life, and the individual relationships she developed with each member of her extended family on both sides of the Atlantic, including numerous aunts and uncles, 16 nieces and nephews, and 33 first cousins. She was a guiding light, a confidant and a mentor. Any encounter with her could burnish one brighter.

The entrepreneurial spirit ran deep within Babette, inherited from her father. She followed his example of tenacity, forthrightness and integrity in all her business endeavors. From her mother she gained a love of the fine arts and learned to carry herself forward with grace, self-confidence and determination. Babette was a self-described collector of art. In fact, she was an artist of life. She loved to play classical piano, go to the theater and the opera, and surround herself with art works of all types.

Babette grew up in Redding, CT. She graduated from Joel Barlow High School and Manhattanville College, after which she worked at Vogue Magazine. Upon moving to Avon, Connecticut, she became a well-known photography stylist and was Executive Director of the Connecticut Art Director’s Club. Subsequently, she developed a career in real estate, becoming a “Unique and Unusual Homes” specialist, before joining the corporate relocation industry.

Babette’s greatest career joy came from The Talbot Group, the independent relocation counseling company she opened in 2001. Over the years, she successfully expanded her business adding new divisions such as HomeWorks, SeniorMoves and AcademicMoves.

In both 2005 and 2006, Liz Talbot, as she was known in business, earned the Business Champion award from the MetroHartford Alliance for increasing year-over-year business revenues by more than any other company her size in Connecticut. Liz was accredited by the Women’s Business Enterprise National Council, active in the national Women Presidents' Organization, and spoke at relocation conventions throughout the United States.

Babette’s daughters, Monica and Gwendolyn, are especially grateful to her many friends, the mighty Helping Hands and the staff at McLean Hospice for creating a network of love and support throughout their mother’s illness.

A Celebration of Life will take place this Saturday, December 19, at 11:00 AM at the Universalist Church, 433 Fern Street, West Hartford, CT, followed by a reception at Abigail’s Grille & Wine Bar, Simsbury.

Babette truly believed in the power of integrative medicine. In lieu of flowers, donations in her memory may be made to Integrative Medicine/St. Francis Foundation, 114 Woodland St, Hartford, CT 06105.

extraordinary. every day.

Celebration of Life

Saturday, December 19, 2009 @ 11 a.m.

The Universalist Church

433 Fern Street

West Hartford, Conn.

Reception to follow immediately at:

Abigail's Grille & Wine Bar

4 Hartford Road

Simsbury, Conn.

All are welcome!

In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Integrative Medicine Program at St. Francis Hospital.

Checks can be made out to "Integrative Medicine" with "Elisabeth Talbot" in the memo and mailed to:
St. Francis Hospital Foundation
114 Woodland Street
Hartford, CT 06105

Questions, call 860.714.7451

Many have asked for Gwennie and my mailing address as well:

Monica and Gwennie Talbot

21 Boynton Street

Unit 3

Jamaica Plain, Mass. 02130

New Beginnings

I wish you could have all been there in the hours after our mother passed. Gwennie and I went downstairs to be engulfed by our family in a huge group hug. My mother had always said that her "perfect possibility" at the time of her death would have been to see all her siblings, her father, and have her brother-out-law Eric play the guitar. Sure enough, she saw every sibling yesterday (one via speaker phone, who she'd seen Wednesday), had a few hours of quiet time with her father, and a concert by Eric. Not a half hour before she passed away, the only sibling she hadn't seen yet that day sat at her bedside.

Yesterday feels surreal, almost as if one week was compressed into a day. I watched her breathing patterns change and maybe it was because I'm a nurse, maybe it's because I'm her daughter, or a combination of the two, but somehow I knew we wouldn't be spending another night in the family room. Gwennie took some time with her, just the two of them, while Matthew and I roamed the campus so I could fill my lungs with some cold fresh air. When I returned to my mother's room with one of her sisters, her breathing changed. Slower and deeper. We gave her morphine, we repositioned her, but somehow she was different. Not uneasy, but mechanical. Her spirit and soul had left her body, and with her sweet nurse Laurel, we prepared that this could be her time. Our wonderful Susan Eastman entered to visit at this time, but it was clear she was changing. It is a scary moment, because you just want to optimize her comfort and relieve any distressing symptoms. Laurel helped us turn her on her side and lay her flat to help promote easy breathing. I supported her head with my arm around her back and my other hand holding her face. Gwennie wrapped herself around her waist with her head in her lap, and Paul sat beside her on the bed saying words of encouragement and helping administer morphine as needed. It was amazing, because when we got her comfortable, her breathing immediately became slow, gentle, and almost inaudible. I'll never know if she really said to me, "I want to go," or if I just heard it in my head, but the next thing I knew I said, "you can. Breathe easy." And with support and words of encouragement whispered from all around her, she passed before Laurel even came back to the room. Just like that, she was gone.

The moments after are indescribable. The feeling of loss and sorrow cuts so deep and sharp, and yet you almost feel weightless because years and months of wondering, anticipation, and preparation have just come to an end.

Friends and family came, paid their respects, and sat with her. Gwennie crawled right up next to her and put her head right on her shoulder. Even after, she lent her girls support. To see Gwennie, comfortable, calm, soaking up this opportunity to be at peace with our mother's death, warmed my heart and I knew in an instant that we would be okay. My grandfather stood at the end of her bed and said, "Bon voyage, ma pousse," meaning, "good travels, little flee," which is a very common term of endearment.

When the funeral home came to pick her up an hour or two later, Gwennie, myself, my Aunt Coco, and Uncle Tommy walked with her to the elevators. As we crossed the balcony with all of our family below us, they let out cheers and applause. Just when you think, "oh maybe walking through the halls with my deceased mother might be a little scary," you're met with love, joy, and celebration. And it didn't end there...

Perhaps the most tender thing I witnessed yesterday was getting off the elevator and seeing my Uncle Peter and my 9 year old cousin Stephan standing there waiting for us. Mom was beautifully snuggled under a red, blue, and green quilt with only her flawless and peaceful face exposed. As we rolled by, Stephan just watched, and said, "I'm going to miss Aunt Babette." And slowly from around the corner the troops came marching in: her siblings Nicky, Peter, Claude, Natalie, Caroline, and Stephanie, along with our outlaws Tommy, Eric, and Kimberly, cousins Emily, Kip, Stephanie, and Stephan, our dear grandfather Bernard, precious friends Tom V., Lissa, and Matthew- the lined the way towards the door, giving kisses and good-byes. I couldn't help but sob, because Mom would have so loved that. She was the one who always set the example to us in times like these, that death doesn't have to be scary. It doesn't have to be frightening, or hidden, or protected from youth. It is natural and something we'll all be touched by at some point. She'd set such an example to us, and in turn we were able to thank her with the most flawless, spontaneous, and organic farewell ever imagined.

Gwennie and I walked her out and gave her final kisses once she was safely snuggled in the car. I've never been so proud to be part of my family as I was in that moment.

The night went on with a delicious dinner at Eric and Natalie's in to the early hours of the morning. Afterwards with full bellies, warms hearts, and swollen eyes, we got a good night's sleep. Today we'll have brunch with our family and then head back to McLean around change of shift, so we can pack up her room and say thank you to both the day and evening staff for all they've done for us.

A memorial is tentatively scheduled for a week from yesterday, Saturday, December 19th at The Universalist Church in West Hartford, Conn with a reception to follow for all. More details to come.

This is hardly the end of the blog. In many ways, our journey is just beginning.

Another Angel

Our mother passed away peacefully at 5:30pm with Monica, Gwennie, and Paul by her side. She was comfortable, embraced, and loved.

Giving Thanks

Our evening was just as Mom would have wanted it. Siblings and friends drifted in, visited with her, and were otherwise planted around the fire place in the lobby eating, drinking, and sharing. The lights in the lobby went off at 11:30pm so we set up camp by firelight. It was kind of perfect.

Mom had a quiet night in comfort and peace. Our amazing Lissa sat bedside while Gwennie and I got some shut eye. Her morphine has been increased today to prevent any respiratory discomfort, and she's become non-responsive. She'll throw a smile here and there when someone she hasn't seen in a while enters the room, but otherwise she's quietly inside of herself, receiving endless gifts of love and prayer.

I've spent a lot of time reading entries from the past, and it is strange to see where we were a year ago. In fact today we were delivered a basket created by the hospice volunteers, that a year ago this weekend, Mom spent preparing and delivering to families herself. I wish losing a mother on no one, especially as prematurely as this, but if it has to happen, I feel confident that we've created the best possible scenario. Today Gwennie and I shared in a ceremony of giving thanks with Lynn, Mom's trusted spiritual counselor. She anointed each part of Mom's body, and gave thanks for how each part has helped support and nurture us in our growth. It was incredibly meaningful to share that time together as mother and daughters.

We're all here, supporting one another, eating incredible food delivered by friends, drinking beers cold off Mom's porch, and taking turns visiting.

Energy is low, need to refuel (cookies + beer), but will update later this afternoon.

Transitioning

Since I last wrote, each day has brought a tremendous amount of change in my mother. She did not want to get up to her chair Tuesday or Wednesday, managed to sit in her chair for about 45 minutes yesterday and 20 today. She's stopped eating, but asks for sips of liquids or a bit of something smooth to "wet her whistle" from time to time. Swallowing is difficult and often invokes these little coughing spells where Mom cannot seem to comfortably clear her throat. For a while now she's had some audible congestion in the back of her throat, and found some relief with nebulizer treatments every few hours.

Confusion has been subtle, but pops up out of nowhere. She and I were talking yesterday afternoon and she said, "I'd like to take a vacation with my brothers and sisters." "That sounds lovely, where do you want to go Mom? Block Island?" "No. Too close. Too boring." Well okay then. We settled on a cruise to Chile. This wasn't even so much confusion as a sign that Mom was slowly transitioning to a place where she is more inside of herself, dreaming of how the next stage will be. These types of conversations about going away, vacations, changes, etc. are often a way in which the dying can express their desire to move on.

Today, she sleeps. Quietly and comfortably, Mom is snoring gently and listening to the Nutcracker on her iPod. Paul, Gwennie, and I had a meeting with her hospice team and we discussed the fact that she is truly starting to make her transition in to the dying process. This afternoon we will access her port and start morphine. Morphine is a miracle drug that serves many purposes, the most commonly known being pain, however morphine is excellent at treating respiratory distress. When people are passing away, they can experience what is known as "air hunger," which is a sort of gasping and rapid breathing when the body shouts to the brain "I need oxygen, breath MORE." Morphine blocks this function, allowing someone to be pain free, and breathe comfortably. If at any point Mom seems at all uncomfortable, she can get a small dose of morphine to relieve the symptoms almost immediately. For anyone who's lost a loved one in hospice, they're probably well aware of what a gift morphine can be.

We are all hanging in there. This isn't easy, but this isn't our mother, and that is so much harder to bear than the prospect of losing her. In the past few days especially, Gwennie and I have been able to make our peace and say our goodbyes. In our counseling with the staff here, they've all instructed us on the five steps of letting go, which are:

1. I love you.

2. Do you love me?

3. I forgive you.

4. Do you forgive me?

5. Thank you.

We've had the conversations at length and on many occasions, and she knows she has our permission to leave whenever she is ready.

In the meantime, I've thrown her schedule book out the window. We're setting up shop in the hospice family room, pulling together snacks, kleenex, family, and friends. The French do nothing quietly. Mom always said to me that when the time comes, she wants to be surrounded by those she loves and those who love her. Done and done.

We were visited by some chorus members from The Cobb School, Montessori where Gwennie and I both attended as children. They entered the hallways singing carols with a holiday arrangement and huge card for Mom. If only I could do justice to the look on the faces of the residents here. An impromptu holiday concert lifted all of our spirits, and even if Mom wasn't able to enjoy it herself, she made this happen by just being who she is.

Now we wait, talk, hold hands, cry, laugh, and eat Beth Holland's cookies (thank you!!!). Mom is at peace. We are at peace. Casey is lying right in the doorway of her room blocking the way: all is as it should be.

Housekeeping: Correspondence

Just a little request- email has gotten VERY difficult for my mother, however the more she continues to get, the more she feels she has to read and respond! Phone is no longer ideal. It is hard for her to hear and her faint voice does not travel well.

If you have a message to send to my mother, snail mail is wonderful and someone here can read the note to her.

McLean

Attn: Elisabeth Talbot

75 Great Pond Road

Simsbury, CT 06070

She also enjoys reading messages on the blog, so please feel free to write notes there as well.

If you do send an email, consider making the font at least 16 point, and email her at talbot07@gmail.com. You can also feel free to send messages to Gwennie or I and we will pass them on promptly. mmtalbot@gmail.com or gwennie.talbot@gmail.com.

Thank you for your understanding!

Little Battles, Big Differences

This last week has been filled with ups and downs. It seems that with each passing day, symptoms get a bit more severe and even simple things more tiresome. For example, Gwennie and I went on a pharmacy mission to grab up various types of reading glasses to see if any would help her eyes focus while reading emails. And of all things, dental floss became an issue. Her teeth feel tighter, and all the floss we had was either too stringy, not stringy enough, too smooth, not smooth enough, you get the picture. After days of trial and error, the little floss sticks were a major home run.

We roll our eyes when Mom starts a sentence with, "you know what I need?" but the truth is there's nothing we'd rather be doing than reading up on dental floss on consumer reports. This is why we're here, and every little effort people make to accommodate Mom's ever changing needs make such a difference in her daily life.

Because our mother is so proactive and such a fighter, our conversations of late have been about what does Mom feel like she has to do versus what she wants to do. For some, the answer might seem very obvious, but for my mother, who is an infinite do-er, it has been hard for her to slow down. We've talked about what enhances her life from here on out, however long that may be, and how does she want to spend the time she has. She continues with her acupuncture, meditation, and massage regularly, which helps control pain, stress, promote circulation, and allow for healing energy to be accessed. There's no question that these tools have helped and will continue to do so.

So the big question: when is enough enough? Imagine you had advanced, metastatic disease, and someone told you they thought if you followed their strict regimen of filtered water, supplements, smoothies, and therapy, you might cure yourself. Would you do it? Would you go to another country and do clinical trials? Would you be able to find peace or rather die fighting? How often are we forced to think about these things?

Ever since the first time cancer entered our family's daily vocabulary, people from all walks of life have offered up suggestions. With Mom's disease being as advanced as it is, she's taken a "well, then I just need to fight it harder" approach. She is truly unbelievable. If most of us were in her shoes, we'd put on our slippers and eat ice cream for every meal.

With all these symptoms, it has really forced my mother marinate in reality. I think she's realized that she can refocus her energy from working towards a physical healing, to just living the life she has in happiness and peace. Just when I think my mother can't amaze me any more, she recently said to me, "I just don't want to stop fighting because I don't want you and Gwennie to think I'm giving up. I want to set a good example." Sniffle...

I just had absorb that for a minute. It seemed CRAZY to me that she would be doing this all for us, the hours of therapy with healers, the timeless research on vitamix blenders and alkaline water filtration systems, the homework. All I could do was reassure her, that the decision to be less proactive is not to welcome death, but to move forward bravely and with grace.

Any book on death and dying will discuss the need to give permission for loved ones to go. But my mother is very much alive and living, and nothing prepares you to look one another in the eyes and have a discussion about giving it everything you've got, or just enjoying your time together.

Since my mother's decision to ease up on her therapies, it has allowed more time for visits with friends and family, which she believes is really where she draws the most quality of life from. We've been able to just sit for hours, and sometimes we're just working on our computers side by side, but we're present, and we're there together. We talk about how cheated she feels; wanting to see Gwennie graduate from college and me get married and become a mother. We acknowledge it is unfair and it sucks, but then we talk about those events in our future, and how Mom imagines those times, what she would say to us, how she would participate, and we know, that when those times come, she will be there and active in spirit.

My mother has only ever wanted to be the miracle patient who walked out of hospice. It has taken her a long time to absorb that no matter how much she does, she may not impact the outcome, but to do less, makes her no less a failure. She is brave, graceful, and is setting an example not to just my sister and myself, but to all of us. Perhaps the miracle won't be her physical healing, but there are other miracles happening every day. My sister and I are together, with our mother, almost every day. My mother has had the opportunity to make amends with people and emotions of her past. She's found a place for spirituality in her life that never existed so strongly before. These are the real miracles, and we are grateful for them.

Gestures of Love

I could dedicate a blog entirely to the kindness bestowed on our family these last few years. But Miss Mollie O'Hara, this post is dedicated to you.

Mollie is the daughter of one of my mother's Talbot Group counselors. When my mother first underwent chemotherapy, Mollie donated her hair to Locks of Love in honor of her. Mind you, she's never met my mother, and was 12, maybe 13 at the time. A few weeks ago, Mollie sent a letter to my mother with two drawings she did herself, citing that "one is for quiet times, and the other for happy times."

Mollie, I hope you don't mind me sharing your drawings and letter. They're too amazing not to. She wrote:

I have never even met you, but I love you because what you have done for yourself, my mom, and your company. You are in my prayers. It takes a lot of courage to do what you have been doing and I am proud to say that I have even an acknowledgement of who you are. I'm sorry I could not come visit you in hospice, but I guess it's not my fault that I'm not 18 yet. The best I could do was make you these pictures and send this letter to you. I hope it has made your day a little brighter, because that was my goal.

Well mission accomplished Mollie. You made not only my mother's day a little brighter, you make every day a LOT brighter because we have your pictures to admire.

This is one young lady who is destined to do incredible things.

And speaking of impressive pieces of creativity, an honorable mention is due for my Aunt Coco. Mom had mentioned that she has a hard time keeping things in reach and organized on her bedside tables, which is nothing new. It has taken a village to come to a halfway decent solution. First it was containers to keep everything gathered in, but those made the table to heavy for Mom to role. Then we tried little upright organizers with little slots, but still too heavy. Of late, we've had success with that rubbery gripper stuff cut to the size of the tables, so at least loose things don't slip off the table easily. But today, ah HA! Look what arrived...

It's a tool belt, covered in words that might come to mind when thinking of Mom. It's tied around the bedside table, and already holding purell, pens, remotes, kleenex, you name it.

A+ for creativity.

Recommended Readings

Thank you to everyone! You were spot on. The following three books were assigned to me when I took an elective in nursing school called "Care at the End of Life." I've picked them up a few times since because at each point in my life, they've meant something different. I would highly suggest any of the following:

On Death and Dying, by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, M.D.

Final Gifts, by Maggie Callanan and Patricia Kelley

Dying Well, by Ira Byock, M. D.