Faithful Sunshine

The Story Before the Story

Life is complicated. I think we can all agree on that. For some, the focus is on the day's schedule---work commitments, lunch with friends, dinner with the family. Some struggle just to make ends meet while others battle in their attempt to get the biggest bang for their buck. Priorities are not always well defined---or followed through. All too often, we lose the day to life's petty pressures. I think that surviving each day involves a blend of patience, respect, and faith. On some days, I don't feel as though I have any of those ingredients! Those are the days that I try to remind myself that I'm human, so perfection is only a dream. No matter how well we appear to get through each day, I believe that there's more to it all than just the daily motions we go through. I think we each stumble into random moments along the way; moments in which our inner thoughts delve into a tug-of-war between our assumptions of what life means and the reality that we really don't know. In our efforts to make sense of it all, some of us are compelled to fill in the blanks and justify our own guesses. For us, life has to make sense, in our own terms. But maybe we don't need to guess. Maybe we don't need all the answers. What's so wrong with just having a little blind faith? Instead of simply trusting in blind faith, so many of us seem to be blind to God's daily blessings. We tend to fluff things off as simple coincidences. Why is it so hard to simply trust in blind faith? Why is it so important to justify our own interpretations? Maybe it's okay to just believe.

The first time I recall falling into such deep thoughts, I was only about six or seven years old. From town, the drive home was seven country miles in the backseat of a Plymouth Scamp. Back then, there were no seat belts to confine. Air conditioning was an open window. I remember feeling the warm night air on my face as I leaned my head back against the corner of the car window. I could feel the vibration of the road. I could hear the crickets. I could smell the country air. Across the field was a sea of yellow flashes of lightning bugs. I tilted my head up and got lost in the starry, moonlit night. The view was utterly beautiful. The sky was crystal clear and full of faraway lights. There were so many stars. Some were brighter than others. My mind tried to process. How did the stars get there? Why are they there? They seemed endless. I strained my eyes to see as far as I could. On that particular night, my thoughts began to wander as I stared intently into the summer evening sky. Time seemed to stand still---or more bluntly, time didn't seem to matter. My young mind couldn't comprehend how endless it appeared. It was like a snow globe but without the plastic barrier. I began to feel as though I had floated up and away into it. I was no longer riding in the car, but I was up with the stars. I felt infinite. No words can truly describe what I felt. No words can do justice to what I felt.

It was so long ago, yet I vividly remember that evening and the feelings I felt. But the feelings were becoming more intense---overwhelming---especially for such a small child. So much so, that I felt completely disconnected from my own body. I felt as though I was no longer in the car. It was an odd feeling that I had never felt before. Those feelings startled me, and I glanced away to look around inside the car. I looked to my right to see my sister in the back seat with me. Next, I looked at my mom in the front seat, and then over to my dad, who was driving. I didn't say anything to anyone. Instead, I rested my head back into the corner of the open window and looked back up into the sky. I wanted to go back. And I did. Oddly, as overwhelmed as I had felt, my heart felt full. It was pure. And it was real. I knew He put all the stars in the sky. I knew it was God. I didn't need anyone to tell me that---I just knew it. And I was happy. My thoughts continued to swirl. I wondered why I was me---and why I was here instead of somewhere else. And I wondered why I couldn't see God. Yet I knew He was with me. He was with me. I was deep in my thoughts when I noticed that the car had slowed. As the car turned, the night sky shifted, and I abruptly heard the sounds of the gravel hitting the car. We were home.

I was just a little girl, so my thoughts didn't linger too long after running inside the house. But I never forgot that night either. I still recall it in great detail, at a level that you wouldn't think memory would allow. And although I didn't solve the mysteries of life that night, it was one of the few experiences in my life that truly touched my soul. That moment was what I call an I got it moment. I truly got it that night. Of course I grew up and built up the normal cluttered debris of human chaos that everyone else tends to collect. But through the good and the bad experiences of my life, I've always blindly hung on to my faith and the belief that there is more to life than what we can see.

Some people are just not meant to be parents. Mom was one of those people. I realize that it sounds really horrible for a daughter to say that. Most would probably assume that I was exaggerating---she couldn't really be that bad. Yet my sister and I knew her differently. Self-absorbed is the adjective that first comes to mind. She could be bitter and hateful, even when it didn't seem justified for the situation. The emotional impact she had on her family's lives was sometimes difficult to experience, let alone to understand. Mom's life was filled with doubt, worry, and regret. Everything, and everyone, had to be perfect, and she had to be in control. Mistakes were not easily overlooked, especially her own. She dwelled on those mistakes.

Mom was born September 10, 1933, as Mary Berniece Rutherford, the youngest of eight children. Although I've heard stories, I don't really know how Mom's life was growing up. I know they were poor---extremely poor. Mary B was born in rural Indiana during the Great Depression, and was more than likely a little surprise. Granny was thirty-six years old when she gave birth to Mom and at the age of seven, my Aunt Betty was no longer the youngest. By the time Mom was born, her oldest siblings were either already out on their own or close to it. By the time Mom was a senior in high school, she was the only child at home. I'm not really sure what factors drove Mom to quit school with only three months left until graduation. But I know that decision was a key factor in how Mom's life would unfold. She left school to get married. But why so young? She was only sixteen. And why so quickly? With the typical assumption not a factor, perhaps this was an attempt to escape her life, for whatever reason, justified or not. Perhaps she was naively trying to live out a young girl's dream---or rather, the unrealistic fairy tale of a knight in shining armor. Reality, however, tends to sneak in undetected. And like for so many of us, I think life played out a little differently than she had planned. And perhaps it became more difficult than she was capable of handling.

Positive memories of Mom as I was growing up are not easily recalled. I suppose they are simply buried in the depths of my brain. But if you were to ask me what was my best childhood memory that included Mom, the memory that comes easily to me is how she would kiss me on my nose. I suppose the reason for remembering that is because she has continued that ritual throughout my entire life. It's special to me because she has never kissed anyone else on the nose, but she kisses my nose at each visit. She never forgets to. At some point within the last two to three years, Mom had also started calling me Sunshine. She said that I was her Sunshine, and I brightened her days with my phone calls.

After Aunt Betty's passing, Mom lost her daily phone calls with her sister. So our phone calls had become pretty consistent---expected. We'd talk either on my way to work or on my way home from work. On many days, we'd talk both times. One way, it was thirty to forty-five minutes that, on any given day, had the potential to be extremely stressful. I was either reaching for topics to discuss or cringing at the topic she might bring up. Mom tended to fixate on things. It was very draining on me. And on many occasions, I was desperately trying to find an open spot in the conversation to say goodbye so I wouldn't be late. As stressful as those calls were on me, they seemed therapeutic for Mom. She looked forward to those calls. In November of 2008, I gave her a cell phone. I wanted to make sure she would have easy access to a phone in case she needed help. She was really proud of that phone. Mom thought it was cool that she could call me while sitting in her car in the Walmart parking lot!

There were a couple of rare occasions over the years in which Mom spent the entire phone call apologizing for not being as good of a mom as she felt she should have been. Although the rare apology surprised me and warmed my heart, inevitably select, vivid memories would come flooding back each time. I would try not to get sucked back into that world. Those memories were not always pleasant. Instead I would try to console her because there was no need for either of us to dwell on what should not have been. No need for apologies. As cliché as it sounds, some memories and feelings are best left in the past. I tried to help Mom see that I would not be where I was now---or who I was now---if she had not lived the life she lived and made the mistakes she made. But the effects of those consolations never seemed to last long.

My sister Angela and I both tried to do the right thing by Mom. We gave her money when she needed it even though we didn't have it. We bought her groceries and medicine, and we visited with her when we could. At times I wondered why I was doing it. Sometimes it felt like an obligation---honor thy father and thy mother. Other times, I simply knew it was the right thing to do...so I did it...and it felt good. But always in the back of my mind was the promise I had made to Granny. I had promised her I'd look out for Mom.

So many times I found myself defending her, especially to my sister. I wanted to believe that Mom didn't really mean to be how she was. I hoped that Mom meant well but just didn't express it well. I truly felt that she was sort of misunderstood by everyone...including me. She had a good soul---it was just hard to see on many occasions. I know I had seen subtle, positive changes in Mom over the years, but trying to convince Angela of that seemed nearly impossible. Reality still remained that life with Mom was an unsteady balance of tolerance, patience, and strength. Some days were better than others. Some days I truly felt in tune with Mom, as though we had found a plane of understanding. Yet other days, it seemed easy to doubt that she loved me...or anyone. During the bad or difficult moments, I questioned whether I truly loved Mom. Somewhere deep inside I really believed that I had put it all in the past as I desperately tried to see a better person in Mom. On the other hand, I think the pain of the past had cut a lot deeper into Angela's soul. She was not as forgiving. Angela's bitterness towards Mom was quite obvious, even painful at times. But just as obvious was the ache she felt for Mom.

February 2009

It was mid-February of 2009 when Mom started talking about her voice. During one of our daily phone calls, she stopped mid-sentence and said she thought her voice sounded odd. She cleared her throat and spoke again, but I didn't really notice anything. I wasn't really sure what I was trying hear. Mom wasn't really sure either. So we both fluffed it off and continued our talk. But a couple of calls later, I thought I did hear it. And Mom did, too. She paused. Her next sentence sounded odd, and I wasn't sure what I was hearing. It was like she was trying to find the right words to say, but hesitated. Once she knew what words she wanted to say, she seemed to struggle to say them right. But was I just imagining it? Her next sentence didn't sound as bad. And the next sounded fine. But I could tell Mom seemed alarmed.

As I asked her other questions on how she felt, I silently considered hypochondriasis. But then the fact did cross my mind that Mom was in her seventies. So, taking it seriously for a moment, my next thought was stroke. But her voice was her only symptom, and I wasn't sure what I was hearing. So I didn't dare suggest that as a possibility fearing I was jumping the gun. But out of the blue, Mom quickly and nervously assumed it had to be an allergic reaction to metformin, her diabetes medication. Mom had started taking metformin in November of 2008 once her physician had diagnosed her as being a type 2 diabetic. When she started using metformin, she had experienced the standard side effects such as nausea and diarrhea.

She asked my opinion, and I didn't know what to say. She had been taking the medicine for at least three months. I would have thought that all side effects would have surfaced by now. Honestly, I assumed it was just her consistent worry---worry was her pastime. I really thought it might just be in her head. And with how quickly she jumped to this conclusion, I wondered how long she had really been worrying about her voice...and worrying about metformin.

I was stressed from work and, well, life in general. And here I was trying to drive through rush hour traffic while trying to diagnose my mother's latest issue. I had no answers for her. How could I? I had no idea where this was coming from. I asked what questions I could think to ask, then I told Mom that I would do some research so we could talk about it later. And I told her to pay closer attention to her voice and what others were hearing.

Mom did indeed have some real chemical allergies. Most likely this was because of a severe reaction she had over twenty-five years ago after having her hair permed and colored too close together. Besides perfumes, detergents, and fabric dyes, she definitely thought she was allergic to generic medications. Some people do have issues with the different bases or fillers in generic medicines. But I didn't think she was allergic to metformin. I could not find any documentation online that remotely linked vocal issues with metformin, not even for people allergic to generic medicines. And since Mom had been experiencing tingling in her feet since before her diabetes diagnosis, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps her occasional vocal difficulties were linked to diabetic neuropathy.

Since her diabetes diagnosis, I had been doing random research on the topic from time to time. Apparently diabetic neuropathy is nerve damage that typically occurs in the legs and feet of those with diabetes. High blood sugar can injure nerves throughout the body but damage is most prevalent in the legs and feet. As the discussions continued each day, and started to involve multiple calls during the day, I found myself stretching for answers inside of uneducated guesses and random Google searches.

At one point in those