Today, I finally felt that I could start to go through some of mom’s drawers to move some things out. I started simply with just the socks and undergarments. While emptying the first drawer, this music box began playing spontaneously. Can’t help but feel that Mom’s spirit was encouraging me.
Thankful for these little reminders.
“Mom, if you’re really here like people say you are, then you better show me because I’m not feeling it. How about you find that tiny screw for me?”
Grief is a non-linear set of emotions that Swiss-American psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross described as having five stages that ebb and flow across the lifespan following any significant loss. In her seminal work, On Death and Dying, she identified the stages as denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance (1969), and later acknowledged that some people may not experience them or might not undergo all five (Health Central, 2022).
My own grief after her death centered heavily in the anger stage. I feel robbed by her autoimmune disorder of what I hoped would become a different kind of relationship in which Mom and I could interact freely, in person, rather than by phone calls and letter-writing. In a sense, I grieved the loss of our “normal” relationship as long as she was sick. My grief stage while she was alive was most prominently centered around denial. Even though I grew up from the age of nine with her disease, after becoming an adult, I set my hopes on her becoming well enough to engage more freely in the things of life together. I naively believed that one day, we’d be able to watch movies or cook meals together. I felt deep remorse over not having this while she was still here. For many years after leaving home, whenever I attempted an impromptu visit, Mom inevitably called the next day to say that she got sick after I left. I did not want to be the cause of Mom’s suffering, so this led to fewer and fewer in-person visits; I felt guilty for not attempting to see her more often. I also felt isolated at key times of life, such as when my children were little, and while I went through a difficult breakup. Mom was always ready to listen over the phone and help in her ways, but I could not just show up at her home and be with her.
There is a certain comfort and healing that comes from simply being in the presence of a trusted loved one without the pressure of conversation. Comfortable silences can be a language of understanding in a relationship. Telephone calls are not the best substitute for in-person relating because they presume a need to converse. Remaining silent for more than a few seconds often leads one or the other participant to conclude a phone call. One of the things that I grieve and feel angry about is that Mom and I never grew in our adult relationship with each other to be in each other’s presence, existing as our authentic selves, near to each other, and just being. Our phone calls, though cherished, became sounding sessions for my issues. She wanted to hear what was happening in my life, so I spoke. She did not often discuss what was happening in hers, mostly because she did not wish to “burden” me. Yet mutually bearing burdens is how relationships grow, and ours did not have that opportunity until Mom was actively dying and she needed my help during home hospice. For most people, hospice lasts about six months; occasionally, a hospice patient will live more than a year while receiving palliative services and treatments for their incurable conditions. President Jimmy Carter offers a good example of someone on the longer side of the hospice survival spectrum, having been in a hospice program for fifteen months at the time of this writing. President Carter entered hospice one month before Mom did and was still functioning at an unprecedented level when his beloved, Rosalyn, passed away in November 2023. Like many patients, though, Mom lived for only a few weeks after entering hospice, and I was only able to be with her, in person, for the last seven days of her life.
In reflecting on her life and our relationship, I have self compassion for the fact that I’m angry about what was lost. I look to a time of acceptance, but for now, I take solace in the notion that anger is an energy (Lydon and Laswell 1986, Lydon 2014) that can potentially avert its alternative, depression.
After Mom’s death, my middle child and I installed security cameras at her house to keep an eye on things when we couldn’t be there. A few weeks later, during the first battery change, I dropped one of the cameras’ tiny set screws into a rock bed below. I wasn’t feeling Mom’s presence at all and wondered about other people’s experiences, saying they felt their loved ones around them. I got down on my stomach to search for the screw amidst a whole bunch of decorative stones and was pretty sure it would be impossible to find. I started talking [ranting] and demanded, “Mom, if you’re really here like people say you are, then you better show me because I’m not feeling it. How about you find that tiny screw for me?“
Well, I dug and dug and never did find the screw, but after a few minutes, I flipped over a certain rock, and what did I see? An engraved message from Mom. If not for dropping that screw, I really had no reason to be digging around down there, with such close attention, for many months, maybe years. I was indeed moved by this and felt her silent, guiding presence. It wasn’t as I expected it to be, but truly, her love felt tangible in that moment.
The engraved stone that I found in a rock-bed at Mom’s house.
References
Health Central, LLC. (2022, June 7). The five stages of grief [blog post]. Accessed on May 20, 2024 from https://www.healthcentral.com/condition/depression/stages-of-grief
Kübler-Ross, Elisabeth. (1969). On death and dying. The Macmillan Company, New York, NY.
Lydon, John. and Laswell, Bill. (1986). Rise [Song]. On Public Image, LTD, Album. Virgin and Elektra.
Lydon, John. (2014). Anger is an energy: My life uncensored. Dey Street Books/Harper Collins. New York, NY.
“I’m sure that no one knew how important it was to Mom that they were forming invisible bonds.”
Some years back, Mom discovered a hollowed-out oak at her favorite park near home. Despite years of breakdown and decay at its base, sprigs of new growth stretched up towards the sky, reaching for the warmth and light of the sun, and that resonated with her soul. Mom began leaving little trinkets inside the cleft, and before long, others were leaving mementos and notes, too, and a beautiful rapport was established between strangers. I’m sure that no one knew how important it was to her that they were forming invisible bonds. For Mom, writing notes and letters was vital because she couldn’t spend time in the presence of other people due to her autoimmune disorder. She could take solo walks in nature, though, and here is where she found renewal.
As interactions between herself and other visitors to the tree increased, so did her elaboration of decor. With every turn of the seasons, she tidied up the old things and added something new and whimsical to the battered trunk.
She sent me pictures of her handiwork via text but never said exactly where the tree was located in the 84-acre wooded park. This was the picture she sent to me in December 2022, during her final outing when she visited the tree for the last time and decorated it for the yuletide.
When things settled after Mom’s death in April 2023, I set out to find her tree, and with a little help from the guiding spirit, I came upon it, not too far from a walking trail, but looking a bit disheveled after five months of neglect.
It was truly delightful to discover her special place. I cleaned everything up, read all the notes, and came back the next day with fresh flowers and trimmings.
I have been returning periodically to refresh the decor. This spring, I found that several dozen trees were cut out of the area to make room for trail improvements. I braced myself for the possibility that Mom’s tree might have been taken down with the others, but happily, it’s still standing.
On Mom’s birthday, I brought a gift and left it for whoever felt the need to take it. That would have been how Mom would have loved a gift to be shared. I kept going back to check on it, and four months later, nobody had taken it. The box itself was full of goodies and even included $60 cash. No one ever took it, so I brought a friend to the tree whom I knew to be in a hard place in their life and offered the gift to them.
Someone left this note, which has given our family a reason to send healing thoughts and prayers for their safety and well-being. I hope our readership will also send warm, loving, and healing energy to these folks and all their loved ones as well.
Today was the most lovely spring day to go out for a long, meandering bike ride. The sun was shining, temperatures in the mid-50s, with a light southerly breeze. I took my time going about twenty miles and stopped in by Mom’s tree to see what was new. How wonderful to find this letter addressed “to family of this mother“. I can not express how touching this is, and I’m thankful to be the recipient of this altruistic love. It is an extension of Mom’s good work in the world. I hope the park planners will continue to let this old oak flourish despite its broken-down looks. It is a healing place for all.
Whatever challenge is put before you, while there may or may not be a cure, there is always help from the earth.
~ Nancy’s Sunshine
Nancy lived from 1941 to 2023 and she was my mom. She lived the life of an uncommon woman, having been one of the earliest individuals diagnosed with an autoimmune condition in the 1970s and navigating the rest of her life with multiple chemical sensitivities, allergies, susceptibility to viruses and bacterial infections, systemic candida, SIBO, and a host of uncomfortable, sometimes debilitating symptoms that healthier folks like myself had a hard time understanding. After the early passing of my dad at the turn of the millennium, much of her existence was spent in isolation, inside her home, where she built a simple sanctuary that was free from toxic chemicals and beautiful to be in. Nancy remained curious, upbeat, and positive throughout her trials, and even took inquisitive interest in her own end-of-life process. She built a community of love and support through letter writing, sending beautiful greeting cards, sending elaborately wrapped gift packages to loved ones, and the fellowship of others, like herself, who were suffering with unseen, chronic health conditions.
As an early sufferer of environmental illness, as it was called back in the 70s, she developed one of our state’s first support groups for people with autoimmune issues. Because of her multiple chemical sensitivities, she had to strip her home of almost everything that was not constructed of 100% natural, organic fibers, including her clothing, bedding, furniture, and flooring. Before Dad passed away, he hunted white-tailed deer in our home state and mule-deer in the mountains out west, as well as trapping rabbits and growing an organic vegetable garden in our back yard. It was not easy to obtain organically grown food and fibers in the 1970s through 1990s, not like it became in the 2000s. Mom was one of the first people in our home town to wear surgical masks in public, four decades before the Covid-19 pandemic led almost everyone to don them with regularity. Mom and I marveled at the turning of tides, when her way of self protection was no longer an oddity, but the new norm: who would have believed that we would live to see the day when so many others wore masks? During the pandemic, Mom actually enjoyed greater health than she did prior to it because her carefully planned, early-morning trips to the grocery store or other errands no longer exposed her to as many of the invisible, airborne viruses that had been the norm before people were actively wearing masks in public settings.
In a colloquial fashion, Mom’s loving support for people with chronic dis-ease grew into a life-long mission of helping others that she maintained right up until her passing. She became a learned, naturopathic teacher who shared in the journeys of thousands of people whose conditions were no longer able to be helped by mainstream medicine. She wisely taught on organic products, safe food packaging and handling, elimination of grooming goods that use heavy perfumes and dyes, safe cleaning supplies and practices, self-help through multiple modalities like Reiki, reflexology, meditation, exercise, emotional processing, and breath work, as well as nutritional supplements and herbs that could assist towards a more comfortable and functional existence despite enduring afflictions. She became friends with and studied directly with healers like Hanna Kroeger, Doctor John Christopher, and Master Herbalist, Steven Horne. She applied herself to learning about traditional Chinese, Ayurvedic, and traditional Western herbalism. She believed in the mind, body, and spirit connection for total wellness, and left us with one last message upon her death: when the earth was created, nothing was forgotten. Whatever challenge is put before you, while there may or may not be a cure, there is always help from the earth. We are living in a chemical-ridden world and must be wise and thoughtful in taking care of our bodies, striving to eat the foods in their natural states, as created by God, and not filled with artificial ingredients created by mankind. She left us in 2023 with a sense of deep gratitude for her difficult journey and its lessons, and for the honor of being a part of so many people’s healing paths as they allowed her to share what she learned.
This site is dedicated to my mom, Nancy, who brought sunshine into all her relationships no matter how difficult her own struggles. Mom chronicled many of her health and nutritional programs which will be discussed here as time goes on and I wade through her papers. Many people reached out since her funeral, sharing that they held on to her communications for decades, returning to them often for ongoing guidance; others are asking for access to her files so they can continue their self-care with the help of Mom’s methods. I will use this site to share her wisdom and extend the reach of her important healing work beyond the span of her natural lifetime. For now, I bid you adieu with love and light from Mom.
Nancy's Sunshine, LLC 