It's Not about Mama

I’m not ready to talk about Mama. She’s been dead for 13 years, and I still feel like I’ve been sucker punched in the gut when I think about it.

You’re supposed to take care of your mama but not while you’re pregnant. That’s when she’s supposed to take care of you.

You’re not supposed to send your 6-year-old twin girls to spy on your mama on another aisle in the grocery store (even though they think it’s an adventure), in case she gets turned around, when she wants the independence of pushing her own buggy. She is supposed to be watching them.

You’re not supposed to hire a sitter to spend the evening with your mama while you and your husband take the kids out for pizza. Your mama is supposed to babysit, so the two of you can go out for pizza by yourselves.

The memory of the juxtaposition of your 2-year-old son’s mind exploding and your 65-year-old mama’s mind imploding nauseates you. Suddenly, you could tell the toddler a two-step command: “Go to your room and bring me your shoes,” while your mama could only now handle one at a time: “Let’s go to your room. Let’s put on your shoes.” 

You don’t want to remember the exhaustion from listening to the two 1^st graders read their library books to you while bathing the toddler and knowing you still have to undress your mama for bed.

You don’t want to remember the frustration of wanting a moment’s peace, because she always wanted to be beside you, and the only place she wouldn’t think to look for you was in your closet or behind the sofa in the playroom, so you would go hide there from time to time to catch your breath, and you could hear her looking for you.

You don’t want to remember the suffocation of having the weight of the whole world on your shoulders at 35 years old, because your daddy was dead, your mama was an only child, your grandmama was living with one sister (who had three elementary-aged children of her own), and your other sister was too far away for much hands-on help (and that still grieves her).

You don’t want to remember your self-pity that could temporarily blind you to the horror of your mama’s deterioration until you literally fell prostrate on the floor beside your bed and sobbed, “REMIND ME AGAIN ABOUT NOT GROWING WEARY!!!!”

You don’t want to remember her boredom and her restlessness, because she lost the ability to read and the attention span to watch a movie.

You don’t want to remember her fear of diminishing and her sorrow that she, who had taken care of everybody for so long, had become a burden at such a young age for both of you.

You don’t want to remember your anger at the Whole Awful Situation.

You don’t want to hear another person tell you how brave you were. You didn’t feel brave. You didn’t want to be brave. But she modeled bravery. So, what other choice did you have?

You don’t want to remember all the things you wish you had done differently, even though you know that she knew that you were doing the best that you could.

You wish you had been more patient with her as she struggled to find her words—at least in your heart, if maybe your impatience didn’t always show on your face.

You wish you could remember more times that you held her and let her cry and sang “Blessed Assurance” to her.

You wonder what advice she forgot to give you or simply ran out of time to tell you.

You wonder what treasured memories were stolen from you.

Even telling her grandchildren about the twinkle in her eyes and her smile that could light up the room and her laughter that was louder than your own causes a lump in your throat because of the way those things were silenced:  not snuffed out like a candle but dimmed a little every day like a gas light.

No, I can talk about Daddy all day long. But I don’t want to talk about Mama.

Because He Lives

At 43 years old, Daddy died suddenly, unexpectedly, and far too young. Mama married him when they were both 19. He was all she had known for 24 years. She had three daughters to finishing raising (two in college and one in junior high) and their small business to run. How could she could she go on without him? How could she face tomorrow on her own?

At Daddy’s funeral, the mourners sang:

God sent His son. They called Him Jesus.

He came to love, heal, and forgive.

He lived and died to buy my pardon.

An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, all fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

The Gaither song was popular in the late 70s, frequently sung at the 11:00 am service at First Baptist Church. It was not a hymn, but it was worshipful enough for the old folks to like it—or not to mind it too much. At least, that’s what I remember.

For years after Daddy’s funeral, I hated seeing the song listed on the Order of Worship. I didn’t cry much then, since Mama cried all the time, but I couldn’t sing this song. Tears welled in my eyes; my throat closed up; I struggled to catch my breath. As the worshipers sang, I shut my eyes and sucked my cheeks.

Fast forward to 1997, Chuck and I lived with our twin daughters in Birmingham. Granny had just survived a quadruple heart bypass. Mama, an only child, had just received an “atypical Alzheimer’s Disease” diagnosis. While raising our own children, my sisters and I were laden with the two older generations as well. (As members of the “sandwich generation,” the King Girls were handed a hoagie.)

Starla assumed responsibility for Granny.

I assumed responsibility for Mama.

My pregnancy test was positive.

What should have been a highlight of my life—and it was—seemed an insurmountable burden. How could I do it all? How could one young woman take care of a mentally diminishing mother, two preschoolers, and a newborn?

The Sunday following the positive pregnancy test, “Because He Lives” was on the church program. I didn’t attempt to sing or worship or even pray. I grasped the back of the pew in front of me, intending to hang on until it was over. The pew supported me through the first verse; however, the second verse is this:

How sweet to hold a newborn baby

And feel the pride and joy he gives.

But greater still, the calm assurance

This child can face uncertain days because He lives.

I folded into the pew behind me. With folks around me standing and singing, I sat and sobbed.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, all fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

By their mere existence, babies bring newness and hope. Baby Phillip, named after my daddy, was a gift to our entire family during the nightmare, but he was Mama’s joy. He brought light and laughter to her gloom. He was her 7^th grandbaby, and he was the reason she got out of bed every morning.

Mama died three years after her diagnosis, 17 months after my family moved into her house to take care of her.  Steve preached at the funeral. William spoke at the graveside. Chuck played guitar. Angie sang “There Is a Fountain.” Little Granny cried throughout, but she wasn’t really sure who died. Phillip stayed with a sitter. He told me, “Mama Nell’s dead. She got shot by a gun.” (Mama would have cackled loudly at her 2.5 year-old boy who found cowboy violence more exciting than dementia.)

My sisters and I had not asked the organist for any specific songs. We simply asked her to play uplifting music, for we were not dreary and downhearted. We were rejoicing for Mama that her struggle had ended, that she was whole at the feet of Jesus, the One who had sustained her in her agony and for many, many weary days.

And so, of course, as Mama’s worn-out body was wheeled from the sanctuary, as her friends and family rose to watch her leave, as her Beloveds followed her out, the pipe organ bellowed:

And then one day, I’ll cross the river.

I’ll fight life’s final war with pain.

And then as death gives way to victory,

I’ll see the lights of glory, and I’ll know He lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, all fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,

And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

I still don’t sing the song with the congregation, but I do listen and worship. I don’t cry through it anymore. Now I cry through “There Is a Fountain,” but that is a story for another blog post.

Never the Same

Early in 1976, Daddy came home and said to Mama, “I bought something today.”

“Uh oh.”
 “It’s not for us. It’s for our grandkids.” (His daughters were 10, 16, and 19.)
 “Uh oh.”
 “I bought that lake cabin.”

He had a wooden sign made that said, “The King’s Inn” and hung it over the fireplace (the placement of the apostrophe bothers me), and he and Mama set about teaching our friends to ski. He drove the boat, and Mama floated with a ski belt and held the skis together. They were patient. They were relentless. Mama would nag a reluctant kid to try until the kid’s only choice was to make an attempt just to hush her. And you might as well get up, because there was no quitting, even if you cried. Especially if you cried.

“How are you, Phil?”
“Man, if things get any better, I’m gonna grow hair!”

Daddy worked in the family business building church pews from the time he was yay-high until 1972 or 73. There was family drama that I was too young to understand, and Daddy left to start his own business with Mama as his secretary, office manager, Girl Friday: Phillip King Church Interiors. He was the middle man for pew cushions, baptisteries, stain glass windows, etc. His CB handle was Circle City Steeple Man. Most of his business was in Birmingham and Mobile. He received a letter from a pastor in Mobile asking for some literature. At the bottom of the letter, the man hand wrote “P.S. Are you the Phillip King from Pinckard? I used to pastor there.” As a matter of fact, he was. This man was the preacher who baptized Daddy when he was a 16-year-old new believer.

“How are you, Phil?”
“Man, if things get any better, the Lord’s gonna have to take me Home!”

Sometime in the afternoon on Wednesday, April 5, 1978, Daddy met with the preacher and his wife at the pastoream in Mobile about redecorating their church. They caught up on Pinckard gossip, conducted their meeting, and said their goodbyes. Daddy walked to his Suburban then came back and rang the doorbell. He told the preacher, “Call an ambulance. I think I’m having a heart attack.” Daddy died in the arms of the man who baptized him all those years before.

He was 43. The King Girls were 12, 19, and 21.

Mrs. Lynn finally found me with my girlfriends in the bathroom at church, skipping whatever activity we were supposed to be participating in. Obviously flustered, she said, “You’ve got to go home; there’s something wrong with your daddy.” Angie was there, so we rode home together. Starla was in Auburn, and her roommate drove her to Dothan that night. Our preacher announced it at prayer meeting, and for the entire service, they wept together and prayed for our family.

The Dothan High School Concert Choir that Mama and Daddy adored sang the Hallelujah Chorus at his funeral. Dr. Driggers played the brand new piano in the sanctuary publicly for the first time. Always composed, Dr. Marsh choked on his words once and stopped speaking for a few seconds to catch his breath. At the graveside, we sang, “Let’s just praise the Lord, praise the Lord. Let’s just lift our hearts toward Heaven and praise the Lord.”

Back at the house, Mrs. Andrews tore up the piano, and everybody sang and laughed. The frivolity angered Little Granny.

It was the most significant day of my life; not to diminish my wedding or the births of my children, but you’re "supposed to" get married and have babies. Actually, day-to-day life didn’t change that much. Mama continued to dabble in church furnishings. I went to the college of my choice and even spent a semester in London. I had a big ole church wedding. My BFF Earl Pitman walked me down the aisle, and Daddy King “stood up with me,” as he said. 

We still own the lake cabin that my children and my sisters’ children like to point out was bought for them in the first place, and the King’s Inn sign still hangs over the fireplace . . . . However, life has always had an underlying sadness to it. Mama was never the same. She grieved for the next 22 years. I have no doubt that her perpetual grief contributed to her confusion and early death at 65 years old.

I am beyond grateful that I had a great daddy for 12 years. I get that. I grasp that some people crave to have for a few minutes what I had from conception. Knowing that doesn’t erase the sadness—that, of course, has eased—yet is always lurking. Chuck had to ask Mama for her blessing on our marriage. Daddy is not here to teach my Phillip to fish or to whisper to my girls separately, as he did to his own daughters, that each is prettier than the other and his favorite.

I have lived back in Dothan since 1999. Not a year has gone by that I have not heard, “Your parents taught me to ski!” My family lives in the house that Daddy built. (When I say built, I don’t mean called the contractor. I mean, he took 6 months or so off of work and poured the concrete and hammered the nails and laid the brick. Mr. Chapman and Shuck from King Church Furniture Manufacturing Company helped him, and a one-armed man built the stone fireplace.) We moved in to take care of Mama after she got confused. Mama was an only child, and Granny was still living. She moved in with Starla and her family for 3 years. She spent one year in a nursing home. She died days after her 89th birthday, 10 months after her daughter.

I enjoy something about every day. I let my children cry to me about a bad day, and then I say, “Tell me something good about it.” I can always find a silver lining. Maybe it’s an inherent gift. Maybe it’s my birth order. Maybe it’s because I learned about the preciousness and the fragility of life while still so very young.

April 5th never sneaks up on me. I always know it's coming. But the azaleas and the dogwoods are blooming.