Many Miles Between Here and There

I didn't note any progress or regression in my mother's cancer or her treatments today over the span of ten years. Sometimes I just had to walk away to gain some perspective. But I did note an interesting pattern to my posts. On this day for several years in a row between 2014 and 2019, I returned home to Kentucky after spending time with Dad over the holidays in Virginia.

Taking care of my father between those years is another story, so I'll save most of those details for later. The distance I traveled between 2015 (after my spouse died) and 2020 (when my father died) added up over the years, though, and that is a point of interest for now.

I'm fortunate that my little black 2014 Chevy Cruze LT, which I purchased after my husband died, made all those trips without major issues. We'll not count the time a buck charged at my car outside Beckley, West Virginia, in 2015 with my daughter and infant grandson in the car. It was rutting season, after all. We all were fine, and the Chevy braved it.

The one-way mileage between where I live and where my parents lived equals about 750 miles, or about eight hours. That's 1,500 miles per visit, which is why most visits were extended ones. Of course, I became very bored with traveling the interstate time and again, so I took back roads sometimes. I will never do that again when driving alone, because I saw so much beauty in the Appalachian mountains, and I couldn't stop, because--you know--a single woman traveling alone...

Back roads also added to the mileage. So, I often kept to the interstate along with a book on disc. I kept measure of my time on the road by the towns I passed on my way, the roadside oddities, such as iron bridges spanning the interstate and log cabins off in mowed fields, and by pit stops. I tried to make only two restroom stops, one at the halfway mark, and one when I left the interstate to travel the mountain road into Lynchburg. One never knows how long that leg of the trip might take. It would depend upon any slow drivers or 16-wheelers in front of me.

Plus, I would always stop in Clifton Forge to visit with my father's brother. He passed this last year, so I won't need to make that trip unless I wanted to visit the cemetery. I guess that's a mandatory thing, so I'll see that gas station above at least one more time, I guess. The photo is one I took in 2019 in a pit stop outside Clifton Forge. It was the one time I didn't stop to see my uncle. I had bad feelings on that trip, and they came to a head at this stop, which is why I took the photo. I didn't know what was going on with me then, but I have a good idea now. Sometimes we do have premonitions.

At times I long to take that trip again. I would have a reason, as I still have an aunt and cousin in Virginia. I learned this past year that I have many more cousins, thanks to DNA testing, and they all want to meet up the next time I return. I wonder if I can take someone with me.

New Years' Revelations Between 2014 and Now

Today in 2014, my father and I escorted my mother to the heart center at Lynchburg General Hospital. We were waiting for intake when I posted where we were. It was on that day I wrote, "I asked her if she was in pain, and she replied that she was hurting in her lower back and her right leg. So, I said, "So, you're in pain." And she said, "No, there's a difference between pain and hurting."

That pain issue was addressed later, as was another issue in 2016. On 2 January 2016, I was in Virginia helping dad clean mom's things out of the garage. Those "things" included stained glass pieces, paint, tools, and fabric. She had moved many craft items from the attic to the garage so she didn't have to deal with stairs. She never did allow a surgeon to fix her knees, so that was another source of either pain or hurt.

I mentioned then that I was grateful to have this time with my father. "I know I've mentioned this before, but I really do treasure our alone time. Mom was jealous of the time we had, and I never went into that psycho-drama to figure it out. Maybe some day I will, but not now."

The clarity I needed "some day" occurred in 2024 in sessions with a therapist via Zoom. What that therapist told me in one sentence lent clarity to my entire life with my mother. Not only did I cry for a month, but I was able to finally forgive my mother, and--in that process--was able to begin to pull this journal together.

PHOTO: My mother in Davidsville, Pennsylvania. We lived on the top floor of a farm house in that little village. Mom was probably 25 or 26 years old. I was about 5 years old, and I took this photo with dad's camera.

At this point, mom was seeing an oncologist, a cardiologist, and a nephrologist (kidney specialist).

Happy New Year, 2014

Happy 2025, everyone. I'm not making any promises to myself, and I don't know if that's just a symptom of old age or one of mild apathy. No one told me that aging would happen quite this quickly, what with the aches and pains and a new focus on building bone density. I'll have to admit that this part of my life...entering the "crone" stage...has helped me to understand my parents more. I needed that time to sooth my ruffled feathers and to gain insight into my mother's behaviors with me at any rate.

On this day in 2014, I wrote: "It's been a touch-and-go day with mom. Talked with the heart doc this afternoon, and it looks like she'll be admitted to hospital tomorrow morning for a day or two to manage a few things that are going on with her, including a growing resistance to Lasix and the need for a blood transfusion."

She had at least two blood transfusions, and I believe this was her first. I'm not sure, but as I continue to go through my journals I'm sure I'll learn. She was much sicker than a 1-2 day hospital stay, as we were to learn later. I do remember that much.

In the meantime, the deer in my parents' yard were a constant. The folks didn't know their yard was a deer path and had been for decades before they even purchased the house. This particular morning in 2014, there were four doe and one buck. The buck was hiding behind the bush, I think. The tree to the right was a crepe myrtle with lovely purple-pink blooms. You could see the top of the tree from the street, because it was a monster. I don't know if the folks planted it or not. It's just one of those questions that I didn't think to ask.

New Year's Eve 2013

I'm human. No matter how many years one might keep a tradition, that memory is easily lost when the tradition is discontinued. We didn't make oyster stew for Christmas. Oyster stew was for New Year's Eve. Or, New Year celebrations. Still unsure, but I ran across multiple images of oyster stew cooking and in bowls today in my journals, so I stand corrected.

At any rate, Mom's last New Year's Eve in 2013 was a small celebration. Dad usually went to bed about 9:30 pm in his later years with mom. I was visiting so she and I stayed up until the ball dropped in Times Square. We watched the New York Philharmonic, Yo Yo Ma, and a performace of Bolero, and I was trying not to cry knowing that mom may die in the new year.

On New Year's Eve in 2014, I was in Virginia again, beginning a tradition that would last until my father died. "Christmas with Dad" was never uneventful, sometimes harrowing, other times just downright fun. But, in 2014, he had the flu and I caught it from him despite our shots. I think we both were depressed as well, because mom's decorations never went up and there was nothing to take down.

But we did have another pot of oyster stew.

I sat down to remember the recipe and shared it at Joanne's Recipes. Enjoy!