If the label fits

I've always believed that before I give myself or anyone else a label, I had better know what I'm talking about. Not only do I not want to use a word incorrectly (there's a concept), I also don't want to offend.

Before I go off on my rant, let me say that I'm a good UU. I try really really hard not to use any sort of labels at all. Some, however, are inescapable. Like that fact that I call myself a UU. That is my religious affiliation and an appropriate label.

When people call me a liberal, I tend to bristle. I am liberal in some areas, but a moderate in others. For example, most liberals I know are opposed to the death penalty and have never voted for a Republican (gasp!).

So when someone uses a label inappropriately, I do correct them lest it lead to their using it incorrectly again, or cause them to form an opinion about me that is not true. This applies to strangers also since I am a communication Nazi.

Today in the supermarket - where, I've noticed, I tend to leave with some sort of rant every week - a woman called herself a vegetarian and then proceeded to tell me about the lobster rolls she loves and the chicken salad sandwich recipe her mother gave her.

I said, "Then you're not a vegetarian." To which she shockingly responded, "I am too. I don't eat red meat!" 

I told her that being a vegetarian (like me) means that you don't eat meat or fish. Which caused her to use yet another incorrect label - vegan. I had to then explain to her that I am not a vegan because I eat dairy and eggs where vegans do not. If you don't eat meat but do eat fish, you are a pescetarian.

I've stopped counting the number of times that I've had to make that distinction to people. Maybe more people are calling themselves vegetarians because it's the new in thing so I'm hearing it used incorrectly more often.

But whether the label is food-related (and, p.s. I'm not a vegetarian because I'm on a diet) or not, it would seem to me that before you give YOURSELF a label, you would look up the definition first.

Writing through grief

My blog has been wasting away since my mom died three months ago. It has been on my mind constantly in the sense that I feel like I should write but then can't. I don't know what to say in my writing. And then, when I feel like I have something to say, I can't find the right words.

The loss of my writing muse has been a surprise. Writing through my mother's illness and death was easy. My blog was an outlet for me to place all the emotions and events that I was dealing with - somehow making them more real. And, at the same time, allowing me to work through this horrible reality by finding a gem hidden in the dark mess that was me.

I wanted to blog about the best dog on the planet, Brittany, who died a few weeks before my mom. But I didn't. And still can't.

Today I took my laptop to the local coffee shop. I was meeting a dear friend for lunch and then I thought I might stay and attempt some writing. It was hard to get started, but I did. In fact, I wrote a piece that I like so much I will shop it around to magazines.

I found that getting out of the familiar helps me with my grief. Grief that I can't seem to integrate into my life but know I need to. I'm very guarded with sadness. I always feel that I'm needed by others (like my dad) and that if I start grieving, I won't be able to be there for those who are in worse shape than me.

There were never any expectations placed on me to be "the strong one" but I always felt up to the task. And although that task has been taking a huge toll on my own sense of happiness, I feel like I have to stay in a role that took 52 years to perfect. Why? I don't know. I guess because my mom would want me to. Or maybe because it's a job that needs to be filled and I've got the best resume.

Whatever the reason, I'm hoping that getting back to writing helps me work through the grief. Even though the subject I need to write about is something I always dreaded.

When the justice system sees its shadow

Casey Anthony

I have been watching friends' responses to the Casey Anthony verdict with much interest. Admittedly, I really haven't been following it in the news as closely as others. I do know, however, that a young child was murdered and an emotionally-erratic mother was prosecuted.

When I was in my 20s, I became a bar-certified paralegal. One of the electives I took was Criminal Law. Every advisor in the program said I was crazy to waste my time since there are very few criminal paralegals. But since I have always been interested in criminal law since the Perry Mason days, I felt I would enjoy the course and also learn a lot about the inner-workings of a criminal court case and the American criminal justice system.

My instructor was a private criminal defense attorney who just made the break from working for the State of MA as a public defense attorney. He had some great stories and wove these examples into his class. I was fascinated.

One of the things we discussed quite a bit was the burden-of-proof concept and how that was really the basis for all law, but especially criminal law. When convicted of a criminal offense, what's at stake is a citizen's freedom or life, not his material possessions. So, the burden of proof is higher in criminal cases. 

The reason, for example, that OJ was found not guilty in a criminal case while later being found guilty in a civil case for the same offense, is that shift in the burden-of-proof.

When the State prosecutes a criminal case, it has to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty. In a civil case, the plaintiff need only prove a preponderance of the evidence.

There are many differences between criminal and civil law but that "shadow of a doubt" concept is the biggest.

So, when I heard that Anthony's defense attorneys did a good job creating that shadow, and that the State of Florida didn't do a good job of proving that the shadow was unreasonable, I assumed a not guilty verdict would be delivered.

As it should in this case.

My criminal law professor said that it's better to let one hundred guilty defendants go free than to imprison or execute one innocent defendant. And as hard as that is to hear, it is absolutely the way you want your country's court system to run.

I never blame the jury, I always point to the attorneys and the judge if there are questions about the verdict. Was the rule of law upheld? Was the discovery process fair and open? Did the attorneys on both sides have every opportunity to defend or prosecute fairly?

If the answer to all of those questions is Yes, then you have to question either the skill (or lack thereof, see: OJ) of the prosecuting attorneys, or the quality of the evidence or witnesses.

I've seen lots of instances where, if the defense attorneys do a great job, those who question the verdict often pin the blame on them accusing them of being soulless mercenaries. To that I say, if it were your head on the chopping block, you would want nothing less.

Case law is the most important type of law in this country since most of the subsequent law is based on its verdicts and judges' opinions rather than on statutory law. So, getting it right is huge.

But forgetting the balancing scales of justice and replacing them with emotion is the biggest shadow anyone could cast on this very American system.

Get lost

I was driving home tonight from a meeting in a town I don't know very well when I missed a left turn. I was lost in my own thoughts and, by the time I realized I had missed it, I was quite a ways down a road I had never been on.

My first instinct was to turn around and head back where I came from and, this time, look for that turn. But I didn't. Instead I kept driving knowing that, at some point, I'd come upon something I would recognize.

Things do look different in the dark but as the Welcome-to-<insert town/city name here> signs changed things started to look more familiar. My heart skipped a beat when I guessed where I was and then saw the street sign to confirm it.

I've always had a great sense of direction. I have no idea where that inner compass comes from but I'm glad I have it. I'm also a little crazy because I enjoy getting lost from time to time. It makes me step outside of my comfort zone and check in with my instincts. Something I do less and less of in middle age.

When I was in the Berkshires for a few days with a friend last week, she directed me all over the area as I drove. She knows it like the back of her hand, where I'm almost never in that section of the state. Funny thing is, no matter how many times we travelled some of the same roads, I still couldn't figure out where to turn half the time. I told her that if I didn't have her as a co-pilot, I would already know my way. I'd have to rely on my own sense of direction and would be paying more attention to landmarks if I knew I didn't have a cushion.

It's been a bizarre six weeks since my mother died. The one person I could always count on to guide me is gone. And I've been feeling like I'm constantly walking on new ground. At my age, I haven't felt like I needed my mother in a long time. But having her there to listen has always helped me figure out what direction was right for me.

Feelings of uneasiness persist. Like there's an earthquake happening while my foot is in mid-air. Waiting for the ground to settle so that foot might find a stable landing spot. But every time the earthquake looks like it's stopping, more tremors arise.

All of my experiences are new ground now. Old traditions are now as new as new joys and sorrows. Because they're experienced without my mother.

The feeling I experienced tonight by missing a familiar turn was not new even though some of the ground I travelled was. I was never really lost even though it felt that way for a moment. In deciding not to turn around but instead forge ahead into unknown territory, I realized that I still have the skills I need to move forward. And that new ground is only unfamiliar the first time you step on it.

I will find my way without mom as I did on the dark, unfamiliar road tonight. My inner compass will guide me through wrong turns until I learn a new way to navigate. I will trust my instincts as I always have remembering that firsts are only firsts once.

See you on the other side

To those who have been following my blog and the journey with my mom, I wanted to let you all know that she passed away Monday, May 9th. I was blessed to be there with her in the end, though it was the hardest moment of my life.

There's a lot running around in my head about mom but I can't seem to find the right words to write. So, I'll share the eulogy I wrote and thank you all for your love and support.

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As I sat down to write this eulogy last night, I struggled about where to start. So I took to mom’s own words for guidance. As I reread the obituary that mom wrote many months ago, I realized that she left out many facts about herself. She didn’t note her age or employment history. She didn’t mention where her kids live or where she was born.

What is in the obituary, however, is what mattered most to her -- and that was the people she loved. Mom liked nothing better than to have her family around her especially when she could cook her fabulous turkey dinner for Thanksgiving. And she insisted on doing just that last November – chemo and all.

My sister Lisa said recently that mom’s spirit was and is so strong that she will never really be gone. Since I feel the same as Lisa, I would like to address the rest of these words directly to mom.

Hi mom. We are missing you like crazy but family and friends are all gathered here just like you wanted. Even people who never met you but love the children you raised so much that they know you through them.

My friend Patty called yesterday. You remember Patty. My friend who met you only a couple of times years ago before she moved to Florida. She called to say that she felt a connection to you that she hasn’t felt since her own mother passed away twenty years ago. And that she was sorry she couldn’t be here to honor you.

You had that effect on people, mom. I never met anyone who didn’t instantly fall in love with you. Must have been that they recognized your instant love for them. Every person you met was a potential new friend and received that big warm genuine smile and a hug before you parted.

You made everyone feel like they were at their best when they were with you. I know I did. This awkward, socially-scared little girl who grew up to be a confident, extroverted woman because of how much you accepted and loved her unconditionally.

I always marveled at how quickly and completely you could peel away the outer layers of insecurity and false bravado to find the jewel that lay within. You knew people through their hearts not their missteps. This kept you free from the disappointment in others that the rest of us struggle with and it also opened up your heart to a greater knowing and a deep kindness.

This spiritual freedom allowed you to live fully in each moment and capitalize on any fun that may be lurking around the corner.

Ron says you were a walking party. We’ve been reminiscing about the pianos you couldn’t walk by without plunking down on the bench and playing a tune. Didn’t matter if it was in a fancy restaurant or a pub in Ireland. There was fun to be had and you were on call 24 X 7.

We all loved sitting around the piano in your living room singing the old songs that you knew by heart. I think you liked to play the piano mostly because it brought people together. That was your mission in life and where you found and shared so much joy.

But I think that your love for dad was greater than any other love in your life. It was especially evident in the way you cared for each other in times of poor health. Dad’s devotion to you in this final battle was the greatest gift of love anyone could give. I know you know that, mom, but I wanted to tell you anyway.

Thank you, mom, for trusting me and Joe to walk with you in your final moments. There has never been a greater love between a mother and son as there is between you and Joe. And that will live on along with that strong spirit that Lisa talked about. Your spirit won’t just live in your immediate family but will be there in the nieces, nephews, cousins, and friends whom you’ve celebrated and who have given you so much love in return.

We are all looking forward to meeting your newest granddaughter, Nora Cecelia Lindsay.  Just think, mom, you’re finally getting a Nora in the family. And Lisa, Scott, and Toby won’t be the only ones to tell her all about you. You’ve got all of us here who know and love you in our own personal ways.

So, be at peace, mom, and know that you accomplished something that few others can. You not only made us love you, you also made us love ourselves. We will be lifted by your beautiful spirit as we carry on, our loads lightened and our hearts full.

Holding both sorrow and love at the same time



My church's "caring quilt" (made by me and friend Lynne)
that sits at the foot of my mother's bed

 The last two weeks have been the hardest weeks in all of my 52 years. My last post ("Doing hope") told the story of one of those weeks. The second week tested my ability to hope even further.

Mom ended up in the ER one week ago. After many tests and visits from specialists, it was determined that my mother has another intestinal blockage, and has suffered a heart attack as well. With no heart disease in the family, that last one was a shocker. It was no doubt related to the stress she's been under for 9 months and especially these last two as health issues have been piling up related to either the cancer or the chemo.

It was a really tough day for all of us. The entire family was there including my sister who was down from Maine with her husband and my seven-year-old nephew.

The docs hooked mom up to all sorts of machines and got her comfortable and then we headed home. Upon returning home, we found the world's greatest dog, our Brittany, in distress. We rushed her to our vet's office and it became obvious that she had suffered some sort of major neurological episode. We had no choice but to put her to sleep.

Ron and I have processed very little grief associated to Brittany, though we know it will catch up with us. There's no time or emotional space for that grief right now. I will dedicate an entire post to Brittany in the coming weeks since she was a creature that filled my life with joy for almost 11 years.

After consulting with many of mom's doctors, it was decided that there would be no more surgery and no more chemo. We are in a palliative care mode which will shift to a hospice mode probably sooner rather than later.

It is getting increasingly difficult for me to process all of this sorrow. As always, I try to buck up and get through it for everyone else's sake. Still, I try to find a life lesson in all of it. I'm still a bit of a mystic and feel that the universe always has something it wants us to learn from all of our experiences - good and bad.

I'm still sorting out the lessons but there's one thing I have learned. My friends, my family, my husband, my minister, and my church hold me in a way that I cannot explain. I feel enveloped in a kind of love that cannot be expressed in a Hallmark way.

It's there in the hugs from the amazingly wise and kind high schoolers from the church youth group I co-lead. I find it in the meal sent home to my father from my sister-in-law after our Easter celebration today. I hear it in the many private discussions I've had with my mother's doctors who have treated her and grown to love her since last July.

I will get through all of this grief because I have to, and I will learn to let go and trust the universe to teach me more lessons along the way.

Doing hope

I have a quote-a-day calendar that Ron gave me for Christmas. He bought it because the box it came in had the picture to the left as its cover. My friend Moira sent me that avatar months before and I immediately printed it and stuck it on my refrigerator.

There was a lot going on then as there is now and so I've kept that mantra in plain view at all times.

It was a tough week in the Nolan family and I needed to keep that quote handy. Dad ended up in the hospital for a few days and I took care of mom while my brother coordinated Dad's care.

I struggled this week both emotionally and physically. More than I have since mom's cancer journey started last July. My chronic fatigue syndrome is always there. Like a flu you just can't shake. I've lived with it for eight years and will continue to do so, I expect, till the day I die.

To make matters worse, in the middle of this stressful week I contracted the norovirus. Strangely enough, although I have a chronic illness, I tend not to be susceptible to the contagious stuff. I may get a minor cold once a year but that's usually it. I guess the universe figures I've paid my dues.

Dad returned from the hospital, recovered and well, and I returned home. At home yesterday - where I didn't have to keep up my caregiver facade - I was surprised to find a lot of overwhelming feeling spilling out of me. It was the meltdown that I've been pretending I could avoid for the past 9 months. I had this grand illusion that I could think myself through all the feelings. "You will have no regrets." "You are as strong as your mother." "This is all part of life." "Keep calm and carry on."

Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the norovirus that kicked the crap out of me, or maybe it was just the proverbial last straw. Whatever it was, it wasn't pretty.

Ron, the world's greatest guy, answered his phone while he was at lunch. What he heard was a sobbing, mumbling woman who could barely speak because all of her energy was being used to keep her shoulders from heaving themselves to the floor. He said, "I'll be right home."

I spent most of the afternoon sitting on the couch with my rock of a husband and a box of kleenex. Then I was sent to bed to sleep.

There were lots of feelings that made their way out of my mouth in between sobs while I sat on that couch with Ron. Some of it made no sense but feelings are not about sense. When I got to the point where I was too exhausted to cry anymore, I said to Ron, "So what am I supposed to do now?" He said, "Get some rest."

I know I didn't articulate my question correctly. I honestly didn't know how to at that moment. But I knew I hadn't found the answer I was looking for. That is, until this morning when I ripped off yesterday's page on my quotations calendar. "Hope...is not a feeling; it is something you do." -- Katherine Paterson.

And there it was. Something I could do, not just feel.

I can't stop my feelings from overtaking me sometimes. But I can hope. I'm not foolish enough or in denial enough to hope that a cure is found for pancreatic cancer in time to save my mom. But there is still much to hope for.

I can hope for more treasured moments with mom and dad that will carry me through. I can hope that my loved ones will continue to be there for me as they have all along. I can hope that tomorrow will be a better day. And I can hope that no matter what I'm feeling, I can still choose hope.