I'm Still Here Sweetheart

I knew it would hit. Not like a freight train, knocking me down hard. But I knew grief would start appearing. 

Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in September 2019. She was aware of her memory lapses, and navigated it as gracefully as she could. We continued to remind her that she was safe with us and we'd take care of her. As the symptoms progressed I started losing Mom back then. Each time we'd get together, she'd become more isolated, her world closing in. Personality changes started to appear. We had a long period of rebellion, denial, anger. That was the hardest time. In my sister and my eyes, Mom was acting like a child and we were having to parent her, and a few times yell.  We didn't grow up with yelling and here I was screaming at her to try to get through to her about how her choices were selfish and dangerous. And then minutes later, she didn't remember that I had come so unglued. 

I told myself that I'd already starting grieving over the loss of my Mom and yet I could still talk to her, spend time with her, and be with her physical presence. I told myself that I was given a long time to process the loss of her, thinking it would be easier when she finally passed. 

In her last days on Earth Mom told us that she'd be with us, we'd have her forever and always. Not alive, but in our hearts, and it the space between. She gave us a connection to look for. I shared on social media, a bit of a eulogy, her reminder to look for her as we look into the setting sun. The blink refers to the very moment the sun sets below the horizon. She always waited and stared at the horizon to see the blink:

Waiting for the blink. 

Each day the sky is different and Mom was different. 

I was lucky enough to spend 6 beautiful weeks with Mom at the ocean this year. As much as I could, I’d get her down to the beach to enjoy the beautiful sunset and appreciate the expanse of the ocean. 

Mom would say as we waited for the sun to set, “Wendy most people don’t wait for the blink. They don’t see the blink. Wait for it.”

I waited for a blink each day to see a glimpse of what Mom was. Memory issues are a slow slow grieving process. I don’t think it will make the finality of death any easier. I kid myself that I can still talk to her. Death will stop that.  

On Sunday evening as she began her final journey she said to Amy and I, “Did you see me drifting by?”

Without waiting for our reply, she said “No? Well don’t blink your eyes!”

I will think of Mom with every sunset I watch, waiting for the blink. 

Mom took her last breath here on earth today. 

Be joyful, be funny, be you Mom. 

What a graceful beautiful ending.

There's not a lot of sunsets in the winter in the Pacific Northwest. Cloudy, rain, overcast. With a delivery of a beautiful homemade cake this weekend, I realized Mom has been reaching out to me, making sure I'm okay. Mom loved taking care of her family, and she showed her love through food. Born in 1940, Mom delivered staples like stew, soup, pot roast, roasted vegetables, as well as pies, cookies, cakes. Her pie crusts were flaky, and delicious. Apple crisps, berry cobblers and brownies fill my memories of afterschool treats. 

The 1st time Mom nudged me? My school friend Jennifer stopped by for a walk through the neighborhood after Christmas. I think I talked the whole time, obviously needing to say out loud what Amy and I experienced in the last days of Mom's journey. Jen gave me a box of Christmas cookies. After she left, I opened the box to find all the cookies Mom used to make. The love my friend put into the goodies, the love she had for me to reach out and make sure I was okay. I felt nurtured, cared for, and loved. 

The 2nd time was with a delivery around 10pm from a working Mom who had just finished making cakes and texted me to see if I was still up. Yes, sure swing by. A lovely card of sympathy and two warm homemade cakes. 

On Friday night, I see a card on the counter. No name on it. I asked Reyde and James what it was. Reyde said, "Mom open the microwave, that goes with the card:

Our neighbors sent the card and the cake across the street. So kind. A homemade cake, a few sprinkles to make it brighter, drizzled with a lemon glaze. In the text exchange, I realized that Mom was reaching out to me again:

You and Karen are the best neighbors.  Thank you for the card and cake.  Mom showed her love through food. As kids, my sister and I would come home from school and Mom would have the house smelling of cookies or brownies. Christmas was all about the baked goods. Your cake made me feel loved. That little girl in my heart was brought forward last night. Thank you. I needed to remember that feeling associated with my Mom. 

 Well that is my moms favorite cake. I mixed it in my moms bowl and used my moms hand written recipe. So you must of felt the mommy love which was the point🥰your mom was such a cutie she had a lot of me in her😆my ❤️shares in your loss.    You guys are soooo welcome and we too are blessed to have neighbors looking out for us like you guys. Happy spring few..... we almost made it. 

 Yes. I absolutely felt all that Mom love. You are something else Julia! The spirit world and connection in the space between is so real. 

A lot of who I am is because of my Mom. The days will be hard, the tears will flow and I will cry them, be sad and move forward. And as I enjoy the sunsets, enjoy homebaked goods, and watch for other ways Mom is making sure I'm okay, I'm reminded that she is and will always be with me. 

"I'm still here Sweetheart," love, Mom.

 

Becoming a Better Salesperson, Teachings from Amanda Gorman 

As I reflect back on Wednesday’s inauguration ceremony I sit in awe of our Youth Poet Laureate, Amanda Gorman. At first the creative in me soaked up every word used, her cadence in delivery, the hero’s journey she took us on, and the hope and inspiration she left us with as she exited the stage. I took it all in, my heart full of love for my country, our people, and our will to contribute to a better world.

Let’s watch the recital one more time:

Watch CBSN Youth Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman recites poem at Joe Biden's inauguration

Incredible right? Politics aside, absorb the performance for what it is. Who expected that? This young woman held our attention for 5 of the 60-minute inauguration. I’m smiling and getting chills as I write these sentences.

As I reflect a few days later, I also see how much I can learn, and our team can learn from this young woman on the world stage. How do her performance and poem correlate to sales, sales training, business?

 

1.     Recalibrate. At the beginning of her performance, Amanda steps up to the podium, takes her time to open her binder, breathes, looks up, pauses and then begins. There are no filler words, there is confidence in the quiet of the stage before she starts. As you begin your next meeting internally or with clients, pause, prepare, and then begin.

2.     Preparation. We don’t know how long it took to write the poem. How many drafts and re-writes occurred. I’d like to think that it was written well before January 6^th, and after the events of that day, Ms. Gorman modified the poem to incorporate the recent history of our democracy. How often do you plan and prepare for your next call or meeting? Do you write down your talking points and understand what the intention of the time spent with the client is? What is success? What do you want to achieve?

3.     Practice. How many times do you think she practiced before Wednesday morning? How many times did she film herself to listen to her own voice and critique her cadence, her choice of hand gestures, the sweep of looking out at the crowd? Think back to your last big meeting, or your next meeting coming up? Is it the “biggest deal ever?” What have you done to practice for your biggest play of the year or an important topic that you want to influence the outcome in your favor? Practice practice practice. Record yourself. Video conferencing is critical in our WFH business conditions.

4.     Bring your notes! Ms. Gorman’s confidence to bring her binder, consistently refer back to it, while commanding the stage is excellent. If you don’t have your notes/call plan/meeting agenda with you, you are likely to forget a topic or have the call go in a different direction. In this same vein, take notes. As you listen to your client, and you hear key information, finish listening and when there is a break in the conversation, ask for a moment to write down the note. Your client will appreciate that you are taking notes, and actively listening. You can’t listen and write at the same time. The silence in the meeting is fine and acceptable. No filler words needed!

5.     Appearance. Ms. Gorman is vibrant in her color choice of a yellow coat, and her red hairband. The barely present yellow eye shadow glowed in the sunshine and against her clothing. Do you think about your clothing during these times? What does your clothing say to your clients when you are video conferencing? Is your camera angle good? Does video image convey what you want it to convey as you try to close the deal? Use colors in your favor. Use lighting to your advantage. Be professional.

6.     Be vulnerable, be brave. Ms. Gorman shares in the poem her background. People buy from people. Create business relationships that become friendships. It’s not all business, and certainly, during these WFH pandemic conditions, we all can benefit from being authentic, and sharing insight into who we are.

7.     Know your audience. Ms. Gorman’s poem reaches out and speaks to all walks of life. She acknowledges all and requests a call to action for us to unite despite our differences.  Knowing your audience in sales is critical. The 4 personality styles we train with at AMMEX are from Jack Daly’s Hyper Sales Growth:

 

I aspire to incorporate all personality styles like she did in my next meetings. I am an analytical more than an expressive. I can do better with my storytelling to reach the expressive. I know I have lost sales because I didn’t speak in the way the buyer hears. And in the same vein, I need to be patient with the amiables around me! 

    8. Hero’s Journey. Listen to her poem one more time. The title in itself is a                hero’s journey, The Hill We Climb.The hero’s journey is a common template         of stories dating back to the 1800s. If you think about your favorite movie 

        or book, you’ll likely find the framework in the story.

Wikipedia, Hero's Journey

 

 

My favorite thought leader at this time is Brene’ Brown. As I listened to her podcast this weekend, the hero’s journey came up again. I heard the journey in Ms. Gorman’s performance both in her poem, and her own journey to the world stage.  And then I had an aha moment. In sales and in business, our customers want to be the hero; we want our product to be the hero. I will incorporate storytelling and invoking the hero’s journey as I lead our team to reach our goals in 2021. 

   9. Game filming. Is there anything Ms. Gorman could have done differently? Do       you game film your meetings and presentations? Be reflective, be critical of          your behavior. We get better when we practice and when we open ourselves          to feedback. Get your feedback loop going!

     The only thing I could possibly give as feedback on Ms. Gorman’s performance is at the very end. The camera angle showed President Biden moving towards her to speak to her. It looks like he wanted to congratulate her and she exited swiftly, not acknowledging him. A pause here, accepting the accolades of our new president would have been great. I’d like to think that this slight misstep was due to the tightly scripted timing of the inauguration schedule. And she may have been just full of adrenaline and wanted to get off the stage. And truly, there is absolutely nothing critical of her performance. I do not begin to judge.

So as I conclude my writing on the influence of Amanda Gorman in business, I leave you with the first and last sentences of her poem:

…When day comes, we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade? 

…For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it.

 

 

A Little “Woo Woo”

 

September 5^th would have been Dad’s 88^th birthday this year.  He admired and read a lot about Chinese and Japanese culture. As the date got nearer in August, I thought to myself, 88, a number symbolizing good fortune in Chinese culture. This would have been Dad’s lucky year.

 

Putting in some long hours to finish out August sales and prepare for September allocations, I turned off my computer and settled into bed late on Sunday, August 30^th.  As I fell asleep, Dad was on my mind as the end of summer always meant a birthday dinner and the Labor Day weekend with him.

 

It wasn’t long before I was awakened by the strangest sensation. Grief and sadness overcame me and I was crying in my sleep. But that’s not what woke me up. It was the sensation of liquid in my ears. Tears dropping and splashing in the pool of tears in my ears. My head was perfectly positioned to catch the falling tears.

 

As I came to and realized that I was crying, sadness overcame me. Gulping ugly cry. Trying my best to be very quiet about this to not awaken James, I got myself under control. Missing Dad, wondering if he has been watching how hard I have been working, I questioned, “would he be proud of me?” Yes, coming up on 52 years on this beautiful earth, I still yearn for my Dad’s acceptance and pride.

 

Now, this is where it gets a little “woo woo.”

 

I believe in spirits and that I have a few that hang out with me. After Dad’s passing in 2010, I would smell cigarette smoke in a room, or my car, or in the office. Not often, but noticed. And I’d look around to see if someone had come in that had been smoking. If it were outside, I’d look for a passerby smoking, or a car with the window rolled down. The smell would waft by and dissipate. I decided this was Dad making an appearance and letting me know he has my back.

 

When I awoke crying, I didn’t smell cigarette smoke. Being introspective, I wanted to keep the moment between me and him, even though there was no fragrance. I didn’t share what happened with anyone.

 

In the days that followed, I smelled cigarette smoke a couple times in the backyard. I thought it was the neighbor based on where I am working in the shed during the day.

 

I’ve told James and I think I’ve told Reyde about my “smoking spirit.” I don’t really know what they believe. And really, it is a little or a lot “woo woo”. It must have been a few weeks later, I was working away in the shed and Reyde pops in and asked me if I smelled smoke. I said no not right now, but I think it’s the neighbor. No, he says, Dad smelled it in the trailer and so he wanted to know if you smell it now.

 

Nope. So now I wonder if Dad is hanging out with the family? I don’t think about this further and go back to work. From time to time I recall the sensation of tears splashing into the pools of liquid in my ears. In the back of my mind, I am trying to figure out why the emotion hit so very hard after a long day and night at work.

 

I’ve been very fortunate to participate in a business leadership program that emphasizes long term personal development, accountability, and understanding what your higher purpose is. Through the course, we spent many hours learning about the way people speak and how you think you are communicating clearly but the message is not heard. Language, how you phrase things, tone of voice, intention, it all matters in communication.

 

Because of this gift of learning, I continued to ponder on the question that came to mind when I awoke that night. Dad hanging out for a few weeks made me think that I needed to figure out what all this meant.

 

It’s funny. In high school, I thought I’d go to college and get a language degree and then work as a translator. Spanish was the language I took and I thought I could really do something with that. Didn’t work out. But what I do realize is that I am a translator. I just translate English to English. Being blessed to have identified my higher purpose and be able to embrace it and live it, I see the correlation with translating again.  I help others discover their voices and develop the courage to open their hearts. I help people connect their feelings, verbalize their feelings so that they can understand how to better advocate for themselves. Or simply give themselves grace during our incredibly difficult year that 2020 has shaped up to be.

 

Wording, phrasing, language, it all matters. I finally figured out why the emotion hit so very hard. Dad didn’t want me to question anymore. The flood of emotion hit because he was telling me he is proud of me. Of who I have become. Of how I continue learning just like he did.

 

Wendy, don’t question, “would I be proud of you?” Reframe that into a statement, “Wendy I am proud of you.” I have to admit that when I figured this out when I told myself the statement, instead of the question, I know that’s why he stuck around.

 

Thanks, Dad. I surely needed your message.

I Miss You

(Author's note. My post is my perspective of a very personal matter. A friendship of many years summarized with a few stories. This is a clip of a life much more colorful, whole, meaningful and full of love than I can ever do justice.)

I saw her heart break and totally shatter on a street corner in Vegas. She told me I didn’t need to walk her to the restaurant but I didn’t trust the situation.  I followed her, a fair distance back so she didn’t know I was there. I was afraid for her, not that she was in physical danger, I was afraid she’d find out that this guy didn’t love her. He’d taken advantage of one of the best and it could be the last time I’d see her whole.

When the yelling got loud, and people were staring, I walked across the street and pulled her away. Devastated, she was broken. We had a plane to catch the next morning, and I didn’t want to leave her alone. I suggested we stay in the same room, but she wouldn’t do it. I didn’t sleep that night and I know she didn’t either. In the morning she met me in the lobby and so began the shutdown that would last for months. I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again. I only saw the shell that was.

Alone. Longing for belonging, searching for connection. Music was her soul, her place of peace, her medicine.

I am haunted by my memories fading. Was Blink 182’s “I Miss You” the song that she found solace in when thinking about a special person that took his life? Her emotions so raw when the anniversary of his death would come and go. They had made a deal to stick it out together and he didn’t keep the promise. She didn’t tell me too many details, it was still too painful. Was this song the one she played in his memory? Am I making that up? Did I put that together and really it wasn’t her song? Perhaps the song is my memory for her. The irony and sadness, the tone of voice in the vocals, the rhythmic bass, the constant guitar that reminded her of him, and me so much of her? I’ll never know.

I Miss You

Blink-182

(I miss you miss you)

Hello there the angel from my nightmare
The shadow in the background of the morgue
The unsuspecting victim of darkness in the valley
We can live like Jack and Sally if we want
Where you can always find me
And we'll have Halloween on Christmas
And in the night we'll wish this never ends
We'll wish this never ends

(I miss you I miss you)
(I miss you I miss you)

Where are you and I'm so sorry
I cannot sleep I cannot dream tonight
I need somebody and always
This sick strange darkness
Comes creeping on so haunting every time
And as I stared I counted
The Webs from all the spiders
Catching things and eating their insides
Like indecision to call you
and hear your voice of treason
Will you come home and stop the pain tonight
Stop this pain tonight

Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)
Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)

Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)
Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)
Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)
Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)

I miss you (miss you miss you)
(I miss you miss you)

Songwriters: DWIGHT MEYERS, TERRI E. ROBINSON

© Warner Chappell Music, Inc., Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group, Songtrust Ave, BMG Rights Management, Royalty Network

I was afraid that she’d stop the pain one night. Yes, I was afraid. Sometimes, not always. I’d reach out via text, email, and talking. Always trying to find the balance of showing my concern and love for this beautiful soul while not pushing too hard to where she would shut down. Fighting my own demons and hellish depression throughout the years I knew that we humans are capable of faking it. Faking it that everything is okay while being torn up and so sad behind the smile. I wanted to trust that she was doing okay. I wanted her smile to be authentic.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she healed herself. I began to have hope that my friend would see herself the way we saw her: intelligent, extremely passionate, loyal, fierce, determined, lovely, and beautiful.

Her laugh returned.

It was a standard medical procedure. Shouldn’t be a problem. I was headed out of town for a couple weeks. Remembering her post on social media about hugs and how people need hugs, I made a point to go over and hug her before I left the office that night. I commented that she was going to be just fine, but let me give you a hug anyway. Let’s be clear here. We don’t hug at work, and even in the depths of her heartbreak, she wouldn’t let me put an arm around her on that Vegas street corner. She stood up from her chair and I wrapped my arms around her. Not a quick hug, I held the embrace longer than she expected. I hoped to convey my need for her, my love for her, and that she was enough. When it got to that awkward point, I released my arms, asked her to text me and that I’d keep in touch once I landed.

A few texts back and forth.  She was in pain and thought it shouldn’t be that way. No, it shouldn’t, make sure to check in with your doctor I texted. She didn’t come back to work as scheduled and that told me she wasn’t physically feeling good. She was with her parents and they were there for her. But something went wrong with the standard, simple procedure.

I was overseas. I thought about calling. I texted instead. I should have called.

...Like indecision to call you...

Her laugh is gone. Silent.

You spend so much time with the people you work with. Little did I understand what a friendship we had. My first friend that I’ve had to say goodbye to as an adult. Facebook memories cut me to the core as I see the photos of all the travel we did together year after year in July and August. I unfriended her as it was so hard to look back on her profile. And just like her, I can’t get that back and wish I could. Is her family managing the account? What would they think if I reached out to get a little bit back of my friendship if only by social media connection? 

I grieve and cry from time to time. When I listen to her music, and specifically Blink 182’s I Miss You, the insistent beat, relentlessly marching to the end of the song is the cadence of life. It is a direct synonym for life not stopping for those left behind. The rhythm and lyrics bring me to tears.

Many a day, I’d retreat to my car, start the engine, queue up the song and turn the volume up loud. I’d drive, cry, yell, and feel.

The tempo of life goes on. The frequency of exiting out of the office, hurriedly so people don’t see the tears in my eyes, or rolling down my face is less and less.

And still.

I miss her.

Tea and Toast

I absolutely love the singing shows on TV. There was a time a few years ago that I searched "The Voice and X Factor + a country name" to get lost in the magic of hearing and watching people live their dreams of making it big. 

I often wonder what became of one of those singers from the UK, Lucy Spraggan. Her song, Tea and Toast, hit me to the core. Probably because it was around the time that Dad passed away and he used food to make me feel better. "Come on Wendy, let's go get some ice cream....some cookies..." and off we'd go to make me feel a little less lonely. Teenage angst in the mid 80's. John Hughes nailed it with his movies!

Have a listen, Lucy's song is special:
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egBlPQpo6H4

Flash forward to June 2019. We lost our lovely English Chocolate Lab Coco. We were devastated and sad for so long. I wrote on FaceBook:

Oh Coco. You have loved us unconditionally since the day we brought you home. Your unwavering concern and protection of your humans is like no other dog we've had. You graciously helped Nitro and Rufus cross over the rainbow bridge and grieved with us. You've been our emotional girl. Continue your watch from above. We are in the capable paws of Keisel. Know that you are taking a piece of our hearts with you. 

Our beautiful girl, Coco

James and I had been out of town and got the call that Coco wasn't able to walk. We took an earlier flight home, and spent the day with our girl, loving her, brushing her, comforting her. And helping her cross over the rainbow bridge. I still feel the softness of her fur, right under her ear, behind her jaw. Her extra folds of skin and fur so soft, warm, like the fuzziest blanket you ever could imagine. Sitting on the floor of the vet's office, we had our hands on her for a really long time. I wanted that moment imprinted on me and her; for her not to be afraid as she took her last breath.

We came home, cried an awful lot more and noticed the missing sounds of Coco. Deep breathing as I write this, oh how we miss her still. 

But you know what I did that evening? I remembered Lucy's song. James hadn't eaten in over a day. I made him some tea and toast. And we began living after Coco. 

Yes, tea and toast. 

Christmas Traditions

Nothing says Christmas like a tangled up knot of metal ornament hangers in a Cheez Whiz jar.

To me.

It's funny the childhood memories that transition into adulthood. I vividly remember the hunt for the jar every year. Amy and I would dive into the boxes of Christmas decorations, in search of the Cheez Whiz jar. We couldn't hang ornaments until we found that magical jar of angst. Mom would unscrew the lid, and lay it on the coffee table. Pulling the nest of hangers out, she'd tap the knot on the lid, loosening a few hangers at a time. Rather than leaving the hot mess of hangers out to scratch the table, Mom gently forced the knot back into the jar. Amy and I would hang bobbles until we ran out of hooks, and Mom would stop what she was doing to get us more hangers. I don't know how Mom had the patience to pull the hangers out and tap tap tap, returning it to the jar. Perhaps it was all part of the ritual.

We never used all of the hangers, but it was important to not run out, thereby insuring the tangled assortment would avail itself to the Nelson family year after year.

Fast forward to 1988 and my first year living away from home. My roommate Jennifer and I cobbled together furniture and money to rent an apartment. Coincidently, my hand me down furniture matched her hand me down furniture and although dated with the 1970s burnt orange and wagon wheel pattern, the living room looked good.

We pieced together Christmas decorations and laughed about how it looked like "adults live here." I don't remember how we got the tree home from the store and into the appartment as we both drove Chevy Chevettes. Looking through the boxes, we realized we needed hangers. And I said, we need a Cheez Whiz jar too. She asked why and I said to keep the ornament hooks in. Didn't all families do that? She said no, but was willing to eat the yummy spread on crackers to empty the jar.

Fast forward to 2013. Yes, it's the same jar. 25 years of peaceful existance, containing tangled chaos. I don't think our use of the Cheez Whiz jar will ever amount to a significant viral internet story, or a Cheez Whiz ad. But it resonates within my heart, the spirit of Christmas, of spending time with my Mom, Dad, and Amy. Of listening to the Chipmunks sing Christmas Songs, (Alvin!!,) watching  A Charlie Brown Christmas, watching Mom douse her fruit cake with rum, and  listen to her mysteriously work behind the closed door of her sewing room late into the nights.

Merry Christmas To All, and To All A Cheez Whiz Night.

Family Noises

Grief hits me in the oddest ways. Our schedule has settled down a bit; my work travel is done for the calendar year and Saturday soccer games find us staying around home.

Being home each weekend, I find myself feeling like something is missing. That life is not complete and I should be doing something else.

Last year this time, we were still in our “honeymoon” phase. Still getting used to a routine, what he liked, how he wanted his coffee made, what time he liked to get up. Sounds like a new marriage right? But no, I was learning how to be his roommate.

And then his health worsened. And we had hospital visits and nursing homes stays. The second to last time Uncle Bob resided at Stafford Healthcare, I visited every couple days. He was on a rigid physical therapy and dialysis schedule that left him pretty darned tired and not inhis room at night.

I stopped in one evening as his departure neared just to visit, coordinate times, and check in on him. As I was getting ready to head home, he said with so much earnest and gratitude in his voice, “Wendy thanks for coming by and visiting.”

“Well you’re welcome Uncle Bob. I’m just stressing out over your homecoming in a wheelchair, getting a little amped up by it all and didn’t want you to feel bad. I just want to make sure we can take care of you. “

“It will all work out, don’t worry.”

“Hmmm.”

“You know, I really appreciate you coming by. They leave me to be pretty much, and once dinner is done and medicine, it’s pretty quiet.”

“Yeah, I bet it is.” We watched TV for awhile; I played on my smart phone. He didn’t need conversation, just being together was good. Looking at the time, I said “I should probably get going; got to get Reyde into bed.”

Not skipping a beat, he kept on his train of thought. “I kinda miss my family noises.”

“Your family noises?”

“Yeah. I know I’ve been spending a lot of time in my room, and not eating dinner with you, James and Reyde. But I know you are out there. I hear you talking, Nitro barking, Reyde playing. And one by one, all of you eventually check in on me through the evening.”

I laughed, because yes, we all did in our own way. Nitro checked his garbage basket multiple times to see if there was a snack to be had. Reyde would show him a Lego creation, and brush his teeth watching TV with Uncle Bob. James checked in every afternoon when he came home from work, and would say good night as he headed to bed. The first thing I did after work was visit with him, then get dinner going, and bring him his meal. After dinner we’d chat a few minutes about medical stuff that had happened that day or what was planned for the next day. Every Thursday was “pills and bills” day, writing checks and dispensing pills for the next week. His air was definitely interrupted from 4pm until 10pm nightly.

And so as the winter approaches and we come and go, I realize that I am dearly missing my Uncle being home, the house being warm and lights on. I miss the rigid schedule of pills and meals that kept us tied to the house. I miss the closeness of having Uncle Bob with us and adding more family to our family.

I miss the steady rumble of the oxygen concentrator, the country music playing every morning as I got ready for work, the NCIS dialogue drifting down the hallway in the evenings, his cowboy ringtone as his cell phone rang, the way he’d say, “Well Hello.” And each morning as I’d bring him his coffee, he’d say with gusto, “Coffee!”

Uncle Bob, I miss your family noises.