ORE FEATURES
A Monthly publication of Ozark Rock Exchange
VOL #5: Issue #3, December 3, 2003
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ORE'S FEATURED GEMSTONE: Mom by Stephanie Pflumm At the beginning of November (as I do at the beginning of each new month) I sat down with my stones to visit with them. To ask them who we would write about for the December issue of ORE FEATURES. For the first time in four years of working with stones, no one jumped up to be my teacher. There was silence. After a heavy sigh, I decided to wait a few days, sometimes I can be in too big of a hurry. This was probably one of those times. Sunday evening there was a message on my machine from my father (who can certainly be melodramatic). The message implied that I only had a day or two left before my mother would be gone. Knowing my father's penchant for drama, I immediately called one of my siblings to find out the truth. Sister number two, who was tending my mother came through. Mother had gone to bed, and would most likely not be getting back up. Hospice told her it could be a couple of days, or a couple of weeks, but that we were near the end. I'll back up a little bit , just so you understand why we are here, near the end. Three, almost four years ago, my mother discovered a lump on her breast. She was in her early seventies, was having trouble with her heart and emphysema was just beginning to impede her breathing. She decided not to tell anyone. Not even her doctor. Though she did ask me to put together a health pouch for her, and she had never expressed an interest in the stones before. By June of this year, the lump had grown into a healthy tumor, and the cancer, having entered her glands was all through her body. Now the doctor knew, and shared with all of us, including mother that she may have six months left. Mother insisted that she was not going to pursue treatment. In the months leading up to the dire message from my father, my mother had a pretty good time. She was mobile, appeared healthy, was in an excellent frame of mind and played with her bridge club until the very last month. She was not the bit least morbid nor depressed about her upcoming transition. I believe some part of her was actually looking forward to the next journey. The two weeks following my father's phone call were some of the most exhausting in my life. Not that I performed any extraordinary feats, it's just that even the most mundane task felt as if it took huge stores of my energy to complete. The first week I drove the four hour round trip three times to be with my mother. She was conscious and spoke quietly with all of us between naps. More than once she made it known that she was annoyed with our "death watch". As the second week began, mom was no longer awake for more than a few minutes at a time. Four sisters and two granddaughters shared eight hour shifts between our regular lives so that someone was always with her. Father could not be trusted with her alone. I was lucky enough to have the last shift. Life with my mother had not been easy. When I was a child, she did many things that confused me, and at times left me feeling unloved. Eventually, as an adult, I grew to understand the truth. The first truth I learned when my twins were born. When I held those babies I knew I had been loved. All doubt was erased as I marveled at the intensity of love I felt for my babies. Maybe she had not loved me with same the intense maternal passion I felt, but, she had loved me. The second truth came several years later. As I began to understand the complexities of relationships and human emotions, what had really happened in my home when I was a child became crystal clear. My mother had not been a happy woman. My mother gave up college and a career because that was her duty as my father's wife. My mother had six babies not because she had a nurturing nature with endless patience and loved children, but because it was her duty as a Catholic. My mother did not choose because the choice would bring her joy. She choose because it was the right choice, it was her duty. My mother was a warrior. Which, in retrospect, is kind of scary for a small child seeking a nurturing refuge. So, we had been frightened of each other. No wonder the mother/daughter thing got so edgy. By the way, I was prepared for my bright, inquisitive twins. All of my vehicles were two-door coupes, with kids seat belted in the back seat. They weren't even allowed window handles. Saturday morning after mother crossed over, I was back wondering what to do about this newsletter. Sorry to say, I had not even given it a thought during the other 14 days. I cleansed and cleared myself as best I could and sat down to have another council with my stones. Again I was answered with a frustrating silence. I began asking specific stones; Apatite? Iolite? Galena? Anyone? And my Rose Quartz answered "Not us". "Oh fine! What do I tell everyone?" But I already knew the answer. I had a perfectly fine crystal story to tell, because the relationship between my mother and I was exactly like a gemstone. If you think about it, good relationships are like a rare gemstone. Two separate elements are thrown together into a murky, awkward goo. Eventually there is trauma, fiery arguments, pressures from work, bills and children. In the midst of cataclysmic events, these two elements either bond or are thrown apart. When the two elements manage to bond, something magical happens, just as it did to the gems that grew in Mother. Years pass, the pressures ease, the fires cool and that relationship crystallizes into a rare and beautiful gift. My mother and I were quite lucky to have that happen to our relationship. In these last years, when I understood my mother better and she was more certain I wasn't going to jump out of anything moving, the mother/daughter thing got pretty smooth. In fact we were more likely to argue with my father over his politics, than we were to bicker between us. I was sad when my mother left for her new journey. Sad that her life had not been happier, that she had not had a better husband, that she had spent any time confused and frightened. I am joyful that none of the things that had made her sad here will follow her. Most of all, I'm grateful that we managed to survive the trauma and had the opportunity to enjoy each other's brilliance. --+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-- SUBSCRIBER'S SPECIAL: FREE small Gemstone Of Your Choice! --+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-- SKY NOTES -+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+- Funeral Story My mother's funeral service was a mass. I had not been to a catholic mass since my twins were in grade school. They are now 22. So, at least 15 years have passed since I've done a mass, and probably 30 years since any kind of confession was given to a priest. Saying I was not looking forward to being at a mass, let alone sitting on the very front pew during my mother's mass, would have been putting it mildly. As the Universe would have it, my fretting proved needless. Mass was at 10:00 am Tuesday morning. I had a two hour drive from my little hill to the church. I also had to perform an important errand that could not be put off on my way through town. So, I left at 7:00 am, three hours early. With thirty minutes allotted for my errand, I should make it to the church with 30 minutes to spare. No problem. I left the house right on time, decide to go the shorter mileage route instead of my regular scenic route to shave off a few more minutes. Everything is clicking along just perfect . . . except, just a few miles South of Springfield (site of my errand) traffic stops. There is a minor accident. No fretting. No Problem. Have a thirty minute safety net. Slowly traffic starts moving again, only 20 minutes lost, still have an extra ten minutes. Zoom through my errand in record time and am back on the road, making up 8 of my lost minutes. Now I have an 18 minute buffer. Headed North of Springfield, the four lane speed limit jumps to 65 MPH and I'm making good time again. Feeling confident that trouble is behind me I turn on the cruise control and move on. For about fifteen minutes, when traffic comes to a complete stand still. Again. Enough minutes pass to know that whatever has caused us to stop, was going to keep us a while. After my buffer and a few more minutes had passed, the highway patrol showed up to turn us all around so wreckers and stuff could get to the problem. Tearing up like a true girl, I tell the officer my dilemma and ask for directions. He very sweetly (kudos to the Missouri Highway Patrol) wrote down the back roads that would put me get on my path again. A short distance ahead of me, two UPS trucks and two cars appeared to be taking the same detour I was. Unfortunately, I followed all of them down the wrong left turn before I realized it was not the road the Highway Patrolman had advised me to take. The UPS trucks quickly stopped and asked a passing resident for directions, but the two cars were continuing on. Using the assumption that the two cars might be locals that knew the way, I kept following them. Once or twice as we continued on the circuitous route I pondered the wisdom of my assumption. But, with the weight of being late to my mother's funeral burdening my reason, I was operating on instinct. When we finally turned back out onto the main highway and were headed in the right direction, I sped up to wave my gratitude to my new neighbors. Except they weren't neighbors at all, they were on their way back to Iowa. At least, that's what their license plate implied. Ok, just a few minutes late. Maybe ten. It won't look all that bad, and besides, it's not like I planned those two accidents. Almost to town now, the church is just around that curve at the next intersection, and what . . . the traffic is stopped again!?! Another accident. A rig jack-knifed across the road and into the ditch. Traffic moved forward just enough to put me in sight of the church where my mother's funeral mass was in progress. For several unreasonable moments I considered abandoning the car at the accident scene and hiking up the steep hill to the church. I started laughing instead. Eventually I made it to the church in time for communion and mother's eulogy. I swear I heard her giggling. -+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-- SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: Three Questions Contest! -+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-- What's Happening At Ozark Rock Exchange? |
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