Getting On With My Day

On a beautiful spring morning, I stood in the doorway, listening to the birds joyfully celebrating the sunrise. 

My pets woke me up, so anxious to get on with their day.  All four of them lined up at the door, waiting for me to open it and let them enjoy the outdoors.  Tubby, a mixed lab, black and slim, wiggling all over with excitement at the anticipation; the cats--Mommy, Rascal, and Scamp, so anxious to get out but still wary of the big black beast ready to run over them to get out the door.  I opened the door and they tumbled out, each running in a different direction to seek their own excitement.

For a moment, the thrill of anticipation was exhilarating, a momentary flash of belief that all was right with the world.  A few deep breaths, then I thought I should get dressed and get on with my day.  That's the hard part... getting on with my day.

The easy part first, the mundane things that take up time and are so necessary to trick myself into believing everything is normal, while assuring myself that time is progressing as it should.  Showering, dressing, eating toast and cereal, taking my medications, taking my blood pressure, checking my blood sugar.  I want things to be normal so I perform these duties with the hope that the rest of the day will be as orderly and simple as these few tasks.  Maybe it will be much later today when the realization hits me, maybe a day will come when I can get through the whole day without the grief overwhelming me.

It is getting better now; at least I can usually get through the night.  Sometimes I take something to help me sleep.  The doc says this is not cheating, just helping myself make it all bearable.  For a long time I would wake with her voice in my head, "Mom!"  She was always so eager to begin her day, from the moment she opened her eyes.  Sometimes she would amuse herself for hours alone in her room, but usually she would call out for me to come and help her get started on her day.  When I heard her call at night it always meant something was wrong, a fever, a stomach ache, an accident in her bed... something that required me, "Mom!"

She's been gone for almost six months but I still hear her call for me at times.  I keep asking myself why I didn't know immediately that something was wrong on that morning in October.  I didn't hear her calling me, nor did I hear any sounds at all from her room.  It was about 9:30 before I realized that something was wrong.  When it hit me I ran to her room and opened the door.  There was no sound at all coming from her, no movement under the covers pulled up under her chin.  She was so still and quiet and when I touched her I knew there was nothing left of my sweet Lora except her body.  The essence of Lora was gone.

She came to me 42 years ago, on December 30, 1965, a small blue-eyed doll with Down's Syndrome.  The doctor tried to explain what this would mean.  He told us she would never walk, or talk, never feed herself or go to school.  He said she would have to be placed in an institution and I should be planning to "place her" instead of taking her home from the hospital.  I felt like she was an alien from another planet.  This was not the child I had expected and for whom I had planned out a childhood and a future in my dreams.  I had to grieve for the loss of that child and then get on to the business of raising my Lora Lee.  Of course she would not be placed in an institution.  She was going home with me.  I loved her desperately but I was so afraid of what the future would bring for both of us.

There were hard times; nothing was easy.  Her father and I divorced.  Having a disabled child was more than our already ailing marriage could take.  I struggled, not knowing how to deal with everything at such a young age; I was 20 when she was born.  I was still struggling and looking for guidance when I chanced to read a book written by Dale Evans called "Angel Unaware."  Through my tears I read of their tiny daughter with Down's Syndrome who blessed their lives for a very short time.  The book was written from the perspective of the child and told of her reason for being in this life and the blessings she brought her family.  I saw my daughter through new eyes, thanks to this book.  Lora has been such a blessing to me.  She accomplished so much more than the doctor predicted.  She walked, she talked, she fed herself; she went to school (and graduated in a cap and gown.)  She worked in the workshop for developmentally disabled individuals and she led a happy and busy life.

She brought more blessings to me, and to my family, than she ever received herself.  She taught me the meaning of love, laughter, and the enjoyment of life.  She taught me to accept people for what they are.  She loved everyone and expected everyone to love her... and they usually did.  I am a much better person because of the blessing of having Lora in my life.  Not to take anything away from my boys, her brothers Timmy and Adam.  I love them and also treasure the time I have with them.  But my time with Lora was cut short, without warning. Her death was so sudden and unexplained. 

She came here to teach me and she accomplished so much.  I know my blessings are not over just because she is gone.  I keep her in my heart, hold her close in my memories and learn from her every time I remember her.

So I'll get on with my day, miss my Lora, and receive more blessings just by remembering her sweet life.