protective Archives - Lisa Duchene, Writer

Blessed & Grateful: With Love, We Can Do Hard Things

Posted on April 27, 2018April 27, 2018 by Lisa Duchene

With Love from our Angels, We Can Do the Hardest Things

My grandmother’s singing soothed and loved me through childhood, through the loss of her — and has helped me face every hard thing in life so far. When my beautiful friend faced her own death, I did the little I could, and leaned on the love, strength and singing of my angels.

When I was little, my grandmother held and snuggled me in her lap and rocked me as she sang this silly song about a mama fish and her baby fish swimming over a dam.

When I grew too big to sit on her lap, I watched as she rocked and sang to my younger cousins from her chair on the big front porch of her white bungalow house.

She did this with all 10 of her grandchildren. I was often at my grandparents’ house, and walked there after school most days. My mom and I lived nearby, and my aunt and uncle and cousins lived down the street.

I remember our post-war suburb outside Cleveland as a lovely place to be a child: Mature maple trees so big and lush their branches overlapped, making a green tunnel above Anthony Street. All the neighbors knew each other and as they walked by there was a constant-back-and-forth between the porch and the sidewalk of “hellos” and “how-about-this-weather?” and “how’s such-and-such doing?”

When the tough times come, I reach for these memories, as they are among my most cherished. I reach for the comfort of my grandmother’s love and strength, the sound of her singing.

Phoning Home

My first job out of journalism school was as a small town news reporter at a local newspaper on the Maine coast. Newsrooms — even in quaint coastal towns — tend to be chaotic, loud and crowded places.

Every day, from their corner of the newsroom the two sports guys delivered a lively variety show of silly jokes and songs that grew increasingly whacky and louder as our deadline approached. Dave and George covered, wrote and edited all the sports stories in at least two dozen towns and four school districts.

They sang that silly song about the baby fish that my grandmother sang to all of us. They butchered it, singing all the wrong words, and I could never remember all the right words.

So I would call my grandmother, ask her to sing it, write down the words and hand them over to Dave and George — who didn’t really care about the right words and continued to sing about the fishes with their words in their way, only louder.

The Message

On a hot Saturday afternoon in July, hearing my uncle say over the phone that she had died felt like a cannon had plunged a lead ball through my gut, leaving a hole that sucked all the air from me. I could not breathe. I doubled over.

Early the next morning, I flew back to Cleveland, anxious to reach my mom and the rest of my family, and tried hard to hold it together on that first flight.

But between flights, in the “privacy” of a bathroom stall in the Cincinnati airport, the sobs shook me. I could not stop weeping, leaned against the locked door and whispered to my grandmother, into the emptiness.

Are you OK? I just need to know you are OK.

She was no longer on the front porch, or in her chair in the living room, cooking dinner in the kitchen or at the other end of the telephone line. I didn’t know where she was now, and that was terrifying.

A moment later, she sang to me. I swear to you: That silly song in her voice was the only thing I could hear — and I had not thought of it in a long while until then.

Clear as a bell, her voice filled my head, singing that goofy little fishy song with all the right words I could never remember. She sang about the three little fishes and the mama fishy too, all swimming in a pool until the mama tells her babies to “SWIM!” said the mama. “Swim as fast as you can! And they swam and they swam all over the dam.”

An Extra Push

You may recall the chorus?

“Boom, boom, diddum datum whaddum SHOO!

Boom, boom diddum datum whaddum SHOO!

And they swam and they swam all over the dam.”

She would always give us an extra squeeze on the SHOO!

In that moment, I was certain she was singing to me from her new life beyond her death, telling me she was absolutely AOK and not to worry one bit.

Swim!

That whole next week, our family gathered and did the hardest things together. We hovered over my grandfather — knowing the arteries of his heart were so blocked it was a ticking time bomb — kneeled at our matriarch’s casket to pray, visited with extended family and friends, wrote a eulogy and carried her to a cradle above a deep hole in the ground.

All week that goofy song propelled me through one hard thing after another. It was, after all, about a mama urging her babies forward over a hurdle. If I was alone in the car driving to and from the funeral home, I sang that silly song as loud as I could.

“SWIM!” said the mama. “Swim as fast as you can!”

I felt her rocking me, remembered that sensation of being loved and cherished, let that comfort me and felt her sing and push me forward.

Our Angels — Seen & Unseen — Love us Through It

When my thoughts and worries buzz like hornets around my mind in the darkness, I hear my grandmother singing and I can feel her rocking me and her cool hand on my forehead. I can breathe deeply again. I can rest.

Especially over these last few weeks, my grandmother is singing for I have called for her and her comfort. She is one way I feel God’s unconditional love and presence. Her singing voice affirms my faith that there is something more, and something wonderful beyond this world.

I believe in angels. Those we can see in this life who are our family by both blood and choice, and those we can no longer see who have gone onto the life beyond, whatever that is. They are still with us, somehow, some way. When the hard times come, we can ask all our angels for help and strength and lean heavily upon them.

They get us through. We stand upon their shoulders and can do hard things — the absolutely hardest, thorniest, scariest and most painful things we must face in our lives — whatever they may be for each of us.

In these last several weeks, I have called in my angels, both seen and unseen, for myself and my friend Wilda, who faced one of the hardest things any of us ever will.

My Beautiful Friend

My beautiful friend knew she was dying.

She has been my mentor, inspiration and a badass role model.

She is a wife and mother, and a warrior. A fellow believer and sister champion of the importance of stitching and building community fabric by digging in the soil and planting flowers and vegetables. She fiercely protected our special gardens because of what they mean and what they give to our community.

She and her husband led a project to plant 111,000 daffodil bulbs that bloom all over this small central Pennsylvania town every spring. She helped start the Sept. 11 Memorial Garden in honor of a native son lost at the Pentagon.

She has been instrumental on nearly every public garden project in that town: a pollinator garden, a gorgeous garden of all edibles, the plantings downtown and in the park.

When we visited recently, I asked her to count the community garden projects she worked on.

Nine.

I wanted her to know this town would not be nearly so beautiful without her.

One of those gardens is especially near and dear to my heart. She fiercely protected it.

Every spring, second-graders plant lettuce, spinach and radishes in small plots of their very own within our community children’s garden. This April, the total over nine years topped 400.

Wilda didn’t do any of it by herself. She worked side by side with people, one task at a time and led by example. With grace and diplomacy in a way that was quiet, selfless and effective.

She is a warrior who cuts through the nonsense.

And she fought off cancer for 20 years. But not this time.

Nothing would stop the tumors this time.

She fought the good fight, endured unimaginable pain, needles, tests, treatments, tubes.

The Hardest Thing

A little more than five weeks ago, my beautiful friend and her husband and doctors decided it was time to stop treatment. She has been at home in the constant care of her husband, with help from hospice.

Honored, I sat with Wilda soon after her decision. We talked about what’s next. Because we don’t really know what happens. That’s the whole point — the beautiful, excruciating mystery.

My faith makes it easier for me to face that. Yet, whatever people believe is intensely personal and private and they have every right to it.

Her husband and sons face life without her. Nothing can spare them this pain.

She had made some decisions about her funeral service. She was starting to draft her obituary. Maybe she would ask people to plant daffodils in town in her memory. She gave me a short list of things to do.

I was struck by her calm and dignity, as she sat in a wing chair in her bedroom, looking out the front window toward the bare maple in front of her house.

She said she didn’t really have much choice.

She hoped the medicine would let her just drift away. That was the plan.

Strength in the Silence

Weeks later, that did not happen. She was restless. She was in pain. It seemed as if she was between worlds — no longer really here with us and yet still alive.

I tried hard to say the right thing to them both. I pointed out the beauty of the maple outside her window, now covered in red buds.

I thought that maybe my job was to gently urge her to let go, to tell her she’d taken care of everything on her list, to remind her of all the incredible good she’d done in this world. Because she has.

So I did.

But who was I to say and to tell her the time had come? She had plenty more she wanted to do in this life, and she was entitled if she was furious that she would not get to do it.

I realized I don’t get to decide the timing just because it so hurts to see her pain.

When I left with the luxury of returning to my so-called normal life, I wished I had said something different. Or better yet, maybe nothing.

I wished I could cradle my friend and gently rock her until all the comfort and peace of my memories seeped into her bones.

But that too would be for me, not for her.

I shouted for her angels, and hoped they had already filled the room and were singing the music that sounds the sweetest to her, and in her own time and way would lead her to peace.

Gratefully, she was not alone. Her husband was with her round-the-clock, loving her and managing — and being pushed beyond exhaustion.

There are no right words. This business of dying is awful and ugly. The anguish of it filled the house.

The day after my visit, Wilda’s best friend since seventh grade arrived from Seattle.

We Will Remain What We Were to Each Other

I cannot imagine what that next week was like. I choose instead to focus on what must have been the brightest spots: the final time with her husband of nearly 50 years and her very best friend of even longer, and her bravest visitors.

Wilda died eight days after I last saw her, last Sunday morning.

On the day of her local celebration-of-life service, the daffodils were in full bloom and children laughed and danced like worms as they learned about beneficial bugs and played bug BINGO in our community children’s garden. Just a small part of her beautiful legacy.

At her service, a friend read a poem she had selected, Death Is Nothing At All (Death of the King of Terrors) by Henry Scott-Holland.

The truth of this lovely line struck me:

“…the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.

Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.”

In this life she was an angel, bringing soup to my door when I was under the weather, listening with endless patience and kindness to my troubles, opening her kitchen and home to me for comfort in my hardest times.

And now, I believe that if it is at all possible, she will find a way to soothe and comfort her sons, and husband and family as they go on without her. I believe her soul is like that of my grandmother’s, an unseen angel, and that love lasts beyond death.

Nudged by the Love of Unseen Wings

Our angels in the life beyond death are not fixers. They can’t spare us the pain. Remembering the ones who have crossed is not the same as having them here with us. No way.

Yet, they can give us a little reminder of love and faith, a little nudge to dig deeper and find the strength to get through.

To help ourselves. To go on. To swim forward over the dam, whatever it is.

To take the next best step — toward life.

BLOG: Can you be Blessed, Grateful — and a Badass?

Posted on February 23, 2018February 28, 2018 by Lisa Duchene

At first, the thought of combining these words was a bit frightening.

See, I’m leaping into this new Blessed & Grateful blog project and I want to get it right. That means telling stories about the richness and light I treasure in language that speaks both to my dearest friends, fine people who would not be caught dead in a church, and the lovely new people I know through our church.

I’m not promising all sweetness and vanilla, peeps. I am no polyanna. I’ve been lucky, and tough.

To arrive at this place of contentment I had to be brave and a warrior of sorts. And I know this peace can be shattered in one tragic moment.

This journey taught me. It made me.

A few weeks ago I consulted my brave and wise mother-in-law, a retired pastor. She said the Bible offered plenty of examples of flawed people and tough, kind heroes. She was fine with badass. She promised she wasn’t just being nice.

Onward. Then, I started to notice badasses everywhere.

Gracious, Fierce and Fearless

Badasses are kind, gracious, loving people who are also wicked strong, fierce and fearless.

They go for it. They protect those dear. They rise for those who can’t — but never at someone else’s expense.

They do what needs to be done—sometimes with a roar and sometimes so quietly you hardly notice them. They are brave and bold. They speak their truth.

They are not bullies, nor are they nasty.

The people who embody these qualities have a strength that inspires my own.

They are in public life, often unexpectedly — like those incredibly strong, fearless and articulate students from Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School who survived a horrific mass shooting and one week later stood tall and asked straightforward questions of powerful people. Amazing.

Turns out I’ve been blessed with badasses, drawn to them all along: My mother, my grandmother, my aunts and best friends, my husband and stepsons and plenty of other women and men.

Sweetie Grandma was a Total Badass

One of my favorite pictures of my grandmother is from August 18, 1945. She is wearing her Army-issued dark skirt, light long-sleeve blouse with a pointed collar, round sunglasses, hat and sensible shoes, walking between two other women dressed in identical skirt-blouse-hat-shoes down a sidewalk in Marseilles, France.

She is looking straight ahead, ignoring the camera.

“Don’t ever tell anyone that you know the center character,” she wrote on the back of this black and white snapshot.

I always wanted to know more of her story than she’d tell.

Magdalene grew up in a small railroad and coal town in Northeast Pennsylvania, wedged among the creases of two mountains. She joined the Red Cross to become a nurse, suspecting it would take her far away to war.

She served as an Army nurse in World War II, and met my grandfather. They returned, married and made their home in Cleveland, where they had five children, including one who died before birth, and my mom, then later 10 grandchildren.

As the story goes, when she inquired about joining the local VFW she was offered a membership intended for women. “She would have none of that, and reminded them that she was an officer,” reported our family historian, my uncle. “She became a regular member.”

She was a maternity nurse who worked nights, and when I was little watched me during the days. She was generous and gracious, a woman of strong Catholic faith, hard worker and the wife of a hard-working public servant and politician.

We called her “Sweetie” because she was all warmth and sweetness. Her lap and bosom was for me a place of pure comfort and refuge from whatever was scary and sad.

Now, that little town where she grew up is cute-as-a-button and a quaint haven for tourists. A century ago, however, living there was a tough life. She both loved it — and knew she needed to get away.

My uncle recently found her grandfather’s death certificate. We learned he died on the railroad, the cause of death was “cut in half.” There must have been plenty she wanted to leave behind in that place.

I’ve always loved that image of her walking down a foreign street, before she was a wife, mom and grandmother. She is cool and confident, rising to the mission, fearless, her whole life ahead of her, ready to serve, ready for an adventure.

My Badass Friend Candace

One cold night in early spring, loud shouting and stomping outside our apartment door caught my attention drawing me away from bed, where I was headed, and out into the hall. My boyfriend and I lived in an old three-story house in Maine with an apartment on each floor.

The young, estranged boyfriend of the single mom who lived upstairs was drunk and belligerent, arguing with three other people as his two-year-old daughter slept inside. The young mom’s mother was there along with the boyfriend’s father. All of their efforts to calm him had failed.

I also attempted to reason with him, and got nowhere.

My friend Candace was not there that night, but she had taught me well. I knew exactly what to do.

Calmly, I confirmed with the single mom that she wanted him to leave, and nicely asked him to leave. Once.

Then, ready to zip out of his stumbling reach if need-be, I pointed my index finger right between his eyes in a jabbing motion, looked him directly in the face, got as close as I dared and shouted at him to

GET OUT. RIGHT NOW. GET OUT. RIGHT NOW.

The language was slightly more colorful. I repeated.

He retreated, stumbling, out the front door, off the porch to the sidewalk and away.

I did not have kids. But I did have a mama-bear instinct to protect the people who lived in that house. They would soon be my tenants, as I was buying the building.

After drunk guy had gone that night, I realized I was covered neck-to-ankle with the cutest brown and black kitty-cats all over my flannel pajamas. I had not stopped to think about that, nor to be afraid. Gratefully, he did not have a gun. I knew I’d be OK.

When drunk guy returned around 2 am, I called the police from behind my locked door. As far as I know, he never came back. Soon, we installed a lock on the exterior door to the house, gave keys to our tenants and kept it locked.

Growing up, I did not have to deal with drunk people. But my friend Candace did. One October night when our annual Halloween party was winding down she didn’t like the way a drunk guy was talking to me. He had come to the second-floor of our single-family house, where our overnight guests were already sleeping in the bedrooms and Candace and I were changing out of our costumes.

When Halloween drunk guy started banging on all the doors, my answer was to reason with him. I got nowhere.

When he got more belligerent, Candace snapped. Still wearing her very scary vampire makeup, she burst from around the corner, got right in Halloween drunk guy’s face, pointed and shouted at him to GET DOWNSTAIRS RIGHT NOW.

I can still see Halloween drunk guy scampering down the steps as fast as his feet would take him, his hospital johnny costume barely covering his pasty white backside.

My friend had always been so sweet, kind and gracious. That night I learned that when provoked she could be fearless for a purpose.

Kind & Brave Folks All Around Us

My mom was a single mom who worked full-time, earned her MBA one course at a time and took care of me, making sure we went on vacations no matter how tight the money was.

My badass businesswoman aunt opened and now runs a hugely successful women’s fashion boutique with her business partner, also a smart business woman.

My husband, a school teacher and administrator, doesn’t put up with his students’ bad behavior (nor mine!) He’d never raise his voice to tell you, though, and instead sets an example. (OK, and that letter M his eyebrows make when he pinches them together in that confused look of whattheheckareyoudoing?)

My stepsons show strength, intense discipline toward their goals and compassion for others.

My friend is raising two boys with her husband, works part-time, waking up early to run and carving out time to paint.

My neighbor and friend takes care of her family and five grandchildren and is always asking if we need anything.

A wonderful friend had a baby, and is raising her daughter on her own — on purpose.

Badasses, all of them.

And the so many — too many — dear friends who have faced breast cancer, beat it and then because of lasting effects, must reach for their new normal. Life is never the same.

My friend has beat cancer multiple times, raised two fine sons with her husband, retired as a communications professional, volunteers in her community, speaks her mind and cuts through the BS.

Another dear friend beat breast cancer and is passionate about creating new, gorgeous jewelry, exquisite works of art.

A best friend since college who beat breast cancer, is raising two boys with her husband and is a hugely successful marketing professional.

Candace, too, beat breast cancer and is now re-prioritizing her life. “I am fiercely looking for the next version of myself and the creative pursuits to compliment this new/old person,” she responded (and gave her blessing to share her answer.) “Probably the scariest thing I’ve faced yet — to get out of treatment and not recognize myself anymore.”

Badasses. Incredibly inspiring.

Super-heroes for These Times

I wondered about all this one January Sunday, then settled in to watch the Golden Globe awards.

Oprah’s speech that night said it all, beautifully. These times both require great strength and are giving us great heroes.

Kesha every time she performs “Praying,” Olympic skier Lindsey Vonn who battled terrible injuries and never, ever gave up. All the Olympians with their stories of what they overcame and how they battled to reach the games, maybe even the podium.

We need these people.

Maybe badass isn’t even the right word. Not long ago, it meant to be mean and bully and was negative, a way to pop the big selfish ego of bravado.

The Guardian newspaper out of the U.K., reported at the end of 2015, that badass had become a positive descriptor for women behaving like men, taking on strength and toughness of men, that it stood for feel-good feminism, empowerment. And that its usage had peaked.

It hinted at the evolution of the word’s meaning beyond women acting like men, toward a new dimension of positive description of a woman in her own right, not defined in relationship to men or by men.

Sounds good. Let’s go. These times feel right.

And if badass falls short, let’s find a new word — or re-invent a familiar one. Super-hero?

We can be our truest, very best blessed, grateful and badass selves. Super-heroes for ourselves and each other.

We can be good and strong and fiercely committed to become our best versions, people who demand and support justice, people who protect the vulnerable, people who rise to the occasion, who tell the truth, who use all of our talents — strength, honor, intuition, finesse, communication — for a greater good.

People who serve. But are not so meek and selfless that we are doormats or silent. You gotta have backbone.

I’m ready to be extra fearless.

You?

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