The Glorious Muddle

glimpses of grace in the messiness of life

August 24, 2023

Yesterday My Mother Died

Yesterday my mother, Patricia Adele Patton Richardson, died. Did you notice the world grow dim about 3:42 pm? I did. That’s when Mom opened her long-closed eyes, looked toward the light streaming in through the window, took one calm quiet breath after days of painful labored ones, and then no more breaths on earth. Her next breath was a gulp of the sweet, pure air of heaven.

How can I summarize her ninety years? One thing that has stood out to me lately is how many people comment on her beautiful smile, a smile that lights up a room and lifts up the spirits of anyone lucky enough to be nearby.

She started out as Patty and later changed the spelling to Patti. Her family always called her this and that’s the name she brought to North Carolina, her final home, but she was known as Pat to high school friends and Del-Mar-Va friends.

She was born in a convalescent hospital in Chatanooga on the day FDR was inaugurated for his first term: March 4, 1933. There were no cribs so they put her in a dresser drawer. Her parents were Wade and Adele.

From there, the family soon moved to Richmond, Virginia where they lived in five homes during her first twelve years, usually living with the whole extended Patton family: her grandparents and several aunts. Mom was the oldest grandchild by more than six years. Since alcoholism galloped through the Pattons, she assumed a lot of responsibility that normally wouldn’t fall on a child so young. She was the dependable one, the strong one. She helped raise her two younger siblings, Wenda and Wade. That strength is what kept her living through the four nights hospice nurses would say, “I’d be surprised if she made it through the night.”

Mom loved to say she was Pat Patton from Prospect Park, Pennsylvania. She lived there all through junior high and high school. And loved it. She was smart, popular, pretty, voted “Friendliest” and “Best Personality.” She lived across the street from a boy named Wesley Richardson, who she married two years out of high school. I called him Dad.

Mom moved to a few more states (nine total!) while Dad finished his time in the Air Force. My brother Kurt was born in Philadelphia during those years. They moved to Oxford, Maryland shortly before I came along. When I was four, we moved to a chicken farm in Harmony, the place I consider my hometown and where we lived during the years we went to school.

This week, my brother and I read through a memory book Mom wrote for me several years ago. She said being our mom brought her the most joy of anything she ever did and those years raising us in Maryland were her favorite ones.

Mom grew up going to Sunday School and raised us that way too. She had a reverence for God and knew a lot about him, but she would tell you that it wasn’t until our later high school years, after Kurt and I had given our lives to Christ, that her head knowledge became faith. She was about forty at this time. Her new relationship with Christ transformed her life and gave meaning and joy to her final fifty years. She loved butterflies and the imagery of a new creation: a cocoon transforming into something beautiful.

My mom was creative, bright, a faithful friend, and a good communicator. She imparted to me her artistic eye, her ability to tell a good story, and her love of writing. She invented games for us and made every event a celebration. Our birthday parties were epic. I’d put my mom against anyone in a trivia contest. She was interested in everything we did and came to all our events. She even came to visit me in Romania and then in Hungary, and those trips became two of her favorite highlights of her life.

Mom’s favorite photo of her kids. I love it too!

After Kurt and I were in college, our parents moved to Seaford, Delaware. Mom loved her job there at the Seaford Leader newspaper, and loved writing a bi-weekly column. That was her favorite job ever. During these years she became a pen pal with Chuck Colson’s newly formed Prison Fellowship. That was the ministry in which she believed she had the biggest impact. (But I think it was her ministry of friendliness.) She also gained a beloved daughter-in-law, Susie, during that time.

Then my parents moved to Arizona to be near their three grandchildren as they grew up. Alex, Mark, and Lisa brought so much joy into Mom’s life. Her favorite son-in-law, Steve, entered her life during this time. The grandkids eventually grew up and we moved Mom and Dad for the final move to North Carolina so Steve and I could be a safety net for them as they aged. Dad had already had a small stroke and he had his big one eight months later.

Mom cared for him for eleven years. It took a toll on her. During that time, my role as safety net grew considerably until it became obvious that both parents needed help I couldn’t give. We put Dad in a memory care facility. His dementia was obvious and he died six months later. They’d been married 68 years. Mom was also diagnosed with dementia, but she was skilled at masking it. Most people, the ones who didn’t know the real family stories, would never have believed me.

But thanks to Mom recounting those stories over and over to me, her labor of love and joy expressed in her many photo albums with the history written in captions, and the family trees she made for all the relatives, those stories will live on.

Before my dad died, Mom had declined enough that we had to put her in an assisted living facility. As her dementia worsened, Mom was afraid she’d forget her children’s names, so she’d lie in bed at night and repeat, “Kurt and Taryn, Kurt and Taryn.” She never forgot us.

She so wanted to turn ninety, and she made it! We had a big party for her with her granddaughter present. Each of the three grandchildren, complete with spouses and significant others and babies, came to see her this spring/summer. She often forgot some names but with photos all around her, I could help her remember. She loved seeing photos of herself with the babies, her great-granddaughters, and loved knowing a great-grandson was coming soon (born this morning!).

Because Mom loved people so much–her friends and family especially–and because she was at heart a communicator–a storyteller, writer, and talker–the hardest loss for her with dementia was the ability to communicate. At the end, her words were mostly gibberish. But sometimes I could understand. One day she said she so wished she could pick up the phone and call Elaine, or Judy, or Minnie. And she couldn’t.

Miss Patti was loved at The Berkeley. Really, truly loved. I hope she knew how many people there (nurses, activities director, housekeepers, residents) paraded in to kiss her and cry and tell her they loved her in those final days. They’d talk about how hard it’ll be to no longer see Mom’s smile. Some of them noticed that I have her smile. (I actually have a lot of my mom in me, and I’m so thankful for that.) I promised them I’ll do my best to carry on Mom’s ministry of smiling.

This next photo was taken exactly one week before she died, the day the hospice nurses called “the beginning of the end.” It’s the last photo of me and my mom. She was in a lot of pain then, what they called terminal agitation. Yet, she’s still smiling.

After we took this photo and got her into bed, Mom said to me, “You’ll always be my baby. Nobody can ever take that away from us.” Her words were clear as she spoke.

Now her words are even clearer. She is seeing the beauty that I think she caught glimpses of those last few days when she’d raise her eyebrows above eyes that remained closed. Her faith has been made sight. Her journey is finished. She is home.

Mother’s Day 2022. Mom’s holding an old card I’d made as a child. I found this when I sorted through her stuff. Beside it is a new card.

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July 5, 2023

Going Backward

Every week, babies change. They grow. They develop. It’s exciting. Parents, grandparents, everyone marvels the first time the baby does anything. Smiles. Rolls over. Laughs. Recognizes their hand. Crawls. Stands. Each new word is reason to cheer. Each accomplishment, no matter how tiny, is met with enthusiasm. Videos are made and shared. Every week, if they are healthy, babies accumulate new skills in their repertoire.

At the other end of life, people with dementia also change each week. But instead of adding skills, they lose them. They go backward in their development.

Each new loss is a grief. A fresh reason to be sad. The losses will never be regained. The long cruel disease of dementia robs the sufferer of what they used to do effortlessly. It steals from them who they used to be.

Don’t get me wrong. People with dementia are still themselves. They never lose that. My mom is still Patti. She’s still in there, but every week, it’s harder to find her there. Something else is lost.

Another ability is gone. Knowing the difference between day and night. Finding their way home. Making sense of numbers, money, calendar pages, clocks. Driving. Going places by themselves. Going out at all—stores, restaurants, church. Remembering names. Dialing the phone. Chatting with friends. Finding the right word. Making a complete sentence. Eating food that’s not cut up first. Going to the bathroom or taking a shower unassisted. Holding a spoon by themselves.

Dementia is so much more than memory loss. That’s the tip of the iceberg, what outsiders see. Caregivers and loved ones who are close to the person see all the hidden gunk that lurks under the surface.

One thing I’ve learned from watching two parents suffer with this terrible disease is that even when they can’t recall my name, they know I’m someone close to them. Sometimes my mother thinks that I’m her mother or her sister. Usually, thankfully, she knows who I am. But even when she forgets my name, she always recognizes love. She recognizes someone who is safe and truly cares for her. So did my dad.

The most painful stages to watch are the ones where the person with dementia realizes something is wrong and they are powerless to change it. Where they recognize that they can’t do what they used to do. They become confused, anxious, depressed, agitated, paranoid. They lose weight, often without eating less. They have extreme emotional swings, sometimes swinging from one emotion to another in a space of five minutes. They may have hallucinations or delusions. They cry, a lot. Inconsolably.

If the disease hasn’t taken their life yet, then in the final stage, even speaking at all is lost. Recognizing any faces. They are completely bed-ridden by the end. This is what we have to look forward to with Mom. I pray the Lord, in his mercy, will not let my mom go that far.

Probably my last gift from my mom. She painted this birdhouse during the craft time a couple months ago.

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June 13, 2023

The Book in the Middle

Announcing the long-awaited arrival of Two Lights of Hope, the middle book in A Cold War Trilogy! Like any parent with a middle child, I feared this middle one might be overlooked. Sequels often are. The newness of the firstborn has worn off, replaced by sheer exhaustion.

But it’s here. It’s a good story. And I want to celebrate its arrival!

It’s nothing short of amazing that this book exists. Last August, I had two books that I’d finished writing—during the pandemic—but hadn’t published, They nagged at me. These books collectively formed a cloud that weighed heavily on my goal-oriented self.

I’d interrupted Two Lights of Hope, my sequel novel that I love, a story I’ve poured my heart into, to write Sentenced to Life when asked by our prisoner friend. With both books, I felt that God had put it in my heart to write them. He gave me the vision. He called me to this work.

I’d completed both books and hidden them away on my computer, but I was too tired to do anything more with them. How could I when I was and am so busy caregiving; when my life feels consumed at times by this sacred and difficult duty?

But dementia is a long, cruel disease. And I’m no spring chicken. I couldn’t keep waiting and putting things on hold that I believe God had put in my heart to do.

When I first heard the double dementia diagnosis, my heart sank. That was in the beginning of the pandemic. I’m three years into this journey which started with caring for two parents; now it’s one parent. I didn’t know how I’d survive, if I’d be any good to them, if impatient me would have any patience at all.

But somehow, I did survive and I am surviving.

One of my life verses is I Thess. 5:24: “Faithful is He who calls you, and He also will bring it to pass.” I believe God called me to be both a caregiver and a writer. So far, he has enabled me to do what he’s called me to do. I trust that he’ll keep on giving me the strength and grace that I need. He always has.

Somehow, Sentenced to Life got published last October. That took a lot out of me, and since then my mom’s health began to decline steadily. How could I possibly drum up the energy to do that grueling process all over again?

I honestly can’t explain it, but it happened. God provided professionals to help me shape up my book, friends to serve as beta readers, and motivation and drive to get it done. We turned out a quality product that I am proud of: Two Lights of Hope. I couldn’t be more excited!

Today, this week, I celebrate the arrival of Two Lights of Hope. Welcome to the world, little one!

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April 27, 2023

The Story Continues

I’m thrilled to announce the upcoming birth of my second novel, Two Lights of Hope, Book Two in A Cold War Trilogy! It will be released sometime this summer, so stay tuned to find out exactly when as that becomes clearer.

The Storyline

The story picks up with Adriana Nicu, a teenager in Communist Romania in 1988. Life becomes increasingly dangerous for her as she and her friend Gabi seek answers to a forty-year-old mystery. Their mission: find an old green wardrobe intended to be a Jewish family’s way of escape from the Nazis, and maybe—just maybe—find out what happened to the family after they disappeared.

In her quest for the truth, Adriana must learn who to trust as she navigates her ever-changing world—where ordinary citizens become spies and informants, either for the all-powerful Securitate or for the growing Resistance. Along the way, Adriana finds herself confronted with evil she can hardly imagine. Yet, through an old Jewish man and the banned books she secretly reads, she also encounters love, faith, and hope in a dark world where some lights never go out.

New characters join the ones readers love from the first novel. Adriana’s narrow world expands when she travels outside her borders for the first time—to Yugoslavia—and meets someone from America.

While being firmly rooted in the oppressive Cold War era, the novel looks back on the terrors of the Holocaust: two horrific periods in history. Adriana finds that even the smallest glimmer of hope can break through the darkest night.

The Series

My original vision always included a series of three novels. I have named them A Cold War Trilogy. The cover for the first novel is so beautiful that I had to get the same cover designer, Megan McCullough, for the second one. And then I asked her to also design the third novel, to keep the theme consistent. I love what Megan did!

To recap: In One Degree of Freedom, Adriana’s life has been decided; she will be an engineer, like it or not. But when she walks through her aunt’s blue wardrobe into a room hidden in the wall and filled with stacks of forbidden novels, her world expands and her life begins to strangely parallel those of her novels’ heroines. Adriana starts to rethink things she’d always been taught as truth.

Adriana learns that the second of three seemingly-magical wardrobes, a green one, vanished during World War II. Readers will left wanting to know if the wardrobe will be found, if the country will become free, and if Adriana’s budding romance will take off.

In Two Lights of Hope, Adriana still reads books in her secret room, as she does throughout the series. And the novels she reads still speak to what she is experiencing. When you read the titles on the spines, you get an idea of the theme of this new book.

Two Lights of Hope finishes with the world gearing up for revolution. That’s where the third novel, Three Colors of Courage, will pick up.

If you haven’t read it yet, now’s a good time to pick up a copy! It’s available for order wherever you buy your books.

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March 23, 2023

No Regrets Caregiving

My mom turned 90 in style with a big family party. Even more birthday cards arrived after this photo was taken.

My mom has had three trips to the Emergency Department already this year. She’s had twice as many falls. Every time the telephone rings, I tense up. It’s often a nurse, and it’s often bad news.

In the final months of my father’s life, when he was in assisted living an hour away and Mom was living with us and needing around-the-clock attention, I posted frequently on social media. It was my outlet, my way to process and communicate with friends far away.

One time I posted that I felt like Dad was being left out and so I managed to squeeze in a short trip up the mountain to see him, even though I was tired and stressed with caring for Mom.

The responses I received made me feel loved and cared about. My friends gave me strength and courage to keep going.

Some friends would affirm my decision.

“You’ll never regret spending time with him.”

“You will always be glad you took the time to visit him.”

“What you are doing is holy work and it’s important.”

Other friends would offer me an excuse, a way to let myself off the hook.

“You have done enough, more than most children would do.”

“Nobody will fault you. Anybody will understand if you don’t go next time.”

“You’re paying for assisted living. They are there for your dad so you don’t need to be.”

As I read their responses, I noticed a difference in who wrote them.

The first group had been caregivers themselves, sometimes many years earlier. Their input counted more for me because they’d lived it. They’d done it; they’d suffered; they knew what it’s all about. And they could speak from certainty about how to give care with grace.

It also told me that they did not regret their own choices, years later. They’d given of themselves sacrificially, and they’re still glad they did.

That doesn’t mean the second group got it wrong. I appreciate what they had to say. These friends’ concern was for me. They were encouraging me to take a break and remove some of the burden from my shoulders.

The trick is balance. As a caregiver, if you don’t take care of your physical and emotional health, you won’t be able to be there for your person. You need to find an equilibrium that works for you. I need to make sure my husband and I get some time together. And that I get some time alone.

The second group was trying to tell me it doesn’t need to always be up to me, alone. There are times I cannot go and do, for a host of reasons. When those times arise, I will entrust my mom to the Lord and try not to worry.

I’m not the one in control here.

But for now, for this season, caregiving is my calling. I am certain this is what the Lord wants me to do.

And so I will continue to go to the hospital, visit the assisted living. I will keep going and doing and giving, because it’s the right thing. It’s my mom. I don’t want to miss this final and sacred chapter of her life.

All we can do is show up. We try to be cheerful and helpful, to treat our loved one with grace and dignity. Caregivers, if we can do that, we’ll have no regrets.

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Taryn R Hutchison

Telling stories to help you soar