In August 1862 during the darkest days of the American Civil War, Osgood Tracy volunteers to fight for the North, leaving behind the love of his life, Nellie Sedgwick, for the front lines. There, the twenty-two year old idealistic young man discovers a baptism of fire and alongside comrades he’d give his life for, endures a physical and emotional journey back, all the while hoping Nellie, whose photograph and love he carries with him, embraces him at the end.
On the home front, though, Nellie fights her own battles. Fraught with family calamity, guilt, and courtships, she dutifully represents the Union, first at home in Syracuse, New York then Washington, D.C., as she struggles with a decision that may haunt her forever.
A historical novel based upon one of the largest private letter caches in the country, written by a direct descendant, FIGHTING FOR NELLIE is a page-turning story swirling with passion and jealousy, abolitionists and slave owners, politicians, war heroes, and rebels, and the quest for undying love. A story demonstrating that life can change in an instant, war alters everything, and we must fight for what we love, FIGHTING FOR NELLIE will remind readers of Cold Mountain from a Northerner’s perspective and a contemporary All Quiet on the Western Front.Endorsements Dedication Read More
Passionate about reading and writing since a young girl and inspired by true stories and memorabilia handed down by my beloved grandfather, I write historical and current fiction based on true events, as well as nonfiction and poetry. For me, writing is one of the ultimate ways to express my self, experiences, and what inspires my soul, such as acts of kindness, courage, and stamping out individual and social injustices.
A native of Central New York and graduate of Hobart & William Smith Colleges with a B.A. in English and history, I worked for many years at a Boston publishing company in editing, sales and marketing. I live on that city’s North Shore with my family — am proud of our three sons’ — and Golden Retriever, Scout, a ‘pathfinder.’ My passions besides writing, family, and friends include photography, music, running, swimming, skiing, walking nearby beaches, the Adirondack Mountains, and watching every sunrise and sunset possible.Read More Writing Samples
What People Say About Sarah Tracy Burrows
My father, William Platner Burrows, today a resident of Manlius, New York, often tells my two older brothers, his seven grandchildren and I that the number seven is lucky. For many reasons, I believe it is, too.
To begin, Dad was born Aug. 7, 1930, in Syracuse, New York. It was a Thursday, his father’s day off from the office. Dad is the oldest of two. His sister, Barbara, was born four years later on the same date, Aug. 7, though I wrestle with whether that was lucky for them. Dad and his sister, who each have seven letters in their three names, grew up on Fayette Boulevard. Dad loved playing in the nearby fields and spending time “shooting the breeze” with his best friend, Jud Johnston, who lived across the street.
As a young teen, an incident occurred when my father was crossing a road; a traffic light fell on him, breaking his nose. Dad was lucky, as the situation could have been worse and I have always thought the slight swerve Dad’s nose takes is a cool piece of what comprises his story.
We have learned from stories Dad enjoys telling us that his childhood was a bit mischievous. At some we laugh, others gasp. The latter I will leave out but in general, Dad liked to fish and shoot off the .22 rifle his father, Floyd, born in 1876, gave him on his 16th birthday for “sticking with the clarinet.” Dad’s father was a doctor who had an office open five days per week but seven days per week made house and hospital calls. When Dad borrowed the family car, he made sure to check in often with his father in case he needed it for a call.
Dad’s mother, Gertrude, born in 1903 and a registered nurse in Labor and Delivery at Crouse-Irving Hospital, where she met Dad’s father, from time to time received phone calls about Dad from the school principal and neighbors, but thankfully my father turned out just fine. For all the innocent trouble Dad caused, he worked that much harder — such as shoveling heavy snow quickly from the driveway in the dark so that his father could leave for a call and working various jobs, including caddying at a golf course, logging hours at his father’s office and heavy construction.
In 1952, Dad graduated from Hobart College and in 1955 Syracuse University Law School. The next thing Dad did we all agree he was most lucky for and that was marrying his high school sweetheart — Ann Livingston Tracy — the epitome of “sweetheart.”
Back home after two years stationed with the Army at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, with Mom teaching school there, Dad worked his way up the ladder in the local law world. I recall many nights after dinner he sat for hours at the kitchen table, making notes on his yellow legal pad. Dad never complained about the workload; in fact, he seemed to like it, saying there was never a day he didn’t want to go to work. For that, he is lucky.
Over the years, Dad’s hobbies, many with Mom by his side, have included playing football and lacrosse, running track, skiing, canoeing, learning to fly fish, attending Syracuse University football and basketball games, buying fresh fruits and vegetables at the farmers market, attending the Syracuse Symphony, museums, volunteering legal services for community associations and church, enjoying food (dating back to the love of his mother’s baked goods and Sunday roasts), building things with his sons such as a red race car (with No. 7 painted on it) and lean-to, taking boat rides, reading newspapers and books, listening to music, hiking, walking and “puttering around, keeping busy.”
As daughters often do, I have always and do look up to my Dad. When I was 3 years old, my parents were building their camp on Big Moose Lake in the Adirondack Mountains. That summer we tented on the property. There, many mornings, in the fresh air near the covered well, I watched Dad shave. My job was to hold the mirror for him. He was up early, dressed in his khaki pants, stained with turpentine, white T-shirt and work boots, ready for the day.
He smelled of fresh shaving cream, which he had mixed with his favorite soft bristle brush in a cream-colored mug and then, with a circling motion covered his cheeks with before running the razor in parallel, smooth strokes, as I watched, thinking in awe, “That’s my Dad!” When finished, Dad tapped his cheek with his index finger and leaned toward me, suggesting I “plant” a kiss on it. I was always quick to do so.
Every Friday evening each summer after Dad would return to the lake from Syracuse after working the week. I would often wait for him a quarter-mile from camp, sitting on the tall rock around the curve at Punky Bay, with the tall pines overhead and to each side blueberry bushes from which I picked and ate, smiling once I heard the sound of his car tires moving over the gravel of the Crag Point Road, knowing then that he was near.
When I was 10, in the summer of 1977, Dad rowed for me in the four-mile “Lake Swim.” Dad rose at 5:30 a.m. before the sun broke, woke me, and made hot chocolate, filling it to the top of the Thermos. Along with the Thermos, he packed Hershey chocolate bars and several towels. At the door, Mom, wrapped in her long, pink bathrobe and looking sleepy, gave me a hug and kiss, wishing me luck.
In the fog of South Bay, Dad drove us off by aluminum boat, heading to West Bay, where approximately 40 swimmers and I soon jumped into the water. After completion of the first mile, I took occasional breaks by holding on to the side of the boat while Dad handed me the Thermos cup from which I sipped, feeling the hot liquid warm my cold body, and pieces of Hershey bar, which re-energized me. Back I went to swimming, the majority of the time using the breaststroke, keeping my head above water.
I don’t recall Dad talked a lot, though I might have. Dad meant business. He didn’t want me distracted. I did well until about three-fourths of a mile from the end at Clark’s Point. My left leg had gone heavy and I was dragging it along in the water. Feeling exhausted, I said, “Dad, I can’t go any further.” I wanted to get into the boat, but Dad wouldn’t let me. He thought I’d come too far and that I could push on. I realized Dad was right when I finished the swim, and is the reason I could be proud that I did and was the youngest person then to date to do so.
Today, my Dad is still my hero. He sacrificed to provide for my brothers and me, our mother, and to plan for our future. I am thankful for the lessons Dad teaches, among them work hard, don’t whine, save for your retirement and give back. As Dad says, “There’s no free lunch.” I like, too, that Dad has a special presence, booming voice and sense of humor.
“Grandpa sure has some ‘zingers!’” his youngest grandchild, our son Andrew, exclaims.
People of various ages often tell me they enjoy speaking and spending time with Dad and I know that he enjoys their company.
For me, this Father’s Day is more special than others before. It is the first one that I let Dad know how much I appreciate him without my mother by his side. When Mom passed Feb. 15 of this year, a large piece of our hearts and spirit left with her. But in thinking of how much my Dad loved my mother, and she him, I am comforted. There wasn’t a morning I remember while growing up that Dad left for work when he did not kiss Mom goodbye, or upon his return in the evening.
The last time Dad kissed Mom goodnight, the evening before she died the next morning, was Valentine’s Day. They were blessed with 70 years together, and though there is never enough time and it is extremely painful for all of us to go on without Mom — especially Dad — I want my father to know that not only did he, and does he, do a great job taking care of his three children, our spouses and his seven grandchildren, but he took great care of Mom, beginning to end.
Every year on my birthday, Dad tells me that I am his and Mom’s “frosting on the cake.” Well, I think Dad is the candles’ spark. Dad lights up our family and those who know and love him. For so many reasons I am proud of, appreciate, and love my father. I am lucky to be his daughter.
— Sarah Winch is a resident of Wenham.
MAY 20, 2009
A call rang at 5:30 a.m. on the landline, startling me awake.
The bedroom windows were open, birds chirping, and the dawn’s early light of my wedding anniversary streaming in, the beauty of which seemed incongruous to my heart panicking. My husband, Pete, lying beside me rushed to pick up the phone, on the nightstand next to him. He reached over, taking it from its’ holder and held it up between us. The number lit up in yellow: my father’s cell phone.
Why would Dad be calling at this hour, and from his cell?
My mind swirled. Something must be wrong!
Within about thirty minutes of speaking with Dad and calling my older brothers, Bill and John, I packed a bag, showered, grabbed the travel mug of coffee Pete made for me, and drove off from our home north of Boston. My brothers did the same from their respective houses in New Jersey and Connecticut. The three of us were heading in the same direction – Syracuse, New York – where our parents, Ann and Bill Burrows, lived and we were raised.
It was the longest drive home.
And as Dad would later say, when life took a ‘left turn.’
Five hours and fifteen minutes later, I arrived to Upstate University Hospital, a teaching institution specializing in stroke, on the campus of Syracuse University, from which my mother graduated with a B.A. and my Dad a law degree. It wasn’t easy seeing Dad, who had not slept in about thirty hours, walking alone down the antiseptic smelling hall to greet me, then Mom in ICU lying in a bed on life support, her eyes closed and a tube inserted down her throat.
The team of neurosurgeons gathered my Dad, brothers and I in the hall outside Mom’s room, with MRI and CAT scan results open on a computer screen. They explained the seriousness of the situation and that Mom had less than 50% chance of surviving the hemorrhagic stroke she had suffered.
Mom had experienced, they said, a “right side bleed” in the back of her brain, affecting the opposite side – the left – controlling sight. They pointed to the lower left quadrant where the blood, after leaking from the vessel on the right, had dispersed. The path it took destroyed that section of the brain. Once the bleeding starts, there is nothing that can be done to stop it, though it will eventually cease on its own.
The area filled with blood causes pressure on the brain.
“It should subside with time,” one of the doctors stated, “hopefully allowing your Mom’s symptoms to improve. If it does not, or is too slow to do so, intervention may become necessary.”
The scans indicated, too, that Mom had extra protein, called amyloid, built-up within the artery walls (blood vessels) of her brain, which can cause them to weaken. Amyloid angiopathy, as Mom’s condition was called, can be hereditary and is not associated with high blood pressure (hypertension) which most hemorrhagic strokes are.
Some studies suggest that aluminum, used in foil, some vaccinations, food, its’ containers, shampoos, soaps, make-up, deodorants, and certain prescribed and over the counter medicine such as antacids, can cause an increase of amyloid in the body, particularly the brain. MSG also poses a risk factor for amyloid build-up. Amyloid is found in patients brains who have suffered “diseases” such as Alzheimer’s, Lou Gerhig’s, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, etc.
About noontime on Tuesday, May 19, my mother, age 76, received the Over 65 Shingles Vaccination. By five o’clock, while she and my father were at a neighbor’s house, Mom began to feel nauseous. They left the party for home where Mom’s symptoms went downhill. By @2 a.m. the early morning of May 20th, she and Dad were in an ambulance headed to Upstate.
At Upstate, leaning over the ICU metal bed, I held Mom’s hand, looked at her closed eyes, then whispered in her ear with sternness, “Don’t you go anywhere, Mom. Be strong and hold on. This is not your time.”
Watching Mom fight for her life didn’t seem fair. She’d been herself 24 hours before, driven to and from her appointment, had lunch at Panera Bread, grocery shopped, and dressed for an evening out. Mom had always taken care of herself. She ate healthy, was not overweight, didn’t smoke or drink, walked, kept busy with housework, errands, family and friends. She was calm, always cheerful. Both her grandmothers’ – my great grandmothers – lived to be 98 and 95. I remember each well.
Before long, standing in the hall outside the ICU room, the neurosurgeons introduced the idea of surgery to relieve the pressure in Mom’s brain. A handsome, young, dark haired neurosurgeon who didn’t look much older than the college students walking around campus, explained the procedure, concluding, “There’s risk but it might help save your mother.”
Crossing my arms in front of me, I asked, “Who would perform it?” praying the answer would not be him.
Shouldn’t he be in a classroom, or going to Prom?
With confidence, he said, “Me.”
Dad signed the paperwork. The neurosurgeon performed the surgery. We waited.
Mom survived the procedure.
Over several days, into Memorial Day weekend, as the pressure relieved, Mom became more awake, her eyes opened, and though we couldn’t tell yet how much of or how her sight was affected, it wasn’t long before she wanted coffee, held her mug to drink from it, and began eating, with our help.
And the young neurosurgeon became my hero.
Though things were looking up, privately in the hallways and family conference rooms, my Dad, brothers, and myself were warned by doctors, nurses and therapists that Mom could suffer another stroke, and if so, most probably within the first year. They said Mom was at risk of falling due to poorer eyesight and some connection. They told us that Mom shouldn’t be left alone and that we may need to plan for the future in regards to where she, and Dad would live, etc.
But Mom was with us. We were lucky. And if my mother – Ann Livingston Tracy Burrows – was upset with her situation or afraid, and I imagine that at times she most certainly was both, she didn’t show it. And she never once complained.
Mom finally moved out of ICU for Upstate Rehab on the second floor. There, she worked hard, and rested. Rest was just as important as her therapies. Her brain had been seriously injured and it and she needed times of quiet, darkness, and recovery.
With good therapies, resilience, optimism, and hard work, Mom made great progress. Per doctors’ and therapists’ instructions to work the damaged lower left quadrant which Mom could not see out of, we frequently reminded her, “look left, Mom.”
It wasn’t long before Mom sat in a chair, took the spoon from us and as she practiced walking, freed our hand from around her belted waist. “I can do it,” she said, reminding me of her father, my grandfather, who, almost three decades earlier, suffered similar type strokes and also fought with determination.
He taught me that the surname Tracy means “fighter” and Mom proved she was a Tracy, fighting with 110% effort and grace. In her room, Mom practiced things that were once easy for her which were not anymore, such as dressing, tying her shoes, walking, and using the bathroom in all aspects, such as looking for the soap to wash her hands with, ‘looking left’ for the paper towel rack on the wall, figuring out how to pull it down, drying her hands, brushing her teeth, etc. all while we or the nurses were by her side.
Outside in the halls, Mom practiced walking further. We did laps around the square hall, dodging obstacles, and passing by the nurses’ station, pointing out things such as flower arrangements or candy dishes on the counter. For the first couple of weeks, Mom went to the therapy room by wheelchair, but later by walking.
There, in therapy, she picked up brightly colored cones from the floor in front of her (mainly placed on her left side), practiced ascending and descending stairs, writing her name, playing games, matching items, all while we and the therapists watched and hoped for progress. Sometimes there wasn’t and it could be discouraging. It was difficult, especially for Dad, to watch Mom struggle. But overall, in time, Mom made great progress. We encouraged her and stayed by her side, and let go when we needed to. Mom did not like being babied or to feel different.
One evening before I left to head back to Mom and Dad’s house for the evening, Mom could, for the first time, see enough of the faces on the television to make out that what was playing was an old movie, the name of which she recalled with ease, and also seemed interested in watching. I was thrilled. It felt like a big step forward and a reason to hope that things would keep improving. The swelling was still decreasing.
And for quite some time, although Mom, due to sight, some connection and short term memory deficits, left every bit of food on the left side of her plate straight down the middle claiming to have eaten it all, Mom moved forward in leaps and bounds from the point when she’d arrived at Upstate.
Mom’s doctors kept repeating, “Ann is a miracle.”
JUNE 18, 2009
About a month after Mom’s stroke occurred, early one evening, back at home in Massachusetts, my cell rang.
My brother John’s name flashed across the phone. I knew that he was with Mom at Upstate. We were all looking forward to the next day. After 28 days in the hospital and its’ rehab, Mom was to leave for St. Camillus, a rehabilitation facility on the west side of Syracuse. The idea and hope was that Mom would spend a few weeks or more there in therapy with the next step, hopefully, being home. The following day was also the last day of school for our three sons, then ages 12, 10, and 6.
I answered the ring. “Hi John.”
“Hey, Sarah, so, I’m sitting here next to Mom. She’s okay, but,” he said, his voice starting to crack, “she had another stroke.”
Then, he cried.
I’d never heard John cry.
Mom, as John explained after, had been ‘tucked in’ for the night. Her bag was packed for the next day. Mom was to leave the hospital to go to the next step of rehab at St. Camillus. Dad and John would follow the ambulance, which would transport Mom there. John was sitting right next to Mom when the stroke occurred. [DAD, WERE YOU THERE AS WELL, OR HAD YOU GONE BACK TO MANLIUS BY THEN?]
The second bleed, so soon after the first, seemed like a punch in the stomach. Mom had worked so hard to get to where she was. We all had.
Scans showed that like the first, the location of this bleed, like the first, affected the lower left quadrant of Mom’s brain but also the lower center. So in addition to the lower left quadrant blindness, Mom now lost her lower centerline of vision, posing an even higher risk for falls.
The stroke, fortunately, didn’t hold Mom back too long in the hospital, a couple weeks as I remember. It was then on to St. Camillus rehab, which also serves as a nursing home, where her father had been years before. There, Mom started therapies with a new group of therapists and she and Dad were, for the first time in 39 summers, missing the season at their beloved Adirondack camp on Big Moose Lake.
Though the situation was still difficult at St. Camillus, the room, to me, felt somewhat homier than Upstate. There were no railings on the bed frame and Dad and we could take Mom in the wheelchair outside, where she could sit and/or walk beside the gardens on nice days.
Mom, as always, remained positive and worked hard. Doctors warned us that, understandably, strokes cause patients to be more emotional. We witnessed that at times with Mom, but not often. In regards to this, Dad of course would know better, as husband and wife, they shared the most intimate moments of both triumph and hardships. Dad in general was a great supporter of Mom. His love and dedication was clearly evident. He was there each day for Mom, all day. There was not one in the hospital or St. Camillus Rehab that he missed. Bill, John and I would often say to him, “why don’t you stay home today, Dad, take a break. We can be with Mom. Go for a walk, do deskwork, run errands. Go to camp.” Though Dad went to camp one day, he did not stay overnight, and never missed a day at St. Camillus, or the hospital. He was right beside the woman he had been since they first met in high school, and by doing so, took great care of Mom and set a great example for us.
Finally, in August, Mom left St. Camillus for home. Dad took her and on the way, drove by a cemetery where their close friend had recently been buried – the funeral of which Mom and Dad could not attend.
For months Mom had outpatient therapy sessions – for physical, speech and vision – several days per week at Upstate, about thirty minutes from home, and a good distance from the parking garage.
Mom would suffer the loss of the lower left and center quadrant sight deficits, in the way, for instance, of often not being able to notice someone standing to her left, or seeing a hand that someone put out for her to shake. Walking in general and following direction was more difficult, but this as well as the above, improved with time. In addition, noise and brightness of lights bothered Mom, typical post symptoms for stroke sufferers. Prior to Mom’s stroke, she and Dad had been dedicated fans of Syracuse University basketball games at the Carrier Dome each season and after Mom’s stroke continued to attend [Dad: did you attend in the 2010 season? I have forgotten] but the loud clapping and cheering bothered her as well as the bright lights. A baseball hat helped and Mom, ever an Orange cheerleader, in time, managed the noise and cheered right along.
Mom would not drive again except practicing in the neighborhood with Dad beside her in the passenger seat. I think, for some time, losing that independence was difficult on Mom but she grew to accept it. She didn’t have a choice.
There was, always, for Mom, Dad and us the serious concern and worry about the possibility of another stroke occurring. But overall, with time, Mom enjoyed life again, living gracefully as she always had, never protesting the deficits she fought daily.
I recall the first time I saw Mom after her recent return home. She had woken from a nap upstairs. It was a warm late summer day and after checking on her several times to find her still asleep, I sat on the deck off the kitchen to enjoy the weather, with the windows upstairs and down open, waiting for her to wake. Without me hearing, Mom got up, put her shoes on, tied them, walked downstairs over the yellow duct tape warning the edges, and into the kitchen.
When I heard her footsteps and felt anxious whether or not she was okay, I rushed in from the deck to find her with an apple in her hand, ready to take a bite.
“Oh hi, Sarah,” Mom said nonchalantly.
And that’s how Mom ‘rolled’ the next seven years…
NOVEMBER 22, 2016
My cell phone rang late Tuesday morning two days before Thanksgiving.
It was a warm, beautiful fall day. I was parked at a meter on Main Street in the fishing village of Gloucester, Massachusetts. Our oldest son, Ryan, now 21 and a junior in college, was in the passenger seat beside me. He had recently arrived home for break and we were about to go to lunch to celebrate.
My phone was between us, in the console. I picked it up.
DAD it read.
Our families were planning to meet in Connecticut at John’s house to celebrate Thanksgiving. My parents were planning to leave the next day, on Wednesday, for John’s. Dad still rarely called me from his cell, usually using their landline, only the cell while driving to the lake, which I knew they were not doing now. Suddenly all those years in-between stroke calls came rushing back, seeming like the first call on May 20, 2009 was yesterday.
I looked at Ryan and said, “It’s Grandpa.”
Ryan read my worried expression and life, again, took a left turn, and this time, sharper.
This third ‘stroke phone call’ I received, in many ways, seemed as shocking as the first. Over the past seven years, we’d gotten used to a new normal. The ‘left turn’ had straightened out, so to speak. By November 2009 Mom had made it past the six month risk mark, then, on May 19, 2010, the one year anniversary, and so on. For a long time, ‘Mom had eaten everything on both sides of her plate,’ and life was good.
Maybe it’ll never happen again, I prayed.
Dad worried – “knew” – it would.
During the phone call, which I had on speaker, Ryan and I could hear Mom speak, which comforted me. Before I heard her voice, I envisioned her like before, lying in bed on life support. However, what we learned next from Mom and Dad was that Mom couldn’t see – anything.
Bill, John, and I went into “action.” Bill offered to go to the hospital first. John and I would then take turns. We figured, like previously, we would need to spread out our time and energy, both at hospital and at home.
Bill left for Syracuse right away, however, due to the dumping of two feet of snow in the area, was delayed overnight, @sixty miles from Upstate. When he arrived at the hospital early the next morning, the day before Thanksgiving, his heart sank when he discovered a sign taped on Mom’s Upstate ICU door. He texted a photo of it to us – it read, “Legally Blind.”
Before Bill arrived, Dad spent over twelve hours at the hospital with Mom. A neighbor across the street from my parents home, whose husband had rushed to the house that morning when the ambulance arrived, picked Dad up at @10:00 p.m. in the snowstorm. We are forever grateful for the couple’s help and thoughtfulness of those like them who have shown love and support over the years.
During the next two weeks, which Mom spent in the hospital, Bill, John and I were with Mom and Dad. In ICU, therapies of all types began, like in 2009. As the swelling in Mom’s brain subsided, enough sight returned that she could see enough to function to take care of herself, though she was still “legally blind,” and would remain so.
Once Mom came home from the hospital, I stayed with my parents for @two weeks, helping out however I could. The morning after arriving home, Mom sat at the kitchen table at 8 a.m. and my son, Alex, a high school senior, called. I expected the call. I put him on speaker so Mom could hear and he delivered the news that he had just learned that he’d been accepted early decision to the college of his choice. This added a bright spot during a dark event.
Before I left my parents’ on December 15 I decorated their windows with battery operated candles and placed wrapped Christmas presents on their fireplace hearth. They unfortunately wouldn’t be traveling to any of our homes’ that year. As I was getting ready to go, Mom put her jacket on, the green one she picked out when we all traveled to Colorado a few years before for John’s 50th birthday, and waved goodbye from the driveway, like she always did, before heading back in to rest.
Arriving home north of Boston again, I walked in the front door and set down my bags. Our youngest son, Andrew, almost 14, was glad to see me. He’d worried about his Nana and missed me. Standing in the front hall, I felt as if my legs might give out beneath me. I suddenly realized how tired I was. As the days went on, I regained strength and caught up on things I needed to, but found being six hours away from my parents difficult, worrying about how they were getting along and not being able to help out. There was the concern, too, that another stroke might occur.
During those winter months and early spring, therapists arrived several days a week to the house. That was helpful so that Dad didn’t have to drive Mom the thirty minutes each way to Upstate, as in the past, especially being winter time with bad weather systems often rolling in.
From my perspective – Mom and Dad’s might be different – by spring time, the further we moved away from the stroke occurrence, and the therapies, it seemed Mom and Dad began enjoying a more normal life again. Though Mom very much missed reading books, the newspaper and magazines, she began to listen to books on tape (once we figured the machine out! J), taking walks with Dad and going to the hairdresser again and on errands. Mom and Dad eventually went out to lunch and dinner when Mom felt up to it.
Life was by no means easy for Mom, though she’d never tell you that. In reality, she and Dad were dealing with her stroke repercussions, particularly this last one, which took much more sight than the other two and accumulated on to the others.
There were scares, too, such as the time she felt faint in the middle of the night and Dad called an ambulance thinking it was another stroke, but thankfully it was not. And the time they were driving to the lake for a weekend and Mom told Dad she didn’t feel well and as soon as Dad could, he pulled over.
For them, and us, the concern of another stroke occurring and the possibility of it happening far from home or a hospital made their world smaller. But once again, the further away Mom got from her stroke, we all breathed a bit easier. At six months post stroke, Mom attended Alex’s high school graduation and soon after enjoyed the 2017 summer at her beloved camp with Dad, surrounded by family, grandchildren, and friends.
That summer, Mom was walking, often alone, a distance of almost two miles on the Crag Point Road, admiring the daisies beside it in the tall grass, waving hello to those walking, running, or driving by, many of those who knew and loved her. Although Mom was dealing with many sight and connection deficits most did not see or understand, she and Dad enjoyed the summer and fall weekends together, closing up camp with my brothers on a beautiful, warm Columbus Day.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 2018
I put my car in park in the lot at the Beverly, Massachusetts YMCA, where I planned to head in to swim laps. The locker room would be cold. That thought and the predicted Nor’Easter the next day made me stall, as well as the Thomas Rhett song playing on 101.7 The Bull radio.
I turned the heater up and took a sip of coffee from my travel mug, placing it back in the cup holder. Deciding to send a text, I grabbed my purse off the passenger seat and dug for my phone. Alex, our middle son, was on day three of winter break, skiing out west with friends. I typed a message to the hosting parents: thank you…
My cell rang, full volume.
DAD flashed across the screen.
The ring sounded a second time. I prayed that my parents’ landline was out due to weather. With the tip of my index finger, I slid the arrow across the bottom, opening the phone.
“Hi, Dad,” I answered, almost like a question, holding my breath.
“Sarah,” Dad said, his voice calm but quick. “Mom and I are at Upstate.”
My stomach knotted.
“Mom’s had another stroke,” Dad said. “The doctor thinks you and the boys need to get here.”
My heart sunk and our lives will never be the same.
Nine days before – the last weekend of January – I’d visited my parents. It was on a whim. They’d spent Christmas with us just a month before (and we celebrated Mom’s 85th in October and Thanksgiving in Connecticut) but when last minute Pete and Andrew were invited to ski in Maine with Andrew’s friend and father, I took the opportunity see Mom and Dad.
Mom and I walked each day. The weather was nice, like spring. We looked at photo albums Mom had created and/or was given years before. It was one of her favorite pastimes, looking at family photographs, particularly those of her grandchildren. I read Mom short stories her grandmother had written about growing up in Rome, Georgia. Mom and I visited a local woman abolitionist house museum. I noticed Mom grew more tired than usual, thinking it was most likely due to her sight depravations and all that we were taking in. Before I left Monday we had lunch with close family friend, Sue Beeching, and her daughters, and I asked a man to take our photograph. It is the last photograph that I have of Mom before her stroke on February 6. And she looked great – beautiful and happy.
When I was leaving my parents’ house that afternoon, Mom waved enthusiastically with both hands from the driveway like she always did, and I beeped the horn as I pulled out, like I always did. Mom kept waving until I’d driven up and over the hill until I couldn’t see her anymore.
I was and am grateful for those last few ‘normal’ days with my parents, for the stroke soon to happen would cause things never to be the same.
Early the morning of February 6, Mom had been at the ophthalmologist’s office. An assistant dilated her eyes. Just after, in a different room with Dad now sitting beside her on a bench, Mom slumped left, into Dad. She didn’t answer his questions. When he felt Mom’s hand he found it to be cold and clammy and knew immediately what was happening.
An ambulance took Mom to UpState. Dad followed in his car. This fourth stroke/bleed occurred in the front of Mom’s brain rather than the back like the previous three, occuring in the left frontal quadrant which affected the right frontal quadrant, robbing Mom’s ability to speak, move the right side of her body, and swallow successfully. It did not, however, steal Mom’s ability to hear or comprehend.
Sadly, within hours, doctors predicted Mom would not survive, and that she would live only one-seven days.
Lying in bed, leaning toward the left, Mom moved her left side a bit. Repeatedly, she felt her ring finger for her engagement ring and wedding band, which Dad had taken home, as she was not allowed to have jewelry on in the hospital, which he explained to her. She also ran her left fingers through her hair, above her left ear, as if straightening it. It was always a habit of Moms’, especially if something was bothering her. I saw this as her frustration, and/or her trying to “figure” things out.
The doctors asked her to raise her left arm. Mom did.
“Higher,” they said.
And she did.
They asked Mom to raise her left foot. She did. Next, they asked her to raise her leg, which she did, with her knee at a ninety-degree angle. They then asked her the same of her right side, knowing that most likely she could not lift or move them, and she couldn’t.
Later, the nurses helped Mom sit up, to the edge of the bed. They asked if she could stand. She could not and immediately slumped left without them holding her. It was difficult to watch. Eleven days before Mom and I had walked the road side by side.
One of the two nurses left the room, saying she’d be right back. With her came a large banana looking seat machine wheeling behind her.
“What’s this?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Oh, this is great,” one of the nurses answered, almost giddy. “It’s a lift for patients from their bed to the chair,” she answered. “Every room will soon be getting one.”
Well, when I saw Mom’s expression of both surprise and fear as she was ‘lifted’ from the bed into the air in the ‘sling’ over to the chair, I didn’t think it was so wonderful, at all.
Not long after, a hospital tech came in and, with a tube of sticky gel like substance, placed electrodes all over Mom’s head. The gel stuck in her beautiful, natural dark waves. I remembered this procedure done back in 2009.
After the nodes were applied and Mom looked wired for a journey to outer space, he switched on a bright light he’d brought, and shined it right on Mom’s face. Mom’s eyes squinted and she moved her head away from the light.
He explained he would watch his computer screen for her brain activity.
Why are we putting Mom through this?
I wanted him to stop.
He wiped some of the gunk from Mom’s hair with a warm, wet hand towel but after he’d left, I continued, then brushed Mom’s hair, and covered her up higher with the blanket. Mom didn’t like to be cold and I figured with wet hair and only in her hospital gown she might be.
After my Dad and brothers went home for dinner and the night, a woman came in the room, introducing herself to me as a therapist.
“Ann,” she said in a warm voice to my mother, placing her hand on Mom’s arm and looking in her eyes, “how are you doing today?”
My mother didn’t answer, but did look in her direction, and I felt confident she knew what the woman said.
Good, Mom, I thought.
“Ann,” she repeated, “I’m going to place a box of tissues on the table next to you. Can you reach for them? The box is on your left, Ann.”
Mom sat forward a bit in the chair and managed to turn left. And eventually, Mom reached for the box.
I felt encouraged by this and when the woman left and Mom was back in the bed (by the banana sling), I said goodnight.
“You did great, Mom,” I told her, and reminded her as her nurse had just done, “Don’t pull out your oxygen tube from your nose tonight, like you did last night.” I placed the mits’, which her nurse had left, over her hands, explaining why. “As uncomfortable as the tube must be, if you pull it out, they will have to put a tube down your throat, so leave it be.”
I kissed her goodnight and told her again how proud I was of her and how much I loved her. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning,” I said, and turned the lights off and closed the door, looking at Mom through the pane one more time before I left.
That night, I went back to my parents home encouraged. Seeing Mom sitting in a chair, understanding directions, and reaching for the tissue box, I couldn’t help but think Mom could prove the doctors wrong again and survive. After all, as they had said in 2009 and 2016, Mom was a “miracle.”
She’s a fighter!
Back in Manlius, we spoke of the possibility that with full time care, Mom might live with full time assistance, where Dad could visit or get his own apartment, or perhaps even have in-home care at the house. But, sadly, the next morning when we arrived back to the hospital, Mom was less awake. The nurse said that Mom had a tough night, and yes, pulled out her oxygen, again. That at least made me smile.
Mom is definitely a fighter.
From this point on, it was difficult for Mom to keep her eyes open for long, and she wasn’t lifting her arm or leg as high. It was discouraging, and sad to say the least. She did continue to fuss over the absence of her wedding rings and run her fingers through her hair.
By Friday, three days after arriving to the hospital, Mom’s condition was not moving in the right direction. It was worsening. The doctors and we would, of course, have done anything to save Mom, however, as they explained, that had probably become not possible, and even if she were to survive, her prognosis for a life worth living was not to be.
The head of Palliative Care, a woman named Jennifer, introduced herself to us in Mom’s room and suggested we meet in a conference room. In the small room, about 8×8 feet, Dad, my brothers and I sat in chairs in a u shape against three walls, with five feet at most across from each other. Suddenly, sitting there with just Dad and my brothers, it dawned on me that moving forward, this would be reality. I was really losing Mom. In any family “meetings,” except at times of her other strokes, Mom had always been there, in body and voice. I was suddenly now the only female in my original family. There was so much love and support surrounding me, yet I still had an overwhelming sense of sadness and loneliness from the realization that things for me – all of us, especially Dad – would never be the same without Mom.
A few minutes into the meeting, there was a light knock at the door, and Alison, my niece, just out of class at nearby Syracuse University Law School, joined us, and we were all glad she did. [WAS SARA THERE TOO?]
Jennifer led us through the topic of what we could consider for Mom moving forward, such as stopping nutrition, simultaneously starting morphine and ‘Comfort Care.’ We talked about options of hospice at home or care at a hospice house. Jennifer explained that since Mom’s time before passing would be short and her condition poor, it was probably not an option to move her. We did consider the options of hospice outside the hospital but didn’t see any point in putting Mom through any more duress by moving her.
On Sunday morning, February 11, five days after Mom was admitted to the hospital, we made the very difficult decision but what we thought the best for Mom – to stop nourishment. Over the next four nights and five days, and the ones previous since Tuesday when the stroke occurred, our family was together, whether bedside or on the phone, in telling Mom how much she meant to us, and how much she was loved. For that time, as very difficult as it was on Mom and us, I am grateful. It granted us a chance to say what we wanted and to say goodbye, and vice versa.
On Saturday afternoon when our youngest son, Andrew, age 15, arrived to the hospital on Saturday and spoke to his Nana. Though her eyes were closed and she was unable to move, she answered him. “AAwwww,” Mom said, which told Andrew she absolutely heard him and understood, and that she loved him just like she always did.
From the point we stopped the IV feeding, I stayed at the hospital by Mom’s side each night. Doctors explained that once nourishment was stopped and morphine administered, Mom would become less responsive. That was true, however, I found Mom was able to hear and comprehend, and feel. There were times when I wiped tears from the corner of her eyes, others when she was uncomfortable and moaned to tell us to tell us so, and I would make sure she received more medicine relief.
The first night – Sunday – shortly after Dad, John, and Sara left the hospital at 6 p.m. and arrived back at the house, Mom’s heart rate was up and the on call doctor thought Mom would pass soon. He suggested that they head back, which they did. Alison, who had been by her Nana’s side most of the week, ran over too. We all stayed the night, and my brother Bill, just back to New Jersey that evening, was on cell phone speaker for twelve straight hours. He was right there with us.
Mom, however, did not pass that night as the doctor thought she would. And though, as expected, Mom became less responsive in the days following, she still heard and understood us. Dad sat beside Mom, as he had in the previous days, often speaking to her and always holding her hand, telling her how much he loved her. He gave her his Valentine’s Day card several days early.
Our minister, Dick McCaughey, from the lake visited and after conversing with us, gathered us around her bed and with cell phone speaker on so family could partake, he gave a beautiful prayer.
During the last five nights of my mother’s life, I held her. When we didn’t sleep, I talked and sang to her, stroked her hair, and played Alison Krause music softly on my phone. I walked Mom through every house she’d lived in, spoke the name of each of our fourteen family members and something about each of us, described the hummingbirds she loved to feed and watch buzz to the red feeder outside her camp window, the red geraniums at the boathouse windowsill. When Mom ran a fever I placed cool wash clothes on her forehead, massaged her body with lotion, combed and curled her hair, and in general, comforted her anyway I could. We all did.
At about 8 p.m. on Wednesday, February 14 – Valentine’s Day – before leaving the hospital, Dad kissed Mom goodnight, knowing very well it might be the last time. She kissed him back. It reminded of when I was a child how each morning and evening before Dad left for work and when he arrived home, he kissed Mom. And that was a beautiful thing.
Holding Mom in the hospital bed the last night of her life, knowing the end was near, I felt a mixture of feelings – sad, scared, peaceful, and grateful. Strangely, I think it was, for both Mom and me, the best night’s sleep of the last five. The nurses’ did not interrupt us as frequently as in previous nights. Mom’s body fell to the left, into me, and laying on my right side with my back against the rails, I wrapped my arms about her, repeatedly whispering to her how beautiful and sweet she was, stroking her hair.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 2018
When I woke in the early hours of the dawn, I knew Mom’s passing was fast approaching. Her chest was becoming harder, breaths shorter and quicker with intervals up to ten seconds a part. She fluctuated between hot and cold. I held her tight, speaking of all the beautiful things I could think of that I knew that she had seen and experienced and enjoyed in her life, hoping that it was a comfort and perhaps transporting her there.
I repeated how much we all loved her, what a wonderful daughter, mother, wife, and grandmother she had been, how very much we were all going to miss her, that a day would not go by that I did not think of or miss her. I assured her that everything was going to be okay, that we would take good care of Dad, that she would soon get to see her parents, brothers Jim and John, and grandparents again – all the family and friends who have gone before – and that she would watch over us until one day when she greets us in Heaven.
As I lay next to Mom, the sky outside the hospital window, which looked out on the Syracuse University campus hill and clock tower of neighboring Crouse Hospital, was a beautiful pink and blue hue. I spoke to Mom of the beauty of that dawn, explaining what it looked like.
I whispered in her ear, “it’s beautiful, Mom, just like you.”
As hard as it was, I told Mom it was okay to go, that it was time. I said she would ‘fly,’ just like her youngest brother Johnny had loved to. I whispered that he was waiting for her just outside the window and that he’d guide her to God, that she would be well taken care of.
“Mom, we love you. It’s okay,” I told her. “Go.”
Mom did, and to me, by her expression, something incredible was waiting for her.
A Sweet Mother’s Tribute 💕
In thinking of writing a Celebration of Life tribute for my mother, Ann Livingston Tracy Burrows, I asked myself, “Where should I begin?” It dawned on me that the answer to that is simple – with the word ‘beautiful.’
My mother was patient to the core. She was a good listener. Mom never interrupted. You see – to my mother – it was never about her. I believe one of my mother’s highest qualities was her unselfishness and perhaps the most important lesson she taught us. Mom would always ask about you, with cheerfulness, graciousness, and sincerity in her voice, a radiant smile, a twinkle in her beautiful brown, green speckled eyes, and a good sense of humor.
Mom’s patience was visible daily. In the way she spoke, moved, and interacted. If she was ever ‘biting her lip,’ trying to hold something back, she never showed it. Mom also exhibited tolerance. Mom did not judge. She was open and accepting of others – their ideas, differences, and feelings – and in that way, Mom was kind, her heart good. Mom never had a bad word to say about anybody.
Along with being patient and tolerant, Mom was calm. She did not rush. Mom’s relaxed character was a gift. It was special, and it made being around and spending time with Mom easy, and enjoyable. Mom did not get flustered. She didn’t have to work at being gentle. Mom did not need to practice ‘yoga’ to relax – she was naturally peaceful. In fact, her seven grandchildren attest they never saw or heard their Nana lose her cool. Nor did I.
Mom was ‘perfect’ for family. From a baby until the day she died. Mom was the oldest of three children, the only girl. Raised in Sedgwick Farm on Dewitt Street, Mom was big sister to two brothers, Jim, and “Johnny” as the youngest was lovingly called. Mom was, in many ways, a mother figure to them. She was caring. I know this from stories told by family and friends to the black and white photographs that speak color to her sweetness – from the gentle placement of her hand on a back, kneeling to fix a skinned knee, to the careful trimming of fingernails while Johnny fidgeted because he’d rather run outside to play.
Mom’s childhood was happy. She spent time on Skaneateles Lake where her grandfather and uncle had cottages. Mom had many cousins, aunts, and uncles who she enjoyed spending time with and there were many Tracy family reunions where there was always a good tennis match played, great food and laughter.
At home in Sedgwick Farm, Mom’s best friend, Mary Sawyer, and many of her brothers’ friends often gathered at their home because my grandparents, Loretta and John Tracy, were welcoming and as one of Jim and Johnny’s close friend, Peter White, quoted, “such good people to be around.” In general, Mom’s childhood was preparing her for life ahead.
Dad began pursuing Mom when she was about to enter her sophomore year at Nottingham High School and Dad entering his senior year there. He was two years plus older than Mom. During Dad’s college years at Hobart, Mom frequently visited him. Dad recalls that his fraternity brothers, who knew and loved Mom and were well aware of the age difference, liked to kid him about ‘robbing the cradle.’
The fraternity crowned Mom their ‘Winter ‘Dream Girl’ Queen’ and in a newspaper article announcing that is a photograph of Mom in her elegant dress holding a spray of flowers, looking beautiful yet modest. Just one of the many examples of the beautiful part of Mom – she never boasted and was always gracious.
After graduating from Syracuse University with a B.A. in Home Economics, Mom taught school in Syracuse and married Dad in 1955, after Dad graduated Syracuse University Law School. After Dad’s training in the Army, they lived in Ft. Bragg, North Carolina where Dad was stationed during the Korean War. Mom taught school there, too, and they enjoyed their time. Moving back to Syracuse, Mom and Dad settled into a house in DeWitt and were pleased when their first child, Bill Jr., arrived. ‘Life was good.’
As I mentioned, Mom’s childhood had readied her for the future, but as most of us know, life is not always perfect, and nothing could have prepared Mom, her brother, Jim, or their parents, for the shock and heartache when Johnny, a First Lieutenant in the United States Air Force, co-piloting a regular Strategic Air Command mission back from Russia during the Cold War, was killed, along with six other men, when their plane exploded February 9, 1962. Johnny’s daughter, Dawn, named so because it was her father’s favorite time of day to fly, was seven months old. Mom, nine months pregnant and ironing Dad’s shirts in the kitchen, overheard the radio report about the accident. My brother, John, was born four weeks later.
And so, Mom had to be strong, even when it was difficult to be. And she was. Mom and Dad moved to Sedgwick Farm when Dad took a position with the city’s law department. They bought a home on Farmer Street, just around the corner from where Mom grew up, and where her father still lived. Mom was a wonderful mother to us three kids. She held us close, let us go, rocked us on the hall bench when we cried, and wiped our tears. When we were outside playing, Dad whistled for us, letting us know that it was time to get home for dinner. We had nice family meals around the table, and then Mom tucked us in at night so that we could hardly move.
“Sleep tight,” she’d say, and kiss us on the forehead.
Each morning Mom made our school lunches, lining the brown bags up on the counter for us to grab on our way out the door. We had fun as a family. We skied at Toggenburg and Labrador Mountains. While Dad, Bill and John skied, Mom and I rode the chairlift together. As I followed Mom down the hill, I thought she was a beautiful skier, gracefully gliding back and forth, in her aqua colored ski jacket, with the soft fur around the hood.
We visited our grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins’, and enjoyed wonderful holiday meals together that Mom, my paternal grandmother, and aunt prepared. Our home life was full of love, and yet of course, at times as in any family, a bit chaotic. That made it fun, too. I recall when I was in first grade Mom was making dinner, I arguing with my brothers, and our Golden Retriever puppy, Taffy, chewing the rungs of our new Stickley kitchen chairs when something started boiling over on the stove. Mom ended up in tears. The scene was one that Mom and I laughed about in recent years.
As a family, we went to ‘camp,’ ever Mom’s favorite place to be. Dad had worked for a lawyer named Ross Paltz, who introduced Mom and Dad to Crag Point on Big Moose Lake, where they built their camp in 1971. At Dad’s urging, they would open camp as soon as possible, closing late in the fall. Mom loved the peacefulness of the woods, sitting with a cup of coffee watching the sunrise over South Bay, the boats going by, hearing the loons sing, family surrounding her, and spending time with the community she loved so dearly. We spent many weekends, holidays, and each summer at Big Moose, and Mom and Dad enjoyed it together the past 47 years. They could often be found together each afternoon on the dock.
Mom loved the Big Moose Community Chapel and its’ Sunday services, helping out at the annual bazaar. She loved the changing seasons, the lake, the ferns, the trees, the ground cover, white daisies along the roads she walked, hummingbirds diving for food at her living room window, the rocks lining the path to the boathouse, red geraniums she planted and watered, squirrels, chipmunks, Black Bears – but from a distance – a frequent trip around the lake in their party barge, admiring the mountains and waving to those on their dock and at their camp, dinner at the BMI or Duffy’s at The Glenmore, and in particular, her many friends.
Mom kept busy with what she enjoyed, especially spending time with Dad, and her grandchildren, whom she loved holding and taking care of as babies. Mom also enjoyed reading, walking, music, and volunteering – whether driving and delivering for Meals on Wheels, helping out at the Big Moose Community Chapel, or serving on boards in Syracuse. Besides being a wonderful wife and mother, Mom was an incredible daughter-in-law, and daughter. She took good care of her father, who late in life suffered similar type strokes she herself would the last nine years of her own life. Mom’s caring hands and unwavering devotion to Grandpa Tracy taught me well in loving and caring for him, and therefore recently for her.
On my birthday each year, Dad reminds me that I was the “frosting on the cake,” because after two boys he and Mom had hoped for a girl. I have, however, always thought that in our family, Mom was the important, sweetest ingredient. The richest part of us all, and what makes our family what it is – special. We are now in unchartered territory – a new dawn – and we must be strong, like Mom. It will not be easy without her and we will need to remember the beautiful lessons Mom taught us – Be patient, kind, loving, unselfish, uncomplaining, forgiving, a good listener, tolerant, joyful, and gracious.
In closing, on February 6 Mom suffered another stroke – her fourth in almost nine years – that she could not recover from, though she fought to. In other times, Mom was able to regain as much as she could during rehabilitation, perseverance, and hard work. Mom always accepted her injuries with grace, while enjoying each and every day, reminding Dad to do the same. Dad, our entire family and others supported Mom after each stroke and did again this time, trying to do everything in Mom’s best interests.
During the ten days that Mom was hospitalized she thankfully could hear and comprehend so that we could tell her how much we loved her. We held her hand, gathered around her bed, and stayed overnight. For those of us who could not be with her in person, we spoke our love to her by cellphone. We were as a family ‘in it together.’ Dad told Mom how much he loved her, that she was his best friend, partner and companion – for seventy years – and how much he will miss her. The last day we as a family spent together with Mom was Valentine’s Day, and though it was in the hospital, it was surrounded by love. Dad read her his Valentine’s Day card and he gave me the one they had together picked out for me.
On Thursday morning, February 15th, as the rays of rising sun streamed onto Mom’s face through the window overlooking the university she graduated from and the city she always loved and lived in, the sky turned a magnificent pink. I lay beside Mom holding her tight as I’d done the previous four nights – playing soft music, walking through her life, telling her how much we love her and that we know she loves us – when her breathing told me the end was near.
I whispered in Mom’s ear how beautiful the dawn was, just like her.
“It’s okay to go, Mom,” I said, as hard it was to say. “You’ll be with your brothers and parents again, and everyone you loved, and God. We will be okay and take good care of Dad. And one day, Mom, you’ll greet us all in Heaven.”
Mom, thank you for being the beautiful, special woman you were. As your brother, Jim, liked to say, “you were perfect.” We love you so very much and will miss you always. You made our world beautiful. We are and will be better because of you. Love, Sarah
Alison Burrows 02/25/18
To Our Nana, Love the Grandkids
I speak for all the grand kids when I say that we all feel so lucky to have grown up with grandparents who are so involved in our lives. I was a teenager when I realized not everyone spent every summer with the whole family – and I didn’t fully appreciate how special that time was until later in my life.
All the grandkids remember summers at Big Moose Lake when we were little and all stayed at Nana and Grandpa’s camp together. Parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins – golden retrievers. It was chaos. We screamed, we cried, we played, we fought, we laughed. And through it all, I can’t remember a single time when Nana lost her patience.
When we got older, our family’s moved out of the Nana and Grandpa’s camp to their own for the summer. But we knew we could always stop by to fish off the dock with Grandpa and eat lunch with Nana. Nana would make us sandwiches with fig newtons or chocolate covered graham crackers for dessert. She would sit with us and ask all about whatever we happened to be doing at the time – lunch with Nana was always about us, never about her.
Even when Nana had her stroke nine years ago and fought through months of physical therapy – we would ask how she was doing, knowing it must be an incredibly difficult, frustrating, and painful process. But she always answered “oh, just fine” and then asked us about school.
A few years later, after the whole family vacationed together in Colorado, a huge snow storm came through the day Nana, Grandpa, Jay and my parents were supposed to fly home. Everyone was so frustrated – How could this snow storm get in the way of our lives! But not Nana. She never complained once and instead enjoyed each moment of what turned out to be a memorable three extra vacation days with the family.
Nana evoked a quiet selflessness, finding joy in others happiness. She took each moment as it came with grace, whether it was good or bad. My only hope is that we can carry on Nana’s legacy with the same grace, patience, and selflessness she so effortlessly embraced in her own life.
My words will never sum up what Nana meant to me and all the grandkids. But I know we are so lucky to have so many wonderful memories to reflect upon, and so many that we can share together. Summers, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and family dinners just because we love spending time together. Those memories will continue to bind our family together and I am forever grateful for that.
Nana, from all the grandkids – we love you so much and we’ll miss you forever. But you’ll never truly leave us. When we drive past the dock and see Grandpa reading in his Adirondack chair, you’ll always be sitting right next to him.
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