So more than four months have passed since I wrote to you (August-September-October-November-and yes, now it is December!). What happened? Life.
It is worth noting here that life, as in my Life, should always be capitalized. And maybe it should be in all caps, because it is BIG. And it is complex - more like a city than a farm, more like a corporation than a small business. And inside the complexity there are categories. I sometimes think of them as silos in a field...very tall and very full. And this fall, everyone of them - each for a different reason - filled up and overflowed and left me with more questions than answers, more work than there was time in which to do it, more obligations than opportunities, and more to do than any one person can possibly accomplish. In other words, it really was a fall - and in many ways, as I think about it, I let myself fall behind on some of the things that matter most. Like you. .
It started with the annual fundraising gala at the Museum. Now it is true that I can plan a small party without too much trouble, but a party with tickets for 250 people, that's another thing all together. We did it - a team of volunteers, my staff, and I, but WOW, it left me tired (and grateful, and pleased, etc. etc. [all those truisms]) and tired. I am not complaining, because I do love the Museum, but I met the tent people at 8 am and left with my team at almost 2 am the next morning after cleaning up the catering tent and breaking down the decorations. Its my job. But, it was a lot of work.
Five days after that, my mother fell and broke her arm - in two places. I was in Atlanta, in a meeting with a potential donor, when my phone started to ping. Three, then four, then five times. When the meeting was over and I checked my texts to find that Kirsten (who is an amazing texter!) had sent me messages...one after another...and one not meant for me at all. Message 1: Your mom fell. Everything is okay. Call me when you can. Message 2: At the hospital now, an ambulance came for her. Message 3: Amanda's mom fell...and then a blow by blow description of when, where, how, etc. (clearly this was not meant for me). Message 4: Please ignore that last message, baby, I was writing to my sister. Message 5: Please call.
So I did, and then I rearranged my flights and headed back to Durham and straight to the hospital. We waited for another five hours - Mom had been there for five hours before I got there - as the doctors took X-rays, then a CAT scan - to make sure there was no concussion and no sign of stroke. Then a specialist was concerned about something compromised in her wrist, something he saw in the X-rays - "She might need surgery" - then an MRI to make sure that there was no deeper damage. By the time I got there her black eye was a true shiner and I noticed that she wasn't really sure how long she had been there, wasn't really tracking that I had been in Atlanta, thought that she could just go home. Can I go home now? And asked me about my day at least five times.
Between the mild concussion and the serious break and the fact that she claimed that she had not tripped over anything, "I just fell - you know, one minute you are standing up and the next minute you are on the floor. It happens to everyone." Between all of this - the doctors determined that she should not be living alone until her arm healed. "If you fall again, Ms. Bradford, you could do serious damage."
And of course, she didn't remember that she had fallen already. Three times in the last six months. So, I agreed to let her and the dog come to stay with us. I agreed is a little more active and directive than I was, actually. In truth the sentence should read: So Mom and Tasha (the dog) moved into our Life. And with them, all the strains you can imagine.
At the same time, the workmen arrived - and over the same seven or eight weeks, we got a new roof, new skylights in the studio, new windows, new gutters, a door and new windows from the dining room to a new deck, the goats came and cleared out the back yard, six pine trees were removed, the goats came again. The front steps were repaired, new posts and railings, and we went to doctor and physical therapy appointments and stopped to get M&Ms every day (one of my mother's secret passions) and I worked full time (although mostly remotely).
Is it Halloween yet? Not quite.
At work: a board meeting and grants and a major publication to complete. A team to manage and a million dollars to raise.
The final weeks with Mom were the hardest. I helped her get her bills under control and we talked endlessly about what "assisted living" actually means. We cleared out and cleaned her house a bit - not enough for my needs, but enough for hers, I guess. We took her car in to be repaired - the brakes were nearly gone and all the fluids were down, then got it inspected and the tags renewed. Carted her back and forth to her part time job. Bought her walker and cane - not that she will use them with any regularity, but the doctor's insist and she says she understands, but then wanders off without either one.
Is it Thanksgiving yet? Almost.
All of this and more work, more grants, more deadlines, major and minor doctors' appointments for Kirsten, the grandchildren on the weekends, another trip to Atlanta, and another to NYC. And Christmas is coming.
It is hard to imagine doing anything more than I have done - but I should have called you. and I should have called others, too. You know, I have a really bad habit of turning inward during hard times. Of focusing down, making lists, and just trying to get through. You are not the only one I haven't called. I have been in that survival mode that I think I learned in my childhood - when there was almost always a crisis in motion or one looming on the horizon. I pull in. Close ranks. Try to get through. I have hardly seen anyone who hasn't come to see me. And I have hardly picked up the phone except to answer it when it rings. One can only do so much....or at least that is what I tell myself.
No excuses.
This is what I wanted to tell you - I miss you. And I will come to see you...and I hope you are okay, despite my ridiculous silence. When shall we talk? Might I come and spend my birthday with you? I think that is what I would like to do... Oh there is so much to tell..about the fall and all that fell through the cracks when my mother fell. It is almost Christmas, and I find myself remembering times in Connecticut, in the little house on Walker Brook when you were there and Mother and Dad. When I was young and you were my age now...oh how fondly I hold those memories.
I love you, Miss Kelly - and I am so sorry for my silence. If you could only hear how often I think of you - daily...quietly...quickly and then some new distraction or demand.
No excuses.
Only true apologies and abiding affection.
Amanda
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