Although Mom blazed many of her own trails during her life in various ventures like having her own kindergarten (Mother Goose Play & Learn Center), traveling, and managing Lollipop Legend, in her last years, she was content to quietly follow Dad's lead.
As Lora's blog describes, Mom's inquisitive and unsure words echo in my mind, both during sad and happy times, "Marc, I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to be doing right now." Most of the time I felt helpless when she looked to me for answers; we all did. Our answers had to be thought out ahead of time and they were often shared with her over the phone while tears ran down our own faces.
What was the correct answer? Mom, you should be delivering roses to those in the assisted care facility ... you should be reading the scriptures and listening to peaceful music ... you should be volunteering to serve yet somewhere else ... you should be sleeping, because it is only in sleep that you (and others) cannot feel your pain--or ironically ask yourself "what you should be doing."
Dad always described Mom's pain, not as physical, but as the spiritual and mental challenge of being a truly amazing spirit, filled with love, passion, and creativity, trapped in an unwilling body (and mind).
Like the majority of her life, she is now front and center, busy, busy working on projects--those that count. She's no longer quietly caught in the "thick of thin things" she is outgoing, friendly, well-spoken and extremely productive doing the things she did and tried to do here.
I miss her "too."
Marc Thompson
Part II
I encapsulated my last visit with Carolyn in the poem read at her funeral. But perhaps I kept the most moving part of the visit to myself. I stopped at “The Ranch” after another appointment in Rexburg hoping to see Larry, but he had not yet come for the day. It was lunch time. I was invited to visit with Carolyn.
As I sat down she said to the others at the table, “This is my friend, Don.” I realized that title as the best I have ever had. I don’t remember the menu (except for the grape juice), but as I watched her struggle a bit manipulating the eating utensils, wanting to help her, I knew a friend would not remind her what she could not easily do. So I held off. We visited awhile and recalled a few past events.
The glass of grape juice was a challenge to her. She raised it to her lips, but the angle of the glass wasn’t right. I said, “Just lean back your head,” which she did and finished most of the juice.
As I went to leave, she told me the code to manage the exit door. She had been lucid throughout our conversation that last Saturday. That’s how I always want to remember her, “My Friend.”
Donnell Hunter
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