So my grandmother died 23 years ago...

Teresa Saltarelli, age 70, of 40A Patricia Rd, Bridgeport, Devoted wife of the late Atillio Saltarelli.  Mrs. Saltarelli died in Bridgeport Hospital Monday evening after a brief illness.  She was born in Atella, Italy May 3, 1922 daughter of the late Vincenzo and Maria Giovanna Petollino and was a resident of the Bridgeport area for over 10 years and lived in Brooklyn most of her life.  She is the beloved mother of Angela Altman of Bridgeport and Amelia MacDonald of Shelton and sister of Donato Petolino of Brooklyn and Rosa DiBiasa of Rome, Italy and also survived by six grandchildren and several nieces and nephews.  Funeral will leave the Riverview Funeral Home, 390 River Road, Shelton Thursday at 9:45 am for a Mass in St. Lawrence Church at 10:30.  Burial will be in Riverside Cemetery in Shelton.  Friends may call Wednesday from 5 to 8 pm.  At the family's request contribution may be made to St. Lawrence Religious Education (CCD) through the Funeral Director.

I know its been a while.  I haven't written anything since my mother's birthday.  I guess part of me wishes that I would be "healed" and "better" by now.  That I would have said all I needed to say on the matter.  But then I think about my family and how far back it goes.  And then my grandmother popped in my head today.

"How did you come up with your children's names?"  is a question I get asked often.  Let's face it.  Teresa is not a typical name these days.  I smile each time before I answer.  I talk about how my mom said she named her first daughter after her grandmother, Maria Giovanna, and how I always intended to do the same.  Yes, back when I was pregnant with Aryn, I already know the name of my daughter.  And when I discovered I was pregnant with a girl, I knew her name would be Teresa, named after my grandmother, and Amelia would be her middle name.  It was perfect.

We chose the same route for our second daughter.  Adam's grandmother's name is Arlene, and with the passing of his great-grandmother the same year I was pregnant, it seemed too fitting to name our second daughter Lena Inez.  Both girls now have grandmother roots tied into them far more than they can ever know.  It empowers them and it enables them to hold their heads high as inevitable women in this society and I know they will both be amazing no matter what they do.

I feel the need to share about my grandmother for a few reasons.  For one, our family is legit off the boat Italian.  And I am so very proud of that.  When Teresa came home from school saying that her teacher told her our great-grandparents came to America I corrected her that her grandmother came here.  At a young and tender age, after many complications.  Second, this month has now been 

23 years since my grandmother passed away.  I see my husband at the age of 31 still have his grandmother and I am in awe.  I lost both my grandmothers at such young ages.  And I was never alive to get to know either of my grandfathers.  And I can honestly say that I feel robbed.  You have no idea what I would do for a chance to spend another 5 minutes with any of them.  To ask them what no 8 year old should know to ask.  Family history, stories, words of wisdom.  I got none of that.  

Ever since my husband and I became "serious", his family has invited me to come watch "The Nutcracker" from Ballet Etudes, as it was a Christmas tradition in their family.  Overjoyed, I always accepted and would watch not only the stage, but the audience next to me in awe as there would always be a representation of 3-4 generations together enjoying the show.  And every year at the end of the night, I would become overwhelmed with sorrow that my family was "gone too soon" to enjoy traditions like this.  I even invited my mother along on the 2007 trip to "The Nutcracker"...but she had already passed away before that could happen.  

My memories of my grandmother are subtle, but they resonate within me remarkably.  In my experience, she had a calming quality to her.  She said what needed to be said and that was it.  Mostly.  

She also made a mean sauce,  I enjoyed it often growing up.  She would walk around the house in her slippers with pride and gave no fucks in terms of who saw her like that.  I like to think I am reconnecting with my grandmother on the days I drop Teresa off at school in my slippers.

I remember an argument my mother and my grandmother were having in my kitchen in Connecticut one year.  My mom was upset that Grandma painted her nails orange.  It was a mix of English and Italian but my mother basically reprimanded her own mother about how a woman's lips needed to match her nails and if wasn't willing to use orange lipstick then she shouldn't paint her nails orange.  Now, the feminist in me is crying out, "let her paint it whatever!  It is her choice!"  But the traditional woman in me smiles because, here is a daughter attempting to teach her mother fashion.  And I smile because there were many stories of my mother being reprimanded by my grandmother while they lived in Brooklyn about how who she let walk her home was setting an impression on her to the neighbors.  

I also very much remember my other grandmother...my Nannie.  My father's mother had a petite quality about her.  We would play cards and watch "The Price is Right".  She taught me so many things about playing games.  She taught me how to win, to lose, and most importantly, to enjoy the game.  She had this ability to make me flock to her in her good days.   When she got really sick, I was confused.  I didn't quite grasp what (Alzheimer's) was happening to her.  I was older than when my other grandmother got sick and died, but I just didn't comprehend how the brain is such an intriguing

part of our being.  I also remember a home video of her mortgage burning party.  Can you believe that was a thing back then?  That people actually paid off their mortgages?  That is something else I aspire to.  

I remember all of this when I rear my own daughters.  I take all this into account when I embrace how I want them to be.  Do I want them to be proper ladies?  Of course.  Do I want them to define with our (their parents) help what the term "proper" means?  100% yes.  Most of you who know me noticed I encountered a shift in the last few years.  I went from someone who saw so many things as black and white to a person who decided that women do, in fact, have a choice.

I recently went on a trip for a bachelorette party in Las Vegas, Nevada.  As we were a group of women traveling, every people we encountered warned us to stick together and to be safe.  This included bar tenders, taxi cab drivers, and hotel concierge staff.  "There is a UFC fight this weekend, so there are a lot of people...just be careful." Every person seemed to warn.  And I had this light bulb moment in my head.  Are you telling the male tourists to not rape the women they encounter?  If you're thinking, No, this is just being safe for women...I ask you...why?!  Why is this a normal interaction for a woman but not for a man?  Why should it feel like an inevitable death sentence when the sonographer says you're having a girl?  Where did this idea of the "weaker sex" come from?  Because  as a mother who is raising 2 girls at the moment, I can tell you, it is no freaking picnic.  

I guess my point in this post today is that women today need to stand up for themselves and not let societal norms define how they should feel or act.  My other point is that I understand the life my female family has gone through and I will do everything in my power to make your story be heard and respected.  Even if it is just through a silly blog that hardly anyone reads.    

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Mom

I still find it interesting that we went from celebrating your birthday by "surprising" you with cake and sitting around our kitchen table to instead going to the cemetery and making sure that I bring no Christmas related flowers for you on this day because it was a pet peeve of yours to mix your birthday and Christmas.

I came across a VHS tape of your birthday from about 1988 where our family was gathered around the living room while we watched you open presents and making your comedic jokes in between.  I smile thinking of how funny you were.  As you opened gifts from Billy and I, which consisted of new pots and pans, skillets, and the like, you commented that your family must be telling you something...to cook for them!  The family chuckled but I know you prided yourself in cooking for us all the time.  It was the Italian thing to do.  I pride myself too.  You'd laugh at the Christmas Eve menu I have planned this year.  Baked ziti, calamari, salads, breads, shrimp and an attempt on a gingerbread cake with cream cheese frosting.  "That's not enough food, Maria"  you would probably tell me.  

You also made certain that after each birthday to state your age with pride.  "I'm 60 years old, Maria.  I wasn't born yesterday."  It was the last age you got to state.  Gone too soon, for sure.  A month away from reminding me that you were 61.  

I'm sitting here, at the cemetery right now with Teresa and Lena.  We are trying to keep warm and their snacks are all over their faces.  Despite all the great memories I have with you, I still think about what could have been if you were here.  How much you would love the girls with or without snack on their faces.  The planning to get together today to celebrate with you and sing Happy Birthday.  Your grandchildren would rush up to you upon getting through the door and bombard you with hugs and kisses.  You'd have a sauce cooking, and I'm sure you'd been sneaking yummy treats to all the girls.  We would enjoy an early dinner and "surprise" you with a cake and Teresa would give you a card she made herself.  It would have been a wonderful day indeed.

It is okay, though.  The girls are getting to know you through me.  My stories, our old home videos, and the traditions I've carried with me.  I just wish you could be here to blow out your candles today.  Happy heavenly birthday, Mom.  

October 16, 2010

18th Annual Walk to Remember

Saturday, November 17, 2007

“Maria, are you ready?” Who could ever be ready for this? I sigh and drink the last of my Lord-knows-how-many-this-is-now-coffee. My head was so swollen. The air conditioning in the waiting room had turned my fingers to just the right amount of cold where if I were to hit them on the chair, the pain would be inexplicable.

We all made the last walk to her ICU room. I walked past the staff break room which had that heart wrenching poster that explained what to look for in immediate death.

Could this all really be happening?

We got closer to the room and I’m greeted by the familiar sound of the exhausted breathing machine and heart monitor. I started to float away to a time when this wasn’t the reality in my life. A time when I was happy and pregnant and my mother was excited to be a grandmother for the first time. And then I’m interrupted by none other than myself clearing my throat, holding back the tears. “Hi Mom.We’re all here.” Each of her four children grabbed a part of her hands. My father stood by her side, just as he always did. My mother’s last tear rolled hesitantly down her cheek.

That smell of a sterile environment continued to bloat my head. I got up and leaned right into my mother’s left ear, “Mommy, I am so proud of you. Don’t worry about the family.I will take care of them. Dio la benedice.” The doctor who had been trying not to watch this entire time walked in to the machine, looked at my father; who nodded at her, and she turned down the medicine. Mom’s heart went from 80, 20, 120, 4, gone. I let out a scream I thought I abandoned when I was a toddler. Right then and there I became not only a mother without a child but a child without a mother.  My mother died.

*The following was my mother's obituary*

Dio la Benedice, Mom

Amelia MacDonald, 60, of Gilbert AZ passed away on November 17, 2007 surrounded by her loving family. She is survived by her husband, William John MacDonald and her four children, William MacDonald Jr. and his wife Ashlee, Maria Hanson and her husband Adam, Rebecca MacDonald and Michael MacDonald, her sister Angela Eager of Connecticut, niece Laura Newman, and nephews Joseph Altman and Daniel Rouleau, also from Connecticut, and several cousins and aunts from New York.
Amelia was born on December 22, 1946 in Potenza, Italy to the late Attilio and Teresa Saltarelli. She moved to the United States in October 1954 and grew up in Brooklyn, New York where she attended Eastern District High School. She moved to Bridgeport, Connecticut in 1977 and attended Sacred Heart University in Fairfield, CT, earning her Associates Degree in Accounting. In 1979 she met her husband William and married in 1981. Shortly after, they moved to Huntington, CT where they began their family, and moved to Gilbert, AZ in 1997.

Known to her friends as Amy, she was actively involved in and dedicated to all of her children’s activities, and followed their pursuits with passion. She was the principal of religious education for St. Lawrence Church in Huntington, CT for several years, and was active in the Hamilton High Band Booster and Shumway Elementary School PTO. She loved to knit and crochet afghans, doilies, and crafts for her children. She cherished Italian family traditions, cooking her “mean” sauce every Sunday, and maintained Italian customs for herself and her family.

She was a strong believer in family, education, the Catholic religion and standing up for what you believe in, even if you’re standing alone. She follows her first grandchild, Aryn Hanson into heaven who pre-deceased her on November 7, 2007. An inspiration to her children and pillar to her family, she will be remembered and missed dearly.

A memorial service and viewing will be held on Friday, November 23, from 6-9pm at Allen Funeral Home, 1130 S. Horne, Mesa. The funeral service will be held on Saturday, 11am November 24, at St. Anne Catholic Church, 440 E. Elliot Road, Gilbert. Interment will follow the service at Queen of Heaven cemetery, 1500 E. Baseline Road, Mesa.

I need to take a moment to pause...

My purpose for this blog has many reasons.  To have all that I've written about 2007 collected in one spot...to give others out there a story to see how life can continue after death...to work through some more healing that is left to be done on me...but then I remember the last reason.  I called this blog, "Walk With Me".  I was and am still in awe at how quickly things changed in my life.  I wanted those that knew me then but couldn't quite get the full story of what was happening because I was still trying to figure out what was happening to finally see what my family endured.  I wanted those of you that either met met after 2007 or have never met me at all to hear my story because it is my story and makes me who I am today.  I wanted those of you who read this to take a step in time and see how sometimes, life is a train that keeps going; not allowing you to take the time needed to adjust to a new situation.  I wanted this ability to pause what was happening in my life so I could take it all in, delay the inevitable, and make the right choices where needed.  I didn't get that pause 8 years ago.  

I have another post that was complete and supposed to be posted for today.  But as I clicked on "On This Day" on my Facebook, I was taken aback by how quickly things can change in a year:

9 years ago I was giddy and eagerly counting down the days until my wedding, and a year later my world was upside-down.  So I need to take this moment and pause.  I need to take this all in.  Because I fear if I post my original post first without saying what else I need to say, I let time win again and I can't let that happen again.  I will post this other post later today when I am ready.  

So let's all take a moment to pause on this flashback journey.  I want to write about different times.  Those of you who knew my mother prior would appreciate that and those of you who never met her can hear the wonderful and funny things about my mother that made her my inspiration.

My mother was amazing.  She was from Italy; and she beamed with Italian pride.  As a child, I remember listening to her, my aunt and my grandmother speak to each other in Italian.  I would never know what was being said (minus the swear words!) but it was just so normal for me to hear during times spent with family.  Gathering together meant eating pasta and sitting on furniture that was wrapped in plastic.  This was our normal.  While everyone was having just turkey and stuffing for Thanksgiving, we were having all that AND manicotti and sausage and peppers and meatballs.  The same went for Christmas and Easter.  Sure, there were only 6 of us in our celebrations when we first moved to Arizona in 1997, but Mom cooked it all anyway.  We would eat leftovers for what seemed like an eternity after.  But I never grew tired of it.  It was Mom's manicotti and it was delicious.  This was our normal. 

My mother loved decorating for the holidays.  I think that's why I love it now as an adult.  She had boxes upon boxes of crocheted items, little figurines, her huge manger set (because...Italian, ya know?), and what seemed like EVERY SINGLE CRAFT we as kids brought home from school with our  hand prints on it or the crazy amount of crafted ornaments for the tree.  It took FOREVER to decorate.  Because we couldn't have a single Christmas without the red bells that would hang on the stairs and chime "jingle bells".

And every year on Thanksgiving, our alarm clock was the smell of meatballs being cooked and my mother excitingly yelling up to us, "OOhh look the parade is on!!"  We would get down quickly, as to "help" Mom taste-test the fresh meatballs and watch the rest of the parade.  Even one year, we all took a train from Connecticut to New York and watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in person.  It was a wonderful memory.  I think that's why I now get excited about the parade all the way here in Arizona.  Its like my mom is joining my little family for the holidays now.  

  

 My mother, above all things, loved being a mother most.  I look back and see how she was so devoted to all of her kids.  I aspire to be like that.  Yes, I see my "mother" coming out when I guilt trip-erhm- I mean deal with my own kids.  I don't mind it at all.

In 2006, I was preparing for my wedding.  I wore my mother's wedding dress.  I tried my best to incorporate Italian themes into our wedding.  Candy covered almonds and party favors, playing Italian-American music during the reception, and having the full Catholic mass.  My mother and my sister threw me an amazing bridal shower.  There was so much food, but this was our normal.   Think "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", but Italian.  

My mom loved country things.  There were rooster and pig figurines all over her house.  And clowns.  She loved clowns.  And I think that's why I enjoy having some of her figurines in my house.  To bring me back to the years before.  To the times where we were just a family with an Italian mother who gagged at the sight of ketchup and would lovingly say that wooden spoons made good sauces and good kids.  I make a sauce now every Sunday just like she did.  This was our normal.  And with all this, my children are getting a chance to know my mom.  

November 15, 2007

It was a hectic day. Adam and I didn’t waste any time going to the ICU to visit Mom. Just a quick shower, a stop at a gas station for coffee, and we were on our way. Without looking at me, Adam asks, “Did you call the church for the funeral for Aryn?” I hadn’t. I look at him, sigh, and flip open my Motorola Razor. “Hi, this is Maria Hanson and I needed to talk to someone about the music for my baby Aryn’s funeral on Wednesday. If you could call me back that’d be great.”

We’re in the parking lot now, greeting our family that traveled from Connecticut to visit Mom. As we walk towards the entrance of the hospital, my phone rings with an unknown number. “Hello?”

“Hi Maria, this is Aaron. I wanted to call and let you know I’ll be doing the music for the funeral tomorrow. Once I saw it was for you, I didn’t even hesitate.”

“Oh, hi! Thanks so much for doing this!” Aaron was the musician that not only did my wedding earlier that January, but also my brother’s wedding that June. I stepped into the elevator. We spent the remainder of the phone call discussing songs that I would want played.

“No problem," Aaron replied, "And I want you to know that you are in my prayers.” I smile and I close my phone and look at my husband.

“Aaron will be doing the music for the funeral.” He looks back at me, raises an eyebrow and clearly states, “Well that’ll be a trick.”

I shoot back, “No I mean Aaron! Not our Aryn!” Adam smiles. And I laughed with my husband.

Adam and I had just returned to the hospital after going to the funeral home to pick up Aryn once we received a phone call saying his cremation was complete. I was greeted by the somber faces of my family in the familiar waiting room. There weren’t any changes, and Mom was still just as sedated as before. She was a lifeless body with tubes and monitors all over her to indicate otherwise.

Adam and my aching body got out of the chair and walked down the hall with the velvet box in hand. I picked up the ICU phone and the nurse answered. I muttered…something…and the doors opened. We walked to Mom’s room. Mom’s favorite show, House was playing in the background on the TV. I looked down at her hand which has swollen to more than twice its normal size by now. How can this be happening to her? Her long fingernails that had once had the frosty white nail polish I had painted only a week before are bare. The nurse mentioned that they removed it to gage the modeling in her hands.

“Mommy, we brought Aryn in the urn we had picked out last week. It’s pretty and blue with the doves.” I touched her cold hand and turned it around and placed my son’s salt shaker sized urn in her palm. She began to squeeze and her thumb began exploring the intricate grooves on her grandchild that no one had met.

By this time, my sister and brothers joined us in the room. My mother’s face began to express. As we talked and soothed her, we were caught off guard by her beautiful brown eyes opening for the first time in 3 days. My older brother, Billy, took a breath and so purely proclaimed, “There you are, Mom. You’re eyes look so pretty.”

I leaned over and kissed her cheek. As I pulled away, there were beeps and flashing lights on her monitors. As we’re all freaking out, Billy sees the problem. One of her breathing tube connections was disconnected. He quickly sprung into action and put everything back together. Oh my God! I pulled apart her breathing tube! Mom always said I’d be the death of her! We laughed, I apologized, and we moved on.

The next day was Aryn’s funeral. We had priest that had never met any of us before that day. I felt it was distant, or routine. Until half way through, when he made mention of family and turn to me. He started speaking in Italian. My eyes welled up. “Tua madre (Your mother),” he said. I nodded. 

My mother never taught me her Italian language growing up, but for some reason, I felt so connected with what the priest was saying.

He said a prayer for my sick mother in Italian and I never felt so vulnerable.

The next few days had their ups and downs. My mother opened her eyes a few times, and I connected with my out-of-town family once again. The doctors explained how things had been turning for the worse. That Mom was basically drowning in her own body from the pneumonia. By Saturday morning, we knew what we had to do.

November 12, 2007

I woke up from the obnoxious ring tone of my husband’s cell phone at 4 am early Monday morning, November 12^th. I pushed Adam and he grudgingly got out of bed and stumbled to his phone. He was muttering. The phone call only took about a minute. My brain was on this disillusioned high of melatonin in my body. Half awake…half asleep. Adam closed his phone and took in a huge breath.

“Your mom is not doing well and there is an ambulance at the house that will take her to the hospital.”

Without knowing how I got there, I was standing next to my bed looking at the blurred image of my husband.Finding my glasses was not top priority at the time.

“What do you mean, not doing well?”

At this point, I heard the ambulance siren getting farther away. It’s times like these that you regret you and your husband living only 2 minutes from your parents.

“Oh my God! That’s the ambulance taking Mommy away! I can’t do this! That’s my mommy! Where's Rebecca and Michael?”

“At home.”

“Well, we gotta go there!”

We arrived at my parent’s house, reluctantly greeted by my younger brother and sister. It was at this moment I realized Adam and I are in our pajamas still. My hair is in the sloppiest of pony tails. I wiped a crust from my eye and I asked them what happened. Rebecca starts explaining.

“Dad went to check on Mom a little bit ago. She was really gargling in her sleep. Daddy called the ambulance and told Mom she was going to the hospital.”

“What did Mom say?”

“She said, ‘Okay, Sweetie, where are my glasses?’”

I decided that the hospital is where we should all be.We piled into my Hyundai and drove the ten agonizing minutes to the hospital.

Hours go by. As the morning horizon is covered in sunlight, my head begins to feel dizzy. The doctor finally allowed us to see our mother. As we opened the cold curtain I tell myself that Michael and Rebecca needed me to be strong and I walked in.

I couldn’t believe it. There she was, connected to tubes and monitors, and still it didn’t feel like her. At that point, I couldn’t feel my legs and I collapsed into a chair.

They explained that she had gotten pneumonia in her good lung and was going on a breathing machine. They were going to move her up to the ICU. Suddenly, this became our norm in our family.