John McCain Accidentally Left On Campaign Bus Overnight

HT to my sister, Karen, for this breaking news update. :^)

Sybil R. Touchberry, 1937 - 2008

Whenever I called, Mom greeted me with "Hi, Sugar." I don't know that I could ever adequately describe the comfort and the love that those two words conveyed over many years and over many more miles. But "Hi, Sugar" meant home, regardless of latitude and longitude, and unconditional love, regardless of tempests in our family teapot. It was hot chocolate after a hard day of sledding and a cool washcloth gently applied to a fevered forehead, all packed into three little syllables. And every call ended with, "Bye, Sugar. I love you."

But in between the terms of endearment we spoke of all manner of things: news of her grandchildren and my siblings; of Cubs and Bulls, Wolverines and Pistons, and Lions and Tigers and Bears (oh, my); of Kirk and Picard; of movies and music and Elvis impersonators; of hopes and fears and dreams. Mom mostly avoided talking to me about her problems, telling me that she didn't want to appear to whine. Later I learned that she talked more about her problems to my sisters than to me. I'm glad she talked to someone.

Mom was taught not to complain. She was born in Pennsylvania coal country during the Great Depression to Ellen and Lloyd Hamilton: serious times and very serious people. My grandmother rarely laughed. She did criticize, however. Even before she slipped into dementia, with Mom as her sole caregiver, she would say hurtful things. Mom seemed not to notice because she knew their roles had been reversed. But I often wondered what it was like to grow up with so much criticism. I have wished that I could travel back to 1946 or so to say to the young Sybil, "Don't listen to her. Your mother doesn't know how to show affection. You're a warm and caring and special person." Yet my words would be like pebbles against the constant stream of you're-not-good-enough.

I have two favorite memories of Mom. The first is watching her dance at my wedding reception. She spent most of the night on the dance floor, shoes cast aside, spinning and twisting and gyrating to whatever the deejay played. There were a handful of my family and two hundred strangers, and Mom was as carefree and vivacious and joyful -- as girlish! -- as I had ever seen her. And I am positive that no more beautiful a woman has graced the F.O.E. Hall of Davison, Michigan since.

My other favorite memory is of the week I spent with her after my father's funeral. It was late January. The air was thick with the sounds of wintering birds. Her house in Sebastian, Florida was brand-new, the retirement dream come to life. We talked for hours by her glittering pool. At some point I realized that she was a daughter who had lost her own father some years before, an ex-wife who never really stopped loving my father, and a mother to a grieving son. She understood much more than I did about living with such holes in one's heart. So she let me rant and she let me be. She gave me solace with her presence. And she let me clean her pool. She laughed when I told her that being her pool boy was therapeutic.



The truth is that she gave of herself to everyone who knew her. She was a loyal friend. She was a great nurse. She took care of the generation before her and two generations after her. In fact, it was easier for Mom to take care of others than to take care of herself. Which is why I am so grateful to the Visiting Nurse Association of the Treasure Coast and to Hospice House for giving Mom the loving care that she wouldn't allow for herself.

Mom, I just want to tell you that I miss you terribly. The universe seems to be off its axis by about a degree and a half right now. The sun still rises and sets but something is off-kilter. I know you would be able to say something to make it right. But I'll have to wait to hear it.

Until then... bye, Sugar.

I love you.