I fear my blog is becoming one of those “zombie” sites – believe me, Sweet Potato Casserole is not the way I would like to greet the world eternally. Unfortunately, it’s now about five months after Mom has passed away, and I have entered this deep, deep, dark, deep depression about it. Have reached this [...]]]>

I fear my blog is becoming one of those “zombie” sites – believe me, Sweet Potato Casserole is not the way I would like to greet the world eternally. Unfortunately, it’s now about five months after Mom has passed away, and I have entered this deep, deep, dark, deep depression about it. Have reached this horrible plateau where I’ll actually forget for a few moments or even hours and then I am reminded, and then it starts all over again. There’s not a laugh to be had in the following entry, I’m pretty sure.

We finally buried my mom over the weekend. According to her will, she wanted to be buried next to my dad out near our farm in Pennsylvania. Said farm is (on an excellent day) at least eight hours away, which makes it a bit cumbersome to get to more than a few times a year. But this past weekend was the fourth of July, so we packed up her sky blue urn to take her out there. I wrote a letter, and the kids drew some pictures. We buried her with those and the Tao of Pooh, which is a book I read to her when she was sick, and some pictures of the kids. I told Brian he should have poured some cabernet over the gravesite or something.

It really is a pretty gravesite: Bethel Cemetery on “Shades of Death” lane, next to a long-abandoned church. I dimly remember going to picnic potlucks there when I was little. We should all wind up on top of a picturesque hill somewhere. Mom is next to her husband on one side and her husband’s relatives on the other, a string of Ihnats, dating all the way back to my great-grandparents, Johan and Sofia, who came over here from Hungary around the turn of the last century and snatched up over 100 acres of prime Pennsylvania farmland. And proceeded to have about 11 kids, some of whom are now also in Bethel Cemetery (Mike, Helen, Steve). When my great-grandmother died, my grandmother, Mary, the oldest at about 13 years of age, wound up raising all the other kids. They all called her “Mom.”

I wish I knew more about the history of the farm: my great-grandfather left it to my grandmother, and by the time she married my alcoholic coal-mining grandfather, it was a dairy farm. She left it to my dad, who left it to me. The weird thing is that in all of these Ihnats who have lived there for over a century, only about one person per generation has really ever wanted to see it again. Most fled as soon as they were able, whether it was the hard farm work or the relative isolation I can’t really tell. My brother hasn’t been there since my dad’s funeral a decade ago. Even my mom stopped wanting to go after my dad died.

Fortunately, my husband and kids seem to love it. Now we have about 50 acres [Grandpa lost half of the original 100 because he couldn’t pay his taxes] of beautiful wildflower land for everyone to run around on, as compared to the 1/16th of an acre or so we sport at home. The nearest neighbors run a black Angus farm, so there are cows around. Most of the small towns nearby offer at least a 4th of July parade or a Pumpkin festival for entertainment around the various holidays, and Pittsburgh is only a half-hour away, for God’s sake. I guess I get it – I hated going out there when I was around 12 years old (when my dad would drag us out there for a month!) because there was very little to do there. He never really finished the house he built, so it’s kind of a shack, with pink insulation showing and leftover dishes and appliances and bedding from the 70s and earlier. The spiders and mice live there more than we do, so although I try to wipe everything down when we get there, I always wonder how clean it really might be.

So this was going to be a hard trip, with the burial and all. We bought some yellow marigolds and pink new guinea impatiens from a local farmer. Brian brought two shovels and made a nice deep hole. I put in the urn, then the book and letters and pictures around it, and Brian handed me the shovel. As we filled in the hole I was trying to sing “They Can’t Take That Away from Me” with the kids, one of their favorite songs, but they really preferred “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” which was probably also appropriate. Then the twins spent their evening catching fireflies in an old milk bottle, building a bonfire (with their dad), and climbing up on the roof to look at the stars (also with their dad). I slept a lot.

It’s not really a tragedy to be orphaned at 45; tragedies are when children lose their parents, or don’t have a good relationship with them, or were unable to work everything out with them before they passed away. But I’m haunted by things like a paper my mom emailed me that she wrote that I never read. Or a time she asked to me to come to lunch and I said I was too busy at work. Or even the fact that I appreciate the farm so much more now and my dad is gone so I can’t even share that with him. Or how I have to keep telling the kids about their grandparents on my side of the family because I’m terrified they’ll forget Nana.

Can I take something positive away from this by realizing that life is fleeting and short and to treasure each healthy, happy day I have with my family? All I can do is try. I really am trying.

I am one of those people who believe in signs. That somehow all of the universe is connected. I don’t claim to understand it, but I believe it. My husband, however, would put my claims right up there with the Easter Bunny.

My mother was also a mystical person. For example, when our family would go [...]]]>

I am one of those people who believe in signs. That somehow all of the universe is connected. I don’t claim to understand it, but I believe it. My husband, however, would put my claims right up there with the Easter Bunny.

My mother was also a mystical person. For example, when our family would go out to the farm in Pennsylvania where my dad grew up, one of his favorite things in the world to do was look for turkeys. Not to hunt, he’d given that up, thank God, but just to spot. If we were really lucky, we might be able to spy one or two.

After he died, my mom and I took a few trips out there, mostly to work on his gravestone. On one of those trips we saw the largest flock of turkeys we’d ever seen. Since we were in his place anyway, a place that he loved, I took this to mean that he was letting us know that he was okay.

On the last day of my mom’s life, at one point one the night nurse (named Ruth, also my mom’s name) dragged me into the bathroom and handed me a pair of booties. The booties I understood, but the bathroom? My mom had been unresponsive all day. “She can still hear you,” Nurse Ruth told me. “The hearing is the last thing to go.”

I wracked my brain hoping that I hadn’t said anything awful the rest of the day, when I was talking to one of the volunteers (also named Ruth). So I read my mom the poem out of Little Women (the book I’d been reading out loud to her) that Jo writes for Beth when she knows she’s going to die. I sang some songs. And I told my mom that she had to figure out a way to let me know after she left that she was OK. That I would be watching, but she had to let me know. Eventually, I saw the breath flow right out of her.

My mom died on a Friday (like Jesus!) and over the weekend, I’m pretty sure at some point I tried to turn the TV on in the morning for the kids. I am far from the perfect parent, and one of my horrific habits is putting on PBS Kids in the morning before I‘ve had enough coffee to function. I figure a little “Curious George” and “Cat in the Hat” won’t hurt anyone. My mother, of course, disapproved of this practice, as she didn’t even own a TV for the last ten years of her life.

But this one morning right after she died I couldn’t get the TV to work. It was like the button was broken, and the channels kept flipping around I couldn’t get them to stop. I even gave up the remote and went for the buttons right one the TV (and when’s the last time you’ve done that?). And nothing. So eventually the twins and I got embroiled in some other activity.

When the kids and I came home later, Brian was already there. “Sorry the TV doesn’t work,” I said. He answered with, “What are you talking about? It works fine.”

“But the button was stuck! Did you have to unstick it or something? I thought we’d have to get a new TV.”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “It was the same as it is every day.”

My friend Susan says a lot of times “spirits” or whatever will try to reach you through appliances. Like in Poltergeist, only less scary. So I smiled and said, “OK, Mom.” I wish I could say that I have given up PBS Kids in the morning as well, but I have not.

Last week Susan and I went to yoga. Yoga was an activity Mom and I did together a lot. It was extremely humbling for me because she was much better at it than I am, although she was 25 years older. Even when she started getting sick, we would go to Bloom Yoga, and always felt better afterwards. But yoga can stir up your emotions anyway, and since it was an activity that reminded me of her, right in the middle of a Warrior One pose or something I started crying. I went off to the nice Bloom bathroom and slid against the wall, and still couldn’t stop. Logically, on some level, I knew I had to go back into the yoga room. If Susan was worried about me, it would ruin yoga class for her. And it would be good for me to finish. So, I figure the first step would be to wash my blotchy face. And what came pouring out to the soap dispenser was lavender.

Now, I like, but don’t love, lavender. At the Bath & Body Works I’m more inclined to pick something that smells like apples or cinnamon. But the thing was that Mom always had in her head that I loved lavender. Pretty much every birthday I would get a Crabtree & Evelyn lavender set. I think she even gave me lavender tea when I was pregnant. So of course lavender would come running out of the faucet. I drank it in as I washed my face and made it back in to yoga class.

I know you could say all of these things are coincidence. Or you could say that Mom is living up to her part of her deathbed bargain. I know which option makes me feel better right now.

Recently I went back to Mom’s apartment for the first time since she moved out of it into the assisted-care facility. I had already started writing all of this down in my head. The song this piece is titled after came on the radio right as I turned onto her street. Which I am also taking as a sign.

Ruthanne (Melfi) Ihnat passed away at 10:35 p.m. on Friday, January 14, 2011. She was 70 years [...]]]> Here’s the original obit I wrote for my mom and sent to the Chicago Tribune. Happily, they wanted to run the story, and of course edited quite heavily. I actually think they improved it, but here’s my draft anyway:

Ruthanne (Melfi) Ihnat passed away at 10:35 p.m. on Friday, January 14, 2011. She was 70 years old. Her life is a testament to how much one person can affect the lives of so many.

The daughter of Dorothy and James P. Melfi, Ruthanne was the youngest of four children and grew up in a Cape Cod house in Oak Lawn. As a child she loved gymnastics and ballet, but soon switched her toe shoes for the cheerleading outfit of the Oak Lawn High School Spartans. After high school, in those pre-“Mad Men” days, she worked as a secretary for advertising agencies on Michigan Avenue. Even at 70, she would still take notes for her grocery lists in shorthand.

While she worked downtown, she still hung out with her Oak Lawn friends. One high school classmate had recently joined the staff of Reavis High School in Burbank. One night at a local bowling alley she met another new Reavis teacher, George Ihnat. He was from rural Pennsylvania and had wrestled his way off of a dairy farm with a scholarship to Indiana University and a new coaching position at Reavis (a job he would hold for decades). He was shyer than the effervescent Ruthanne, so one night he arranged to have the rest of their crowd leave while Ruthanne was in the ladies room. Initially outraged, she was soon won over, and they began to date. Although she initially didn’t want to get married, he persisted, and they were married in August 1963.

They soon moved to a small ranch house in Worth, where they raised Gwen (b. 1966) and George III (b. 1968). Although many women at the time stayed home to raise their families, Ruthanne soon grew restless. She started attending classes at Moraine Valley Community College, which at that time held many sessions in trailers. Her daughter maintains that the reason she skipped a grade was due to attending so many college classes with her mom as a toddler!

Ruthanne also attended St. Xavier University and received her master’s degree in speech pathology from Governors State University. Eventually Ruthanne decided on a career as a speech therapist, which she enjoyed but would still align with her family’s school schedules. She worked at Western Avenue School in Flossmoor for many years in a charming circular room known as “the tower,” where she loved her work with children. She also worked at schools in Melrose Park and Maywood.

Once Gwen left for college at the University of Illinois, the family moved to a larger house in Palos Hills, where George III still resides. Ruthanne and George had a charmed life with many friends, a beautiful home, vacations abroad, and dogs they loved. In 1988 Ruthanne bravely faced a bout with breast cancer, and opted for radical surgery over radiation and chemotherapy. She did not have another recurrence for more than 20 years. She focused on healthy hobbies such as yoga, earning a black belt in karate, and even teaching tai chi.

In the early 1990s, George was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, an especially devastating systemic cancer that attacks the blood. He also fought his battle bravely, enduring chemotherapy and bone marrow transplants. At the end he still drove himself to his dialysis treatment. But Ruthanne was his favorite and strongest caregiver, and devoted herself to his care. He passed away on March 11, 2001, at the age of 62.

Ruthanne was then 60. Finally realizing her long dream of living in the city, she sold her house to her son and moved to a condo in Hyde Park in the historic McGill mansion on Drexel Boulevard. She had always been fascinated by other cultures, especially Hispanic and Native American. She moved to Antigua, Guatemala, for a few months in 2002 to attend a language immersion school; attended another school in Costa Rica; and continued her many travels. Wherever she went, she created deep friendships and inspired many with her strength, her enthusiasm, and her genuine interest in all sorts of people.

One day, she read in a speech and language publication that the Bureau of Indian Affairs was looking for speech pathologists to work with children on Native American reservations. Ruthanne quickly signed a contract with the government and moved out to rural Gallup, New Mexico, in 2006, driving her Prius cross-country all by herself. There she fell in love with the New Mexico landscape and Native American culture. She visited mesas and art galleries and studied the Lakota language, and eventually moved to more cosmopolitan Albuquerque. Although she loved her Chicago friends and family, New Mexico might have been her favorite home.

Then in July 2009, troubled by a stubborn cough, she received news that her cancer had returned, this time in a tumor in the lung. The doctors called it Stage 4, as it was so widespread. This time Ruthanne could not avoid chemotherapy and radiation, so she returned to Chicago and received treatment at Rush Medical Center. About a year later, the doctors told her she was in remission, as the tumor had shrunk. But she still didn’t feel well, so a more extensive CAT Scan was performed. The scan showed that the cancer had metastasized again, this time to her liver.

Ruthanne chose not to undergo treatment a second time. Always strong and independent, she felt that her quality of life would suffer too much. Her decline came quickly, within a few months. She was able to stay in her apartment until only a few weeks before she died, living out her final days surrounded by friends and family at Montgomery Place, an assisted care facility in Hyde Park. Her daughter was holding her hand and singing “Over the Rainbow” as Ruthanne peacefully drew her final breath.

Throughout the final weeks, Ruthanne’s family heard from all of the various people she had affected through the course of her extraordinary life. People they had never met before would say, “Ruthanne is my best friend,” “She’s my hero,” or “She saved my life.” Ruthanne encouraged other friends who were battling cancer and volunteered at Y-Me. In Hyde Park, she also volunteered at her local public school. Her Hyde Park neighbors were devoted to her, as were her new friends in New Mexico, as well as friends she had had for decades.

What made this woman so special? Certainly she had an incredible heart and was genuinely interested in everyone she met. That is not to say that she was a pushover; friends also remember her stubborn streak and Italian temper that could rise when the occasion called for it. But Ruthanne also had a wonderful, adventurous spirit; at an age when many people are starting to “settle down,” she set out to explore the world.

To say that Ruthanne Melfi Ihnat will be missed is a massive understatement. She leaves behind not just Gwen (and her husband, Brian McNally) and George, but also two brothers, Bud (Diane) and Kelly (Joan), along with her sister and closest friend, Marijoy Melfi, who took amazing care of Ruthanne during those final months. She has ten nieces and nephews, and many great-nieces and -nephews. Gwen and Brian also have four-year-old twins, Nina and Theo, whose “Nana Ruthie” brought them the best children’s books and was always ready to color and draw with them.

A memorial service at Chicago’s Garfield Park Conservatory on Sunday, January 30, from 6 to 10 p.m. will celebrate Ruthanne’s amazing life. Friends and family are encouraged to bring pictures and stories to help commemorate this woman who reminds us all how one person can affect so many. In lieu of flowers, donations are encouraged to Heifer International (www.heifer.org), an organization that works with communities to end hunger and poverty and care for the earth.

One of the only things Mom will actually eat right [...]]]> Although the holidays are blessedly over, it always seems a little abrupt. Like the holiday radio station that starts playing Christmas carols on November frickin 12th, then cuts you off on December 26th. You think they could at least hang in there until the New Year.

One of the only things Mom will actually eat right now is Starbucks’ peppermint brownie. I went in this week and asked for it and it’s already been discontinued. Only a holiday item. They don’t even have the festive red-and-white cups anymore. This was on about December 28th. For all my bitching about the holidays, it’s such a shock! Now nothing really to look forward but the four-month long Chicago stretch until spring.

Tomorrow, my last day of Christmas vacation, I will spend transferring my mom into an assisted care facility. We are all pretty positive about it over here.

~~~~~

Now that my mom is in the facility, it’s like I can see the transition from life to death. It’s fascinating; I don’t think I’ve ever been close enough to anyone in this state to really witness it before. It’s like she’s aged 20 years in two months. When she sleeps, she basically looks lifeless, except that her chest keeps rising up and down. I come in and read to her. Our favorite book right now is a volume from the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, which takes place in Africa. I’ll say, “Botswana?” and she’ll nod. Then she’ll fall asleep, but with a smile on her face. I wish there was so much more I could do for her at this point. But the book is perfect to read aloud, and there are all of these comments about time passing or the largeness of the Botswana sky that just seem to fit Mom so perfectly right now that I want to write the author and thank him for the perfect deathbed read, although he may not take it as a compliment.

One of the things that makes me happiest right now is that one of Mom’s nurses said that she was talking about my dad and Chika, her favorite dog (a yellow Lab), both of whom have gone before her. So I hope that means that they’re on the other side, just waiting. I’ve read all the pamphlets from the hospice about the final stages. One of the items on their bulleted list is “Mentions seeing deceased family members and friends.” What the what? This is so common that it’s a bullet on their checklist? Isn’t that a nice case for life after death?

Today my mom’s social worker called (at work! thanks) to ask what the plans were after Mom passes on. Although she didn’t say so, I think this means that at the retirement home they all feel the end is near. I ruminated for awhile, and asked my aunt, and then as it turns out a friend of Mom’s volunteered that Mom set it all up herself months ago, at a funeral home/chapel on the northwest side. Who does that? Who is so thoughtful that she would set up all this stuff in advance? I know we were lucky to have her for 70 years, I know that she will be in a better place, but selfishly, I can’t get past this thought: what the %^(#@ am I going to do without her?