Penelope

Usually when you receive a phone call at 4:44 in the morning, it's a bad thing. But when the phone started ringing Monday morning I wasn't worried. I could have answered it as I was already awake, but it was Scott's cell phone that was ringing and it was on his side of the bed so I let him get it.

"Hello?"

"Okay. You want us to come over then?"

"Alright, we'll be over."

"What did Matt say?" I asked my husband sleepily as we both got up and started to get dressed. "Cassy's in labour," was his reply in a tired 'that-should-have-been-obvious' tone of voice. I had guessed as much, but wanted to make sure I was right and that a complication in my sister-in-law's pregnancy hadn't been the reason for the middle-of-the-night phone call. We had told Matt and Cassy previously that we would watch their 3-year-old son Porter if Cassy went into labour in the middle of the night, so we drove to their house in downtown DC as quickly as we could. Matt greeted us at the door dressed in khaki slacks and a dressy blue shirt. He thanked us for coming over and gave us instructions for getting Porter up in an hour and a half and taking him to school. After about 15 minutes Matt and Cassy were both ready, grabbed their bags, and left for the hospital. I laid down and set my alarm for 6:20 in case I fell asleep. I did. I awoke just before Porter did, walking out to the kitchen and discovering that my husband had gotten up before me and was already eating breakfast. Porter came out of his room coughing like crazy, realized that Scott and I weren't his parents, and ran back to his room. I gave him about a minute to wake up, and then went to check on him.

"Hi, Porter. Are you almost ready to get up and go to school?" This elicited a very enthusiastic, "Uh-huh!" from him as he sat up quickly. He assured me that even though he had been coughing, he wasn't sick and could definitely go to school. Porter loves school. As I patted the bed next to me and realized it was slightly damp, Porter said, "Well, I just woke up and had a good-morning pee in my bed." I asked him if he wanted to change his underwear before he got dressed, to which he replied, "No, not today! I meant I did that a different day." Uh-huh.

Scott and I fed Porter breakfast, during which he told us that the leather armchair in the living room was made out of wood and cow-skin and that Fidel Castro was from Cuba (This child is 3!!! How does he know this stuff?). While Porter got dressed (putting his shorts on backwards, which I didn't realize until about 8:00 pm that evening) and had Scott help him put his socks and shoes on, I washed the dishes and and listened to Porter try and convince me that the Red Sox definitely weren't from Boston. After Porter was dressed and ready for school, he jumped on Scott and started wrestling him to the couch ("roughing up" is what Porter calls it). When I was finished with the dishes, the 3 of us left Matt and Cassy's house and drove to Porter's school (getting lost on the way). After dropping Porter off at school, Scott and I went to the hospital to see how Cassy was coming along. She was close, so we waited outside for awhile until Matt came out grinning and announced to us the birth of his daughter (whom everyone has been calling "Penelope" for the duration of Cassy's pregnancy). When Cassy had gone into labour that morning, Matt predicted Penelope would be born by 9:00. She was born at 9:01. Too bad, Matt. You were so close. :)

Penelope couldn't be seen or held yet, as she hadn't been weighed or measured or any of that other "official" stuff, so Scott and I left the hospital and promised to return that afternoon. We spent the day 'accomplishing stuff' - Scott studied on campus, while I did the grocery shopping and cleaned the house. After dinner we went back to the hospital to visit Penelope. She's adorable! She's tiny - 7 lbs 1 oz., with a decent amount of hair on her head and very emotive facial expressions. Since her family lives in the same city as I do, I can visit and spoil her often. I am absolutely thrilled to have another niece (I didn't have any nieces or nephews before I got married 5 weeks ago, so this is still very new and exciting to me). Penelope is the first whom, from the day of her birth, I can point to and say, "That's my niece! Isn't she adorable?"

I'm gonna be a great aunt.

A Time For Family

15 July 2006. A birthday celebration is held for Alta Fern Taylor Albrecht in Fremont, Utah. Alta is 93 and the grandmother of my fiancé, Scott. She is lovely. Scott and I attend the birthday party, which doubles as a family reunion, as it is on our way to Texas where we will be married a week later. I meet over 80 of Scott’s relatives and am slightly intimidated – everyone welcomes me warmly, but within 30 minutes of us arriving Scott’s parents quiz me on names. Luckily, I pass. I am to be the 100^th member of Alta’s family of descendents, and most of those descendents are here in Fremont. Grandma Alta greets me with a smile and a hug and a kiss, as if we’d known each other forever, though in truth this is our first meeting. She pats Scott on the arm, looks at me seriously, and says, “Now, you had better take care of my grandson.” I start to assure her that I will, and that I love him very much, but she cuts me off by laughing. “Of course you will, dear,” she responds merrily. She is obviously pleased. Grandma Alta then turns her attention to another relative who has just arrived; after all, there are so many people and she must make time for everyone. I turn to Scott and grin. “I like your grandmother.” Scott starts to lead me toward the table of food, but I pause for a moment and look back at Alta, now exchanging hugs and kisses with some of her great-grandchildren. She is glowing; it is apparent that being surrounded by her family means more to her than anything.

6 August 2006. It has been nearly a month since Alta’s 93^rd birthday. My wedding has come and gone, as has my honeymoon, and it will be only a week or so until my new husband and I move into our apartment in Maryland. We know that Alta is very ill; after the fall a few days following her birthday party that broke her arm and hospitalized her, she is not recovering quickly. No one at 93 years of age would.

It is Sunday, and Scott and I are at my mother’s house spending time with my family. Scott’s father, Don, calls us during a game of cards with my siblings, my mother, and my Aunt Melody to tell us that Alta has reached critical condition; she is not expected to live more that a few days, if that much. She is weak, and pale. She doesn’t eat and seems to have lost the will to live. This news is hard to hear - no one is shocked, but everyone is crushed. Scott and I leave my mother’s house within the hour and return to his parents’ home in Bryan, TX, to discuss what this will mean for our plans for moving to Maryland. The four of us – Don, Scott’s mother Carol, Scott, and I – talk about possibilities and throw around ideas, but in truth nobody knows what will happen. Everything revolves around how much longer Alta lives. Eventually we decide that nothing more will be gained from discussion tonight; there are too many unknowns. We will simply take things one day at a time. Don is flying out to Utah the next day to ensure that he gets to say goodbye to Alta – after all, she is his mother. We retire to bed tired and pensive, unsure as to what the coming week will bring.

10 August 2006. It is now Thursday. The last four days have been full of uncertainty and changes of plans; we receive phone calls a few times a day with updates on Alta’s condition. Sometimes it is thought that she will survive a few days or so, while at other times she is not believed to live for longer than a few more hours. We hope that she will soon be relieved of her pain. I feel I am walking on eggshells, and every time the phone rings my heart sinks and my stomach tightens - this could be it.

But now it is Thursday, and we are headed for the east coast and our new home. Don and Carol are driving the moving truck, while Scott and I follow behind in our Nissan Sentra. My mind has calmed a bit, and my focus has turned away from Alta and toward my future in Maryland. The drive is long, but beautiful. Scott and I receive phone calls from his mother in the truck ahead of us often; Carol loves to call and check on us. She asks how we’re doing, if we are hungry, or if we need to use the bathroom. We expect a call every couple hours at least, and I smile to myself each time the phone rings. But this particular call, late on Thursday evening, is different. Even as Scott answers the phone I know the reason for the call, and the look on his face and his words to me only confirm it. “She’s dead.” My heart stops. My mind is suddenly no longer mulling over details of the move, but rather thinking of Alta and the rest of the family who have lost her. My thoughts turn first to Scott, who is sitting quietly in the passenger seat next to me, and then to Don and Carol in the truck ahead of us. I imagine the floods of tears that must be being shed as similar phone calls are made to the rest of the family, and my heart aches for them. I wish I could think of something to say to my husband, but now is not the time for words and so I just quietly hold his hand and continue to drive. We stop at a nearby gas station to fuel up and discuss our next move. While Don is filling up the truck with gas outside, inside the store I ask Carol how he’s doing. She confirms my suspicions that Don has been crying, and insists that we find a hotel in the next town for the night; he needs some time to relax, sit quietly, and think. As we drive the 30 or 40 miles to Minden, Louisiana, I ponder what I imagine Don must be feeling. I remember his red eyes, and think to myself how, even at 93, and even living hundreds of miles away, Alta Albrecht was still just as much his mother. How hard it would be to lose her.

15 August 2006. Tuesday, the day of Alta’s funeral. It has now been exactly a month since her group of 100 descendents gathered around to celebrate her birth; how ironic that we would now all be back to celebrate her life in a very different way. All of Scott’s siblings, his parents, and I are in attendance. Don had flown to Utah on Sunday, and the rest of us arrived on Monday. Carol and Leslie flew from Massachusetts to Atlanta, where Scott, Matt, and I met them, and flew with them to Las Vegas. There we met up with Laura, and the 6 of us rented a minivan and drove to Utah. By the time we arrived in St. George Monday night we were all exhausted; it was about 2:40 in the morning, and we still had 3.5 - 4 hours to drive the next day. I didn’t originally want to come, as I have been living out of a suitcase and traveling around for the last 2 months, and the idea of flying from DC to Atlanta to Vegas and then driving 5 hours in the car (1-way) wasn’t very appealing. But, I wanted to support the family, so I've come.

And now as I sit in the chapel and look around at the many people are here to express their love for Alta and her life, I am suddenly glad I did. Before the funeral service a smaller family gathering is held, just outside the chapel. Family members are allowed to individually approach the coffin and say their final farewells, while the rest of the family draws around for emotional support. Some don’t cry at all, others shed only a few tears for their loss, and a few bury their faces in nearby shoulders or their own hands as sobs rack their bodies. I feel I can hardly breathe, the emotion in the room is so thick. When everyone has taken their turn, we all follow the coffin into the chapel and find our seats as it is placed on the stand at the front of the room. The service begins. It is beautiful; each of Alta’s children speak, sharing stories about their beloved mother and what life meant to her. Some of the tales are humourous, others are inspirational. But all of them are told with the utmost respect, admiration, and love – it is very obvious that Alta’s children care for their mother deeply. She was truly a special woman, someone to model one’s life after. Interspersed with the speakers’ remarks, musical numbers are performed - all at the previous request of Alta herself. I know she loves it. Following the service, the funeral procession drives to the cemetery where Alta’s grave is dedicated and she is buried. Slowly everyone makes their way back to the chapel, where there is food provided by a local charity. After eating and socializing, Scott’s parents, siblings, and I get in the van and drive back towards Las Vegas. We spend much of the drive talking about Alta, about the funeral, and about family in general. It’s wonderful. I am surprised by how much a part of the family I feel, and how close they all are. On the flights home I think back and realize how glad I am that I came. Though exhausting, it has definitely been worth it; I wouldn’t trade the experiences of the last couple of days for anything. How funny this world is: I came to give emotional support to others, and yet I benefited more than anyone else from my attendance. How grateful I am for my family.