THE POWER OF WORDS--A FAMILY STORY

I love words. That love came to me from watching my parents and listening to them make things happen—things that I had viewed as impossible until my parents did their magic with only the spoken word. The choice of words, the tone, the demeanor. They all went into the mix to create strength and effectiveness. 

My father was a man of few words. But when he spoke, he achieved the unachievable. I always did well at school, never got in trouble. Until geometry class. I just wasn’t good at dealing with geometric concepts, and the teacher brushed off my questions. My father wasn’t going to stand for that. He set up a meeting with my teacher. Later that day, I asked him what he'd said. He wouldn’t tell me. But his words must have been powerful because after that meeting, the teacher was so attentive to my needs, and geometry became a very different affair for me.

My mother was a bit unusual for her era. Born in 1915, she was the daughter of Russian immigrants and the sister of 3 boys and 3 girls. She was always an active and take-charge woman. She was fastidious about how she looked and stood tall and purposeful. After her brothers joined the army during WW II, my mother decided to emulate them, and she enlisted too. She achieved the rank of lieutenant, a high rank at that time for a woman. I asked her how her parents felt about it. She told me that her father was pleased that she was one of the few Jewish women officers in the army. Her mother—she was displeased that my mother was one of the few Jewish women in the army. So I guess that my grandfather encouraged my mother’s independence and fortitude, and my grandmother would have preferred a more traditional role. From my vantage point, it seemed that my mother took her cues from her father. 

As my mother aged, she held onto that fortitude until she could no longer maintain it. She was herself until she was about 82. But I watched helplessly as her last 2 years of life were filled with decline. The mother I always knew and loved morphed into an old woman, whom I still loved. The worst part of her decline was that she was becoming demented, but with enough awareness to know how bad things were getting. We tried to keep her in her own home with help, but that didn’t work. Eventually, we had to go the assisted care route. Understandably, that was hard for her—and for us. But one day, my formerly fearless mother told me that she was afraid that the facility was going to force her to leave. She couldn’t articulate why she felt that way. I had to find a way to make her feel some level of security and power. How could I do that? I did what I had been taught—I used my words. I looked at my mother with my most compassionate, yet strong gaze and said emphatically, “TO GET TO YOU, THEY’LL HAVE TO GO THROUGH ME. AND THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN.” I watched as her face relaxed, and I never heard or saw that fear again. Words—powerful words.

Flash forward 20 years. Our Avery just turned 7. From the time she was born, she’s been something of a take charge little imp. My parents would be so proud. One of our favorite Nana/Avery times is when I put her to bed. We talk, and I tell her stories about Helen, Ellen and Mellen, 3 imaginary sisters that I created for Tracy when she was little. We’ve developed a routine. Bedtime usually starts with my having to cajole, beg, command her to stop going through her room to find something that needs attention—like putting stickers on the bed, making a braid out of wire—all of the little necessities of a child who wants to stay up a little longer. 

When I finally get her into bed, I have to climb over the stuffed animals to cuddle her. She’s very sweet to put one of the puffier animals behind my back so that my back won’t hurt. Finally, I start the story. I often get only a sentence started, when Avery decides to direct the action. Like the time that I started with Helen, Ellen and Mellen getting ready for a party. No, that wasn’t on Avery’s agenda. That night, the storyline should be that they’re moving. Okay, I can adapt. The daddy was transferred from his job in Pennsylvania. Stop—no good—“Tennessee”, said Avery. Okay, they’re moving from Tennessee to California. “No”, said Avery—“Las Vegas”. And so it goes. 

She usually asks for another story or two. How can I say no? I can’t. Sometimes I tell her family stories. But now, in the back of my head, and moving forward fast, I’m worried that she’ll outgrow our special time together. Recently, I heard Puff the Magic Dragon. It made me cry. “A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys”. And I’m not ready to "slip into my cave". So, what’s the best way to deal with my fear? Words. One night a few weeks ago, I told Avery that I worry that she’s getting older, and that the day will come when she won’t want to spend these precious end of day moments with me. She looked at me with great seriousness and immediately said “THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN”. My heart stood still as my fears dissipated.

THE SAME WORDS ACROSS GENERATIONS AND YEARS APART. STRONG WORDS FROM A STRONG HEART MAKE EVERYTHING ALRIGHT