Miss Connie concluded her earthly journey last night, slipping peacefully away in the early hours, just before dawn. Her life was a cherished gift to us for a time, and now she has returned to the embrace of the cosmos.
Today, I’m both wracked with grief and overcome with gratitude.
This is a love story like none you’ve ever heard, enveloping both of our families, binding us together like twine. It’s an incredible testimony of inspiration too, a triumph of the human spirit. Connie set the bar high – very high.
This is a long article, so consider this the “get your cup of tea and Kleenex warning.”
The Accidental Meeting
Connie and I didn’t start out knowing each other. We didn’t begin our lives as family.
In fact, we didn’t meet until after both of us had experienced devastating personal losses. Maybe it was because of those events that our lives intertwined. They certainly propelled us on the journey towards that intersection. It’s like fate was trying to introduce us, but we weren’t cooperating.
We literally saved each other – and were thereby bonded into eternity as sisters.
I’m not being facetious.
Connie and I accidentally met back in 1988.
That Fateful Beginning
Connie and Ron, her husband, had moved to Michigan from Pennsylvania in late 1987 for Ron’s employment. Connie was an RN, so she could find a job anyplace.
Two things happened in quick succession.
First, Connie was in a devastating automobile accident that left her with permanent injuries – precluding her from returning to nursing in a hospital environment.
Second, their college-age daughter was diagnosed with cancer.
I met Connie between those two events. I’m using the phrase “met” loosely here, because we didn’t even realize until a few years later that we had been in the same quilt class at a local quilt shop.
Connie and I had both quilted before, but we both needed a refresher for pretty much the same reason. I had learned how to quilt as a teen, but had no time with young children at home and a profession. Neither did she. After Connie’s accident and cross-country move, she needed something to focus her mind and help her recover.
I needed to brush up my skills to make a quilt for the local Humane Society to auction as a fundraiser. We both landed in a class promising to teach the basics of four different quilt patterns in eight weeks. Truth be told, we were supposed to be making mini-quilts, like for a small table, but who wants a quilt that size? I didn’t, so I upped the ante and created a whole lot more work for myself. Some things never change.
During the class, Connie was intently focused on her work at all times. She seemed withdrawn and aloof, disinterested in others, but I later realized she wasn’t – she just needed to concentrate far more than I did due to the effects of her accident.
I still have one of the small lap-size quilts I made in that class and use it for a number of things. Over the last few days, I had been thinking of that quilt, and Connie, quite fondly – reflecting on Fate.
Fast forward a few years.
Carrie
Connie’s lovely daughter, Carrie, fought valiantly. Thankfully, Connie, as a nurse, had the skills to care for her – but Connie’s loving care was not enough to defeat cancer. Neither were her prayers, and Carrie passed away three years later, at age 24, on a cold January day in 1992. Carrie was vibrant, artistic, and full of love, with a shining future in front of her. Until she didn’t.
After their arrival in Michigan, Connie joined the local Embroiderers’ Guild Chapter (EGA), where I was a member too, but none of us realized that our new member, who had never come to meetings, was embroiled in such a horrific personal crisis. We didn’t know Connie – so we weren’t aware that her daughter was ill, or when she passed away.
I was calling members for a fundraiser. Unaware of her daughter’s death, I called Connie. She told me her daughter had recently died. I felt awful, both about her daughter’s death and calling her at such an inopportune moment.
Connie later told me how difficult that time was, not only in terms of Carrie’s illness, but also financially. She said she recalled the jar on the kitchen table with money, and they knew that when it was gone, it was gone. Carrie was too old to be on her parents’ insurance and was far too ill to work.
Had we known, we could have helped. Of course, Connie had her own chronic health challenges, too.
A few months after Carrie passed away, Connie started attending EGA meetings.
The Stroke
In June of 1993, my 47-year-old (former) husband experienced a massive, debilitating stroke, along with several smaller ones. He didn’t die but was paralyzed on the left side of his body and was extremely cognitively impaired. After he regained partial ability to speak, he insisted that he was “fine” and could walk, resulting in several trips to the ER for stitches when he tried to get up and do just that.
Initially, he was not expected to live more than a few days or weeks. He developed clots throughout his body. He spent six months in the hospital before coming home. The entire house had to be made handicapped accessible – and trust me – it wasn’t even close to begin with.
I still had children at home at that time, and we unexpectedly went from two incomes to one. The medical and other bills were off the charts, and I needed to spend a significant amount of time each day at the hospital – then supervising the construction at home.
My prayer was that I would somehow manage to NOT lose the house. Or the car. Somehow, somehow, I had to provide for him – and the children too.
No one explained to me just how difficult his care after he was discharged was going to be – not just because I was dealing with maneuvering a 250-pound man who was both dead weight and combative – but because he had significant ongoing medical issues. It’s not evident when there’s an entire hospital staff, and you have zero experience.
Even worse, I didn’t realize the magnitude or implications of his cognitive issues. My daughter and I thought that when one “woke up” from a stroke, they were the same person – but that’s not at all the case. The original person was forever gone, replaced with a petulant version that was some combination of an angry, resentful 4-year-old with stunning moments of amazing intellectual acuity that appeared and then burned out within seconds. They always made us hopeful that he would return, but that’s not the nature of strokes. We simply didn’t know.
No one told me he needed 24x7x365 care – meaning literally every single minute. I had to hire help in order to work. And not just a person-sitter – but someone who understood how to transfer people from wheelchairs to toilets and the rest of what needed to be done. Someone with the medical savvy and experience to understand and the moxy to interfere with his plans to do as he wished – like walk when he couldn’t.
And in the process, leave him with some shred of dignity.
The older child left without warning – leaving me and the youngest, my daughter, to cope with everything. It was just too much. I needed help.
At the same time, my Dad’s health was deteriorating, and Mom couldn’t leave Indiana to come. She did initially, in June, but by year-end, Dad had been in the hospital again, and she was afraid to leave. She was a wreck, too. Our family was a mess.
The Embroiderers’ Guild members and some close friends had been providing food for me and my daughter as we navigated our new world while he was hospitalized. Bless them. My friend told me to put a cooler on the porch, and each Sunday, they would make double portions of their meal and freeze part of it, and on Monday, on his way to work, her husband would drop that in the porch cooler. That made such a difference, and I was incredibly grateful. Sometimes, seemingly “little things” are not little at all.
My days consisted of work, hospital, and then a little bit of sleep. My daughter’s days were the same, except substitute school for work.
No one wants to be “needy” and vulnerable, but we were, and I had no idea how I was going to navigate those shark-infested waters for all of us to survive.
Within a month or so of his scheduled hospital dismissal, as the handicapped renovation was underway and rushing to be completed – we were allowed to take him out of the hospital for “trial visits.” My daughter and I realized we couldn’t lift him – not even together. We couldn’t get his wheelchair over curbs and bumps – and he was chronically angry because he couldn’t do what he used to be able to do – blaming us for restricting him. Parts of his brain were missing, like Swiss cheese. You can’t invoke logic with someone who has lost the capacity to be logical.
He was angry, understandably, and took it out on the people at hand – us. He didn’t have the capacity to understand that it wasn’t our fault. He hit us and intentionally urinated on us. Taking him to the bathroom, especially in public, was challenging – that was before the days of family restrooms. His wheelchair was huge and extra heavy because he was so tall, and it didn’t fit in many restrooms – not even some handicapped stalls.
We were trying our best but had no concept of the magnitude of what we were facing.
My daughter and I were being trained on how to provide for his care. I came to understand way too late that she was too young to be saddled with that level of responsibility, literally a role reversal. No social worker explained the situation in black and white, accurately setting our expectations. Instead, shortly after the stroke, we were asked, “Do you want to bring him home?” Of course, the answer was yes.
Had we understood the reality of the situation, the answer might well have been different. That said, I have no idea what options were possible. Our health care in the US is not set up for this sort of thing. Hence, handicapped construction was started with the expectation that he could stay home in the day, and that his impairments were physical in nature – not a brain injury that affected his ability to keep himself safe.
Several months into his recovery, after we began those “trial visits,” I realized I needed to hire someone during the day while I worked. Another expense I couldn’t afford. I went to an EGA meeting, and when someone asked how we were doing, I had a meltdown and told them what was happening. Even the strongest of people have endurance limits, and I had exceeded mine.
Helpful members asked about insurance, but insurance doesn’t pay for that type of care. In home care cost a minimum of $20 per hour, or more – in 1993. Welfare or Medicaid? Nope, I earned “too much,” and if I didn’t work, I would definitely lose the house. I was trapped. I had to earn even more, and I was barely, barely, making ends meet the way it was. How does anyone increase their pay by $20 an hour?
Plus, I was seriously burning out.
The money wasn’t the biggest issue, though. Finding someone reliable, or anyone at all was the biggest problem. After Tom came home in mid-December, I lost two caregivers in two weeks, then two more in January. He was extremely difficult. I had to work. I asked the other EGA members if anyone had any idea how to handle this. Did anyone know someone capable of this daunting task?
Connie
Connie came over and sat down beside me. I knew her by sight but nothing more. I didn’t even realize at that point that we had been in the same quilt class years earlier. That seemed like a lifetime ago, and it was, for both of us.
Connie had been gone for a few months. Her husband, Ron, had been transferred temporarily to Wisconsin, and they had just returned. She had missed most of the stroke-related drama, and that was her first month back.
She sat down beside me and said, “I’ll take care of your husband.”
I still remember, to this day, my mouth falling open in disbelief. I was shell-shocked. My initial reaction was. “how incredibly kind,” but also misdirected, because she probably had no idea of what was involved. I didn’t realize Connie was a medically retired RN with LOTS of experience.
Connie was dead serious, and we worked out a payment agreement that I could afford but would also give her some “egg money,” as she called it.
God bless this woman. She saved my sanity.
The first day she began to work for me was on her 54th birthday. She had come over a few days earlier to get acquainted with my husband and our household.
Connie always carried a basket with her, kind of like an extension of her purse. That basket was full of treasures and things that she “might need.” It usually included some crochet project, too.
On her first day, she cheerily started taking “things” out of her basket in the kitchen, including food. I said to her, “Connie, I have things in the fridge for lunch for both of you.” She said, “Oh, this is for dinner. What kinds of things do you like for dinner?”
When I thought I couldn’t love Connie any more, I did. I told her that my favorite meal was any meal that someone else made. And maybe she could start enough for both her family and mine too – so she didn’t have to cook twice. That’s what we did!
Coming home from work to cook and clean and be both second and third-shift nursing staff, then clean him up and get myself ready for work in the morning left me with not one iota of energy to cook. My daughter was the secondary caregiver, and we were both chronically exhausted.
Connie started dinner every afternoon. Lunch the next day was leftovers. God love that woman. I came home to wonderful smells, with Connie smiling and happily cooking, and talking with my husband.
Life Improved
There are no words to explain my relief. Life slowly began to improve, although it was still an incredible emotional roller coaster.
The absent child became permanently estranged, regardless of anything anyone did.
My Dad became increasingly ill and died in September. Bless her heart, Connie came over with her clothes a few days before he passed away and told me to pack up and go. She said she would take care of hubby, and that I would regret it if I didn’t see my Dad again.
She wouldn’t accept a penny for the additional hours either. She gave us a gift far beyond what money could buy.
We went, and she was right. It was what Dad and I both needed, leaving us closure and a sense of peace that we left nothing unsaid. She also stayed while my daughter and I attended the funeral.
In true grandmotherly style, Connie nicknamed my daughter “Gretchie-Face,” which Connie was still lovingly calling her as recently as 18 months ago when Connie congratulated her for accruing another graduate degree, with distinction. Connie didn’t miss a beat!
Emotional Tsunami
While things were improving, in 1994, I felt like I was living in an emotional tsunami that would crumble with any small shift. I kept buoying things back up again – or trying. The future wasn’t simply uncertain; it was eggshell fragile – likely to shatter at any minute.
Connie and I talked a lot over those months. About coping and not coping. About life and death. Anger, betrayal, sorrow, and grief. About anticipated death and lingering death. About her daughter and my estranged child. Her daughter didn’t choose to die. Mine chose permanent absence. One soul-crushing thing after another.
I told Connie I missed my friends and anything resembling some kind of life of my own. I had almost forgotten what that was like. I really couldn’t go anyplace because I couldn’t leave him, it wasn’t fair to saddle my daughter any more than necessary, and I couldn’t afford more hours of care. Just an outing to go to the grocery was a wonderfully anticipated adventure – and I hate grocery shopping.
Connie suggested that we begin to meet at my house once a month on Saturday, a day she didn’t work for me, along with a couple of other close friends so that we could quilt.
I couldn’t believe she was actually willing to come to my house on one of her two days off. What an angel!
Quilt Day became a tradition.
Connie arrived on Quilt Day carrying her signature basket just like any other day. Sometimes she quilted, sometimes she crocheted. It didn’t matter, because someplace between 5 and 7 of us gathered together joyfully, sewing, chatting, and eating. My husband enjoyed the company, too.
Over the years, this same group has seen each other through the highest of highs and the most devastating grief. The group has morphed and evolved, with some people leaving and others joining.
I looked forward to those days like I’ve never looked forward to anything before or since. Some shred of normalcy in a life of constant chaos. Attendees and location have changed, but we still have a “quilt day” of sorts, kind of like the ax that’s still “the ax,” even though both the handle and head have been replaced at some point over the years.
June 1994 marked the one-year anniversary of my husband’s stroke. No one thought he’d live that long, but somehow, he managed. We found ourselves in the ER often, embroiled in one medical crisis after another.
With Connie’s help, we found something of a stride. She helped us in so many ways. I needed to navigate the grief of losing the husband I knew. My daughter lost her father in the same way. That was followed by the death of my Dad. Casting a shadow over all of this was the message the absence of the estranged child delivered all-too-succinctly.
By the time the 1994 holidays were rolling around, in spite of everything, we had achieved a tenuous new normal. However, it wouldn’t last for long.
And it’s not what you’re thinking…
Emergency!
My husband came home from the hospital the week before Christmas in 1993. We were approaching a year in December of 1994. I was trying to prepare for a new and uncertain version of the holidays.
Connie hadn’t been feeling well. She had bad days and good days resulting from her prior injuries.
On bad days, she would ask Ron to drive her, and my daughter would step into the caregiver role for her father while I drove Connie home at the end of the day. My daughter wasn’t old enough to drive, so she and Connie got a chance to visit after she got home from school. I didn’t realize at the time what a happy accident this was, and how much my daughter really needed Connie’s easy, loving wisdom. Connie was the only person in our lives who understood what we were going through.
Around December 15th, and I could tell you the day had I not burned my journals, Ron dropped Connie off one morning on his way to the airport for a business trip. I would take her home.
That evening, Connie, with her ever-present basket, got into the car, and I drove her home like I had done so many times before.
I pulled into her driveway, and she got out, opened the garage door, and went in that way. It was the most direct path. I always waited to see her inside safely. Normally, she closed the garage door, but this time she didn’t. She had gone into the house door from the garage, so I didn’t think too much about it. I waited for a minute, then backed down the driveway and pulled into the street. I drove for a few blocks, then felt increasingly uneasy. I fought the feeling initially but then turned around and went back. I had to check.
The garage door was still open. I pulled into the driveway, got out of the vehicle, walked through the garage, and knocked on the door Connie had entered.
No answer.
Maybe she was upstairs or in the bathroom.
I pounded, feeling increasingly alarmed for what seemed like no reason.
No answer.
I yelled her name.
No answer.
I opened the door while calling as loudly as I could, although I felt VERY strange about going into someone’s house uninvited like that.
No answer.
Ok, I had to find her.
I walked into the hallway connecting the kitchen, living room, and central area.
I saw her basket sitting on the hallway table beside the phone and a floral arrangement.
Then…I saw Connie.
On the floor.
Flat.
Unconscious.
Turning blue.
At one time, years before, I was a volunteer EMT with the local fire department. Some things never leave you.
Connie wasn’t breathing. Her lips were already blue. She had no pulse.
OH GOD.
Adrenalin and muscle memory kicked in.
I knew I had to call an ambulance, but I also knew I had to do CPR, or she wouldn’t last long enough for the ambulance, which was stationed halfway across the county.
I called 911 from that phone on the table. Thank God it was there.
My cell phone was in the car, and coverage was very spotty back then.
911 asked me for my address.
HOW THE HELL DO I KNOW?
They have geo-locators. They are supposed to know. I told them the street name in the sub, which was only about two blocks long, and that it was the condo with the red Jeep in the driveway, running, with the driver’s door open in front of an open garage.
And that I needed them or any officer or volunteer firefighter ASAP.
Also, how many compressions before a breath? I couldn’t remember.
I had already cleared her airway, started CPR, and was doing compressions while trying to talk to Central Dispatch.
Good God.
I continued.
Time seemed surreal and slowed to a crawl.
I heard the ambulance.
Drive by.
They didn’t stop.
And then drive by again.
WHAT WERE THEY DOING?
Central Dispatch had told me not to hang up, but the phone cord wouldn’t reach to the floor where Connie was.
She started breathing. FINALLY. Shallowly. I almost couldn’t tell.
And a very, very weak feathery pulse – so weak I wasn’t sure I felt it.
Plus, I was shaking.
Then what always happens when CPR works happened. Yes, I was covered, but I was never so happy in my life to be vomited on.
GLORY HALLEJUAH.
She wasn’t conscious, though. We had a problem.
I grabbed the phone and demanded to know what the devil the ambulance was doing.
Pull into the danged driveway with that Jeep and come inside. How many driveways have a running red Jeep with the door open? Seriously.
I was so glad to finally see those EMTs.
I sobbed with relief. And fear.
Connie very clearly was not out of the woods.
Wrecks
Connie was a mess with a very weak heartbeat that could stop at any second.
I was a wreck.
I really couldn’t safely drive, and I WAS going to the hospital with Connie. No one else knew what happened; she certainly wasn’t going alone.
Ron was out of town.
I did manage to shut the Jeep off and close the door. I grabbed my purse and hers.
At the hospital, I had to argue with the staff, who decided that she “just had a seizure.”
That was no seizure. She had a cardiac event.
You don’t have to do CPR with seizures.
Ron
I managed to find Ron, and of course, he headed home immediately, but he had to catch a plane.
A few hours later, after Connie was admitted and settled, he took me back to their house, and we cleaned up the mess. I drove home.
The next day, he called me from the hospital and told me that they were planning to dismiss her.
I was livid.
I told him not to do anything until I got there. Only family was allowed, so I was her “sister.”
Sure enough, they were still saying it was a seizure.
Having advocated for my husband for over 18 months, by that time, I had learned what worked.
I told Ron not to interfere with what I was about to do.
I asked the nurse to get the doctor. I got pushback, asked for her name and badge number, and insisted on seeing the doctor. The doctor arrived, very irritated, demanding to know who I was and what I wanted. I told him that I was Connie’s sister who did CPR on her and asked if cardiac had rounded on her. No, he said – no need. I asked why I had to do CPR, and she was not breathing and blue if cardiac wasn’t involved. He said it was “probably just a seizure.” I asked if he was willing to bet her life, and his career on that? He glared at me. I told him she wasn’t going anyplace without cardiac rounding on her. Period. Full stop.
He looked at Ron. Ron, thankfully, didn’t contradict me.
The doctor was furious and stormed out.
Uncertain, Ron and I sat and waited.
A different doctor, a cardiologist, arrived a couple of hours later. A pleasant, cheerful man, he asked me questions, asked Ron about her history, checked her over, listening to her heart and veins, then told Connie he was ordering some additional tests. I don’t recall what they were. They rolled Connie away a few minutes later.
Ron and I waited in the room for what seemed like forever.
The doctor and Connie returned at about the same time.
The doctor was now somber and matter-of-fact. No longer cheery.
He explained that it indeed had been a cardiac event and that Connie was in grave danger.
She needed open-heart surgery – sooner than later.
It was already late that day, and they needed to do more prep before surgery.
They transferred Connie to Cardiac ICU and scheduled her surgery for a day and a half later – first thing that morning.
Ron called their daughters, who arrived the next day.
They told us that Connie might well not make it out of surgery. We were terrified.
The Quilt
I had been in the process of making Connie a quilt for Christmas. Connie’s favorite quilt pattern was a log cabin, and I had found dog fabric and was making a log cabin around a dog center. I named it Dog Cabin.
We had furry family members, both dogs and cats, and Connie loved them too. They became her family as well. Each one was awarded nicknames of their own.
Additionally, when Connie was stressed or having a bad health day, she would put a scrap of beautiful fabric in her pocket and “pet” it.
She had a piece of the border fabric in her pocket since about Thanksgiving. That’s when I decided to make her that quilt – with that fabric.
Here’s Connie with Dog Cabin in 2018.
I went home that night and stayed up almost all night, finishing that quilt for Connie. With all the care/prayer quilts she made for others, she wasn’t going into that surgery without one of her own.
I grabbed a couple of hours of sleep. My daughter stayed with her father, and I headed to the hospital.
Specialists came and went. Finally, they were finished, and Connie’s Priest arrived. I had given Connie her quilt, and she was covered up with it. She tucked it under her chin, saying it made her feel better. As sick as she was, with tubes and wires everywhere, she was smiling.
The Priest asked if we could all join hands, surrounding Connie with a Divine circle of love.
We did, and he began to pray out loud.
Heavenly Father….something…something…something..
Then BOOM – Connie’s EKG leads literally flew off of her body – everyplace – all at once.
The nurses came running because, for all the world, on the electronic monitoring equipment, it looked like Connie had coded.
Everyone was shocked, not believing what they saw. They asked us all to step back, of course, then leave the room.
Surgery Day
The surgery took forever, and I mean literally forever.
The doctors came to talk to us a couple of times.
Yes, she was pulling through – and somehow, the valve damage wasn’t quite as bad as the films and scans showed. They were a bit perplexed as to why, but very grateful.
Finally, the surgery was over, four bypasses completed.
The doctors told us that the surgery was successful but also that all they could do was buy her some time. Probably not much time.
She was still with us, but the future was more uncertain than ever.
For the duration of her life, Connie unwaveringly believed that the quilt combined with the prayer caused something to heal that heart valve that baffled the doctors so. That healing energy, in turn, blew off those electrodes.
What Next
One thing was for sure. Connie certainly wasn’t going to be able to work for me again.
I had to do something, but what?
My daughter had all that she could take, too.
Losing Connie destabilized everyone.
I lost two more caregivers in less than a week, and by that time, had missed two weeks of work.
I had also been shielding my mother from how bad things really were.
Dad had only been gone three months, after a slow, agonizing death, and Mom wasn’t doing well either.
My customers, who had been exceedingly patient, were sending signals that they couldn’t do this forever.
I decided that I had to move my husband to an adult foster care home, a form of assisted living where caregiving expenses are divided among a few residents.
I couldn’t bring myself to do it before Christmas. He was going to be devastated. My daughter was devastated in multiple ways. This situation had not been kind to her.
Plus, I really, really needed my mother’s presence.
The Worst Night
I can close my eyes and see the scene vividly.
I had put the Christmas tree up, and the lights were twinkling in what should have been a beautiful scene. The rest of the lights in the house were turned off. I was sitting at the dining room table, where I could see my husband in his hospital bed.
Neither child was there. Connie was gravely ill, and hopefully on the mend, but not coming back. Mom was a mess and looking forward to arriving the next day for a week. I think it was December 23rd, but I’m not sure.
I knew I had to tell my mother that neither child would be with us during Christmas. And I had to tell her we were taking my husband to a facility a day or two after Christmas because I needed him settled so I could go back to work.
She already knew about Connie.
I remember vividly that I simply wanted the layer upon layer of incredible emotional pain to stop. I sat there and suddenly understood and comprehended suicide. I didn’t “want to kill myself,” I wanted the pain to end. I quickly realized what that choice would do to both my mother and daughter, not to mention my husband, although, by that point, he hated me because he thought I, not the stroke, was preventing him from his previous life. I pushed the idea of suicide out of my mind. I knew I needed help, for me, but under the circumstances, that was entirely impossible.
The good news, if there was any, is that with him in an adult foster care home, I could visit him daily, his needs would be met, and I would have some time to actually get some help for myself.
My mother arrived the next day. I sat her down and told her everything. We cried together, and when we were done, we put together a plan for both of us.
Sometimes, you really, really need your mother.
1995
Mom went home and made plans to move into the town near where she lived. She also attended grief counseling.
I improved without 24x7x365 unrelenting stress and found a counselor as well.
My daughter got help too.
My husband was not happy, but he was safe and at that point, he wasn’t happy anyplace.
Day by day, Connie was improving and told me she felt better than she had in years.
Within six weeks or maybe two months, she was able to come over for a Quilt Day.
The quilt sisters truly were a form of family. Many of us had no siblings, or none close.
Each other’s homes were second homes.
If we were tired, we took a nap. Need something? Look in the drawer. Can I borrow your scissors? Will you go to the doctor with me next week? It’s snowing; can I spend the night?
Once, something spilled on Connie’s shirt, so instead of going home, I just got her one of my shirts, and we didn’t miss a beat. Quilt Day continued, with a little help from a rescue kitten.
I so love this picture of Connie.
Momma Carrie Quilts
Connie told me that after her daughter passed away, she started Momma Carrie Quilts. It wasn’t an official organization, although I believe she had some labels made. She began making both charity and care quilts that held the love of both Connie and Carrie, blended into a beautiful, harmonious generosity. Over time, she also made crafts for bazaars to raise funds, and donated to various women’s causes, many of which were domestic violence, cancer, or health care related.
It was Connie’s influence that launched my own journey of care quilts – with her. As a teenager, I participated in making charity quilts from time to time with other women. From my perspective, that was a social gathering – not really one born of need.
Mamma Carrie quilts were different. Very different
Oklahoma City Bombing
On April 19, 1995, I entered the lobby of a municipal government customer to discover everyone staring at a TV in the corner, in complete silence. That was anything but normal.
The Alfred Murrah building in Oklahoma City had been bombed in an act of domestic terrorism. We didn’t know that yet, of course, just that a bomb had gone off, and the building had collapsed.
At that time, we saw smoke and debris and utter chaos.
Rescue efforts ensued in extremely unsafe circumstances. A daycare was on the premises, with children trapped inside, along with hundreds of adults who worked there.
Rebecca Anderson, an off-duty nurse, was safe at home, but she saw what was happening and headed straight downtown to help.
A piece of debris fell and hit Rebecca on the head. She died the next day, leaving two children and a husband.
Connie felt close to her because she, too, was a nurse.
We decided to make quilts for both of Rebecca’s children and her husband.
Momma Carrie quilts of course.
We tried to find Coca-Cola fabric, one child’s favorite, but were unable. Of course, online shopping didn’t exist then. We wanted to get the quilts on their way as quickly as possible. I wish we had taken pictures of the quilts, but we never even thought about that.
Over the following years, Connie, the other quilt sisters, and I worked on countless care quilts. That too changed as circumstances changed, but several of us still continue that legacy today.
Connie went from the leader to the cheer-leader as her health declined.
I promised Connie that I would continue as long as I can. Perhaps others will pass it on.
The Move
In the late 1990s, Ron was transferred to Tennessee and then lost that job.
Returning home, they decided to sell their condo while they could, because he was clearly going to need to find a job elsewhere. Positions in his industry were few and far between.
Their condo was sold before he had a new job, so they had to move.
I had created a large-handicapped accessible room with a bathroom and laundry attached to the kitchen, so it was perfect for Ron and Connie.
They moved in with me, and we became roommates for a year or two.
The Gardens
The one thing that Connie didn’t want to leave behind was the plants in her garden lovingly planted by Carrie all those years earlier. She remembered those joyful times as her eyes took on a far-away look.
A part of Carrie’s life, those plants lived on and brought Connie happiness – memories of life in the garden with Carrie.
Connie just wanted to know that they lived on. Life that Carrie brought forth on earth.
Connie transplanted them in my garden, and I promised to be a good steward, returning them to her after she got settled somewhere. We didn’t anticipate that Connie and Ron would move to an apartment first and that I would move before they bought a house again.
When I moved a few years later, I moved Connie’s Salvia with me, leaving a few for posterity. That’s what Connie would have wanted and what she did when she brought them to my house. I eventually sent seeds to Connie’s daughter, although I’m not sure they germinated.
When I moved again two decades later, the Salvia went to my daughter’s garden.
Everyone was happy.
The middle name of one of our quilt sisters is Rose. She, too, had a lovely garden, and Connie asked her if she would like Carrie’s white Peace Rose.
That rose bush has lived happily in Jan’s garden for years, and bloomed for the first time on 9-11.
Connie’s Gifts
One day, Connie asked me if she could have some of my cat fabric.
I wasn’t about to say no, but I really, REALLY liked this fabric, so part of me didn’t want to give it up.
Bless her heart, Connie surprised me by making me a beautiful, snuggly, warm duvet with carded wool inside.
Today, I kind of wish I had that to wrap up in. A quilt is a hug of love, and I’d love to feel Connie hugging me one more time through that quilt.
I wanted to be sure it found its way back to Connie’s family where it can be loved for generations, so I sent it on to the next stop in its journey when we moved two years ago.
When I moved this last time, I found a dishcloth or potholder that Connie made me with a cat pattern. She sent me care packages occasionally and knew I loved cats. I had set it aside because it was special. Sometimes, I used it for a little placemat/potholder for a bowl. Today, I laid it out on the counter and just touched it, because her hands touched it.
Connie was a master of comfort, of finding the right thing to do or the right words to say, even if they were a bit colorful from time to time.
That woman made me laugh, and sometimes laugh through my tears.
The Promise
In the late 90s, Connie’s eldest daughter became pregnant. Everyone was thrilled, but no one more so than Connie.
She had feared she would never live long enough to meet her grandchildren.
Keeping in mind that she was now 5 or 6 years past that surgery that would “buy her only a short time,” she was concerned that her grandchildren would never know her.
She asked me if I would promise to make quilts for her grandchild or grandchildren if she died before she could.
I told her, “Absolutely not,” that she had to stay alive and she had better get busy.
We laughed, but she knew the real answer.
I prayed fervently that I never needed to live up to that promise.
Vegas
Memories of Connie simply wouldn’t be complete without recounting our legendary trip to Vegas.
Ron had won a trip to Vegas through his work, but it had to be used by year’s end. I struggled terribly with the holidays. My Mom was spending Thanksgiving with my brother, which was fine. Not only was she not going to get caught in bad weather on the long drive to my house, but she had grandchildren there.
I was single once again, but Ron, Connie, and I would be together. We were family.
Ron suggested we go to Vegas on Thanksgiving Day. There was no reason not to, and the plane fares were actually quite reasonable early Thanksgiving morning. Vegas wasn’t as crowded, and we could enjoy ourselves without the intrusion of unwanted memories. All I had to pay for was my plane ticket.
Perfect plan!
We enjoyed a lovely Thanksgiving dinner at one of the hotels, then retired to our hotel above one of the casinos.
Connie loved to gamble.
She told me she always won, and of course, I soundly poo-pooed that idea.
I told her I was going with her to see how she did it! Ron started laughing and told me he wanted to know what I thought of her methodology.
Ron gave Connie $100 and laid down to watch TV. Connie and I were off to the races…er…slot machines.
Connie traded her $100 for casino coins and flitted from machine to machine like the happiest of sparrows. Skeptic that I am, I simply watched and had fun going along with Connie. From time to time, one of the machines spit something out, and that jingle jangle sounded like a jackpot in the metal tray. I swear, it’s a form of crack!
Connie gleefully and triumphantly scooped those coins up and put them into a different cup, keeping her initial money separate from her winnings.
My job became to scoop up the winning coins from the slot machine trays.
We saw a bride dressed in her gown perched on a stool, playing the slots while waiting her turn to be called to the wedding chapel.
Eventually, the original cup was empty, so Connie said we should go back to the room so she could count her winnings. She seemed thrilled, but I couldn’t help but notice that the cup was less than half as full as the original cup had been.
Regardless, back up to the room we went.
We sat down on the bed and Connie counted. There was just under $40 worth of coins in the winnings cup. She held it up victoriously and proclaimed, “Look what I won!!” Needless to say, I was quite confused.
She was down more than $60 from where she started.
Ron was visibly smirking and looking at me, just waiting.
I asked Connie, “You’re down more than $60, how did you win?”
She got a twinkle in her eye and said, “It wasn’t my hundred dollars. It was Rons. What came out is mine. I won that!”
Ron and I both busted out laughing. I could tell this had been a long-running joke between them. Who was right, and who was wrong? The fun was in the banter, of course.
So, Ron said to me, trying to prove his point, “As a business owner, what do you think of Connie’s “winnings?”
I looked at him, smiled broadly, held out my hand, and said, “Can I have $100, Ron?”
We all belly-laughed until we cried, literally falling across our beds, holding our stomachs, and wiping the tears away.
What a wonderful time we had.
Ron loved to play golf. The next day, he set off for one of the legendary courses, and Connie and I set off for quilt shops, bookstores, lunch, and whatever else. We had so much fun just spelunking around. I don’t think we bought anything, except Connie bought lunch with her “winnings,” and of course, we had to laugh all over again.
We met back at the hotel, and Ron said that one of the men he had met in his foursome playing golf had invited us for dinner and a show afterward. Ron said he was a mortician, er, funeral director, from Ohio.
OK, Ron had vetted him. I envisioned some nice, quiet man dressed, of course, in black or, maybe on a wild day, in a grey suit.
We were to meet in the lobby at an agreed-upon time.
As we were descending in the elevator, I noticed a black limo pull up to the front doors, and a man in a bright pink sequined jacket got out of the back of the limo. Interesting what you see in Vegas. Kind of reminded me of Elvis, although he didn’t look like Elvis. This man was in his 50s with gray hair.
We exited the elevator and walked through the lobby. Ron was looking for his friend. Finally, he saw him on the other side of the room, near the bar – and he was the man sporting the pink sequins.
The worst part was that I was wearing RED, with a few sequins. His jacket was entirely covered in extremely bright pink sequins – like Barbie pink. Lord have Mercy.
Ron introduced us.
I gave Ron the evil eye when no one was looking.
Ron shrugged.
Off we went to dinner in his limo.
At dinner, Mr. Pink Sequins told us all about his business, how successful he was, how perfect his children were, how imperfect his ex-wife was, and more. I was actually grateful that I didn’t have to say anything. I wasn’t impressed, or perhaps I should say I was impressed, but not favorably.
I discovered during the meal that this was Ron’s idea of a blind date – and apparently, Mr. Pink Sequins knew. Connie and I were the only two who didn’t. Ron thought he had done really well since he had found me a nice rich guy. “Rich” wasn’t even on my list of qualifiers, and I didn’t want to date anyone at all.
We had reservations to see the 5th Dimension. Our meal wasn’t finished yet, so Mr. Pink Sequins called the Maître d’, who said he would “take care of it.” I thought he meant he would expedite dessert. That’s not what happened.
When it was time to leave, I realized the check hadn’t arrived. I was hell-bent to pay my own. There was no way I was letting Mr. Pink Sequins pay for mine.
However, Mr. Pink Sequins was a regular there, and the bill was already on his house account. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
We were late for the show, but met by an escort who took us directly to our seats. They had actually waited to start the show. I was incredibly embarrassed and had mouthed to Ron more than once, “I’m going to kill you.” Ron mouthed, “I didn’t know.”
I’ve cropped Mr. Pink Sequins from beside me because I don’t want to get myself sued.
I sent this picture to Connie a few years ago, and she said she could still see that jacket, even without the picture.
Me too.
At the end of the show, which was truly amazing, we returned to our hotel in the limo. Mr. Pink Sequins asked if we wanted to have a drink. I excused myself, saying I was tired. Connie did the same. Then Ron thanked him and said he was passing, too.
Mr. Pink Sequins proceeded to attempt to take ahold of my elbow and suggest we have a drink at the bar, as in, “only one – you know you want to.” Oh, HELL NO!
I know it’s an anomaly in Vegas, but I don’t drink, and I CERTAINLY didn’t want to be in his company any longer. My creep-o-meter was going off at increasingly higher levels.
I grabbed ahold of Ron’s arm and gave him the “this is your fault” evil-eye look.
Ron said he thought it was time for us to go to our room. Not rooms, plural.
This gave Mr. Pink Sequins pause for a minute, and he said, “You’re all in one room?” We all shook our heads yes, in unison, with both of us holding onto one of Ron’s arms.
Mr. Pink looked mortified, pardon the pun, and announced that he wasn’t “into that.” All three of us busted out laughing again because neither were we. We were literally family and roommates.
It did, however, solve our problem with Mr. Pink Sequins.
Back in the room, I told Ron to never, ever, EVER do me the favor of setting me up again. Especially not without me knowing about it. Ron, bless his heart, had the best of intentions and thought he was doing me a favor, but he wasn’t.
Connie was saying the same thing from Ron’s other side. Ron told us it was like being pecked to death by two chickens. We laughed about this over and over again for decades!
The next day, we took a tour bus to Red Rock Canyon and the Hualapai Indian Reservation.
It was cold, colder than we expected. Connie and I bought matching wool ponchos in the gift shop. I still have mine and think of her every time I use it. It warms my body and my soul.
The Rosary
Connie was a devout Catholic.
After my life had evolved and I found myself dating, then eventually marrying Jim, I decided I wanted to make Jim a rosary. He, too, was Catholic.
Of course, I had no idea how to do that or how many beads went where, so Connie helped me.
Moving Back to Pennsylvania
In 2002, Ron’s job changed once again, and they moved back to Pennsylvania – home to them.
I know Connie was happy to be near her daughter and grandchildren, but I missed her desperately. They spent their last night with us in the new house. She walked the garden one last time. I tried not to cry when they departed for the last time. She was so happy.
Connie held her own, but her health wasn’t great. She wanted and needed to be closer to family.
They had traveled some after her surgery, but travel was increasingly difficult for her, especially by car.
We knew that this was possibly the last time we would see Connie, so after she left, the quilt sisters made her a “round robin” quilt where someone makes the center, and everyone else makes a border.
I stitched the center that said:
You never really leave a place you love,
Part of it you take with you,
And part of you will be left behind.
The embroidery was centered in her favorite log cabin blocks. Each quilt sister added their own row in ever-expanding borders.
I surrounded it with photos of the quilt group, when we lived together, and, of course, our trip to Vegas.
Now, this quilt lives with her eldest daughter.
As both Connie and Ron spent more time in their recliners, I made a smaller flannel quilt for Connie out of Americana fabric. .
Connie told me that the only problem with it was that Ron kept stealing it. I laughed and made him one from the scraps left over from hers. I could just see both of them falling asleep under their cozy lap quilts. I don’t have a picture of Ron’s.
A few years later, Ron became ill and passed away in 2011. No one ever dreamed that Connie would outlive Ron, but she did.
My Wedding
Jim and I were married in 2003, but I have very few photos. The photographer had some type of camera fail, and the only pictures we have are candids taken by the guests, with only a couple of exceptions.
Jim and I were on a fairly austere budget.
The wedding was small, limited to about 30 people – just family and our closest friends. We were married under a canopy of oak trees outside the Mon Ami Winery restaurant in a beautiful setting on Catawba Island. The reception was inside.
Connie knew that we didn’t have funds for floral decorations. As their wedding gift, she and Ron drove in early from Pennsylvania, and Connie made silk floral decorations for the gazebo. The quilt sisters decorated.
For the reception table, Connie purchased some flowers and picked other roadside native plants and herbs. Ron commented that she wanted to stop everywhere to pick something. I can just see her doing that, too. She would have been gleefully spotting more plants, and Ron would have turned around and pulled over, grumbling the entire time. They made such a perfect pair.
Our reception was in the cooking school, and it hurts my heart that I don’t have good photos of them, the arrangements, or anyone else actually.
Bless Connie’s wonderful generosity and that she was one of the family members able to be with us that day.
That was the last time I saw Connie in person, but thanks to the blessings of social media and email, I’ve been able to maintain communications, including photos that make everything seem more real.
Joie de Vivre – Joy of Living
Connie never lost her joie de vivre nor her sense of humor.
After Ron died and her health continued to deteriorate, imagine my surprise to see this picture of Connie in San Francisco a few years later, in front of a Go-Car that she rented.
Helmet and all!!!
Go Miss Connie!!!
That was followed by her grinning like the cat that ate the canary in front of the Ghirardelli chocolate shop on Fisherman’s Wharf. She loved chocolate!
Connie clearly knew how to live. Her family made sure she enjoyed life as much as possible.
Graduation Day
In 2015, Connie attended the graduation of that grandson she was concerned would never know her – and another graduation four years later too.
In 2018, following another heart attack, they told us there was nothing they could do, and that Connie had maybe three months to live.
Connie told me what they had said, but she also told me that she fully intended to attend her grandson’s college graduation the following year. We were all shocked.
Not only that, but Connie also managed to attend his wedding – in 2021. She looked incredible!
Connie was one amazing woman.
Connie was buttons-popping proud of her grandson – here in full dress military blues. This photo touched my heart deeply. So much love between them. At his wedding, he’s taking care of his grandmother, who had defied death to be there.
The Rooster War
I want to leave you with a funny story.
Connie owned a porcelain rooster that lived in her kitchen. At least, did, for a while.
I began seeing pictures of the rooster with her daughters, first one, then the other. In some of the strangest places!
Like on the beach, in bed, and in various places that a kitchen rooster just wouldn’t be.
The rooster managed to get roosternapped from time to time, and a great rooster rivalry commenced.
That rooster was so well-traveled, I swear. He went everywhere.
I’m just glad he didn’t commit roostercide by falling out of a truck someplace along the interstate. Rumor had it that he ran off with a long-haul trucker for some time, on a wild lark, taking selfies hither and yon.
Seems that even the Pope got involved – or maybe he declined to get involved. I’m not clear.
Perhaps Connie is chatting with all of the former Popes herself now.
In 2020, on Mother’s Day, I think Connie might have resorted to a little bribery to get Rooster back.
I did my part today….sent wine to my daughter as our state liquor stores are closed, can I say, mother of the year?
That didn’t work, but garnered this response.
If our mom knew it was National Daughter Day the other day, she would have written, “To my amazing, wonderful, intelligent, kind-hearted daughters… I love you and am proud of you. Oh, and Anne Marie gets the Rooster when I croak. Love Mom”
For years, we watched the Facebook feeds of all three people to see where that Wanderlust Rooster got to.
I’m going to miss that! And the Rooster is probably mad cause he’s grounded. Just sayin’!
And now, of course, I need to know if the Rooster will be in attendance at Connie’s funeral. Maybe crowing about something!
Also, who gets the Rooster???
Connie’s Legacy
When I woke up this morning, I saw the message that overnight, Connie had departed for the great beyond.
I’m guessing she thought Ron had been unsupervised long enough and that she just couldn’t wait any longer to see Carrie.
Connie used to tell me of the various ways Carrie communicated with her after she passed over – things that just couldn’t have happened, but did.
I wondered if somehow Connie would reach out – or if, after 83 years, she was just glad to be free of her painful body.
I laid in bed for a long time, trying unsuccessfully not to straight-up ugly cry. I recalled that when Mom died, Connie told me that stars in the sky weren’t just stars, but were openings or portals to allow the light of our loved ones to shine down upon us. They are saying hello and are happy, Connie said, trying to lessen my grief. Just look up.
I remember when my Dad died, she told me he was still with me, but I just couldn’t see him. She told me she could feel him and that I could talk to him.
When I married Jim, she told me Dad was with me, smiling, right by Mom. If you wonder why my makeup was smeared that day, well, now you know.
I already felt crummy, and this news of Connie’s passing made me feel worse. I laid there for a long time remembering cherished good times, and how Connie literally saved my life, and my sanity, just months before I saved hers.
We were both accidental saviors.
Connie used to say that she owed her life to me, but I told her I owed my life to her because she saved me first, so she actually just saved her own life.
We’d laugh, hug, and know how blessed we both had been and remained. I never told her how devastating her heart attack was to me and my daughter.
Today was so incredibly difficult.
Connie managed to last 29 years and one month longer than she was supposed to. Far, far longer than anyone expected or even dared to hope for.
Connie was a force to be reckoned with. Determined. Sparkling. Vibrant. Energetic. Despite everything. Kind and compassionate. You’d never know from her attitude how many barriers, grievous events, and nearly insurmountable challenges she had overcome. There was not one ounce of self-pity in that woman. She truly was one of the most inspirational people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing.
All of that washed over me in waves.
When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I walked past the sewing machine and realized that the first quilt I made all those years ago in that class with Connie was in use, covering some boxes of scraps on the table. Yes, it’s pretty worn, and the colors have faded, but there it lay as a reminder. I smiled through new tears. How could I have any tears left?
Due to high levels of stress recently, I’ve been engaged in “sanity sewing,” literally randomly sewing scraps together from years and years of accumulated scraps. You can see those blocks in progress – some in a pile waiting for their next strip, and some in a pile behind the machine waiting to be trimmed and ironed.
Then, I realized that the last scrap I sewed onto a block last night was that exact same fabric – tying that 1988 class with Connie across 36 years to today, binding us together once again. Sisterhood in every sense of the word, across adversity, time, and space.
The odds are astronomical – yet it happened.
Indeed, our life has been comprised of so many scraps between now and then, so much loss and grief – and also such enduring and incredible love. Neither of us would be here without the other.
Connie’s legacy is one of exactly that. Love for others through her timeless and selfless example, lived one step and one day at a time. In spite of adversity. Through her nursing. Through compassion. Through encouragement and inspiration. Through quilts.
Momma Carrie Quilts live on through the hundreds and hundreds of quilts constructed over almost four decades, contributing to those boxes of scraps and enriching the lives of others through often anonymous acts of caring. We will never know the extent of Connie’s reach. She has given silent comfort to people, both known and unknown. Changed lives in perhaps the smallest and certainly the most profound ways. Through those scraps, Connie’s legacy will continue to reach into the future and give, at least as long as I can.
Connie truly embodies the adage, “When life gives you scraps, make quilts.”
One by one, Connie sowed seeds of hope for tomorrow, igniting beacons in the depths of night’s embrace. Though her candle has ceased its flicker, the luminance she bestowed and the light she shared will forever pierce the shadows. It’s up to us to pass it on.
