tom collins - News - The Coastal Star2024-03-29T13:55:44Zhttps://thecoastalstar.com/profiles/blogs/feed/tag/tom+collinsTom Collins’ Eulogy for his mom, Susan Clara Nivenshttps://thecoastalstar.com/profiles/blogs/tom-collins-eulogy-for-his-mom-susan-clara-nivens2011-11-03T15:18:27.000Z2011-11-03T15:18:27.000ZMary Kate Leminghttps://thecoastalstar.com/members/MaryKateLeming769<div><p> </p>
<p>First, on behalf of my mom, thank you all so much for coming. You all meant a lot to her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>We’re all here to remember and celebrate the life of a great woman. A woman who had a passion for duckpin bowling. A woman who enjoyed pina coladas. A woman who really dug Elvis Presley. And a woman who made a mean meatloaf.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But what we all think of first when we think of my mom is her kind spirit, which I think is best reflected in a few stories.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I started working as a newspaper reporter, I would often send her articles I had written. She had kept them all, I found out later. But at the time, I often wondered whether she really read them or whether she sometimes got bored with them. After all, how many stories about a city council could one person stand?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eventually, my mom started keeping up with my articles on the Web. One day, I was on the phone with her and she said, “You haven’t written much lately. Why not?” And I said, “I’ve been writing! I’ve written like four articles this week!” And she said, “Yeah, but they were all really short!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My mom had not only enjoyed reading stuff I’d written. She wanted more — not because she was interested in the petty politics or the monotonous court cases. Just because they were written by her son.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She lived for me and my brother. And for her family. Always providing for us and trying to steer us in the right direction.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sometimes, though, her lessons were not entirely truthful.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My niece, Amanda, loves watermelon, just like my mom. And the two of them would often share one on hot summer nights.</p>
<p>Amanda, though, sometimes wasn’t careful about not eating the seeds. So my mom would tell her, “Amanda, if you eat the seeds, a watermelon’s gonna grow in your stomach!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her older brother Daniel would try to tell Amanda, on the sly, that no such thing would happen to her. But she thought Daniel was just trying to trick her into having a watermelon grow in her belly, and would not believe him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Amanda knew my mom was her protector. And she was going to side with her. And Amanda never did choke on a watermelon seed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Protecting. Giving. It’s what my mom did. She did not have much. But she still found a way to give and give.</p>
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<p>As my mom’s health worsened and she became forgetful, she managed to keep on giving.</p>
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<p>After I was engaged in early 2009 to my wife Jen, I was eager to have my mom at the wedding and dance with her to “Love Me Tender.” We did. Her health declined a short time later. But she had given me my dance.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But I still needed more time with her. I knew we would be having a baby. And I wanted desperately for my mom to see her new grandchild. But I thought that was unthinkable.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Again, though, my mom stayed strong. And in March, my wife gave birth to our son Quinn and my mom got to meet him. And see the little chunker balloon to 23 pounds.</p>
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<p>I have to think that my mom was holding on long enough to share these milestones with me. These were two final, wonderful gifts.</p>
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<p>I hope that my mom leaves us all with more than memories. I hope she leaves us with a model to follow. It is a high standard and one that I often find it hard to match.</p>
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<p>She did not judge. She accepted. She did not complain. She worked. She did not resent. She loved. She did not take. She gave.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thanks, Mom. For everything. I love you. We all love you.</p>
<p> </p></div>Mom and Me: Passing leaves me adrift in sorrow, yet less afraid of deathhttps://thecoastalstar.com/profiles/blogs/mom-and-me-passing-leaves-me-adrift-in-sorrow-yet-less-afraid-of-2011-11-02T19:00:00.000Z2011-11-02T19:00:00.000ZMary Kate Leminghttps://thecoastalstar.com/members/MaryKateLeming769<div><p><br /> <a href="{{#staticFileLink}}7960352675,original{{/staticFileLink}}"><img class="align-left" src="{{#staticFileLink}}7960352675,original{{/staticFileLink}}" width="240" alt="7960352675?profile=original" /></a>By Thomas R. Collins<br />
<br />
The call came at 2:20 a.m. My mom was about to die. <br />
I’d been preparing for this for the last two years. But I still felt as though a trapdoor was about to open beneath me.<br />
• • •<br />
Fifteen hours earlier, my mom, Susan Clara Nivens, who had severe dementia, had been assigned a nurse from Hospice of Palm Beach County to sit at her bedside around the clock at the nursing home. Her swallowing mechanism had totally broken down, probably leading to a lung infection. Plus, her gastrointestinal system was shutting down. These were all telltale signs of coming death.<br />
I’d had the options of bringing my mom home or admitting her to a hospice center. But a move would have been stressful for her, and the medical staff had convinced me that it was not worth the risk.<br />
That evening, the nurse said that my mom, on a morphine drip, was comfortable. In her notes, she’d said my mom was unresponsive. When I told my mom, “I love you,” she managed to make sounds, low but audible, back to me. The nurse added, “Responds to son.”<br />
Her vital signs were still pretty good and the nurse said she didn’t think anything would happen overnight, although she couldn’t guarantee it. I left at 6:15 p.m. to have dinner at home, expecting that in a day or two I’d start a 24-hour death vigil.<br />
Then the call came. My wife and I bolted. It was early morning on Wednesday, Oct. 19.<br />
When we arrived, my mom’s breathing was much louder and more irregular than before. Her eyes were now wide open. The hand I was holding was limp. Her fingertips were cool and pale blue under the nails.<br />
“I’d be nothing without you,” I told her, staring into her eyes. I said this kind of thing over and over. I called my mom’s two sisters and they talked to her on speakerphone. <br />
I believe my mom heard everything.<br />
Then, suddenly, her breaths grew quiet and shallow, with long pauses between them. I kissed her cheeks and forehead. The hair on the crown of her head was sticking up and I tried to comb it flat with my fingers, but I couldn’t.<br />
At the nurse’s request, I left the room so she could give my mom a Tylenol suppository for her fever.<br />
Three minutes later, the nurse came out to tell me my mom had died. <br />
I gently closed her eyes. I removed the oxygen tube from her nose. I caressed her hair. I touched her cool hands, then found warmer skin farther up her arm. She did not seem dead yet to me, but half-dead and half-alive. But I instantly knew a phase of grief had begun that would continue, to a degree, throughout my lifetime. I cried and cried. <br />
• • •<br />
I had taken refuge in my mom even through the end stages of her dementia.<br />
In the few weeks before my son, Quinn, was born in March, my wife and I, like children, exchanged some harsh words one night after I got her takeout order wrong. I had become jittery about the coming birth and had gotten maddeningly forgetful as a result. I’ve always been scatterbrained, but this was worse.<br />
After the argument, I drove to my mom’s nursing home. I arrived at a quiet time, about 9 p.m., when almost all the residents were in their small, quiet, dark rooms.<br />
My mom awoke and gave me a flicker of pleased recognition. I told her I was worried I wouldn’t be a good father to the baby. I shed a few tears.<br />
I hadn’t needed my mom at full capacity for comfort. Just her presence.<br />
• • •<br />
The funeral in Baltimore brought together family and friends, many of whom had not seen each other in years. <br />
Since then, I’ve been mostly poised, but sometimes weep uncontrollably when alone.<br />
Most often, I am numb and disoriented, feeling that part of me has been marooned, like an astronaut left adrift in space.<br />
In addition to all the work and love my mom gave me, I like to think she has given me one more gift, bestowed right at the very end.<br />
I have always been afraid of dying. But now, I’ve seen death literally occur, except for that very last moment. Because I’ve seen it so close, it’s more known. And the known is always less frightening than the unknown. I’m still afraid of dying, but definitely less so.<br />
Who else could have prepared me? Who else will I likely see die, close-up, in my lifetime? Quite possibly, no one. <br />
My mom, by letting me see her die, has helped ease that fear. <br />
As only she could. </p>
<p><strong>Editors Note: Thomas R. Collins has been sharing the final days of his mother’s life in an occassional series. Read these stories (<a href="http://thecoastalstar.ning.com/profiles/blogs/local-voices-mom-and-me">I</a>, <a href="http://thecoastalstar.ning.com/profiles/blogs/local-voices-mom-and-me-1">II</a>, <a href="http://thecoastalstar.ning.com/profiles/blogs/local-voices-mom-and-me-2">III</a>, <a href="http://thecoastalstar.ning.com/profiles/blogs/mom-and-me-mom-and-the-power">IV</a>) and his <a href="http://thecoastalstar.ning.com/profiles/blogs/tom-collins-eulogy-for-his-mom-susan-clara-nivens">funeral eulogy</a>.</strong></p>
<p><em>PHOTO ABOVE: Thomas R. Collins dances with his mother, Susan Clara Nivens, at his wedding in June 2009. <strong>Family Photo </strong></em> </p></div>Editorial: Coastal Star staffers earn high honorshttps://thecoastalstar.com/profiles/blogs/editorial-coastal-star-awards2011-08-03T18:00:00.000Z2011-08-03T18:00:00.000ZMary Kate Leminghttps://thecoastalstar.com/members/MaryKateLeming769<div><p>Where did I put my keys? </p>
<p>In a busy world it’s easy to be overwhelmed with the minutiae of life. But once you’ve been exposed to the stages of dementia, fear that this instance of displacement may foreshadow future stages of memory loss hovers behind the question.<br />I watched both my mother and an elderly aunt struggle with fading memories and fears. In both instances I watched the disease progress until the end. <br /><a href="{{#staticFileLink}}7960342489,original{{/staticFileLink}}"><img class="align-left" src="{{#staticFileLink}}7960342489,original{{/staticFileLink}}" width="320" alt="7960342489?profile=original" /></a>Thomas R. Collins’ chronicling of his mother’s early slide into dementia has brought pathos and humor into our understanding of how we watch a loved one fade away. For this he was awarded the Sally Latham Memorial Award given for serious column writing at the Florida Press Association Awards last month. This is the highest honor awarded in the category for all newspapers in the Better Weekly Newspaper Contest. <br />Congratulations to Tom and sincere thanks for sharing his story with Coastal Star readers.<br />Other Coastal Star staff winning first-place awards at the St. Petersburg ceremony, and the categories, were: Mary Thurwachter, community history; Hap Erstein, criticism (Palm Beach ArtsPaper); Ron Hayes, feature story and Scott Simmons and Jerry Lower for front-page design.<br />Also winning awards were:<br />Greg Stepanich, criticism (Palm Beach ArtsPaper); Mary Kate Leming and Jerry Lower, editorial; Emily J. Minor, feature story; Scott Simmons, Jerry Lower, Bonnie Lallky-Seibert and Margot Snyder, overall graphic design; Jerry Lower, photo series in one issue and portfolio photography.<br />My hope is that by bringing Coastal Star readers the work of these (and other) talented journalists, you will continue to recognize and support our efforts to create and sustain a quality local newspaper. <br />Thanks to the overwhelmingly positive feedback we’ve received over the past three years, I believe that we have found a welcome place in the community. <br />That is our true award.<br /><br /><em>— Mary Kate Leming, Editor</em></p></div>