Family – Fscottwrites

The Best Death

It was an honor to write and have this essay published about my friend, Susan, who chose death with dignity and died in May 2025. She had terminal lung cancer and was with us for a year after diagnosis. Her year was full of good times and connections with family and friends: dinners, an in-house concert for her birthday, a weekend at the lake, and hanging out in her yard. During the year, she had a sold-out art show at a local gallery. She continued to make art up to the day she died.

One day while visiting with her, I said, “I want to write an essay titled, My Friend is Dying and I’m Jealous. She giggled and said, “Go for it.” I pitched the essay to Noah Michelson, editor at Huffington Post, whom I’ve worked with before.

He liked the pitch,
“Hi Frances! Always love seeing your name in my inbox, though this time it also comes with grief.

I’m so sorry to hear about Susan but so happy that she’s dying on her own terms.

I think this piece will be infinitely stronger if you write it after she dies. I want to know about how the end was for her — and you. Does it go as she planned / is planning? I’ll want to know how you feel now that she’s gone. I want to know what it’s like to still be here. I want to know if your thoughts on death — especially your own — have changed.

Are you up for writing more and coming back to me whenever you’re ready?”

His email brought me to tears. “I want to know how your feel now that she is gone.” Susan will die. We’d had such fun over the year, I kept that reality at bay. But at the same time, I appreciated Noah’s suggestion.

Susan walked me to my car the night she would die. She made a point of asking me to look after her children and grandchildren. After we chatted and hugged, she crossed the street, yelling back to me, “Publish that essay.” “I will and I will send it to you!” Her laughter remains with me.

I later learned from her son that Susan told him she wanted me to be the one to look after them. Wow. Her children and grandchildren have become family, a gift that will keep Susan alive in my heart and theirs.

Here’s the link to the essay: My Friend Told Me She Was Dying. I Told Her I Was Jealous

Thanks as always for reading.

Frances

The Science of Coincidence by Susan Carlson

Susan’s art piece in progress when she died

The Solace of Acceptance

An essay of mine has been on a journey and is now published on Estranged Substack. Several months ago, writer friends sent me a call for essays on estrangement for an anthology, No Contact, to be published by Catapult Publishing this spring.

I received the kindest rejection from the editor: “Your piece was a finalist in our review and seriously considered for inclusion. Unfortunately, I am sad to say we will not be able to feature it in the anthology. This decision has more to do with balance in topics and voices covered in the collection than with your writing, which impressed us.”
She suggested I submit to the Estranged Substack.

It was published yesterday, and I’m feeling a little vulnerability hangover. There is so much to say about estrangement situations, and yes, there are more sides to the story. This is just one small part of the complex situation. I wish there were more compassion in these family struggles.

Here is the link to the essay: The Solace in Acceptance

Thank you for reading and be kind to each other.

Frances

Memories Keep Us in Relationship

Seven weeks ago I wrote about Sophie, the 88 year old woman I cared for and my friend Susan with terminal cancer. Alive then, today they live on in sweet memories.

Sophie, mother of three talented daughters, was a pillar of her community, president of the symphony, choir director, supporter of the arts, and the backbone of the Greek Orthodox Annunciation Church choir, congregation, and food festivals. According to her obituary,

“Her baklava, many would agree, was unrivaled. Among Sophie’s many passions, food probably topped the list. She was an artist in the kitchen. Every meal was prepared with care and consideration. When someone was sick or sad, she showed up with homemade muffins or soup. She threw elegant parties of all sizes and varieties — who didn’t look forward to a Sophie dinner? — that were feasts for the eyes, nose, palate, and belly. She wasn’t showy about it: she simply loved to gather friends and family around a beautifully set table for good conversation, fellowship, and cheer. And she knew that artistically prepared and presented food helped create the magic.”

The neuropathy Sophie suffered from created great pain; she wasn’t able to walk, and one arm was completely immobile. She could stand and scoot her legs some, while I helped her from the chair to the wheelchair and into the restroom. This had become harder and harder, sometimes falling before making it onto the toilet. She’d say, “I’m OK. Are you OK?” Then apologize!

She died peacefully, surrounded by her girls June 18th.

It’s amazing how much you can come to love someone, even when you know them for a short time. I looked forward to Saturdays and Sundays with her and our conversations about the state of our country, books, movies, food, recipes, and a little gossip. Sophie had a team of twelve caregivers. She made each one of us feel appreciated, and we all felt she was a friend. Yesterday at her Greek service, the family reserved a row for Sophie’s Magnificent Team, as we were referred to. Afterwards, a lunch reception was held, feeding those who loved Sophie. Tables were covered in tablecloths she had made throughout the years, and baklava and brownies made by her daughters using Sophie’s recipe were served.

When I became part of her caregiving team, I was impressed by her high-functioning family. Each of her three girls working together to make sure Sophie’s needs were being met. A few weeks ago, her daughters invited the caregiving team for music they performed and dessert. We were sent home with chocolate bars wrapped in a custom-printed label, “Sophie’s Magnificent Team”.

My heart is full of love and awe for Sophie and the family she created. Yes, I wish I could have been the mother she was, and I wish my family had stuck together. But being a witness to Sophie, the grace she possessed, and her family warms my heart, and I feel lucky.

My friend, Susan, died with medical assistance, surrounded by family, on May 28th. There is much to say about her life and death. My essay about her will be published by the Huffington Post in 3-4 months. I’ll share it once it comes out.

It’s true even when someone is gone, there is still a relationship with them. Susan, Sophie, and others I have loved and lost are resurrected with each memory of them.

Back to the Memoir

After a much needed long break from writing my memoir, I’m back at it. It’s almost finished, then will need beta readers and an editor. I see why it takes some people ten, twenty years to write their memoir, especially when it brings up difficult feelings.
Part of writing memoir, is talking with others in your life to verify facts, jog your memory and hear their perspective.
It was most enlightening to talk with past co-workers. Co- workers who worked with me and my ex-husband back in the early 90’s. They were eager to speak with me. I was thankful for their generosity of thought and time.
I was stuck by how blind I was back then, hungry for connection, and how much I wanted a family.
My ex-husband, who was not my husband at the time, I’ll call him Matt, and I worked side by side behind the customer service desk in a beautiful bookstore. He was so kind, so helpful, showing me where to find books, telling me about the latest best reads.
When my young daughter was dropped off at the end of the day, he would drop everything, read and draw with her. He was winning me over. He won me over. He eventually divorced his wife and married me.
Without asking, in the interview with one ex co-worker they remarked, he is like all the Matt Lauers and Jeffery Epsteins of the world and getting away with it. He never got his work done, he was so busy chatting, flirting with customers, cheating on his wife.
I remembered how I used to take up for him at work. Our boss would be upset with him for not getting work done. I would argue, “Matt is so busy helping customers, he doesn’t have time to get the work done, let him focus on customer service, he’s good at it.” What I didn’t know was he had lost thousands of dollars for the store by not doing his duties with publisher co-advertising, that another co-worker was having to hunt down the incomplete special order slips that he had scattered in and out of his desk.
Meantime, I was being showered with gifts, love letters and attention. He became a “father” figure to my daughter, reading with her, painting, playing and getting down right silly. His fun loving personality won the hearts of my siblings and parents.
He was this single mom’s dream come true.
My nausea increased when my co-worker said, “it used to give me the creeps, the way he was with your daughter.” Again, I had been blind.
When Matt confided in me about the times he strayed in his previous marriage, he blamed the marital troubles on his wife. I believed him. I believed him when he told me I was the one for him.
I felt his earnestness when he begged for forgiveness the first time he stepped out of our relationship. I forgave him the 2nd time. I wasn’t strong enough to leave when I should have. I was raised in a culture that sent a message that a woman isn’t complete without a man.
Years into our struggling marriage, I discovered the porn he was watching of boys having sex. He refused to discuss it. Not knowing if he was a perv or exploring his sexuality, I was left to think the worse. I kept all this to myself, drank and became depressed. After I discovered his viewing habits, he treated me as if I didn’t exist in our own home. In counseling, as I broached the subject he stared into space with pinched lips. We had always celebrated birthdays, holidays with gifts and fanfare. On my 40th birthday there were no gifts, not even a happy birthday was spoken. He was angry at me for finding his secret.
Talking with my ex co-workers felt validating. They knew what it was like to work along side someone who to outsiders was the nicest guy in the world, but didn’t carry his weight with his workload or admit when he was wrong.
I realized the same traits that made Matt hard to work with; unable to take responsibly for his mistakes, avoidance and denial, also made it hard to be in a marriage with him.
Towards the end of our marriage, my body rebelled, cyst on ovaries, endometriosis that required a hysterectomy. The power of sudden hormone imbalance deepened my depression. I was a mess.
After years of counseling Matt and I sat down to discuss our options, we mutually agreed a separation was our next step. As we sat down to tell my daughter, he piped in, “I want you to know none of this is my idea and I am not for it.” I looked on as my daughter cried in his arms.
I had hoped we could at least end well. That we could still co-parent with love. But he needed to remain the nice guy as much as I had wanted a family of my own.
My family didn’t understand why I was leaving such a “nice” man.
I became angry after his ambush, taking no responsibility for his part in our failed marriage. I did crazy things. I called the woman he had an affair with and was seeing again, yelling into the phone that she was a whore.
In an attempt to find the right hormone replacement after my hysterectomy, one combination sent me into a black tunnel with no light in sight. I didn’t want to live. My teenage daughter became frightened by my drunkenness and erratic behavior.
The process of our divorce was messy. Since I had initiated the separation, he didn’t feel I deserved to keep the house we owned even if I bought him out. My goal had been to at least provide the stability of staying in the same home for my daughter until she left for college.
In my daughter’s second year of college, she planned to spend Thanksgiving break with me. A few weeks before, she phoned to say she could not get off work and wouldn’t be coming home for break. I offered to come for a visit before break. She liked the idea and asked me to stay with her. My first night there, we shared a dinner before she went out to meet friends. Since she didn’t have a car, I lent her mine. She gave me permission to check my email on her computer while she was gone. I clicked on the screen saver, up popped her email. The one from my ex-husband with Thanksgiving in the subject caught my eye. Curiosity got the best of me. He was letting her know he would be at the airport to pick her up the day before Thanksgiving and was looking forward to having her at his wedding.
Shocked and hurt, I grabbed a bottle of wine, gulping it as I paced the floor. My hurt turned to rage. When my daughter returned home, I yelled at her, “how could you do this to me, lie to me, why didn’t you just tell me the truth.” “Because of how you would react” she yelled back. I did have the sense to tell her it would be best for me to stay at a hotel and left.
The next day I discovered she had left her wallet in my car. I stopped by her house to drop it off. She cracked the door after my knock, “what are you doing here? If you don’t leave, I am calling the police.” I handed her the wallet, shocked, turned and left.
That night I attempted suicide.
We have never recovered from that terrible time.
My unattended to wounds caused me to hurt the one I love the most, my child.
We can’t go back in time and change what’s been done.
We can reflect, we can dig deep into ourselves, discover the open wounds that weren’t tended to, dig to a depth of discovering our true selves, let go of anger, make better, more mindful choices. Forgive ourselves, forgive others.

Thank you for reading and allowing me to be vulnerable.

Getting to Know My Grandmother

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”
William Faulkner

Family movies show the plethora of flower sprays and large crowd at my paternal grandmother’s funeral. Effie Lee Galloway Scott died July1958, a year before I was born. From all the stories told, I feel I knew her and wish we had known each other.

She was a member of Jackson, MS’s pioneer Manship family, the daughter of Alfred Daniel Galloway and Annie Manship Galloway. Effie Lee was a devout member of Galloway Methodist Church, president of the garden club and Junior League, a member of the DAR and other civic organizations.

My older siblings called her Gaga and speak of how much they loved her, always upbeat up until the end and loved by many.

She endured enormous loss in her lifetime. Two of her four sons died.

Francis (Frank) Tomkeyes Scott, two years old, was hit by a trolley car in downtown Jackson while my grandmother helplessly watched from outside the Woolworth store screaming, “Oh my baby.” The newspaper article on this event is graphic and heartbreaking.

Her son, Walter W. Scott, 1920-1945, stationed in Italy and promoted to Captain was killed in action April 29th, 1945, five months before the war would end.

Effie Lee’s third child, Charles Scott, became a first pilot on a B-17 bomber that was shoot down during a raid. He was taken as a prisoner in a Nazi war camp for eighteen months returning to his family in Jackson, MS a forever changed man.

The fourth son, Bert Scott Sr., my father served in the Navy and outlived them all. I wish I had known to ask my father while he was alive, what all that must of been like for him. Did he feel undue pressure as the last remaining son of our prominent Southern family? Did he carry grief for his mother and lost brothers?
Certainly, Daddy was trying to bury some sort of pain through his drinking and alcoholism.

Effie Lee, it’s no wonder from all the loss and sadness she experienced that she died from stomach cancer at age 64. But she lived. She loved fishing and was saluted for her vivaciousness, charm and love during her life. (See newspaper clipping below.)

Daddy

Even though my daddy didn’t want another child when I came around, (I’ve been told) I knew he loved me. I can imagine that at 37 years old, he wanted to be done with having children. They already had three and two miscarriages. I can appreciate his practical thinking.
He wasn’t a hands on daddy, but when I did get his attention there was laughter and teasing. The kind of teasing that feels like love.
He was the youngest of four as I was. His father, Frank Scott, attorney, held positions such as chancery clerk and sheriff. His mother, Effie Lee, I understand was adored by many. She died a year before I was born, July 12, 1958.
Daddy’s family held high prestige and had to hold up appearances. But there was a lot of heartache and probably secrets.
I never remember a conversation with my grandfather who lived until 1985, but he had a strong presence when we gathered as family. In his later years he was known for sitting at the local park watching my high school’s cheerleaders and marching girls practice. (kinda creepy)
My grandmother, Effie Lee, lost her three old second son when he ran from her arms and was hit by a trolley car. The newspaper article of the event is graphic and heartbreaking. Her son, Walter Scott, awarded a Purple Heart, silver star and bronze star was killed by Germans. Her son, Charles Scott served, was captured and imprisoned in a Nazi prison camp for 18 months. He was never the same, an angry alcoholic for the remainder of days. My daddy served in the Navy as a pilot.
Effie Lee must have carried grief with grace until she died from stomach cancer at age 64.
Aside from having birth order in common, my daddy and I shared the disease of alcoholism. Only in the last ten years of his life was he sober. As I began to struggle, he was there for me. We went to AA meetings together, a place he was very loved and respected. Resentment was his main offender he shared with me. He never shared the details of that resentment. I can make some guesses. I think he was a creative man who never had a chance to pursue his own dreams. He was molded into who he should be in our Southern culture, becoming an attorney and president of a savings and loan. He was asked to resign from his presidency due to his drinking and manic episodes. He was still loved by those who worked with him. The letter asking him to resign was most kind and full of concern. He was not the disease.
When he took his own life in 1996, I only felt compassion, knowing how he had fought his diseases, alcoholism and manic depression, all of his adult life. As he said in his letter, he was tired.
I miss him. I miss his joking ways, when the phone was for me, he would reply “I think we left her in the monkey cage at the zoo!” I miss his love of dogs (another commonality) love of hunting and fishing, his fried corn, his antics in keeping the squirrels from climbing up the pole to the bird feeder by covering it with vaseline and watching them slide down, him climbing onto the roof setting up the sprinkler to keep the house cool. I love that he tried cross country skiing when he came to visit in Montana, all the while asking where we were going and stopping for a cigarette. How my friends all loved my daddy and thought he was so funny.
Yes, our house had a lot of chaos and dysfunction because of his diseases. He was not the disease. He was a kind, funny, flawed human being.

Summit for family estrangement

The word “estrangement” came into my orbit about five years ago on a much to intimate level. For the first two years of my estrangement from family I was constantly sad, triggered and felt hopeless. I began to read everything I could get my hands on about the subject. Learning about it, talking to others who are experiencing it, has taken me out of crisis mode and into an acceptance mode.
Coming from a tight knit, yes dysfunctional Southern family, yes down there, family is everything, it was devastating when I learned of a trip my sisters were taking with my daughter, niece, and grandchildren and I was not invited. My sisters and I were still speaking at that time. Now it has been several years since we have talked. When I say devastating, I wanted to kill myself and I did attempt to.
What I have sadly learned is, suicidal thoughts are a common reaction with those who have been cut off from loved ones. Estrangements occur for a variety of reason, but also have many commonalites. Each situation is unique and has its own set of complexities.
Yesterday was the beginning of a three day summit, Moving Beyond Family Struggles put on by Family Support Resources. Yasmin Kerkez has done an amazing job, bringing many expert voices to the summit. I’ve enjoyed and learned a lot just from one day. Hearing the perspective of those who chose to estrange is enlightening.
I still hope and think repair in many situations would be the most peace giving for all involved.
If you are interested, as someone going through estrangement or you are counselor who could benefit from learning more on the subject or you are just interested, click on the link to register for free, Family Summit registration
Meantime, I will share a talk from yesterday with David Lewis, a therapist who has experienced estrangement from his adult children. He describes the shock and aftermath most accurately. 2022 MBFS Summit Conversation with David Lewis He also discusses the power of our mind and what we can change for the good, using that power. It’s worth a listen.
Thanks for reading.
Love to all,
Frances

Link from a conversation today with <a href="http://<iframe title="vimeo-player" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/670855449?h=0fd6e4d8f1" width="640" height="360" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen>Tina Gilbertson

Unexpected pet comes with unexpected family

Not long after I moved into the hotel, a year and a half ago, the aloof black “house” kitty tip toed into my room, began hanging out and sleeping with me at night. The story is; she wandered in about 13 years ago during a party and never left. Doug took on feeding and caring for her but she belongs to the house and everyone in it. Most folks call her black kitty, some call her Brenda. I prefer Brenda.
She is another blessing of living here. As a pet sitter, I have often thought of getting a pet of my own, always deciding against it. It would have to be the perfect little dog that could accompany me for pet sitting. Having a pet would work with most of my clients, but for some it wouldn’t, such as the all cat households. Also, I do enjoy my freedom to travel some when I am not pet sitting.
Now that Brenda and I have bonded, I feel like a pet owner. Whenever, I am home she is in my room. I have treats and food for her. She’s not cuddly, sleeping in a chair or the very end of my bed. But every now and then she surprises me and gives me some love.
Just yesterday morning, as I laid around waiting to be picked up for meniscus surgery, she found her way to my tummy and stayed there. Same this morning, purring away, sending healing energy throughout my body.
My friend, Katie, drove me to surgery, giving me the inside scoop on what to expect. She had this surgery earlier in the year. She was my inspiration for going forward. After I had two cortisone shots with lots of pain as the shots wore off, it was clear surgery was the best choice. I trust Dr. Willstein, my orthopedic. He did my ACL surgery a few years back. He knows my knee.
My house mate, Jennifer, picked me up. Her smiling face was there, soon after I woke up. She found me chatting away with the nicest nurse. He moved out here a few years ago from Nashville. The comfort of his southern accent, story telling and kindness along with Jennifer next to me gave me the feeling all is right with the world. The pain meds didn’t hurt either. It’s been a weary few years, so a few hours of artificially induced happiness was appreciated.
So far not too much pain. Keeping knee iced and elevated with a kitty taking good care of me, recovery is going well. Housemates are checking in on me.
Robert comes up to my room to get his eye drops and a visit in. He and I drove to Lolo Hot Springs last Sunday. We both needed it. He likes to take his car, but I drove (really he shouldn’t be driving at all, that’s another subject.) Boy, is he a bossy backseat driver. Reminded me of my mother, the way she would tell me which way to turn, what the best route was. I learned it’s best to take directions with grace.
I want to share one more sweet hotel story. Night before last was Chinese New Year. Our housemate, Anne is Chinese. She is quiet and keeps to herself. The day of Chinese New Year, she wrote on the community board that she was cooking a feast to celebrate. All day she labored over dumplings, noodles and soup. What a delightful treat as she served up a beautiful spread, educated us about the dishes and shared a little more of herself. She left China when she was two and is adopted. She is just beginning to embrace her heritage. You could see the pride on her face from learning more about her self. The night ended with a send off of a red lantern to bring good fortune for the year of the tiger.
May the year bring you good fortune.
Thanks for reading.

Now we have another year

Now we have a year until the hoopla begins again. The commercials that tell us what we need, what would be the perfect gift. The carols will begin as soon as the turkey has been gobbled up. Some will delight in it. Some will feel the stress of creating the perfect holiday. Some will miss their loved ones. I have experienced all of those. As a child I delighted in it. As a mother, I wanted to create that magic for my child and experienced the stress. Now, I miss my loved ones.

Certainly, Covid has more missing loved ones who have died or staying away from family in order to stay safe. Some are estranged from family for a variety of reasons. I feel for all of the above, but can related first hand to those estranged. I follow some of the helpful tips for taking care of oneself during the holidays when you are estranged. I find it’s best for me to try and act like it is just another day. Otherwise, I fantasize that someone in my family might reach out. I fantasize that this will be the year we try to listen to each other, to heal our wounds.

I did spend part of the day on Christmas with my unexpected family at the hotel. A resident got a roast from his employer. I roasted it in a crock pot, it came out pretty good. Then I headed up the mountain where I am cat sitting. My car didn’t make it up the steep hill. Fortunately, my clients left their car for me at a neighbors down the hill. I was able to swap cars in time to feed the cats and snuggle in.

As I settled in for the night, I couldn’t help but wonder if my daughter had a peaceful holiday, what my grandkids got as gifts, did they feel the magic?Truthfully, they were on my mind and in my heart when I woke up on Christmas morning, as I roasted the chuck roast and shared it with housemates and as I laid my head down for the night. I felt a sadness as my housemate thanked me for my efforts, sad my child and grandchildren are unable to receive the love and care I have to give.

I dreamt last night of my family gathering for the holidays, laughing and hugging. But I was not in the dream, only an onlooker.

Today, I count my blessings for the many supportive and loving friends in my life, for the parents who continue to trust me with the care of their children, the pet owners who leave the care of their pets and homes in my hands, for my house mates who make a point of thanking me for the cooking and cleaning I do at the hotel, for Robert, who owns the hotel and makes a point of thanking me for all I do. They are a large part of my strength.

I am thankful.

Thanks as always for reading.

Stories Help Us to Understand

Robert came to Missoula in 1979, and shortly after bought the hotel. I mentioned in an earlier blog, that recently I have had the opportunity to get to know him, learn his habits and some of the reasons behind them.
At the end of this summer, he was walking downtown and was hit be a car. We learned about it when he was brought back home after a visit to the emergency room, showing us stitches along one calf.
As several of us circled around him, checking for other injuries, he insisted he was fine. In fact, after he was hit, he told the policeman he would just walk home. Thankfully, the policeman insisted that ambulance take him to the hospital.
They gave him a strong pain killer and I believe he was full of adrenaline. He insisted on climbing up the ladder to his loft bed in spite of our conclave presenting our best arguments. I in turn, insisted on sleeping in the room across the hall from him as it is kept as a guest room. One of the guys brought him something to pee into. As Robert raised a hammer, he reminded us that he and John who lives in the room directly above him, have a system. If Robert has an emergency, needs help in the middle of the night, he bangs on the radiator with the hammer. That was the signal for John to come running.
Sure’nuf around four in the morning, the banging started. John and I flew into his room. Robert, blurry eyed, stared down at us asking for help in getting down from the loft.
After he came back from the restroom, John and I stepped into the hall as Robert changed his clothes. But he hollered for help. He fell as he was changing pants and couldn’t get up. “That’s it.” I said, “you are sleeping in the room across the hall from now on.” It has a twin bed that is not a loft. He didn’t argue this time.
Thankfully, I had a break in my house/pet sitting jobs for a few weeks and could give Robert the attention he needed. I mean it’s something for anyone to be hit by a car, but even more so when you are 82 years old.
During the first week, the ankle on the leg that didn’t have stitches continued to swell up and it was painful for him to walk. After carefully nudging, I took him back to the ER. Yep, he had a fracture and needed to wear an orthopedic boot.
We spent quiet mornings visiting, drinking coffee and getting some food in him. Robert is a very independent person and has his routine. He is used to getting out everyday for a walk and his card game with friends. He appreciated my company.
I got to hear stories of his childhood in Holland during World War II. How his father buried a car, I suppose to keep the enemy from confiscating it, then unearthing it after the war. How they went without water. “That’s why I have bottles of water stored up, it’s terrible to not have water” he told me. Now, I understood, why his empty juice bottles were filled with water and tucked away.

I love that stories, listening help us to understand each other and our ways. Stories bring us closer, they open our hearts.

Robert is well on the mend. He and a fellow house mate took off yesterday for a trip to Spokane. I miss our quiet story telling mornings. However, we do go out for lunch, take a walk and I still make him oatmeal in the morning every now and then.

Thanks for reading.