"Grief is a journey that you ultimately take alone, along with your broken heart."
One of the things I have found along my journey without my mom is that when something like this happens to you, something so powerful that permanently disrupts life as you know it, things change. Its inevitable, I guess. The relationships you had before this happened, seemed strong, supportive, familiar, beneficial. But in the end, when you begin to see some light in your life, you re-evaluate every one of them. The person they knew before is gone. Heartache and pain has changed you and you can't change back. Even if you tried, you just can't. Its as if the person you've spent your whole life becoming, is gone. There are fragments of who you were before that show themselves from time to time, moments of happiness that can mask the change to others, but your new persona ultimately arrives. There's no stopping it. Can they know and love this new version of you? Is there enough of your former self still there to find the ties that bind us? There's an uncertainty with this change. A confusion about what to do next. Even a feeling of being reborn into a life you don't really know how to live yet.
What I guess I'll take from what I've learned so far is that nothing, and I mean nothing, will ever be the same. Some say change is good. New opportunities, new horizons, blah, blah, blah. I don't really know if I believe the whole "change is good" saying but I do know that change is here and its not leaving. So, new friend, how do we do this? I'm broken, uninspired, trapped in a whirlpool of emotion. Feel free to pull me out anytime and tell me how in the hell we're going to fix this one, 'cause I don't know.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Her love all around me
"Most of all the other beautiful things in life come by twos and threes, by dozens and hundreds. Plenty of roses, stars, sunsets, rainbows, brothers, and sisters, aunts and cousins, but only one mother in the whole world."-- Kate Douglas Wiggin
I saw my mom today. I often notice her when I least expect it and it always takes me by surprise, each time I see pieces of the love that she left behind. Even though its been more than a year, her love continues to shape our lives, though we may not notice it right away. And we continue to pass on that love to the babies of the family that will never know her or the special person she was.
I see her influence in the lives of my family, my father, my sisters, my nieces and their children and the people they have become. I saw her in the look of adoration my niece had for her son as he celebrated his 2nd year on this earth. I see her in the way my father cares for the puppies she left behind, lovingly comforting them and tending to their needs. I see her in the way my sister loves and cares for her grandbabies, helping them to become strong but loving people. I see her in the way my sister stays strong, when so many close to her are suffering. I see her in the way my niece holds onto her beliefs to get her through times when her heart aches for things she dreams of. All of these things are pieces of my mother's love.
Throughout our lives, my mother gave us little pieces of herself , giving us the one thing she knew would stay imprinted on our hearts and minds, long after she was gone. Her love. If we were doubting ourselves, she was there to build us up. If we were worried about a trial in our lives, she was there to give us hope that it would okay. If we were celebrating a special event, she was the first there to congratulate us and tell us how proud she was. If we were hurting and needed someone to let us break down, she was there, to wipe our tears and hold our hands. If we felt like everyone had turned their backs on us, she was there to tell us we'd be okay standing on our own. If we worried that things would never get better, she was there to show us that even if they weren't, things would be alright, that we'd make it through. Her strength was unimaginable, the depth of her love was immense. She held us all for as long as she could. Then she left the pieces behind, to help us make it on our own. She's still here, inside each of us, shaping our lives, warming our hearts, giving us strength we might not have had without her.
Although I wish that I could hold her beautiful hand again and stroke her soft hair, I'm comforted knowing that if I look around at the family created by her love, I'll see her, I'll feel her. The pieces of her are still here. They're are in the little things we do for others and they're in the way we love. We owe that all to her. She made sure she left those pieces behind. What a gift she gave us.
I saw my mom today. I often notice her when I least expect it and it always takes me by surprise, each time I see pieces of the love that she left behind. Even though its been more than a year, her love continues to shape our lives, though we may not notice it right away. And we continue to pass on that love to the babies of the family that will never know her or the special person she was.
I see her influence in the lives of my family, my father, my sisters, my nieces and their children and the people they have become. I saw her in the look of adoration my niece had for her son as he celebrated his 2nd year on this earth. I see her in the way my father cares for the puppies she left behind, lovingly comforting them and tending to their needs. I see her in the way my sister loves and cares for her grandbabies, helping them to become strong but loving people. I see her in the way my sister stays strong, when so many close to her are suffering. I see her in the way my niece holds onto her beliefs to get her through times when her heart aches for things she dreams of. All of these things are pieces of my mother's love.
Throughout our lives, my mother gave us little pieces of herself , giving us the one thing she knew would stay imprinted on our hearts and minds, long after she was gone. Her love. If we were doubting ourselves, she was there to build us up. If we were worried about a trial in our lives, she was there to give us hope that it would okay. If we were celebrating a special event, she was the first there to congratulate us and tell us how proud she was. If we were hurting and needed someone to let us break down, she was there, to wipe our tears and hold our hands. If we felt like everyone had turned their backs on us, she was there to tell us we'd be okay standing on our own. If we worried that things would never get better, she was there to show us that even if they weren't, things would be alright, that we'd make it through. Her strength was unimaginable, the depth of her love was immense. She held us all for as long as she could. Then she left the pieces behind, to help us make it on our own. She's still here, inside each of us, shaping our lives, warming our hearts, giving us strength we might not have had without her.
Although I wish that I could hold her beautiful hand again and stroke her soft hair, I'm comforted knowing that if I look around at the family created by her love, I'll see her, I'll feel her. The pieces of her are still here. They're are in the little things we do for others and they're in the way we love. We owe that all to her. She made sure she left those pieces behind. What a gift she gave us.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
One of those days
The death of a mother is the first sorrow wept without her. Author Unknown
Gosh, I miss my mom today. Its one of those days when I wish I could call her, hear her sweet voice, and talk about normal stuff, even for just a few minutes. What did you do today? How have you been feeling? Do you think Greg would like some beans this week? Have you been watching Survivor? All normal, uneventful conversations but so precious to me now. How I wish I could talk to her for even a moment, just to feel that comfort that her voice gave. She had the most tender voice. And you always knew that in that moment, you were the most important thing on her mind. Every word was one of love, caring or concern. She always wanted to make sure that we were okay. That was her way. How I'm missing that today.
Its funny how I can sit now and remember conversations we had, seemingly obscure at the time, but now like wonderful, heartbreaking home movies in my mind. Her expressions and the way she spoke were so genuine and those images now are the recordings of the most beautiful person I've known. On days like this, when her memory is so close to the surface, I sit and flip through my mental recordings, pausing on moments that I wish I had cherished more, and feel sorry for myself, wishing I had even one of these moments back, in real time. Longing for this can make the coping even harder, but when we lose someone that we love as much as I did my mom, I think that the pain we feel is our price for loving, so I've come to expect it. But to love and be loved by someone like her, its worth the pain I feel now and the tears streaming down my face. I was so lucky to have her as my mom.
In my life I had heard people talk of not taking a moment for granted, of making the most of each day, of living today like it was your last. But we never realize the truth of those statements until its too late. Life gets in the way and the longer we live, the more moments that slip away unnoticed. Then the day comes when the story stops and you long for what you had all along, but its over. There is no rewind, fast forward or pause on life and I hate that. I've come to accept it but I still don't like it. Not one bit.
Let everyone you love know how you feel. Do it today. And say it often. Your movie may be almost over too. Don't wait.
Gosh, I miss my mom today. Its one of those days when I wish I could call her, hear her sweet voice, and talk about normal stuff, even for just a few minutes. What did you do today? How have you been feeling? Do you think Greg would like some beans this week? Have you been watching Survivor? All normal, uneventful conversations but so precious to me now. How I wish I could talk to her for even a moment, just to feel that comfort that her voice gave. She had the most tender voice. And you always knew that in that moment, you were the most important thing on her mind. Every word was one of love, caring or concern. She always wanted to make sure that we were okay. That was her way. How I'm missing that today.
Its funny how I can sit now and remember conversations we had, seemingly obscure at the time, but now like wonderful, heartbreaking home movies in my mind. Her expressions and the way she spoke were so genuine and those images now are the recordings of the most beautiful person I've known. On days like this, when her memory is so close to the surface, I sit and flip through my mental recordings, pausing on moments that I wish I had cherished more, and feel sorry for myself, wishing I had even one of these moments back, in real time. Longing for this can make the coping even harder, but when we lose someone that we love as much as I did my mom, I think that the pain we feel is our price for loving, so I've come to expect it. But to love and be loved by someone like her, its worth the pain I feel now and the tears streaming down my face. I was so lucky to have her as my mom.
In my life I had heard people talk of not taking a moment for granted, of making the most of each day, of living today like it was your last. But we never realize the truth of those statements until its too late. Life gets in the way and the longer we live, the more moments that slip away unnoticed. Then the day comes when the story stops and you long for what you had all along, but its over. There is no rewind, fast forward or pause on life and I hate that. I've come to accept it but I still don't like it. Not one bit.
Let everyone you love know how you feel. Do it today. And say it often. Your movie may be almost over too. Don't wait.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Stitches of love
"There are no goodbyes for us. Wherever you are, you will always be in my heart."
Ghandi
Though my mother never knew it, she was an artist. She wasn't a painter, with a pallette of colors to cover a canvas. She wasn't a sculptor, creating images from blocks of stone. Her art was made up of tiny stitches of love.
My mother loved to make quilts and she made one for everyone in her family. The adult children received theirs on their birthday and the grandchildren, when they turned 16. It was her way of giving those that she loved, a piece of her, something to cherish even when she was gone. Something to keep us warm when her arms were no longer here to hold us. She put her heart and soul into each quilt, carefully choosing the pattern, the design, the colors, making sure it was just right for the person that it would go to. But the most amazing part of each piece she made was the tiny, perfect stitches. Thousands upon thousands of tiny, perfect stitches, done by hand, covering quilts that would take months to piece and sew, and hundreds of hours to complete. She could have completed each quilt in a matter of days if she had used a machine but doing it by hand was her way of showing us just how much we meant to her. Each stitch was a warm hug, a soft kiss on the cheek, a sweet smile, a hand held softly for no reason. Each stitch was an act of love.
She would get so excited when she had completed the next quilt, eager to show us, to see what we thought and hoping that it was alright. Even though it should have been obvious to her just how beautiful her work was, she always wondered if it was good enough, wanting it to be perfect. That's the way she was about everything she did for us. She gave her all.
Now that she's gone, seeing that quilt in the closet brings back a flood of emotions each time I see it. Just thinking about the hours she spent making those tiny stitches, just for me and each one full of love, causes me to hold it to my chest and cry. Not only tears of sadness because I want her back so badly but tears of gratefulness that I had her at all. To have someone that loves you so completely is truly a gift. My mother was a gift.
Ghandi
Though my mother never knew it, she was an artist. She wasn't a painter, with a pallette of colors to cover a canvas. She wasn't a sculptor, creating images from blocks of stone. Her art was made up of tiny stitches of love.
My mother loved to make quilts and she made one for everyone in her family. The adult children received theirs on their birthday and the grandchildren, when they turned 16. It was her way of giving those that she loved, a piece of her, something to cherish even when she was gone. Something to keep us warm when her arms were no longer here to hold us. She put her heart and soul into each quilt, carefully choosing the pattern, the design, the colors, making sure it was just right for the person that it would go to. But the most amazing part of each piece she made was the tiny, perfect stitches. Thousands upon thousands of tiny, perfect stitches, done by hand, covering quilts that would take months to piece and sew, and hundreds of hours to complete. She could have completed each quilt in a matter of days if she had used a machine but doing it by hand was her way of showing us just how much we meant to her. Each stitch was a warm hug, a soft kiss on the cheek, a sweet smile, a hand held softly for no reason. Each stitch was an act of love.
She would get so excited when she had completed the next quilt, eager to show us, to see what we thought and hoping that it was alright. Even though it should have been obvious to her just how beautiful her work was, she always wondered if it was good enough, wanting it to be perfect. That's the way she was about everything she did for us. She gave her all.
Now that she's gone, seeing that quilt in the closet brings back a flood of emotions each time I see it. Just thinking about the hours she spent making those tiny stitches, just for me and each one full of love, causes me to hold it to my chest and cry. Not only tears of sadness because I want her back so badly but tears of gratefulness that I had her at all. To have someone that loves you so completely is truly a gift. My mother was a gift.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Remember me
"To live on in the hearts we leave behind is not to die."Thomas Campbell
The days following my mother's death, I was amazed at the number of people who came to our family to give their condolences and offer acts of kindness during our time of sadness. It was really profound to see the sheer number of people that she had touched that I had never met. She was so loved by all that met her and it made me so proud to meet these people in her everyday life that would miss her too. From the owner of the nail salon that she visited each month for her manicures and pedicures, to the man who took care of her yard, they were all grieving her, missing her smile and gentle voice. She made an impression on so many with her kindness, her compassion, her vulnerability. With my mom there was no competition, no judgement, no expectations. Only love. And she offered all she had to everyone she knew. She was forgiving, trusting, honest. When you looked into her eyes, you saw nothing but tenderness and love. She was honestly the most kind person I've ever known.
So seeing these strangers come to show their respect and shed tears of sorrow with us shouldn't have surprised me. But its not often that you see so many that loved someone so much, especially when they may have known them only a short time. And the funny thing is, mom would have been so surprised and a little embarrassed that so many made such a fuss. I don't think that she truly knew how much she was loved, not only by her family but by those she had touched along the way.
I began to think about my own life, the people in it, past and present, and how I would be remembered. Will those I leave behind remember me with love and affection? Will they miss our hugs and laughter? Will they feel a loss in their heart like I feel for my mom? Or have I really touched others in the way that she did? In my life, I've tried to love completely, even those that made it difficult, and I hope my love will be missed. I know that I have given all that I can to those I care about and I've tried to make a difference in others along my way, but who knows what that love will leave behind. Did I love enough? I just hope that when I am gone that those who knew me will remember me as a person who did her best to make others in her life happy. And as a person who loved fully. That's all I can ask.
The days following my mother's death, I was amazed at the number of people who came to our family to give their condolences and offer acts of kindness during our time of sadness. It was really profound to see the sheer number of people that she had touched that I had never met. She was so loved by all that met her and it made me so proud to meet these people in her everyday life that would miss her too. From the owner of the nail salon that she visited each month for her manicures and pedicures, to the man who took care of her yard, they were all grieving her, missing her smile and gentle voice. She made an impression on so many with her kindness, her compassion, her vulnerability. With my mom there was no competition, no judgement, no expectations. Only love. And she offered all she had to everyone she knew. She was forgiving, trusting, honest. When you looked into her eyes, you saw nothing but tenderness and love. She was honestly the most kind person I've ever known.
So seeing these strangers come to show their respect and shed tears of sorrow with us shouldn't have surprised me. But its not often that you see so many that loved someone so much, especially when they may have known them only a short time. And the funny thing is, mom would have been so surprised and a little embarrassed that so many made such a fuss. I don't think that she truly knew how much she was loved, not only by her family but by those she had touched along the way.
I began to think about my own life, the people in it, past and present, and how I would be remembered. Will those I leave behind remember me with love and affection? Will they miss our hugs and laughter? Will they feel a loss in their heart like I feel for my mom? Or have I really touched others in the way that she did? In my life, I've tried to love completely, even those that made it difficult, and I hope my love will be missed. I know that I have given all that I can to those I care about and I've tried to make a difference in others along my way, but who knows what that love will leave behind. Did I love enough? I just hope that when I am gone that those who knew me will remember me as a person who did her best to make others in her life happy. And as a person who loved fully. That's all I can ask.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Pieces of her
"If I'd known our last visit would be our last, I would have stayed just a little longer.
If I'd known that our last hug would be our last, I would have hugged a little tighter.
If I'd known that our last "I love you" would be our last, I would have said it just once more.
If I'd known that our last "goodbye" would be our last, I would have never said "goodbye" at all."
I found a card from my mom today. It was the last Birthday card she ever sent me. At the time I originally received it, it wasn't a surprise, because my mom never forgot a birthday. And the sentiment wasn't a surprise either, since my mom carefully picked out each card, reading dozens before she settled on just the right one for each member of her family. We all knew that when our birthday came, we may not receive cards from anyone else, but my mom's would be there, every year.
As I held this card to my chest and my heart began to break a little, I realized how lucky I am to have these pieces of her all around me. I can find remnants of her love everywhere. I open the closet and find a sweater she brought me from Niagra Falls. She had always wanted to go there, so my dad took her. When she came back she was so excited to tell me how beautiful it was. Her smile was unbelievable. I dust the curio cabinet and I find the pieces of Frankoma Pottery she brought back for me from her trip to Oklahoma because she knew how much I loved their animal figurines. And she couldn't bring back just one. She brought back 5. Her generosity is something that imprinted on me and continues to inspire me to this day. I look in the cupboard for a container for leftovers and I see one of her tupperware bowls. She always loved to make beans and meatloaf for my husband. I don't eat meat but she knew how much he loved her meatloaf so she made a point to make it at least once a month for him. I open the freezer to get some ice and I see the last meatloaf she ever made for me. She was in alot of pain but made one anyway and sent it home for me to bake when my husband wanted it. I never got around to it and now I can't throw it out. Its been there over a year, and its way too late to consider cooking it, but somehow, hanging on to it, I have a little piece of her love, there when I need it. I walk to the front door and there she is, in the pictures on my wall. Pictures of her in Hawaii, looking so beautiful and happy. She had always wanted to go, so when I had the chance to do it, I took her and my dad, and she had such a wonderful time. I can still see her sitting on the Lunch Whale Watching Cruise we went on, sitting at the table, stringing Plumeria flowers to make a lei. When we returned, her eyes would beam with excitement when she told others about her trip.
All of these things catch me by surprise and open the wound just a little each time I find one but they comfort me too. Just knowing that she is all around me still, her love showing itself in the smallest of ways, makes me feel like I haven't completely lost her, she isn't completely gone. God, how I wish she wasn't gone.
If I'd known that our last hug would be our last, I would have hugged a little tighter.
If I'd known that our last "I love you" would be our last, I would have said it just once more.
If I'd known that our last "goodbye" would be our last, I would have never said "goodbye" at all."
I found a card from my mom today. It was the last Birthday card she ever sent me. At the time I originally received it, it wasn't a surprise, because my mom never forgot a birthday. And the sentiment wasn't a surprise either, since my mom carefully picked out each card, reading dozens before she settled on just the right one for each member of her family. We all knew that when our birthday came, we may not receive cards from anyone else, but my mom's would be there, every year.
As I held this card to my chest and my heart began to break a little, I realized how lucky I am to have these pieces of her all around me. I can find remnants of her love everywhere. I open the closet and find a sweater she brought me from Niagra Falls. She had always wanted to go there, so my dad took her. When she came back she was so excited to tell me how beautiful it was. Her smile was unbelievable. I dust the curio cabinet and I find the pieces of Frankoma Pottery she brought back for me from her trip to Oklahoma because she knew how much I loved their animal figurines. And she couldn't bring back just one. She brought back 5. Her generosity is something that imprinted on me and continues to inspire me to this day. I look in the cupboard for a container for leftovers and I see one of her tupperware bowls. She always loved to make beans and meatloaf for my husband. I don't eat meat but she knew how much he loved her meatloaf so she made a point to make it at least once a month for him. I open the freezer to get some ice and I see the last meatloaf she ever made for me. She was in alot of pain but made one anyway and sent it home for me to bake when my husband wanted it. I never got around to it and now I can't throw it out. Its been there over a year, and its way too late to consider cooking it, but somehow, hanging on to it, I have a little piece of her love, there when I need it. I walk to the front door and there she is, in the pictures on my wall. Pictures of her in Hawaii, looking so beautiful and happy. She had always wanted to go, so when I had the chance to do it, I took her and my dad, and she had such a wonderful time. I can still see her sitting on the Lunch Whale Watching Cruise we went on, sitting at the table, stringing Plumeria flowers to make a lei. When we returned, her eyes would beam with excitement when she told others about her trip.
All of these things catch me by surprise and open the wound just a little each time I find one but they comfort me too. Just knowing that she is all around me still, her love showing itself in the smallest of ways, makes me feel like I haven't completely lost her, she isn't completely gone. God, how I wish she wasn't gone.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Letting in the light
"Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose."
Its strange how once someone is gone, even the most simple of memories can tug at your heart, bringing tears to your eyes, causing a twinge of pain in your heart. I've noticed that I remember more now, thinking of times in my childhood and as an adult that I had forgotten, about time with my mom. Conversations we had, at the time not so significant, I now hang on every word. Times we laughed together, just fun at the time, but most dear now. These memories are my photo album, pages in my history now completed. My story, as I knew it, with my mom, is over and a new version has begun. My photo album is open every day. Some days the pictures are more clear than others, more painful, but they are always there for me to flip through, all of them. My collection of moments that no one can take away and I can never get over. I'm grateful for them but they are also a bittersweet possession. I feel sorry for people who don't have these precious moments to hang onto. They are spared the pain of the memories but also of the joy these pictures give to you.
The memories of my mom are a story of her love, from the very first day she brought me home to the day I said goodbye. In between are moments of joy, sadness, anger, pride, but most of all, love. My story is filled with love. Her love created a world for me that when I was young I took for granted, assuming that everyone knew the kind of love I had. But as I got older I began to realize that her capacity for love was so much more than I could have ever known, and truly greater than anyone I had ever met. She loved from the bottom of her soul. Every part of her being would hug you and wrap you in the blanket of affection she had made just for you. She made you feel safe, secure, confident, special, needed and loved. You always felt loved. And I see now how much I depended on that love to keep me strong. I never knew how much until she was gone.
So today I open my album, pull out a few pictures and let them take me to those moments where I can still feel her hand in mine, feel her fingers stroking my hair, hear her laughing and seeing her eyes sparkle. I'll spend some time with them, feel the pain of love, and then put them away. I am finally learning how to put them away. And each day it gets a little easier to flip through the pages without getting papercuts on my heart. Maybe someday my album will be a comfort but for now it is the place I go when I can't escape her memory. It hurts my heart but it is a pain I gladly bear.
Its strange how once someone is gone, even the most simple of memories can tug at your heart, bringing tears to your eyes, causing a twinge of pain in your heart. I've noticed that I remember more now, thinking of times in my childhood and as an adult that I had forgotten, about time with my mom. Conversations we had, at the time not so significant, I now hang on every word. Times we laughed together, just fun at the time, but most dear now. These memories are my photo album, pages in my history now completed. My story, as I knew it, with my mom, is over and a new version has begun. My photo album is open every day. Some days the pictures are more clear than others, more painful, but they are always there for me to flip through, all of them. My collection of moments that no one can take away and I can never get over. I'm grateful for them but they are also a bittersweet possession. I feel sorry for people who don't have these precious moments to hang onto. They are spared the pain of the memories but also of the joy these pictures give to you.
The memories of my mom are a story of her love, from the very first day she brought me home to the day I said goodbye. In between are moments of joy, sadness, anger, pride, but most of all, love. My story is filled with love. Her love created a world for me that when I was young I took for granted, assuming that everyone knew the kind of love I had. But as I got older I began to realize that her capacity for love was so much more than I could have ever known, and truly greater than anyone I had ever met. She loved from the bottom of her soul. Every part of her being would hug you and wrap you in the blanket of affection she had made just for you. She made you feel safe, secure, confident, special, needed and loved. You always felt loved. And I see now how much I depended on that love to keep me strong. I never knew how much until she was gone.
So today I open my album, pull out a few pictures and let them take me to those moments where I can still feel her hand in mine, feel her fingers stroking my hair, hear her laughing and seeing her eyes sparkle. I'll spend some time with them, feel the pain of love, and then put them away. I am finally learning how to put them away. And each day it gets a little easier to flip through the pages without getting papercuts on my heart. Maybe someday my album will be a comfort but for now it is the place I go when I can't escape her memory. It hurts my heart but it is a pain I gladly bear.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Milestones
If tears could build a stairway,
And memories a lane,
I'd walk right up to Heaven
And bring you home again.
~Author Unknown
Throughout my life I've collected milestones, moments in time that make me stop and recall their importance, looking back at where I've been since then, and looking forward at what's to come. Up until my mother's death most every milestone I had collected were happy ones. Birthdays, Anniversaries, Graduations, first car, first kiss. They all made an impression on me and when I looked back on them I always smiled. They are the proud, fluffy moments in my memory that make me feel like I've been part of something big, something important, watching all of these things happen to me and the people I love. What a gift!
But once you lose someone, you begin collecting an entirely different category of milestone. The kind that hurt.
First birthday, first Christmas, first grandbaby born, first anniversary of the day they left. Its not intentional. You don't look at the calendar and anticipate these days. You try to forget that they're coming, try to find a distraction for that day. Go shopping, see a movie, spend the day cleaning out a closet. Or sometimes, even with the best laid plans, you end up crying. Crying and crumbling under the weight of memories too close to the surface. I've ended a few of my "new" milestone days this way. Times when I thought I had it together, had my emotions under control. Then a song, a movie, a picture, a trigger to my heart and I'm done for. Can't promise it won't happen next time too.
The challenge now is to find room for the new, happy milestones to come. With my mental closet currently full of the heartwrenching markers of the last year, how do I move them aside to make room for the happy pieces I hope to fill it with in the years ahead? I know I'll still be adding to my "mom" file throughout my life but so many good things are happening in our lives too, I've got to have a place to keep them, close to my heart, to comfort me, to give me hope. My mom markers will always be there and I want them there. As strange as it sounds, they are a comfort too. Realizing how long its been since I held her hand or heard her voice are things I never want to forget or miss. She was the most important person to me in my world and missing her is now a part of me and who I am. So where do I put her? How do I open my heart and allow the happy in when sadness is blocking the door?
I guess I'll open the door a little at a time, letting some of the sadness out and with the happy, maybe a little gratefulness in. Grateful for the woman who made those milestones so important to me and blessed me with a love that always makes me remember. Maybe try to be thankful that I have these moments to reflect on, to cherish. Her love made all those moments special and missing her now when those days come each year should bring a sense of gratitude that I had her in my life. She was the best thing that ever happened to me and I am so very proud to have been her daughter. Having the chance to love her and be loved by her is an unbelievable blessing. Pain is the price we pay for love. All the tears, all the suffering and confusion, all of it I've done for her. So I'll continue to hold her memory close to me but begin to collect those new milestones too. My new milestones of happy times, that I wish she was here to share.
And memories a lane,
I'd walk right up to Heaven
And bring you home again.
~Author Unknown
Throughout my life I've collected milestones, moments in time that make me stop and recall their importance, looking back at where I've been since then, and looking forward at what's to come. Up until my mother's death most every milestone I had collected were happy ones. Birthdays, Anniversaries, Graduations, first car, first kiss. They all made an impression on me and when I looked back on them I always smiled. They are the proud, fluffy moments in my memory that make me feel like I've been part of something big, something important, watching all of these things happen to me and the people I love. What a gift!
But once you lose someone, you begin collecting an entirely different category of milestone. The kind that hurt.
First birthday, first Christmas, first grandbaby born, first anniversary of the day they left. Its not intentional. You don't look at the calendar and anticipate these days. You try to forget that they're coming, try to find a distraction for that day. Go shopping, see a movie, spend the day cleaning out a closet. Or sometimes, even with the best laid plans, you end up crying. Crying and crumbling under the weight of memories too close to the surface. I've ended a few of my "new" milestone days this way. Times when I thought I had it together, had my emotions under control. Then a song, a movie, a picture, a trigger to my heart and I'm done for. Can't promise it won't happen next time too.
The challenge now is to find room for the new, happy milestones to come. With my mental closet currently full of the heartwrenching markers of the last year, how do I move them aside to make room for the happy pieces I hope to fill it with in the years ahead? I know I'll still be adding to my "mom" file throughout my life but so many good things are happening in our lives too, I've got to have a place to keep them, close to my heart, to comfort me, to give me hope. My mom markers will always be there and I want them there. As strange as it sounds, they are a comfort too. Realizing how long its been since I held her hand or heard her voice are things I never want to forget or miss. She was the most important person to me in my world and missing her is now a part of me and who I am. So where do I put her? How do I open my heart and allow the happy in when sadness is blocking the door?
I guess I'll open the door a little at a time, letting some of the sadness out and with the happy, maybe a little gratefulness in. Grateful for the woman who made those milestones so important to me and blessed me with a love that always makes me remember. Maybe try to be thankful that I have these moments to reflect on, to cherish. Her love made all those moments special and missing her now when those days come each year should bring a sense of gratitude that I had her in my life. She was the best thing that ever happened to me and I am so very proud to have been her daughter. Having the chance to love her and be loved by her is an unbelievable blessing. Pain is the price we pay for love. All the tears, all the suffering and confusion, all of it I've done for her. So I'll continue to hold her memory close to me but begin to collect those new milestones too. My new milestones of happy times, that I wish she was here to share.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
A brave new world
"If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever."
Waking up each morning can be a struggle for most people but when depression is a bedmate, even getting one foot on the floor can be a battle. After a year of dealing with the ups, downs and setbacks of the grieving process, I'm quite amazed that I'm out of bed more than in bed these days. Nothing helps you escape pain like a deep sleep. In sleep you can relax, you can forget, you can pretend. Sleep is easy. Life is much harder. But sleeping the pain away is neither practical nor healthy. Believe me, I tried, and it did not erase what I was hiding from. It only delayed it. When I awoke, it was always there, ready to remind me that she's still gone and I'm still broken.
Okay, so if you can't sleep away the pain, what's next? Therapy, medication, exercise, lots and lots of comfort food, anger? What? There are a million books telling you how to "fix" yourself but I haven't found one yet that did any more for my pain than give me clinical instruction for the way I should feel, describe the healthy way to cope, tell me that it will be okay, it just takes time. That's not what I'm looking for. I want someone to say, "You know what? Your mom died and that really sucks. The pain you feel now, get used to it. Its not going to stop hurting today, tomorrow or even next year. You're going to feel a version of what you feel now, forever. Life as you know it is over, sweetie. Time to put on your big girl panties and deal. This is your life now." Kind of harsh, I know. But trying to sugarcoat what this is pisses me off more than the pain. Its not okay. I'm not okay. Its not right that she's gone. Its just not fair. Why was she taken when there are terrible people who have done horrible things to others, and they live long, healthy lives? The rules of this game suck. I don't want to play anymore. Okay, that wasn't a "I don't want to live anymore" statement. I'm just frustrated because I can't put my puzzle back together. I loved that puzzle. That puzzle was beautiful. And now its a mess. A big, stinking, frustrating, wanna-go-hide-in-a-hole-and-cry mess.
So, anger it is. Not really. I'm not an angry person now. Just a little bitter (okay, a lot bitter) because she was taken from me and I wasn't done loving her, that's all. I know I don't have a choice in the way this plays out. My tears of pain and moments of complete devastation don't really effect anyone or change the daily events of life. Unbelievably life goes on. When she first died I couldn't understand why everyone on the outside continued with their lives, as if nothing had happened. How can that be? In my mind, in my world, time stopped, but the world went on without me.
So, here I am, a year later. Hanging on the best I can. Still working through how in the hell I'm supposed to do this without her. Wondering if today will be the day that crying for my mom won't start on a moment's notice, with no end in sight. Wondering if today, thinking about her will stop long enough for me to finish a task without forgetting what I'm doing. Wishing that I could put on the brave face that I know most people expect after a year. Hoping that I don't dream about her again, begging her to stay.
Oh well, maybe tomorrow.
Waking up each morning can be a struggle for most people but when depression is a bedmate, even getting one foot on the floor can be a battle. After a year of dealing with the ups, downs and setbacks of the grieving process, I'm quite amazed that I'm out of bed more than in bed these days. Nothing helps you escape pain like a deep sleep. In sleep you can relax, you can forget, you can pretend. Sleep is easy. Life is much harder. But sleeping the pain away is neither practical nor healthy. Believe me, I tried, and it did not erase what I was hiding from. It only delayed it. When I awoke, it was always there, ready to remind me that she's still gone and I'm still broken.
Okay, so if you can't sleep away the pain, what's next? Therapy, medication, exercise, lots and lots of comfort food, anger? What? There are a million books telling you how to "fix" yourself but I haven't found one yet that did any more for my pain than give me clinical instruction for the way I should feel, describe the healthy way to cope, tell me that it will be okay, it just takes time. That's not what I'm looking for. I want someone to say, "You know what? Your mom died and that really sucks. The pain you feel now, get used to it. Its not going to stop hurting today, tomorrow or even next year. You're going to feel a version of what you feel now, forever. Life as you know it is over, sweetie. Time to put on your big girl panties and deal. This is your life now." Kind of harsh, I know. But trying to sugarcoat what this is pisses me off more than the pain. Its not okay. I'm not okay. Its not right that she's gone. Its just not fair. Why was she taken when there are terrible people who have done horrible things to others, and they live long, healthy lives? The rules of this game suck. I don't want to play anymore. Okay, that wasn't a "I don't want to live anymore" statement. I'm just frustrated because I can't put my puzzle back together. I loved that puzzle. That puzzle was beautiful. And now its a mess. A big, stinking, frustrating, wanna-go-hide-in-a-hole-and-cry mess.
So, anger it is. Not really. I'm not an angry person now. Just a little bitter (okay, a lot bitter) because she was taken from me and I wasn't done loving her, that's all. I know I don't have a choice in the way this plays out. My tears of pain and moments of complete devastation don't really effect anyone or change the daily events of life. Unbelievably life goes on. When she first died I couldn't understand why everyone on the outside continued with their lives, as if nothing had happened. How can that be? In my mind, in my world, time stopped, but the world went on without me.
So, here I am, a year later. Hanging on the best I can. Still working through how in the hell I'm supposed to do this without her. Wondering if today will be the day that crying for my mom won't start on a moment's notice, with no end in sight. Wondering if today, thinking about her will stop long enough for me to finish a task without forgetting what I'm doing. Wishing that I could put on the brave face that I know most people expect after a year. Hoping that I don't dream about her again, begging her to stay.
Oh well, maybe tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Regrets
Now that you know where my story begins, I'd like to take you on a journey of where it has taken me, so far.
In the days immediately following my mom's death, things were a blur. I was still convinced that this couldn't have happened. I would shake my head in disbelief and cry out loud in anger. I had no sense of what was next, how I would go on, what to do with this sadness that brought me to my knees. The devastation of what happened cannot be described. Even having gone through it, its still difficult to explain to someone how it feels. There are just so many layers of pain and confusion, its impossible to put into words.
The one thing I have come to realize are the regrets. Regrets for moments missed, questions I should have asked, times I should have made time. They're all there, everyday, reminding me that it's too late. Reminding me that I had my chance and I missed it. I missed it.
Not a day goes by that I don't miss her voice, the touch of her gentle hands playing with my hair, the brightness of her smile. How I wish that I had saved her voicemails on my cellphone and taken more pictures. Her voice is probably the thing I miss the most. The gentle way she spoke to me, the love in her voice, the care in every word. She always made you feel that you were the most special thing in the world to her. And she made sure that you knew it. She never once let us doubt her love. She showed it in everything she did.
When I think of her now, I think about the things I never thought to ask, but seem so important now. Not knowing those things, and not having her here to tell me, it creates a corner of sadness of its own. The should of, would of, could of corner, where I hide all my regrets. The questions that I will never have the answers to will now haunt me, as I enter this new world without her.
In the days immediately following my mom's death, things were a blur. I was still convinced that this couldn't have happened. I would shake my head in disbelief and cry out loud in anger. I had no sense of what was next, how I would go on, what to do with this sadness that brought me to my knees. The devastation of what happened cannot be described. Even having gone through it, its still difficult to explain to someone how it feels. There are just so many layers of pain and confusion, its impossible to put into words.
The one thing I have come to realize are the regrets. Regrets for moments missed, questions I should have asked, times I should have made time. They're all there, everyday, reminding me that it's too late. Reminding me that I had my chance and I missed it. I missed it.
Not a day goes by that I don't miss her voice, the touch of her gentle hands playing with my hair, the brightness of her smile. How I wish that I had saved her voicemails on my cellphone and taken more pictures. Her voice is probably the thing I miss the most. The gentle way she spoke to me, the love in her voice, the care in every word. She always made you feel that you were the most special thing in the world to her. And she made sure that you knew it. She never once let us doubt her love. She showed it in everything she did.
When I think of her now, I think about the things I never thought to ask, but seem so important now. Not knowing those things, and not having her here to tell me, it creates a corner of sadness of its own. The should of, would of, could of corner, where I hide all my regrets. The questions that I will never have the answers to will now haunt me, as I enter this new world without her.
Chapter One
August 10th, 2010, 2:15am
I would like to begin this first post by saying that I am not a professional, I have no training in psychology and I make no claims to have the answers. I am simply a woman who is grieving the loss of a parent. I am starting this blog with the hope that by writing about my experience with grief, it might help me heal. And I hope that along the way others will share their stories. No one should grieve alone. Grief is painful. Grief is never-ending. But I'm told it gets easier with time. Does it?
So, I've been trying to pick up the pieces of my life since my mom died last year and the one thing that I have found is that a heart can truly be broken. A heartache is not just a great word for use in a country song. It is a real pain that will crush you to your core. I had met people who had lost their moms but until you lose someone that is a piece of you, a real part of your being, there's no way to describe what this event will do to your life. One day every piece is in its place. The next, the pieces are scattered everywhere and you don't know where to start picking them up. Its as if you have a puzzle, completed on a table. The image is clear, the shapes make sense, everything fits. Then one day someone walks in and knocks over your table. Suddenly there is no clear image, the pieces are scattered, the picture is lost. What do you do? Where do you start? What if some of the pieces have been lost or no longer fit?
May 29, 2009 my puzzle was shattered.
My mother had been experiencing a great deal of back pain for several years from a deformity of her spine. The doctors had tried everything, steroid injections, narcotics, physical therapy. None of it helped. She suffered daily, horribly, continuously. There was no peace for her, only pain. When her family was around she always put on a brave face, not wanting us to worry for her. Instead she worried about us, always concerned with our well-being, emotional and physical. Never feeling sorry for herself or asking for help.
A list of doctors later, we found the doctor who would perform the surgery that would give her back her life. A life free of pain and suffering, a life where she could walk again. She received the necessary clearances from her doctors to have the surgery and all the pre-surgical blood work was done. She was good to go and she could not have been more ready. She had suffered so much for so long, she couldn't take the pain anymore. She was so happy that we had found a doctor that could help. She had almost lost hope.
She made it through 11 hours of intensive surgery to correct the deformity of her spine and all went well. The doctor smiled while telling us how well it went. Though the surgery was long she had done wonderfully and would be in recovery soon.We all gathered our things to head upstairs to wait for our chance to see her. I was so relieved it was over. Now her pain would be over. She would go through rehab and physical therapy and within a few months we would be shopping again, she could pick up her grandbabies again, she could cook a meatloaf and pot of beans without hurting so bad she wanted to cry.
We reached the waiting room, settled in to wait for our chance to see her, some went home. We were tired from 13 hours at the hospital but happy inside because mom, the rock and center of our family, would be healthy again. Happy again. Pain free. I called my husband to let him know she was out of surgery and in recovery. He was already on his way to the hospital. He hadn't heard from me in a few hours and was concerned that something was wrong. I assured him she was fine and waited for him to arrive. When he got there we talked for a few minutes and I told him to go on home, let the pups out, I would call him later. My friend that had come to the hospital with us went with me to walk him to his car. I kissed him bye and we headed back upstairs.
When we entered the waiting room I saw the surgeon standing next to my father, and my sister was screaming, sitting in a chair in front of the doctor. My brain did not compute what was happening. I looked at my friend and then back to the doctor. I asked what was wrong. He said that after he left us in the waiting area he had come upstairs to check on my mom and when he arrived the ICU staff was trying to revive my mom. She had gone into cardiac arrest and they had been trying to resusitate her for 30 minutes, with no response. I just remember saying "No. Everything was supposed to be okay. She got all the clearances." In my head this didn't make sense. All the doctors had cleared her. She was healthy enough for surgery. This wasn't happening. But it was. I rushed to the doctor and he tried to comfort me. The room was spinning. I felt like I had left my body. I went to a phone and called my husband and sister and told them to come back. Mom is dead. Suddenly one of the staff rushed in and said, "Sir, we have a pulse and blood pressure." The surgeon, stunned, said "Are you sure?". The nurse said, "yes" and they rushed from the room. In shock, we all followed, down the hallway to the room where my mother layed, sleeping, her head so swollen from hours face down on the surgery table, tubes and lines coming from her arms, her mouth, her nose. The doctors began to explain that after 30 minutes they had stopped their efforts to revive my mom but after they had stopped and the doctor had come to tell us, she came back on her own. My mother had come back! I knew it had been a mistake. She's going to be fine. But then the truth came. The doctor explained that because she had been gone so long, her kidneys had failed and if she did wake up she would most likely need dyalisis for the rest of her life. They were checking her blood levels and they showed some improvement in the last few minutes but she was not out of the woods yet. He said that she could hear us but could not respond. I went to my mom's bedside and I took her hand. Her beautiful hand. She had gotten her nails done the day before her surgery because she knew it would be a while before she could get out to get them done again once she got home. Her nails were freshly painted, her hands so beautiful, so soft, but so cold. I spoke to her and begged her to come back to us. I told her that I needed her and please don't go. I cried, I yelled, I pleaded. My mother had nearly died in childbirth many years before and she described floating to the ceiling and then being pushed back down. Each time she would reach the ceiling, something pulled her back. She said that it was so peaceful. I told her that if she felt herself rising, please come back down, please don't leave me. Other family members came to her side and spoke to her. Finally we told Daddy to come talk to her. Within minutes of coming to her side, the doctors asked us to leave the room. They closed the door. She had gone into arrest again. She was gone. My momma was gone.
Once they stopped and called the time of death, they allowed us back in the room to say our goodbyes. Again I went to her side and I yelled for her to come back. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. After a while my husband told me that we needed to leave. What? Leave her here? How am I supposed to walk away and leave my mother here? How can you expect me to do that? I can't. I can't.
But I did. That night I walked away from that hospital a child without a mom. My suffering had begun.
I would like to begin this first post by saying that I am not a professional, I have no training in psychology and I make no claims to have the answers. I am simply a woman who is grieving the loss of a parent. I am starting this blog with the hope that by writing about my experience with grief, it might help me heal. And I hope that along the way others will share their stories. No one should grieve alone. Grief is painful. Grief is never-ending. But I'm told it gets easier with time. Does it?
So, I've been trying to pick up the pieces of my life since my mom died last year and the one thing that I have found is that a heart can truly be broken. A heartache is not just a great word for use in a country song. It is a real pain that will crush you to your core. I had met people who had lost their moms but until you lose someone that is a piece of you, a real part of your being, there's no way to describe what this event will do to your life. One day every piece is in its place. The next, the pieces are scattered everywhere and you don't know where to start picking them up. Its as if you have a puzzle, completed on a table. The image is clear, the shapes make sense, everything fits. Then one day someone walks in and knocks over your table. Suddenly there is no clear image, the pieces are scattered, the picture is lost. What do you do? Where do you start? What if some of the pieces have been lost or no longer fit?
May 29, 2009 my puzzle was shattered.
My mother had been experiencing a great deal of back pain for several years from a deformity of her spine. The doctors had tried everything, steroid injections, narcotics, physical therapy. None of it helped. She suffered daily, horribly, continuously. There was no peace for her, only pain. When her family was around she always put on a brave face, not wanting us to worry for her. Instead she worried about us, always concerned with our well-being, emotional and physical. Never feeling sorry for herself or asking for help.
A list of doctors later, we found the doctor who would perform the surgery that would give her back her life. A life free of pain and suffering, a life where she could walk again. She received the necessary clearances from her doctors to have the surgery and all the pre-surgical blood work was done. She was good to go and she could not have been more ready. She had suffered so much for so long, she couldn't take the pain anymore. She was so happy that we had found a doctor that could help. She had almost lost hope.
She made it through 11 hours of intensive surgery to correct the deformity of her spine and all went well. The doctor smiled while telling us how well it went. Though the surgery was long she had done wonderfully and would be in recovery soon.We all gathered our things to head upstairs to wait for our chance to see her. I was so relieved it was over. Now her pain would be over. She would go through rehab and physical therapy and within a few months we would be shopping again, she could pick up her grandbabies again, she could cook a meatloaf and pot of beans without hurting so bad she wanted to cry.
We reached the waiting room, settled in to wait for our chance to see her, some went home. We were tired from 13 hours at the hospital but happy inside because mom, the rock and center of our family, would be healthy again. Happy again. Pain free. I called my husband to let him know she was out of surgery and in recovery. He was already on his way to the hospital. He hadn't heard from me in a few hours and was concerned that something was wrong. I assured him she was fine and waited for him to arrive. When he got there we talked for a few minutes and I told him to go on home, let the pups out, I would call him later. My friend that had come to the hospital with us went with me to walk him to his car. I kissed him bye and we headed back upstairs.
When we entered the waiting room I saw the surgeon standing next to my father, and my sister was screaming, sitting in a chair in front of the doctor. My brain did not compute what was happening. I looked at my friend and then back to the doctor. I asked what was wrong. He said that after he left us in the waiting area he had come upstairs to check on my mom and when he arrived the ICU staff was trying to revive my mom. She had gone into cardiac arrest and they had been trying to resusitate her for 30 minutes, with no response. I just remember saying "No. Everything was supposed to be okay. She got all the clearances." In my head this didn't make sense. All the doctors had cleared her. She was healthy enough for surgery. This wasn't happening. But it was. I rushed to the doctor and he tried to comfort me. The room was spinning. I felt like I had left my body. I went to a phone and called my husband and sister and told them to come back. Mom is dead. Suddenly one of the staff rushed in and said, "Sir, we have a pulse and blood pressure." The surgeon, stunned, said "Are you sure?". The nurse said, "yes" and they rushed from the room. In shock, we all followed, down the hallway to the room where my mother layed, sleeping, her head so swollen from hours face down on the surgery table, tubes and lines coming from her arms, her mouth, her nose. The doctors began to explain that after 30 minutes they had stopped their efforts to revive my mom but after they had stopped and the doctor had come to tell us, she came back on her own. My mother had come back! I knew it had been a mistake. She's going to be fine. But then the truth came. The doctor explained that because she had been gone so long, her kidneys had failed and if she did wake up she would most likely need dyalisis for the rest of her life. They were checking her blood levels and they showed some improvement in the last few minutes but she was not out of the woods yet. He said that she could hear us but could not respond. I went to my mom's bedside and I took her hand. Her beautiful hand. She had gotten her nails done the day before her surgery because she knew it would be a while before she could get out to get them done again once she got home. Her nails were freshly painted, her hands so beautiful, so soft, but so cold. I spoke to her and begged her to come back to us. I told her that I needed her and please don't go. I cried, I yelled, I pleaded. My mother had nearly died in childbirth many years before and she described floating to the ceiling and then being pushed back down. Each time she would reach the ceiling, something pulled her back. She said that it was so peaceful. I told her that if she felt herself rising, please come back down, please don't leave me. Other family members came to her side and spoke to her. Finally we told Daddy to come talk to her. Within minutes of coming to her side, the doctors asked us to leave the room. They closed the door. She had gone into arrest again. She was gone. My momma was gone.
Once they stopped and called the time of death, they allowed us back in the room to say our goodbyes. Again I went to her side and I yelled for her to come back. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. After a while my husband told me that we needed to leave. What? Leave her here? How am I supposed to walk away and leave my mother here? How can you expect me to do that? I can't. I can't.
But I did. That night I walked away from that hospital a child without a mom. My suffering had begun.
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