An Open Letter to my Mom

Well, my "first" Thanksgiving without you has come and gone. I only cried twice. So I actually did better than I anticipated. However, my goal was not to cry at all.

We celebrated the "girls'" birthdays (and Debbie's). We ate too much. I used your China - with red solo cups. lol. It had to be done. Amazingly enough, nothing got broken.

Bells knows who you are. I don't show her pictures yet. I can't. But your pictures are up in the house. She knows your name. It's sad but reassuring at the same time.

My Christmas shopping is done. No thanks to you. I've cried multiple times while shopping. So there's not a lot of Christmas joy. I'm trying. I'm failing. But I'll get there.

This will be the first time in 17 years I haven't tried to make your Christmas special with dad gone. I'm sure your Christmas with Jesus will be plenty special. I'm a little jealous - I won't lie.

You used to say that once you went, no one would get flowers on their grave. You were right. I haven't been back to the cemetery since we buried you. If you knew that, you would be upset. But you don't know that. There's no reason for me to go there. Why should I? That's not where you ARE.

You can't see me or hear me. And that's fine because I feel better knowing you're happy and whole. If you could still see this dreadful place it would make you sad. But the Bible says there's no more tears in heaven so I know this place is of no concern to you.

So, enjoy your time at the feet of Jesus. Try not to drive Him too crazy. I will see you soon enough.

The Responsibility of the Griever

I find myself in a weird place. Ive become quite introspective. I'm grieving right now. Deeply. Frankly, it hurts like hell. However, grieving, hurting, and all of the things that go along with it, does not give me the right to be... well, um, craptastic to other people.

So every thought, word, and action is weighed on the grief scale. Follow me here. Patty Lou is an idiot. I can't stand her face. I can't stand her voice. Shoot, I can't stand the way she breathes. Logic has to prevail. Throw it on the grief scale. So we run through the following scenario. How do I feel today? Is this an emotional day for some reason? Is this an anniversary? A birthday? Any other special occasion? Did a song make me cry? A picture? Pre-cooked bacon? (You laugh but that's happened)

If I can answer "yes" to any of that, it is very likely that my emotions have already been triggered, Patty Lou is not truly an idiot, and I need to take an adult timeout and get myself together. The flip side of that is, grief does NOT color every emotion I have. And sometimes, yes indeed, Patty Lou is a flaming idiot that has been stupid one too many times, and frankly, yes, she ticked me off. That happened this week. 😀

They say time heals. They say it takes about a year to truly grieve. First, who are "they?" Second, "they" LIE! Third, "they" should be smacked. I will not be whole in a year. No amount of time will "fix" this. The ONLY thing that will fix this hurt is entering the gates of heaven myself (and no that comment in no way indicates a desire to harm myself).

Thanksgiving is fast approaching. Two days away. I'm not overly enthusiastic about it at all. Sure, I'll love being with all the kids. I love them dearly. However, I am so tired of empty chairs. And if I hear the phrase "new normal" one more time, somebody could get smacked. There's nothing normal about this.

Yes, yes. I'll move forward. We all do. Soon, I will be able to talk about her and not cry. That's not today. Soon, I will think of her special bond with Bells and smile rather than cry. That's not today. Soon, I will look at all her pictures and laugh without crying. That's not today. Soon, I will see her again. However, that's not today.

Lessons Learned at the Bedside - Part III

This will just be "one" lesson but I feel like this one needs its own post.

Lesson twelve - use it or lose it. No, I'm not talking about your brain, your body, or anything like that. This is about your "stuff." Maybe it was the way previous generations grew up. Maybe it was never feeling like they had enough. Maybe they passed that mentality on. There's NOTHING, I repeat NOTHING, wrong with being thrifty. I love a good deal, a great bargain, etc. However, if you have it, use it.

My mom had tons of stuff that she'd bought, been given, that she never used. I found clothes and shoes with the price tags still on them. She didn't "have any place to wear them." I just don't understand. If you wanted them that badly, why not use them.

My mom had a beautiful set of China that I didn't even know she had until I was cleaning out the trailer. Clearly, if I had no knowledge of it being here, it's never been used in my 43 years of existence. That's a shame. I'm sure she was waiting for just the right event.

Five Christmases ago (the Christmas after her first cancer diagnosis) we were shopping and she saw this bright red cape with a leopard print collar. She wanted it so badly but was shopping for other people. So I went back and got it for her. The only time she EVER put it on was that Christmas day for a picture.

She also had a small (and I do mean SMALL) bottle of Elizabeth Arden Red Door. It's still in the box. Never used. She had nowhere to wear it.

Stuff is stuff. In the grand scheme of things it's not that important. As I look around at my mom's stuff that she never used because the time or circumstance wasn't right, well, it hurts my feelings. She has other stuff that she used all of the time that I cherish.

That perfume... well, it sits in my bathroom. It's not my "taste" but I can't bear to part with it.

That china... well, it's getting used at Thanksgiving, probably Christmas, and very likely spaghetti night. It might get chipped, broken, or stained but I'm using it. I will think of her every time.

That cape... well it's hanging by the door. I will wear it all winter. Next winter too. As a matter of fact, I will wear it until it falls apart. Why? Because in my mind's eye, I can see the smile on her face the Christmas morning she put it on.

Sure, it's silly, slightly strange, and maybe even a bit weird but when I use those things that she couldn't/wouldn't, I feel like I'm honoring her in some small way.

I hope my family sees memories in my stuff. Well-used, smile making memories. I hope they want to use it too. I hope there's nothing that I "wanted", that I actually own, that I never used that makes them sad.

You don't have to have everything to make you happy. Stuff in its most basic form truly is not that important. However, don't wait for the right time, place, or circumstance. The right time to enjoy that china is tonight when you're eating meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The right time to wear that perfume is tomorrow when you go to work. The right time to wear "that" outfit, coat, shoes is this afternoon to the grocery store. Because frankly, if you wait long enough, there will be no time left.

Midnight Ramblings

In the past 18 years, I've lost 14 members of my family. There simply are no words to convey exactly how badly that sucks. All of those relationships were different, some closer than others, but they all mattered.

Mom and I talked about death extensively. In a manner of speaking, we were "used" to it, so discussing it came naturally. Truly, for my family, death was a part of life. After my cousin died a few years ago, our conversations grew more frequent. Statistics dictated that she would go before me, but having lost her other two children, she always worried that I would go before her.

We talked about how at some point, when you continue to lose those around you, and you're still here, how you begin to get jealous. Jealous that "they" are seeing Jesus. Jealous that "they" are reuniting with the others.

We laughed and joked and talked about how we were discussing with God that He just needed to come on back and get us all at the same time. It's a shame it didn't work out that way. But in all fairness, I spent years praying that if God wasn't ready for us all, that He would see fit to take her first. It sounds a bit horrible to say that but I knew how badly she worried about being "alone."

And God knows, I get it. I get it. I know I'm not alone. I have my husband. I'm surrounded by my "children" (no, I didn't birth them all). I am surrounded by other family and so many friends. However, those that remain with me do not replace those I have lost. Some days the sheer, overwhelming loneliness of it all threatens to overtake me.

Then, in that moment of brokenness, God gives me something. Some small gift and I know it will be okay. However, even some of the gifts are painful. (More on that in a bit).

Here lately, most days, I feel as if I wear my heart (in pieces) on the outside of my body. Small things that shouldn't bother me do and bigger things are even more magnified. A lifelong family friend lost her father yesterday. It crushed me. I know of that loss; of that pain; of "this" close to the holidays.

Oh, I know, how I know, all the things to say. You'll see him again. He's in a better place. He's not suffering anymore. Yep, all meaningless drivel because words CAN'T fix that pain. Time can't fix that pain. People can't fix that pain. Only God can.

There are days that I wish I could throw my heart away and seal up my tear ducts. I am just
so.
tired.
of.
feeling.
every.
little.
thing.

Maybe I could just be an emotionless, human robot. I know, I know. That's not really what I want. I know that we grieve greatly because we love greatly. And frankly what's the point of life if there's no love. It just hurts. So badly. I'm just tired of hurting.

So, those God moments that remind me that He's not done with me yet...

A one year old (who quite possibly knows more in her spirit than I could ever hope to know) who drags a blanket around reminding me that death DOES NOT end a relationship.

A husband who puts down a spoon and lid while cooking to put his arms around you when you've "lost it" yet again for no "real" reason.

A chubby hand on your face and a sleepy arm around your neck (belonging to the one year old that sometimes tests your sanity and endurance) and then the sweetest, sleepiest kiss you've ever been given.

A friend that cries in your office, because she's hurt, because life is hard and you know the only reason she can do that with you is because you've done it with her.

A husband that checks on you when you can't sleep at midnight and then offers to "stay up with you" even though he must be exhausted.

Yes, God's in it all. Even in the pain. Even in the tears. Even in the deepest, darkest nights of grief that we think we won't get through. He's there. Sometimes it simply requires looking for Him. And I'm convinced that anyone who has traveled the grief highway, that's your "one set of footprints in the sand" moment.

Lessons Learned at the Bedside - Part II

Lesson seven - life goes on. With painful regularity, life marches on. In the first few hours, days, and maybe weeks, those closest to you will love on you, support you, be your shoulder to cry on. Then, one day, you will notice that for them, life has gone on. It has for you too. The difference is, your grief really isn't their grief. It's not that they "no longer care" it's just not their pain. Even your spouse will seemingly move forward. They mean no ill will, no disrespect. It's just not their pain. They love you. They care. They're there if you need them. Accept it for what it is - your pain.

Lesson eight - grief never ends. Accept that fact early on. It changes in intensity. It's face changes. It never ends. When you love someone and they die, you never reach a point that it doesn't matter that they aren't there. If your mother dies when you're 30, you're still going to miss her when you're 60.

Lesson nine - sometimes the absence is felt more strongly down the road. I was 25 when my dad died. In that moment, I thought I could never miss him more than right then. I was wrong. Flash forward to 2011. Gabby turned 18 and graduated high school. She was his first grandchild to graduate. I married Johnny. A man he would've been proud to call his son-in-law. A "wonderful" year for me for all intents and purposes. I grieved and grieved that year. Understand that grief has a way of jumping up and screaming at you when you least expect it.

Lesson ten - it is the little things that you will miss the most. Sure, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, they're hard. Really, really hard. Do you know what's harder? Picking up the phone, dialing their number, only to realize they won't answer. You will do it more than once. Going into the store, seeing something so fitting for them, and thinking "I need to get that for mom" only to realize you can't give it to her.

Lesson eleven - words. Be so very careful with them. Think it through before you say it. If the words getting ready to cross your lips were the last words you would ever get to say to that person, would you regret what you said. Because one day, the last thing you say to your mom, dad, husband, wife, etc. will truly be the last thing you say / they hear. Through everything we'd been through - and it was a lot - the very last words my mother EVER uttered to me... thank you. I had felt so inadequate. I had been enough. What will your words mean.

To be continued...

Lessons Learned at the Bedside - Part I

Lessons learned at the bedside indicates terminal illness, caregiving, and death. However, for me, it's really lessons learned through death period. This will likely encompass more than one post. These lessons learned are NOT listed in order of importance.

Lesson one - no matter how much time you have, it's never enough. We talk about whether they had a chance to "live" based on age, etc. The truth is, if you love someone, no amount of living is ever enough. You will always wish for one more kiss, hug, conversation, hour, etc.

Lesson two - no matter how prepared you are, you are never really prepared. You simply can't be. No matter how much loss you've experienced, it doesn't prepare you for the next one. It can't - the relationships are not the same.

Lesson three - given lesson two, knowing you're dying / your loved one is dying is a gift. It might not feel like it at the time, but it is. Embrace it. I've had sudden losses and terminal illnesses. Knowing you're dying / they're dying gives you the gift of time. Time to do. Time to love. Time to talk. Time to forgive and ask for forgiveness. It's one of the hardest gifts to accept. Do it anyway.

Lesson four - people are so much more valuable than things. Things will never satisfy. They will never be enough. Even if your house is full of stuff, if you have no one to share it with, it matters very little. Surrounding yourself with love is always a much better option than surrounding yourself with stuff.

Lesson five - photos. I don't care how ugly you feel, how fat you feel, how "whatever" you feel. At some point, photos will be all that is left. Step in front of the camera. Your family loves you, regardless of what YOU think about yourself. They will NEED those photos. I could not be more grateful for all of the photos of my mom and Bells - mom's bald head and all!!!

Lesson six - voice. It may sound silly but one of the first things that occurs to you after a loss is hearing the voice of the one gone. Take video recordings. Let people record you. Use your own voice for your voicemail greeting. Trust me, it's important. I or my niece was always my mom's voicemail voice. I have plenty of videos. However, I find myself unable to watch this at this point because they're all "gone" but me. So being able to call her phone and hear HER would be great.

To be continued...

The Emotional "Anchor"

I've been self-sufficient for a long time now. Physically and financially independent from my parents for years. I moved out at 19, married my first husband and moved 2,200 miles away. Life happens, things happen, you go through hard times. I had just turned 25 when I lost my brother. Three months later, almost to the day, I lost my dad. Ten months after that (I had recently turned 26) I lost my sister. To use the word devastated is probably insufficient. However, life goes on. It has a way of doing that.

Flash forward a bit. That grieving is well and truly done (pardon me while I chuckle). I'm stronger, wiser, even more self-sufficient. As I so readily and so often tell my husband, I don't "need" anyone. That word is distasteful. I really don't like it. I digress...we're flashing forward. Mom has cancer. God grants her a miracle. Yeah! Flash forward a bit more. Mom has cancer. Again. I just know that this outcome will not be the same.

I've GOT this. We've (she and I) have made our peace. I've worked for hospice for years. Death is simply a part of life. A part I'm "used" to. I've GOT this. I've lost before. I've grieved before. I'm ready. I lost three in a row. This won't be that hard. I've GOT this. I know it's coming. I rally the troops. Come say goodbye. Medically I'm prepared. I know what's happening as it's happening. We're inching closer. I've GOT this. I know death is imminent. Maybe minutes away. Gather the kids. Say goodbye one more time. Yep, that's it. Last breath. Call the nurse. I've GOT this. I'm grown. I've been her caretaker off and on for years. She was tired. She's whole now. I've GOT this. Get everything together. Plan the funeral. Be strong for the kids. I've GOT this. I've TOTALLY GOT THIS.

Wait. What? I totally DO NOT have this. WHY is this hurting like this? Why? I didn't "depend" on her. I've done my own thing for years. I don't need her. Good grief. Get this crushing weight of despair off of me.

Here's the thing... I didn't need her. I didn't depend on her. She didn't support me financially or physically. So why was this so hard. First of all, no amount of knowledge or preparation truly prepares you for the loss of your mother. Secondly, as a general rule, your mom is your anchor. She might not do much. She might not say much. She might not offer much. She's just there.

Then suddenly, she's not. Suddenly the boat is adrift. The anchor is gone. It's a weird feeling to truly be on your own. It's okay though. I've been anchored long enough. I've been anchored long enough to know that I can sail my own ship. I've been anchored long enough to know that despite the wind and waves, I can weather the storm. I've been anchored long enough to know that I am an anchor for others. Besides, I have a much stronger Anchor. It'll be okay. With God's help, I've got this. It won't be easy. It won't be quick. I won't ever get over it. However, it will be okay. Right now, the "hard" days tend to happen with more regularity than the easy days. One day though, I will wake up and the scales will change. But life will always be different. I will always be different.

I will allow God to use this to change me. To change my heart. To soften my heart. I will allow Him to use this to teach me compassion. To teach me mercy and tolerance. To teach me that ultimately the only Anchor I truly need is Him.

Christmas Before Thanksgiving and Grief

My Christmas decorations are up. My tree is standing in my living room waiting on decorations. With any luck at all, I will get it decorated tomorrow night. Do you know how tired I am of listening to people whine about Christmas music "already" and Christmas decorations "already?" Tired... oh so very tired. I haven't "skipped" Thanksgiving because my Christmas decorations are up. I haven't "skipped" Thanksgiving because I'm listening to Christmas music. Thanksgiving will come right on time. On the 4th Thursday of this month, Thanksgiving will occur - despite the fact that I have Christmas décor out right now. I'm fairly certain the calendar doesn't "know" that I have my Christmas stuff out. I'm fairly certain that Thanksgiving won't suddenly disappear because I'm doing things too quickly. Yes, the 4th Thursday of this month, my family will gather, we will give thanks, and we will eat.

Let me make this clear, I don't really want my decorations up. No, I don't mean just this early. I mean AT ALL. My preference this year is to just skip the whole blasted holiday. But I can't. You see, I have children in my family. I have a lot of them. They don't understand that my grief makes me want to say "Christmas? Yeah, Christmas blows." You see, in your mind, I lost my mom. Sure, it hurts, blah, blah, blah. The thing is, yes, I lost my mom, but in losing her, I don't just grieve for my mother this year. This year, I grieve my ENTIRE family of origin. I'm it. I'm all that's left.

Well, you still have... (fill in the blank). I sure do. And do you know what, my husband, my child, my grandchild, my nieces and nephews, I love them all. But not one of them replaces my mother, my father, my sister, or my brother. My mom was that final piece of the puzzle. Despite all of the losses, we still had each other. We still had that one person left which meant we weren't quite alone. We discussed it often. Well, my person is gone.

My hope is that if my Christmas decorations are up long enough, if I listen to Christmas music long enough, that when Christmas day rolls around, maybe, just maybe, it won't hurt so badly. I won't hurt so badly. Sure, I know that's an illusion, but it's ALL I have.

Maybe the stores put their Christmas stuff out too early. You know what? You don't HAVE to shop there. Maybe the radio stations play Christmas music too early. You know what? You don't have to listen - change the channel. Maybe I'm the only one that feels this way. Maybe I'm the only one handling my grief this way. I doubt it, but maybe.

So, as you sit there in judgment of my decorations and my music choices and say that I'm not being thankful, perhaps you should sit back and think that maybe I (and whoever else) am doing the best I can in the situation I'm in at the moment.

Despite the fact that my decorations mean I'm skipping Thanksgiving and I'm clearly not thankful, I am. I really, really am. I'm thankful that I had my parents and my siblings at all. I'm thankful that I got to share the years I did with them. I'm thankful for the influence both good and bad they had on my life. I'm thankful that I walked with my mother through every step of her cancer journey - BOTH times. I'm thankful that I was with my father and my mother the exact moment they drew their last breaths. And I am thankful, oh so thankful, that I have the assurance that I will see them again.

So let me have my Christmas music. Let me have my decorations. Let me get used to them all. Let me pretend that when Christmas gets here in 51 days I won't hurt so badly. Let me grieve the way I need to grieve. Stop assuming that you know everyone's situation. You don't. Enjoy Thanksgiving and Christmas your way. Let others enjoy it their way. Soon enough, it'll all be over and we'll start a new year.

For me, each day I wake up and put one foot in front of the other is a stark reminder that time marches on whether we want it to or not. The world doesn't stop because I'm grieving. I have to grieve as the world turns. I'm doing it the best way I know how.