A Eulogy for Wendy

What struck me deeply when I sat down to write this eulogy was that Wendy was always the same person. She never tried to be someone she wasn’t. She didn’t put on airs or masks. She told it like it was—always—whether you liked it or not.

That’s not to say she never changed. There was a time, after all, when I would not dare eat anything my sister cooked. It shocked me to hear that she had started taking cooking shifts at work. She was proud of what she’d learned. We were proud of her, too. Even better—I would actually eat my sister’s cooking!

She never gave herself enough credit, did she? She was—like everyone in our family, it seems… she was very, very hard on herself.

Last Christmas was the first time she made Mama’s famous chocolate pecan pie for the family. She was so nervous—she wanted to get it just right. She didn’t want to burn it, and she wanted to make Mama proud. Actually, I think she wanted to make all of us proud. I think she felt like it was the most important pie she had ever made.

Of course, she pulled it off perfectly.

When I think about my sister, a lot of adjectives spring to mind: stubborn, hard-headed, strong, curious, charming, loving, smart, outspoken, daring, fearless, optimistic, proud, hopeful… I could go on.

One word stands out above all the rest, though: fierce.

Everybody knows that she loved animals fiercely and had a way of attracting the mangiest, most pathetic, rejected, homeless cats and dogs to her door. That started long before any of you might have guessed.

The first time was when she was a little girl. The next door neighbors bred sheltie collies, and she bonded with one of them in particular. She’d lie down in the grass, stick her arm through the chain link fence, and pet the little dog.

Well, the dog wasn’t quite fit to be a show dog, and the neighbors ended up giving her to Wendy.

That’s how we got our dog Sally.

The next time it happened was with a big black tomcat who “just jumped in her car” one day. She brought him home and begged to keep him. We named him Tummy, because he constantly ate. Tummy was a really great cat. One of the best cats ever, really, and he and Wendy had a special connection. Even after she moved out, he welcomed her anytime she came to visit.

And then there was the tiny white Siamese cat she discovered on the way home from high school one day. She was just lying there in the street, and Wendy thought she was dead. She pulled over to move her over to the side of the road and when Wendy approached this little cat, she perked her head up and meowed. Wendy brought her home and begged Mama and Daddy to keep her.

And that’s how we got Cricket.

Wendy was like the patron saint of all the lost animals. Even when she first moved out on her own, she would at times move from friend’s house to friend’s house, with nothing but a suitcase and her cat, Spunky.

She constantly drew animals to her. It’s like they just… knew… that she would take care of them.

She took care of everyone in her world… animals, friends, and of course, family.

Wendy and I were so different—in fact we joked a lot about being “city sister” and “country sister.”

(I’ll let you guess which is which.)

But the love between us was also fierce. A lot of times that meant we fought—constantly. Understandable, with the 8 year difference in our age, especially when you factor in that we shared a bedroom that had been Wendy’s domain for the first 8 years of her life.

Not surprisingly, you could draw a line down the middle of our bedroom. My side was all neat and tidy, and her side looked like a tornado had hit.

(Some things don’t change.)

Not only could you draw a line down the middle of the room, but if I dared put anything of mine on the dresser, I would invariably come back into the bedroom later to find that item tossed on my bed.

Whether it was a brush, a comb, or sometimes just a hair pin—she’d somehow find it in all that mess on top of the dresser and throw it right back on my bed.

So of course—being the twirpy little sister I was—I would often put something on the dresser just to see how long it took her to notice.

We couldn’t even be in the kitchen at the same time. She washed and rinsed dishes, and I’d dry them and put them away. Or, I would wash and rinse, she would dry and put away. But we could never work together, or it boiled over into a fight—every time.

It was the same with house work. Saturday morning was cleaning day. I dusted, and Wendy vacuumed. Mama cleaned the bathrooms and mopped the kitchen and dining room floors.

The argument was the same, every week. God forbid we dust and vacuum at the same time in different rooms. Nope. Her argument was, she should vacuum first, because that stirs up dust, which is going to settle back down onto the furniture. My argument was, I should dust first, because the vacuum would suck up whatever dust was left.

Guess who always won that one!

(It wasn’t me.)

In fact, Mama told us we even argued in our sleep. She would walk by our bedroom, hear arguing, and just before she stepped in to fuss at us for still being awake—she’d realize that she couldn’t understand a word we were saying, because it was all indiscernible mumbling.

But it was angry mumbling!

And if anything is harder than sharing a bedroom with your sister when you constantly fight… it might be hardest of all to be stuck in the back seat on a long road trip between Dallas and Albuquerque. I think that’s just about the most boring drive in all of the US. It’s nothing but flat desert, and a whole lot of it.

We constantly kicked each other, sighed loudly, pouted, and grumped. And this was, of course, way before cell phones, iPads, portable DVD players, etc. We were just stuck in the car, lucky to have one Walkman between us for a road trip that never seemed to end.

The love between us was often hard to see in those years. Of course, as we got older, it got better.

There were so many times in my college years when I struggled with money. I was a typical poor college student. And Wendy was going through a rough time, too, having two small children and trying to make ends meet.

But she was proud, and she loved me fiercely. And during the countless times she needed some money to help her get through, she refused to ask our parents for help. It was more important to her that they help me and give me money. Even if our parents offered her money—she turned it down. “Give it to Linda,” she said.

She’ll never know how much that meant to me.

In truth, the love between us was fierce.

That’s the way Wendy loved everyone, though: fiercely.

I have a few words to say directly to Wendy’s kids. I think she would want you to hear these words and take them to heart.

Leigha: the legacy she leaves through you is her spirit. You are the very essence of your mother. You are proud and stubborn, just like her. You’re also resourceful and strong, just like her. You know more than she knew at your age, and you’re more grown up at 21 than she was at 21. I know you feel lost without her. I know this is a hard road ahead. I know that first hand… but when you are searching for answers and deeply needing to talk to your mom… look inside yourself. You’ll find the answer, like you always do, because it’s already there inside. Her blood is literally in you. Your mom spent a lot of time talking to your Grammy and me about you. She fiercely loved you, more than words could ever say. And I know she is proud of the mother you are, the mother you have become.

Alexis: the legacy she leaves through you is love. She loved you unconditionally, and she always regarded you as hers. It broke her heart to have to let go of you when she walked away from your dad. But she instilled in you the knowledge—deep-down, all the way to your core—that you are loved, just for being you. I can feel it emanating from you, too, and I am so glad you’re back in all of our lives. I know it made her feel validated and purposeful as a mom when you showed up by surprise that Christmas. She told us that she suddenly felt like she had truly made a difference in this world—that she had done something right—because you turned out ok, and you came back.

Aaron: the legacy she leaves through you is faith. The depth of your faith, and your love for Jesus Christ, is visible to the point of being almost tangible. Your faith is representative of where your mom’s journey led her over the last several years. I observed as she explored agnosticism, Paganism, and then slowly walked towards God. It gave me joy to watch her faith come alive, and it gave me joy to watch yours come alive, too. She also loved your stories. She loved your music and drumming ability—she was very proud and protective of you. Watching you grow and transform over the years into this young warrior has been a true joy. Not just for your mom, but for me, and for all of us. You are already a much better man than most of the men who have been in your life.

Kasey: the legacy your mom leaves through you is hope. To me, you represent the sweet, feminine, fun, and soft side of Wendy. Watching her mother you was truly a joy. She so thoroughly enjoyed you and your firsts. She loved watching you discover everything around you and take it all in. She truly appreciated your sense of wonder. I’ve never seen her so relaxed and happy to be a mom. She fell in love with being a mother because of you, and she learned to accept and respect your siblings even more than she had before, because of you. I hope you never lose the sweet, tender, curious parts of you, Kasey.

The legacy Wendy leaves for us all is one of hope. She never gave up, no matter how dire her circumstances. She held her head up and kept walking forward—one foot in front of the other.

Her sudden passing makes no sense—especially so soon after our mother’s passing. I know we’re all still in a state of shock, and asking why is natural. The tragedy of losing Wendy so suddenly, when she was so young, makes no sense to anyone, and asking why yields no answer—it just makes you feel crazy.

So instead of asking why, I want to challenge you to find a way that works for you to keep her legacy alive. Take on a piece of her hope, her optimism, or her perspective. Take on a piece of her tenacity or her perseverance. Or maybe, take on some of her love of animals, or her sense of humor, or her charm.

If you’re up for a real challenge, though, then I dare you to love the way my sister loved.

I dare you to love fiercely.

Wendy's Obituaries

This is the obituary for the Dallas Morning News:

Jill Wendilyn “Wendy” (Tritton) Troquille

Born Feb. 11, 1967, Dallas, TX, passed away Apr. 29, 2013, Van, TX. She is survived by: father, David Tritton; sister, Linda Lee Tritton; husband, Kevin Troquille; daughters, Leigha Hill, Alexis Sublett, and Kasey Troquille; son, Aaron Grigsby; grandchildren, Raelye, Eli, and Colten. Memorial service Fri., May 3, 11am, Cornerstone Baptist Church, 3710 NE Loop 7, Athens, 75751. 

This is the obituary for the Van/Van Zandt papers:

Jill Wendilyn “Wendy” (Tritton) Troquille

Wendy was born February 11, 1967, in Dallas, Texas. She passed away on Monday, April 29, 2013. She was killed instantly in a head-on collision while driving home from work (The Dinner Bell in Van). Wendy lived in the Canton, Edom, Van, and Ben Wheeler area for years, and she is known and loved in the community.

Wendy is preceded by her mother, Jill Johnson Tritton, who passed away only five months prior (November 29, 2012), and her grandmother, Paula “Teh” Freeman Johnson, who passed away on Wendy’s 30^th birthday, in 1997.

Wendy is survived by many: her father, David Tritton; her sister, Linda Lee Tritton; her husband, Kevin Troquille; their daughter, Kasey Troquille; her daughter, Leigha Hill; her daughter, Alexis Sublett; and her son, Aaron Grigsby.

Wendy is also survived by three grandchildren: Raelye (3yrs), Eli (4mos), and Colten (due in July).

A memorial service will be held at Cornerstone Baptist Church, 3710 NE Loop 7, Athens, 75751. Soulman’s BBQ has generously offered to cater food after the service.

Wendy (Tritton) Troquille: Memorial Service Information

Friends and family, I thought I would make a quick blog post so everyone will have a public resource they can link to anyone.

Wendy at age 20

My sister, Jill Wendilyn "Wendy" (Tritton) Troquille, was killed in a head-on collision on Monday, April 29, 2013.

Fortunately, she did not suffer—she was killed instantly. She was 46 years old. Wendy’s passing is exactly five months after our mom’s sudden passing on Thursday, November 29, 2012.

I am in the process of writing obituaries that will appear in the Van, Van Zandt, and Dallas newspapers.

I am also writing a eulogy that I will deliver during her memorial service.

Her service will be in Athens, TX. Her son, Aaron Grigsby, is a member of a very loving and strong church community, and they have graciously offered to host the memorial service.

We gladly honored Wendy’s wish to be cremated, and the family made those arrangements yesterday.

I’ll be back with more, but for now, I wanted to keep this short to convey the important information. Any and all are welcome at the service.

Service Information

Service date: Friday, May 3^rd, 2013

Time: 11am

Location: Cornerstone Baptist Church, 3710 NE Loop 7, Athens, Texas, 75751, 903-677-5407

Here is a link to the church’s website

Here is a link to Google Maps

Some GPS may read the address as 3710 NE Loop 317 S

Immediately following the service: Soulman’s BBQ has made an amazing offer to cater a meal right after the service.

To everyone who has reached out to our family with wishes, prayers, condolences, and offers, we thank you. It means so, so much. I feel the love coming from all directions.

I ask that you keep them coming. We are all still very, very much in shock, and your continued prayers and thoughts are deeply appreciated.

We Are All Doing Our Best—Including Me

I recently saw this quote pass by my Facebook feed:

“…Remember that everyone is doing the best they can from their own level of consciousness.” – Deepak Chopra

I had a major reaction brewing to something that happened this morning.

I knew exactly what this guy was doing, as he stole my parking spot and then glared at me righteously. Of course, I was in a hurry, and he (clearly) was not.

He had a good laugh as I hopped out of the car and ran inside Target, intent on picking up stuff for lunch before my 9am meeting.

Then, a thought crossed my mind.

That guy is doing the best he can right now.

I thought back to thirty minutes earlier, when a guy cut me off getting onto the highway. I let him in. I actually slowed down to a stop and let him in.

That’s pretty different for me…

But I noticed something else, too. After I let that guy get in front of me, the guy behind me let someone else get in front of him. His bumper had practically kissed mine just seconds earlier.

I wondered if he saw my gesture and decided to do something different, too.

Recognizing that everyone is actually doing their best at any given moment helps me feel a lot calmer. It means that I’m nicer to everyone around me, too, because I don’t have the chance to get wrapped up in whether or not someone is doing the right thing (which really means, are they doing it my way?). It isn’t judgment flowing out from all of my pores—it’s compassion.

I’ve tried incorporating this thought into my day to day life lately, and it seems to be working.

Of course, the person I use it on the most is myself. Especially since my mom died.

In some ways, I feel like her death hit the reset button on a lot of the hard soul-work, personal growth, and emotional evolution I’ve traversed over the past three years.

I could spend hours listing all the ways I have failed in the last four months. All the mistakes I’ve made. All the things I should or shouldn’t have said. And of course, let’s not even talk about how generally reactionary I’ve felt. And the instant I try to resist feeling the grief, my old control issues rear their ugly heads (yes, that’s a multi-headed monster) and then at some point, I turn into a blubbering mess, cry it out, and feel somewhat better.

No—better isn’t really the right word… maybe just open. Yep, that’s it—open.

I have so many daily (hourly!) opportunities to beat myself up.

(I am an expert to the extent that I think perhaps a framed certificate might be in order—if only a notion like that didn’t glorify it.)

My boyfriend says he isn’t sure he’s known anyone who’s as hard on themselves as I am.

So, yes—I have this problem of being really hard on myself. Don’t we all do that, though? Don’t you?

Well, one unexpected blessing I’m discovering in all of this grief is that I pretty quickly grow exhausted of beating myself up. I’m finding that I really just don’t have the energy for it.

The truth is…

I am doing the best I can in this moment.

Perhaps that is not my Very Best Ever. In fact, I’m certain it isn’t.

But for this moment—it is enough.

And there is something deeply, eternally comforting about being enough. We are all enough, of course—but when I can truly rest in that feeling, when I allow enough to sink into the marrow of my bones, I feel a beautiful and utterly pure sense of relief.

And today, that is enough.

A Message From Above

One of the things my mom loved most was her Southern Living cookbooks. Each year, they publish the Annual Recipes volume, and my mom purchased them, year after year, since the inception in 1979.

She of course purchased the 2012 volume, and although we haven’t actually talked about it, I suspect at least one of us in the family will continue this tradition.

Over the years, Mama marked quite a few recipes. Each holiday season, she labored over the menu for weeks—paging through the Southern Living cookbooks, marking recipes, taking notes on a yellow legal pad, and finally emerging with the complete menu. I remember this tradition around Thanksgiving and Christmas time each year, for longer than I’ve been alive.

So, glancing at that full shelf of cookbooks in my parents’ house instantly causes a flashback of memories.

Yet another reason why it’s difficult to go to my parents’ house. She’s everywhere there—from the books to the kitchen, from the bedroom to the very lamps carefully chosen for each room.

In some ways, it feels like forever since she passed away.

Truthfully, it feels like it happened last night.

Nearly four months have passed, now. That seems like a long time, doesn’t it? Maybe.

I’m not sure why, but the last couple of weeks have been the toughest grief weeks I’ve had in months. I’ve felt needy, whiny, desperate, and forlorn. I've felt exhausted and weary, and because of that, I've had very (very) little energy. I’ve cried, I’ve been less than mature, and basically, I’ve pined for my mama.

The sense of loss is somehow deepening as the reality becomes more permanent. The sadness is somehow expanding as I step more into acceptance. And the darkness is somehow darker than I ever imagined it could be.

And yet, I’ve felt her close this week, too. I wasn’t sure why.

I checked the mail yesterday morning. I was running late, and I’d forgotten my glasses. I figured that since I’d forgotten to check the mail the night before, I’d check it on my way back upstairs.

I didn’t expect to receive anything so transformative.

I got a little note from Oxmoor House.

I instantly recognized that publisher—they publish the Southern Living Annual Recipes cookbooks. I stared at the note for a moment, and I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. A lump suddenly sprang into my throat.

I somehow knew that reading the contents of this note would change my day.

I opened the note and slowly read that I would soon be receiving a Southern Living cookbook.

I must have read my mom’s name over and over again. I stared at her name printed on that note for what may have amounted to a full minute—as if staring at her name harder would bring her back.

I threw the note down and said several confused curses under my breath, and I went on my way—my face already hot with tears streaming down.

I cried all the way to my destination, and when I got to the parking lot, I sat there with tears running down my face for a few minutes longer.

I even posted it to Facebook.

I didn’t know what to think, feel, or do. I was so confused that I wanted to call my dad right away—but, I didn’t, because it was only about 8:30 in the morning, and he might not have been up yet.

So I sat in wonder… at how such a thing could happen. How could she know? How did this note land in my mail box at precisely the time I needed it?

She didn’t always understand the way I needed to hear that she loved me, but she expressed it in so many other ways… ways that I didn’t even begin to truly get until after she died.

This is one of those ways—sharing her love of those cookbooks and Southern Living recipes with her daughters.

And the timing really couldn’t have been better, either. I needed a line of connection to her… I needed some sign that she hadn’t completely gone. I needed to know that even though her body is gone from this earth—I still have a Mama.

Message received. Loud and clear.

What’s even more beautiful is that after I posted the message on Facebook yesterday, I could feel my whole being wrapped in love and prayer and peace.

I calmed down. The tears subsided.

I slept hard last night—one of the most restful sleeps I’ve had in a while.

This morning, I woke up with a profound sense of gratefulness… a depth of which I wasn’t aware could exist. I am grateful for this life. For all that I have experienced, for all of those who have thought good things for me, said prayers for me, been there for me… grateful for David, grateful for my family, grateful for everything.

Thank you, Mama.

I love you, too.

Still Here

So, I’m here—and I’ve thought about updating my blog with something besides grief talk, but today, this is where I am, so this is what you get.

Since I lost my mom suddenly only about four months ago, I often want to speak up when I see or hear someone struggling with their parental relationships. Especially if that relationship is between a mother and a daughter.

I am lucky, because my mom and I resolved our biggest issue (which all boils down to pride, really) a few years before she died.

Many don’t get that chance.

But I feel this strange compulsion that I’m having to fight back—it’s one where I want to approach whichever party is doing the talking, about how frustrating or hurtful or sad the relationship is, and I want to say things like… 

• Do whatever you need to do to fix it.
• One day they’ll be gone—and then it’s too late.
• Set the sword down.
• Have you tried humility?
• Have you tried setting aside your pride?

And then I quickly get myself in check, before I make a total ass out of myself.

I wasn’t expecting to have this kind of compulsion. I guess it’s a save-the-world mentality, or maybe it’s because I would do anything to have my mom back, and it feels childish and stupid to see other people mistreat the ones they love so much, and I bet they wouldn’t take those people for granted if they suddenly died, so why can’t they stop taking them for granted right now?

And then I have to walk away, because it’s still sad, it’s still hard, it’s still devastating.

I put myself on guilt trips for not calling my dad every day anymore. For about the first month or six weeks or however long it was, we spoke daily, whether I called him or he called me. We both needed that—somehow it was easier to check on each other than it was to check on ourselves.

But that immediate emergency time is gone, and now no one is offering condolences because it’s old news (to everyone but me, my sister, and my dad) and we’re all just supposed to move on with our lives.

Or something.

But there’s no “right” way to do grief, and for me to judge myself or anyone else is a waste of time and energy. And I know that, but I still do it (until I realize I’m doing it, and then I stop myself).

I read an article recently that talks about emerging research showing that cells from children stay in the mother’s brain for the remainder of the mother’s life. (It’s here, if you’re interested.)

What that means is that a part of me quite literally died when she died.

The thought of that is unbearable…

But it’s also true.

I want to fix it all. I want the pain to go away, I want to stop missing her, I want to have just one more conversation with her. I want to hear her voice, smell her, see her hands… something—anything—to connect with her again.

And it just won’t happen. There’s not a thing I can do about it, except try to fix all the other people around me with broken relationships, and that doesn’t work either because you can’t fix anyone and it’s not only pointless to try… it’s downright arrogant.

Everyone is on their own path, and for me to attempt to intervene or judge is wasted energy—not to mention, people don’t like it when you try to fix them.

So because I can’t do that (nor would I try, in any other place other than the inside of my head), I have to deal with my own emotions, my own life, my own stuff.

Shit.

It’s just a weird time. Some days are better than others. Sometimes, I break down into tears because of something I would really like to ask my mom. Sometimes, the reality hits me all over again, and there I am standing at the hospital with the chaplain, my dad, and David.

I am at least going to work every day and I am mostly a productive member of society. Whole days go by when I don't cry. And even though I am grieving, I can also laugh and feel joy, and I most definitely appreciate where I am and what and who I have.

On the flip side... I am behind on a very long list of “to-do” items, not the least of which are thank you notes for all of the amazing things that people did for my family when my mom first died.

When I think about that… I immediately feel overwhelmed. Writing thank you notes means addressing that that time has passed. It means it’s real. It means the initial shock has worn off, and I am accepting this new reality.

And because I can’t seem to do anything half-ass, I am not one who would write a non-specific note for one of the most deeply edifyingly excruciating experiences of my life.

So, no, I haven’t yet written any thank you notes.

But if you think, for even one iota of a second, that I am not grateful… you’re wrong.

I am grateful. And what's strange is how the depth of my gratitude has grown over the last four months. 

This life is precious. As far as I know, it's the only one we get. 

Even though I feel sad in this moment, I am still doing and feeling everything possible to life my life wholeheartedly. 

Some days, that's a little messy. 

Today is one of those days.

And that's okay.

Happy Birthday, Mama

This morning started out much like every other morning this week. I struggled to get out of bed. I felt sad, but other than that—ok. I even felt a little numb this morning as I got ready… uncertain of what this day would bring.

Today is my mom’s birthday. She would have turned 68.

As I told my dad earlier, it feels like I’m stuck in this terrible, never-ending dream, and I keep waking up, hoping it’s going to end, and it just… doesn’t.

On many levels, her death still seems surreal. It hasn’t sunk in yet. It hasn’t become stark reality, it hasn’t been carved in the stone of recent history.

We’re all still reeling.

And today, I made my way to work—confident I would be able to make it through the day.

I stepped into a meeting in the conference room. Six women gathered around the conference table as we called in to speak to our client.

At one point, the client asked a question and we needed to unmute the phone line.

Instead of hitting the mute button, I accidentally hit the button to call our president’s office. And then, once we realized what I had done, somebody else hit a button and it ended up dropping us off the call with the client.

I was immediately embarrassed, and I felt emotions thundering in my belly and threatening to shoot up through my throat and out through my eyes in the form of tears and wails. I crawled under the table as everyone guffawed—it was a hilarious scene, and I saw and felt the hilarity of it, but I could not fight the emotions welling up from deep within.

I sat back in my chair, for a split second believing I was ok.

But grief is a bitch, and before I knew it, my skin was suddenly hot with giant tears streaming down my face, and I could feel the suffocating gasps of pain coming.

I fled the room and ran into an office and closed the door, collapsing against the table.

I sort of composed myself after a little while. The meeting finished. My co-workers offered condolences and reassurances.

I tried to come back to some semblance of ok, but I felt like a shell the thickness of a soap bubble trying to contain the nuclear explosion already going on inside of me. I walked around, enjoying seeing everyone’s festive, ugly sweaters and cute Christmas ornament earrings. I tried to talk myself into searching for some enjoyment with the festivities that we were about to experience—the big reveal for secret Santas, and then our Christmas lunch, followed by early release from work.

But I returned to my desk, where I sat, tears running down my face, wondering how I was going to get through this day.

Truthfully, there was only one place I wanted to be: by my dad’s side.

I called Daddy on the way, asking him to make some coffee. His voice immediately lifted when he realized I was coming over.

We hugged and sat, watching a couple of TV shows as he finished breakfast and I sipped coffee.

And then I asked him what he was planning to do today. He said he was planning to decorate for Christmas, but he just couldn’t seem to find the motivation.

So, we did it together.

We put up the tree, again going over the history of some of the decorations and how much they meant to us, just as we had done for many years before now. 

We put out stockings and a few other odds and ends—marveling at just how much Christmas décor was left… just how much we weren’t putting out.

What can I say… my mom loved Christmas and Christmas décor.

We went out on the town in his new truck to Michael’s, Walgreens, and Target. We took our time running errands, poking around for some time in both Michael’s and Target.

And then we went back to the house and ate dinner.

It turned out to be a leisurely day. A better day than what we both started with.

We stood at my car, hugging, and he thanked me for coming over. I told him there was nowhere else I wanted to be today, that I didn’t just do it for him—I did it for me, too. I felt so lost this morning, and the only place I wanted to run to was to him.

He needed me today, and I needed him. And we turned a shitty day into a better one, and we managed to inject some color into this rather gray day. I am grateful.

Happy birthday, Mama. We love you and miss you, more than words can say...

Mama's Passing

My favorite picture of Mama.

The last 36 hours have been, in a word—surreal.

It all happened so fast.

It’s important to note that my mom had been on dialysis since 2006, and she had a lot of other health problems, too. For all the health problems she had, she managed to stay positive and upbeat most of the time.

On Thanksgiving, she seemed “off.” I mentioned it to my boyfriend, and I tried to get her to talk about it, but she wouldn’t. She said there was nothing wrong—she just wasn’t feeling well.

But Thanksgiving was a great day. We all enjoyed it immensely, each of us regaling each other with stories from our childhoods and antics we pulled. Lots of laughter and a laid-back day with good food and family connection. You really couldn’t have asked for a better holiday.

On Monday, my mom called me to tell me she had heard the “sad news” that I gave away all of my Cabbage Patch Kids. She raised quite the stink about it and made every attempt to make me feel guilty. (I actually haven’t gotten them to their new owners yet, but they’re in bags in my apartment, waiting.) I was shocked at her strange behavior though. It threw me for a loop that she was making such a stink about something that really doesn’t matter—toys she bought me over 25 years ago.

For what it’s worth, I kept and will always plan the keep the first one she gave me. I remember that well—it was one of the first Cabbage Patch Kids made, and she went to many stores to try and find one. She finally did find one, and she stood there by her car, waiting for me to come out of church camp one summer. I walked out of the building, and there she was with Christina, the Cabbage Patch Kid.

We hung up, and I was totally puzzled.

I didn’t realize that would be the last time I would hear her voice. That was the last conversation we had.

The instant I realized that, I felt deeply thankful for our family tradition of always saying I love you at the end of every phone conversation.

My mom went into the hospital on Wednesday, when they couldn’t give her dialysis. She ended up in the ER and immediately checked in and taken to ICU. Her veins were tiny, and they struggled to get the dialysis to take, but they tried multiple channels and eventually got her stabilized.

The details are fuzzy right now, because I didn’t even know she was in the hospital until yesterday.

But basically Wednesday night, she was stable. Thursday morning around 7:15am, all hell broke loose. I knew nothing about this, and my dad didn’t either—he slept through several of the doctor’s phone calls. He woke up around 9am, and as soon as he heard the messages he got dressed and went straight to the hospital.

They ran a CAT scan and discovered she had a colon infection that had gone septic.

She also had a heart arrhythmia, which can cause a lot of problems when other things are piled on top of that issue.

Then the infection got into her blood. They couldn’t give her fresh blood quickly enough, so her blood became toxic, and her heart gave out.

She coded one time just before Daddy called me.

I got the call right at noon. Daddy sounded weary and weak. I had no idea of anything that was happening, of course. I had never heard that tone of voice in my dad before, and I knew right away that it was serious.

I called my sister as I packed up my stuff at work. I let them know what was going on, stopped by Jimmy John’s to grab sandwiches for myself and my dad—knowing he probably hadn’t eaten at all that day—and headed straight to the hospital.

I was too late.

By the time I had gotten there, she had coded three more times, and they couldn’t bring her back the last time.

Telling this story is surreal. I wasn’t aware it was happening.

When I got to the hospital, Daddy told me.

I got to sit with her for a few minutes in the hospital room, which was oddly quiet, even though her room was right in front of the nurse’s station. I talked to her and wished she would come back. I asked her why she had to go, and all I heard back was, “I was just so tired.”

The next hours are a complete blur, but at some point once I realized the family and most of my close friends knew, I posted it to Facebook.

I have been overwhelmed by the love and support, the prayers, the kind words, and all of the offers of help.

The house was full last night, and that was the best that any of us could ask for. My most precious friend Veronica brought dinner for the whole family, and we were so grateful—none of us had even thought about dinner… or eating.

I struggled to fall asleep last night, as reality faded from surreal to more real.

This morning, we made the funeral arrangements. All of those decisions made me dizzy and completely, utterly, and deeply drained.

In some ways, none of those decisions matter, because she’s gone, and it feels like we’re mostly making the decisions for our own sanity. But really, those decisions are important—after all, we are responsible for preserving her memory and we are responsible for everyone’s last impression of her, before we lay her to rest.

I have so many words, and yet—none at all. I’m quickly passing through moments of numbness, normality, anger, deep sadness, and a level of grief I have never felt in my whole life.

No relationship is more complex, intimate, or impossible to describe than that of a mother and daughter.

The picture that will print with her obituary.

To know I will never again get to hug her, smell her, hear her voice… to know she’ll never meet David’s kids or truly know David… the things I’ll never be able to ask her, the questions I’ll never have answered, the words I’ll never get to say—it’s all too much to think about, but those thoughts show up in random moments, and just like I did in the divorce… I am riding the wave.

Thank you for your continued support and words of encouragement, your prayers, your offers of help. I am not sure if I’m going to blog here about the grief wave, or stories, or frustrations, or whatever—or if I’m going to keep quiet, like I have for the last several months (sorry)… or if it will be something in-between.

I’m going to do whatever needs to happen. Whatever will keep me connected, at least on some level, to sanity—that is what I’m going to do.

Mama’s obituary will run tomorrow (Sat. Dec. 1) and Sunday (Dec. 2) in the Dallas Morning News, with her picture:

Jill Johnson Tritton 

Born December 14, 1944 in Dallas, TX and passed away November 29, 2012 in Plano, TX. She is survived by her loving husband of over 46 years, David Tritton; daughter and son-in-law, Jill Wendilyn and Kevin Troquille; daughter and partner, Linda Lee Tritton and David Hoffman; grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She is also survived by her brother, Reilly Johnson, as well as other relatives and descendants. Visitation will be Sunday, December 2, 2012 from 3pm to 5pm at Restland Funeral Home. A Graveside service will be held on Monday, December 3, 2012 at 10am Restland Memorial Park. In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to The National Kidney Foundation.